There's a Happy Feeling Nothing in the Woooorld Can Buy...

I can let a few cats out of the bag now.

After much orchestration, I bought a Wii for the family for Christmas. We had agreed (most emphatically by Husband who is from a Dungeons and Dragons, Intellivision, board game background) to forgo gifts to each other and blow all the dough on a Wii. This was in October.

By mid-December, Wii-less, I was all ready to go out and get some emergency gifts for the kids. Santa was going to be really good to them, as well, but I felt they needed something under the tree.

I had my friend Slowplum doing much of the legwork. She called two people she knew who worked at places that sold Wii consoles. It was her sister-in-law that came through. When the shipment came in to the store she managed, she called Slowplum who called Husband's secretary who helped to track me down and the kids' school secretary got the call and buzzed me over the p.a. system to get my ass down to the office and take Slowplum's call. I left immediately, right in the middle of a bake sale I was helping with, got it and hid it back at the school in the principal's office.

I thought I was going to get a HUGE reaction when it was opened. All I got from Husband was, "Oh. My. God." And then he turned his head to me and said, "That's nice, Jen. Thanks." I stood there, gap-mouthed. Of course, I'm forgetting that Husband is a bit of a milquetoast in the emotions department. He's not one for overt public displays of affection, though he still puts his hand on the small of my back at parties if he's feeling comfortable. Still, everyone is happy. Slowplum and her family are coming over Saturday to indoctrinate us into Wii-world.

We had a good Christmas. Actually, Baby Boy announced to everyone many times that it was the best Christmas ever. He was wide-eyed about everything. We went to Husband's grandmother a few days before and got to see a few aunts, uncles and cousins, too. Gramma is getting quite hunched over and so incredibly intolerant, but she's still on her own and maintains her own home. She's a marvel, really. Mind you, the oldest sibling does a lot to help her out and this particular aunt isn't a well woman. She has breast cancer among a host of other illnesses.

Christmas Day was spent at my grandmother's, another woman approaching 90 and still living at her own home. My uncle lives in the basement and is treated like crap. Mind you, he gives it right back. But the driveway is shoveled, the grass is mowed. My grandmother (with help from my aunts, mother and one of my cousins) makes a hot meal for everyone. That would be around 40 of us. My contribution was a Greek pasta salad and biscotti that Grandma quickly hid for herself. The kids went off to play video games with the basement uncle. Husband hung around his golf buddy who is also my uncle by marriage and only 10 years older than we are. I flitted around, trying to make myself useful in the kitchen, talking to almost everyone, and finally settling down with my cousins, some 22 years younger than I am, with my Taboo game. It was girls vs. boys and the boys defeated us soundly. One cousin brought her boyfriend of three years for the first Christmas. Surprisingly, we didn't scare him off. They recently bought a condo together but it won't be ready until 2009.

Boxing Day is always at my parents'. Mum makes finger food and the kids go hog wild. I love going to my parents' house because I CAN set the kids free and between one of the adults, all kids are well-taken care of.

The other cat left to be set out of the bag is that I can safely say that I'm going to be an auntie again. Baby Sister is about 17 weeks pregnant and everyone is just thrilled. So next Christmas will be just a wee bit different. And I can't wait!

Let's Eat the Lamb of God!

Oh, come let us adore... the gingerbread crêche I made! I really strive to be a cool mum.

And before you tell me it's blasphemous to eat it, remember that I'm Catholic. We eat Jesus at every mass.

Damn My iPod

I was finally getting around to writing my Christmas cards. I was in my spinning class this morning when I realized I only have a week, so I should get at it. I was writing a few, listening to my iPod (including a note to my uncle to let him know that I love him. I'll probably get in shit for it, though). I end up forwarding a lot of songs because they remind me of another time or people from long ago.

"Play That Funky Music White Boy" by Wild Cherry reminds me of my mother-in-law's second husband getting down at my wedding. We lost touch after they divorced, sadly. He was a great guy.

"Planet Claire" by The B-52s reminds me of my roller disco days at Scooter's. I never did a proper shoot-the-duck, though.

"Tonight, Tonight" by The Smashing Pumpkins was the last song I heard before I gave birth for the first time. It also reminds me of riding with Middle Sister to her wedding with me and Baby Sister singing along while the bride probably wanted to puke.

"So. Central Rain" by REM reminds me of this mixed tape a guy made me and, being young and dramatic, I read into it and wondered why he never called.

"Mr. Brightside" by The Killers reminds me of a time long before the song came out...but never mind. Let's leave that one in the past. Too bad. Great song.

There's always something, though. Some songs even remind me of my loved ones' pasts and I didn't even need to be there with them. Pretty much every song reminds me of something so if I were to take them off the mp3, I'd have nothing there.

Am I the only one who can't listen to a song without associating it?

Alone Again, Naturally

Yet again, I am single-parenting this week. Husband is helping to move his dad into a nursing home out west, yet having to travel about two hours from his brother's home to his dad's old apartment.

He really didn't want to go. I would have done the moving for him but Husband has power of attorney, so there were things needed to be done that only he could do. Seriously, I'm as fit as I ever was; lifting weights now for two years. Moving furniture wouldn't be an outlandish activity for me. Besides, Husband is self-employed. If he doesn't work, he doesn't get paid.

Having him gone, however, brings new opportunities for me and the kids. I'm totally indulging in the kitchen, making stuff that Husband hates. I've got a box of instant mashed potatoes that Daughter would hug if she didn't think she'd get teased. I made baked onion rings. Yeah, they're healthier than the deep-fried ones from Harvey's but, uh, onion rings were dinner. We had ricotta ravioli with ketchup. If you're not one of my sisters, you'll never understand that one, I'll bet. Come to think of it, I think I remember Middle Sister's youngest eating ketchup ravioli once, so the tradition lives on through the branches.

The kids and I went over to Middle Sister's last weekend. The youngest took my hand as soon as I got in. "Auntie Jen, your hair is red. Your lips are red and your hair is red. Your hair is RED!" He kept touching it all afternoon. "So soft!" Apparently, he likes it, unlike my mother and one of Daughter's friends who said I look like a clown. I'd just shrug that one off, but I think the boy is the next Carson Kressley and I've always at least listened to style advice from my gay friends. I'm still liking it, though. I've just gone from black liquid liner to brown to soften things up a bit. However, the retro red lipstick stays.

Husband left just after we had parent-teacher interviews. Daughter's lasted all of about four minutes, and only lasted that long because I had asked the teacher to explain these new diagnostic tests and Daughter's results. "My job would be so easy if I had a whole classroom of (Daughters)," she said.

Middle Child's, on the other hand, lasted about a half-hour. His report card was a sea of A's (except in gym and drama), so academics aren't his problem. It's the fact that he's soooo methodical about everything. He's the last one to get his snowsuit on or off. He's the last one to get his books and pencils ready. He's the last one to hand in a report. And if he's answering a question, he answers it and then somehow segues into another idea that would fascinate him but would lose the rest of the class. Like when he answered that one Catholic sacrament was marriage, he then went on about the break up of the Church during Henry VIII's reign and, oh, let's also talk about his many wives. Or how about when the class had to write a proper letter to the teacher, where everyone else's was "thanks for teaching me", Middle Child's first sentence was, "Have you ever wondered about the dung beetle?" And it ended, "I can tell by your age that you're probably going to retire soon, but you are still good at your job." Thank God his teacher has a great sense of humour.

I think it's subtle.

I dyed my hair with a colour called "electric grape". It came out fairly magenta on my grey but, overall, it has a nice burgundy hue.

Husband asked when I was going to grow up. And my mother is going to hate it.

He Knows If You've Been Bad or Good

Yesterday, I handed out individualized letters from Santa to each kid in Middle Child's class. It was awesome to see their reaction. They're still young enough to totally believe in the guy in red and, for all their acting cool, reading the letters had them wide-eyed with wonder.

The letters had lots of kids swell with pride with all the compliments and embarrassed giggles with the suggestions for improvement. Nothing harsh, they just said stuff like, "eat all your vegetables," "get to bed when your parents tell you," and "please remember to raise your hand if you have something to say in class."

Slowplum's son was a bit baffled when he got to the end of his letter. "Santa wrote something in Spanish. I don't know Spanish!" Actually, it was Portuguese and if you saw the kid, you'd know there's a kitchen rooster in his relative's house. Luckily, I knew it read "merry Christmas and happy new year" in Portuguese and told him. "That's incredible! He knew I was Harry Potter for Halloween AND he knows I'm kind of Portuguese!" What was incredible was watching him and his classmates read and reread their letters.

Middle Child's letter, of course, was most detailed. It went to great pains about how he needs to stop arguing, particularly with his siblings. And when he got home, he bitched about Baby Boy being in his way all the time and bit him on the bum.

Middle Sister once got a lump of coal in her stocking. She was a teenager and it was a bit of a joke (she got her gifts later), but it made a point. Would it be awful if Santa did that to my kids? I know Middle Sister would kill me, but, boy, all the kids would be really freaked out by that.

A Few Things That Piss Me Off

1. People who walk on the road in slushy and/or icy road conditions instead of walking on the sidewalk are just asking to get hit by a car.
2. Hoarking. Ew. Ew. Ew. I don't care if you're congested. Use a tissue.
3. Phony bastards who treat me different when they learn I'm "a doctor's wife".

Let's expand on number 3, shall we? Granted, I'm not your average middle-aged mother of three, or at least I don't think I dress the part. I play the car stereo way too loud. My footwear of choice is usually Chuck Taylors or Airwalk slip-ons (the 80s version). I wore liquid eyeliner and red matte lipstick before it was in fashion and I'll still be wearing it when it goes out (yup, me and Dita von Teese). Sure, some people look at me like I eat kittens or something.

But it's these same people who take their parents to Husband and then see my photo (holding baby Daughter) in the opertory and then, the next time we meet, I'm worthy.

I don't watch Oprah. In fact, I hate her with the fire of a thousand suns. Okay, maybe I don't hate her. I just don't relate to her and she could never relate to me. Oh, and I think she reeks of falseness. But I digress. I caught an episode (actually could only stomach 15 minutes of it) about how people judge you according to your appearance. A stranger immediately upon looking at you will make assumptions on your income, upbringing, and way of life. And I'd buy that. I know this from my days as a blue-haired goth with straight As (except in math – I won't lie).

So when people treat me differently when they know what my husband does, I get put out.

Only today did I realize that when people ask us, "How the hell did you two ever get together?" or make the comment "You guys are such opposites," that maybe people are wondering what could Husband possibly see in me.

I Ache

My mum was over this week. If you know her, you'd know she had me hopping. Time to sit on your ass? Hardy har-har. Thank goodness she has a bad back. She's been hell-bent on dismantling the boys' bunk beds, repainting my red dining room a pastel or something icky, moving bedrooms around and bringing my main floor laundry to the basement. On the flip side, my kids were treated with the best soup in the country and I got caught up with lots of chores while Mum kept Baby Boy occupied.

I did, however, make a serious dent in my Christmas shopping while she was here. I'm just kicking myself in the ass for not picking up a Little Tykes digital camera for my nephews though. I went back to the store after Dad took her home and they were all gone.

It looks like Husband is going to visit family yet again. My father-in-law had a bad fall months ago and it looks like he'll never totally recover. This means he's going to be put in a nursing home of sorts. This also means that Husband and his brothers have to plow through all sorts of shit to get the old man settled. This may mean a really fucked up Christmas, but I hope not. Husband may not be westward AT Christmas, but with the lost work days, he's going to have to make them up somewhere. Such is life. We knew this day was going to come at some point. It's just a crappy time because he gets lots of patients calling just before Christmas. But I can't complain too much. My brother-in-law and his wife are doing the lion's share already.

I feel sorry for Husband's dad. He doesn't have much so he really prided himself that he lived alone, despite his disability. Now he doesn't even have that. And we're going to have to get rid of almost all his stuff. I mean, there's nothing really that anyone would want and he won't be able to take them along. I'd love his old photos, but I'm sure he can take those with him. It's his doodads and furniture I'm talking about. Actually, he does have this velvet green day-glo painting of a couple going at it – in a driftwood frame no less. I'd looooove that but:

a) could I hang that up in the house with kids around?
b) is it middle-of-the-road enough for Mr. Milquetoast, I mean, Husband?
c) would Husband actually carry it through an airport all for the love of me?

No, no, aaaaaand no.

So, to get me laughing again, Middle Child and I watched this series called Making Fiends on the internet tonight. The school librarian told me all about it after we learned we both share a great love for Franny K. Stein. There are a few similarities, though Franny is much, much friendlier than Vendetta.

Lunch With Richard Manuel

I wasn't invited or anything. I just showed up for lunch at Richard Manuel's place by the river. I brought tea and oranges (yes, they came all the way from China), as well as some leftover tandoori chicken I made last night. I don't think Richard minded. By the looks of things, no one is beating a path to him these days.

So, you're probably wondering, "Who the hell is Richard Manuel?" Ever heard of The Band? They had songs you'd know if you heard them like "The Weight" and "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" and "Up On Cripple Creek". Anyway, he was the keyboardist.

Now, I live too far from my relatives but I really wanted to have lunch with someone today. It's a New Orleans tradition, though it's supposed to be done around 12:01 a.m. Yeah, if I ate that late at night, one of the gym instructors would give me a lecture if they found out. Anyway, Richard doesn't live far.

I talked a bit, pulled some weeds and did some polishing with the napkin I packed. Got hit with a couple of wonderful inspirations (could it have been the creative presence of a musician? Or maybe I'm just that brilliant). And I enjoyed the sun that found its way to beam on my face. Ooh, it felt so great I needed to really bask in it, so I lay down beside Richard right there on the cold, damp floor. I dig juxtapositions. I wondered aloud if many women lay with the guy these days. But, again, by the looks of things, no one has been around much.

Hopefully, I'll do it again next year. I forgot how peaceful cemeteries can be.

Lunch With Richard Manuel

As Count Floyd Would Say...

2007 Pumpkin
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena

"Scary! Eh, kids?"

This year's jack-o-lantern was George Bush. Most people got it right away, which is a far cry from last year's Kim Jung Il (who, in my mind, is far scarier).

My neighbour and substitute husband (every woman should have a spare) said, "Dumbing it down for the people who don't read newspapers?" Sad, but true.

Another one of my neighbours took a photo of it last night. "I look forward to your pumpkins every year, Jen," he said. He emails out pics of my pumpkins every year along with photos of his two children.

So, I think I need to invest in a Dremel tool so I can get into some heavy-duty carving.

Baby Boy got one more wear out of the plush dog costume. I bought it for Middle Child about four or five years ago. I'm cheap that way. Actually, I'm cheap in lots of ways as well.

Middle Child went as a vampire again, but told everyone he was Louis de Pointe du Lac from Interview With a Vampire. He got the idea from me, admittedly. He was disappointed because he has fairish hair. "Vampires have black hair." "Not Louis de Pointe du Lac," I said rather absentmindedly. Thus began.

At the last minute, Daughter decided to go as Kat von D from LA Ink. She loves that show. Thinks it's all about girl power. "That's why you like it, right Mummy?" I don't want to tell her that I have a huge crush on the chubby, balding Corey. It's never the standard guys. Never was. Never will be. Anyway, Daughter did an AWESOME job. We got these fake tattoo sleeves from the Tiger. She threw on a black skull t-shirt and black pair of peg pants, her low-tops, a flower in her hair, red lips, big goofy glasses and a wide white belt with silver stars. I got out my liquid liner (there is no substitution. Never was. Never will be) and drew the stars near her eye and leaves on her neck.

Am I asking for trouble?

She went out with two friends, trailed by her dad and brothers. And, by her account, it was the best Halloween ever.

You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Lusts You

I live on Wisteria Lane.

I was putting the garden to bed when I heard someone getting, uh, bedded. It was my neighbour who came to her backyard to skank with someone who wasn't her husband. Granted, I haven't seen the husband around much, but he does show up now and again.

Either I was very quiet or my neighbour didn't care, but I heard them come out the door and then she said, "Let's go up against the back fence." Yeah, where I was only about 10 feet away.

Apparently, my neighbour likes to talk dirty when she's having sex.

I didn't want to make a sound because I feared they'd freak out on me and, well, wouldn't that make for months and months of awkward moments on the shared driveway? I stopped ripping out the tiger lilies and just sat there wishing I had my iPod and hoped – prayed – that the cordless phone I brought outside wouldn't ring.

I waited until the fence stopped bobbing back and forth, making a mental note that maybe we should reinforce the posts sometime in case we get another tornado. And I hope it was all worth it for them because it was only about 10 minutes.

But this isn't the first time and I'm worried there might be something in the water. This summer, the couple directly across the street from me split up. I saw him bring home a young slip of a thing, but the wife is back now.

Down the road and across the street, a woman kicked out her husband. I think he had some drug dependency issues, but the guy's pretty cool. He rides weird bikes and can balance several coffees while doing so. He came back after about two weeks.

The gay couple who live on the corner had a falling out last spring. One guy threw all this shit out on the lawn and I heard the other guy say, "You can't kick ME out. This is my house, remember?" A very young man came around quite often after that.

And then there's the mother of the children my kids play with. They live a few doors away. She was having an affair with her children's teacher and then had the balls to kick out her husband to move the boyfriend in. Moxie! Mind you, this boyfriend had it done to him a few years ago. His now ex-wife was fucking the teenaged babysitter (male and about 20 years her junior) and got pregnant. Baby Boy is friends with said love child.

Don'tcha love small towns? Fuck. And I mean that figuratively and literally. Just call me Mrs. Kravitz.

And Right In the Middle of Oktoberfest, Too

A recent poll was taken in Germany. It asked if people thought there were any positive things the Nazis did. About a quarter of the people surveyed said that they actually did a few good things.

Okay, so for anything Germans may appreciate the Nazi party for doing, it all be negated when you remember, oh yeah, they killed 11 million people.

Saying, "The Nazis built a terrific highway" or whatever is akin to saying, "Sure, Paul Bernardo is a child killer, but he always kept his lawn immaculate."

I am the Curse of the Leafs

Did you see the game last night? I had the kids all tucked into bed and went to watch at least the third period. The Leafs were up by two goals by the end of the second. Barfalo quickly scored two goals. I went looking for my knitting and the Leafs scored. I sat back down on the chesterfield. It was tied at the end of regulation. End of the third period, and I decided to wash my face and get ready for bedtime. By the time I got back, they were well into overtime which was just about to end and the Leafs scored on their own net.

Is it a coincidence that the Leafs got scored on every time I was watching? Some may think so, but this happens all the bloody time to me. True story.

"I'm the curse of the Leafs," I said to my dad not too long ago. I explained the way they're always scored upon when I'm actually watching the TV and how they score when I'm having a sneezing fit or went to answer the phone or yawning with my eyes closed or looking down to my crafting.

"Don't be ridiculous, honey," Dad said. "You may not remember it, but you were alive when they last won the Cup."

"Uh, no I wasn't, Dad."

"I thought you bled blue and white! They won the Cup in 1967 and you were born..." He looked at me funny.

"Shit, sweetheart. Stop watching the games, okay?"

Huh?

Riddle me this: last night I had a dream that one of my teeth fell out. It was loose. I flossed and it just popped out. No blood. I woke up and I was holding a book I'm reading (Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay) with two hands in the air.

I'm having a great hair day today. It's kinda doing this Laura Petrie thing.

This Boring Post Asserts My Fatigue

Thanksgiving has come and gone. We had it at Baby Sister and Home Chef's place where the guy actually barbecued the turkey. It was incredible!

I got in lots of snuggle time with Middle Sister's youngest. The others had no use for any of us, but isn't that de regeur?

A few days before that, I went out with mommy friends. Jools and I and one other had the foresight to grab a bite to eat prior. Okay, we also split a litre of wine, but we had some gourmet pizza which didn't sit right with me somehow. Hmmm, how do I settle an upset stomach? I drink something bubbly. So we went to a bar where several others caught up with us. Jools ended up going home early. The rest of us stuck around until this band came on. They were exceptionally loud and, er, not my taste. Most everyone left at that point. Slowplum, her boss (!) and I hit another bar. After one more pint, I seriously felt like I just ate two loaves of bread. I had one drink an hour, so I was alright, but I've never felt full from a night of drinking. Weird. I stuck around, though. At 3 am, we started to walk home. Slowplum could barely walk so I rolled her to my place and gave her a lift. One of the merits of living in a small town is that no one lives further than seven minutes away. Good thing. I was tired. I must be getting old.

Baby Boy had a sleepover guest last night. It was a girl!!! He's at that age where there is no difference between girls and boys, so it's no big whup that his best friend doesn't wear y-fronts. I would have had this girl over any time, but as it was, I was helping her parents out with some babysitting while they went to a party out-of-town. This little girl has been in my care since she was a wee baby. Her mother and I have been trading off babysitting for years because if you can be without kids while you're getting a pap test, it makes an unpleasant task a little more bearable.

But as it is, I woke up at 2:30 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. I was hoping to fuck off today and maybe sneak in a nap, but I just can't. I don't feel like doing any work either, mind you.

Womb With a View

"Can I play with my friends over at the church?" Daughter asked me yesterday while I was painting the porch. "There's something going on there. They're with their mums. Is that okay?"

"I guess it's fine. Just don't roll into traffic!" And as she took off, it dawned on me. The mums were there, with enfants, to join the Life Chain. That would be a line of people on Main Street showing support for the pro-life cause. My daughter. Mine.

Sure enough, she came home and had a million questions. "What exactly IS abortion?" I was unsure how to handle this one. How to explain the pro-life/pro-choice debate without getting too detailed or without clouding her with my opinions?

I chose to explain in very general terms but nothing vague and no lies. I think she's old enough to talk about this. We've already discussed the whole menstruation thing. I don't want her to think she's bleeding to death, you know?

But as I begun, she asked, "Would you have gone?"

Husband walked by at that precise time and laughed, "Mum would only go there to heckle!" So now I had to explain why, which I did again in general terms.

"Yeah, I thought it wasn't your thing," she said. "Actually, my friends asked if you'd be coming and I said that you probably wouldn't because you probably gave women abortions."

!!!

"Um, what gave you that impression?"

"I dunno," Daughter said. "You know a lot about women's health stuff and I remembered you volunteered at a family planning clinic. Some lady said that they give women abortions at those clinics."

So now Daughter knows about:
- menstruation
- abortion
- the birth control pill and other contraceptives
- the political system and women's current access to health care of their choice

But I haven't really talked about sex yet.

All I wanted to do yesterday was put a second coat of paint on the porch, dammit.

Apparently, I'm Going to Hell

Surely, I wasn't the only parent who had their back up when we were sent a letter from the principal of the school and the chair of the Catholic Education Committee.

It stated that they were encouraging us NOT to support the Terry Fox Foundation during the school's Terry Fox Run because they have ties to NCIC which carries out research with human embryonic stem cells (hEC). Despite the fact that NCIC's website states that no money from the Terry Fox Foundation is used to support research involving hEC, the school wants us to write cheques to another charity and that they were going to write a letter to the TFF outlining the school's concerns.

When I learned this was going down at the kids' school, I sat down and wrote an email to the principal. Apparently, I was the only one. It went something like this:

"I appreciate that, as a Catholic school, (the school) must maintain the tenets of Catholicism. That being said, I feel it would have been more democratic to have brought this issue up at an open-door meeting instead of having a letter, with content some may not agree with, sent to a very worthwhile organization in everyone's name. And had the majority present at such a meeting agreed with sending a letter, I would take no issue with this. Because this will be sent without discussion or option, I feel misrepresented.

"With so few true Christ-like Canadian heroes to expose our children to, Terry Fox is one that even the youngest in our school can comprehend. He suffered daily, in training and during the Marathon of Hope. He suffered physically, emotionally, financially, and he did it willingly for the benefit of all who are touched by cancer.

"If money from the Terry Fox Foundation is not supporting the NCIC's research using hES, I really don’t understand why we are diverting funds from this very important and helpful organization. It sullies the legacy of this great young man and the work of all those who choose to do good in his spirit."

The principal ended up phoning me last night. "You sent such a compelling letter, Jennifer. You raised points I didn't even think of."

Whether I'm pro or con hEC research isn't the point. I'm just pissed that such a contentious issue can be brushed under the carpet. And, uh, did they do their homework before they sent the letter or are they just going to come off looking like twits - in my name, I may add?

Anyhooo, he asked me to present my very valid points at the next council meeting. "Or I can stand for you, if you want."

Hey, I said, I'm a big girl and I've never shied away from controversy. I can hold my own, I told him. All I can hope for is that the parent council actually hears what I'm saying.

Crazy week. Got tsk-tsked by The Artist Formerly Known as Sunshine for not updating this blog. "Death to Facebook!" she wrote me. Hey, honey, I haven't updated Facebook so much either.

Anyway, last weekend, ma famille and I made the long trek into Hogtown to attend the First (Hopefully) Maltese Potluck among my paternal cousins. It was actually my idea, born out of the tailwind of a great family gathering last spring. I love Maltese food. I love my cousins' company. And there are fewer and fewer opportunities for us to get together. Getting together at funerals isn't so much fun, either. Add it up and, voila, the idea came to be.

Actually, I had mentioned the idea years ago and my youngest paternal cousin reminded me of it at the tailwind of a great family gathering last spring.

I wanted to host it, but I live too far for my Toronto-area family. Baby Sister graciously ended up having it at her new house. She and Home Chef ended up renting a 55-cup coffee maker and a whack-load of chairs, all which we didn't need.

At the last minute, we had a flurry of cancellations. So only five cousins came (with families). And it was fine. Better than fine. It was still an awesome time.

I fell in love with Youngest Cousin's two children, thrilled that they took to me and happy to give Youngest Cousin some time off. Been there; done that. Eldest Cousin scored two cases of Kinnie, bittersweet pop available only in Malta and, in my opinion, the best thing to come out of a bottle. E.C. and her sister gave me their mother's Maltese apron, which I wore proudly through the party. The grown-ups stood around the kitchen gabbing, and the kids were in the basement watching TV or playing in the backyard. It was just like what we did at our Nanna and Nannu's but the cousins graduated to the kitchen.

Everyone brought one (or more!) Maltese dish. We had pastizzi, torta, those fried spaghetti pancakes (does anyone know what they're called?), Maltese picnic salad (again, don't remember the name), stuffed eggplant, patata-fil-forn, ros-fil-forn, and pudina. The kids also got into crudité and chips, but they all ate Maltese. Even the youngest, 10 months old, tried her first pastizzi. Everything tasted great and we had more than enough food.

Eldest Cousin phoned me later in the week. "I just wanted to reiterate that you had an excellent idea and that my sister and our families had a really, really good time," she said. "We really want this to happen next year."

I want that, too. And, Artist, you can come as well if you want.

All By Myse-eh-elf

Shhh. Can you hear that? No? That's because – whoop-whoop – it's so quiet! Mmm, delicious!

Today was Baby Boy's first day of junior kindergarten. He'll be at school all day Wednesdays and Fridays and every other Mondays.

So many people were asking if I'd be all teary today, what with my baby gone, empty nest syndrome and all that. Nope! Maybe I should have lied and said how gut-wrenchingly difficult it was going to be. Maybe then people wouldn't think I have such a cold, cold heart.

But this, THIS is something I haven't had in over nine years: Jennifer time! Oh cripes, I bid the little guy goodbye (he was so excited and happy) and I got applause by two of my friends who knew what day it was for us. Anyway, so I was starting to walk home and thought, "I could plug in the iPod and jog it home. Or I could walk over a couple of blocks to the diner and order up some hash browns and not have to share." The possibilities were endless.

I made sure I have nothing to do today so I can do whatever I want until I have to pick up the kids. No meetings. No housework. Okay, Baby Sister has me going out to pick up stuff for a party we're having at her place, but even a trip to the store without kids is going to be just great. Pathetic, eh?

So, I'm going to sit in a bath this afternoon with a Manhattan, give myself a facial, a mani-pedi, wax myself silly, NOT listening to Avril Lavigne or Simple Plan or fucking Steely Dan (you can't convince me otherwise, Jules and Slowplum, that stuff is just musical wank to my ears). The hum of whatever is on Family or Teletoon or Treehouse will be off. That's not to say I won't be cranking something myself but, again, the possibilities are endless!

I probably wouldn't be like this if I wasn't 100 per cent certain that Baby Boy would have any difficulty with this new life chapter. The child has never woken up in a better mood; he has never jumped out of bed faster. He laid out his clothes the night before (frog t-shirt with yellow Hawaiian shirt with woodies and surfboards over top, jeans and his Mickey Mouse belt. Skeleton Airwalks on the feet with TMNT socks). Backpack: check. Full lunchbox: check. Hoodie if it gets chilly: check. Favourite trucker baseball cap: check. Lock and load, Mumma. And we were outta there.

Do I dare expect this day to go off without a hitch? I'm crossing my fingers while I blare some music.

Hey, Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Cookin'?

I'm kind of out of my funk now.

I had a great visit with my aunt T, who isn't much older than I am. She hasn't been over for a visit here in probably 18 months, but as I hardly get any visitors, that's actually a good track record.

My parents called from the Motherland. Mum had the accent already.

I'm feeling happy enough to really cook again. The weather is getting chillier so I'm more apt to work over heat as well.

Yesterday, I made four cheese cannelloni with fresh pasta I made myself. I bought this Mario Batali silpatish thing. I can't bake on it but it's great to roll dough on.

So I just made flat lasagne-like pasta and rolled up a mixture of ricotta, parmesan, pecorino romano, and mozzarella with a bit of egg and herbs. I used the last of my parents' tomatoes to mix in the sauce (and had to pick them all out for Middle Child) and even made a béchamel roux (actually, more of a balsamella). I used skim milk and it came out just fine. How awesome is that?

Yes, it takes time. Yes, all that cheese isn't cheap. But it was so worth it because everyone ate it and wanted seconds. I still had some left over so the kids took it in their lunch today.

Now THAT makes me happy.

Ever Have One of Those Days?

I have. In fact, I'm having one now.

They have the "easy" button. I would like the "rewind" button.

Sometimes.

On the Road Again

I need another night like the one we had last week.

Husband comes home and I get my drunk on with my friends. I am the best wife ever.

Seriously, I felt like I deserved it. Single parenting is no cakewalk, yet, even despite this, I do enough around here that I'm entitled to get out. Husband doesn't hold me back but I just don't do it.

So when Jools decided we needed a Mom's Night Out (capital letters for sure), I started counting the hours.

We had a false start to the evening. We pretty much got kicked out of one bar because it was wing night and we were only interested in drinking. So we moved down the street. Thankfully, living in a touristy town, there are no shortages of restaurants and bars.

Some of our friends came, drank and went. Some stayed until we literally closed down the bar. This was when we realized that the city rolls up the sidewalks early – and how were we to know? Collectively, we're so strung out by 10 pm on most nights.

So, Jools and I decided to take some shots of us playing in the middle of the main road (which is also a provincial highway). That's me in the pink Harriet-Nelson's-gone-insane dress with my purse that is discreetly screened, "hi. cram it."

I hope we do it again relatively soon. Not only did I have a great time, but I'm dying to get away from Baby Boy. Sounds bad, eh?

Seriously, the kid is riding on my last nerve. I need to put myself in his little shoes, though. He's gone from having a neighbourhood of playmates to none, zilch, zero. What's worse is that he doesn't start school until Wednesday.

The kicker here is that he should have started today.

You see, I received the student info form for him and the other two yesterday. It just has the kids' personal info and you need to make sure nothing changed. But I noticed that they had Baby Boy born at the end of the year when he was actually born in the beginning of the year.

I spoke with the teacher today about it, hoping to sneak him in maybe later in the week, but I can't. And, as it is, he's the second oldest kid in class. Bugger!

I know I sound like a horrible mother, wanting her youngest out of her purple highlighted hair, but I'm not. It's Baby Boy himself who finds it difficult to walk his siblings to and from school and he's not a part of it. A day for him is like a month for me, so this waiting period is just killing him.

He's watching Sesame Street beside me now and practicing writing his alphabet. And bitching. There's just so many cookies I can placate him with. And I'm wondering if it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Baby's Got Back

Husband came home from a two week visit to his family and friends out west. He had a great time, as I knew he would.

He spent the bulk of his time with his middle brother and his family. Taught the nephews that in his world, it's perfectly acceptable to eat salt and vinegar chips for breakfast. And, as is the case after every visit with Middle Brother, Husband is on a new health food kick: smoothies. The blender hasn't seen so much work. But when you're drinking about five of them a day at the expense of chewable food, doesn't that negate the nutrition? I mean, surely you can't live on fruit and yogurt alone. But the man is also a stick. Why I married a man with a smaller ass than mine is beyond me.

Ah, but my said ass is shrinking. I went shopping for myself while Husband was gone (see? I held it together) and I have lost two pant sizes. I'm sure if I could leave Le Tigre Giant without a 44 cent chocolate bar, I would have the body of Kate Moss – with D cups and a c-section scar.

Even my former personal trainer noticed. I haven't seen him in about 18 months when my contract ran out and I switched to verrrrry early morning classes at the gym. My friend Jools thankfully took care of my kids while I went this one afternoon. I was bending over, tying my shoe, when he said, "Wow! You look great, Jen. Your whole body shape changed." I mean, the whole thing sounded like a porn script, but I took it for what it was and felt wonderful. And I don't think it was the new workout gear I bought. It wasn't expensive.

Meanwhile, Husband got in visits to old high school friends, his mother, his youngest brother and his father who is in the hospital after falling awkwardly and breaking his ankle. Being paralyzed for years, the guy is stuck in the hospital for months now. Husband initially thought this was going to be a great for him health-wise but apparently he still gets out to smoke as often as he can. He even has someone bringing him Big Macs and fries on a regular basis. And the man will outlive us all.

Husband must have had a nice visit because he still tells me stories of what happened. I just told him that the kids all stepped up to the plate and really helped out around the house. Daughter's room still looks like Dresden after the bombs. Middle Child broke a few glasses. Baby Boy decorated the side fences with sidewalk chalk (we need a big rain). But I painted another floor's worth of our ornate trim, which is no small feat when you live in a Queen Anne revival.

On another note, Husband's dad was to fly out a little while ago but couldn't make the flight since he was in the hospital. One great side of being a Junior, Husband was given his ticket because, well, it's in his name. He has a year to use it, should he want to go to Winnipeg. Um, yeah.

Who Needs Botox?

You want the Fountain of Youth? Go back to your parents' house for a few days.

Don't get me wrong. I love going there in the same way my mum liked going to her mum's when my sisters and I were little. Granny kind of takes over and the shackles to the oven are loosened a bit.

The kids absolutely love going to my parents' house. They are the creme de la creme of grandparents. They take them to the park and everywhere. They have a very fine collection of movies. They play with them outside. They always have great (and favourite) food. They even have a play room stocked with toys, books, and craft supplies.

But, as it should be, their house means their rules. And that goes for me, too. This is how a nearly 40-year-old instantly loses 25 years. They didn't yell at me for not making the bed by 8 am or anything, but I did have to mind my p's and q's.

My mum's mind is on a host of other things. Baby Sister is in the process of moving into her first piece of real estate, just a week after getting in a yucky car accident. Middle Sister has a lot going on (I live the life of Riley in comparison) and Mum just wants her to be happy. And there's my grandmother (very active but well into her 80s), my dad's health, her volunteering and now this month-long trip to the Motherland.

She and Dad are going with my aunt and uncle. Now, I don't know if my aunt is more organized or if she's just really, really excited, but Mum was all freaked because she hasn't packed yet like my aunt did. My dad is more relaxed about it. "What's it take? I'll pack two shorts, two pairs of light pants, six underwear, a bunch of shirts and I'll wear my jeans on the plane." "Two shorts? Two?! Honey, that's not enough! You're going to embarrass me." Then again, what does my dad care? I doubt he'll do the laundry.

Anyway, I got the distinct feeling that she was glad to see our backs. Initially, she wanted us to spend the week with her but I didn't want to. As it turned out, she also realized that we'd get in her way. And whenever I'm there, I never know what I can do to help. I try but my efforts aren't up to their standard. Again, feel like a kid.

No, I'm sure that as soon as our car pulled out of the driveway, she was packing.

I'm an Adult Now

Daughter is into Avril Lavigne. She's been listening to her for about three years now, but, being a pre-teen, Avril is part of her identity. She's dressing like her. She's reading everything about Avril. She's a member of her fan club. Frankly, I'd rather she'd be into her than having her singing around the house about her "lovely lady lumps."

Niece found the Beatles at summer camp this year. She's borrowed her Granny's CDs and when her brother sings along, she defiantly tells him, "You can't like the Beatles. They're MY group!" I wonder if she knows how old the songs really are.

My boys will listen to just about anything, really. They have their favourites. Currently, Baby Boy is digging on Peter, Björn and John and, since getting the Shrek 3 soundtrack for his birthday, Middle Child is just loving Led Zeppelin of all things.

So, good and groovy mum that I strive to be, I made a mixed CD of Zeppelin songs for him. And I confess here that I've been just cranking it in the car.

Yes. Led Zeppelin. Me. All of you who know me can stop laughing now.

I'm a west-end girl from Toronto (I don't usually get personal but I've learned that my efforts for anonymity on the 'net are shite). By and large, west-enders don't go east, and vice versa. Honestly, the first time I hung out in Scarborough was when I was 20 (unless you count my cousin's baptism) and, until then, I always painted that end as populated with a bunch of long-hairs who go to Laser Floyd at the Planetarium, spitting out sunflower seed shells and hanging out at donut shops. And pregnant teens. And Led Zeppelin. Lots of Zeppelin. In other words, everything I was not.

Zeppelin to me was just my cue that the high school dance was going to end. Like I wanted to slow dance to "Stairway to Heaven" with some guy with lame come-ons like, "I guess I can't hide my affection for you." I would rather cut an apple in half and watch it turn brown.

Did you see "Wayne's World"? Mike Myers said many times it was a pure reflection of living in Scarborough.

Then what of the "Bohemian Rhapsody" scene in the Mirthmobile? High school friends of mine who read this now (thanks, Facebook!) can attest that I did that all the time.

I guess it's a sign that I'm – gasp! – mature. I can look past labels now and accept things at face value. I can listen to Led Zeppelin without looking over my shoulder and play it as loud as anything else I like.

But I still can't stomach Husband's Steely Dan.

Hmmm...

This is what I don't understand: why do radio stations play Bryan Adams's "Summer of 69" but bleep out, say, in Wheatus's song "Teenage Dirtbag", the word "gun"? The lyric goes something like, "Her boyfriend's a dick/He brings a gun to school."

I mean, the whole Adams song is about, well, 69. Not the year. Not some number between 68 and 70. No, it's about THAT 69.

You could go crazy with censorship. Where do you draw the line? I don't play Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently" around the kids, but they've heard all of the latest Amy Winehouse CD many times in the car. And I have no problem with the un-Wal-Mart version of the Avril Lavigne disc I bought Daughter. Like she hasn't heard swearing.

It's thoughts like this that hit me like a sudden itch. "Summer of 69" was playing at the grocery store and I found it very incongruous when I saw a grandmother singing along. Mind you, she must have been in her 20s when the original "Lady Marmalade" came out. And my grandmother just loves Tom Jones. She's the mother of 8.

When it gets down to it though, I wish radio stations stopped playing "Summer of 69" because it sucks hard. And you can read into the word "sucks" all you want. Censor that.

Yin and Yang

I just want to say that I have, for the past year, kept off 13 lbs. I could still lose some more but I'm quite pleased with my bum.

Meanwhile, Husband is still thin in a pale, concave, weedy, oven-rack-for-ribs, baguettes-for-thighs kind of way. He hasn't seen an exercise machine (or weights) since watching me do my thing on the cruise last spring. He farts away these protein shakes which cost $80 per bucket to buy and have done squat for his intension of having a Daniel Craig body.

Damn!

And I say that because $80 is a crazy amount of money to spend on a protein drink when I, personally, would rather spend the money on some really fine steaks. And "damn" because I confess to seeing Casino Royale more than a few times if only for the beach scene.

See? There's always been a few blond guys in my life who have broken through the tall/dark/handsome barrier I had. Husband included.

I wonder if mild-mannered Husband ever envisioned himself with a purple-haired girl? Oh, he knew what he was getting into. You should have been there today at Baby Boy's final soccer game. Soccer Mom. Drives a minivan. Purplish hair, the t-shirt with the fondue pot on it saying "Let's Fondue It!", sweet new wave Vans, getting all nostalgic and shit by listening to Black Flag on her iPod. And 13 lbs. lighter.

Snap

My father-in-law has never been in good health for as long as I've known him. He's sort of confined to a wheelchair but he does have some movement. The wheelchair and scooter is just his transportation of choice. The guy would take his scooter in his apartment to go from one chair to another.

You can imagine our surprise to hear that he was actually standing (with support, I'm sure) when he had a big wipe out and broke some bones on his good side. Thankfully, he fell in the hall. If he was in his apartment, he may not have been able to get to a phone and, as no one lives with him or near him, who would hear his cries for help?

So Husband was told by his physician that his dad will be in the hospital for - get this - six weeks. Husband is very, very bummed out now. He's upset that his dad didn't get to go to his small Manitoba hometown, but Husband is also upset because his dad didn't buy cancellation insurance ("But think of the money he'll save on hotel and restaurant bills," I said to lighten things up. I only got a "harumph").

But I think what might upset Husband most is that this totally cramps his own style. He was to be going out west to visit his brother and friends, but now he figures he's going to have to spend more time with his father. Oh yeah, and he's resurrected the idea of putting him in a home. I don't think that idea will see the light of day, but it does ride on his mind. I think it's just that he would feel more comfortable knowing his dad was being taken care of, especially since he lives so far. But, hey, he made that choice. Anyway, that may give a glimpse of the conflicting emotions swirling around Husband these days, even though he's the king of the poker face.

He has yet to comment on my violet highlights. It's the most I've ever spent on myself, I think. Oh, and it's way more sedate in indoor light.

This is Volunteering?

I'm one of a small handful of moderators of an online group. I do it for free. I do it in my spare time. I do it because I think it's a valuable service.

On Thursday, I learned someone wanted to sue us.

It started when the person who is moderating this week approved a post that shouldn't have seen the light of day for a number of reasons. She went back to it a few minutes later, realized her error and deleted the post from the group's archives. Of course, it was already sent out; there's nothing she could do to stop that.

A flurry of really biting emails came in shortly thereafter. Who does the moderator turn to? Me. Of all the others, she came to me. Damn.

So I've been spending the last few days putting out fires. Thankfully, we moderate on an anonymous basis but when someone said they were going to sue for libel, I cracked open my university notebooks. Nice to know my legal liabilities class was good for something.

So far, so good. No one has been served with papers but this has been a stress I will be glad to be rid of.

My Accoustic Motorbike

After much procrastination, I finally took my bicycle to the shop for a tune-up. The back tire hasn't been holding air very well and, as you can see, it's probably older than me.

I bought it at a Value Village for the tidy sum of $18. It was in fabulous condition; no rust, bent spokes, nothing. There's a sticker under the seat that states the bike was bought from a shop in St. Boniface, which hints at its age. St. Boniface was a Franco-Manitoban town, but has now become part of greater Winnipeg (which is another reason to buy the bike: an homage to Husband's family).

Another clue as to the age? The store's phone number starts with two letters. Mind you, I remember my mother ordering from the Eaton's catalogue, giving our number as "Roger 9, blah, blah, blah". Perhaps that makes no sense to my friends in town because, while Bell Canada had the monopoly on home phone service here, everyone had the same first two exchange numbers. Some people still give their numbers here in five digits instead of seven.

I'm digressing.

Anyway, when I wheeled the bike in to the shop, the sweet young things behind the counter made various comments like "What a relic!" and "It's a Garry!" (which is the name brand of the bike). Of course, after they took a look, they assured me that there's absolutely nothing wrong with the bike, but that they'd check out the tire problem.

Sure enough, they oiled the chains and changed the leaky valve and it runs like a dream now. I have my little wicker basket and I ride totally upright, channelling my inner Hepburn. If only my hair could grow faster, then I could pull it back in a jaunty ponytail. Until then, I will put up with, what someone used to call it, my Ramones hair. And I'm sure he didn't mean that cute little bob that Dee Dee had. No. It must have been that bird's nest mop of Joey's. At least, that's how I feel about it now. Serious action is needed soon. Humidity is the devil's work.

I'm digressing again.

So the total cost for the tune-up was $11, bringing the total cost of my sweet ride to a whopping $29.

I brought it home, freshened up the paint on the bumpers (which I regret because now it looks too white) and I shined up the wheel rims. Lovely.

That being said, yet again, Husband retains his title as the World's Most Expensive Spouse. He brought in his bike, a racing bike he probably spent too much on in the 80s, and also wanted a tune-up. Oh, and change the handle bars to something more upright. Total for his bike? $108!!! This comes days after he spent hundreds on a new driver golf club. And he gets mad at me for bringing back another souvenir shot glass. "But it only cost 35 cents!" "Jen, it's just another piece of crap. And you don't even drink straight liquor!" I'll give him the big Margaret Keane eyes and he lets it drop.

And I know my family out there agree with Husband, so I'll let it rest.

Pedal on!

Wino-Might!

Woo hoo! My sinus infection is no more and I'm done with the "no alcohol allowed" antibiotics which cost a ridiculous $55 for seven fucking pills.

So, to celebrate, I went to the LCBO and bought some Tanqueray (the kids wanted me to buy blue Bombay Sapphire but it reminds me of antifreeze), whisky (mmm, whisky sours...) and lemoncello.

And, yes, I bring my kids to the liquor store. They don't touch and I think there's nothing wrong with being raised around hootch as long as the imbibers are using it responsibly. I've never been drunk. Never needed to be. They also know not to touch Mommy's mixers, dammit.

My kids are easier to shop with than Husband. As you all know, walking into a liquor store with him is like (no offense, Slowplum) reading The Hobbit for me. I was no better off when it was done and, if anything, it left me with that "what the fuck?!?" feeling. The last time we went out together, it took him at least a half-hour to decide. And he picked up rum. Dark rum. He doesn't drink dark rum. He doesn't drink anything but beer and red wine and only at home. My first, Husband would have drank with me, though.

Funny, I'm rereading this post. I'm upset about spending $55 on medication which I needed but had no qualms about spending, er, at least that on happy juice.

Canadian Nightmare

I was walking out of the most awesome GT Boutique (arguably, as I heard the one in Smiths Falls is rather excellent) when I saw an older woman walking with a little Asian boy. He was about 6 and crying really hard. He was also very sweaty and barefoot. It was an odd sight and I sized up the woman.

Walking by, I suppose she noticed and told me, "This little guy was left in his car, crying, with the windows rolled up. I'm letting the store manager know." She walked him into the store.

That sort of thing shakes me to the core, more so because I'm a mother I think.

There was a little gathering in the parking lot. A Mennonite family and a woman in a tank top were talking when they stopped and the Mennonite mother asked me, "Was that your child?"

I told them that he wasn't, and that the woman was taking him in to see the store manager. At that, the Mennonites muttered that they didn't want to get involved and made a quick and quiet departure. Tank top woman said, "Good! I hope they call the cops."

The manager came out and asked us which car the child was in. He walkie-talkied it in and went back.

Right after, an Asian woman came out with four bags of stuff. I mean, she must have been shopping for a while. She went to the car in question, looked in the back seat and kinda rolled her eyes.

"You looking for your baby?" tank top woman asked sharply. Not waiting for a reply, she added, "They took him in because he was screaming and crying."

"But he didn't want to get out of the car!" she protested.

Then, here's me in my Murray's Hi-Fi bowling shirt and skull-and-crossbone Airwalks (the vision of maternity!). "Far be it from me to tell people how to care for a child, but you're the adult in the situation. I would have hauled him out of the car anyway. Or, if he's that adamant, turn the car back home. Sobey's is open 24 hours. Go some other time. What you did is illegal and the store could report you. Did you need your stuff that badly?"

She was rolling her eyes again when a group of employees came out and told her to come inside the store. She bit her lip and walked away.

"Wow," I said to tank top woman. "Thankfully, you don't see that very often."

"I bet you would if you were in Toronto or Ottawa or something like that," tank top woman sighed. "You can tell she's not from Canada."

Whaaaa? Fricking small town xenophobe. This is the reason why I like taking the kids south. It's not just to see escalators!

Not letting that one pass, I smiled and said, "Well, I'm not from Canada either." A lie but not too far from the truth.

She stumbled a bit and backtracked, "Uh, actually, I meant that, uh, you don't see many Canadians anymore."

"But I'm Canadian." Pause, letting her er and em some more and then I added, "You have a nice day, eh?"

I left wondering what would be a worse case of parenting: abandonment or raising a child with racist attitudes?

Saturday Afternoon Fever

There is a rather excellent toy store, scarily, one block-ish from my house.

I love how they have educational and relatively uncommercial toys. I love how everything is organized and decorated. I love how the sales staff don't ask, "May I help you?" but "Wanna see a magic trick" instead.

Every hour, they make an announcement, "It's dance time! If you're caught dancing, you win a candy. The best dancer wins a drink from our soda bar!" Then they crank up some lively Motown or something and all the kids start jumping up and down. As they get older, it becomes more of a shy shuffle, which is why my two older kids didn't win the soda.

Baby Boy did for his rather inspired rendition of "the robot".

Where does he pick this sort of stuff up, I ask you?

Headaches

I've been battling a cold for about a month. On Sunday night, I started getting this pain behind my left ear. Great, I thought. I have an ear infection.

I went to the doctor, alarmed now because the pain was traveling to my jaw. "It's not the ear, Jennifer," said my doctor. "It's a sinus infection."

He prescribed me some antibiotics. "They're powerful," he warned.

He also could have warned me that seven pills were going to cost me about $55. And I've been getting a migraine and gut-rot every single day now.

On the bright side, my cold is gone.

My friend M, who lives in Vancouver now, brought her daughter to visit us. Thankfully, I was feeling well. Daughter got her "I-want-a little-sister" bug out while M's daughter was here. Middle Child had his nose in a book all day, but everyone else played really great.

I've known M since grade 7. We were like two peas in a pod; she was my maid-of-honour. And despite all the years, she hasn't aged. She may even be skinnier now.

Seeing her now, a mother of one, a second and happier career, a home owner in a tony area of Vancouver, attentive wife, she seemed like she had her shit together. She came to my lived-in house with the funky coloured rooms and the jumped-on furniture, three totally different but equally spirited kids, and the marriage that fits like a broken-in pair of jeans. She confessed, "If we have another child, it will kill us. And I mean that almost literally."

Middle Child will come home tomorrow after being at my parents' since Sunday. I've spoken with him every day and he's having a great time. Frankly, I don't even think he misses home at all.

When I first called, I got an "I love you, Mum. Do you miss me like I miss you?" But by the second day, and just about any other time I've called him, he has been either distracted or pissed that I interrupted him.

Mum was a little shocked at how much the kid can pack away. "I could give him a portion like I'd give your father and the little guy will eat it all!" Oh, I guess I didn't warn her about that. Don't let that oven rack for ribs, baguettes for legs look fool you.

Eldest Nephew also shared the week at Camp Granny and Granpa but I'm told he's homesick and wants to come home a little early. This is cool with Middle Child because after Daughter called him up, he's anxious to come home too. No, he's not homesick. Daughter called her brother to lord a party invitation over his head.

"Jules's Baby is having a birthday party. It's on Saturday. Too bad you won't be here to come!"

Middle Child was having none of that. Mum said he phoned Jules's house to invite himself.

Cheeky as anything, he is. Thankfully, he's being accommodated.

I missed him like you can't imagine, even if caring for two children has been infinitely easier than three (for me, anyway).
God, I hope he'll let me hug him.

Middle-of-the-Night Thoughts

Ever wake up in the middle of the night and you're doing Grand Prix laps in your head?

I am having one of those nights. It doesn't help that my stomach has been upset almost all day and I have a cold that I just can't shake.

The only hint that I was feeling poorly was a few days last week when the cold made me lose my voice. To be honest, it freaked the kids (and my parents who phoned) to hear me talk like Brenda Vaccaro. Although I was actually feeling alright those days, Daughter in particular really picked up the slack around here and helped out.

She has these bouts of maturity beyond her years, and then there are days when she screams and cries at the drop of a hat. I'm sure we're dealing with the onset of hormones here. What else could it be? This sort of behaviour started almost overnight after her last birthday.

I'm shaking in my Blunstones, fearing those teenage years which are around the corner.

Slowplum came over the house a couple of days ago. She slapped me upside the head when she reminded me that Grade 8 is but a handful of years away. The Grade 8s at my kids' school tower over me. The girls have breasts. Slowplum swears some of them are sexually active. Shaking, I tell you.

Candidate for Fromage 1982

Is it just me or does this video remind you of Benny Hill too?

Middle Child's Birthday Extravaganza

Middle Child has come a long way, socially.

Last year, he didn't really have any friends in his class. It could have been because of the bullying. It could have been because he can have a bit of a superiority complex. It could be because his kindergarten classmates were not interested in chemical reactions, planetary sciences or were tucking into chapter books.

This year, he learned he needs to give a little and he found himself a little niche. There are even a few of the popular athletic boys who eagerly seek Middle Child to play with "because he's smart and has neat ideas." My cup runneth over.

But given the chance to have a birthday party with classmates or spending a weekend with family in Niagara Falls, Middle Child picked the latter.

Middle Child is completely obsessed with facts. The books he reads are often stuff like trivia books or the Guinness Book of World Records. More than anything, though, he loves the Ripley's Believe It or Not series.

So when we went to Baby Sister and Home Chef's wedding in Niagara Falls, he made a decision to go to the Ripley's museum of oddity for his birthday. And he talked about it on a daily basis, believe me.

Last Friday after school, we piled the kids in the car. I booked us a room at the HoJo near Clifton Hill, where all the funhouses and rides and museums are. Middle Child had his list of things he must do and, thankfully, weren't unattainable.

One thing NOT on the list was to see the actual falls, though. There were no complaints when, after checking in, we walked down to the falls. We stuck around until dusk, watching the light shows on the American Falls, but were more mesmerized by the one on Horseshoe Falls. Of course, the kids got all puffed up when we told them that Horseshoe was entirely in Canada. "Ours is the best. Ours is the best," they sang and did some funky chicken dance. I'm sure it was very amusing to the Republican American tourists nearby. They had tons of energy considering it was way past bedtime and they did all that walking. So we stuck around until 10 when the fireworks started. Walking back to the hotel, Daughter sighed, "That was so nice–and it didn't cost us anything!"

Cost was a factor the next day. We ate at the Denny's next door with their inflated prices. The kids' meals were still $1.99 but Husband's bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes were something like $13. I had an egg, toast and grits for $8. Anyhow, it was totally palatable despite my conviction that no self-respecting Maltese person would willingly eat at a place called "Denny".

For those reading this who are not lucky enough to be Maltese, "denny" in Maltese means something along the lines of "gut-rot". I am not joking.

After breakfast, Husband took Baby Boy to the pool while we hit Must-See #1: Ripley's 4-D Moving Theatre. Baby Boy wouldn't make the height restriction, so off we went alone. We were the only ones there, but they put it on for us anyway. We were shaken about, imagining we're on an out-of-control logging truck, snowmobile, dune buggy and a bunch of other reckless vehicles. Fake snow shot around us, steam, rain. It was fun but Middle Child left a little green. Guess we shouldn't have come so close after eating breakfast.

Back to the hotel, the kids went into the pool for about a half-hour and got bored even with the curly slide and stuff. So we went back to the room, got clean in the completely red bathtub and shower (thumbs-up on Jen's tack-o-rama meter), checked out and hit the hallowed Ripley's museum. It was lots of fun for all of us, but Middle Child was in his element. You can easily tell when the boy is happy because he has this walk, walk, skip, walk, walk, skip. Anyway, he insisted on reading - I swear - every display. We were there for almost two hours.

The building itself was a marvel. It looked like it was a tower tipped over on its side. Wicked.

Next on Middle Child's Must-Do List was eat at the Rainforest Cafe. His teacher raved about it once and he's wanted to go ever since. The restaurant is right next to the Marvel Adventure City. If you know my kid, you'd know that place was on the list as well. But, disappointingly, it was only an arcade and not even specifically Marvel either. When Middle Child stated, "This probably isn't the one they advertised. Or maybe they changed it" we took it as a cue that we could shuffle the kids out of there. And, by now, Hollow Leg Husband was hungry again, so we went next door to the Rainforest Cafe.

Ever left somewhere feeling you got royally ripped off and felt really dirty? Our experience at the Rainforest Cafe did just that, and left me in a very sour mood afterward. Not only was the prices outrageous, but the food was lacklustre. Of course, it would have been nice had we been served together. Yup, just to prove a point yet again, I get bad service almost everywhere. My food (a simple grilled vegetable panini) came to me 15 fucking minutes after the rest of the family was served. Husband was long done his burger, as was Middle Child. Was it worth the wait? It was okay, but, c'mon. It's a sandwich. AND it would have been an extra $2 if you replaced the potato chips side with a salad or fries. I'm already spending $14 on a meatless sandwich. It should be wrapped in fucking gold for that price.

They sat us next to a fountain largely emblazoned "Protect the Earth". Meanwhile, their menu was mostly beef, beef and more beef. We waited for the fountain to do something crazy when the next rainstorm happened. The maitre d' really pumped this storm up to us as we were being seated. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. We heard thunder and some of the large mechanical animals came alive. Niiiice.

Anyway, I could go on about the washroom attendant who practically held hygiene hostage for the sake of a tip (I carry Purell so shove your soap up your ass), or how the waiter threw our bill on our table with it landing between Daughter and Middle Child, but let's just leave it as one of those places we will never, ever, ever go back to. I mean, if the $78 bill wasn't enough of a battlecry, I could go on and on.

We hit the Guinness museum (world records and, unfortunately because I could have used one, the beer). That was a little dull. It was completely lost on Baby Boy because there wasn't really any hands-on exhibits. "I could just read the book," Daughter said with that pre-teen attitude just starting to bubble up.

Husband and I really wanted to go under the falls or take a Maid of the Mist ride but the kids were exhausted. We took one last look at the falls, bought some ice cream for the kids and got outta Dodge (with a quick photo pit stop at the Flying Saucer Restaurant.

And, since it was on the way, we dropped in on my parents to wish my old man a happy 63rd birthday.

Tucking in Middle Child that night, I got a very rare hug and kiss. "I love you, Mom," he said. "Thanks for making my dreams happen."

Again, my cup runneth over.

Sunday

I think we saw the last of the food from the family picnic this weekend.

Home Chef and Baby Sister brought, like, a hundred hot dogs (no doubt bought from a butcher because that's the kind of guy my brother-in-law is). They also brought news that they put in an offer on a house near Husband's grandmother's home. I think by now Baby Sister has spread the news so it's safe to say here that they got the house.

Word has it that Home Chef would like to convert the shed into a smokehouse.

Anyway, now all of my parents' kids have mortgages. Hooray for us.

Eldest nephew came in and made a beeline for the XBox. Niece and Daughter holed themselves in the treehouse.

My mum sat on her ass for the first time in a long time. I was so happy to see her relatively relaxed that I kept the wine flowing. She brought a box of chocolates so big, you could have sailed to Portugal on it. She left it on the kitchen table and Baby Boy made short work of it. I swear, the kid ate about half the box. Needless to say, he made lots of trips to the toilet.

Dad installed a new porch light for us, happily giving direction to Husband and Home Chef while Middle Sister and Lumber Guy sat in the backyard with one eye on the kids and the other on their frosted mugs of beer.

We were celebrating all sorts of June events: Middle Child's birthday, Father's Day, my dad's birthday, my parents' 40th anniversary, and - I totally forgot - my own birthday. Seriously, I forgot maybe since it passed and no fuss was made other than Jules taking me out for the world's most amazing chef-created burger and an incredible midday cocktail. So when Baby Sister (who arrived first) gave me a gift bag with Sephora cosmetics (it was a first for brown eyeliner) and a Zellers gift card (I'm buying Taboo!), I was a little taken aback. Middle Sister gave me a Lush shampoo bar that kind of smells like denture breath but does absolute wonders for my hair, and a Winners gift certificate which I'll hold on to until the one in town opens. My mum also gave me two pairs of capris in, uh, a small size.

"I thought they'd fit because you don't have an ass anymore," she explained.

Nice sentiment and maybe I have lost a bit of junk in the trunk but I still have a Falstaffian belly. She gave me the receipt.

This post is poorly written. I leave you with these awesome guys freestylin' at the McDonald's drive-thru. Sweet mother, I bet it just made the minimum-wage employee's day.

And Now Back to Anna Nicole Smith

Hopefully, this soothes Jules's oral pain.

I caught Entertainment Tonight on TV for the first time in years. Man, I used to watch that show like a religion. Then I got a life.

Anyway, turns out Paris Hilton tried to kill herself at a Robin Thicke party before she went into the slammer. She swallowed ten Valium tabs with a bottle of wine (which, I assume, was her caloric intake for the day).

Someone saw her and stopped her.

"Ten pills for her is a suicide attempt," I yawned to Husband. "But eight pills would have been Friday night."

I didn't even get a smirk for that one. He was reading his latest issue of Golf Digest. Great. See you in October, Husband.

Leave Well Enough Alone

Was it just me or did you notice, too, that my images weren't appearing?

So I fiddled around with the layout and screwed everything up. So put up with this pink for a bit and I'll try something new...when I get around to it.

I am the World's Best Mother

I was told by Middle Child that I am the world's best mother because I made bacon this morning.

Apparently, ladies, this is all it takes.

My Memory of June Callwood

Husband gets lots of magazines at work so I get to read them all.

This month, lots of them have tributes to journalist, author and social activist June Callwood, who died recently of cancer.

I met Callwood once. She was getting an honourary doctorate during my university commencement. Many of my journalism classmates wanted to shake her hand, and we did. I don't know about them, but the woman made me feel like I was the only person in the room. She looked at me so intently that it seared. And I glowed.

And as I was shaking her hand, the one thing that struck me hardest, the singular three-dimensional impression left behind, were June Callwood's hands. These hands which wrote gargantuan phrases, cleverly strung together like pearls and as beautiful as a lei, these hands which helped to build herculean organizations like Casey House, PEN Canada and the Canadian Civil Liberties Association, these hands were boney, liver-spotted, and frail. These were old lady hands.

I can still remember the feel of June Callwood's grip.

Single Parenting is the Shit

As of Wednesday, I've been single parenting. Husband is at a convention of sorts until late Saturday night.

I've been dreading it a little. He's done this before and I found it very demanding taking care of the three kids on my own.

But, don't tell him, so far, so good. I've managed to take Baby Boy to soccer, send Daughter to her violin lesson, arranged a playdate for Middle Child (they did a science experiment gathering bacterial cultures. He's six, people). We went over a friend's house for pool time. I saw the older kids off on a school and Brownie field trip to a butterfly conservatory. Of course, get everyone ready for school, but that's nothing new. I even went to Junior Kindergarten orientation for Baby Boy which was exciting for him and emotionally draining for me.

Daughter, in particular, has been helpful. Middle Child will clean up after himself without me having to tell him seven times. Baby Boy still thinks the world revolves around him. Bring on kindergarten! The house isn't nearly as tidy as I'd have liked, but it's not too bad either. I scrubbed the floors and the dishes are clean.

I ensured our tradition of staying up until 9 on Thursdays was kept. I bought some Bits and Bites and we hunkered down to watch Middle Child's new favourite show, Pirate Master (like Survivor on a tall ship). I even bought fruit punch, which I never do, to compensate their father's absence. I will buy your love!

But maybe I'm doing too good of a job.

I asked the kids as I was tucking them in last night, "Do you miss Daddy?" Daughter nodded her head and gave puppy dog eyes. I know an act from that girl when I see it and this was not quite Sir John Gielgud but not Paris Hilton either. Middle Child was busy squeezing in a chapter of his book and didn't answer me. Baby Boy, on the other hand, opened his eyes and said, "Daddy's gone?! I didn't even know he left!"

Country Roads, Take Me Home

Have you ever travelled across Canada? I have, admittedly only from Toronto to the very west coast. The furthest east I've ever been was Kingston, until this weekend. But I love seeing sleepy little towns, watching people mowing their lawns, hanging up their laundry, kids walking to I dunno. I love being in places I may never have heard of, or only knew them from maps (I'm so geeky, I simply adore reading maps). In these places, I see people who go on about their daily lives. Do they watch the same TV shows as I do? Do they use the same laundry detergent? What do they do for fun?

Taking turns with Husband, I drove my family and my parents to the Ottawa Valley, near Pembroke. We were going up there for Baby Sister and Home Chef's wedding reception number three.

Baby Sister mailed our dad Mapquest directions, but I thought I should find alternate routes. Google Earth had some great ones (and you can kind of see landmarks, too). But I know my dad. If the directions Baby Sister sent were approved by Home Chef, who lived out that way, then those directions are gospel.

It started out okay. We picked up the folks at Middle Sister's house which is right off the 401, so it wasn't out of the way for us to travel. And our first stop was at the McDonald's nearby. It wouldn't be the first time we stopped at a McYuck's, sadly. In fact, after this one breakfast, I instead chose to starve rather than eat there.

Mum called me the afternoon before to tell me she got some snack foods in the car. Of course, I didn't expect it all to be junk food. That's not like her. Thankfully, I packed some water and apples. Okay, the cheesies, cookies and licorice went first.

Husband drove through to Bancroft, about 4 hours and a bit, making one stop in a little spit called Woodview so Daughter could stretch her legs. We were hoping for a bathroom, but they didn't have any. Everyone poured out of the car at the Bancroft McDonald's and make a beeline for the can. Unfortunately, it was just a single john per sex, and I think someone was having a baby in the women's bathroom. Daughter was just about ready to burst so we took her to the men's room.

By this time, Baby Boy's mosquito bitten ear developed an allergic reaction and was swelled up and all cauliflowered. Luckily, we were within walking distance to the drugstore where we got some topical cream for the little guy.

I drove the rest of the way, with my dad navigating. We stopped, per Mum's request, at Madonna House to praise God and sacrifice ourselves to the mosquitos and black flies. Hopped back in the car. Everyone fell asleep except for me (of course) and Dad, who navigated using the archaic Mapquest directions which took us down the windiest, bumpiest backroads in the province of Ontario.

We happily pulled into the hamlet. I spotted the Chinese diner the party was going to be at. Dad shuddered. He hates Chinese food, mostly due to all the buildings he worked on in Toronto's Chinatown. He got an eyeful, lemme tell you. And he's never been one for places out in the middle of nowhere. "Vermin," he explains.

Our cottage, cabin, whatever, was great. Daughter went in first as I was talking with Baby Sister and her friend. Daughter bolted out, "Come see our cottage, Mum. It's the most beautiful one we've ever been to!" And she was right. The sheets were thin but the rest was lux.

At the last minute, I packed the kids' bathing suits. I was Mother of the Year for a nanosecond for that. The kids had a great time swimming in the lake, collecting very nice rocks and playing in the red sand. The water was warm, too.

Daughter and I played a little Taboo with Baby Sister and her girlfriends (pop culture whore that I am, I loved that game) and, before I knew it, it was time to get ready for dinner. I set out the family's clothes, slipped into a sundress, much to my mother's delight ("Thank goodness you aren't going in that stupid bowling shirt!" Never mind that I just got a compliment from one of Home Chef's drinking buddies). I helped flat iron Baby Sister's hair while talking to her friend about BodyPump classes. How neat is it that two people from opposite sides of this very large province are as equally enthusiastic about the same exercise class?

And dinner was nice! Home Chef's mum went to a lot of trouble, but you could just tell that the night meant the world to her. The woman just beamed. She made wedding favours of gourmet peanuts and framed wedding pictures for everyone, and even made special favours for my three kids. Each got a box of Smarties, a fruit leather and a magnet of their aunt and uncle.

We were shown a DVD Home Chef's mum commissioned me to do. It was a whack of photos of the couple through the years, set to music. No one could figure out how to amplify the sound, but we got the projector working. "Jennifer, you're a marvel!" Home Chef's dad said to me. "How was it that you were able to put hair back on my head?"

After dinner, we all piled back to the cabin. Baby Sister, Home Chef and some friends were right next door to us. Husband and Baby Boy were very tired, so they went to bed, as did my mum who had no interest in watching the hockey game. But the rest of us found a place to sit and watch the Senators beat the Ducks. Daughter fell asleep during the second period, pretty much curling up on the sofa. Middle Child, however, has finally found an interest in hockey. Okay, it's all about the statistics for him and not so much the moves, but he just loved watching a game with tons of fans. Oh, and that everyone was drinking. There must have been four two-fours as well as boxes o' wine. And they were all gone. Home Chef left the empties in the cabin when they left. "Nice tip," my dad told him.

We had breakfast together where Middle Child went for the buffet and had, I think, four platefuls as well as dessert. Home Chef's mother couldn't believe it. Mind you, I think my nephew D could do the same if he were there.

And then we went home. I drove four hours, putting up with my mother who is the world's worst backseat driver.

"Slow down! So what if you're going the speed limit. It's too fast!"

"Can't you find a smooth part of the road?"

"You took that corner too sharply."

This went on and on. I blocked her out for most of it, but there were times when even my dad would turn around and tell her to shut up because she's distracting. Honestly, I drove my very best. I was unfamiliar with the road and I had a carload of loved ones in my care. But when we pulled into Peterborough, everyone was pretty testy. We all needed a break. Signs for rest stops were straight, but the directions said to turn. Dad told me to turn. I turned.

"Why the hell did you do that for? Didn't you see the signs?"

So I turned off the highway at a sign that said it had every fast food joint known to Canada. I asked where everyone wanted to go, but there was no preference. "Take your pick, honey," Dad said. So I pulled into an A & W that was easy to access and looked easy to reenter the highway.

"NO!" yelled Mum. "Not here! We don't like it here!"

I jammed on the brakes, threw the car in "park" and got out of the car. "I've had it with you and all your orders! If you think you can do a better job driving, there's the wheel."

I ended up playing Solitaire on my iPod all the way back to Middle Sister's home. I could have kissed the asphalt.

Mary, the Bird, and the Roses

I'm wiping the mud off my funeral shoes again.

Husband is very close to his gramma, so when her baby sister died, we decided to go to her funeral in Brampton. Oh yeah, and we were told to go. Gotta protect the queen.

We got the the church and said our hellos to the family. Gramma's descendants all sat in one pew (with Uncle Napanee, Auntie Grandma Rainbow and myself bringing up the Catholic quotient, sitting and standing at all the appropriate times and leading the others. Catholic school comes in handy).

The mass was eventful for two reasons. One was because they allowed Auntie Grandma Rainbow to deliver a eulogy, which is rare. The other was because there was a little bird that flew in. It was a humid day so the doors of the church were left open for a cross breeze. Anyway, this bird, no word of a lie, would fly and sing at all the appropriate times. It was really beautiful and moving and thought-provoking and humbling and comforting.

And if you know Rob's Aunt Grandma Rainbow, you'd know that she loves stuff like that.

She's a converted Catholic, picking up the religion when she married her first husband. She doesn't agree with everything the church says and hasn't been to mass in years but she says she prays. She and Husband's Gramma were at the bedside when Gramma's sister died. Auntie was praying the rosary silently when she suddenly got a huge whiff of roses. She commented to her cousin who just walked in that her perfume was incredible. "But I'm not wearing perfume," the cousin replied. Strange, she thought, and went back to the rosary. Minutes later, Gramma's sister died.

Husband's aunt and her cousins talked to the priest at the funeral home and discussed what a peaceful death she had. Then they mentioned the roses. "That was Mary visiting," the priest said.

This shook Husband's aunt to the core. And then the bird. Husband's gramma is a big-time athiest and thinks this whole thing is bullshit. Ironically, her name is Mary. Mind you, it is the real first name of Husband's aunt but she doesn't go by that.

Auntie planned on going to Sunday mass this morning.

I slept in.

Does This Outfit Make My Ass Look Pregnant?

I go to the gym religiously. Every weekday morning, you'll find me there at around 5:45, getting in 30 minutes of cardio before my low weights/high rep class or the yoga/pilates class. And I'm on time for the spinning class at 6:15.

I like it. I like how I feel after. I like the people there. I like how toned I am (everywhere but my surgically scarred abdomen). I like going there before my family wakes up so that my exercise for the day is done and I still have plenty of time to get everyone ready for school when I get back.

Anyway, the instructor today mentioned that these morning classes are at high risk of being dropped from the schedule. The gym manager is asking people to fill out a questionnaire regarding what classes should stay on and hardly anyone from the early group have filled out one. I did one about two weeks ago, but I filled another one today imploring them to keep the classes.

Honestly, if they didn't have these 6:15 classes, I don't think I could come. I mean, I could enroll Baby Boy in the childminding thingie but it's expensive. And what would I do in the summer? Send all three? The cost of that alone would stop me but could I really do that to Daughter? Mind you, she probably wouldn't mind being around all the babies. Middle Child, though, would go out of his tree if they didn't have enough craft supplies.

So, right on the heels of this announcement today, I had walked the kids to school. On the way there, we ran in to one of the moms at the school. She is severely Catholic with eight children and she's not done. So despite all my hard work, even getting the elbow sweats today at the gym (literally), she dropped the p-bomb on me. "You're looking great, Jen! But don't worry about being pregnant in the summer heat. It isn't that bad!"

I just smiled and walked away. Thankfully, it didn't register with the kids. I figure she'll either realize in a couple of months that I'm not pregnant or she'll think I had a miscarriage or abortion or something and she'll leave me alone. I mean, come on. Unless it's your sister or best friend or something, you don't know the circumstances. So shut the fuck up.

But then, on the way home, a mom I know from the older kids' nursery school days was walking her dog. She hardly ever talks to me though I see her all the time. Oooh, but today was my lucky day. Even though she was steps from her house and her big dog was tugging hard to go in, she stopped and asked, "Another child?"

Well, I thought she was referring to Baby Boy, who didn't go to school with any of her four boys. "Third and last," I replied.

"So when are you due?"

"I'm not."

"Pardon?"

"I'm not pregnant," I said, gritting my teeth. "I'm just fat. Don't worry - I get that a lot." And then to cement my reputation as a huge bitch, I added, "Do you?"

Help Fill an iPod

In an effort to expand her musical horizons, a friend of mine is looking for other people's opinions. Help her fill her ridiculously large memory iPod and tell me your favourite:

a) song from the 70s, 80s, 90s and, uh, this decade.
b) love song
c) break-up song
d) summer song
e) cleaning the house song
f) song of all-time

Drop 'em here or email them to me (titles only). She thanks you in advance.

How Many L's Are There In Buffalo?

Just one!

I made a poster with this for the boys in Daughter's class. She's going to hang it up by the lunchbox cubbies. For some blasphemous and unpatriotic reason, they're all big Sabres fans. Suckers.

Boys are Gross

"Mummy, spray some cologne on my wrist. Okay, now smell it. What does it smell like?"

"Um, like manly lemons, Baby Boy."

"Okay, now smell this finger. Not that one. This one. What does it smell like?"

"AGCK! Oh, God! It's awful! It smells horrible!"

"That's because I put it on my bum!"