Tools With Tools
Published September 30, 2010 | I’m as madly skilled in the home reno realm as I am in the garden. That is to say, not at all. Not being handy in my family is a bit of a genetic defect – I grew up in a house that was constantly being repaired, rebuilt or restored by my dad. Workbenches, power saws and enough tools to stock a Rona surrounded me, yet none of the talent – and definitely none of the desire – to use any of it was passed down to me.
Living in the same city, it never really mattered – my dad was happy to come over and tinker with wonky lights or poly-fill any holes in the wall. But now he’s thousands of miles away and talking me through these tasks is, well, no easy task.
And where is my husband, Mr. Affleck, through all of this? Most likely he’s off playing with the kids (they don’t call him ‘fun daddy’ for nothing). He, too, grew up with a dad who knew his way around a tool kit, and if my fella starts a project, it usually turns out okay. The challenge is getting him to start anything because we can both think of a thousand things we’d rather be doing. Working on our home is something we have neither the patience to carry out nor the knowledge base to do properly.
Case in point: when we first moved to a new city in 2001, we attempted to install an IKEA light in the kitchen. It went pretty well at first and we marveled at our natural affinity for such projects. Then the ceiling caught on fire.
Another example: our first Christmas in the ‘burbs, we were tasked with putting up Christmas lights for the first time (wrapping them around a balcony railing doesn’t count). I had a vision of them lining the garage door but we couldn’t figure out how to attach them. So we decided to nail them. To the garage. With nails. Fortunately, we didn’t get very far before we realized the folly of our plan (and yes, we now use those little plastic clip thingies).
Granted, these examples were a long time ago. Since then, my husband has installed new light switches and faucets, and the house is still standing/hasn’t flooded, so we’ve definitely improved in our home improvement prowess. We’ve even painted a couple of rooms. The problem for us is, we didn’t particularly enjoy doing it.
Now the main level of our house needs to be painted and we’re bringing in the experts. And while the paint dries, I’m totally gonna get them to re-caulk my shower.
This is not us. But it very easily could be.
21 CommentsListen To The Ugly Lady
Published September 28, 2010 | These were the rules: no eating or drinking; no running; no shouting; no touching anyone else; and no going anywhere unless you’re told to go there. Was it military training? Police Line-up? Fight Club? Nope – it was an 8-year-old’s birthday party, at a gymnastics centre, and the absurdity of it was hilarious.
I entered the building (as big as a Costco) with my son to find it deserted aside from the creepy-looking proprietress and her tumbling minions. The birthday girl and her other guests – 10 of us in total – soon arrived and were told the rules.
My son looked back and gave me a death stare: when he was initially invited, he’d asked if it would be like movement class at school (they don’t do gym at the hippie school), or if he’d be allowed to run all over the place. I’d assured him that he could go crazy once we got there (have you been to those indoor playgrounds? It’s like Lord of the Flies in a bouncy castle…). Alas, I was mistaken.
As more rules were laid out, I shared a look of disbelief with the other parents: surely these kids weren’t expected to be at a birthday party, at a gymnastics club, and not run? Maybe a slow trot?
The kids slowly moved from station to station, taking turns jumping on a trampoline (five bounces each), walking backwards on a balance beam (“SLOW DOWN!”) and hoisting themselves on an uneven bar (not spinning, of course – just pulling themselves up and then dropping back to the ground).
I’m not sure the kids were having much fun, but we parents had a blast; despite being ordered to stay. on. the. bench. One of the mothers (a good friend of mine) brought her 2-year-old son (one of her four children) to the party and, because any kids with three older siblings basically raise themselves, she was content to let him clamber up the pre-schooler apparatus that sat unused about 10-feet away from us.
This flagrant disregard of the rule #38 (“ALL CHILDREN UNDER AGE 3 MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT”) almost caused Creepy Lady to have an aneurysm. My friend, who is a medical doctor from Mexico and thinks our preoccupation with child safety is ridiculous, muttered some choice phrases in Spanish before dragging her son from the padded area to play near the parents’ bench. On the cement floor.
We finally entered the pizza/cake portion of the party and that’s when things got seriously weird. The ‘party room’ had a couple of limp streamers hanging on the wall along with a Happy Birthday banner from the dollar store. The kids were all given one juice box and a piece of pizza. Additional pieces could be had only after they consumed some raw vegetables from a platter. That got me my second death stare.
Before the cake was brought out, I noticed one of the minions fiddling with the birthday banner. I assumed it had come loose and she was fixing it, but no: she was taking it down. Before the cake was even brought out. The kids devoured their cake unaware that the party was being torn down around them and the sugar, combined with the onset of dehydration from being offered one juice box after an hour of moderate calisthenics, made everyone a bit manic.
This proved to be too much for my Spanish friend, who started talking like Speedy Gonzales to her kids, and also for Creepy Lady, who began disassembling one of the folding tables. While the birthday girl opened her presents. Then she began stacking chairs, throwing things like purses and jackets on the floor.
Through all of this, my fellow parents and I were in full-blown hysterics and we soon high-tailed it out of there, promising to meet up at our kids’ school so they could, you know, run. And yell. And, like, touch each other on the arm.
The kids didn’t really seem to notice and afterwards my son said he’d had a great time at the party, which of course was the most important thing. I asked my Spanish friend what she’d said in the room towards the end and her answer pretty much summed up the experience for the parents: “I just told my them to do whatever the ugly lady said because she was crazy, but soon we’d be able to leave and we’d go somewhere normal.”
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Now drop and give me 20 cartwheels!"
24 CommentsI Want My Mommy
Published September 24, 2010 | My mom arrives tomorrow for a weeklong visit. This is great news for my husband, who gets to eat her cooking, and fantastic news for my kids, who will spend hours at the park. But no one is more excited than I, because for seven glorious days, I get to be a second-string mom.
I’ll still be top-tier for things like scraped knees and ass butlering, but my mom will (happily?) take over a lot of the mundane tasks that make up a SAHMs day: folding laundry; putting the kids to bed; and loading the dishwasher. (Yes, I am Marion Cunningham.)
Her visits allow me to revisit, very briefly, a time when I was responsible only for myself. When I could eat popcorn for dinner. Or join a friend for a lunch date that didn’t include a juice box. Or go to a matinee movie without 3D glasses.
I will be able to write uninterrupted. I will do hot yoga. I will shop in stores that don’t offer strollers. (It appears that I aspire to be Candace Bushnell, only with less random sex and more comfortable shoes. So…still Mrs. Cunningham.)
Obviously I’ll also get to have a great visit with my mom. And it’s not that I don’t relish staying home with my kids; I know exactly how lucky I am to be in the position to both work from home as well as have an opportunity to step back and appreciate it all the more.
There’s a song that sums this up nicely: “How Can I Miss You If You Never Go Away.” Thank you, mom, for giving me a break from the ‘burb life next week and allowing me to miss it a little bit. (And if I do fewer posts, rest assured I am fine. And most likely in a pedicure chair moaning inappropriately.)
Today I look like this.
Tomorrow I will look like this.
23 CommentsThe Most Dysfunctional Family Portrait Ever
Published September 22, 2010 | People often tell me that I remind them of someone – I seem to have one of those faces – and every so often, that someone is a celebrity. I’ve been the doppelganger of everyone from Sigourney Weaver (which I totally don’t see) to Marissa Tomei (I wish). But my best (and by that I mean worst) celebrity twin by far has been Monica Lewinsky.
Monica with MY haircut.
This was during the height of Monica-gate and Clinton’s concubine and I shared big hair and teeth (fortunately, this was before she really beefed up…it could’ve been a lot worse). I went to a formal event once and had people doing double takes all night. After that I cut my hair to escape the comparisons and – no joke – the next day, Miss BJ showed up on Barbara Walters with my new hairstyle. All I can say is, thank god the 90’s are over.
My husband has been faux-recognized a few times as well. During the Toronto International Film Festival a few years ago, some girls came up to us in Yorkville convinced he was John Cusack. What he’d be doing slumming in Toronto with that Lewinsky broad is beyond me.
The most enduring comparison my husband has received is Ben Affleck (for the record, my husband has better lips). We were in Central Park years ago when JLo was filming that movie about the maid. My husband was certain that Ms. Lopez was bombarding him with a variety of come-hither looks. A few days later, news broke of her burgeoning romance with Mr. Good Will Hunting and Bennifer was born. My husband is convinced to this day that JLo took up with Ben only because she couldn’t have the Serbian stallion.
My husband poses exactly like this all the time.
I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but lately my son has been reminding me of the kid who played Tom Hanks’ son in Sleepless In Seattle.
Yep - teeth like Monica...I mean, mommy...
It’s a combination of those adorable brown eyes and crazy head of hair. Plus, he’s been begging to fly to my parents’ house by himself since he was six-years-old.
My daughter? That’s easy:
Imagine trying to toilet train Phyllis Diller.
Audacious. Hilarious. Ready to party.
23 CommentsNice Beaver
Published September 20, 2010 | If you aren’t thinking to yourself, Thanks, I just had it stuffed, then this may not be the post for you. Here’s this thing: most of you know by now that my kids’ sense of humor lies somewhere between Teletoons and anything from the Judd Apatow canon (case in point: today my daughter did a pratfall on the couch, grabbed her butt and yelled, “D’oh – I just cracked my corn!”). Sadly, my husband and I have nobody to blame for their crassness but ourselves.
When I met my beloved, he fronted like the perfect European gentleman (ten years later, I have yet to hear him burp) but slowly he started to reveal his inner Kenny (& Spenny).
Before kids, we doted on a surrogate child named Dude, a gorgeous grey tabby cat that a roommate of mine had rescued from the pound and I took with me after moving out. The following conversation is one that was repeated constantly in our house:
Me: “Babe, have you seen my pussy?”
Husband: “Of course I have – your pussy is spectacular! Your pussy is my favorite pussy of all time.”
Me: “It’s true…my pussy is exceptional, but lately my pussy has been shedding a lot.”
Us: (Convulsing fits of laughter)
After getting knocked up, we moved to the ‘burbs, where our community newspaper is called (no joke) The Beaver. Now our exchanges sound something like this (especially on flyer day):
Me: “Babe, you should check out my beaver…”
Husband: “I’d love to see your beaver – bring it on over…”
Me (Holding up the rolled newspaper): “You see? My beaver is absolutely overflowing today!”
Husband: “That’s the biggest I’ve seen your beaver look in quite some time.”
Us: (Rolling on the floor in hysterics)
When the cat died, we briefly considered naming our ottoman ‘pussy’ to keep the jokes going, but there was no need: since having kids – particularly our son, who never met a fart joke he didn’t repeat 80 times a day – my husband has found the perfect audience for his myriad of gags, magic tricks and all around juvenile behaviour.
Unfortunately, our kids are fairly smart and will probably grow out of our humor well before high school. This worries me because my husband craves a receptive audience and I fear he’ll want to knock me up again (we all know that ain’t happening). I suspect the solution lies in – wait for it – a brand new pussy.
My dearly departed pussy.
20 CommentsAss Butler No More
Published September 17, 2010 | My 3-year-old daughter began nursery school this week. The only pre-requisite was that she be toilet trained which, back in May when we registered her, seemed like an achievable task. After all, her birthday was in July and her brother had done it a week after he turned three…how hard could it be? Apparently, pretty hard, because I’ve spent every day since then being my daughter’s ass butler.
Arriving home from Serbia two days before school started was our first mistake. I needed her to stop waking up and expecting a sandwich at 3:00 a.m., never mind going to the bathroom on her own. On her first day of school, my daughter had (with the teacher’s consent) a pull-up diaper.
My plan to have her go poo at home before school was foiled when… she didn’t. I shoveled oatmeal, apples and eggs in her gullet hoping for results, to no avail (I suspect that I passed my anxiety to my daughter via maternal osmosis). I informed the teacher of our poo karma and was assured that my daughter would be given extra chances on the can.
I went home, sat down and stared at the wall for 10 minutes. Followed by a little Regis & Kelly. Then I had a shower. For 20 minutes. By myself. Afterwards, I went to a baby shower at a friend’s house, where Sangria was served. Before eleven o’clock. Basically, it was the best. morning. ever.
I knew the morning hadn’t gone as well for my daughter when I picked her up at noon and she was wearing different pants. There was also a plastic bag hanging on her hook, an ominous pendulum of stink. She’d dropped a load in her pull-up and I was informed that, as of that moment, she was to wear diapers only at night.
The following couple of days were a blur of puddles on the floor with the odd turd deposited in a toilet after hours of false alarms. Now I think we have a routine going and she’s starting to tell me when she has to go. Except that now, she only wants to go in her portable potty and I’m the one cleaning it out.
I’m now her potty butler. Feck.
Sittin' in the mornin' sun...
Rewarding Me For Poo
Published September 16, 2010 | Ho. Lee. Crap. You guys – I won an award! I’m still in shock that people want to read about my sex-obsessed, naked-party-loving children, let alone reward me for it…but a big, juicy ‘thanks’ to Morgan for doing just that.
This is serious business and as a recipient, there are some rules I have to follow:
1. Acknowledge the person who nominated me:
Morgan over at http://thelittlehenhouse.wordpress.com/. We just discovered each other and it’s like a shlockey romance novel from the 50′s how much I adore her. Her writing is delicious.
2. List ten things I like (I’m not gonna include my family, because they’re a given…just don’t think I forgot them a la Hillary Swank or Sean Penn):
1. Winning awards for blogging
2. Dairy Queen blizzards (strawberry sundae topping and oreo cookie)
3. Sleeping past 7:00 a.m.
4. Pinot Grigio on a hot day
5. Merlot on a cold day
6. Gardeners (cuz I kill green stuff)
7. Tina Fey (cuz she’s funny and smart and has hips)
8. Going to a Saturday matinee with my husband
9. Being in, on or near the water
10. Calling myself a writer
3. Now I have to nominate ten other bloggers. Only ten! I read so many awesome blogs every day, but here are a few faves in no particular order:
http://ohthatmeredith.com/ Meredith is relatively new to the blogging world, but a legendary mad demon on Twitter. Her writing is simply sublime.
www.ironicmom.com Leanne lives by the motto, “If you can’t laugh at yourself, laugh at your kids”. ‘Nuff said.
http://sweetmercifulcrapandotherthings.blogspot.com/ Because anyone having a bedazzled disco toilet on their home page is someone worth knowing. Queen Momma brings the funny.
http://www.urbanmoms.ca/diy/ Sara continually amazes me with her ability to not only cope, but also thrive as a single mom in Toronto. Her mommy rants are da bomb.
http://slightlyoffbalanceblog.com/ Like me, Paige is a newbie blogger, but she writes like a pro about all sorts of topics, like Wii drama and her so-perfect-sounding-it-makes-you-want-to-kill-her-except-she’s-so-darn-nice husband.
http://lisahgolden.blogspot.com/ Lisa is hilarious even when she’s despondent. Check her out and fall in love like I did.
http://mollyonmoney.wordpress.com/ Molly chronicles her family’s attempt to wipe their debt by cutting their expenses in half while still having fun. Also, she had a family wedding officiated by Elvis. Intrigue!
http://www.meandmine.org/ Allison is a bad-ass Texan and funny enough to make me do the pee laugh on a regular basis. And don’t get me started on her Tweets… #weardependswhenyoureadher.
http://conflictedmeangirl.wordpress.com/ What happens when a mean girl becomes a mommy? Read Andrea’s blog to find out (hint: she reforms without leaving all the good snark behind).
http://sarahcasm.ca/ Don’t let the handle fool you, Sarah’s blog is full of beautiful musings on motherhood, womanhood and her Kanye West devotion. I want to be like her when I grow up.
http://bernthis.com/wordpress/ Jessica is a social media goddess with all sorts of goodies on her blog, including some dating horror stories that had me spitting water on the keyboard.
(Ok…it’s 11…sue me for loving you all too much!)
I'd like to thank Lilly, who waxes my eyebrows...and the dude at the bakery who gives me free cheese sticks...and...
33 CommentsHippie Schools Rule
Published September 15, 2010 | Many kids spent last week sharpening pencils, loading up on glue sticks and lugging home a suitcase full of homework. Thing were a bit different at our house: my 7-year-old spent his days knitting a case for his recorder, tossing bean bags in the woods and jumping rope for math class. He goes to a Waldorf school and although the methods are alternative to the uninitiated – and can seem downright wackadoo – we adore our little hippie school.
Friends and family had a difficult time understanding why we’d chosen a system that eschews textbooks for student-crafted lesson books, doesn’t assign homework until later grades and keeps children with the same teacher for eight years. Even for us it was a massive leap of faith, but we’d seen our uber-sensitive, quirky little boy flailing in at a public school – albeit an excellent one, with fantastic teachers – and being told he required summer school for “grade one preparedness” was the final straw.
There were definitely some adjustments, especially in our expectations (kids don’t read until grade two or three) but we soon realized that the fundamentals were being taught as pieces of a larger puzzle – one that worked to develop the physical, creative, emotional, spiritual and intellectual potential of each child. My husband (the son of a math professor) was placated knowing that Waldorf grads consistently score in the top percentile on SAT tests and have held leadership positions everywhere from Harvard to NASA.
The transformation wasn’t overnight, and he still had mornings of pleading not to go, but by the end of grade one, my son had changed: he was more confident, inquisitive and assertive. This was noted not only by his teacher, but also other teachers and fellow parents.
I’m not knocking public, separate or other private schools – it’s totally dependent on the child and family circumstances. We could throw our daughter into any school setting and I’m confident she’d be running the place by the end of week one. Waldorf was simply the best choice to meet our son’s needs. And it appears that he’s integrated the hippie aspects into his life without losing who he is: last week he asked me how fast Superman could knit.
Not an organic, wool-encased hemp leaf in sight...
12 CommentsThe Quest To Quell My Mullet
Published September 13, 2010 | I do most of my writing at the hairdresser. I have a ridiculous amount of hair (think Witch Hazel of Bugs Bunny fame crossed with a country singer from the 70′s) and it was gray before I hit thirty. At forty, a swathe of sidewalk-gray roots is visible every 3 weeks. My point being, I spend a lot of time – not to mention money – at my salon.
The upshot of this is that the hairdresser’s chair affords me the opportunity to write, uninterrupted, for over an hour (as long as I can resist the siren song of Vanity Fair Star Magazine…don’t judge…).
It took me a long time to find a salon where I’m happy to spend almost 30-hours (and hundreds of dollars) every year. In Calgary, I went to a place for years where I thought I was happy. Then I moved to Toronto and realized that colouring hair by washing it, blowdrying it, colouring it, washing it and blowdrying it again (spending close to 3-hours per visit) was not, in fact, common practice. And don’t get me started on the perms they were recommending well into the 90′s (and please…enough with your judging already).
My Toronto experiences weren’t much better – I was off to a rocky start with the dude who wanted me to stand up while he cut my hair (I do not go to the hairdresser expecting isometric exercises), then things got worse (especially from my husband’s perspective) when the next one decided that razor cutting my hair into a pixie cut would be the most flattering style for me (it wasn’t…I’m not, nor will I ever be, pixie-esque).
When we hightailed it to the ‘burbs after I got pregnant, I finally found a new home for my colossal head of hair. It’s a cool little place where perms have been outlawed and they even talked me out of my ill-advised fascination with going blonde. Being in such a public yet confined space, I’m surrounded by fascinating characters and conversations – many have made their way into my writing.
I know coffee shops are a haven for countless writers, one friend writes her best work in the tub and many find inspiration at pubs or lounges (note to self: must try that). But for me, the hairdresser’s will always be my favourite writing haven. Now if I could only convince them to start serving liqour…
Left untreated, my hair is a cross between this...
And this.
Hissy-Fit Theatre Presents: Dramatic Structure of a Meltdown
Published September 10, 2010 | (Directed, Produced and Performed by: A Three-Year-Old*)
Exposition:
The exposition provides the background information needed to properly understand the story and ends with the inciting moment, which is the incident without which there would be no story.
My daughter (girl) has the face of an angel, mouth of a trucker and propensity for nudity. She is three. Her brother (boy) has the height, appetite and obsession with procreation of a teenager. He is seven. He finds great sport in antagonizing his sister. She is sweetness personified…unless things don’t go her way. Last night, we went out for ice cream (can you see where this is going?).
Rising Action:
During rising action, the conflict is complicated by the introduction of related secondary conflicts, including various obstacles that frustrate the protagonist’s attempt to a goal.
Girl squeals with delight when presented with an enormous strawberry cone. Boy is too busy devouring his own chocolaty goodness to notice. We all walk to a bench in the middle of a very busy park to enjoy our ice cream.
As we sit down, boy has already finished his cone and now, with sugar and caffeine coursing through his veins, he eyes his sister’s treat. Is anyone looking? He doesn’t care. In a flash, boy pounces – his tongue extended like a dog hanging out a car window – ready to pillage girl’s dessert.
The Climax:
The third act is that of the climax, or turning point, which marks a change, for the better or the worse, in the protagonist’s affairs.
The entire scoop of ice cream, bigger than a baseball, falls to the ground. Boy looks at girl. Girl looks at lost ice cream.
Falling Action:
The moment of reversal after the climax, during which the conflict between the protagonist and the antagonist unravels, with the protagonist winning or losing against the antagonist.
Girl loses her freaking mind: throws ice-creamless cone at boy; drops to the ground and begins to wail and flail in equal measure. Mom offers to get her a new one (“NOOOO – WANT THAT ONE!”). Dad offers his own cone (“AGGGHHHHH! NOOOOO!”). Girl is completely out of control and now rolling in the smooshed ice cream on the ground. Mom and dad look at girl, then each other. “Bail?” mom asks. “Definitely,” dad replies.
Dénouement:
The final resolution of the narrative plot.
Mom grabs boy by the arm, whispering in his ear that if he ever does that again, he won’t eat ice cream for a year. Dad grabs girl and holds her horizontally to avoid being kicked in the nether regions. He gently rocks her and murmurs soothingly in her ear until she finally settles down, sniffles a few times, and goes in for a snuggle. “Feeling better now?” Dad asks. “No,” girl replies. “I need a puppy.”
*NOTE: This is the same girl who, when I lamented forgetting my purse in a store, told me to suck it up.
Change it to 3 year old and I'll take a dozen.
21 Comments
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