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.