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?