Mommy Gaga And New Year's Eve

This year, unlike every New Year's Eve save 1999 when the world was going to end because computers were going to explode because the date was going to revert to 1900 instead of going to 2000, but then it didn't in a twist of fate that isn't ironic because, let's face it, we all knew it wasn't going to really end.

Wait. What? Where was I?

Ah yes. This year, unlike the past, Husband and I made amazing plans to banish 2011 into the bowels of Hell.  Usually at the stroke of 6, the two of us feed children, look at each other with tired eyes and try to smile weakly.  In fact, usually eye-contact is avoided lest the other misconstrue the look of "I really want to go to bed NOW!" for something entirely more acrobatic; sure the words are the same, but the tone is very different. 

But this year, we've vowed to not only stay awake until midnight, but also to part-ay the night aw-ay.  We secured our babysitter before Hallowe'en; we've have been sending her gift baskets of echinacea and orange juice every day for the last month. I texted her twice daily to make sure she was feeling great and to tell her to keep up the great, healthy, work.

This would be a screen shot if I had any clue how to do that. 

In fact, when the headline of our local paper read "Foul Flu May Postpone New Year's Eve" and "Out with Intestines, In with the Flu" I felt twinges of extreme panic in my stomach.  Then, instead of panicking, I rationalised that we wouldn't get sick-- we'd been walking around with SARS masks since Rememberance Day.  Yet, the twinging in my stomach would not abate.

See, this New Year's Eve wasn't just going to be some great end to a hard year; it was to be a party to triumph over all oppressors!  I mean, I had not only a new dress, but new shoes. Both? For one event? Surely I jest-- but no, this is truth!

I bought The Dress during a Black Friday frenzy. I threw an entire, grand-ay, extra hot, no whip, no foam, 2-pump, triple shot caramel latte at the teen that got to the sale rack before me. The scalding coffee not only got her off my potential dress, but it also got a bunch of people out of line to help her. Teens and their melodramatic tendencies! For all the wailing and the "Why? Whyyy? Why me?" you'd think I'd sprayed Nancy Carrigan, not some kid at a 4am Black Friday sale. Hello? Black Friday-- you should know what you're getting into. Anyway, I scooped up the dress and two carts worth of stuff that cost, in total, $53.71 (God Bless America) and claimed victory.  Oh, and some of my coffee bomb splashed onto my New Year's Eve dress, making the cashier zombie give me an extra discount for damage. Say whaaaat? Boo-yeah.

The Shoes I bought from www.YeOldeTownProstitute.com.  They carry Tranny-friendly shoe sizes and styles which is important to me.  See, I've got the impeccably dramatic style of a transvestite and the shoe size to match.   After I had the perfect (coffee-stained) dress, and the perfect shoes, and tickets to the perfect party, and a sitter for my perfect children, I knew nothing would keep me from celebrating the death of 2011.

Perfect.

Nothing on earth could keep me from that party, until my entire town started down a path of extreme illness that you could only begin to understand if you read the first 200 pages of The Stand by Stephen King. And, the worst part is that having your flu shot didn't make you immune to the New Year's Eve Super Flu. No, I think the only thing that would make you immune is Death itself--here's why.

How You Know You're Minutes From Wishing For Death From The NYE Super Flu

1) You start dripping sweat while sitting down for breakfast.
2) You have blurred vision and general dizziness, yet you're stone sober.
3) You get the "I'm horribly sick" breath that people get when they're truly dying of internal illness, yet you're still (outwardly) feeling (mostly) fine.
4) You have intestinal cramps that are as sharp as labour pains-- and you know this is true whether you've had kids or not. You just do.

Fast forward to December 30th. The sitter is healthy, my husband is healthy, my children are whiny and clingy (hmmm) and I've got those four symptoms for no particular reason.  And then, with very little warning (ok, I full-on ignored the warning signs pretending I was both drunk and going into labour) it hit. Oh it hit.

Do Intestines Come In Bucket Size?

In the next 24 hours, I would lose 8 pounds between what was flying out of my ... opposing ends with jet propulsion.

Oh, what? 24 hours? Oh yeah. By noon on the 31st, I was feeling less close to the brink of death, however, the rest of the family succumbed to the germs.

To celebrate New Years Eve, 2011, I put on my [coffee stained, and now puke spattered] dress and swanky heels. I brought clean buckets to my husband and Kiddo #1 in their respective bathrooms.  I lit a sparkler in an attempt to festively ring in the new year, and kill off the offensive odours being produced.  Kiddo #2, in case you're wondering, was in the shower. It was easier to just hose him down after every episode.

Did you know catering to your family while dressed in a fantastic dress and amazing, glittery shoes, does not make you feel like Cinderella, but it does wish you could fit inside a pumpkin.

And, did you know that taking just 1 tablespoon of Gatorade or pedialyte every 5 minutes of continuous barfing will keep even a grown man hydrated? Did you know you can make your own when you run out of both and it's New Year's Eve and nothing is open? (it's not as tasty as the real stuff, but when you're dying of flu, no one will complain. Much.)

From our house to yours, Happy New Year.

T'was The Week Before Christmas

"T'was the night before Christmas" is a very long poem. 

This is especially true when you think it'd be faster to do a parody of that poem instead of working and working to write a blog. You'll find yourself working just as hard, if not harder, to write that parody and you'll want to give up about half-way through only to realize that you're too far in to quit now.  

Merry Christmas;  may your stocking be filled with Starbucks Instant Coffee and big, food grade steel buckets. Without further ado, I give you the poem. 

Love,

Does Coffee Come In Bucket Size

(aka Elizabeth)

T'was The Week Before Christmas

T'was the week before Christmas and all through the city,

Everyone was stressing and acting quite shitty.

The local biz-owners pretended not to care

That citizens were grumpy with vim and with flair.

See, money was nestled all snug in their hands; 

Nervous vendors awaited each woman and man.

With kids in their carseats, and I in mine, too,

We headed Downtown with our list, Yeehoo!

When out in the street there arose such a clatter, 

I laid on my horn to see what was the matter.

Away down a side street I turned like a flash,

To avoid getting into a holiday crash.

The sun in my eyes, while it rained and it snowed,

Made me hustle inside with my kiddies in tow.

When, what to my half-blinded eyes should appear,

But a guy on a bike shouting swears-- that was clear.

But why was he shouting? What was the trick?

"You knew you were cutting me off, you big dick!"

More rapid than eagles, his cursing, it came,

And he flipped me the bird while he called me these names:

For the sake of the children I shall not repeat them.

But suffice it to say -- we're not going to be friends.

My eldest asked Mommy, "Mother dear, what's a "hoe"?"

And the youngest pulled out a tool to show.

As we left the toy store with some bags and a sigh,

I decided that weird guy was probably high.

Down the street we walked with more shopping to do,

While cars honked and others stopped being nice. Boo!

And then, with a twinkling, we opened a door--

And we were accosted with meanness once more!

As I sucked in my breath and was turning around,

A little old lady pushed me to the ground!

She was dressed all in fur, from her head to her feet,

But her disposition was not happy OR sweet.

A bundle of bags she had in her hand,

And she said "Hurry up! Move over! Don't stand

Right in the doorway! Move along! Now scoot!"

And I knew nothing I could do for this old coot.

Her mean mouth was pinched in a permanent frown.

(I took joy in the long nose hairs that fell down

And tickled her moustache, which covered her teeth.

And those teeth! Oh those teeth! Oh, those terrible teeth!

She had a broad nose and a rather large belly,

That shook when she bitched, like a bowl full of jelly!)

She was clearly impressed with her important self,

So I laughed when she said that, to spite herself.

With a huff and snort and a twist of her head,

She pushed on by me and away that jerk sped.

I said not a word, but went straight to work,

And crossed off the names on my wish list of quirks.

And laying my Visa in the debit machine,

I accepted the purchase-- made the vendor's eye's gleam.

We walked back to the car, and spotted the ticket.

Out of time was my meter? That Reader can lick it!

I'm sure he heard me exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

"Merry Christmas, my ass! Meter Reader, let's fight!"

Santa, Baby

Dear Santa,

I hope you are doing well. It's been quite some time since I last wrote; in fact, at the time of the last letter I thought a semi-colon was simply a fancy comma! Ha! Yes, I know! It's been a very long time.

I usually send correspondence to your email address, but this is a last minute thing and I figure since most kids are sending emails, the regular mail might, ironically, get to you more quickly. Yes, I even learned how to properly use the term 'ironic' since our last chat.  Ha ha ha. 

I hear Rudolph's line of tanning beds is doing marvellously well-- you should really not be too upset with him for going out on his own-- it's not like it's super foggy every year and a deer needs to provide for his family. How does the ad go again?  "Unless you're a snowman, there's no need to go untanned. Let the red lights at Rudy's give you back your healthy glow!"

It's nice to know Rudolph's not the "buck-and-run" type-- he supports his fauns as any good papa should. We all know the mess Dasher got into Christmas '03.  Just sayin'.

How's Mrs. Claus? How's life in the North Pole? Sometimes, Santa, I complain that I don't want to cook another meal and can't possibly do another load of laundry or I will scream. And then I remember how far away from fast food that you live, and how Mrs. Claus surely has more cooking and cleaning to do than I do, and I stop complaining. Just keeping you fat and jolly would be more than anything I have to do here.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I need something for Christmas.  Oh, I know you've already read my mind and said, "No iPad!" but really, I need a new case for my phone. See, uh, it's had an accident.

I was changing Kiddo #2. We cloth diaper (as you know, because a couple of years ago I put some TotsBots diapers on my wish list since they're kinda pricey, and you came through for me!) so when Kiddo #2 does a #2, I have to kinda peel it out of the diaper and flush it.  It doesn't take more than a second, and I use a baby wipe as a barrier between my hand and the poop, and besides, that's not the point.

So there I was, holding my cellie in my left hand and the poop in the right hand. I walked over to the toilet, Santa, and plopped the not-quite-solid mass in. Did I mention, Santa, that Kiddo #2 has been teething like crazy (all four eye-teeth at the same time, and they're the only ones he doesn't have) and has been crying and clingy and has a super raw-butt? Oh, well, then I probably neglected to tell you that he's had the runs for over a week now, which is also really awesome.

So I plopped the junk into the toilet while my phone buzzed to tell me I had a text message. I, having dealt with the stinky thing, looked to my left hand, flipped my phone over so I could read the message. This, by the way, was the precise moment Kiddo #2 decided he needed to weave his gigantic baby body between my legs like a cat. Like a CAT, I say.

The dialogue sounded something like this:

Me: Uh, woaah. Woah. Wooooahh, Kiddo, woaah, Number, uhhh, ahhh, Two!
(close-up of phone flopping around in left hand like a dying fish)
Me: oohh, uh, oooooh!
(close-up of phone flipping, slo-mo up into the air, end over end over end over end)
Plop.
(close-up of my face, contorted, screaming, also in slo-mo, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooo.")

And, quick as a wink, before I could think, I plunged my hand into the toilet after my precious baby! Santa, remember how I used to send email after email about how all I wanted for Christmas was an iPhone? And how I promised to feed the dog every day if I got one? And how I promised to not complain about doing the laundry or making dinner if only I could have an iPhone?

Well, those were lies, but still, I love my phone. Really love her.

Into the poopy toilet I threw my hand, with no regard for my own personal safety. I grabbed the phone pulled it out of the toilet. I ripped off the leather case like a daddy pulling a boy off his daughter at the movies, and ran to the kitchen to perform CPR. And, by CPR, I mean "wipe it down with disinfectant while cursing under my breath" and then, I did what any hero would've done.

I, with great sadness and hope, ran downstairs and plunged my phone deep into the centre of the rice table.  I've heard that rice sucks out moisture (apparently it's maybe also good for arthritis? Try it out on your hands on the 25th and let me know if it works for you), so after testing my phone to see that it at least turned on, I buried it in the rice table for the rest of the afternoon.

(Don't wonder why we have a table of rice, Santa. We bring in the water table you brought last Christmas for the winter, and instead of just having it hang out with no purpose, I fill it with rice so the children can still play and if it gets everywhere, the dog can eat it.)

But, Santa. Oh Santa. Upon careful deliberation, I've decided the worst part of that whole scene wasn't the sticking-my-arm-in-a-poopy-toilet part. It was being without my precious phone for the better part of an afternoon. (and using that alone time to scrub "the crap" outta my arm. The shame of my obsessive-compulsive disorder is represented in the bring pink hue of my left hand to elbow. Sigh.)

So, lovely fat man, I need a new phone case. In the last week since "The Incident" I've lost my phone 5 times in the vastness of my (empty, pre-holiday, post-shopping) wallet. I'm not used to my phone being so streamlined and skinny. I need a big, chunky (poop-resistant?) case for her.

I know I'm getting down to the wire here, Santa, baby, but if you could hook me up, I'd be most obliged. I'll even leave those mint chocolate cookies from the Girl Guides out for you. And ORGANIC carrots for the reindeer.

Love,

Sunny




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Just Another Angel Forward

Don't tell anyone.

Keep Walkin', there's nothing funny going on here.
Only a crazy Angel forward that will make you cry. 

I'm not kidding. Shhhhh!

Just read this post as though it's another Angel forward from your well-meaning mother-in-law (or mother, whichever one sends you your forwards about angels). Don't tell a SOUL that you're really reading my blog. I'll try to keep this one serious so you don't accidently snort or giggle.  I'll even put a little angel over here in case someone walks by and wonders what you're doing.

I'm writing this from inside the Christmas tree box, in the darkest, dankest regions of my basement. I'm half crippled having wrapped my legs around my head.  Very Best Girlfriend is a yoga instructor and I'm sure even she would be impressed with my bendy-ness. Why?

Because, as much as I love them, I need a break from my family REALLY BAD.  I love them to the moon, to the stars and to the "Maximus" (which is what my Tangled-loving daughter holds as the pinnacle of adoration) but if they even suspected I am in the house, it would be game over.  I'm typing this on my iPhone.  It will surely cause massive carpal tunnel in both wrists, but the click of my keyboard sounds like hammers to my kids and dog.  They can hear that at 50 paces, and from a dead sleep.

I told my family that I was going out for groceries after dinner-- Husband agreed to put the kids to bed all by himself, because there's nothing he hates more than grocery shopping.  I waited until I had the quiet cover of darkness.  I waved to my kids and husband and drove away. Then, like all those cool spy movies, just as my taillights were out of distance, I cut the engine and parked the car.

With the silence and stealth of a 16-year old boy in his girlfriend's parents' driveway at 2am, I tucked and rolled out of my driver's seat, silently shut the door and locked it with the key fob. I looked around, smug with the success of my plan thus far-- I've parked the car 5 houses down from ours and I am wearing my usual all-black attire, which works double time in the darkness. Oh I am SO smart. Smarty-smart-smart.

"Hi Elizabeth."
"Oh hi, Fire Chief Neighbour. I, uh, suppose you're wondering why I'm crouched down here beside my car."
"Oh, not really."
"Well, I uh, um, I just ... am stretching for a run?"
"You don't need to come up with something crazy on my account."
"But this looks weird. I mean, I'm whisper-shouting even. That has to be odd to you."
"Oh, Elizabeth. You do plenty of really weird stuff. This isn't new. Carry on."

Sigh. I wave as my neighbour power walks by. I mean, what else could I do?

Once the coast is clear-er, I duck walk back to the house making sure to avoid all window areas. I listen at the side door for the screech, laughter or general noise of the children, decide they're not on this side of the house and unlock the door. The dog barks four times before she sees it's me and stops. I hear Husband yell, "Rizzo!" from the kids' bathroom. Ah yes! He's giving them a bath. I won't be caught now, for sure!

I slink, less cautiously but still stealthily, down the stairs to the basement. It's dark down here with the lights off. I crunch across the playroom floor. Why was it a good idea to put uncooked rice in the water table while it's inside for the winter? The snap, crackle and pop beneath my feet sounds like tap dancing on sand.

Yet, my heart pitter patters like tap dancing on sand. Ok, that doesn't work as well, but you get the point. I'm ALONE! No one knows I'm here and I'm ALONE! No one is slobbering, sneezing or otherwise showering me with bodily fluids. No one is paralyzed with indecision or unable to think or do without asking me about it first. It is so liberating I almost bust out into song--BUT that would give away my secret hideaway so I swallow my urge to sing, swallow hard, and walk deeper into the recesses of my basement.

I find the Christmas tree box. I climb in.

I turn on my phone and get caught up with email and Facebook (wretched, wonderful thing that it is). The glow is blinding, even with the screen dimmed. I fill up countless shopping carts with the things I'd buy on a whim-- oh the websites and places I go. Yet, I feel strangely sad.

I can't believe this. Here I've been plotting and planning for days to carve out some time for JUST. FOR. ME. To make my own choices, to just do what I want to do, when I want to do it. And here I am, sitting cramping inside the box our Christmas tree goes in every year, with my phone burning profile pictures of people I know into my retinas for all eternity, and all I want to do is be upstairs with my kids and hubby. But I also know, the second I get up there, I will be crabby and annoyed that I wasted my precious and few moments to myself.

What to do? What to do?

Well, for starters, I need to remember that I make the atmosphere in my house. If I am crabby, everyone else will be, too. Sure, that sounds like an overwhelming responsibility some days, but man, it's super empowering. I mean I CONTROL it. So if I want everyone to love life, I need to show them what that looks like. I need to be happy and positive and creative and I can't be that way if I haven't taken time to recharge my batteries.  I fire off an email to my girlfriends: the first two to respond say they'd love to meet me at the park for a quick walk before going for dinner tomorrow night.  Sweet. Just what the Doctor ordered.

But. I'm still feeling a little crabby. I find this time of year is a killer for me. I get to be extra busy making sure everyone's holiday is wonderful by way of baking, running, tradition-making, sewing, ... the list goes on.

Yes, we love it, but it's still extra tiring and extra work on top of the regular super-mom things we do. 

So I've decided to mark, on the calendar, in ink, a night each week from November to December, where I have the night off. I can spend it with friends, getting exercise, reading, or whatever, but I cannot use that time to stare at Facebook, the TV or my phone. I will not squander the spare time I actually have.

I climb gracefully out of the box. Ha. That's a riot. I tip the box over onto its side and roll my paralyzed corpse out. Everything cracks, creaks and groans as I attempt to sit up. My hands are screaming from pain and are freezing to the touch making the sandy, not-quite-painful, not-quite-pleasant feeling of sleeping limbs go from head to toe. GROSS.

I wish I'd thought through how I was going to re-leave the house and return unnoticed, since Husband is now in the basement watching TV (he's watching a scary TV show about the army or zombies, so my hideous groaning and bone popping sounds blended in). I slither up the stairs like the shadow of a serpent, smugly sure of my success. I lock the side door behind me and steal off into the night to return as though I've been shopping for hours. As I come in the garage door, I announce that Husband doesn't need to help with the groceries [that I didn't get].

He doesn't answer.
The TV is noiseless so I shout down again. "No need to help with the groceries."

Nothing.

I head to the basement and find he's not on the couch. I call out, "Husband?"
"Yeah?"
"Where are you?"
"In the Christmas Tree box."
"Wha ... why? What?" I cringe. Frickin' frick.
"The Christmas Tree box."
I walk over.  There he is, exactly where I'd just been.  My stomach freezes and, like a drug addict from some TV show that I can't watch without getting nightmares, I start panicking, twitching and sweating.  

"Um?" That's all my panicked brain seems capable of saying. Nice. Thanks brain. I'll remember that next time I decide to go drinking, jerk.

Husband pops open the flaps and smiles. "Oh, hey. Just thought I'd try it out. It's not as comfy as you make it seem."  He chuckles and offers me his hand to help him get up.  I chuckle and realize maybe, just maybe, he's on my side.

"You know, if you need some time alone, you don't have to pretend to leave and then sneak back and hide in the basement.  You could just say, "Hey, Husband, I need a break. Can you handle things and I'll be back in a couple of hours.""

He looks me in the eyes and smiles and the weather in the basement gets a whole lot warmer in an instant.


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MOve Over MOvember

Skinny Pig, looking oddly like my friend,
every month except MOvember.

It's the 30th of November, now known as MOvember, and I couldn't be happier. It's the day that all those little pervy moustaches get shaved off the men about town and they can return to their hairless, happy lives.

Oh, don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like facial hair. I have a friend who, overnight, can go from hairless to a complete, Grizzly Adams beard.  MOvember was made for this guy. He can shave the whole damn month and pull it out for the win in like, 4 days.  Granted, the guy must have to shave twice a day, normally, to be so hairless every other month, but still.

My problem is that the MOvember moustaches-- those pubic hair-esque moustaches that grow in three whiskers at a time-- are disgusting; they bring out the inner pervert in all guys.  Mild mannered men go from being perfectly harmless and generally nice guys, to the guys your Mama warned you never, ever to talk to at the playground.

And, let's also remember that every time you see one of those disgusting little rat-whisker moustaches, you're supposed to be thinking about that guy's testicles.

Think about that. It's like when someone says the phrase "the N word" instead of saying the actual word. You and I both know the word gets put into our heads and WE end up saying it (mentally anyway). If you ask me, that is cheating since I didn't want to think about that word in the first place, and the person that didn't say IT gets a total freebie of both not having said it but also having put the exact word in our minds.  Frickin' nice.  For the record, that's why,when I swear, I actually do it. Everyone knows what the swear word is, and frankly, I like to take responsibility for my words and actions. So ... Frick You.

Anyway, back to the perv-staches.  Those things, which are for prostate cancer research (hence our invited and required thinking of each guy's testes when you see his pervy, pubic hair moustache), were invented for guys to start talking about their junk and getting word out there for screenings and research.  Good work, Cancer Society of Earth-- guys have jumped on this bandwagon like no other. Mo other. Whatever.

However, what it does, as a side effect if you will, is make sure that no prostates (or anything in their general area) are used during the month of MOvember. Viagra sales must be down this month-- who wants to get close to those randomly itchy, just-long-enough-to-hurt facial hairs for a kiss?  Not me.

Again, if you or someone you love normally wears a beard, moustache or any sort of facial hair in the months outside of MOvember, I'm NOT talkin' to you.  You and I both know that facial hair, when grown out for several months, or years even, can be quite silky and nice. It's those testicle-thinking-research-supporting bits of facial hair that are closer to porcupine quills, not your luscious locks of love.

Look how cute I look when I jump! 

So, in an effort to join in on the hot MOvember action, I stopped shaving my legs. I figure if he's got porcupine quills on his face, I might as well have a hidden defence system of my own.  I even raised money for prostate research, although, I took bids to wear pants instead of mini-skirts. It was slow going that first week of November, but once my leg hair was long enough to resemble legwarmers, the money started pouring in. Here's an actual picture of my (bare) legs today.

Jealous? I thought so.

Somewhere Left of Ghandi

I am staging a sit-in.
Don't worry, Yoko, Husband and I will be fully clothed.

I'm reviving Husband's He-Man costume and adding some Man Bits to the front for the photo op-- that's what got Lennon and Ono the publicity, right? It was their nudity during the bed-in to protest the Vietnam war that got them the press coverage. I mean, nobody know who Yoko and John were before then, right?
Oh.

Well, it's hard to grab attention these days, and we need all the help we can get if the sit-in is going to be successful, so I'm willing to let Husband pretend to be nude if it will help our cause. Just like John and Yoko.

They weren't nude?  Next you're gonna say that Rosa Parks wasn't in trouble for sitting in the wrong section of that bus.

...

What do you mean she wasn't? She was seated in the "Blacks Only" area? Then what was the problem? Oh. Some white lady wanted Rosa's spot because the white section was already full? Dang Rosa. I wouldn't've moved either.

But where was I? Ah yes, Man Bits. The Man Bits will be attached to the fur undies from the costume, since men are usually furry around that area anyway. I've already committed to the idea of a nude sit-in, so we're gonna run with it.

Why the civil disobedience? Well, there's a little boy in Kiddo #1's class. He's been very aggressive (am I the only one that spells out that cheerleading thing every time I spell aggressive? "Be-Aggressive, b-e-aggressive, b-e-a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e! Go Spartans!").

Where was I? Ah yes. He's been very a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e since school started. I've been in contact with the teacher-- who is amazing, by the way-- but this kid seems to be getting worse as the months go on. Little Johnny (which is my generic name for a little jerk kids, male or female) has pushed Kiddo #1 down and had generally been pretty ugly with his words since school began.

I'm trying to teach her to not be a victim, so I told her to tell Little Johnny, "No!" and to leave where he is. That worked a couple of times until one of his jerk cronies called Kiddo #1 "a baby" for crying after he said something really mean and pushed her. So, then I told her to say either Stop! or No! and to find an adult.

In the meantime, I also told her to talk to Teacher about what's going on. Again, trying to teach her self-advocacy, I wanted her to deal with this situation head-on. (Secretly I wrote a couple of notes to the teacher to ask that she check-in with Kiddo #1 about this (and subsequent) situation just in case Kiddo #1 forgot.  Self-advocacy is good, but I wanted Teacher to know that I knew what was going on, too.)

So, yesterday, when I got a phone call from the school saying they were "on top of the situation, but Little Johnny slapped/hit Kiddo #1 in the face," I was stunned.  Mostly, I was shocked because Kiddo #1 hadn't said anything about it when she got off the bus and she was taking her pre-dance nap (see: Rage Is Cray) so I had no way to find out any information from her.

When she awoke and we chatted about the incident, she became very agitated and upset; it is heartbreaking to see your baby being hurt by someone. She's had a "sore tummy" for about a month now and in the last two weeks, my wee love hasn't wanted to go to school-- somewhere she adores being!  This has been awful to watch, as I'm sure you know if you've ever had a child affected by a bully.

This was so heartbreaking, in fact, that I said something I never, ever in my life, thought I would say.

I said, "You know, next time Little Johnny pushes you around like that, after you've said No and Stop, if he keeps going, you can push him away from you."

What? How did that fall out of my mouth? Where did that even come from? As soon as I'd said it I regretted it. Why? Well, as we all know, it's never the bully that gets in trouble for laying hands on the kid, it's the kid that's finally had enough and goes crazy that gets into trouble.

So, I quickly back pedaled and reiterated the whole "No! Stop! Find a Teacher!" (and made it into a catchy song with lame choreography for us to practice) because I felt so ashamed of myself.

Don't worry, we're working on the situation at school. But in the meantime, I'm staging a sit-in.  It's gonna take place outside the house of the kiddo. (note to self: find out Little Johnny's last name and/or address)  Husband is going to put on his altered He-Man costume. And me?

Well, I've switched from store-bought deodorant to using some crazy crystal rock thing made of mineral salts. I'm on Day Two of my new 'natural' deodorizing solution, and I'm not sure there's much deodorizing going on here. Either that or I need to put some orange peels and cinnamon sticks on the stove to simmer because my house has become an onion processing plant. In fact, now that I think about it, maybe it isn't my deodorant-- everywhere I go today smells like onion. There appears to be an onion epidemic in my fair city.

Don't roll your eyes at my delusion. It's mine and I like it.

Anyway, with my new found... scent... either Husband and I will achieve our goal of getting Little Johnny in a better (less-restrictive) environment (since his behaviours are escalating) or I'll just run a couple of miles with my rock deodorant on and stand in front of an industrial fan with my arms up. No one wants to live in an onion. Not even Shrek.

Rage Is Cray

If I could put into words the rage I feel when my daughter refuses to go to dance, this would write itself. I tried to do an interpretive dance to the music I made while feeling rageful. The dance kinda looked like this:

Angry Dance Moves (clearly stolen from me)

I wish I could describe it better. It's making me do a Sad Dance that "Flight Of the Conchords" got my Angry Dance so right. So sad that, in fact, I'm back doing the Angry Dance. Damn you, "Flight of the Conchords," for being so accurate!  Also, anyone else wish they'd ever watched that show? It looks hilarious.

At any rate, I'm not sure why I get such a visceral reaction when Kiddo #1 pitches a fit about dance, but here are 4 reasons I keep signing her up for dance class despite the attitude.

Why I Know Kiddo #1 Really Does Love Dance
1) She sings about loving dance all day and night.
2) She dances around the house to any and all music.
3) She loves showing me her latest ballet moves.
4) She loves Miss Brittney (the dance coach). LOVES her.
5) This isn't an 'always' reaction, this is a 'sometimes' reaction.

Ha. I just re-watched that video. Ha.

Ok. So anyway, I get rageful. But it's that crazy, quiet rage that I try and swallow and swallow hoping no one else can feel my blood pressure going up, up, up while my 4-year old sits solidly on the chair saying, "I'm not going to dance" in an equally calm voice.

Oh, I know we're both teetering on the edge of a full on hurricane-meets-tsunami-in-a-whirlpool-in-the-ocean-that-goes-all-the-way-to-the-centre-of-the-earth sorta way. And, I know her father, my saint of a husband, knows this clash of titans is on the verge of becoming real, yet I am completely powerless to let this go.

It begs me to question WHY? Why does this send me over the edge? Why does her quiet refusal make me want to pick up our house and launch it down the block when I'm normally a pretty level-headed let-it-go type lady?

Well, I think part of it is that I know she loves dance. Loves it.  It makes no sense to me that she wouldn't want to do something she loves, unless she wanted to deliberately cause me to have a complete stroke at my tender, young age.  Since the act of deliberately causing me rage is something so outside her character that it's laughable, I can count that reason off the list of possible ones.

I think part of it is that her refusal to go is some sort of crazy reflection of my abilities as a parent.

Yikes. Writing that made me realize how ridiculous that really is. But don't we all sit and think (at least sometimes) "What will so-and-so think of me?" when your kids do something silly? I mean, sure, I judge everyone all the time, but that doesn't mean everyone judges me, right? Ha. I'm just kidding.

I really don't judge everyone. Not since I had kids anyway. I find the fastest way for someone to be less critical of others is to give that judger a kid. Seriously. No parent sits and says "Ugh! My kids never, ever do something silly in front of others, so I can fully judge you as a suck-tacular parent.  You. Over there. You SUCK!"

So, then, WHY do I get so rageful?

I was mulling this idea over with my ever-level-headed sister, Sister, when she, ever calmly, said, "Well, then, what is Kiddo #1 really trying to tell you?"
Me: Huh?
Sister: What is your daughter really trying to tell you when she says, "I don't want to go to dance?"
Me: Uh. ... Ummmm.
Sister: If she loves to dance, like you said, and she loves to go to  dance, like you said, then her saying she doesn't want to dance indicates something else, right? She's only four. Sometimes she won't be able to say what she means simply because she's four and doesn't have the vocabulary. Or the emotional maturity.
Me: I like cats.
Sister: Right. So, is it possible that she's saying this because she's actually too tired to dance?
Me: My cat's breath smells like farts.
Sister: Maybe you should have her take a nap after school and see if that helps.
Me: I think that's cray.
Sister: Cray? What? What is that?
Me: That's "Kanye" for 'crazy' and I'm trying to use it to sound cool.
Sister: Ya. That's cray. Try the nap and see what happens.
Me: Fo Sho.
Sister: I'm glad I spent my 20 minute break talking to you. It was really great. Really.

I'm pretty sure she did the Angry Dance after that phone call, but you get the idea.

So, today after school I said, "Kiddo #1, you're gonna take a wee, short nap before dance."  And she, in turn, said, "Ok."

And, after her DaVinci nap (which is to say, I had her sleep 45 minutes exactly so that she had 20 minutes of quality sleep sandwiched between 15 minutes of falling asleep and 10 minutes of that time before you fall into the deep sleep that you never want to wake up from because it's too delicious) she got up, ate dinner, and happily pliéd off to dance class! To dance class, I said! Happily!

She was herself in the class, too. She had a great lesson, danced very well and was smiley and a good listener the entire time. In short, her DaVinci nap made her back into my child again. Whodathunkit? And, she went to bed easily tonight, too. Seriously, DaVinci Nap Junior, where have you been all my life?

And now, I'm off to bed before I turn cray. Apparently lack of sleep and going crazy runs in our family. Darn Husband's genes. ha. I just pictured him doing that Angry Dance. Ha.




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Motherhood is like Mono. No, Really.

Remember when you brought home that newborn, smushy bean and how you loved your brand new baby so much that it didn't matter that s/he didn't sleep, because even while the baby slept, you stood over the baby and stared at the sleeping angel thinking glorious loving thoughts of love and glory?

And then, a week later, when partner went back to work and you decided you'd just take all the night shifts because s/he "had to function all day without access to a nap, and [you] could grab one whenever the baby slept," but instead you vacuumed and did laundry and had a shower or cried in the kitchen or whatever?  Remember when your eyes would burn and slam shut against your will?  Good times. 

And then, a month later, from severe sleep deprivation because you're Super Mom and don't need sleep, you crashed into a blissful coma one night because Jr finally decided to get her/his act together and sleep six hours in a row.  Then you wake up, heart-racing and sweaty because clearly the child has expired or why wouldn't s/he be awake and crying for your help? And you race in, still panic-stricken, to find the angel sleeping, arms out like a, wee, fat, lowercase t.  

Life gets better, right? I mean, about the time you have your (at least) fourth postpartum breakdown, crying on the floor of the baby's room while s/he cries and you don't know why and you don't know how to fix it and partner doesn't get home for another hour and why didn't you just stick with dogs as children, a light clicks on. It's partner-- s/he picks you up, walks you to your bed, lays you down (no funny business, promise!) turns around, turns off the light and shuts the door.  

Then things get awesome-- you're sleeping at night again! 

The baby is getting to smile and looks just like you (no matter what the in-laws insist!) and you no longer silently refer to your partner as ... well whatever creative pet name you came up with that usually ends with expletives.  Life is great. Heck, you've even lost that baby weight from all the exercise you have time to do now! And speaking of body changes, either the boobs are huge from breastfeeding or they're back to normal from not, and either way it's a good thing!

But, like, remember before you had the baby? Not really? 

Well, I hate to do this to you, but here goes:

Before kids I used to:  

                                   a) sleep in as late as I want, especially after a night that ended at 5am.

                                   b) have nights that ended at 5am.

                                   c) wake up refreshed from having a good night's sleep

                                   d) making plans to have dinner with friends and actually doing it, same day

                                   d) have food and drinks at their perfect temperature, not room temperature

                                   e) I'm sure there are other things. I have no recollection. Sigh. 

Anyway, why am I reminding you about this? Ahh yes. 

See how both Motherhood and Mono have the same symptoms? Well, it seems I have had both afflictions for the past few months and didn't even know it. I was walking around (slowly, with no energy) with mono. I lost some weight, had some awesome night sweats (thought I had The Diabetes, but no), my lymph nodes even got big enough to name (Felix) and biopsy (negative). And, after all the tests, poking, prodding, x-raying, and ct scanning, it was mother-f-ing mono. MONO. 

So.  What I learned from this experience was this: if you haven't got children but would like them; or if you  you have a child now and are thinking maybe you should have another one; or perhaps your deal is just you've got a bunch of kids and you're so tired you'd like to know if anyone else has ever felt this way-- take heart and know that having mono and functioning as though you are not sick in the slightest is precisely like being a mother. 

Precisely.  

I'll Take Kittens For $500, Alex.

It's just that I miss having a cat around. I miss the purring, the lounging in the sun while it streams through a window, the stink of a tootsie roll left for our dog in the litter box.  

I miss sitting at the computer, hearing the cat's feet pad over to me, pause a second and leap onto my desk at which point, kitty lays directly on top of the keyboard to let me know he's ready to be loved. I miss petting him twice and moving him to the opposite side floor, only to have him cross behind the chair and jump up again. And again. And again. And again. Ok, I don't miss that part as much because I find I get a lot more Facebook stalking done without the mobius strip that is the kitty-keyboard dance.

However, I miss having a cat around. 

I asked Husband whether we could get another cat, which was probably not the best route to go if I really do want a cat. Husband is not a cat person to begin with; we only got the cats we had when we were dating and he was still willing to do things "for love" including have cats around and fold socks. Don't worry, since we wed, there are plenty of things I no longer feel the need to do, too. Wink wink-- do you get me ladies? 

Ahh. So where was I? Yes, so I asked Husband if we could get another kitty and the echo of "NO!" still rings in my ears a week later.  

And it's not that Husband is a father figure and I had to ask him permission to get a cat. It's more like we're partners and if something is going to impact our family for a substantial period of time, we discuss doing it.  Whatever, right? Anyway, so I said, "Honey, could our family possibly get another cat?" and Husband shouted his negative response before I'd even mentioned the type of animal I was thinking about. Really, if I'd been smarter I would've changed "cat" for "Porsche sports car" and laughed heartily at his haste. 

But I really want a cat. And Kiddo #1 wants a cat. So, sneakily, the next day, I suggested she talk to her father about her cat needs.  He shot her down, too, which was both expected (why would HER request be honoured more than mine, when I've got WAY more seniority) and unexpected (her long eyelashes and gorgeous smile could make Scrooge sign away pay cheques to the poor.). Really. No huh?

The problem is that when I want something, I don't just kinda, sorta figure it'd be cool to have. I want it. Need it. Got to have it, and with his desire NOT to get a cat, my desire catapulted (ha) from an 9/10 to 90/10. It was all I could do to keep myself from getting one of those "My Husband said either the cat goes, or I do.  I'm gonna miss him." bumper stickers.

So I started plotting and planning-- how could I get a cat without Husband knowing, and keep the cat without Husband being wise?  Well, for starters our cat would have to be an indoor cat, which means I couldn't just build it some cat house (not one of those cat houses, but like a dog house, but for cats) and feed it spaghetti every morning like they do in Rome. So, just keeping it outside wasn't going to work. And we all know how difficult it is to make a cat do what you want -- so keeping it confined to my sewing room (an area that Husband never ventures) would be a fool's quest.

And then I realized that I could get the cat from either a friend or a pet store (but use cash so as to not arouse suspicion when "Cat Vendor" showed up on our Internet banking list) and just pretend someone dropped it over our chain link fence in the back yard!  Ingenious! Husband would never suspect that. 

Yes, oh yes, he would. He knows I would totally do something like that and he'd confront me and, since I'm the WORST LIAR ON THE PLANET (worse than Spongebob, I assure you) I'd confess everything.  

Ok, but, then I realized that in order for him not to suspect anything, I had to make the scenario more real. More plausible.

So, when I went to the humane society yesterday, I picked up 5 kittens! Oh yes! He'd never suspect I was behind this, if I found a whole litter of cats in the backyard!  He would assume that someone really did it -- our house backs to a walking path, so it's totally possible someone would drop off a whole litter of unwanted kittens into our 4 foot chain link fence. Why not? 

I brought the mewling kittens into the house, gave them tons of love and posted my ad on craigslist and kijiji (which is Canada's craigslist).  Then I, hastily, made some signs to post around the neighbourhood.  

In retrospect, there were a few things that made Husband question my credibility:

Four Things That Made It Obvious That I Purchased The Litter Of Kittens

1) The phone number on the flyer was 555-5555, which (in case you're thinking of trying it) isn't my phone number, so anyone looking for the cats wouldn't be able to reach us/me.

2) The kittens were all spayed or neutered. I got them from the shelter, remember? It's kinda one of their requirements. So when Husband picked one up and found its stitches, he asked what kind of surgery I'd been performing on the kittens.  I said, "None. They came spayed or neutered."  

3) Clenching my eyes shut like you do when you stub your toe in the middle of the night after I said, "None. They came spayed or neutered." was another giveaway.

4) The kittens weren't from the same litter and therefore were vastly different sizes. And varieties. 

Frick. 

Yeah.  And, like all my plans that have been thwarted to date, Husband realized the jig was up and looked me in the eyes and asked, "Wifey, did you have anything to do with these kittens finding their way to our house?"  

And, like every other time Husband has looked me in the eyes, catching me in some trivial untruth, I faked deaf and pretended I could neither hear him nor could I read his lips. I then started shouting craziness, as though I'd been struck deaf at that very instant (kinda like that movie where that guy is pretend blind and then his sight comes back just as the Indian guy is gonna tomahawk his face to prove he wasn't blind, but the guy didn't flinch because even though he could see, he couldn't blow his cover. What movie was that? Kevin Costner movie? I dunno.).  

I kinda wish I was Kevin Costner though, because Husband saw right through my rants and shouts of instant deafness and said, "Wifey, did you get these kittens?" and I couldn't do anything but sob, "Yes! Yes! I'm a liar and I'm not even deaf, either!"  

Sobbing, sobbing on the floor. Really, it was the stuff of a 15-year old girl after her best friend stole her boyfriend. Oscar worthy, but not kitten-worthy. Boo. 

Note to self: stop using "Dr Evil's Guide To Diabolical Plan Making."  However, if you do want a kitten, I've got five that I'll let go for ... 1 billion dollars. Muah. Muah ha ha. Muah ha ha ha-- frick. Husband says we'll sell 'em for free, just get them outta the house. 

Anybody want a cat? Or five?

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Hallo-Winner or Hallo-Weiner?

It's the most wonderful time of the year: Halloween!

I awoke this morning with a song in my heart and vampire teeth in my mouth. Doing the dance moves to "Thriller" I sashayed my way into the kitchen to start breakfast. This proved to take significantly longer than expected (turns out the Zombies don't move a whole lot in the forward-motion); but the kids and I just ate breakfast while doing the dance moves. And don't picture what children look like doing the pelvic thrust that the zombies do. It ain't pretty. But it IS hilarious.

Kiddo #1 was to wear Black and Orange with a side order of "wacky hair" to school today, instead of her costume, which was no problem for this lady!  I plugged in my crimper and crimped until her hair was like the rays of the sun at high noon. Then I sprayed it all high and crimpy, added some plastic spiders and voila: wacky hair.

Into her black outfit she slunk like a mini-Morticia Addams, um, but blonde and with glitter and sequins (she is my daughter, you remember).  We got her to the bus with the other black and orange children and lickity-split, our Halloween adventure was afoot.

Kiddo #2 and I, then, raced back to the house to get him into costume, too. We were meeting up with GG (Great-Grandma) for breakfast but, after seeing what I could do with his big sister's hair, Kiddo #2 wanted some spicy Halloween digs, too.

No sweat, I said. 

I got the baby into his Rambo costume -- I made him some baby muscles and a bullet thingy that you wear (pretend I used the right term there) in the X over your back and chest.  Then I put him in come camouflaged pants, painted his face in camo and voila: Killer assassin. Done.

But me? What was I planning on doing? Oh my gentle reader, Halloween is my time to shine. I had four costumes for today.  Why four? Well, because I figured 5 was overkill, frankly.  I'm the Cher of Halloween costume changes, and this year, I really feel I outdid myself.  

For the hours of 9 to noon, I started small: I recreated Lady Gaga's meat dress. Rather, I contacted the person responsible for preserving the meat dress, greased the palm, and voila: I had not only her meat dress (which is now closer to jerky) but I also had breakfast!  GG was thrilled to know I brought the bacon!

(Yeah, so in preserving the dress, a great deal of salt was used. This was handy for future generations that might want to see the actual dress, but not so great for me. Also, Lady Gaga is only about 4 foot 11. I'm 5 foot 11 3/4. This would have probably looked crazy on me even if it hadn't been jerky. But whatever. I rocked it.)

At noon, I sped home and changed into my second costume: The Disco Zombie from Plants Vs. Zombies. I didn't want to be the boy zombie, though, so I changed it up and was a girl one. This picture really doesn't do it justice though because it doesn't show the gold lamé dress properly. Or the crimped hair. But I did my best. It was more work than I anticipated, though, making lesions on my skin. 

I think next year, I'll pre-make the lesions and freeze them for quicker applications. See, I had to have the sores or I would've just looked like a disco version of Elphaba from Wicked.  Although, maybe that would be ok-- "I think I"ll try, defyiiiiiiing diiiiiiisco."  Yeah ... not as good.  

Anyway, I put Kiddo #2 down for his nap while I put on my zombie make-up, which gave me more time than I thought I'd have. And, although you'd think this would be good, it actually backfired because once I'd finally finished the costume, there wasn't much time left in the 4-hour window I'd made for each costume. Boo! 

So, once Rambo awoke and I re-dressed him (you can't sleep with ammo on your chest, I found out), we quickly went to the supermarket to show off my second costume to anyone around.  

Let this be a lesson to you: if you make your lesions particularly realistic by using the leftover jerky from your meat dress, don't wear said lesions to the supermarket. There were a couple of clean-ups needed on aisles 3 and 7, and again between bananas and broccoli in produce.  But, really, if you have a weak stomach, why would you go to the supermarket on Halloween?  And also, thanks, random puker, for making me the reason there was a clean-up on aisle 5. You made far too much noise on aisle 3 in response to my awesome make-up job thus sending me into a zombie disco wretch fest.  Gross. 

Anyway, once that mess what cleaned up, it was already time for costume #3!  We raced home so I could get dressed before Kiddo #1 returned from school and also needed a costume change. Phew! 

Removing the zombie welts, but leaving the green skin and flattening the hair, the third costume should be very obvious to you, fair reader: I was Fiona from Shrek The Fourth. Or whatever the fourth one is called.  Anyway, I looked so much like her, that I don't even need to include my 'actual' picture, since it's precisely, without any difference, the same as the one below. 

Let me tell you, if you happen to have some unresolved issues with someone, and you show up looking like Fiona: Warrior Princess with your 1 year-old son looking like Rambo, people want to make those problems go away.  

For example, when Rambo and I arrived to pick up Kiddo #1 off the bus looking like this, the bus driver decided (after months of negotiations that went no-where) to change the location of our bus stop, and I even managed to get it put at the end of our driveway WITH a two-honk warning every day before the bus leaves it in the morning (if we're not already out there, that is!).  This costume (and my crazy assassin-looking son's costume) changed my mornings in one fell swoop.

At any rate, Kiddo #1, now home, did her homework (who assigns homework on Halloween? Not I, said the little green hen.) and I got her dressed in her costume, which (obviously?) was Rapunzel from the movie Tangled.

 

I spritzed her hair to get the crimping out and commenced to braiding.  We got her dressed and looking sweet (instead of morbid and pale from her school day) and I decided that Rambo needed a costume change, too. So, I scrubbed the camo off and put on a wee black nose and the most deliciously cute Ewok costume ever invented. Seriously, where has this costume been all my life? 

And, with two sweet kids ready to trick-or-treat, we set out (with Husband dressed as the Red Angry Bird. Sigh, I loves me some nerd!).  As it turns out, Fiona's warrior princess costume was a touch drafty considering it's CANADA and almost NOVEMBER.  So, after about 4 houses, I was ready to get into my fourth and final (and warmer) costume.  Plus, I wore it to hand out the candy to our 300 kids that stopped by. Seriously? 300? Yep. It would've been cheaper to invite all those kids over for dinner than buy all that candy. BUT, at least all that candy is not in my house waiting for me to consume it. Small mercies, right?

You might wonder what on earth would be the topper to being Lady Gaga, Disco Zombie and Fiona? It's a good question, that's for sure.  But, it just made sense, if you ask me.  

For my final costume change, I decided to go as Glinda, the good witch from the Wizard of Oz. 

I just put the crown on Fiona's wind-swept hair to push it down.  By then, most of the green had worn off my body anyway, so I finished the job with a white (now green) towel. Then, I reapplied lipstick, added sugar to my voice and glitter to my face and voila!  I then slipped into the giant, bubblegum pink dress (not to be confused with Gaga's bubble dress) and my final transformation was complete. I mean, seriously folks, Halloween is my jam and all, but even if you're not a big fan, you can do any of these costumes pretty effortlessly. 

Trust me. 

And if you can't trust me, then I happen to have some red, sparkly shoes you can borrow; I guarantee they'll transform who you are in just three clicks. 

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I Know Something You Don't Know

I've started my Christmas shopping already. No boos!  We're doing things differently here this year-- quality, not quantity.  I've decided there are going to be very few gifts under the tree and since the kids are small enough not to notice, I think this might be the best time to start this.  Lord knows no one in our house actually NEEDS anything for Christmas, so why buy and buy and buy just out of habit and then donate it all 6 months later? I say, figure out some big things (iPad) and a couple of small things (wooden food toys for the kitchen) and be done. Why spend the same amount of money on 10 000 toys when all you really want are three things?

BUT that said, I've started my Christmas shopping already. Mostly, I'm doing it because I get extreme anxiety when it comes to being in crowded places with jolly, cinnamon-scented people hell-bent on getting the same item I'm hell-bent on getting while Bing Crosby plays in the background. I love Black Friday in the States though. I think it's the absence of cinnamon that makes that shopping-holiday ok. Just a thought.

Right, so I started sussing out my various Christmas gifts.  In fact, I got a phone call yesterday from my sister, who lives near the Center Of The Universe, aka Toronto.

She said, "Hi, Beth?"
Me: Yeah? Is everything ok? It's 8am.
She:  Yeah. You're looking for the (I'm not going to name or describe the item I want to get for Husband because I don't want you to scoop up the very few remaining in the world, Swiper!), right?
Me: Yes. Shh! Someone could hear you!
She: Well, I think I have a lead on one.
Me: (drops the phone in excitement) WHAT?
She: Well, (hushed tone) I have a friend who collects them, and I was asking where he might recommend to go find the one you want, and he said he had one he was willing to part with.
Me: WHAT?
She: But he's going out of town for like, two months.
Me: Whaaa?
She: He's a photographer and he's leaving Thursday morning for South Africa.
Me: WHAT?
(at this point, Husband is now out of the shower and can hear my end of the conversation, which is essentially terse whisper-screams of "what" over and over.  He is wondering what is going on, so I have to distract him. I start shooing him toward the kitchen and motion for Kiddo #1 to kick up a fuss and take up all his attention.  Have I mentioned I am a freaking SUPERSTAR at Charades? Well, I am. And it works.)
She: I can have the two of you meet up tomorrow morning, if you can get here. Can you do that?
Me:  WHAT?
She: And he doesn't like kids. You can't bring Kiddo #2 with you, or he won't consider meeting you anywhere.
Me: WHAT?
She:  I know. It's weird. But you know how photographers can be.
Me: What?
She: Well, I don't know. I guess he's the only one I know like that. Good point. Can you do it or not?
Me:  What? WHAT? Uh. Yes.  I'll do what it takes. Holy crap! This is a miracle!
She: Ok. I'll arrange for you two to meet at the Starbucks around the corner from my office at 8:30 tomorrow morning.  Love ya, Sister!
Me: Love you too!

I hung up, elated that I could have so easily found the totally EPIC Christmas present I really want to get for Husband! What are the odds that just putting ideas out there and (secretly) asking for help would get me such quick, amazing results!  I think this must be why people pray, and use Craigslist/kijiji.  I think I might start doing both. Today.

Speaking of prayer, though, I now had to figure out what to do with Kiddo #2.

And, after Kiddo #1 finished distracting Daddy, I noticed she looked oddly zombie-esque. Not so much with an incessant need for brains, but more that she was pale, hot and really irritating. Scratch that-- she wasn't looking like a zombie; that's clearly closer to a Cullen. Whatever, you get the point. Her being ill could seriously cramp my need to be 3 hours away and childless tomorrow.  Hmm.

Ok. So I called my first line of defense: The Grandmothers.  Neither one was available, however. Something I don't think I will understand until I, myself, am retired (which means I should probably get working so I can get retiring but, whatever) is how a retired person, a person without employment, can possibly NOT HAVE FREE TIME. Baffling.  But whatever. It doesn't matter what the reason is, neither one was available until the afternoon tomorrow, and probably I'd be back by then.  Unhelpful.

Equally unhelpful is The Reason I needed someone to watch Kiddo #2-- I couldn't tell anyone what I was hoping to procure in my visit to Toronto, lest they (successfully) are able to drop everything and get the item I want, instead of me.  But FRICK!  Without some lame excuse, no one would be willing to watch my kiddo, right? An Emergency is one thing-- but we all know how things turned out for Baby in "Dirty Dancing"-- you don't just ask for $500 for something you can't tell your Dad about, because you'll end up having to get your Dad's help to fix the thing you thought you thought you were fixing in the first place. No bueno.

But then, I remembered that Girlfriends are Mother Nature's version of a Firefighter, Police Officer and Ambulance Driver all in one-- Good Girlfriends ARE your one-stop emergency destination.

Me: Hi. Uh, I'm not bleeding, but I have an emergency. Can you watch Kiddo #2 tomorrow morning, until say, noonish?"
Girlfriend: Yep.
Me: (pause) That's it? I don't have to tell you why?
Girlfriend: Nope. What time will he arrive?
Me: (pause) Seriously? I feel like I'm wasting this a little...

So, once I had details for tomorrow nailed down, I needed something do to to keep from screaming my secret at the top of my lungs. I'm kinda a crappy secret keeper.  It was good when I lived in Colorado because when I had a secret to keep from a friend in Canada, I could then tell everyone in the blessed state of Colorado knowing it would never get back.  I just get excited.

Anyway, so while the school day passed with Cullen #1 learning things, Kiddo #2 and I walked around the city looking smug and singing "I know something you don't know!" to complete strangers.  One guy got really pale after I said that and he started to sweat a little. Weird.

After I sang it to a pregnant lady, she demanded I tell her what the sex of her unborn baby was (I picked girl and boy, since she looked huge. Then she said she wasn't having twins. So then I said, again, "I know something you don't know!" and she also went pale and ran to the Dr's office across the street.).

Then I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt.
That. Was. Awkward.

Anyway, after dinner, I told Husband the 982 things that the kids do before bed, reminded Kiddo #1 that she couldn't be sick tomorrow morning because I won't be home and kissed them all and drove off into the dark night to my sister's.


There's nothing like a white-knuckle drive down the 401 at night to make you really appreciate life.

I mean, really, really appreciate life.  It pissed rain the entire way there, through construction which left the highway randomly cone-filled, closed in sections, shiny, slick and un-painted. Oh and my wipers are crap. I don't know if they give tickets for having windshield wipers that essentially don't work, but they should, and I should have a major fine.


So, I white knuckled it to my sister's house singing Jay-Z, Kanye, Eminem and Garfunkel and Oates the entire way.  Don't pretend you don't have a "Mom" playlist full of all the stuff you're not supposed to let your kids hear or even know you have. You do. And if you really, actually don't, ease into it with Garfunkel and Oates. It's the daughters of Art Garfunkel and Darrel Oates (like, with different moms? Do I need to write this or do you get it and are now irritated that I felt the need to clarify that two men didn't somehow breed and have singing daughters?).  They're hysterical. And completely kid inapprop. (They're on iTunes and worth the pennies. I promise.)

Just as my forearm was beginning to ache from the Nunchuk Grip I had on the steering wheel, I arrived at Sister's house.  We did the classic laugh about random stuff that if I re-wrote would sound stupid and totally un-funny, but was hilarious at the time. She went through the protocol when dealing with this photographer (how she met him is a mystery since he's weird enough to be someone that I know, but whatever. Her friends are usually more normal is all). And, after stressing a bit about getting downtown in the morning commuter traffic, I got up the next morning, got out the door and (more importantly) got my gift for Husband!

And, I still can't tell you what it is because what if he reads this and finds out before Christmas? Or what if he doesn't read it, but one of you runs into him and congratulates him on getting the vintage, MINT, [secret thing that is so awesome you would freak the frick out if you read it here]?

So, you'll have to wait, like Husband, to find out what he's getting.

Oh forget it. I can't keep a secret!! I'm the worst! Promise not to tell Husband, but I'm getting him a

...

Dang. Sorry about that. I pressed the Publish button prematurely. :( Sorry. Maybe next time.



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Next Stop: Hollywood!

I'm ready for my debut as the next Hollywood IT girl. I'm sure I have it, but more than that, I also have kids (which seems to be requisite anymore) and I can take direction. Major direction. Stanley Kubrick-style direction, or Woody Allen-type direction. Or, better yet, I can take the love child of Kubrick and Allen's direction, as a director, and not even bat an eyelash.  Wait. I'm not trying to make a weird Soon-Yi joke here, I swear.

(In case you're not a film aficionado, I'm trying to give you the idea that I am able to take unflinching, unbiased, hyperactive direction to the tune of doing each scene at least 25 times before it's perfect, and then once more just in case. We're talking days of takes just for a 10 second piece of film.)

I've been studying acting under a relatively unknown director, Kid O. Numba-Won.   Numba-Won is just about to break onto the mainstream scene, too, and I think like Johnny Depp and Tim Burton the two of us could really become an acting/directing duo and take next year's Sundance and Cannes film festivals.

Tonight alone, we spent roughly two hours just rehearsing dialogue for her new film, Eating Chocolate For Second Snack Is Ok.  Numba-Won, wrote, directed and stars in the play; I am simply a secondary character.

She is the reason for my amazing journey into International Superstar-dom. And as such, I feel like I should document this whole process from start to finish, for posterity. Or, to read on the bonus features part of the Blu-Ray disc. Or, at the Oscars when they do a tribute of Numba-Won when she dies or after she's inducted into the Oscar Hall of Fame or whatever it's called. Like I said, I'm always prepared to board that rocket-to-the-moon.

Things started out well enough. After dinner a few days ago, we went into the living room and decided to run lines (which is industry speak for: practice dialogue for the next day in the hopes you will memorize the lines with the correct intonation and perfect wording).

Numba-Won said, "Ok. I'm the Mom and you're the Kid.  And you want to go to school on the bus but I'm the Mom and you're not going fast enough, so I'm gonna tell you no. Okay?"
"Okay." I replied, eager to show my director that I'm totally worth my Million Dollar price tag.

(Never, ever give yourself away for free. If they want you for free, tell them to suck a lemon or ask Oprah. She doesn't answer her phone without someone signing a cheque over, so they'll get the point.  And if they bring up 'exposure' or 'charity' and that's why they want you to work for free, tell them you're exposing your middle finger to their charity and to call Oprah.  Then hang up because they're too stupid to live.)

"Ready? Go!"
Act 1, Scene 1: Take 1
"Hi Mom! I want to ride the bus today. To school. Let's go!"
"No. That's not how it goes. You have to say, "Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!" and then I say, "Well, you can't because you aren't ready."  Ok?"
Shit. I've already messed up my lines.  No bueno.

"Ok. Sorry. Can we do that again?"  I ask-- I'm still excited to show her all I've got.
"Yes." When Numba-Won calls you out on your general incompetence, she is forgiving, at first.

"Ready? Go!"
Act 1, Scene 1: Take 2
"Mom! I can't wait to ride on the bus today!"
"That's not the line."

I look down and realize that, like Joey Tribiani and his epic fail at the noodle soup audition with Ben, I'm adding words that aren't in the script. Mmm, noodle soup.
"Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!"
"Kid, you can't. You're not ready. Your tights."
"I don't understand that line, Numba-Won. What do the tights have to do with riding the bus?"

Numba-Won slaps her forehead and says, with exasperation, "You can't go outside without your tights. It's cold. You'll catch The Amonia. And when you get The Amonia, you get very sick in your chest and you go to the hospital. So wear your tights!"
"Got it. Ok. Can we start again?"
"Yes. Ready? Go!"

Act 1, Scene 1: Take 3
"Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!"
"Kid, you can't. You're not ready. Your tights."
"Oh! Well it's still warm out. I don't need them."
"Go stand outside and eat your breakfast without your shoes. You will see it's cold."
(I pretend to go outside and eat breakfast on the patio without my shoes. I make 'Brrr' sounds and rub my hands together to make it seem really, really cold from my side of the living room.)

"KID! You have to go outside. You can't know how cold it really is unless you go outside. Plus, you're too cold. It's not THAT cold. Just wear-your-tights cold."  I get it. I have a tendency to over-act. I'm actually fortunate she's willing to work with me to get just the right amount of reaction to the cold.  I'm a very lucky woman. Not many directors would care so much. I'm talkin' to YOU, Speilberg.

"I'm not going outside. It's raining."
"Well, then I guess you can pretend. But try to make it better."
"Ok. Can we take it from "You will see it's cold?""
"Hmm. Ok. Hold on.  Yes. You will see it's cold." (she is such an amazing director/actor that she can fritter to and fro in her roles without missing a beat. It's outstanding.)

"Ok Mother. Thanks. I guess I'll get my tights on so I can catch the bus."
"Ok. But, now it's too late."
"What? Nooooo!"  I throw myself down like Maria at the almost-end of West Side Story (Natalie Woods is an acting genius. Genius.)
"Uh, Kid. Why are you crying like that? You missed the bus. Take responsibility for your actions and get in the car. I will drive you."
"Numba-Two, I have some problems with your dialogue. I mean, I can't see a four-year old talking like this."
"Mom! I mean Kid! Just do your part."

That's about all I can actually type down here for your perusal without violating any sort of copyright laws, but you can see where this is going. Amazing stuff.

After Numba-Won went to bed (she's crashing here while her trailer is being renovated) I decided it was time to update My Look.

I, critically, examined myself in the mirror. Even with my most critical eye, it was clear I had little to change if I want to make it in Hollywood. Frankly, I've got the smile, the wiggle when I walk, the flirty-throaty laugh that Marilyn Monroe made famous. I've got it all. But, my eyes did rest a little too long on the top of my head. I suppose I could use a wee update on my Mom hair.

After walking the children to the bus the next day, I arranged for Kiddo #2 to be watched by a friend of mine while I went to Hip 'N' Trendy Salon.  That's really what it's called-- I figured if the words 'hip' and 'trendy' were both in the title, surely they'd have something magnificent for me. And I was so right!

I walked into the shop and a woman that looked like she could be Betsey Johnson's small-town cousin walked over. Her hair was a very unnatural shade of blonde, considering her age (which was easily 50), her hips were very tiny, and her heels were very tall and her tan very ... non-existent. And, despite her 8-inch heels, she barely came to my shoulders, which isn't that weird, I guess.

(In Hollywood, everyone is under 5 feet tall, so, as a 6 foot tall person I know I will get a bunch of great roles that the shorties won't be able to do. Plus they won't have to build miniature sets for me so that I look 'normal' sized.  Oh yes, I've thought this whole thing through. All in all, Rhonda and Hip 'N' Trendy Salon seemed like a natural beginning to my new life as a starlet; I took it as an omen of plastic and good fortune.)

The only thing that wasn't completely fake, in fact, was her mouth; there were no collagen injections there. Instead, she lined her lips as though she put her lipstick on a Nascar and told it to start racing. She didn't want to have fake-actually-full lips, she wanted fake-thin-lips-masquerading-as-clown-lips. Hey, any good actor has a nudity clause in her contract, so I understand her need to keep it real.

I sat down and Rhonda assessed the situation.

So, I went in with Mom Hair, and left with Ah-Mazing Mom Hair!  I'm telling you, I've never looked so cool, hip and trendy as I did when I left. Jennifer Aniston and those other famous girl-next-door type actors had better watch their steps! I'm on my way and the only thing stopping me is laundry.


...


Frick.



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