At Least My Eyebrows Are on Fleek

We've planned a wee getaway to Florida at the end of May.  This might not surprise anyone since I'm clearly crazy, and only crazy people vacation in Florida in June.  We just wanted to get away for a bit, with the kids, and Hell was already booked SOLID (there is an election happening in the States, in case you haven't been privy to the news lately) so we figured we'd go to the next hottest place.

Husband, who is always full of details and planning said to me last week, "Uh, the kids should get passports eh?"

Me:  No, we can drive across at Detroit, and all anyone under 16 needs is a birth certificate.
Husband:  Still.
Me:  Still what? We don't have time to get passports.
Husband:  Still, we can pay for them to be expedited.  I'd feel better if we had them.
Me:  You would.  Then are you going to get them?
Husband:  Well, no.
Me:  (silence)  Gotcha.

So we got a bunch of pictures done, for $18.99 (each!!) at Shopper's Drug Mart.  I filled out the forms in Sharpie and got our guarantor to sign everything.  We were ready to go.  Only I kept forgetting to put them in the car, or I'd get them in the car and not have all the forms, or the pictures would be gone or yeah.  I just couldn't quite get everything in the car at the same time.

It was hilarious until Bungee, the wonder pup, came trotting inside after rolling in a trough of mud and slid himself all over the fallen papers.  I would've been more pissed but I knew I could redo the forms.   Oh, that was until I noticed Kiddo #1's picture glued to Bungee's muddy belly.  I glanced around for Kiddo #2's pictures and they were scattered on the floor, but safe.

I shrieked, which scared Bungee, the wonder pup, and then he refused to let me near him.  Rolling and dodging like a greased pig, even Rizzo, our old Jack Russell, got into the action and tried to herd the puppy for me.  By the time I got everything cleaned off, there was no using the $40 pictures or the free forms.  Fan-frickin'-tastic.

But see, that was early April, before we'd booked an actual trip.  Now, we sorta should have them, and have a trip coming up in 3 weeks, and I could NOT ask our guarantor to do all that nonsense again.  I mean, a girl has pride.

And, I couldn't stomach paying another $40 for stupid pictures, less than a month later, because of the damn dog and the damn me.  Plus, before, the $40 came out of our life-budget.  This new $40 cost would inevitably come out of my Target budget.

This could not stand!

I decided, instead, to take the kids out of school the next day, bring along Husband's 95-year-old Grandmother (who is my BFF and unbelievably cool) to be the guarantor, and badda-boom, I could get the pictures at Costco on the way to the passport office.  $7.99 a kid.

I am a money saving mastermind.  Until we get to Target, but whatever.

We drove the 45 minutes from our house to Costco listening to the children, who are normally happy and laughing, bitch and moan about EVERYTHING.

They didn't like the music. They didn't like each other singing. They didn't like my singing (!), it was too hot, too cold, too fast, too slow.  He's on my side.  She's on my side.  You're BOTH gonna be OUTside if you don't stop it NOW!   GAAAAAH!

The only solace was the GG (Great-Grandma) needed a new battery in her hearing aids so she could only FEEL the tension and not hear it.

We got out at Costco and I whisper-threatened the children to stop sucking.  (I think that's possibly exactly what I said, because 45 minutes of whining and bitching makes me a little crazy and there might have even been a low-grade swear in there, too, but I blocked it out)

The children marched like they were being held at gunpoint (SUCH drama) into Costco and we waited while two workers chatted by the gigantic printer for 10 minutes.  After huffing, then remembering that these women weren't the reason I was cranky, I settled down and calmly waited for someone to help us.

Costco Person:  Hello.
Me:  Hi.  I need some passport photos taken?
Costco Person:  I can't do that today.  I can take the pictures, but I cannot print them. There is something wrong with our printer.  I can print them tomorrow.
Me:  That does not help me.
Costco Person: I'm sorry.

So, I shuffled my people back in the car amidst cries of "Are we going home then?" and "What's going on?" and "What will we do now?"  And, of course, then I had to repeat all my answers nicely when GG asked them because her hearing aids weren't working.

Since there's a Staples near the Costco, I drove across the parking lot and tried there.  I was nearly run over by a lady in a blue spring jacket on her way out the door.  Thankfully, GG and the children were miles behind me because they would've been mowed down by the blue-jacket lady if they'd been closer.

As an aside:  I think they were miles behind me because when I get annoyed I walk like MURDER and no one can keep up.  Or maybe no one wants to? Jury is still out.  

I got up to the copy station at Staples and said "Do you take passport photos here?"

The lady behind the counter said "No, I'm afraid not-- that's what the last lady was here for, too!  I told her Superstore does them."

Clearly I'm not heading to Superstore now, because that running blue-jacket lady is already there, getting in my way, and slowing me down.

I smile and thank the Staples lady and turn around.  Luckily, the kids and GG were just getting to the door, so I turned them around (again) and shuffled them all back in the car amidst cries of "Are we going home then?" and "What's going on?" and "What will we do now?"  And, of course, then I had to repeat all my answers nicely when GG asked them because her hearing aids weren't working.

I got in the car.

Frankly, I was about .01 milliseconds from turning around and just trying again another day when the phone rang. It was the school.  They wanted to know where my kids are.

Me:  I'm getting them passports so they're with me.
School:  Ok.  So they'll be back tomorrow?
Me:  Well, I hope so. If this takes more than 24 hours I'm going to be very unhappy.  hahaha
School:  (silence)  Ok.

I thought that was a pretty good joke, but maybe my delivery was off since I was trying not to SCREAM AT MY KIDS again for being buttholes in the backseat.  I turned my head all the way around, like that girl from the Exorcist, and covered my kids in pea soup.  Then I spoke to them in tongues.  Shit was getting serious.

Then I had to repeat all the threats to GG because her hearing aids weren't working.
Sweet Steinem.

Gripping my steering wheel on this highway to hell, I sweetly sang that we'd stop at the first Shopper's Drug Mart we came across en route to the passport office.  I no longer cared what the extra $$ saved would buy me in Target.  No, that's not true.  I cared a lot.

Me:  YOU two WILL stop being JERKS right now, or YOU WON'T NEED A PASSPORT because I'M LEAVING YOU in Windsor on the SIDE OF THE ROAD, TODAY.

"We're getting passport photos TODAY."

We Tokyo drift into the Shopper's drive way and everyone got out and kissed the pavement.  I walked swiftly, like an evil queen, to the back of the store to the photo department. I waited. I looked around.  There was no one to be found.

I walked to the pharmacy and said "Hey, can you page someone to the photo department please?"  and I was assured there was a big, red button I was supposed to ring to call someone.  It's on the desk.

I go back and now the kids are in the store. I know this because I can hear whining and giggle-slapping happening.  I press the button.  A hardly-audible "Assistance is needed in ... PHOTO" came over the speakers.  I waited.

I waited.

Several minutes went by. I pushed the button again, AND I told the kids to find anyone who worked there and bring them to me.  I stopped at telling them to have the employees' hearts in a box, but just barely.

Finally a kid comes out of the back wearing one of those I'm-unloading-cargo-from-a-truck coats, and heads to me.  He, without a word, gets the camera out of the locked door, takes Kiddo #1's picture 5 different times, and then goes to the printer.  He unplugs about 50 things, replugs-in about 34 of them, finds a new cord to fit the camera, prints the pictures on the slowest printer ever and then takes Kiddo #2's picture.

Did I mention that there's an alarm clock that Kiddo #2 has found? Oh, it's a Minion's alarm clock.  It is SO CUTE because every time you press any of the buttons, it makes adorable Minion sounds like "AHHHHHHH!" and "BA-dah-dooo-bee" and "wee-noo-wee-noo-wee-noo" and farts and just SO many great sounds.  It's AMAZING.

Cargo guy hands me over two pictures of Kiddo #1.

The angle is so severe in the first one that all I see are nostrils and about 4 chins.  She also looks transparent because the light is clearly too harsh for her.  The second one is beautiful, but she's still transparent.  I don't even want to see Kiddo #2's pictures.

Swallowing a rage that could melt the skin off his body, I say, "I'm pretty sure these aren't going to be acceptable."

  Play this video while you read the dialogue below to get an idea of the alarm clock from hell.

Cargo Guy: I don't see why not?
Kiddo #2:  MOM! CAN I get this MINION CLOCK!
Me:  (silence)  Well, the guidelines are here in my hand...  She looks like an xray.  Also, in this one that is all nostrils, she looks like she's a ghost from a hip hop album.
Kiddo #2: MOM!  The Clock is AMAZING. I need it.
Cargo Guy:  Oh.  Well, someone broke the light last night.  The settings are all off.
Kiddo #2: Listen to all the sounds it makes!  I love Minions.
Me:  So, we've been here for 30 minutes and you knew this wasn't going to work?
Kiddo #2:  BAAAHAAAHAA This clock is hilarious!
Cargo Guy: Well, I figured maybe it was just the person using it yesterday. But nope. It's broken.  You should drive to Tecumseh. They can do it there, and it's cheaper.
Kiddo #2: Can I get the CLOCK!?  I can pay YOU BACK!
Me:  Thanks. (to Kiddo #2)  If you touch another button on that clock ... extremely bad things are going to happen in your life.
Kiddo #2:  (after pressing the button) Oops!  Sorry!  I didn't mean to Mom.  My finger just did it by itself.
Me:  Regulators:  Mount up!

I turned the kids and GG around (again) and shuffled them all back in the car (again) amidst cries of "Are we going home then?" and "What's going on?" and "What will we do now?"  And, of course, then I had to repeat all my answers nicely when GG asked them because her hearing aids weren't working (again).   We could've bought hearing aid batteries in Shoppers while we were there, but they were a bazillion dollars more than anywhere else.

I'm sure we could go to Tecumseh and find them cheaper there, too. However, Tecumseh is in the opposite direction and I had an ace in the hole.  Yes.  (I had two ace-buttholes in the backseat, but also I had an ace-in-the-hole)

In the bottom of the building where the passport office is, there's a guy who charges all sorts of money to take passport photos.  I knew all along that if we couldn't get them done before we got there, there'd still be one more chance.

Downtown Windsor we went, parked 5k from the passport office because, hey, why wouldn't we? My children played this cute game called "Let's Show GG That Our Mom Never Taught Us How to Be Civilized" and I tried not to have a complete brain bleed over the stress.

Husband assures me he would've turned around at the Staples no-go, by the way.  I'm not sure who the smarter one is yet.

I looked at my passport and thought Eff-this.  I'm renewing mine again because I can't go through this again until I'm almost 50.

We got in line behind a couple in their 70's wearing Tilly hats.  "Bucket List?" I asked.  They smiled and said "Yes!  Africa!"  I smiled and we chatted while I thought of all the ways I could silence my children if I was an X-Man.  Finally it was our turn.  Kiddo #1 sat, Kiddo #2 stood, and I sat.

We waited with GG while Africa-couple got their pictures.  I filled out the passport renewal form the picture guy had at his kiosk, and the kids did ... I have no clue. I pretended to be engrossed in my form so I wouldn't have to have a stroke from watching them misbehave.

And then the hipster behind us got his pictures. And so did the old man who was bringing his young-but-old looking kid with him.  Then someone new showed up to work at the camera place and this girl and the guy who took our pictures had a loud conversation about the "new program" and how slow it is and how you need new cords to plug in ... and I started to sweat.  I had been trying to calm myself down by thinking of kittens and rainbows and the PTSD from this morning's cord issues snapped me out of my reverie.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

Guy Who Takes Pictures:  Uh, Ma'am?
Me:  Yes.
Guy Who Takes Pictures:  Uh, we're going to have to take all your pictures again.  I pressed the wrong button and deleted them.

I believe if you were to acquire the building security tapes of that exact moment, you would witness my evolution from mere mortal to mutant.  The amount of stress in my body regarding these fucking pictures was equivalent to what they put Wade Wilson through to make him overheat and transform into Deadpool.

I am now an Xman.
Xwoman.
Xbeyoncé.

Just call me Triple X.
Wait.  That's taken?
Ok. How about Xexy?  Dead Xexy.  Mee-ooow.

I marched the children into the camera place.  Kiddo #1 had her picture taken.  Kiddo #2 had his picture taken, and I sat down, like MURDER.  When the photographer joked "Don't smile" I frowned harder.

We then had to wait another 15 minutes before they found the cord to plug the new computer into the old camera or printer or both? Ooooh, it was in his pocket the whole time, hahahaaaa.

He handed me the pictures in a wee baggie with Kiddo #1 on top.  She, for the record, looks lovely.  I, for the record, do not give any shits at this point.  It is now 11:45.  We have been trying to get pictures taken for almost two hours, and if you count the drive to Windsor, we've been trying to get passports for 3 hours.  Eve Ensler take the wheel.

The children, who can sense that I've evolved and don't want to be on the receiving end of me testing out what powers I have, have settled down.  The four of us amble into the the smallest elevator I've ever seen.  We press the button and go up.  My stomach flips when we start and stop.  Clearly this elevator was built when Jesus was on his world tour (before he was a susperstar, and was just a humble carpenter, of course).

We got out into a tiny hallway, walked to the first open guichet (what is the word for guichet in English?  There are some words that I had to get rid of to make room for French, and for other things like calendars and typing).

Honest to Saturn, we were in and out of that  passport office in under 6 minutes.  

I hardly had time to sit down before our number was called! It was incredible.  It was the most efficient government agency I've ever been to.  Bar none!

Now, of course, the downside to all that, is that I didn't have time to go through the passport pictures until I was at the second guichet. (someone let me know what that word is in English, kk?)

I pulled the six pictures out so GG could sign the children's.  I gave her Kiddo #1's pictures.  She signed them.  I gave her Kiddo #2's pictures.  She signed them.

I looked at my pictures.  I FOR SURE had a brain bleed. Like, uh, WHO in the HELL is the murdering-serial-killer in my pictures???

Without a word of hyperbole, I know I will be pulled over at every boarder crossing for the next 10 years.  Oh yes, I'd already paid for the 10 year super-fucking-long passport so I wouldn't have to renew it/go through this again for a while.

My eyes look like murder. Also, one is bigger than the other one.  My hair looks crazy and fluffy. My mouth looks like I have a handle bar moustache.  I look puffy and fat and have about 56 chins.

Apparently rage swells a person.  As does evolution.


Oh, but here's how I know I am actually a mutant from the Xmen nation and/or I am an evil queen:  My eyebrows are fleek as fuck.  Seriously, they're mad perfect.  And then I remember that the more crazy and evil you are, the better your eyebrows are.  Just ask Cruella DeVille and Maleficent.

The fleek of my eyebrows aside, awesomeness of my passport pictures is only surpassed by the fact it's now noon and everyone in my car is hangry.  And now, as if waiting for its own personal invitation, my car won't start.

I take a deep breath.  The sky darkens and the wind picks up.  I exhale and the sky goes black.  Hail begins hitting the roof.

GG: I think it's really going to storm!
Kids: Mom! What's going on!
Me:  Just trying to get to 1.21 Gigawatts...

This time the car started perfectly.
Ok, I showed it my passport and threatened it.  Whatever works, right?

Those eyebrows though?!?

Tales from the Grocery Store

I know I am not alone in spending altogether too  much time in the grocery store.  I know this because I  often see friends and family members there many days in a row, too.

This weekend was a unique turning point in my life, however, and I think I might avoid the grocery store as much as possible from now on.  Wait, like, I mean, make more of an effort to only go to the grocery store once or twice (max!) a week.

See, on Saturday, we needed to go to the grocery store because we were invited over to a friends' home for dinner.  I offered to bring something, which I had good intentions of actually doing, but the reality of fulfilling my offer was going to require a trip to Ye Olde Grocers.  Stat.

I took Kiddo#2 with me because I'm trying to like, engage him in cooking.  His life goal right now seems to be consuming food, so I figure if I teach him to fish, I won't have to spend my entire fricking life inventing meals to feed his quenchless stomach.

Or something like that.

Anyway, we pulled up to the grocery store, and he skipped ahead to get a cart.  He raced it around the corner and ran over my heels.  Rage flashed in my eyes, but I decided not to pick him up and Hulk Smash him into oblivion.

I'm not sure why I was so benevolent; perhaps it was the coffee in my hand and the caffeine in my bloodstream, perhaps it was that I'd just awoken from a nice Saturday nap so I had more mercy than usual, but my son was neither launched to Mars, nor ripped from the driver's position on the cart.

Today was a good day.

We started down he produce section, picking up some good stuff here and there when Kiddo #2 said "What if the thing Pyper wants for her birthday is in the toy section?"  So, I thought we'd head over to the toys to placate my son and also allow me to peruse the clothing section since my kids are both 2 inches taller than they were before the sun returned to Canada this week.

We stopped by (insert some crazy toy that I won't buy because it's literally $35 and made of plastic) and ran into a friend I hadn't seen in a very long time.  We started to catch up when my son decided to drive the cart up and down some aisles nearby to fill the time.  Somewhere between "I can't believe how big your daughter is now!" and "I'm an artist! I know, crazy and cool right?"  it occurred to me that Kiddo #2 hadn't come down our aisle in several minutes.  Possibly 10.

The normal mother would panic that someone had not only stolen her child, but all her friggin' groceries too...  I, instead, slowly walked the store.  Every slow-turning cart was anticipated and scorned when it was only some oldster who didn't know how to drive anymore.

As I was about to give up on finding him, I ran back into that friend.  I jokingly said "I'm sure he's being detained for trying to finish shopping without a grown-up."  when "We have a Code Adam.  A Code Adam.  Looking for a... uh, ... woman?  Black top, jeans, black and teal hair and sparkle shoes."

Jayzus Cripes.  

Doing a much faster and older version of the walk of shame, (and this time without having my panties in my pocket) I walked to customer service.  There he was.  Kiddo #2, with our full cart of groceries (including some he'd picked up because he knew we needed them, and surprisingly there wasn't even one package of Oreos in the cart?!).

Kiddo #2.
Full grocery cart.
Standing with a check-out lady who was judging me as though my panties really were in my pocket and it was 5am...

I inhaled deeply and smiled.  With a sing-song voice, I called over "Oh Kiddo #2!  You are so independent!"

If the entire cast of Annie had appeared singing "Hard Knock Life" it would have been only slightly less awkward.

Check-out Lady:  Oh! You must be the teal-haired mother!
Me:  (smiling and trying to look like they didn't need to call CAS) Yes.
CoL:  He tried to check out but he said he didn't have your points card...
Me:  Ha! Oh, Kiddo #2!  You know we're working on saving enough points to buy the store! hahaha
CoL:  I thought I would have him wait here.  For you.
Me:  Well, thank you!
CoL:  It's just that most 5-year olds aren't doing the grocery shopping.
Me:  Well, we're highly evolved in my house. I'm training him to be the next Wolverine.
CoL:  And he has your cell phone.
Me: Yes, I figured that out when I tried to call him on it.
CoL:  Well kids are so wonderful. It would be a shame to ...
Me:  I know! I agree!  I think he's the bees' knees!  I am as surprised by this as you are, let me tell you.
CoL: ...it's just that we've never had to call a Code Adam on a ... mother ... before...
Kiddo#2:  So do you have your points card ready or what Mom?

I checked out as quickly as I could while joking and using big words to try and redeem myself.  Also I told her my name was Regina Philangi, so that will likely help.  I called Kiddo #2 Frank Jr. Jr. and Chandler, randomly, to make it seem like maybe he was one of the triplets Phoebe had on the 100th episode of Friends. It would be just vague enough a memory that it could be real, right?

We got the gift card for the movies (which is turning into our standard birthday gift, randomly, because I hate giving STUFF to kids anymore) and left.  We dropped Kiddo #2 off at his birthday party and I made a delicious fruit salad for the dinner party thing, with the perfectly ripe fruit Kiddo #2 had chosen while he finished our grocery shopping. So much winning!

Then today, I picked up Kiddo #1 from a playdate (do kids have playdates at age 8? or is it just like, playing?) and realized we had nothing in the fridge for lunches for Monday.

"I hate all the things." 

In retrospect, I should've suspected something was up by the way she sat with her arms folded across her chest and a "I hate all the things" look on her face.

We got out of the car, got a cart. Once we had just enough items in the cart that I couldn't just abandon ship and flee the store, pretending she hadn't said anything, Kiddo #1 said "Mom. I just feel so BAD about all the animals that have to DIE so we can eat."

Jayzus Cripes.

Fuck you, grocery store

Me:  Oh?
Kiddo #1: It's just like, that these animals live these lives and then one day, they're killed just to make food for us.
Me:  Ok.
Kiddo #1:  Well, it's not fair. And it's probably gross.
Me:  Ok.
Kiddo #1:  I mean, like, look at this wall of like, meat.  It's really big and like, animals had to die to get here.
Me:  Yes.  That's what happened to the animals that are in here.
Kiddo #1: I mean, like, what about the babies? Like, who raises the babies?
Me:  (truly trying to decide whether this is the right time to pull up Fast Food Nation/The Jungle on my phone, or whether this can wait until like, NOT TODAY.)  Well, I guess it depends on the animal.
Kiddo #1: I think we shouldn' t eat meat anymore.
Me: Remember when we didn't eat meat? It was a good time. We were vegan for almost a year.
Kiddo #1:  I remember that.
Me:  Well, the treatment of the animals was part of the reason we did that.
Kiddo #1:  ... Don't forget we need cheese.
Me: (pause) ... well, if you're really thinking of not doing meat... then we should probably not to cheese either.
Kiddo#1:  Why not?
Me:  Well, because you know how when a woman has a baby and makes milk for the baby?
Kiddo #1:  Yeah. But that's ok because she's making it.
Me: Well, it's kinda not like that.  They take the baby cow away from its mother sometimes, and just make the mom make milk forever.
Kiddo #1:  Well that doesn't make sense! Who feeds the baby?
Me:  Well... uh, they usually kill the baby.
Kiddo #1:  Good GOD WHY?
Me:  Well, uh, for us to eat.
Kiddo #1:  Ooooooh.  Oh that is HORRIFIC.

I take that back, apparently today WAS the day.

I know there were people in the store who probably wanted to throttle me: like the meat farmers and the dairy farmers and the food pyramid propagandists, and the vegans probably were cheering, and the vegetarians were grumbling and ...  but I guess I wanted her to understand stuff.  I didn't quite get into the meat-butchering process with her (I'm not ready for that, frankly), and we did buy cheese.

And tonight for dinner, she decided not to eat the grass-fed, organic, rainbow magic meat we had.  Instead I had to make her crepes.  Vegan crepes, and they were as delish as I remembered them.

They'll be more delicious when she learns how to make them herself, but that's a whole other trip to the grocery store.

Jayzus Cripes.  

Elsa's Brier

I tried Curling last weekend.  

I wish I knew what horrid stereotypes there are about Curlers so I could write some of them slyly, but honestly I knew nothing about it.

Like, I know more about Golf, and I'm not 100% sure golf is even a sport.

I mean, it's not like GOLF is in the Olympics, unlike Curling.
Shit. Is Golf in the Olympics?  Somebody Google that for me.

In the meantime, I had to learn something about Curling.

I can't hilariously poke fun of myself while I am learning something new if I haven't done some introductory fact-gathering beforehand.  Just a little Wikipedia glancing, just a little youtube watching, just a couple "key words" goes a long way to making your trainer not want to bludgeon you to death with the articles you play with.  But I did none of my usual research.  I was going in blind.

And just like when I wing-it with eyeliner, it was a horrible, terrible, no-go-very bad decision. Also, I was just as blind as when I put on eyeliner, since I always end up stabbing myself IN the eye somehow.  Fucking show-off stupid winged-eyeliner angels. 

Sure, I'll just wing-it and my eyes will look just like the top photo. Ok, just like the bottom one... 

Plus, like jogging is so 5 years ago; Curling seems to be the sport of choice amongst people on my Facebook page who like to talk about the new shit they're doing.

So it was a thorough, highly representative, scientific sample of population that was surveyed.

And so, today, I found myself at the local (arena for curling, which may or may not be called a Granite club, the jury is still out) with the kidlets and Husband and many people from Husband's workey-work.

This is so SO much harder than it looks.

I decided I would learn to curl.

First, you need to remember a few things about me before we go another sentence.  1) I am certain I am an Olympian-waiting-to-happen with every sport I try, and especially sports I have never tried.   2) I'm fairly bendy, despite my general un-fittedness.  and 3) I'm pretty much like Wayne Gretzky-- I can learn a sport just by like, being near it.

So like I said, Curling was about to have its ass handed to it.

Wearing my yoga pants for ultimate stretch, my new sneakers (which aren't new, but I gave up jogging once I mastered it, so now they lay dusty), and SOCKS.

Strike one against Curling: you have to wear bloody socks.

I was placed on a team with some, like, advanced curlers and some medium curlers.  I could tell they were only being nice to me because they wanted to learn from my amazing, innate sports knowledge.  Plus, I tell hilarious jokes, which diffuses some of the "I'm kinda amazing so you are probably nervous" tension. But I digress.

I watched teammates do The Throw.  I listened to a bunch of people tell me all sorts of mathematics and physics.  I watched the stones hit other stones and sometimes they kept moving after the "kok" sound, and sometimes they stopped abruptly for a reason that I didn't quite understand.  I felt my heartbeat quicken.  Oh shit.  This isn't a game.  It's fucking frozen MATH. 

I tried not to have a panic attack while they told me all the angles and magical math and geometry needed to play the game.  No one fucking told me there was MATH.  

Strike TWO on Curling:  Fucking MATH.  
 I was ready to go full Elsa on this shit.

Confidence shattered, I inhaled deeply and tried not to cry.  How can I be the most amazing curler in history if I need to be able to like, do angles and shit?

I snuffled and wiped a tear.  I looked around.  I saw my debutante kids throwing rocks like fucking professionals and felt a rage grow in my heart.  Ok, so I was mildly jealous that my stupid kids can pick up a game and I'm over here chewing on Xanax because I don't have anything to drink it down with.

And then, like Elsa once she figured out she's super hot and also amazing, I remembered I'm practically a yogi and I've totally go this shit.

Probably the Xanax kicked in, but hey, I'm going with me realizing I'm Elsa.

Xanax and I are masters of All. The. Things.

I put the rubber thing on my shoe, stepped onto the slidey pad thing with my other foot, and remembered I'm a fucking lefty and that everything I'd just watched was now completely backwards.

No strikes here: being a lefty is just a strike against learning everyfuckingthing, and not any one thing in particular.  I couldn't hold being a lefty against Curling. Much.

Of course, with my confidence shaken a SECOND time, I switched all my gear to the opposite feet and pretend this is no biggie...  But FRICK!  Frick, frick, frick.

So, after I threw the first stone, I realized another crucial problem.  Not only am I lefty, and I've never really even watched curling, but also this:  If you are going to do the curling, you must have some sort of core muscles.  Of any kind.  No matter how small.  Being essentially a cooked spaghetti noodle in the middle of a jello mold will not be as advantageous as you might think.

I threw the first stone.

What actually happened was I put my feet up on the foot things (which are kind like sprinters foot things if you've never really seen them before) and pushed myself forward.  Only, like true Jello, I wibbled and wobbled, ass in the air like a Hip Hop video.

Actually, it was most like me in downward dog, sliding about 30 centimeters, in slow motion, holding a 40 pound rock in one hand and a slidey white staff thing in the other, while my one foot started sliding up to my arms and my non-slidey foot stopped completely.  Oh, if I could have a video of this cat-ASS-trophic vision, I would probably pay money.  ... although I'm not sure whether it would be $$ to hide the video or to promote it.

 From the side I started off a little like this:

    


                     But from the back it looks probably more like this:

Probably what I looked like seconds before I fell.

And, I might want to remind you that it's not supposed to look like either of these pictures.
It's supposed to look like the lady waaaaaay above us.

So the people on my team, who were medium to expert curlers, watched me as I jiggled and wiggled and flopped and slid my way to the hog line (which is the first line after the giant target and at that point you're supposed to let go of the rock and it should gracefully slide to the other end of the ice and land perfectly in the "button" or center of the target).

Or it's called the hog line because it makes you feel piggish if you can't even fall that far, let alone push the rock across it.

The other players, patiently, generously, let me fall about 5 times before I managed to kinda sorta stay on my feet.  I think I was actually doing something kinda right at one point.

AND, I think I might have actually got the rock to slide like, towards the other end, with triumphant cheers erupting from my face like I actually HAD won an Olympic medal. 

But now is the best part-- 


I need to tell you that I've been trying to finish this post for four days now, but the rhythmic jiggling of this guy's butt is SO distracting!

There.

If I type waaaaay down here I don't see those floppy butt cheeks anymore and I can actually think about the best part of curling.

Oh shit.  It's been so long since I curled now, that the stupid cartoon has successfully derailed my train of thought.

Bloody hell.

Dang it.

Uhhhh.








Curling: The Cold Doesn't Bother Me Anyway.

Charlotte Bronte is Non-Plussed and other Events

Oh man.

Being an artist is exhausting.  The good exhausting.  The kind where all you do is think about the next thing you're going to do, and plan how to do it and what marvellous things will happen because of it.

It's a little like a massive crush, only it's different.  It's a little like being a stalker, but it's different.

What I think I look like when 
I try to make new friends.

It's kinda like meeting Jennifer Lawrence, and then finding out she is moving in two houses down from you, and you're quite certain you'd be BFFs if only you could have a meaningful conversation, only every time you try to talk you sound like a super weird stalker-crush-girl, instead of sounding like Adele or like, Beyonce.

Yep.  Story of my life.

How I really look when 
I meet new friends.

Anyway, I've been spending all sorts of time at the studio.

Friend:  Hey! How's the Art-thing working out?
Me:  It's amazing!  I love it.
Friend:  How often do you get to the studio?
Me:  Like, every day.
Friend:  Wow! That's a LOT!
Me: Well, I believe many people work 5 days a week?

But guess what?   I'm excited to get to the studio every day.  I did some terrible art, and I kept it! I didn't beat myself up for making something "bad" because I am not living for the 15 minutes I can do art between the 45 other things I'd rather NOT be doing.

I put it up even, because you have to do bad art before you do good art.  So it's inspiration to see how I'm coming along. Plus, it takes much longer to make shitty art than it does to make good art, so I figure it should be up on display just because it took so dang long to finish.

Why? Oh, because you take a perfectly good piece, destroy it to the point that it could be salvaged, then do something really dumb and make it worse, then leave it alone for a few days.  And then try to fix it by doing something stupider, and voila: bad, long-taking art.  It's much simpler to just do it right the first time, but there's no growth in that.

I've been listening to TONS of music lately because ... well, because I can.

There are two songs that, since January, have been coming on at least thrice a week, each.  "I Can See Clearly Now" (Cliff), and "Sittin' on the Dock of The Bay" (Redding).  At restaurants, in the car, in the grocery store, at the coffee place, in friends' cars, in other countries, at public events... those two songs are haunting me and I think it's because one is about being in the middle of stagnancy (Dock of the Bay, I'm looking at you!) and then letting go of toxic shit, and being able to see the world differently as a result.

It's bizarre.  I don't even listen to "oldies" stations-- but these songs have even been on our public (talk) radio station.

And then, I turned on the CBC to hear a discussion panel on the Bronte sisters.

PS, I despise the Brontes. When I had to read Jane Eyre in my Lit 101 class in Uni, I wrote essayS on how Jane Eyre is an anti-feminist text wrapped in a "progressive for its time" package, and how women today should never read it lest they be swayed into submission by an idea of Love that is superficial at best.  Mr. Rochester, you smug bastard, you only fall in love with plain Jane AFTER you are blinded and no longer have to deal with her dull looks.  Oh, and Jane eats that shit UP.  BAH!

Even Charlotte Bronte is disgusted 
by the Universe's pedantry.

And just as I was about to change it, the speaker said "Oh well, as happens when you have a grand plan that you don't really want to do; it fails and now you can do what you really wanted to do.  For the Bronte sisters, their idea of being teachers was just because they yearned for the independence writing would ultimately give them... (and I kinda stopped listening because SHEESH!)"

Universe, it was cool when you were sending me messages through song.  It is ironic and uncalled for to join forces with the stupid Bronte sisters to ensure I get it.

I spend days at the studio, working.  I spend my weekends with my kids and hubby.  I spend my nights doing other meaningful work, like prepping for my upcoming seminar I was invited to teach, on self-kindness.  I'm putting final touches on some pieces for my very first art show.  Exciting times.

Annnnd, I am also found looking online for Great Dane (or other giant dog) breeders that want me to have a studio dog.
 (Don't tell Husband, ok? He gets a little crazy when I bring it up.)

To make sure I run into this song even more often, here's a link to "I Can See Clearly Now" by Jimmy Cliff.

I took the kids to their respective camps this week (it's March Break here) and "I Can See Clearly Now" was playing when I walked into the art camp for my son.

Like, really?

When he finished his week of art we had an interesting conversation.

Kiddo #2:  Mom, Katherine says I'm an artist.  Is that true?
Me:  Of course it is!
Kiddo #2:  Well, but I thought I was a hockey player.
Me:  Of course you are!
Kiddo #2:  So I can be an artist and a hockey player?
Me:  Yep.  Just like I can be an artist and a teacher and ... really good at getting lost.
Kiddo #2:  Oooh, you're REALLY good at getting lost.  What am I really good at?
Me:  Math.  You're really great at math.
Kiddo #2:  I know, but I mean, something I'm not supposed to be good at, like how you're good at getting lost.
Me:  You're good at unflinching honesty.
Kiddo#2:  Oh yeah. And toots.  I'm really good at toots.

I've got to change that kid's diet. 

Coming Out Of The Painted Closet

There has been a lot of deliberate silence from me lately.

And by lately, I mean, the last 2-3 years.  Years.  That's a long time for someone who talks (almost) non-stop, or at least communicates, non-stop.  An eternity, almost.

Ha.

I have been silent for a few reasons, some of which are legitimate, some are just lame.  For starters, 2015 started in a pretty shit-tacular fashion; my job and my children's school closed up shop.  Like, we found out on December 23rd, while on Christmas vacation, via email.  Ouch.

So I spent much of January and February licking my wounds and trying not to lose my shit in public.

I was so damn angry.

But then, as my children seamlessly transitioned from one school to another (as children will) I started to re-evaluate my life.

I shouldn't make it sound like I did all this soul-searching and life-changing all by myself.  Oh no, there was a lot of "let's go back on the meds" and "let's get a therapist" and "maybe a shower might be an achievable goal for this week?"

So yeah.  That's fun.

But while I was having breakdowns and/or breakthroughs, I just kept coming back to art.  I mean, maybe that sounds stupid, but like, frick.  Where my usual mode of self-expression seemed to have always been WRITING, suddenly there was nothing to write.  But I still had shit to process.  So, paint seemed to make sense.  Real sense.

Like the boy from "You Belong with Me" by Taylor Swift.  (I decided that song is really about a gay boy who is in love with his best friend (who keeps dating girls)  and who should be gay, too)...

I dare you to listen to the lyrics to that song again without knowing in your soul that the narrator is a boy.

 Click here to read the lyrics and be forever changed.

So I was like that boy from "You Belong to Me"  in that I knew something was up, but I didn't know the True truth.

Signs You Might be An Artist

1.  You constantly represent what is going on around you visually, on any available, preferably plain surface.
2.  You have various art supplies in your car/on your person at all times, for "art emergencies"
3.  You actually HAVE "art emergencies" 
4.  You often say things like "Oooh! That smells like purple!"
5.  Even during terribly difficult times, when you can't get past the hurt and sadness, you always have canvas.  You always have a brush and a pencil and a mason jar of water.

And here I am.

But if I'm gonna be painfully honest, teaching has always been an important part of my life because it was always this "sure thing."

I chose teaching as my career because it was a good paying job that would travel well (I have a penchant for moving), and has good benefits and a pension. So, it was good for now, and for the future.

If you want to look at it another way, Teaching was the reliable, never-cheats boyfriend that your parents like, and who doesn't have any tattoos, and maybe wants to get married and have kids, but only when you're ready.  He's the Steve to DJ Tanner. 


And Art.  Art was always that hilarious, never-commits, makes fun of your dance moves until you storm off because it's not funny anymore, kinda smelling' like weed or booze or boozey-weed, or maybe just weird, like, bologna.  This one is like dating Haymitch from the Hunger Games. 

So it makes sense I would be besties with Art, but that I'd marry Teaching, right? Because obviously you should always have crazy friends, but you need to make sure you are stable and prepared and responsible for the future, right?

Only, I kept saying things like "This isn't worth the Hours/money/stress."  Even though I loved the kids, I loved the school, I loved my administration (or at least 1-2 of those at any time haha), I wasn't in love with it. 

I feel like when something is RIGHT, when it's your passion, when you're telling your honest, real truth, the hours/money/stress are completely worth it.  When your heart is exhausted from doing what's right for you, you are happy.

When you are exhausted trying to be something you're not, you're angry, bitter, ugly, anxious, depressed.

I dunno. Maybe the metaphor isn't as right as I thought it would be because, even though I am a great teacher (she said modestly), it's just not enough.  Oh, that damned word 'enough.'

So, last fall, I started really thinking about what Enough would have to look like.  It stopped being about money, or prestige, or needing Fame or ...  Enough started looking like peace, acceptance and being myself. 

I made a list of all the things that make me feel good.  Then I made a list of everything I do every day.  Then I compared those lists and cut accordingly.  It was liberating.  It was positive.  And it seriously cut my rage waaaaay down.   

I really started to think about it and realized that Art is the best friend who has been there all along.
Been there all along.  Shit.

Like Rapunzel figuring out she's the lost Princess, I was overwhelmed by all the Art memories I suddenly had.

I took every Art  course through to the end of high school, even went to a second high school to get the university credit Art class.

I spent my college student loan money on Prismacolor markers (that were $6.00 each!) because they were so amazing and coloured beautifully and SHADED!, even though I was studying radio (do I have to lay out there that there was no reason to buy markers for any radio classes?)

The first class I enrolled at university was a crazy full-credit drawing class that I adored, even though my majors were French and English language and literature.

Art was there when I didn't get into teacher's college the first time.  Art was there when Husband broke up with me because he wasn't "ready to date the woman he was going to marry." Art was there when I moved to France and was so homesick I could hardly breathe.  Art was there when I celebrated friends' weddings, my wedding... it was there every day, in every class when I taught about anything, and everything.    Art was the reason I started making clothes for my daughter, which turned into a design studio for sassy children's clothing.

Art (or creativity) is there in everything I do, even this blog.

So, like, what if I finally, after all that, after all these years of writing, and teaching and having a lovely life, what if I actually just did some art. Like, became an artist? Like, what if I had a place to work and I worked and sold art maybe like, twice a year, at a show that I host?

What if I made art that is for me, and if people like it, great, and if they don't, great.  And what if whether or not it meets anyone's approval is really just secondary because the first purpose is to create with courage.

And so, obviously, I had to tell my Very Best Girlfriend and my Sister before I could broach the subject with Husband.  And so, obviously Very Best Girlfriend and Sister both looked at me like the "big news" I had to share was the equivalent to telling them the sun rises in the morning.

Me:  Sooo uh, like, I, uh, think I'm gonna be an artist.
Sister: ...
Me:  Like, instead of teaching.
Sister: ... (looking around for hidden cameras) But you ARE an artist.
Me: No, like for reals.
Sister:  ...  OH! I get it.
Me: Huh?
Sister: Oh I get it.  You're the GAY kid!
Me:  Uh, no?
Sister: Yes. You're that gay kid who is SUPER gay and everyone knows you're gay, but you don't know it. Only with Art.
Me:   Gotcha! 

Now I get why I always understood teenagers: we're all pretending we're not what it looks like.  

But the most amazing part was when I (still scared, still thinking I was going to sound rash and crazy and infantile) told Husband.  I said, "Um, so like, what if I actually was a, like, uh, artist?"

And he looked me in the eyes and said, "Well, if you're going to do that, you'll need a proper studio."

I nearly dropped dead.  Not that Husband isn't supportive (we never would have worked out if he hadn't been) and not that Husband isn't a fan of me trying new things (see prior parentheses), but he is also careful and thoughtful and not prone to getting swept up in emotions.

And he was immediately on board.  Say what?

So, with more and more courage, I told my folks (my parents are so proud of my efforts they make cheerleaders look bored and non-committal), my brother and my kids.

Here I am.  Shouting what is obvious to everyone but me, to everyone (but mostly to me).

I'm here.
I'm an artist.
And I'm getting used to it.

The Day I Became A Disney Princess

Nothing in my life could have prepared me for the most shockingly amazing thing that happened at the local garden nursery-arcade-restaurant-petting zoo.

Kiddo #2 and I went with some friends to this place today to hang out and crap.  It was fun.  Super fun.  The kids went on every ride (twice!), jumped the hell out of the bouncy castles, ate some amazing chicken and fries, and then, we went out to the petting zoo.

Here I was, just figuring I would be loving on some goats when around the corner was a spotted deer.  

I screamed in my throat (you know, that scream when your mouth doesn't open but your whole neck screams) and could hardly walk.  A fucking DEER!  A beautiful, Disney-style spotty deer, just over there, in the petting zoo.  My knees buckled.  

I turned to Crystal and whispered:

Me:  I have been waiting for this moment all my life.

Crystal:  (raised eyebrows)

Me:  Oh MY GOD.  I am probably gonna cry.

Crystal:  What the fuck for?

Me:  Frick, Crys! A DEER!  If I get to touch that deer, I will probably die of happiness.

Crystal:  Really?

Me:  CRYS!  All the Disney princesses have deers come to them when they sing. If I get that deer to come to me, and like, I touch it, I am clearly a fucking princess!!

Crystal:  Ahh.

At this point, the deer, the mythical beast was really quite far away.  I had no choice.

I was standing far enough away.  

I lifted my hands to the sky like Julie Andrews and began singing.  And of course, like, I was singing that part from The Little Mermaid, where she loses her voice. 

Me:  Ahh-ah-ahhhh.  Ah-ahh-ahhhh. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh-aaahhhh.

Crystal:  What the hell?

Me:  I'm singing Ariel's song!  Ahh-ah-ahhhh.  Ah-ahh-ahhhh. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh-aaahhhh.

Crystal:  Whyyyyy?

Me:  Ahh-ah-ahhhh.  Ah-ahh-ahhhh. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh-aaahhhh. 

Crystal:  People are looking?

Me:  Well, like, I'm singing Ariel's song because, like, does Snow White even have a song?

Crystal: Uh, like yes?

Me:  Oh yes.  "I'm singing... for the one I love, to find me, to find me, today."

No shitting shit, that damn deer was starting to come closer every time I sang!

Just as it got close enough to consider singing more some kids (not OUR kids, because her child and my child were no where to be seen. Seriously.  And I gave literally zero fricks about it, either because a DEER!)  came over, all full of ruckus and making altogether too much noise, so the deer hopped away and over the fence.  Like, it was in the inner part of the petting zoo, and it hopped over the fence back to where it sleeps and eats, where the people can't get to it.  

Stupid kids getting all noisy and scaring my frickin' deer! Why would someone raise children who wanted to make all sorts of noise when a Disney princess is trying to call animals to her? Frick.   

So Crystal and I walked over to the fence and WHAT?  Crystal starts making dog clicking sounds trying to call MY deer to her, and she's not even singing.  

And the deer, MY deer, starts walking to HER!

Me:  So help me GOD, if that deer comes to you I will cut you.

Crystal:  Click, Click, Click.

Me:  Ahh-ah-ahhhh.  Ah-ahh-ahhhh. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh-aaahhhh.

Crystal: Click, Clickity-click. 

Me:  Ahh-ah-ahhhh.  Ah-ahh-ahhhh. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh-aaahhhh.

I moved further from Crystal so that the deer could choose me, definitively,  and so I could become the Disney princess I am.   I sang loudly, I sang clearly.  I added songs from Cinderella (the Mockingbird thing) and Frozen (Is there ever a time that "Let It Go" isn't appropriate?).

The deer faltered, took an obvious false step toward Crystal but when I pulled out the Snow White and started singing the Well song again, that deer flicked its ears, did an about turn and walked directly toward my song!  It hopped the inner fence and came toward me.  It was majestic. It was perfect.  

Me:  Crystal.  My deer is coming to me.  I am a real princess!  Where is your CAMERA! You have to take a picture!  (all sung in various tones so the deer would continue coming toward me)

Crystal:  (rummaging in her purse)  

Me:  Hurry, hurry!  Time is running out!

Crystal:  Uh (laughing)... I can't take your picture.

Me:   Where is your camera? What is happening? (the deer is sensing my panic)

Crystal:  (laughing hysterically)  My daughter has my phone!  I can't. (laughing) I can't take a picture!

Me:  The deer is leaving.  The deeeer is leeeeeeeaving.  Leeeeaving...

Dammit.  Why? Why did the kid have the phone? And I couldn't take the picture with my phone or I wouldn't be in it because you know I'd never get the selfie right.  

So there's no proof.  

But we both know it happened.  I'm officially a mutha fuckin' princess. 

#BowDownBitches 

I Wish I Got Commissions Cuz This is All About Great Wolf Lodge.

When the holidays approached this year, my sister suggested we try and get something that we could do together.  The whole family.

Sister:  No one needs another $20 thing that will be donated to Goodwill after 2 months.
Me:  Yes! (I had spent the summer purging out basement, so I was super on board)
Sister:  So what do you want to do?
Me:  Yes! I have no idea.
Sister:  Well, think.
Me:  Like, see a movie or something?
Sister: Think bigger.
Me:  See a double feature?
Sister:  Seriously? That's all you can think of?
Me:  I'm uh, like I need some rules.
Sister: It has to be something everyone from the 3-year old to the 19-year old kid wants to do.
Me:  ...
Sister:  And it has to be something we can coordinate together NOT at Christmas because it's too busy.
Me: ...
Sister:  And it should take at least 1 day to do together.
Me:  Wait.  I'm thinking of something ... can we all finish my basement?  The 3-yr old can use the table saw and the 19-year old can hammer...
Sister:  I'm not sure that's what we're thinking of...
Me:  We can call it something catchy like "Downstairs Reno"  or "Really Exciting New Objects" so no one figures it out until it's too late.
Sister:  Ok.  Uh, sure.  We'll put that in the brainstorm cloud.  But what else?


See, last year, we'd left all that brainstorming up to my sister, and she came up with getting tickets to the PanAm Women's Soccer final in July.  It was fun, it was together, it was a day, and it was awesome.

I was kinda hoping she'd take the lead again this year, I'm not gonna lie.

Luckily, my unhelpful brainstorming forced her to come up with a new plan.  And, sure enough, a week or so later, she submitted for approval: The Great Wolf Lodge.  The rest of us were just happy to have an option presented, instead of having to come up with someone ourselves, so we jumped on board.

At Christmas, each kid opened a gift with several random letters in it.  Those letters all rearranged to spell out Great Wolf Lodge.  It was inspired. lol

Just kidding. But, it was hilarious to watch the high schooler and college man furrow their brows with letters like G, W and F (can I buy a vowel?) and the non-readers just dance around to the coloured paper.  Ha.  And then, after 15 minutes of "What does Wolf and Great have anything to do with? And what's the next word?" and then saying "Great Wolf... Great Wolf?  hmmmmmmmmm"  (the oldest kids had it by this point, but the younger ones were stupefied) and then Grampie shouted out TRIUMPHANTLY "GRRRRREAT WOLF LODGE!"  as though HE had no idea what the words were going to be... lol lol  Ohhh dad.

This weekend, Family Day weekend (President's Day weekend for those of you in America), we packed enough for a 5-week trip, drove to Niagara Falls for 2 nights, and had a helluva time.

Seriously guys, I know unsolicited advice is always welcome (haha) but it was so great to spend time together when we all weren't rushing around and super busy.  In fact, it was amazing.

Plus, there were enough adults around that each kid had one to roam with.  It was cool-- the lazy river was great for the people who wanted to relax.  The waterslides were perfect for the active-crazies, the pools were great for hanging out and swim-talking. lol  And then the salon.

Oh man.  Most of the grown-ups ended up getting massages while the kids swam, and there's this adorable salon for kids that does mani-pedi-facials in Strawberry, Vanilla and Chocolate.  My diva (Kiddo #1) and her cousin enjoyed some pampering, too.  Kiddo #2 wasn't feeling a mani-pedi-facial because he was too busy ninja kicking the waves in the wave pool.

Geez. This wasn't supposed to be a big "go to the Great Wolf Lodge" post.  It was supposed to be a "make memories together" post.  Oh well, take it for whatever you want.  It was a great weekend and everyone had something cool to do.  Oh, and the arcade is super fun.  And the food is great.

There.  Just go somewhere together.  It doesn't have to involve passports, or even bags of money.  Just be together. Laugh together.

Spend time.  It has a better return than money anyways.

Where are some places you've gone as a family?  (and To Hell in a hand basket doesn't count! ha)

Santa, Sex and Unicorns.

Well shit.  The day has come. 

In the last few months Kiddo #1 has been asking a few questions, here and there. 

"Hey, Mom, I want another sibling."  "Mom, so-and-so said babies come from Jesus. Is that true?" 

Then, one night a few weeks ago, Husband was taking Kiddo #1 to swim practice.  It was dark, the snow was flying, and misting, and it was kinda just a gross, yucky, night.  Practice was practice.  Nothing out-of-the-ordinary occurred...  Husband could have never predicted that his life would change forever more on this freezing cold, winter's eve...

Maybe it was Full House marathon, or the Katy Perry videos, or the Bill Nye the Science guy video on how mammals have babies... it could've been anything.  But suddenly, unprovoked, Kiddo #1 opened her mouth and, "Daddy, how to babies get INTO the mommy's tummy? Like, how did they do it?" fell out. 

Husband panicked, swerved to the shoulder of the road and swerved back.  He pulled over violently.

Kiddo#1: Daddy!  What's wrong!?
Husband:  Uh.  I uh, I think I hit a cat.
Kiddo #1: DADDY NO! (hysterical sobbing)

Husband then left the car, went behind it, pretended to scoop up a deceased kitty, cross a snow-and slush-filled ditch in his leather work shoes and brand new dress pants.  With his coat around a blob of snow that was supposed to be a dead kitty, Husband dug a hole to bury the cat snow and performed a moving funeral.  I understand the owner of the farm even came out to help him; seeing a man in obvious distress trying to dig a hole in your field might make anyone curious.  But the farmer arrived, spoke to Husband.  The farmer heard the moving tale of distraction, showed Husband a picture of his kids (now grown with kids of their own) and even sang "Amazing Grace" softly over the howl of the winter wind.

When the duo arrived home, Kiddo #1 was exhausted.  Husband was shakey and he did that thing where he says "We need to talk.  Now."  in a way that makes me nervous.  I mean, I had put new boots on the credit card, and maybe a couple of new shirts... Frickfrickfrick.

He took my elbow and guided me into the bedroom.  He locked the door behind us, then made me go into the bathroom.  He turned on the shower and shut the bathroom door. 

Me:  What the frick?  If this is about the boo--
Husband:  Tonight Kiddo #1 asked me how babies are born.
Me: Oh.
Husband: NO! You don't understand.  She asked me HOW babies are BORN and I had to distract her.
Me: Why?
Husband: Because!  We haven't discussed how we're gonna handle this yet! She's EIGHT!
Me:  Handle what?
Husband: SEX!
Me:  Are you whisper-shouting at me?
Husband: OF COURSE I AM!  Do you want the children to hear?
Me:  Uh. I think I don't understand why this is a big deal?
Husband:  Do we even have those "Where do I come from" books?
Me: The ones with the fat mom and dad who get into a tub and overflow the tub?
Husband: Uh?
Me:  Plus, they don't really talk about how sex happens.
Husband: UHHH!
Me: And they don't discuss LGBTQ love and sex, either.
Husband:  But do we have a SCRIPT?
Me:  Is this a play?  Do we need puppets? That could get weird.  Unless... do you still have the Pinocchio puppet?
Husband:  Joke all you want.  If you're so blasé then you can handle it.

And so, after doing some research on ye olde interwebs, I found some really (actually) great books on not only sex education, but puberty!  The illustrations are appropriate, and comic-style, and there's a funny little Bert and Ernie duo that is a bird and a bee.  One is super nervous about it and one is chill, and it's very kid-friendly.

I left the books out, just kinda around, for Kiddo #1 to notice, and she did.  We read a chapter or two at bedtime.  It is ok.  I read the text, and she looks at the pictures.  It was just like reading Harry Potter, if Harry was spelled Hairy, and Potter was a synonym for Penis/Vagina. 

Ok, it was nothing like Harry Potter.  But whatever.  It was just another thing you do.

Of course, when she came around the corner and said, "Mom, I know you are Santa because..." and had a list as long as the alphabet as to why I'm Santa, I stopped hard.  Of course, I was in the kitchen, so I couldn't just pretend I'd run over a damn cat, either.  Some guys have all the luck.

I immediately smashed about 15 Oreo cookies in my mouth to buy some time and think about what I needed to say.  Then I took a deep breath, inhaled a bunch of cookie dust, choked for a few minutes, while Kiddo #1 tried to give me the Heimlich.  Had I been smart, I would've used that as the needed distraction, however, I can't be derailed THAT easily! Take that attention-span-of-a-squirrel!

Me:  Well, ok. 
Kiddo #1:  Why do people do that?
Me:  Do what? Try and distract you when you ask tough questions out of the blue?
Kiddo #1:  No! Obviously I mean why does everyone pretend Santa is real when he's not?
Me:  Well, he was real, like Jesus was a real person.  Santa was a guy (I won't bother telling you what I said verbatim because a) if you want to know about St. Nicholas, you can google it, b) I was kinda talking out of my ass because I hadn't brushed up on my St. Nicholas back story in a while and c) I was also delirious from the sugar content of 15 Oreo cookies racing through my bloodstream like thieves in a diamond heist.)And he did those nice things, so we want to keep that spirit of niceness alive. 
Kiddo #1:  Oh, like Jesus?
Me:  Sure. Yes. Ok. 
Kiddo #1:  Then why do grown-ups lie about it?
Me:  Oh, it's not lying, really. Ok it's lying a bit. But it's also about beliefs.  Like, what does your mom believe in?
Kiddo #1:  Unicorns and rainbows.
Me:  Well, have you ever seen a unicorn?
Kiddo#1: No.  Obviously.
Me:  Well, but there are pictures of unicorns and costumes of unicorns and unicorns are supposed to do wonderful things.  It's kinda the same.  But if you don't believe in Unicorns, you don't run around punching me in the neck yelling "Unicorns aren't real!"
Kiddo #1:  That'd be awful to run up and punch someone in the neck and say "Santa isn't real!"
Me:  Exactly.  People believe things that are important to them, and it's not up to us to decide what is "true" or not.  Beliefs are different from facts. 
Kiddo #1:  Oh. Ok.

A few minutes later she did the same damn thing about the Elf on the Shelf.  I just looked at her, and through another mouthful of Oreos said, "Honey, life is as real as you want it to be.  You decide how happy you are, you decide who is important to you, and you decide the person you want to be.  No one can do any of that for you. And no one can change who YOU are, either."

Kiddo #1 smiled the smile of a kid.  No, she smiled the smile of a tween. 
It nearly broke my heart; it was so full and so empty at the same damn time.

In the meantime, I need to find a taxidermist.  I don't think I can do this again (with Kiddo #2) so instead, I'm gonna hide dead animals all around the house that I can distract him with when he busts out these stupid questions. 

Going to the Bank

Husband:  Are you seriously starting a blog at this late hour?

"Oh, don't worry. I'll buy your weird
assortment of Shopkins and Beanie Boos."

Me:  Whatever. I can do whatever I want.

Husband:  Oh yeah? ... then stay up past midnight.

Me:  No, I said I can do whatever I want. Not whatever you want.

Husband: Dang it. I had a whole list ready just in case.

Earlier today, the kids and I were at Michael's getting ... into trouble, to be frank.  Kiddo #1 decided she wanted to spend some of her allowance.  So, after my transaction was done, Kiddo #1 had her stuff rung up and began using her debit card.

Only it said her pin number was wrong.  Several times, and then it locked her out; luckily I was there to still buy her shit.  

When we got back to the car, I had her call the number on the back of her card.  I figured this was as good a time as any to teach her what to do when something weird happens to her card.  

First off, let me say, that there are way too many numbers anyone should have to type when calling about a broken bank card.  By the time you type in your card number, your pin number, your birthday, the day you broke your arm the first time, and the day you will get married divided by 7, any adult is ragey.  

Kiddo #1, who is often patient, was pushed to the limit a few times; but she didn't scream or get angry, she just sighed, hung up, and started again.  

When we finally got through to a real person (haha, Kiddo #1 thought the recorded voices were real people, which reminded me that she's a kid still, no matter how often I forget it) she then had to answer all sorts of questions to verify it was, in fact, Kiddo #1 on the phone.  

As if sounding 8 wasn't enough proof.  We had to talk about her latest transactions, what services she has at the bank, and I mostly had to translate what the questions were into kid-speak so she could answer them.  

And when it came down to it, and the phone person couldn't reset the password (we had to go to the branch), Kiddo #1 was so cool.  She didn't get frustrated about all the work she'd done just to get no-where.  She didn't freak out or yell or anything that an 8-year old might do.  She just looked at me and said "We need to go to the branch to fix it."    

It was just so cool to see her grow up in front of me.  

Luckily, before I could breakdown in sobs of "my baby is growing up," Kiddo #2 reminded me that he had to PEE SO BAD.  So I took him inside to pee, got the kids a cookie, me a coffee, and drove to the branch.

When we got there, there was literally no other client waiting.  It was kinda like TV.  Kiddo #1 strolled confidently to the open window and I walked up beside her.  (Kiddo #2 waited by the water cooler, probably drinking gallons of freezing cold water because by the time we got home he had to pee AGAIN)  

Bank Friend:  Hello, how can I help you today?

Kiddo #1:  Um?  

Me:  Why did we come here?

Kiddo #1: Oh yes.  Uh, my bank card.

BF:  Oh. Is everything ok?

Kiddo #1:  Yes.  Well, I wanted to use it but it won't work.

Me:  What part won't work?

Kiddo #1:  The PIN isn't working.

BF:  Oh dear.  Can I have your card?

Kiddo #1:  Yes.  

BF:  Ok.  So can you put your PIN in there?

Kiddo #1:  Um? It doesn't work.

BF: Yes. Let's reset your password then.

I stood there watching my 8-year old (baby) managing her bank account problem with grace.  

I stood there watching my 8-year old (baby) speak clearly and ask for what she needs.  

I stood there watching my 8-year old (baby) return her bank card to her wallet. 

I watched my baby (8-year old)  have polite conversation about what she's doing this weekend.  

I watched my baby (8-year old) thank the bank friend for her help and walk toward the car.  

I half expected her to get in and drive off to university.  

A Tale of Two Vacations (ish)

It was the best vacation, it was the worst end-of-vacation, it was the age of my car, it was the age of its driver, it was the epoch of belief, it was the drive home of incredulity… Man, I wish I got paid by the word like Dickens was…

At any rate, after a snap decision to go to the Dominican Republic with my BFF, with Husband’s approval and contentment, we found ourselves headed to the airport, two best friends ready for sun!  Thank heaven no one else was on the road at 3am, because holy cow, BFF and I were stupidly giddy as we sang every song that came on the radio. 

When we got to the Park N Fly, it was actually an act of KINDNESS that made me order the Silver line of car detailing— I knew they wouldn’t be able to get my car clean with just the bronze package, and I figured if it was the Silver, they wouldn’t feel hopeless and depressed by Wednesday because the mess was still unconquerable.  

There was a week of sunning, swimming and singing (in no particular order) for us. Gosh, there’s something so incredible about going on a vacation with your BFF.  We laughed, analyzed our lives, sang alternate lyrics to pop songs, giggled at the banana hammocks (ok, that was just me— and I wasn’t being mean, I love them so much that it makes my whole day to see all the pointy bits jiggling my direction).  

Where was I? Ahh, yes. 

BFF:  Hey, I’m going to get a drink.  Which one would you like?

Me:  All of them.

Random Guy Nearby: I like the way you think.  I’m gonna be your friend.

BFF: I forget how hilarious you sound to people who don’t know you.

Me:  You’re preachin’ to the choir.  ... wait a minute ...  

So the week was amazing.  I don’t think I got very tanned because I literally was in the ocean swimming all day.  I left to eat and … well that’s pretty much the only reason.  It was awesome.  I love the salt.  I love the water.  I think in a past life I was a dolphin. Or maybe in a future life.  Whatever.  I came, I swam, I conquered.

When we finally returned to the Park N Fly, 8 days later, at 2am, BFF and I were refreshed, happy and HOLY SHIT my car was actually clean!  

I know it was worth at least double the Silver cost to get the goldfish, straw and glitter out of the trunk alone.  Into the car we zoomed, before the cleaning staff could demand hazard pay.  We made it to Guelph (where my BFF resides) and I decided I’d catch a few snores before hitting the road to Chatham.  

At 8am, I awoke, because I think my BFF, who is gracious, and wonderful and kind, MAY have had enough of my snoring the last 8 nights; she decided to move bowling balls around.  Taking the ALWAYS subtle hint, I hugged her, thanked her, and bid myself adieu.

I missed my exit (I was rapping "Bust-a-Move") and hustled to the next exit-ish place and realized I needed gas.  

I filled my tank.  I put the key in. Cecil wouldn’t start.

Confused, I took out the key, looked at it thoroughly, and attempted to start the car again.  Nothing.  In fact, this time, the whole dang dashboard lit up like a friggin’ Christmas tree.

Well.  

So I put Cecil in neutral and coasted out of the gas station using Flintstone power and sheer will.  Mostly feet.

I called CAA, who agreed to tow me to the nearest mechanic, and I called BFF because, well, frankly, I was cold (still wearing my clothes from the flight home) and hungry (I was kinda planning on hitting somewhere after I got gas) and a little lost (without Gloria, the GPS, I have no clue where I am and she only works when Cecil does, apparently).

BFF, kindly, graciously, wonderfully showed up with coffee, and a sandwich that I consumed without chewing.  She took me to the mechanic and waited with me until the car showed up and then graciously, kindly, wonderfully invited me to wait for the diagnostic at her house.  

BFF: And, uh, like, maybe you could, like, take a shower.  

Possibly, I stank.

I got to her house, watched my clothes as they walked themselves downstairs to her washer (I definitely stank.) and hopped in the shower.  I wore one of her meditation blankets as a dress for several hours once I realized the only clothes that I had on me were the ones that had literally been on me. The rest were back with Cecil, in my suitcase, in the trunk which was in the shop.  

BFF left to run some errands, I hung out and … well, I decided I’d take a nap until the shop called.  Hey, when you get an unexpected extra day of vacation, no matter the cost, you must profit from the boon.

My clothing dried, and I napped.  Life felt great.  Well, except something felt a little off in my tummy, but that was probably anxiety (from travel) or anxiety (from forgetting my anxiety med, oops) or anxiety (from my car breaking down and its potential cost) or just that the sandwich wasn’t sitting well.  

But, by 3pm, I had a car in working condition, I had clean clothes, and I smelled terrific.  In fact, for the first time in a very long time, Cecil and I both looked and smelled amazing.  Neither one of us had dried food stuck in weird spots, and both of us were eager to get back to the family.  

This is where the commercials come on because you know life is so perfect that shit is about to go sideways, and the TV people cleverly cut to a commercial so as to keep you on the edge of your seat.  Unless I’m in Days of Our Lives, of course, because then I’d be picking up my clean car in my clean clothes, smelling clean for the next 4 months.  

Some days I wish I lived in a Soap Opera.

For instance, did you know that just outside of Woodstock, while you are roughly 1.5 hours from your home in Chatham, there is a farm?  A farm with some sort of pig monument erected that is, ironically, made from thousands of pounds of cow shit? And when a nose, which is attached to a tummy that is already not thrilled to have been put through all sorts of unexpected, and expected anxiety, gets a whiff of the great Pig Monument, horrible, terrible things start to happen?

In the far left lane, travelling 120kms/hr, a small, curly tail of cow shit smell crept into my car.  The green curly stench tickled the right nostril and then the left, ever so faintly, but enough for me to feel my jaw tighten.

JAW TIGHTEN.  Oh fuck.  Oh no.  I swallowed thickly and started to sweat.  I quickly looked out of my side mirrors and put on my blinker.  I swallowed again and clamped my teeth down on my lips.  Nothing. No. Nothing was— 

DRY heave.  Sweet baby Jesus.  

I changed lanes and, in a move that Ricky Bobby himself would envy, got myself to the side of the road while I dry heaved twice more and then fucking puked all over the steering wheel.

Oh, that’s nice.  I puked on the steering wheel.  Oh, and it splashed all over my lap.  OH, and now the scent of fresh puke is making me puke more.  Oh, and I can’t get out of the car because the fucking seatbelt is holding me like it’s the last slow dance of prom.  

Jesus take the wheel.

I barf a full third time before I just swing my door open and hang my head out.  Guts sprayed all over the shoulder of the road while truckers changed lanes so the splashes wouldn’t get on their paint jobs.

Finally I got the wrenched seat belt off and got out of the car.  I puked a lovely trail from the driver door back around the car and over to the passenger side door before I realized that with every heave, I was also pissing my pants.  

Oh.

I could've done without that, vagina.  

I am literally a hot, fucking mess.  Truckers are looking HORRIFIED at me as they whiz by.  I heave and pee, puke and piss until there’s literally nothing left in my body.

I stumble back to the car.  

It looks like chicken noodle soup cans exploded in there.  I am covered in All. The. Bad. Things.  

Well, except shit. 

I haven’t shit my pants yet, so not everything is lost.

From the side of the 401, I text Husband.

Me:  Fuck.  I just puked all over myself.

Husband: WHAT???

Me:  You read right.  I’m barfing my guts out all over the 401.

Husband:  WHAT??  WTF?

Me:  I dunno. I just started barfing and every time I barf, I piss my pants.  I smell like a hobo.

Husband:  ???

Me:  I think the universe doesn’t want me to have a clean car.

Husband:  Possibly.  what happened?

Me: I dunno.  I just started puking. Everywhere. 

Then I couldn’t stand the stench anymore, and remembered I had Grapefruit Perrier in the trunk.  Huzzah!  I opened my suitcase (of sweaty, stinky, salty, funky clothes from the vacation) and grabbed a pair of yoga pants that probably smelled as bad as me already.  I opened the fizzy water and poured it on the pants.  I began mopping up the puke from… the front seat.  I gagged only a few more times, (this time I sat on a scarf I found, which mopped up the extra pee— also how much f-ing pee is there in a bladder? Like, shouldn’t I have been like a schnauzer at the 50th fire hydrant?)

As an aside: 

I’d love to know what you think is worse:  puking all over yourself, your clean car, and the 401, which simultaneously pissing your pants, OR having to mop up said mess so that you can continue to SIT IN YOUR VILE CLOTHING for the 1.5 hours home.  

I honestly have no clue what the correct answer is.  

Me:  10 truckers just drove by and seemed horrified and saddened by what they saw.

Husband:  You’re the sexiest thing they’ve seen all day.

Me:  That is awesome and worse at the same time.

Husband:  Are you ok though? I’m worried.

Me: I’m at exit 238.  I’m ok.  I’ve stopped puking and almost done mopping.  I’ll text you when I stop at London.

Husband: Stop for what?

Me:  Oh.  Right. I can’t stop.  I smell like 3 hobos died.  I’ll see you in a few hours.

Husband:  If you pull over and text me at the off-ramp, I’ll have a shower ready for you when you get home.

Me:  Thank you.  You’re amazing.

Husband:   Just be safe. Love you.

I drove the last leg of my puke-tastic voyage with the windows down until I couldn’t take the cold anymore.  Then I’d put the windows up, thaw out my pants (which, when warmed left a new, wonderful treasure to behold), and I would put the windows down again just before I’d start to gag.  Again.  

Oh, and joy of joys, I found out quickly that I had puked so hard into the steering wheel that I broke the cruise control.  It's like a Chris Farley movie.  

I came in the house and the kids ran up and stopped about where the wall of funk hit their nostrils and smiled the “I just pooped on the floor” smile I remembered from their potty training days.

Kiddo #2 said, with his sleeve by his nose, “Momma, it’s great to see you.  But maybe you should have a shower first.  Or now.”

Kiddo #1 plugged her nose and said, “We missed you.  Sorry you uh, barfed all over yourself.”

Kiddo #2:  Why does it smell like pee too?

Me:  Because every time I barfed I peed my pants.

Kiddo #2:  DAD! You didn’t TELL US THAT!

Kiddo #1:  I think grown-ups aren’t supposed to do that, brother.

Kiddo #2:  Oh.  Uh, here’s a kiss (he blows me a kiss).  Uh, I’ll give you another one like, after you, uh, shower.  

I removed my clothing like it was on fire.  Actually, that’s a good idea for it.  I ask Husband to bring a lighter.  He tells the kids to go get me a towel and, from several feet away, says “Well, I was hoping you’d get naked immediately after you got back, uh, but this isn’t quite what I was thinking…”

I giggle.  I groan.  I walk to the bathroom and into the hot shower.  I shout “Don’t forget to put the shoes in the washer, too.  They were just buckets at the ends of my legs!” 

Welcome home.  

After a week of bliss and peace, I think the universe just wanted to make sure I really wanted to be here.

It's gonna take a whole lot more than that to keep me away.  

Well, not a lot more. 

Like, Universe, uh, if you're reading this, uh, I wasn't daring you. 

Promise.