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.

Anniversary-o-rama

Husband and I celebrated our 14th anniversary this week. He gave me flowers. I gave him a warm dinner. Frankly, I don't know who got the better gift.

I mean, today, Husband cooked dinner. Wow, it really frees up your evening when you don't have to do that.

The photo was taken the day I got the bouquet. Now it's all open and in resplendent glory but I'm too busy to take another photo. I'm all tied up with tomorrow's fun fair for the kids' school's 50th anniversary. Somehow, I got suckered into chairing the committee and being chiefly in charge of organizing the fair.

I swear, I won't do that again next year.