Tis the Season

Everyone has their own Christmas traditions. Some are your standard stockings at daybreak and a turkey dinner with plum pudding and hard sauce for dessert. Others spend the day at a soup kitchen, helping out those who have nothing.

I found out yesterday that someone I'm related to (not by blood, thank God) plans to start a new tradition for herself. I should first start by saying that she's not one to believe in Christmas as she isn't a Christian. She kind of has a self-styled religion that she takes from Wicca, Shamanism, and Isis worship, if you will. And it changes at her whim.

That being said, one person she told her plans to feels that she may have her nose out of joint for not being included in anyone's Christmas celebration. "Why the hell should she be invited? She couldn't care less about Christmas and she isn't rational to start with anyway."

Whatever.

Anyway, this relative had told two people, on separate occasions, that her Christmas Day plans are to go around breaking other people's Christmas decorations and then going out for Chinese.

Bah humbug.

For a while, a big chunk of her family didn't buy that she is mentally ill with bi-polar disorder. We had a big ol' family gathering yesterday. Yeah, uh, that opinion has changed.

Obviously, the woman needs help, but she doesn't think she does. And that is the catch-22 of the illness.

All the same, and call me a total callous bitch (it's okay, I've heard worse from the person in question), but I am absolutely going to be screening my calls for the next little while.

New and Improved

We got a new hamster last night. It's a sweet dwarf hamster, dark grey in colour. Daughter is so thrilled, but still holds hope that she'll find Peewee. She's no idiot, though. She has entertained the thought that it might be dead, but she is an optimist.

Husband likes the new one. It's way more docile than the last. And it didn't bite him.

Three Wise Women

I had a lovely conversation with my neighbours today. Okay, it bordered on the blasphemous, which is funny because we were standing in the church parking lot.

"If there were three wise WOMEN, they would have asked for directions and have arrived on time."

"And they would have helped deliver the baby," my neighbour added (she's a nurse). "And then they'd clean up the stable a little bit."

"And forget about frankincense. They would have brought practical gifts." This neighbour works in retail.

"And made some casseroles for Mary to store for later."

Peewee's Big Adventure

As hamsters are wont to do, Peewee escaped.

It probably happened on Thursday night. I went to feed it on Friday at dinnertime and saw that the cap on the end of the tube popped off and the hamster was gone.

Where ever she is, I'm sure she's regretting her decision. Clean cage, food and treats on a regular basis, love and play from Daughter.

Yes, Daughter was positively distraught. As soon as we found out, the whole family totally cleaned the ground floor where the cage is. I checked the stairs to see for "signs" that she may have climbed it. There wasn't any.

In fact, there was no sign (or "sign", if you like) of Peewee anywhere. We checked everywhere. We even pulled out the stove and fridge. Husband and I stayed up Friday night (we rented An Inconvenient Truth - everyone should see it and then do their part). We listened hard, in the dark, for scurrying sounds until I started doing the head whips and packed it in just after midnight. Devoted dad that he is, Husband even went around the house at 4 a.m. to listen and did so again last night.

My theory is this: Peewee made her way off the dining room sideboard where her cage is, scurried close to the walls and went down the floor grates (our home was built in 1905) through the duct work and met a fiery death in the furnace. Seriously, I hope this is what happened. I, for one, don't want to be playing the "Where's the smell coming from" game.

Husband disagrees with me. "I'd have heard her if she went into the ducts." Not if you were sleeping, Steve Austin!

We're giving it a week and then we'll welcome Peewee #2, with Daughter's blessing.

Meanwhile, her faith is being put to the test. "I prayed to God and asked all the saints to help me find her." I reached into the deep recesses to find the proper spiritual response "God's will, blah, blah, blah" but I don't think she's buying that. Nothing like having doubts so close to Christmas.

Nothin' says lovin' like...

If you know what Husband looks like, you'd be surprised to learn that cute-faced husky boys tickle my fancy.

Happy Monday, y'all.

Trick Monkey

Baby Boy is registered for kindergarten next September. It was an exercise in futility, frankly, as I had to make an appointment for some woman from the county health board to "interview" him so they can assess his abilities and readiness for school.

Uh, I'm his parent. I say he's ready for school (as am I). Are my taxes not good enough for you?

Anyway, the kid was not pleased to be pulled away from home to perform like some kind of trick monkey. I tried to diffuse the situation, telling the woman that the child goes to nursery school and if there's a problem, his teacher will contact her. "Oh, he goes to nursery school? We can go there to assess him!" And she started clearing things away.

"Uh, yeah, it's like this. If you think my son would prefer you pulling him away from his friends and a gym full of ride-on toys and all the Hot Wheels and blocks he could play crash-up with, you're sorely mistaken. Nu-uh. Gimme a minute."

So I turned our backs to her and whispered in Baby Boy's ear, "If you do what this woman asks of you, I'll give you some jellybeans at home." Of course, I didn't want this health board so-and-so to know that I bribe my kids. Next thing I'll hear is a knock on the door from Children's Aid.

Sure enough, Baby Boy saddled back to the table and said, smacking his hands down on the table, "Let's get to work, lady."

Needless to say, the little guy did swimmingly, easing through all her hoops with ease and his usual charm and precociousness that makes him so appealing, even to strangers at the grocery store.

And the older two kids got incredible report cards. Middle Child got straight As (many A+s) and one B-...in gym!

Dead Squirrel

Dead Squirrel
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

Squirrels go all, well, squirrelly in autumn in their preparations for winter.

I ran my car over one the other day.

I was taking the kids to school (yes, we were late again). I wasn't driving fast or anything. In fact, I knew I was going to hit it before it actually happened because the squirrel hesitated.

"What did you run over, Mummy?" Daughter asked.

Should I lie? Deciding against that, I said, "It was a squirrel."

"How late are we?" asked Middle Child, "because I'd like to go see the guts."

I thought the kids were going to freak. We felt the bump and everything. I promised them I'd show them after school if it was still there. Baby Boy and I checked it out when we got back home. It looked like I snapped its neck as I ran over its head. Only the eyeball popped out.

This happened right in front of the church I live near. At least it was on consecrated ground.

I'd make a horrible Buddhist.

Dr. Hook Was Just a Liiiiiiittle High

Your Tax Dollars In Action

My uncle presents not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times to a big city hospital emergency with severe abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting. They finally keep him overnight for tests and observation, but send him home without a concrete diagnosis. "Welcome to your forties," the physician says.

Shit, I better be bracing myself then. Forty is dangerously close for me.

My uncle just turned 40 and is the most muscular guy I'm related to. Big guns, I swear. He has a physical job, is very active recreationally, and, outside of smoking since he was a teenager, is a pretty healthy guy.

Where is Dr. House when you need him?

"...I'm not using drugs anymore. I am, however, still hooked on phonics." - House

He's Gifted But He Still Can't Tie Shoelaces

Middle Child was quite indignant at the concept of Yul from Survivor possibly being voted out.

"But he's the smartest one," he said. "Why would anyone want to vote out someone who can help them back at camp? It's so unfair! They're probably just jealous."

Recently, his school had assessed him for his academic standing. Turns out that he's at a Grade 3 level.

"In our day, we would have kids like him skip a grade," the principal explained but I said (without Husband's knowledge, but he thankfully agreed with me later) that I was not at all interested in that.

So now, his teacher and the school's resource teacher will be preparing special homework for him. That means I'll be teaching him. Oh.

Action Doesn't Only Take Place on the Field

I haven't looked, but I'm sure there are comments going around that the CFL is so "budget" that their prized trophy ends up snapping in half.

Is it any wonder? I mean, I'm sure that thing has seen some action over the years: people drinking out of it, getting manhandled in bars (let alone on the football field), etc.

Like most sports trophies, the Grey Cup is permitted to stay with team members for a day-ish. And not to implicate anyone, but, er, I know someone who was allowed to have the trophy for a little while. Out of that little stay came a roll of Polaroid film starring the Grey Cup.

...someone eating cereal out of it.
...someone in bed with it, smoking a cigarette.
...someone putting it over their head, pretending to get bangs cut.

The top of the Grey Cup snapped off? I'm not surprised.

As a Rule, I Don't Watch Daytime TV

Pickles! I swear to God!!!

If I wanted to ditch Husband, I wouldn't trade him in for an ex-con anyway

If this is someone's idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.

Yesterday, I got a call from a woman named Alison from an internet dating service.

"In your initial contact, you asked a representative to phone you with more information about what we can offer," Alison said.

"Buuuut, I never contacted you in the first place," I replied. "You have the right name and the right phone number, but I'm not interested, thanks."

"Are you sure? Do you, er, want me to call you later, if you're understanding me?"

"I get what you're trying to say, but there's no one here but me. Sorry you were led down the garden path, so to speak."

I hung up and thought, "Wow, that was odd." Then I thought, what if Husband picked up the phone? What if Alison or whomever left a message with him? I'd have some explaining to do, for certain.

If I find out who did this, I'm already thinking of ways to get him or her back. Sleep well, fucker.

Chicken and Wal-Mart

How does one spend nearly $400 on groceries?

Perhaps buying six trays of boneless, skinless chicken breasts will help. Oddly, what if the person buying it isn't really a fan of chicken? But this happened in real life, as my kids would say.

Buying all sorts of organic or otherwise purportedly-labelled healthy products will raise the total. And, even though it is a healthy choice, if you let it sit in the fridge to rot, it didn't do you any favours.

Anyway, I'm not sure how he did it, but Husband managed to rack up the biggest grocery bill ever in our history. This was a couple of weeks ago, and, believe me, it didn't last longer than most trips. In fact, I think it lasted less because he didn't buy all of the staples I use. How nice to buy curry paste and fish oil, but I'm not making Indian or pad thai every day, you know?

Man, we've come a long way when we were first living together. Salad days for certain, as we would only bring $50 and a calculator to the grocery store, making sure we didn't spend more than that for the week. And it was tough: remember this was before everything was made in China. Few things cost just a dollar.

Segue.

We have municipal elections tomorrow. One of the big topics is the possibility for a Wal-Mart to come to town. They already bought a chunk of land, but it is zoned industrial so they're taking the city to court. Nice.

I can't say that I've never shopped there, but I don't go out of my way to do so. For instance, the older kids needed skating helmets. We were late in the season to get them. We checked Canadian Tire, and the usual suspects in town, but we're not going to spend $80 each for two kids who couldn't care less about ice time. So, we drove 20 minutes out of town and hit Wal-Mart. It wasn't any cheaper than Canadian Tire, but they had them. Lots of them.

In fact, they had lots of everything. Husband hardly ever shops. He was a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store. Getting back in the car, he said, "If Wal-Mart comes to town, it will swallow it. I totally see what so many people are upset about."

I don't know if it would decimate the downtown core, what with all the boutiques and specialty shops. They're so tourist-driven. I can't see a tourist coming in and saying, "Let's go to the edge of town to see if their Wal-Mart looks just like ours." But the old pharmacy downtown? Gone. The little sporting goods store? Bye-bye. The pet shop? See ya. I'm sure the grocery stores and the Zellers, Sears, and especially the Giant Tiger will be very badly hit.

Middle Sister swears by Wal-Mart. But then she complains that the downtown where she lives is dead. "There's so few shops, really. There's only services like doctor's offices or financial planners and stuff." Guess why?

Love Will Keep Us Together

Last week, Husband and I went to Baby Sister and The Boyfriend's apartment in Toronto to go to a grown-ups-only Halloween party. It was our first is a looooong time.

I went as Marg Delahunty because, though I had a Xena costume (borrowed from my aunt), I couldn't find an appropriate wig. But I had Marg's glasses. Husband went as a pirate. Yeah, with headwear courtesy of a McDonald's Happy Meal. You can take the kids away from the parent, but you can't take the parent out of the man.

I wanted Husband to dress like a hippie and I'd wear a mime costume. Then we could have gone as "peace" and "quiet". My other idea was to go as Ricky and Julian, but Husband is more of a Bubbles kind of guy.

Anyway, I had such a good time. I've always like my sister's friends. She's very social, so she tends to attract very cool, very interesting people. And The Boyfriend is a natural foil for her. He's a born entertainer: he prepared a bajillion dips and stuff, and don't even get me started on the bar he built. She's a born hostess: easily flitting around, sparking up conversations, with her laugh punctuating the five-minute mark. He'd turn on the music; she'd lead the Bunny Hop. He's the Captain to her Tenille.

Kim Jung Il and friend: Scary Jack-o-lantern 2006

Kim Jung Il and friend: Scary Jack-o-lantern 2006
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

I can't say this was my best jack-o-lantern because most people didn't know who it was.

I thought, as I was carving, that people who don't keep up with current events wouldn't recognize the leader of North Korea. That's why I carved a missile and a nuclear explosion on either side of him.

Serves me right for being tongue-in-cheek.

Nitrous oxide is good stuff.

Baby Boy's first teeth erupted at a preposterously young age (almost three months). Probably because of this and genetics (thanks Husband!), the kid has soft teeth.

He had his first cavity at about 12 months, so at his age, he knows all about dental offices. In fact, recently, one of his early cavities popped out.

We went to the pediatric dentist this past week to get the tooth refilled. Earlier, the dentist noticed Baby Boy had loosened a tooth, possibly from his usual active antics. When the dentist got to looking in his mouth now, I mentioned that the tooth was dying and it was shifting.

"That's because it broke from the root and is only holding on by the nerve," the dentist said.

Baby Boy got his nitrous oxide. He had the hygienist in stitches when he was getting the freezing needle. "Dr. Bob, you should trim your nails. They're a little sharp."

The fillings were done quickly but the extraction took little slower than was expected. It turned out the root of the tooth went up really high in his gums.

And it hurt the little booger but I was totally digging the show. Sure, it pained me to see Baby Boy cry, but I was fascinated at the procedure. And I knew it would mean an end to my kid putting his fingers in his mouth. He may even regain his appetite.

So now, Baby Boy is missing a tooth. Thankfully, it isn't in the very front where it would be noticed. However, being off to the side like it is, it wouldn't look out of place if he started chewing a stalk of wheat and wore a floppy straw hat. Yee-haw.

Wee Peewee

Peewee the Hamster
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

"Can this day get any better?" Daughter asked as I tucked her in.

She had a fun day at school. She found out she'll be going to a sleepover with her Brownie pack. Oh yeah, and she finally got a pet.

Please welcome Peewee to our family. She's a cute little hamster, although her name is a little pedantic for my taste.

I have no idea how old she is, so I'm hoping she has at least a year in her.

Wipeout

I found myself with a bit of time so I started to surf the internet for points on hosting the perfect 1957-esque (or is it mid-century modern) Polynesian-themed party.

There were lots of sites that sold tiki-related barware and tips on mixing the most delectable mai tai.

Then I bumped into a boyfriend from my past.

What shocked me wasn't that the guy was still into the things I enjoyed, or that he's married and seems to have a great job, or even that he porked right out and has a comb-over for Pete's sake. What's so disquieting to me is how a whole chunk of my life is over. What was normal for me during this guy's era will probably never happen to me again, even if I wanted them to.

I didn't choose to stop living that life. I didn't even try to consciously continue to live like that. I just didn't notice when it ceased to be.

I'm not in the habit of reflecting on what my life was like 5, 10, 20 years ago – at least not in broad terms. Sure, I'll hear a song on the radio and I can picture what I looked like at the time. I may even get a general feeling of where my head was at. But when I saw this guy's picture on the website, I was disturbed as I realized how certain elements of the things I cherished and thought defined me are utterly dead.

Consider, if you will, all the things from your past that used to happen all the time but never happen anymore and never even cross your mind. For some, it would be keggers in the field or just getting blazingly cemented, or making out with people you just met for a lark. For others, it may be as innocuous as cramming for mid-terms or keeping awake to catch Christopher Ward's City Limits. Whatever. It's almost like those things never happened, or that they happened to someone else.

Maybe they did define me. Maybe I had to experience all that to get to where I am now.

Thanks, I guess, ex-boyfriend. You freaked me out, though.

Failed Experiment

I would say it all started when I decided to clean like a Maltese mother.

I live in a 101-year-old house, so I have to dust very often. I was doing ledges and window sills when I decided that the walls could use a good washing.

I started up in the corner when I noticed these things that looked like rice but had stripes of red through them. They kind of clung to the wall and ceiling. Just like weeds are plantlife growing in places I don't want them to grow, these rice thingies got sucked up by my vacuum cleaner.

An hour later, I noticed that the area where I previously removed these things had a few more.

They're alive, I thought. Shit. I don't know why I didn't think of that before.

I took one down from the wall and inspected it closer. Fuck me, they were some kind of moth larvae. Certainly, I was noticing more moths than usual in the house, but ewww.

So later, I asked Husband to help me move the chesterfield so I could vacuum under it. We had this red area rug in the living room. I say "had" because after we found a foot wide hole in it and noticed a hundred or so of these rice things near it, on it and in it, the rug made its way to the dumpster at Husband's office building. The red stripes? Carpet fibres.

The "old houses need a cat" discussion came up mere hours after. We've been fortunate not to find any signs of mice but we've certainly had our fair share of ants and, now, moths.

I developed a cat allergy in my late teens. It used to be quite awful but I notice that now I can go into a house with a cat and be just fine for hours. How bad are my allergies, I thought. Maybe I've grown out of them?

Discussing this with Daughter's violin teacher, who always seems to be foster caring for a stray, she offered a sweet black kitten that was rescued from a drug house. "Just see if you can handle it," she said. "My husband used to have a cat allergy and it wasn't until we got the first stray that he realized he grew out of it." And so begun the experiment.

Daughter was just thrilled with Houdini and the cat was very friendly. Middle Child was a little freaked out, but he's nervous around all animals. Baby Boy was indifferent but eventually really warmed up and spent the whole day playing with her. She even let him rub his face on her.

We had the kitten for a little over 24 hours. However, I knew we wouldn't be able to keep her after about 3 hours. My nose started dripping within 30 minutes. When I walked Daughter over to her Brownie pack, I cleared up within a few minutes. By bedtime, my eyes were red, swollen and so damned itchy. Husband walked past me as we were tucking in the boys and said, "Look at you! We can't have you like that." So, in hushed tones, we agreed to go downstairs together and break the news to Daughter, who has been begging for a pet for about two years now.

Needless to say, she was devastated. Her cry was soul-wrenching. I felt so incredibly awful to do this to her but, as if she read my mind, she stoically held back her tears to hold my hand and said, "It's not your fault, Mum. I don't want to make you sick but I'm just so disappointed."

We let her stay up as long as she wanted with the cat. I myself had one of the worst sleeps of my life. When I get upset or stressed, I end up either puking or sitting on the toilet. So I would sleep briefly (maybe an hour), and then wake up and greet the porcelain.

Anyway, Daughter was very cool about everything. I'm so amazed at how grown-up and clear-thinking she can be sometimes. It proved to be a hard lesson she learned about love. Sometimes love can hurt because you end up putting the other person's needs before your own.

Like any parent, you want to shield your kid's heart from ever breaking. Little did I know that I would cause the first offence.

I Miss the Nose Ring, Though

Have I mentioned how happy I am that The Hour is back on TV? I missed you, Yorgos.

It's such a great show. How Canadian is it that our public television network would have a news programme that allows for a different view of world events? Something like this would never be on CNN, I bet.

Anyway, they had Jian Ghomeshi on, showing pics of his trip to Los Angeles. There was a small area cordoned off in LAX, possibly for security reasons, that people were respectfully avoiding. It was just yellow tape tacked on to pylons.

"Thank God we weren't there," I said to Husband. "I mean, what would it take for (Baby Boy) to get the idea of knocking them all down?"

"And then airport security would detain him," he replied, "and extract his DNA and then all hell will break loose when they find he has Arabic blood."

Baby Boy's Day at the Dentist

Yesterday was a little slice of hell for me. Baby Boy and his weak tooth enamel went to the new pediodontist. Why did Husband have to pass down all the icky stuff like that? Wasn't the eczema enough?

I tried taking him to our local dentist but since he's had fillings before, he knew just what she was going to do and wasn't buying what she was selling, if you catch my drift.

The receptionist made an appointment with the dentist's friend, a paediatric dentist in London. Never mind the hour-long drive to get there—it's the nine month waiting that I don't agree with. So I asked for someone else who handled, er, special cases.

This guy is in Kitchener (Go, Penguins, go! Really!) and saw us the next day. This was about two weeks ago. He was awesome and really got Baby Boy calmed down. The hygienist was a right beyotch, though. When walking him down the hall to the opertory, the kid was crying. I said some calming words and let him tug my necklace, which is a soothing habit he picked up when I used to breastfeed him. The buzzard snapped, "You think I've never heard this before? Just be quiet and sit still. I know what I'm doing."

So I sat in a corner of the opertory with my arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on as Baby Boy was giving her his best maniacal screaming and squirming. If it wasn't for the dentist to come in and was way more parental and gentle than the hygienist, I was ready to gouge out her heart with a spoon.

Of course, after the dentist left, I told her, "I'll be asking for another hygienist the next time because, though I don't doubt you've seen this behaviour a million times, YOU are not the one who he'll call for at 2 in the morning with dental nightmares. And, frankly, it appears to me that I would probably know better how to calm my son's fears than you would. After all, I've known him his whole life and you just met him 15 minutes ago." She tried to rebuttal, but I did something I rarely do: I held out my hand, turned my face and then my heels and walked away. She doesn't know how lucky she was.

Anyway, yesterday, new hygienist. Strangely, she looked like me, which worked in our favour. Baby Boy liked her right away. Mind you, we also had some practice runs at Husband's clinic and even went to the dentist's with vinyl gloves, a mask and a Dixie Cup for laughing gas play. We practiced on teddy bears in the waiting room with Baby Boy improvising with Lego for dental tools.

His permanent teeth better come in gorgeous.

And What Happened to Freddy the Magic Flute?

See what posting a comment can do?

Jules mentioned HR Pufnstuf and, immediately, I had a flood of memories of me sitting in my grandmother's living room watching the show with my similarly aged aunt and uncle (did I mention I'm from a Catholic family?).

So, hey, I've got a few minutes before the Leafs game, I thought. Let's Google the show.

And then I learned that Jack Wild, the guy who played Jimmy, DIED! He died this year, March 1st, from oral cancer, of all things. Husband's grandmother has a copy of the 60s movie Oliver, where he played the Artful Dodger. The guy had pipes! And he had to get them removed, as well as part of his tongue.

The Hilarious House of Frightenstein

I remember waking up at the crack of dawn to catch The Hilarious House of Frightenstein when I was a kid.

My kids are astounded to hear that their dad and I didn't have round-the-clock children's programming on TV; that kid shows were only on Saturdays from 6 (this show) until 11, when Fat Albert ended. Of course, there were after school specials, but that was only for an hour, and there was morning cartoons on the Buffalo stations. My favourite was Rocketship 7. There was some morning shows on for the wee, like The Friendly Giant (my sister was afraid of Rusty the Rooster), and Mr. Dressup (God rest his soul). If you went home for lunch, you could catch the Flintstones at 12, just after The Uncle Bobby Show.

That last show actually really resonated with me. I went to Brownie camp with Traffic Officer John's daughter, but moreover, there's catch phrases that I use to this day that, after checking out this website, I realize originated from that show. And, if I'm remembering correctly, my mum once sent in my name and Bimbo the Birthday Clown read out my birthday greeting. Or was that by Dave on Rocketship 7???

What I would do for one of those Uncle Bobby or Rocketship 7 t-shirts. Of course, it would totally date me and place me. Husband didn't have these, being from another province, but he did have J.P. Patches, which I didn't.

And, you know, these shows weren't all that great; not when you compare what is being offered today. Case in point is the show made by Billy Van, Billy Van, Billy Van, etc. As entertaining as I found Frightenstein (and I did, in fact, love the show), it was kinda slap-dash and cheesy. I guess that was part of the charm.

Well, over the weekend, Middle Child stumbled upon it. He was riveted! We found out that it also airs on the Space Channel at 7 am. Guess what he did this morning? He even set an alarm for himself. I kissed him at the door of his school this morning and he replied, "Ooga booga!"

Teeth and Grins

After dangling by a thread for days, Middle Child's first front tooth came out when I gave him a piece of toast. Cruel Mumma that I am, I had been giving him only crunchy things to eat, hoping that would instigate some tooth extracting.

The Tooth Fairy gave him $4. It's more than the going rate, but that's the balance due for the X-men Evolution DVD he's been saving for. But, though I explained, er, what I thought the Tooth Fairy meant by giving him the $4, he huffed, "Well, why didn't she just go out and get me the movie instead? She did that for (Daughter) once."

Okay, that was true, but it was also Easter. It was supposed to be from the Easter Bunny, but she assumed it was from the other mythical creature.

So, I just flubbed, "But that movie was Fairytopia. I think the Tooth Fairy only has fairy movies and she knows you wouldn't be interested in them. Am I right?" Thankfully, he was satisfied with that answer.

My parents gave Middle Child $5 for the lost tooth; something my mum promised the kid ... and he remembered. He actually has money that he hadn't spent from his birthday so he can get two X-men Evolution DVDs if he wants.

We went over to my parents' place this past weekend. Husband and I took off to go on a date. It wasn't anything spectacular; we just went to a bookstore and then to Lick's for dinner. I swear, Daughter grew inside me because of their turkey and vegetarian burgers. We had a Lick's near our big city condo where we lived before we had kids. Okay, Daughter lived there for 12 months, which she lords over her brothers.

Wouldn't a Lick's do well in my little tourist-driven city? If I had a million dollars...

I also went shopping with my mum, Daughter and Niece. I bought the girls a banana split to share. I think they snorted it. Anyway, they were so impressed that they want to make it a tradition. "Any time we're at this mall, we have to share a banana split, okay?" Yeah, because they're at that particular mall so often.

And while the girls were gorging on ice cream (they asked if the pineapple could be substituted with carmel, which is an awesome substitution in my books), my mother was on her favourite topic: planning Baby Sister's wedding. She isn't engaged or anything, but that's not stopping my mum. She can be a little old-fashioned concerning marriage but, I think she just loves a good party.

Seriously, conceding that it would probably be a small wedding, she was wondering if Baby Sister and her boyfriend would have dancing. Uh, hello. Are you a part of this family? We don't look to the food or even the liquor at weddings. It's all about the music!

Question of the week: What is the best love song? Poll your friends; I bet their choices would be telling. Today, I'm leaning toward Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes because, well, I'm a sucker for Lloyds in ill-fitting trenchcoats holding up boomboxes outside my bedroom window.

Whom is Your Ideal TV Husband?

Take the quiz!

I get Dr. McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy.

What can I say? I come by my love of examining gloves with the best of intentions.

Look, Mum! A Skeleton!

Having my mother over wasn't too bad. Sure, she rearranged everything in my kitchen (and I put everything back yesterday, thanks). Sure, she criticized most everything I wore. But she did make her awesome soups every single day, which made the kids (and Husband) so incredibly happy. It was also wonderful to have an extra adult to take care of one kid while I was off with another. It was like being two places at once.

"Why are all the grandmothers we know the cookers? Why aren't the grandfathers?" Daughter asked this morning.

"Because grandfathers are old and in the olden days, boys weren't taught to cook. That's why our grandmothers always cook for our grandfathers," replied Middle Child.

And then...

"But what about Gramma? She never had someone like a husband," reflected Middle Child.

So I reminded the kids that once, a long, long time ago, Gramma and Granddad were married and lived together.

"I keep forgetting that because there's no pictures of them together with Daddy and his brothers," shrugged off Daughter. Honey, I'm sure there was but it got destroyed.

And then...

"But who is the guy with the glasses holding Gramma's hand in the pictures of your wedding, Mummy?"

"That's Gramma's second husband."

"Whaaaaaaaaaaa???!!!!" the kids said in unison.

"Er, yeah, Gramma has been married two times."

"Did Daddy know the second husband?"

"Of course, he did. And so did I. He taught Dad how to drive, how to shave, all kind of dad things. And your Dad and your uncles liked him very much."

"So why did Gramma get divorced TWO times?"

I gave them a short answer, something about them fighting all the time. One day, I'll tell them the long story, which they need to know but just not right now. Maybe then I'll also tell them that Granddad was married and divorced twice too.

How Would a Canadian Chef Plate Maltese Food?

bragoli
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

Apparently, like this.

I went to a local restaurant, which was featuring Maltese food, and ordered bragoli. Really, it was the only authentic dish on the menu; the rest were just recipes using commonly found Maltese ingredients (like the tuna steaks in blood orange sauce that my mother ordered).

The bragoli was terrific. You would have thought someone's nanna made it. I loved having it too because it takes so bloody long to prepare that I never make it. Basically it's a steak hammered thin and then rolled up and stuffed with ground beef, hard boiled egg, some herbs, and usually Maltese sausage called salzett but the restaurant used pancetta.

Best of all was spending the time with my mum alone. We used to go to the Eaton's restaurant at Sherway Gardens in Toronto every Saturday for high tea when I was in university.

Anyway, now I've been ordered to disinfect my fridge while she plays Star Wars with Baby Boy.

A Note From a Pro-Choice Fruit Fly Who Supports Stem Cell Research

My mum is visiting for a whole week.

Let the debates begin!

If I Were American, I'd Be in Court

So at the end of the day, UPS delivered a package full of Mexican and Indian food from the distributor.

I opened it and went, "Ugh." As much as I love Indian food, I'm leaning on Middle Sister's comment on not buying food canned in a third world country. Serves me right for being liberal.

Mind you, Husband's response to my reaction was, "Looks good to me!"

Eerily similar to the Maltese dad's adage, "If it's free, it's good to me!" This is what happens to nice eighth generation Canadian boys when they've been around my family for 20 years.

I still want to know what the company is doing about the bugs, though. Think I'll get an answer?

Gross-out Update

I did my research and found the Canadian distributor of the beans. I went through the proper channels and was given an email address by someone, the receptionist promised, "would take this very seriously."

So I wrote a nice but serious email and attached the photo.

The next day, I received an email back from the owner and president saying that he called Mexico immediately and is trying to sort out the problem. He apologized profusely and said he would get back to me.

I'm happy with that, but I'm still never buying that brand again.

Bugs in Refried Beans

Bugs in Refried Beans
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

It's times like this that I wish I could make myself barf.

Daughter skipped dinner yesterday. It was build your own vegetarian burrito night but she had a huge snack at a friend's. "Save me some and I'll make it for lunch tomorrow."

So, together, we got everything out of the fridge again. I microwaved everything and put it on the table.

"What are the black things in the refried beans, Mum?" Daughter asked as she was assembling her burrito.

"Yeah, I guess it's a new recipe," I replied. "I bet they're peppercorns."

Daughter isn't a fan of pepper so she started picking them out. "They're not peppercorns, Mum. They have legs."

I don't want to tell Husband or the boys but I strongly suggested they join me in a psyllium husk cocktail (which no one took me up on).

Maltese Food at Fellini's in Stratford, Ontario

If anyone is at all interested in coming to Stratford, Ontario during the week of September 18 - 24, for some unknown and, to me, completely unfathomable reason, the most excellent Fellini's Restaurant on Ontario Street will be featuring Maltese cuisine. It's part of a five-week promotion highlighting the best (!) in Mediterranean food.

Seriously, when asked where my family came from, the response to my answer has almost always been met with, "Where?" or "Like the falcon?" or, my favourite, "I love their chocolates!"

As my friend said, it could be great or it could be bad. Real. Bad. But I'm so piqued that this place would choose to highlight the pencil dot of an island my family is from. And as far as I know, there's only two Maltese in this town: myself and another mum from my kids' school. And, of course, we knew of each other before we met.

So with only two of us around, when I'm jonesing for some qaqqoc or aljotta and my mum or grandmother aren't around, I have to make it myself. Mind you, I make a mean hobz biz-zejt with some olive bread I buy from Ace Bakery.

Most of all, I think I'm looking forward to see how someone who isn't from Malta makes the food. What dishes will they choose, I wonder? And how would they plate a pastizzi?

But Ikea SWEARS it's a leg

Like they don't know two huge chunks of their clientele are women and gay men.

Ikea Catalogue and the Incredible Doggie Dink

I've had my copy of the 2007 Ikea catalogue for a number of weeks now. It ranks up there with books I can read again and again.

But today, Baby Sister alerted me to the inside front cover. She said it was all over the news.

I never noticed it before; all I saw was an image of the Virgin Mary in the gingham blinds.

Ian Has the Last Word on Shoelacing

The two older kids are chomping at the bit. They can't wait for school to start tomorrow.

I mentioned that to a few people, only to get the response, "Are they weird?" Okay, maybe they are a little, but I understand why they are excited. School for them is a huge part of their social selves.

Daughter has had her backpack filled for a couple of weeks now. Indoor shoes: check. Filled pencil case: check. Lunchbox with a container of non-perishable rice crackers and a peanut-free granola bar: check.

Middle Child, on the other hand, figures that I'll get everything ready for him tomorrow morning, and he's right. I got out his indoor shoes - very cool black low-cut Converse-ish ones with lots of Jolly Rogers all over - and had him show me that he remembered how to tie shoelaces. Oh, he can ... it just takes him about two minutes per shoe. I've been to their school at recess and that just won't cut it.

So I've replaced the black shoelaces with black elastic from my sewing-kit-of-wonders. Daughter thought it was sheer genius. Hell, I'll take the adulation because I have a very limited time until I will be incredibly uncool in her eyes.

Anyway, I didn't have a lot of elastic left, so I went online to see if there's a lacing method out there that could show me a way to lengthen the laces. People, Ian's Shoelace Site is all you will ever need regarding the subject. Parents and elementary school teachers, check out the "Ian knot" and thank me later.

Hanging Laundry is a God-Given Right

I know I've waxed poetic about my clothesline before, and even gave a tip sheet on proper outdoor laundry drying, so obviously I am biased.

Lots of subdivision developers have put in a clause in home purchasing agreements that state the homeowners are not allowed erect a pole-to-pole clothing line for drying their laundry. There's one right here in the small city where I live, which makes resident (and my friend) K nuts.

Finally, a city councillor, this time in Aurora, is tabling a motion designed to protect the tried and true clothesline from the housing industry. A couple more councillors from around southern Ontario are joining in to fight for the Right to Dry.

Estimations put clothes dryers as accounting for 6 per cent of energy consumption in the average home. Hell, I do a load of laundry every day. If I were to machine dry every damned load, I'll bet I'd be using more than that.

Some American governments have waded into the waters on this and have created measures to protect the clothesline. Florida has a state law that encourages the use of solar power and mentions clotheslines specifically. Utah punishes developers who include terms that restrict the use of clotheslines.

I'm told that developers think they're an eyesore. I disagree wholeheartedly. In this age where we're strongly encouraged to conserve energy (and it's common sense anyway), let Mother Nature do her chores.

Is it a playdate or am I babysitting?

So for the third time this month, an erstwhile friend of Daughter's is coming over for the bulk of the afternoon.

She's a nice enough kid, maybe a little rough around the edges. Daughter was friendly with her during school, but did she play with her at recess? Nope.

Still, throughout the summer, I get these last minute phone calls from her mother, "Can Raggamuffin come over? Like in an hour?" And then I'd have her for several hours. This happened twice during school as well.

Now, I don't mind taking care of other people's kids, but within reason. Heck, just yesterday, I thought I'd take Jules's son off her hands for the afternoon so she could get some work done before she splits for her second honeymoon of sorts. But that's entirely different because:

a) I offered
b) Jules's son is a super close friend to both Daughter and Middle Child and, frankly, he's like my surrogate nephew

But with Raggamuffin, I feel like I'm being used. I know her mom is off doing stuff; the kid tells me as much. I personally loved, "She's going to Toronto with her friend to do some shopping. What's for dinner?"

Are there playdate guidelines that I don't know about? Let's open it up here because, obviously, if there are rules, I'd definitely need to see them published.

Crazy Shirt Folding

Middle Child and I were folding laundry like this yesterday. He thought it was like magic. That's one way to get the kid to help around the house.

She's Crafty!

DSCN1247
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

It was one of those projects that I meant to do earlier but life got in the way.

When Daughter got her "big girl bed", which was mine when I was young, we bought her a new canopy and comforter. It is purple with lilac and pink daisies bordering the Barbie dream house.

She's still young enough to enjoy it but I thought I'd make her summer bedding; one that will grow with her.

This was a quilt cover from the Sears catalogue which I cut up entirely and sized to fit. I also got a groovy curtain panel that would be complementary. My mum and I ripped apart the panel and made a roman blind, lined of course, and a pillow with sequin detail.

We'll be painting soon, too. But I first have to finish painting all the trim in the house - a job that turned out much bigger than I anticipated.

Now if only we could get Daughter to clean the room.

It's Mary J. Bilge To Me

My sisters went to a Mary J. Blige concert yesterday. Baby Sister's boyfriend gave her two tickets for their anniversary but told her he had no intention of going.

"I hope you don't mind that I'm taking (Middle Sister)," Baby Sister said, "but I didn't think it was your kind of music."

No kidding. I wouldn't know a Mary J. Blige song if I stared at it in a paper bag. If she had tickets to see Stars or Broken Social Scene or Weezer, well, I'd be miffed if I didn't get the phone call.

I whipped out my old Bob Marley tunes yesterday, as I felt like something very summery. Husband kind of snubbed his nose at it (he likes political reggae; I like the happy lovey sexy reggae). I don't take his opinions on music to heart. The last thing the guy was listening to was (let me look at iTunes here...) Marshall Tucker and Shakira's Hips Don't Lie (!!!). He's rediscovered his enjoyment of Rick Springfield and I'm left wondering how the two of us got together in the first place.

Opposites attract - and then they drive each other crazy.

Anyway, check out this site where you can see what was the number one song when you were born. They also say that your life's theme song is what was the top song on your 18th birthday. Middle Sister's is "Kokomo" and Baby Sister's is Michael Jackson's "Black or White", which is pretty appropriate on both parts. Mine is "Spirit in the Sky" by Doctor and the Medics, because I'm such an upright Catholic girl. You'd know that's a crock and, to boot, the answer to the previous question of attraction may be apparent when you learn that Husband's life theme is Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer".

But I'm a Creep, I'm a Weirdo...

Daughter and Middle Child were bickering over the ownership of a placemat with a labelled illustration of the insides of the human body.

Okay, it really is Daughter's; bought for her when she wanted to be a doctor (now she wants to be a pediatric dentist). However, Middle Child is the one who is truly interested in all things science now, so he figured it was his because, well, it's a science placemat.

Sure enough, they come to me to settle the dilemma. And though I said that it was given to Daughter that maybe now Middle Child would enjoy it more. Nope. Daughter is taking what's hers.

That started Middle Child off. You can tell when he is really, really upset because tears well in his eyes, though he tries to shield that from everyone, and he starts muttering under his breath. Being right beside him, I could hear him.

"She's just another bossy popular kid. I hate popular people. They think they're better than everyone else."

Ugh. Why isn't there an index page in a parenting handbook that I can reference to at times like this?

Right or wrong, I let him settle down and waited for Daughter to leave the room and I pulled him to my lap. I asked if he thought he was popular. No.

Would he like to be? He didn't care, really.

Did he think things would be better if he were popular? He paused. Then he went on about how he doesn't have a lot of friends - really only two boys that invite him to playdates and one of them started out as Daughter's friend and his fifth wheel status graduated as he grew older. I tried to use that as a point of reference, that as he is getting older, more people recognize him for the interesting and fun kid that he is.

And it may be time to reread the How To Be a Friend book ... again, though it is an excellent, awesome, wonderful book. What can I say? All maternal mammals protect their weakest.

I hope the new school year is a pleasant one for him.

Jason Newsted is a Nerd

Yeah, the guy wants to hear that from some fat-assed minivan-driving chick from small-town Canada.

But, fuck you, Jason Newsted is a geek.

I don't watch a lot of TV but there's something about the Rockstar series that piques my interest. Maybe it's the house band. Maybe it's some weird subliminal vibe Mark Burnett emits from the shows he produces. I don't know.

It used to be Dave Navarro but hearing him referring to all female contestants as "sweetheart", "honey", "darling" and all, I don't know how Carmen Electra withstood his very tiny penis. Hey Dave, you could make it up to me and all Donohue-raised women by calling all the men "handsome" or "stud". Your choice.

But I'm rethinking of taking back my Monday to Wednesdays and stop watching the show because of Jason Newsted. I kinda got my first icky feeling when, after he played with one of the contestants, he then came back to his ostentatious throne (Ozzy he ain't) and jumped up and down to giggle, "How'd I do, guys? How'd I do? Did I make the band?" Oh shit, for that, Gilby Clarke should have just upped and left.

And his comments are so unimaginative and not very constructive. It's like the guy is just talking because he likes the sound of his own voice. Honey, didn't your mamma tell you if you have nothing to say, keep your pie hole shut? He tells the contestants the same damned thing every effing week. What a prat!

Mind you, the guy is some kind of corporate-rock suckhole. "Boo-hoo, because of the internet, I only made $10 million this year."

Honestly, troll doll Dilana (you wrote lyrics like "greased up my thong" and was proud of that fromage?!?), or skunk boy Lukas, who I think are the front-runners, will singing for this band be much of a prize? With the personalities I see in the short time they're on, I can't see Supernova lasting any more than two years at best. And, well, are these guys going to be relevant?

Mind you, I was never a fan of Guns n Roses, Motley Crue or Metallica. So if it were Rockstar: Bauhaus, I'd be a fucking panelist.

I'll give it one more week to see if folding laundry is more entertaining.

A New Look

My friend at The Saddest Girl didn't think the pink paisley thing was "me" enough, so she began to tweak stuff around a bit on my behalf. I'll be tweaking further, just to get used to the whole web design thing, but The Saddest Girl has given me great bones to work with. Any suggestions?

She came over yesterday, a planned playdate with our kids, and gave me a handy-dandy lesson on code while Baby Boy had diarrhea and didn't make it to the toilet. Welcome to my house!

Check out the melons on her!

Art by Jules at Grrraphics.

She'll make you one too, for a price. Give her an email. She could use the money, but can't we all?

What Do You Think?

Just shaking things up here. I was never one for the plain pink thing, but for months now, I've been trying to design my own space here with some crazy cool retro housewife gifs.

As you can see, I couldn't figure out how to do it.

Mind you, I didn't try that hard.

Daughter just came back from a week at my parents'. She had a blast with my niece. My sister and I agreed that it was one of the more peaceful weeks we had, just having our two younger boys at home. Sad, eh? But, in my case anyway, there was mucho cooperation going on between Middle Child and Baby Boy. They only had each other to play with and they did so incredibly well. Middle Child really got into it. "You know, it would be okay if (Daughter) died and there was just me and (Baby Boy)." Nice.

We also went to a restaurant on Friday and got seated much quicker as we were a table for four.

The restaurant thing was Husband's idea, after learning that splitting the hydro lines in the new building would cost about $7000. Yeah, we aren't going to do that now. Husband figured he saved some money there, so he came home and suggested going out for dinner. It seemed a little stupid, but I wasn't going to complain.

And we all ate chicken. So ends Husband's sojourn into vegetarianism. He thought he'd like to try it, so I humoured him. I was surprised when he ordered meat AND a side of potato salad. "You know they'll make it with sour cream and not yogurt (which is how he's had me make it for years now)." He shrugged at my comment and ate like Survivor contestants on food auction day.

Then we went to Middle Sister's house yesterday and she barbecued beef, pork and chicken, which he ate all of the above.

He's off of his "healthier lifestyles" rant, particularly after I had to wake him up when I came back from my 6:15 am weight-lifting class, where I did 30 minutes of cardio prior. I believe his words were, "I better get my lazy ass out of bed before you beat me to a pulp."

Now, the topic du jour is the suspected future airplane bombings. Oh, he's Mr. Conspiracy Theory now. It's so much easier on me. There's no effort on my part.

Starsky and Hutch's First Names

After months of arguments between Husband and I, and my on-going harassment of friends and relatives, I have learned Starsky and Hutch's first names. They would be David Starsky and Ken "Hutch" Hutchinson.

I remembered Hutch's name from watching an episode a year or so ago. Hutch was hopping out of bed and the woman called after him by his first name. She ended up getting killed, but not by Hutch. Or Starsky.

No, my question now is what was Huggy Bear's name?

Now you can answer at least one of these questions.

Click Your Ruby Slippers, Dorothy

There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome.

Royal Jules

I talk a lot, it's true. But I have a very good memory making me, in turn, a good listener.

I can't tell you the amount of life skills I've learned from my friends. Husband and I have the upstairs of the new building rented and the new tenant wanted some sort of lease agreement. Oh crap. We tried to figure it out ourselves, when I said, "Bah! I'm calling my cousin M." And, of course, she imparted a wealth of knowledge through her experiences. And she's so damned cool.

But lately, advice from my friend Jules come back to me in waves. "Treat husbands as if they have autism. Praise the good behaviour and ignore the bad."

Holy doodle, does that work! Yesterday night, when he got home from golfing with his apey "I've been outdoors all afternoon" stink, he kissed Baby Boy who was having a bath and then sat beside me on the bathroom floor. And he started, "I bet you had a busy day. I'll take the bedtime shift and you go relax."

Okay, he didn't smell like another woman. No visible hickeys. And then ...

"It's days like today that I realize how good you are to me."

This is after a whole week of, essentially, not cooking. It was partly because of the heat but more because no one is helping to tidy the kitchen; not even clearing their dinner plates from the dining room.

I scoured the kitchen on Sunday night, leaving me happy to make a nice garlic salmon on the grill, a Maltese recipe for thinly sliced baked potatoes, and some brussels sprouts. I had to clean everything. Fine. The next day, I made spaghetti. Husband told me to leave the leftovers in the pot and he'd take some to work the next day. The pot didn't move. For days. Wednesday, I made sandwiches and a tossed salad. I made a half dozen hard boiled eggs on Thursday. I made nothing on Friday. And I let the dishes pile up. It killed me, but I thought a sharper point couldn't be make with a knife.

Daughter totally understood and loaded the dishwasher on Friday night. But I buckled and scoured the kitchen again yesterday.

Now, Jules has made a rule in her house that if she cooks, her husband cleans and vice versa. Makes sense. I'm told this is common in most households (hello to my gym mammas ... and Ken). So if the kitchen isn't clean, Jules just won't cook. I wish. If supper isn't ready by 6, I've got three foragers pulling all sorts of food out, making even a bigger mess.

We had Jules's youngest son over for dinner once and he asked to be excused when he was done. Apparently, I beamed like a million suns. Even my little egotist Middle Child said, "Wow, you're sure happy that K has good manners like that." Yeah, Einstein, so does that give you a hint?

I have a strict rule about us all eating together at the table, and I've just broke Husband from his habit of reading the newspaper during dinner. I also came up with a game to promote conversation called "Two Truths and a Lie" where everyone has to say three things about their day. The rest of the family has to guess which one didn't happen.

But I think I'm going to come right out and tell them all to start cleaning the kitchen. If they don't like it, they can make dinner and I'll be happy to wash their dishes.

However, this week I've been strictly enforcing (think bad-ass South American police) my rule of no eating except in the kitchen or dining room. I'd be almost enticing a revolt.

Autism Rocks

"I like autism rallies!" Daughter said with a pizza sauce smeared smile, hauling her booty to the car.

We went with Jules at Grrraphics (I link to her rather excellent illustration blog), and her two sons, the eldest having high-functioning autism. We grabbed our signs and kept an eye on our brood of kids who were either playing with the Thomas the Tank Engine set or getting their faces painted.

Daughter not only got her face painted but also wrangled some Madonna-esque gloves and a fake hair scrunchie.

The speeches begun. Daughter grabbed a sign herself and left us to stand front and centre to listen. She must have been pretty attentive because she was on the 6 o'clock news and had her photo taken by two newspapers.

On the flip side, she obviously learned a few things because she asked a bevy of questions at the dinner table. Mind you, I was kind of hoping she'd see that not all autistic kids are like her friend; that her friend is doing alright because of the very hard, tenacious work of his parents and his workers. But, of course, all the kids there were super well-behaved.

Except for Baby Boy.

Ugh, the kid was screaming all through the speeches and wouldn't keep still any other time. When we went out for lunch afterward, well, my friend's boys were quite astonished by his behaviour. Yeah, it didn't make for witty banter over the pomme frites, let me tell you.

But this too shall pass.

Bat Outta Hell

A rather restful week was spent at the cottage. The kids played nearly the whole time at the sandy beach where Lake Huron was so clear and blue. Our beach had a large sandbar, so it was nice and shallow and warm.

Yesterday night, I was watching the news seeing hysterical Lebanese mothers mourning their children. "How do these women do it?" I wondered. "How can they find oxygen while they see their lifeless child?"

I looked down at Baby Boy, who couldn't sleep and was playing with his Hot Wheels in the dining room.

And there was a bat flying over his head.

At first I thought it was a silhouette from the window but...nope. So, I called Husband as calmly as I could. No rustling from the attic where he was playing Urban Dead.

Frick it. "There's a bat in the dining room!" Okay, that got him down the stairs but it freaked out Baby Boy.

We ended up opening a door and shooing it out. The whole thing took maybe three minutes.

"You were graceful and calm," Husband told me. "I was freaked because I wasn't wearing a shirt."

Daughter came down. "I heard Mum yell. Is everything okay?"

"Sure, honey. We just had one of those Ontario Little Brown bats, but he went back outside," I said.

"You sure it was a Little Brown?"

"Yeah," I said. "Thankfully, you did that project on bats so we know their not going to kill you. And they don't bite people; just bugs, so it was no big deal to me and Dad."

"Uh, Mensa applicant. Bats bite people. Remember our neighbours at the old house needed tetanus shots?" Husband reminded me.

Ignorance is bliss.

Oh My God!

I have never bought Lego for my kids. What a sin.

A Place to Live. A Place to Grow.

Middle Brother-In-Law left for home after a week with us. The kids didn't leave the poor guy alone. I think Baby Boy dive-bombed his crotch at least a dozen times.

And he emptied the dishwasher a few times. That would make two more times than Husband ever did.

We didn't really do much. Husband still worked, though he took a bunch of afternoons off to golf with his brother. The older kids had birthday parties to go to - two each - which they weren't missing for anything. MIddle Child had the choice of hanging with his friend (The Saddest Girl's son) or going to a Blue Jay game. Let's just say the lure of a Bavarian pretzel and team sports wasn't nearly as attractive. The other party, which both kids were invited to, was all about watching Pirates of the Caribbean and eating candy. Johnny Depp AND chocolate??? Why wasn't I invited? We did manage to go out en famille to the beach, which our guest thought was a great spot. Personally, I also like the drive through the country to get there.

I live in a weird city. It's a strange mix of industry and the arts, rednecks and homosexuals, abject poor and, uh, the opposite. And it's surrounded by working farms. And mennonites. I'm more and more conscious of the dichotomy the longer I live here. I wonder if a visitor notices.

I also wonder if my brother-in-law noticed the many differences between Toronto and this part of Ontario. Too often, non-southern Ontarians lump the whole region with Toronto. Smell the air. Okay, wait until the manure truck passes. Or blow your nose. See? No black specks.

A report just came out stating that, on average, it takes someone 79 minutes to commute to work in Toronto (76 in Montréal, 66 in Calgary). Meanwhile, Husband walks to work. It takes him about nine minutes. And this city is so small, I hold strong to the belief that it takes seven minutes by car to take you anywhere within the city limits.

Mind you, it has its drawbacks too. Unlike a big city, it's pretty homogenous here. City-run activities can be a little hokey. But we're really good at "quaint". Please, get some locals to discuss how much money the city spends on flowers.

But I'm happy enough to live here. I didn't want to be in the middle of nowhere. I had to be within a two-hour drive to a metropolis. I wanted the kids to walk to school. I wanted to be near a fully-functioning hospital. Outside of that, I think your home really is wherever you hang your hat.

I lived in a place where many can't believe I left willingly. Sure, the first two months I was there, I loved the mountains and the ocean. But then it was just a place to live, with pros and cons just like anywhere else. I stopped seeing the mountains. I seldom went to the beach.

And, you know, the beaches nearby where I live now are on a lake that, to the naked eye, appear as expansive as an ocean. And clean. And blue. Yeah, it's not the same, but it's home. It's not so bad.

One Day Down, Another 66 To Go

"You want to watch 'Little Einsteins' while I wash the breakfast dishes?"

"Yes," said Baby Boy, "because that will mean (the baby I used to babysit) will be here soon."

"Uh, no, honey. You'll see her again to play but she won't be staying here anymore."

"What about (Middle Child's classmate whom I babysat on Wednesday and Friday afternoons)? Will we pick her up later?"

"No. That's over too. It's summer vacation! It's just you, me, your sister and brother in the day time. We're going to have so much fun together!"

He cried. Hard. I didn't take it personally.

Should I?

Birthdays are a Drag When You Get Older

Belated wishes for a happy Canada Day to you all.

My day started with the usual watering of the garden, thanks to my very cool and city-subsidized rain barrel. It was then that I noticed some jackass broke off my flag off the door window of my car.

Then my dad called to say, essentially, that we live in the best country in the world. I didn't feel like agreeing at that moment.

The day turned out well though. The family went to Middle Sister's house for a swim and a barbecue. If anything, my sister makes incredible salads. My contribution was a paltry cake made with whipped cream and strawberries shaped like the flag. The kids thought it looked incredible and they actually ate it all.

We went home, caught up with friends and watched the fireworks show. It was at a field that was maybe a 25 minute walk, but figuring it would end sometime after 10, we thought the kids would be too tired, so we drove the car to the half-way mark. As the show ended, another show of thunder and lightning began and down came buckets of rain.

Husband went to work on Sunday and found that the upstairs tenant of the building we bought was giving us 60 days notice. She gave us the name of her sister who would be interested in moving in. We'll see if she still wants to when we tell her I want to up the rent. Currently, the two floor (second and attic), two bedroom apartment, with all utilities included is being rented for $700 a month. I don't think we paid too much for the place - frankly, Husband and I think we got a deal - but with mortgage payments and hydro rates being what they are, we may need to look at that rent.

It's bloody hot and I'm having a fat day. Although I got three pairs of shoes today (one from my birthday money and two a birthday gift), I'm not feeling better. But, hey, I got a loot bag after Canada's birthday: one per cent less on GST AND I get some extra baby bonus money. Just like that cake I ate on Saturday that I'm blaming my fat day on, I feel like I'll be paying for the Harper treats later.

P.S. Got to see Oliver! with my friend, The Saddest Girl To Ever Hold a Martini. It was good, but it was better because I got free tickets!

Sounds Like Dairy Queen For Everyone!

Yesterday was the last day of school for Daughter and Middle Child. They got incredible report cards.

"How many marks were A, A- or A+?" she asked. Ten. The other marks were B+ (all in math, so guess what we're working on this summer). She was thrilled, particularly in French because she started the year with only a B so she really buckled down. How great is it to realize at her age that you CAN be rewarded when you exercise effort?

Middle Child's report card is entirely written. Glowing. I wept. Seriously, the kid has come so far. Sure, he's blossomed into this smart geek (as I told my friend Jules, I'm hoping for Clark Kent and not Urkel), but socially, well, it's another case of being rewarded after much effort. He's making friends.

As I always do, I wrote the teachers letters of gratitude. I figure they can use it when they're up for review or something. Or just read it. Whatever. Being a writer, it comes to me like peeing. It has come to a point where my father prefers mushy greeting cards to my writing a mushy note in a blank one because I've spilled none of my blood. It's more of a joke between us; not quite so maudlin. Anyway, Daughter said it made her teacher cry.

Daughter cried last night because she didn't want school to end. Should I take that as a slap because she'd rather not be at home, or rejoice that she loves learning?

And now Husband is reading over my shoulder, giving me writer's block. See? It does shut off.

Here's a fun and freaky math game.

Two Full Bowls of Chips and a Burning Question

Middle Child had birthday-o-rama. He got his extended family party. Then the immediate family celebrated it on the actual birthday. Today, he had a few friends over to see a movie and then back to the house for barbecue (no one ate), chips (no one ate), fruit (no one ate), and cake (pretty much everyone just licked the icing).

My mum stayed the whole week with us. It was great having her around, even just to pick up the kids from school. She took each kid out individually, which they loved.

She got to see Baby Boy's year-end extravaganza at his school. He spotted us right away and looked happy and all. We were right in the front row, so he couldn't miss. But then he noticed the many, many other grown-ups in the gym and was like a deer in the headlights up there on stage.

All in all, I think the week took a lot out of her. The kids wouldn't leave her alone and her back was acting up quite a bit, particularly in the morning. The doctors still don't know what it is. Getting older sucks, it seems.

And for all of you who know my mother, yes, I cooked fish on Friday. I made a rather nice grilled mahi mahi with homemade parmesan fries and berries for dessert.

BURNING QUESTION
What is the protocol if someone sends you an email (obviously personal) in error? I get this a lot. Post what you do, should it happen to you. Please.

Attending Journalism School Made Me Sensitive

And I'm making ashtrays. I'm so witty, I'm a regular Quentin Crisp.

Crappy journalism is alive and well and seems to have made its home at Fox News.

So I'm at the gym, forced to watch either Fox news, the country music channel, an infomercial or Much Vibe. Some talking head on Fox is going on about the "terrorists in Toronto". Blah, blah, blah "... and one of them went to flying school!"

Had I mentioned how much I enjoy The Colbert Report?

It was made perfectly clear last week that the kid took a very basic introductory community college course on airplane aerodynamics and mechanics. And he dropped out not far into the class. No flying, but maybe the kid can identify components of avionics.

I've worked at a number of Canadian news sources in my career as a journalist. People got fired for less reason than that. I myself almost got canned for putting the wrong page number on the Sunshine Boy page (unintentional, I swear). I pleaded with the editor and managing editor that they couldn't hire my replacement for as little as they were paying me. They laughed and kept me on.

My cousin works in law enforcement. She drives a van, shuttling prisoners from the jail to the courthouse. She made a special trip to see the terrorist suspects but was starstruck (my aunt's words) when she saw the guards in full battle gear and handling pseudo machine guns.

Follow your dreams, my darlings.

Hot Iron

I'm on a t-shirt making bonanza. This is one I made for my dad for Father's Day. I made one for myself that reads "It's not PMS. It's you." I gave one to Daughter's violin teacher that says "I graduated summa cum laude for this" and even made it in University of Ohio colours. A diaper shirt I made for my friend's daughter says, "Does this diaper make my bum look big?"

Someone stop me.

My Son Likes Orange; He Cares Not About Oranje

My city, full of folk with Dutch heritage, is awash in orange. Apparently, World Cup fever is alive and well in southwestern Ontario.

Unintentionally, Husband dressed Middle Child, who has a Dutch name, completely in orange yesterday. He received lots of admiring looks from soccer-crazed Dutch patriots. Aardige kleren!

Retro Family Night

We went to a drive-in movie last night. Husband and I used to live in a bigger city that had a drive-in theatre not far, but that was when Daughter was a newborn. I loved being able to go to a first-run movie with Husband and not have to leave the baby with anyone.

Yesterday's theatre was about a 30 minute drive from the house, or it should have been had we not taken the left instead of the right. When we found ourselves 20 km away from Paris, Ontario, we knew enough to make a U-turn.

Of course, this didn't make matters any better from the peanut gallery in the back row booster seats. The "Are we there yets" had begun not 10 minutes out of town.

We actually got there in very good time. Baby Boy was already asleep, so the older kids and Husband went to the loo, the concession stand and had 10 minutes to play on the swings and such until the movie started.

Of course, by then, it was pretty late. The first movie ended at 11. Wouldn't you know that the kids stayed up until the end? I ended up making a screen out of a blanket so the kids couldn't see the second, more grown-up feature, The Da Vinci Code (and, by the way, don't waste your time). They fell asleep in no time, mind you.

It was a fun little outing for us. Daughter in particular found it to be totally novel ("I saw a movie in a field...in my car...and I was wearing pyjamas!"). And for a total of $27 and the opportunity to gas up in a town that sells for seven cents a litre cheaper than where we live, we might just do it again soon.

The Circus Under the Tent

My niece had her first communion last Sunday. It was probably the first day of one serious heatwave we had.

Middle Sister and her husband rented a tent with tables and chairs. Esthetically beautiful, a logistic boon. The white tent actually kept the oppressive heat away, but maybe too well because everyone stayed way late and all of her neighbours dropped in. We left at about 9 (after I dressed my nephews in their pajamas so maybe people would get the hint) and the neighbours were still in full-blast party mode. At least one of them brought their own liquor (three bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade).

But that was the guy who also mowed their lawn when we were at the ceremony.

The church ceremony was a mass with all of the Grade 2 kids from her school involved. They performed a song at the end and, in typical niece fashion, she sang it å la Celine Dion: full of gusto with lots of action. My niece does everything big. She's one of those people who grabs life by the horns and enjoys the adventure.

My parents walked us through the woods that back off to my sister's house after church. I wore kitten heels. I ended up having to take them off and walk through the pine needle and rock-strewn path barefoot, wishing I wore the Crocs that Daughter insisted on giving me for Mother's Day ("So we can be the same, Mumma!").

Back at the house, we got to work in the kitchen. Baby Sister stayed at home and heated food (all delicious), so I gladly took the tray of pastizzi around. "What are these?" Middle Sister's Italian-Canadian in-laws asked. "Maltese fruit of the gods," I replied. "You won't be disappointed." No one ever is. The only person I ever knew to hate them is a son of my dad's friend and he grew up to be a complete fuck-up. So there.

I spent most of the day working the crowd. Middle Sister was very busy and her husband pretty much kept to his side of the family, so I went around to my side. I can't complain; I love the company of my extended family. We don't get together nearly enough but when we do, we're never short on talk.

I kept away from my mother, who was in bossy mode again in the kitchen. I knew I'd just make her problems worse, and she called me the next day to thank me. Besides, Middle Sister's sisters-in-law (just the two that give me the heebie-jeebies) were also in the kitchen. Did I say my mum was bossy? Oh, no. Not comparatively. Not even close. It was when one sister-in-law pretty much unwrapped her gift to Niece to show me what she bought her that I just vowed not to even make any more eye contact with them. "I always find the nicest gift," she said.

Sorry, honey. If we're in a pissing match, I'm not squatting. Besides, I'll win. Why? Frankly, I think our niece would like mine better. I give my sister's kids the best gift I ever got from most of my aunties: time and respect for the persons they are. The bought gifts I got were pretty rockin' too, I say immodestly.

I think the highlight of the day came from my little nephew. I was swinging him around, playing rough the way he likes, stopping occasionally to hydrate him. When his mum brought out the bubble machine, he gestured that our playtime was over. "Tane too," he said to me and gave me a kiss on the lips. My first unprompted, from the heart, kiss from that boy. My cup runneth over.

Before we hit the highway, we gassed up. The sign said 95.3 but the pump was 91.5. That possibly was the cherry on Husband's Sunday.

After sitting beside my father and his sour coffee breath, I always thought a mint variety would go over well.

Maybe Fabrizio Faniello Should Scream

"So how about that Fabrizio guy, eh?" my friend asked last week as we were driving down the highway.

"Who's Fabrizio?" I asked.

Well, unbeknownst to me, the afternoon show on CBC Radio (it used to be Sad Goat, but now I dunno) has been imploring listeners to get on the Eurovision website and throw their support behind Malta's contestant, Fabrizio Faniello.

Eurovision is a European pop song contest that Abba won in the early 1970s. I've often heard about it from relatives. Apparently, the Maltese are very keen on the contest and had come close to winning it a couple of times.

But not this time. Malta came in 24th. Some Gwar-type band from Finland won this year. Maybe it was a protest vote. I've listened to a few competing songs and, like the Maltese one, nothing really stands out. Then again, I've never been one for pop songs unless I'm at a wedding or gone dancing at a gay bar (cheap liquor, great energy, lots of men who will never bother you for anything else but a light. What's not to love?).

Then again, life is different in Europe. I can't imagine The Ramones were very big in St. Julien. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

What Would Supernanny Do?

Being with kids for most of my days, one may understand my craving for adult conversation.

Husband took off Friday, thinking he might be able to golf, but it was raining all morning. He stuck around the house, like a fly on the wall as I went about my regular day.

"I'm tired just watching you," he said before the sky broke and he went to get his clubs. "And are you aware that you just watched a 15-minute show about moving like Jell-o? Now I see why you can talk on the phone with your friends for an hour."

When I told him we were invited to friends' for Sunday dinner, he knew there would be no debate.

And it was lovely. Their eldest hoovered three pastizzi immediately and, I'm told, finished off the rest this morning (and at our house, Baby Boy ate all the muffins for breakfast).

The boys all got along great but something was bothering Daughter and I think she was being a bit of a pest. I still don't know why things were thrown and words were said. It lies somewhere between not wanting to hang out with her brothers, having to share her friends, and being very aware that she's a girl amid many boys. Anyway, Daughter doesn't want to discuss it this morning. "That was yesterday. It's all okay now."

My friend sized up the situation faster than I did at the time. She had Daughter up in her office, drawing a digital picture (which I can't upload but it's a cute picture of a shepherd and a sheep). She had her alone time, then everyone apologized and, yeah, it's all okay now.

We went outside after and lit some sparklers. I started taking photos but stopped when I noticed the kids were trying to light things on fire.

And both the husbands ran out of gas early. When we got back into the car, Husband said, "I respect your friendship with (Jules) but what possessed you guys to bring out cake at 10 o'clock? I thought we would have wrapped it up once (Daughter) had her nose out of joint or even when (Baby Boy) peed on their floor."

Yes, peed on the floor. Since I've been taking care of a 13-month-old, Baby Boy has regressed a bit. Most of the time, he wants to "goo goo, gaa gaa" instead of talk, he wants to be fed, and, yes, pees at will. What would Supernanny do?

Does the kid in this ad remind you of anyone?

Mmmm....Lamb of God! (part two)

We got home from the church as I was bringing out some buns and luncheon meats, Daughter came downstairs with a balloon for me to tie. A face was drawn heavily on it with marker. "Please don't play with this. Marker on balloons can rub ink on your dress. Try to stay clean until your great-grandma comes," I asked. I noticed marker was already on her fingertips, so I asked her to wash her hands and put away the marker. And off she went.

About 15 minutes later, I went up to the playroom where Daughter was playing with my niece. I wanted to see how the marker came off. Well, they both had more marker on their hands. That would happen when they had every balloon in the house covered with inky marker. Niece looks up and hides the marker behind her back while Daughter has her "oh shit" look on.

And there's ink on the front of her dress.

"I asked you not to play this game. I told you why you shouldn't. Did you not understand?" I was calm until I tried to get the marker out and then noticed that Niece was using a Sharpie. Permanent. "Oh, this is GREAT! All this week, I asked you to keep clean until your great-grandma saw you. That was all I asked. And now this." I put all the balloons in a laundry hamper and told them, "(Daughter), you can play with these tomorrow. (Niece), take half of these home. I'm putting them away now."

I got the dress off her and tried different things to hide the stain while I left the girls to wash their hands. The fact that they got marker on the bathroom countertop didn't escape me, but I picked my battle.

Down the stairs to my bedroom I went to tuck away the hamper of balloons. Niece followed me. "We're sorry, Auntie Jen," she said. "Fine," I sighed, "but I'm really angry and disappointed in both of you. Think before you do. Now go finish washing your hands the best you can and give me five minutes to cool down."

My mum came into the laundry room to help but after getting a nail brush to the stain, she took the dress from me and told me to give up. "I'll just dry the spot we tried to clean. Where's your hair dryer?" she asked. So I took her upstairs and got her set up. I passed by Daughter's bedroom when I heard Niece exclaim, "It's Auntie Jen!" and I saw Daughter slam her closet door.

Rolling my eyes, I walked in, opened the closet and there were all the balloons. "I said you weren't to play with these today. You didn't listen. You will be punished," I said completely calm and monotone. I grabbed a tack from the wall and popped them. Oh, did Daughter scream. And then dramatically, ran to the bathroom where my sisters went to calm her down, I assume. I gave myself a moment and then kicked everyone but Daughter out of the room.

I let her cry in the corner for as long as she needed while I sat on the bathtub edge. That wasn't even a minute. Then she sat on my lap and cried a little longer. When she calmed down, she apologized. "I'm sorry we took the balloons, Mummy." "Well, do you understand why I popped them?" "Because you told us not to play with them. I wish I listened because then I'd still have them." "Yup. I wish you listened from the start. First, I asked you to stay clean. 'Play Barbies or video games when your cousin arrives.' But you didn't. When I noticed that first balloon, I asked that you don't play that game because it would ruin your dress. But you didn't listen to me then either. Then when I saw you made even more balloons, I took them away and told you not to play with them today. Again, you didn't listen to me. I trusted you but you disappointed me over and over again."

So we had a good talk about rules and about responsibility. We hugged and came to a mutual agreement, in private because this was a family matter. All was right again between Daughter and I, and I gave her the family's gift. It was a necklace very similar to the one I wear every day. She loved it. Then she gave me her Mother's Day gift. It was a pair of shoes, identical to the ones she has. I cried tears of joy because of the sentiment.

The rest of the day went very well. The tandoori chicken and maple sausages went over big time; the sushi not so well, as I had assumed, but Husband was appreciative. And we have so much pastizzi left over but the kids are thrilled because they've had one in their lunches three times this week. In good conscience, I couldn't feed them one a day. Arterial sclerosis sucks.

Anyway, my mum called me the next day. "What a lovely day it turned out to be! The food was incredible and the weather really held out. But, I just want to say that you should apologize to (Daughter). Don't let her remember the day with you being angry. It should be solemn and holy." "Nope. I won't apologize. She was wrong," I said. My mum tried to convince me, even trying to pull rank. Don't play the "I'm older and have been through this" game with me. "She's my daughter and this is my family. I will discipline as I see fit because no one knows my kid better than me. Not even you."

Hard words, I know, but it was even more difficult to convince her that the issue was over between Daughter and me; not even worthy of discussing further because we said what we had to say in the bathroom. Lesson learned. End of story. I don't think she bought it and I'm sure she thinks I'm a failure as a parent. Okay, maybe not a failure, but perhaps that I'm doing everything wrong.

Whatever. I wish she was there when her friend K asked how the day went. Daughter said, "It was great, except that I got ink on my dress but at least it didn't happen before church. And best thing of all is I got the Over The Hedge XBox game!"

Amen.

Mmmm....Lamb of God!

Daughter had her first communion on Mother's Day. That day was picked by, shall we say, higher powers who explained, "All the mothers will be there and none of them will have to cook ... except you, Jennifer."

Which was fine, don't get me wrong. Baby Sister and The Boyfriend came over the day before. We shlepped all over town and beyond and bought the food. The Boyfriend prepped the meat and still had time to barbecue us some incredible steaks. I thought Husband was going to cry, they were so good. Or maybe he was going to cry because he can't barbecue without either burning or drying everything out.

As a thanks to The Boyfriend, I asked a friend to make up a shirt for him. Which reminds me that I still have to pay her.

Husband and The Boyfriend walked over to a nearby sports bar to watch the Senators prepare for their golfing season. Meanwhile, Baby Sister tucked my kids in bed while I hemmed her new drapes.

And then Husband came home completely cemented.

I don't know how the whole house didn't wake up, but he was puking violently through the night. He now vows not to try to keep up with anyone. Or at least order a plate of nachos.

Yeah, nothing classier than going to your kid's first communion (or, heck, going to church for the first time since Baby Boy's baptism) with a killer hangover. He spent a good chunk of it with his head buried in his hands, rhythmically rocking back and forth. Thankful particularly because we had to sit at the front row, no chunks were spewed. Praise be to God, indeed.

The ceremony was nice and all. Daughter was very nervous and held my hand or my arm throughout. I spent most of the mass helping her relax. She and I brought up the offertory. It was then when I realized I forgot to put on my trademark "ho red" lipstick.

There were two other girls, from another school, who also received their first communion at that 8:45 am mass. One girl wore a communion dress from the Sears catalogue. The other wore a flowery-print dress from the Holly Hobbie collection. Meanwhile, Daughter wore a duponi silk dress I made with my mum (sort of: I was to make it on my own. Mum asked to cut it so she could have her hand on it. I got it back pretty much finished. I did the bodice and bolero). She also wore a veil my aunt picked up in Malta. She didn't feel overdressed. Besides, as my dad pointed out, all the old folks were coming up to Daughter to offer their congratulations and to tell her how beautiful she looked. Then again, they could be Husband's patients who owe him money.

I'll add more to this later. And there is more. LOTS more.

Sense and Cents

I'm telling you, this last experience is almost enough for me to end all volunteer opportunities for life.

So this party I helped plan for the kids' school had a popcorn machine rented. I arranged for the rental through, oh let's just say a Party Supply Co. here in town. I should have run away from the guy when, as I was enquiring about different services he provided, he didn't even bother to stop eating. Crap business sense, eh?

I placed an order and no notification was sent. There was no contract. There was no bill. I went to the Party Supply Co. here in town to see what was up. "Oh, riiiiggght. Yup, you're here in the book. Oh, yeah, but we need 30% down." Uh, okay. I put it on my credit card. In return, they gave me a cash register receipt. "Just give us a cheque for the balance there on the day of the party."

I went there the day before the event to pick up the rental of 50 pink flamingos, except that they only had 42, so the balance was made up of penguins, ducks and a cat. Oh, and pretty much all of the lawn ornaments had seen better days. They were mismatched, discoloured, broken, and/or bent. Pretty shabby stuff he was renting out. I told the clerk so. Cheesy business sense.

Anyway, the day of the event, I had my friend M pick up the machine. "Yeah, everything is in that box," was all the guy said. No instructions. Not even an offer of help to bring it to M's car. Again, I thought, as did M who owns and operates a store, lousy business sense.

Event over, and another friend took the popcorn machine back, along with the sad-looking ornaments. He phoned the school that Saturday afternoon asking for me. The secretary said that she wasn't at the school. She's a parent here, so I should be phoned at my home. He told the secretary that the popcorn machine was supposed to be cleaned or there was a $20 charge. "So is Jennifer coming here to clean it or should I just send her the bill?" The secretary said she wasn't going to speak on my behalf as she wasn't sure of what was agreed between him and I - which was nothing.

Frick, I didn't know it needed to be cleaned. Further, I wouldn't know what products to use and I'd be very wary of washing an appliance anyway, particularly without instruction from the owner.

I ended up calling him after speaking with the secretary on Monday. He said there was a sign on the machine, and that when he saw the machine, he tried to catch up with the other woman who dropped it off but she was gone (a boldfaced lie, my friend assured me). I told him that I didn't so much as look at the machine but maybe he could have given us some instruction before it left his shop. Even a photocopied list stuffed in the box would do. Further, buddy, look at the cheque. That's not my signature, nor do I run the school. Take it up with the school board. Oh, and if we're nit-picking, you rented me shitty lawn ornaments. And I say this all of this as a small business owner myself.

As far as I know, he hasn't called the school principal.

If push comes to shove, I'll pay his $20 - in fucking pennies - but I will never use his services again.

DEFINITELY did I not get paid nearly enough.

Which reminds me, the new President's Choice Diet Pomegranate pop mixed with vodka is lovely.

Looking for Clara-tee

I saw Brokeback Mountain on Sunday. I don't know what all the fuss was about. More interesting is that I watched it with Husband, who passed on the movie for ages. And I don't think it was worse than Crash which beat it for the best movie Oscar.

This past week, the kids' school had its 50th anniversary. On Saturday, we had a fun fair which my friend Jules and I planned the games and rides. Waaaay lot of work and I'm glad it's over. The day was pretty multifaceted with a historical display inside, a band and a slide show in the gym, and a huge barbecue that the teachers organized and ran.

And when the local daily covered it, this one, er, human being who shares the same name as a cow, took the credit for the whole she-bang. This is the, um, person who was a total thorn in the side of everyone involved. I hope she sleeps well at night.

Ironically, Jules had this great idea of sending the staff breakfast trays of pastries and fruit from this swank coffee bistro in town for Monday morning. Sent along was a card of thanks from Jules and Jen. See, it's an old family trick - of sorts - to thank people before they have a chance to thank you. This will make them think, "We should be thanking them more" followed by subsequent feelings of, I dunno, guilt and an overwhelming need for reciprocation perhaps?

But in all sincerity, we really were thrilled how everyone came together. So it's funny how that one bovine-named person was so ego-driven that she'd be ballsy enough to say she was "instrumental" in putting the celebrations together.

Jules and I do the school yearbook next. Please add an evil scientist laugh here.