So Busy

I only have time to ask:

Am I just being nostalgic or does "Chinese Democracy" start off the same way as the theme from "Beverly Hills 90210"? Seriously, all Axl needed to do was add the hand claps.

Guns 'n Roses fans are suckers for having to wait for that tripe. Not my cup of tea.

I Fall To Pieces

And now the furnace is busted.

All That I've Left is a Band of Mould

What I didn't include in that last post was why, when I finally and happily arrived home from my weekend of sadistic fun, my high was cut down like a sucker punch in the solar plexus.

"Congratulations, but I have bad news," Husband said immediately. "The second-floor bathroom ceiling fell in."

Thankfully, no one was hurt. But I suspect our bank account will have a scar for a while.

We had noticed a few drips a couple of weeks back. We cleaned out the eavestrough, thinking that was the problem and, sure enough, the drips stopped. But we had a hard rain on Saturday which brought the ceiling down, displaying a colourful array of mould. Nice.

It turned out that we had a bare spot on our roof, not that we could see it. A roofer came by early this week and patched that up but told us that there's nothing under our shingles. I know the people we bought the house from and learned they did the roof a year before we bought it. Of course, my next question was, "And who did the work?" I want to make sure we avoid the company at all costs.

So the short of the story is that we need to tear down the entire bathroom ceiling, air out the mould and remove it. Then we'll do a bit of renovating.

The funny thing is that we were discussing short- and long-term goals at my training weekend. I mentioned that I want to earn more money so I can start on renovating that bathroom, which was supposed to be a project I was going to tackle with my dad. Looks like there's no time like the present.

My BodyPump Instructor Training Experience

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I'm sore, yes, but I can still climb stairs and sit.

So - hooray - I passed the Pump training weekend. It was crazy but so very cool. I wasn't the oldest (there were two other women in their mid 40s). I wasn't the fattest, either (two others were heavier than me, I reckon). Still, I went in there, looked at the group of 19 and thought, er, should I even be in their midst? There was a natural body building champion (and she was absolutely gorgeous to boot - no, I loved her), more than half the class were already certified Les Mills instructors (tons in Combat), and fricking everyone was wearing Lululemon and makeup. My middle sister warned me...

Should I have been there? Well, my worries were quelled right off the bat when we ripped right into a masterclass. My friend and instructor, SVN, was so right. I had more weight than anyone (even equalled one of the three guys). The skinnies around me saw me slapping on the 10s during squats. "Seriously? You can do those weights? Do you need a spotter to get it over your head?" I giggled and told them I'm a mom and I live in the country and swung that baby over my head like it was a scarf. Respect from other participants? Check!

There was lots of mental work on the first day. Discussing choreography and technique took up most of the afternoon. We did some more physical challenges, broke for dinner (I went with the bodybuilder and another woman who trains in a big city south of me. Why? We were the alternative girls. How alternative? The nearby woman is named Morticia. True story). Because I signed in but went to the bathroom before getting my stuff and signing up for a track, I was left with two choices: lunges or shoulders. So because of my crappy ankle and the ear infection that's screwing up my balance, I chose lunges. Makes total sense, right?

Went back to my sister's, with a bundle of nerves. Opened up Jools's portable DVD player to rehearse, rehearse, rehearse, and found the card she made me. And I cried. Hard. Had a crappy sleep (I could hear the lunge track in my dreams). Woke up waaay too early. Drove to North York, not being able to listen to music at all and feeling like I wanted to barf. We presented in groups of three - so three people are simultaneously teaching the same track in another part of the studio. I was presenting with a superstar step instructor and possibly east Toronto's most popular Combat instructor (another Combat instructor was pretty much laying prostrate before her all weekend). But I dug in, nailed the choreography and was highly complimented on my technique after everyone watched the video that was taken of me. The trainer said my coaching was good for a first timer, but that I needed to vary my voice and use sharper arm movements. He asked how I felt. I said that it was not unlike giving birth: much nervous anticipation, hurt like hell, felt very vulnerable, and then complete relief when it was over with a real sense of accomplishment.

The rest of Saturday was very physical. There was one challenge that was going to be saved for the afternoon but we worked through what was supposed to be our lunch break because, seriously, if you did this on a full stomach, you'd hurl. So, get this: there's five stations positioned around the studio. Each station has a set of six barbells, starting with 7.5 kg on each end and the other five bars are in increments of 2.5 kg. The stations had two different moves each (eg. squats and clean-and-press) which we had to do 20 reps with a weight 50 to 75 per cent more than what you regularly use. Yeah, I entered the hurt box. We broke for lunch and seven of us all decided we wanted hot protein. I swear, it was the best chicken souvlaki I have ever tasted. A little more blah, blah, blah on coaching and connecting which was very cool to have the instructors with us sharing what works for them in their Attack class or whatever.

Then, with the morning's critique and armed with what we learned so far, we presented our tracks again. I did even better. The trainer said my group was the most advanced threesome he's seen in a long time (maybe he was just being nice, but I took it). We were "master technicians" and I was singled out for being so far advanced for someone who has never done this before. Of course, a lot of what I did up there, I stole from classes I've taken back home. After we watched this second video, I was told that I'm a natural at connecting with the participants but I need to keep them hooked in because I varied my range of voice to the extremes. I was too quiet during the transitions and too animated in other parts. Balance has never been my forte.

Before we broke for the day, I was told I would be teaching the shoulder track. Now, I am the weakest in my shoulders but I was feeling strangely confident. Was it because I was actually learning? Was it because the trainer would take me aside at every break and tell me that I was hitting it out of the park? Was it because I was having fun? Or was it because I could see the light at the end of the tunnel?

Went back to Baby Sister's. Home Chef made delicious fresh pasta with veal-wrapped asparagus. Daughter was spending the weekend with them and, wow, I was amazed to see how much she and The World's Easiest Baby (TM) had bonded. He was reaching for her, just lighting up when she even so much as looked his way. They had a big day, too. Baby Sister had a medical appointment downtown and then they went to St. Lawrence Market and to Home Chef's place of work, a media powerhouse. Daughter got to sit at the news desk table thingie of a breakfast morning show we watch. Got to stand in an entertainment news show's set. Toured a music station. Big day for her. Very exciting and new.

Drove back up to the gym in the morning with a good night's sleep behind me and the ability to have eaten a filling breakfast. I was mentally able to listen to the shoulder track in the car, going over my cues. I did that twice. I was that confident.

We did our tracks. Shoulders being the last teaching track, I was tired but was "on". Nailed the choreography (save one part near the end), the technique, connected wonderfully with a nice contrast in voice range, but the trainer thought I was too funny for the song. I need to mind the humour and be more gritty and serious through the song, saving the humour for transitions. The guy told me the day before to have more fun and I guess I took it too far.

More technique drills, getting and keeping new participants, and on what is called "fitness magic" which is what happens when everything clicks, and then we presented one last time. And I was PERFECT! The body building champion bowed in front of me and an Attack instructor asked me to write down some of my funny cues for her. I was so honoured. "There's nothing more that I can tell you to do. Just keep physically pushing yourself," the trainer told me. "You were born to be a fitness rock star, Jay-Z."

Yes, that was the nickname I was given the minute I first walked into the studio on Friday. It was only because there was another Jen and not because, when you look at me, you think of a millionaire rapper married to Beyonce.

So I left there feeling awesome but sore. I made a great friend in Morticia. When she gets certified, I'm SO going to one of her classes. Maybe we can team teach. That would be a riot!

It's funny. When I was told who the master trainer was going to be for my weekend, about four other instructors at my gym pretty much grimaced. But maybe he was having a great day because I found him warm and helpful and encouraging. And I made him cry at the end when I thanked him for such a profound personal experience. "I'm a big bloke, Jay-Z, and you reduced me to rubble. You really do have the gift of connection. Kia Kaha."

Kitschy Coo!

A little over a week ago, my friend and I had a table at a craft show in a relatively big city nearby. We had to apply to get in as "guest artists"; it was all so above-the-board.

We've had a table at our local farmer's market for a couple of months now, run by myself and my friend's husband. His t-shirts sold pretty well, often selling three or so every week. My stuff, on the other hand, ran hot and cold. Some days, I would sell a couple of album bags and other times I would be lucky to sell a little $5 wallet. It's not the place for us to sell our funky stuff. People are there to buy meat. But the cost of the table was cheap.

Participating in this craft show, however, was like coming home. The DJ was already set up, cranking out Stevie Wonder's Superstition as we walked in with our boxes. A good start. After we set up and walked around a little, my friend made the astute observation that all the sellers looked like us. We all dressed the same. We all had bobbed hair with the severe bangs. Oh yes. We fit in quite nicely.

And our handiwork? Well, not only were the other crafters like-minded, but the customers were too. Finally, our stuff was appreciated. My friend's retro hanger plaques, the ones that never ever sold before, were all lapped up within a few hours. Many people were buying two at a time, as they were with her coil-bound journals. My album bags were well-received, along with my purses made from books and way more Kool-Aid Jammer accessories than I thought would sell. Profit? Well, let's just say that I earned enough for that bathroom sink, cabinet and faucet I've had my eye on.

The other crafters came around to see us through the day and they were very welcoming. "You guys put the 'kitsch' in our name." We were even invited back to participate in the Christmas show (which we are SO doing).

We were also asked if we'd be interested in joining their roller derby team. I considered it for a nanosecond, but then remembered I like my teeth.

Visiting the Queen

We went to Daughter's version of Graceland over the weekend: Napanee.

Daughter is a huuuuuge fan of Avril Lavigne and has always wondered when we'd go visit Husband's aunt and uncle who live there. However, we'd see them when they'd visit Husband's grandmother in Toronto – kind of like meeting half-way, you know?

But now that Gramma moved to Napanee, we made plans to go visit. And Daughter promptly mapped out all the places she wanted to go while we were there: Avril's favourite pizzaria, the church she sang at, the Home Hardware to get a shirt like she wore on Saturday Night Live, her school, etc.

We stopped to visit friends along the way (they took me to this thrift store where you buy records by the pound) and despite that Husband's friend had made a cannon that shot potatoes, Daughter couldn't wait to get moving.

It was such a long drive that Husband needed to pull off the road and rest his eyes a bit. I couldn't take over because I was just as tired. Of course, neither of us could really rest with the nagging in the back seat. "We're so clooooose! Daaaaaad!"

As we were finding Gramma's new home, we passed La Pizzeria, home of the Avril Lavigne pizza (which, Daughter informed us, wouldn't be what she'd eat now because Avril is a vegetarian). The "Oh my gaaawwwds" started there, pretty much. We ate there after a quick visit with Gramma (who rushed us out a bit - in a polite way - because she had a euchre game) and Husband's aunt and youngest cousin met us there.

And it really was excellent pizza. Everyone had one pizza but Daughter had to have the Avril Special (green olives, mushrooms and pepperoni, despite that Daughter hasn't acquired the taste for olives yet).

Auntie J told Daughter that she should ask the owner for a tour. "He's a really nice man. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." And he didn't. Daughter was allowed behind the scenes, got lots of photos taken (Avril memorabilia everywhere) and was given a notebook to write her favourite rock star a personal message. Apparently, when Avril is back in town (or was it when her parents go to visit her?) the notebook is presented.

Daughter had to do two things more. The first was when we first came in to the restaurant and no other customers were there: Daughter sat in every chair so she could say she sat where Avril sat. The second thing had to do with sitting too. She went to the bathroom. "I know I got the same bathroom she used," Daughter exclaimed. "There's only one toilet in the girl's room!"

Anyway, we had a great time and ended up sleeping in a retirement home. It wasn't bad at all. For $50 a room (we took two), we were given nice beds with full bathrooms, satellite TV and even a walk-out to the Napanee River. The rooms were on the activities floor so no one else was there. If we weren't such a big family, Husband's aunt could have taken us in but there's so much up at their farm that trigger my allergies, I would be better off sleeping on the main road.

Gramma is doing very well. I swear, the woman has so much courage. She's a born and bred Torontonian but moved to an assisted living place out in Eastern Ontario because she wanted to look out to nature rather than, oh, Bathurst Street or a brick wall. And her new home is really, really nice. I've seen lots of these places, tagging along with Husband when he makes house calls (yes, he still does). Gramma's home is one of the best, if not the creme de la creme. Even their food smelled great. AND they plated it!

The boys had the best time ever at Auntie J's farm. Auntie J's whole family was there, including her 4-year-old granddaughter who led my kids everywhere. I'm still picking hay out of everything. They caught all sorts of insects, played with the animals, dug in the dirt (I got a hazelnut tree!) and slept divinely on the way home.

It was such a great trip, by everyone's account. My only downside was when I almost drank a housefly. I made tea in the farmhouse (a swell abode built in the mid-1800s). I don't know if the fly was already dead in the cup or if I smothered it with the teabag and drowned it with hot water. I was drinking the very last bit (I'm dry-heaving as I type this, mmmlleck) when I got a small clump rolling around my tongue. Initially, I thought it was a sugar lump that didn't disintegrate but, rolling it on my upper palate now, I realized that wasn't it. Maybe a bit of twig? I discretely pushed it out past my lips when I saw it was a fucking housefly. I spat out the tea in my mouth back into the cup, dumped everything in the sink and went outside toward the barn wanting to barf but couldn't.

I still want to barf just thinking about it. And I may never drink tea again. On the way home, we stopped at an apple orchard. While Husband and the kids went to get 20 lbs. of royal galas, I fished through the overnight bag and gargled with mouthwash for as long as I could. Something like that would drive Baby Sister and The Artist Formerly Known As Sunshine to boil their tongues or get a colonic or something. Am I right?

Baby, Baby, Don't Get Hooked On Me

I think Husband wants to have another baby.

Since spending some time with The World's Easiest Baby (TM) a couple of weeks ago, he's mentioned, in passing, that it would be great to have another baby. Okay, he didn't say that in so many words but his comments over the days ranged from:

- You look so sweet holding babies, Jen.

- Do you miss the times when the kids were that little?

- Oh, you don't want to eat? Are you nauseous? Do you think you're pregnant?

- I'm still young. I would still have the energy for a bigger family.

And my favourite:

- Nothing is foolproof. We can change the plumbing, if you're game. I wouldn't mind. (Because, without saying the word, the only way I could get up the pole now is if I bumped uglies with another guy, if you catch my drift.)

Would I mind having another baby? Oooohhhh, I so would.

Frankly, my younger husband probably does have the energy for a bigger family, but I don't. I'm still tired from going to a drink-up with a bunch of 26-year-old friends on Saturday.

No More Acoustic Motorbike

Waaaahhhh! Someone stole my bike!

It happened in a rainstorm very, very late on Sunday night. What slays me is that the thief didn't take the others' newer, more expensive bikes, nor did they take any tools. Just my crappy bike with a dented rear wheel that was completely flat. AND they had to move the said more expensive bikes out of the way to get my bike.

Lots of people steal bikes around here for meth money. Good luck trying to sell mine.

Pox on your family, fucker! The bike was a piece of crap, but I loved it!

All three kids are pukey sick today. I blame the A & W dinner their dad bought them last night.

And my grandmother's surgery went a-okay!

Very Superstitious

If my grandmother wasn't having surgery tomorrow, I wouldn't be so rattled by the three chain e-letters I received today.

You know the sort: blah, blah, blah, God is great, here's an angel for you, now be strong enough to pass on this letter to eight of your friends in eight minutes and a miracle will happen tomorrow. Or something like that. Chain letters suck. It's proliferated by superstitious people, I say. Maybe my sense of spirituality is skewed but I believe in preordination or karma or whatever. If you knew the story of how Husband and I met, you'd know why I think this way.

I saw my grandmother at The World's Easiest Baby's (TM) christening on the weekend. She seemed to be in good spirits but one could tell she was worried none-the-less. I mean, how else do you read her sighs of, "Whatever happens, at least I saw this little one's baptism."

My grandmother is one strong dame. She's still very "with it" in her head and in her body. She stays active. She gets out with friends. She still lives in her own home. And you would SO be on her shit list if you called when "The Young and the Restless" is on. I believe she has strength on a different layer, knowing how she lived her life and the tough situations she maneuvered with aplomb. Case in point: she knew she had to learn to speak and read English because my grandfather was in the army and got moved around quite a bit. So she picked up some Beano comics and started from there. That story never gets old!

Simply put, I can't imagine life without her. I know it will happen one day, but I'm not ready for that. Will I ever?

My mum and my aunts (and cousin C) were there at the christening. I don't know if they were just enjoying the day or if they were taking it as it comes, but they seemed very relaxed and happy. I think I can safely assume that they are as tense as I am, if not more, but seeing them laugh and having a good time made for a day of happy memories.

Anyway, I didn't pass on the chain letters. I figured my grandmother herself would say it's a load of crap to believe in their threats.

Jitters?

I don't know if it's because today is the first day of school but I had the shittiest sleep last night (note the time stamp here).

I woke up twice because of bad dreams. One I was revisiting a murder scene. It was really creepy. I was walking down an alley but it looked like a country road. I was spooked because the murder was never solved. The other one centred around a white rat that daughter found. It was pretty large and was either dead or was dying. So, uh, she put it beside me on my bed while I read and the kids played around the bed. I was about ready to call it a night when I looked down at the rat and noticed her eyes were blinking and she was having babies. Baby Boy said, "Yeah, it is. I just saw two of the babies on the floor." Then the little dark grey rabbit MIddle Sister had in university chased after the baby mice but they escaped in the corner of the wall. So Daughter and I took the rabbit and put it outside, but I felt like a dolt because I thought I took the rat.

Bad dreams for me often foretell bad times up ahead. Again, maybe I'm just uptight about the first day of school. I don't know why. The kids are dying to get back to it.

Pump It Up

I received a sort of frantic message from my gym's head office. "I know you're all ready to take RPM instruction, but I need you more now in BodyPump."

So now I'm back to my original plan and am a little freaked out because it's way tougher. I also requested to take instruction next month in Burlington (the other options were Windsor or Calgary - and I have to pay my own expenses). However, GoodLife bought a new chain of gyms and their existing trainers and instructors will be going for Pump certification in Burlington. That being said, they're desperate for me to start asap so I have five (FIVE) people at head office shuffling things around for me so they can fit me in with these hard bodies. Great. It's going to suck so hard for me.

On the one hand, these people are brand new to BodyPump where I have been taking the class for three years. On the other hand, they're already fitness instructors. I'm a short 40-year-old mother of three who doesn't say no to cherry cheesecake.

I hope I can go through all three days without crying.

A Moment On the Lips and a Lifetime On the Hips

"A Scottish Treat" read the sign at the apple fritter kiosk at the local farmer's market. Curious, Daughter and I decided to fork over the $2 and give it a whirl.

What is it?

Hands up if you said, "Deep fried Mars bar." I am so not kidding.

It's battered and then deep fried for, I swear, five minutes. It has to be the richest thing I have ever ingested. Daughter and I split it and we couldn't finish it. And, yet, I know of an Irish girl who can eat two-and-a-half in one go.

Having been turned off by this was not the reason why I'm glad Husband hired the fresh-off-the-boat Portuguese immigrant over the been-here-30-years-and-still-has-a-brogue older Scottish dude. He's looking for a lab technician and put in ads all over. The Portuguese guy has been in Canada for two years, reasonably good English, wife, two young children. He's currently in the last month covering a maternity leave but will need to buy a car to get to work out here in the country. The Scottish guy was in his mid to late 50s, pretty much runs a lab but wants a slower pace.

I was thinking of writing about the details of Husband's decision-making process, but I'll refrain though I do believe he made the right choice. Let's just say that sometimes I really don't understand the guy.

A Change Will Do You Good

Middle Sister, do you like this layout now?

She said my last layout was too faint for her. Hopefully, this works for everyone because, God knows, the whole damned world should be reading what my spawn are up to.

Such a fascinating life I lead, eh?

Oh, and, JP, I'm all for Trojans in Teen Packs. You forgot I volunteered at the birth control clinic out in Squidney.

I'm Becoming My Mother: Chapter 5

Perhaps only my sisters and maybe my cousin C would understand, but I'm having another "I'm feeling old" day.

I bought Daughter her first Shopper's Drug Mart Teen Pack.

I am now going to listen to some James Last, pour myself a G & T and pull the rocker on the porch. And weep at how time flies.

As always, comments are welcomed. You can do them anonymously. Just be kind.

Putting the Rocker on the Porch

Ever since Husband's birthday (my younger man), he's been quite down in the dumps. His age, it appears, has slapped him upside the head. And it hurt him.

He's generally happy with how his life is turning out. He says he doesn't really have any regrets about things he's done or failed to do.

What gets him is how big his forehead is getting. What gets him is that he notices he isn't as fit as he once was (still stick-figurish but now with minimal muscle tone). What gets him is that he is suddenly middle-aged and feels it.

Then there's me. I'm doing okay. I wear my age like a badge of honour. I'm being pro-active about my health. I just need to do something about my job. So, yeah, I can't say I've been the most supportive wife there ever was. "You're younger than me," I say to him, half joking, "so suck it up and get 'er done."

Middle Sister is another one who doesn't like aging. I've never heard her complain about herself but she has a problem with my advancing age. On my 18th, she was nauseous at the speed at which my life was slipping through my fingers. Since that birthday, cards from her were always signed, "I can't believe you're (fill in the age)!" When I turned 40, she was in a downright funk that I might as well have been 140.

I don't think I'm alone in having an image of myself frozen in time – around 20. In fact, I have recurring nightmares of looking down at my university class schedule and not knowing where the hell to go (or feeling that I've missed so many classes). I don't shop at Tan Jay and have no intention of doing so. Granted, once the wrinkles are more pronounced, I'll probably have to tone down or abandon the Dita von Teese/Amy Winehouse School of Makeup. I don't want to scare the kids like the local middle-aged woman with the white hair and black lipstick and blush look does.

Which reminds me: The Slits are back together! Ari Up is a grandmother now. Which would make her husband, Johnny Rotten, a grandfather.

Wait until I mention that to Husband. It will make him feel so old.

You Spin Me Round

I was asked by a fitness instructor to consider instructing BodyPump last winter. It's a low weight/high repetition exercise class.

So after jumping through a series of hoops, I had my audition today. Sort of.

I did an "extreme" spinning class for an hour and then spent the next hour at BodyPump. Then I met with the group exercise coordinator for our region of Ontario.

"As far as I'm concerned, you had your audition already," she said. "I strongly urge you to take up instructing RPM (the spinning class) instead. You're a natural."

"But I haven't been taking RPM nearly as long as Pump," I said.

"Look, take Pump instruction if you really, really want. But I could use someone like you in RPM. You have great posture, awesome strength. You have cadence and speed. Seriously, you'd do well and I plan on expanding the RPM schedules."

I start certification in September. Pedal on.

My (Free) Hi-Fi!

What's better than a stereo but a free stereo?!!

My professor friend, J, accepted a position at an American university and is purging. The family needed a good home for Granny's hi-fi which J was given but never hooked up.

"I thought 'retro' and thought of you!"

So, upon my pleading, Husband helped to move some furniture around the dining room and I hooked up this sweet Pioneer/Technics system and – get this – the speakers are made by Enigma. Funk-a-dunk-dunk!

I unearthed some of my albums, much to the curiosity of the boys. The first one I pulled out was The Who's Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy. God, it was awesome to hear again that fullness of sound that albums give.

Then I started in on a bunch more: Bowie, The Clash, The Dead Kennedys, The Bunnymen. Ah, the spoils of youth!

Then I started in on stuff I haven't heard in probably 20 years: The Mighty Lemon Drops, Japan, The Gruesomes (man, they were great! What are they doing now? Probably real estate agents in Pointe Claire or something).

Then I started getting silly, listening to Kajagoogoo, Captain Sensible, John Denver's Christmas album (only my sisters understand that one).

I'm waiting for Husband to get home from the golf course (yes, he's golfing in the pouring rain. It's like a demanding mistress or something). He'll be impressed that I got it hooked up and working. And then he'll crack out his Rick Springfield records to, yet again, prove to me that: a) I met him when I did because I wouldn't have given him the time of day before that, and b) we really don't have much in common.

This Was a Total Waste of Nice 'n Easy

I spent the week choreographing and practicing my routine. I had nightmares. I refused a trip to Dairy Queen. I exfoliated, dyed, waxed. And the bitch cancelled on me at the last minute.

I was just changing into my "I look thin" workout clothes when Husband said, "Oh, you're back from the market." I was hocking my stuff again, completely preoccupied, mind you. "Your gym friend, Sweet Young Thing, called about an hour ago. Your audition was cancelled."

I phoned the gym to confirm. Yes, sure enough, it was cancelled.

"Any reason why?" I asked. "Is it postponed or something?"

"Uh, all I know is that we were told last night that the audition was cancelled and I was to tell that to anyone who asked."

Word is I was the only person who confirmed interest to head office in becoming an instructor. This really isn't a surprise to anyone. Not everyone is comfortable enough to stand on a stage with perfect form and shout out choreography that will be two beats ahead of the music and the moves you're currently doing. Often, when approached to consider instructing, people's response is usually, "Are you fucking crazy?"

So, did they cancel because only one person was going to audition? Why waste the gas on just one, sort of thinking? Or should I take it personally? I don't know, but common courtesy would have been to have contacted me to let me know it was off, I think.

I emailed the woman who was to do the audition, politely asking if she'd reschedule. Any time I've emailed her, she has never written me back. Oh, except once, though it took her two weeks to do so.

I made myself a rather splendid chocolatini last night.

Baby Sister's Baby's Nickname

We visited Baby Sister's house on the weekend where my brother-in-law, Home Chef, made a wizard barbecued cheeseburger pizza. The kids are still talking about it. And they had a cake for Husband whose birthday is soon.

Anyway, I just want to say here, in public, that Baby Sister has The World's Easiest Baby (TM). Yes, this will be my sweet nephew's new nickname here until I am proved otherwise.

Also on my mind:

- In case you are wondering, I'm on Team Whoopi. Why? Because my gay friends can call themselves queer. Same diff.

- I'm a little freaked out because one of the hardest bodied instructors at the gym is voluntarily taking me under her wing on Thursday and will help me to choreograph a routine for my audition with the regional manager.

- I am so loving Jemaine Clement. Would it be wrong to put up a picture of him in my laundry room, despite the fact that a) I'm not a kid, and b) Husband is more of a Bret McKenzie?

- Baby Boy can sing a bevvy of classic rock songs thanks to Guitar Hero. It's funny to hear him break out into "Rock You Like a Hurricane" in the middle of the grocery store.

Selling Pieces of Craft

Jules's husband and I shared a table at the local farmer's market today. It's something that he's been on about for some time. Well, he finally decided to go through with it, hoping it will result in a full-time job or something. And I'm tagging along for the ride.

I made my record album bags and some Kool-Aid Jammer accessories. Not a lot. I figured I wasn't going to sell anything because people didn't know we were there, it being our first week and everything. Okay, I thought my Jammer headbands would go because I priced them at a toonie.

I did sell half of my Jammer headbands, but also two Jammer purses and a record tote! It was a K-Tel album called Power House with a very ugly picture of a nearly nude Styx. The woman was thrilled with it. "It's for my sister's birthday. I was just going to head out to the mall, but this is perfect! It's so ingenious! You should be paid double just for having the creativity." She said she would have bought the Rod Stewart's Greatest Hits one for herself but didn't have the cash. She'll be back next week, she said. We'll see.

Jen's Babysitting Service

Was it a moment of weakness or onset guilt that made me agree to a sleepover at our house after Daughter had dinner at her friend's?

Whatever it was, I had, at the time of agreement, forgotten that the mother of said friend is not the most punctual person. I only remembered it when she was late to pick up her daughter the next morning that she had done this to me before. The last sleepover resulted in the friend being picked up just shy of 90 minutes late.

"My other daughter has a soccer game tomorrow morning so I may be a little after 11 am picking up. Is that okay?" the mom said.

"Sure. A little late is fine," I reassured her. Eleven o'clock or 15, possibly 30 minutes, later would still allow me to get to my grandmother's house in north Toronto for her afternoon gathering.

Yeah, 11 am would have been fine. Of course, the mom didn't pick up her daughter until 2:30.

"That was some rain storm, eh?" she said possibly by way of an excuse.

So she got some free babysitting and I feel like a chump.

So much has happened, really.

I turned, er, an age that is, literally and figuratively, an f-word. Got my drunk on with very close friends though none of us got actually drunk. And we went home by 11. No need to call Children's Aid on us moms. I did, however, introduce the group to whiskey sours and some guy tried to pick us up.

He started on me because I was wearing the tiara and leopard print elbow gloves, I assume. He asked me to marry him and I replied, "Sorry, but that would really piss off my husband." Jules added with a guffaw, "Stay away from the cougar! She's the mother of three, you know." That scared the guy off enough to hit on my friend and gym instructor I shall call Tall Blonde.

Now, Tall Blonde is rather beautiful in a classic good looks kind of way. Perhaps that gave her the obvious experience in handling the guy with aplomb. She kept her distance but was really nice, later explaining that she was trying to get the guy to buy us a round. Then he made a comment about how Jules, Tall Blonde and I could probably kick his ass, which may be an astute observation considering we're gym rats. Tall Blonde then decided to ditch him and unleashed a barrage of intimidating questions. It was lots of fun! I didn't feel bad for the guy. He was pretty drunk to start. I mean, the guy stumbled to our table. And he really was just a baby. He was drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade, for goodness sake.

And I got a nephew on my birthday too (which I hadn't mentioned in that earlier post). When Baby Sister told Middle Sister and I that she was pregnant and when the due date was, I gave her a hug and said, "So, I guess I'll be sharing a birthday." Everyone, my parents, the husbands, poo-pooed the notion. "Your birthday is nine days later. There's no way." "You'll see," I replied.

Husband thinks I should play the lottery.

The kids are finished school and, mean mumma that I am, I am making them do a page or two of "homework" every day in order to earn screen privileges. On the flip side, I got a season's pass at the local outdoor pool which is just around the corner from our house. They all did well on their report cards. Middle Child was especially pleased because he finally got an A in gym, making him a true straight A student. Okay, he didn't get an A in music, but it is a well-known fact that the music teacher doesn't give A marks to anyone (which pisses Daughter off supremely. "I knew what mezzoforte meant in Grade 2 because of my violin lessons. I'm in two choirs and even I don't get an A.")

We just got back from touring the Maritimes as well. We've seen Western Canada many times, but not Eastern. Actually, Husband only has to get to Newfoundland, NWT and Nunavut and he's seen it all. We had a great hotel in Halifax, right downtown, spacious and everything. We did tons of walking which wasn't the easiest thing for Baby Boy to do, so he was carried a lot. I think we did really well to fill the days, though we did hit every candy store we passed.

My parents came too and had a great time. My father immigrated through Pier 21. He wasn't in the door 90 seconds when he began to cry. You see, Dad was paying our admission fee ("It's my honour and privilege") when the woman asked, as every Pier 21 employee and volunteer asks, "Do you have any history here?"

"As a matter of fact, this was my port of entry. I immigrated through here."

"Welcome back, then!" The woman reached down and pulled out two gold stickers that read "Pier 21 Alumni" and handed them to Dad. "You could wear one today and keep one as a souvenier."

And that got the waterworks flowing the first time. He cried a few times after that. Mum told me the next day how much he enjoyed the museum; how much it moved him. "I think he cried so much because he was thinking of his mum and his sisters and how much he misses them now that they've died." I kinda disagreed. "That's probably only part of it. He mentioned many, many times that he had recently retired and how he owes so much of his happy life to Canada." Dad is fiercely patriotic. He had also mentioned to one Pier 21 guide that his sons-in-law are a descendant of the United Empire Loyalists, the son of recent immigrants and a status Indian. That kind of shit turns my dad's crank.

And all my video that I took is, I think, wrecked. I think there's something wrong with the DV cassette, dammit. Photos are fine, though.

Oh, and I made the local CBC News on the first day we arrived. They showed the boys and I sitting on rocks and pointing things out in Dartmouth Harbour. Apparently, there's going to be some development there. We weren't interviewed or anything.

Daughter said the Pier 21 day was her favourite. Middle Child enjoyed the scenic countryside drives, the seafood and going to a Ministry of Fisheries biological institute where he got to see (and touch) mutant fish. Baby Boy's favourite day was the beach in PEI and the hotel pool.

And I bought myself a totally rad Six Million Dollar Man t-shirt to which Husband simply sighed and muttered, "When are your middle-aged boobs going to wear floral prints?"

I may be older, but I'm not sagging yet.

Parenting Mistake No. 386

Why, oh why can't I learn from experience?

Every year, I ask Middle Child what he wants to do for his birthday and every year he says something along the lines of "nothing." The worst is that when his birthday does roll around, he freaks out because nothing very special was planned.

This year is no different.

You see, my problem is that the guy doesn't have any close friends. He hasn't fit in but, as of last year but more so this year, he has been willing to find a way to be interested in things that most boys his age are interested in. He's not one for team sports, but will join in a game if there's one going. Last year, he'd wait to be asked until Husband told him that he just has to go in there, do his best, and act like they just forgot to invite him. Thankfully, Middle Child has the cojones to do just that. Sometimes, he's included. When he isn't, he still hangs around and takes the roll of colour commentator or sideline interviewer. THAT he came up on his own. Neat, eh?

This morning, I mentioned that his grandparents were coming over on the weekend.

"So that means I'm not getting a party?!??"

"But you didn't mention you wanted a party when I asked," I replied. Do I look like Kreskin?

Middle Child started to tilt his head down and make his eyes big so that tears don't fall (when they do, he averts his face). I knew he was crushed so I made all sorts of suggestions. I almost had him on having a birthday party after the last day of school and we were going through those he wanted to invite. When I realized he wanted to have every boy in the class except for two, I said that we should just invite everyone.

"Forget it! I don't want a party!"

Okay, now I didn't understand. Does he hate these kids so much that he'd scrap everything?

It took 40 minutes of discussion (no exaggeration) when we came around to the decision to have the party again. Then he asked, "Why are you so hung up on wanting to invite those other two?"

I tried to explain that it would supremely suck if there was a party and you found out that everyone was invited except for you. That's when it dawned on him that this actually happened to him. Many times. Many, many times. And he said so.

"So now I'm thinking I don't want to invite anyone because they didn't invite me to their parties."

"But you should be the bigger person, and maybe by coming to your party, you'll be invited to their next one. Maybe they'll see a different side of you. Maybe they'll want to get to know you better. Besides, you wanted to invite them before I brought it up."

"But now I realize that my friends aren't really my friends. They're just putting up with me."

Fuuuuuuccccck. By this time, we're at the gate to his school and the bell was about to ring. I was willing to stay with him, letting him skip school if need be but he was having none of that.

"I'm done discussing this, Mom. No party. Just forget it, okay? The guys are playing baseball. I'm going in."

Jesus wept.

Home Chef's Just Desserts

Reflecting on the visit with Baby Sister, Home Chef and Youngest Nephew, Husband and I were amazed at how natural Home Chef was with his son. We all expected Baby Sister to be good – she's had lots of baby practice with her own nieces and nephews. But there was Home Chef, Mr. Calm with this youngest of humans, like he's been around babies his whole life.

What makes it remarkable, Husband and I mused, is that here's a guy who had very, VERY limited exposure to children, save for his friend's son. Sure, the dude really made huge efforts to win over the nieces and nephews, making sushi out of candy or bearing giant bags from Sugar Mountain for example. More than that, Home Chef was present and attentive which may seem so, well, pedantic, but know that kids can see through shams. They can spot a phony from here to Disneyland. My kids took to Home Chef very quickly.

What makes it remarkable is that he's someone who didn't even consider having children or settling down in any real way. He had his job. He had his toys. He had his bar. And then he met my sister who, early on, told him that if he was dead set against fatherhood, maybe she wouldn't stick around long. Ballsy move on her part. Ballsy move on his for facing the uncertain all for the love of Baby Sister.

And what a reward.

Of course, he'll make mistakes that he'll probably look back upon and laugh at. Don't we all? Husband himself used to change Daughter's diapers every time she made a sound in her sleep. Actually, he laughs and cries over that because now, when the kids need parental assistance at night for a nosebleed or extra blankets or whatever, they call Dad.

Live and learn, Home Chef. Bonne chance!

To Everything There is a Season

One of my most common phrases I say to my kids is "Everything has a beginning and an end."

It's a phrase that comes in very handy for many different occasions: playdates, vacations, ice cream, TV shows, summer, bedtime, and people.

Today, it was because of our pet Peewee, the world's most docile and friendly hamster.

The Peester was getting up there in hamster years. About two months ago, we noticed how she was slowing down, not eating as much and didn't like to be bothered too much anymore. Very recently, I noticed that her abdomen was hard and her breathing was laboured. I knew she wasn't long for this world and mentioned it to Daughter as often and as gently as I could so as to prepare her.

Daughter and I were watching a rerun of the Much Music Video Awards together tonight (we were in Toronto this Saturday and saw a few performers practice). Husband finished tucking in the boys and wanted to watch a bit of House. It was time Daughter went to bed anyway.

"You can read for a little while," Husband said. "First, brush and floss and wash your face."

"And feed your pet," I added.

She opened the cage, reached in and took Peewee's red food bowl out. Then, startled, she gasped, "Oh my God!"

And then, shoulders shaking, "Mummmmeeeeeeeee....."

There Peewee lay, eyes closed across the threshold of a little cubby she used to store nuts.

Middle Child heard the commotion and came downstairs. I don't know if he was ashen because Peewee died (he didn't seem as attached to her as the other two had been) or if it was because Daughter was so grief-stricken.

Baby Boy was asleep. Either he'll take it very hard or my little consumer will see this as an opportunity to replace Peewee with something else.

The funeral is tomorrow morning before school. This may be setting her up to be completely miserable for the whole day, but, hey, everything has a beginning and an end.

Another way the phrase can be used? Baby Sister gave birth to a healthy, cute, chubby son. Daughter gained a cousin but lost a pet. We saw him (and his parents) on Saturday. Baby Boy was really looking forward to this baby. Every morning, he'd wake up and ask, "Did Auntie Baby Sister have the baby when I was sleeping?" Knowing how excited he was, Baby Sister wanted him to hold Baby Baby Sister. My little guy held him so gingerly, so tenderly. It was really precious until, "Ewww! My baby cousin farted on my hand!"

And thus ended his turn to hold my new nephew. Everything has a beginning and an end.

To stretch out the day and to make the long trip (and gas money) even more worthwhile, my brother-in-law Home Chef suggested we walk around. And, yeah, we watched the set-up of the MMVAs. And we ran into a friend, oddly enough, who was on a break from a 24-hour shift at a hospital. Then we went home because everything has a beginning and an end.

And I gotta get to sleep. Everything has a beginning and an end.

Go Suck a Lululemon

I thought exercising was easy until I took my first class. It was a low weights class. C'mon, how much damage can five pounds do? Well, the next morning, I found it so hard to get out of bed, I thought I had a paralyzing stroke sometime in the night.

And yet, almost three years later, I'm still at it.

My body shape has changed and I feel the healthiest I've been in eons. I'm not rail-thin but for a middle-aged mother who had five abdominal surgeries, I'm not a Sherman tank either. And I'm so strong that I can carry all my groceries in the house in one trip.

I take my gym time seriously. I listen (and take) the advice of my very awesome class instructors. I stick to a schedule. I really try to do the right things. And it's work. It's hot, sticky work.

So I asked a gymfriend I'll call Big Boobed Lena who always wears tanks despite, well, her big boobs where I could get supportive tanks. She obviously doesn't wear a bra underneath her tank tops and I'm envious because these D-cups sometimes need to be double-bagged.

"You gotta check out Lululemon. You have to drive into the bigger cities but they have several styles worth checking out. Not cheap but if you're looking for quality stuff with good support, that's the place to go."

Middle Sister, also a bit of a gym rat, has been telling me this for ages. She swears by their capris.

I happened to be at a mall in the Toronto area this weekend and thought I'd check out the store. I found about four tanks that said they were for high impact, so I took some. I went to a sales clerk to ask which of them would suit me best.

"What sort of exercising are you planning on doing?"

"I'm at the gym five or six days a week taking 60 minute classes since 2005. I do high-impact aerobics. Obviously, I will always require a bra for that. But I also do endurance weights and spinning."

Then the little 12-year-old stick figure looks me up and down and has the gaul to say, doubtfully, "No way."

I caught her eye and gave her a sour face.

Handing the merchandise in her hand, I said as politely as I could, "I don't think this is the store for me. That was quite rude."

I really wanted to yell at the kid, "Look, you little mosquito bite-titted girl, let's see how you look in 20 years and after you squished out three human beings. If it wasn't illegal, I'd punch you so hard, your baguette thighs would land in Lake Ontario." I believe I handled it quite maturely.

Just Keep It In Your Pants, Darling

"(Middle Child) came up in conversation at the dinner table last night," said my friend T.

"Did he get into a fight with one of your girls?" I asked.

"No, no! My youngest, out of the blue, stated that she was going to marry him. She said, 'He's really smart, so he's going to get a good job and make lots of money.'"

Get Yer Motor Runnin'

Not that I want to put the old man in traction, but my sisters and I bought him the most appropriate retirement gift for our dad.

If you know him at all, he's always dreamed of having a motorcycle. He has books, toys, mugs, shirts, all kinds of shit with motorcycles on them, despite the fact that he's never owned one.

Hold on there, cowboy. We didn't get him a scoot. Do I look like I'm made out of money? No, we got him the next best thing: motorcycle riding lessons at his local community college (a three-day course). He is incredibly excited.

When this was in the planning stages, I had to ask when a good time would be. My parents fill their days quickly. Before I received my present (the trip), I knew there wasn't going to be a fuss made about my f-word donut-year birthday because Mum suggested the weekend of my birthday.

Now, she mentioned that she and Dad will come up the evening of my birthday. Too late, chumps! I'm going drinking with friends.

On a side note, I found out there are about 125 calories in a whiskey sour. I wish I knew that before I went balls-out at the gym and sprained my fricking ankle three weeks ago. It's still really sore.

My writing sucks these days, eh? Let's blame the Tylenol and lack of sleep, okay?

"Whale Oil Beef Hooked!"

An early birthday gift was given to me this week. I've always wanted to see the Maritimes ... and now I will!

Daughter knew of the plans for a little while. "Is Nova Scotia far? Remember how we read Anne of Green Gables together? I still love that book. How allergic are you to shellfish?"

But it wasn't until Baby Boy came over to me after Daughter whispered something in his ear that I got an inkling.

"Would you like to stay in a hotel for your birthday?"

Husband knew the jig was up, so we went out for dinner and a card was presented to me.

He planned everything with guidance from three of my friends. Everything is booked, which was another reason why he wanted to give me the heads-up now. He figured that I would find out about his plans when I'm on the internet. The itinerary was emailed to him and he knows I check the history, because I want to see what the kids are surfing for.

My parents might come with us, too. It's going to be wonderful.

I've been to the West Coast many, many times and even travelled across the country that way via train and car five times. My friend Jules, who lived in the Maritimes for a bunch of years, made an astute observation. "You'll love it because as beautiful as the mountains and the Pacific and all that are, there's precious little history. The East Coast is a gorgeous part of the country AND it has history out of the wazoo."

I can't wait to see Pier 21. I absolutely loved hearing my Auntie Mary and Zi's emigration stories. My dad was only six so he doesn't remember as much as his older sisters did. And the only thing that my grandmother, who used to talk with me often, told me about that time was, in fact, about arriving in Halifax. She said she was treated with the utmost respect when she and her parcel of children came off the boat. A man, who also spoke Maltese, helped guide her to the train station and rode with her until he departed in Montreal. She knew then that she was going to be okay in this new country and that, like that man, was going to be good to her.

It's a Gift

I've been tutoring some kids in English and, to wrap up, had the children write and perform a play based on The Mouse and the Motorcycle in front of their classmates.

When the performance was done, we opened it up to questions. Middle Child was the first to raise his hand.

"If you were given more creative license, what would you transmogrify into?"

But what was more startling to have come out of Middle Child's mouth happened when I was nudged awake on Mother's Day.

"Where do you keep the cooking spray?"

He made cake-in-a-cup and wrote a poem that went like:

Where I'm From
I'm from the gifts that you give me for no particular reason.
I'm from the music you blare in the car.
I'm from you changing your hair from black to red to purple.
I'm from the yummy dinners you make every day.
I'm from the good smelling quiche you make for me when I come home.

It's Smashing!

Husband and I were jolted out of sleep last night at around 3:30 with the doorbell ringing three times (I think. Hey, I was just waking up so excuse the fog). Husband went downstairs but couldn't see anything and went back to bed.

We both woke up early to check out what happened. We had a few things smashed at the end of our driveway and our neighbour's for sale sign was put on our front lawn. Nothing else appeared to be damaged but we baggied the smashed stuff (not ours) and made a police report.

Daughter woke up and looked out her bedroom window to see a police cruiser in front of our house. She woke Middle Child and the first thing of their day was seeing Daddy talking to the police. I assured them that everything was fine.

We think we know who may be responsible. We're not freaked out.

I'm going to the office today.

Marvelous

I took my little comic book geeks to see Iron Man yesterday (that would be Daughter and Middle Child; not the biggest comic geek in the house. He stayed home with sick Baby Boy).

I really enjoyed it, but I've always liked flawed characters. Tony Stark (Iron Man) was an alcoholic in the comic books, so when I heard Robert Downey Jr. was cast, I've been looking forward to the movie ever since. I'm such an 80s girl – I love Robert Downey Jr.

Sure, there was a lot of explosions. Yeah, people got hurt (but, perhaps taking a page from Wile E. Coyote, there was very little blood). I'm sure the kids aren't scarred for life.

But how much of a Silver Snail Weiner is Middle Child, you ask? He spotted Stan Lee in a cameo appearance as Hugh Hefner. He knew Obidiah was going to be the foil. And he predicted, "because it's a Marvel movie", that there would be a throw to another movie while the credits rolled. Sure enough, the theatre was almost emptied and the credits were about half-way through when there was one extra scene hinting that, yes, we'll be seeing Iron Man again.

Middle Child walked out of that theatre very full of himself.

Daughter was happy because I told her it was a "grown-up movie."

Weekend Done Like Water Off a Duck

I'm so tired.

We had my aunt's wedding on Saturday. I forgot how long it takes for us to drive to Toronto. I had hoped we'd get there with a half-hour to spare so Daughter and I could rehearse.

Did I mention that as my aunt and her fiancé were leaving Middle Child's communion, the conversation turned to Daughter's violin playing?

"Oh, I'd love it if you could play something at my wedding!" Auntie exclaimed.

Middle Sister piped up, "She'd love to. She's good too. I'm sure she'll pick something really nice."

So from there, Daughter was to play Pachelbel's Canon as Auntie walked up the aisle. Grudgingly. Daughter does NOT like to perform in front of people. Unlike her mother, she's quite shy.

As the days wore on, Daughter became more and more upset until this week when, in convulsions, she was about to give up. I opened my pie hole and said that I'd unearth a flute and accompany her. Yes, a flute.

I haven't played one since I was 13 and pretty much strong-armed into doing it by my grandfather. Initially, an instrumental music class was offered to the gifted students of my elementary school which my parents were very keen on. That evolved into the expectation that I would one day sit with my clarinetist grandfather in his marching band. To understand my mindset, I was very aware that there were no flutes in any Ramones songs.

Anyway, so, yeah, I got the flute out of retirement. The first day of practice was relearning how to breathe. I forgot how to do that so I was getting dizzy. Then I had to review scales. But by the end of the week, I realized I wasn't going to be able to do the harmony all the way through so we figured a way for Daughter to play something more difficult while I just fumbled through.

And, in the end, we had to cut it even shorter, without the flourishing end because the city hall wedding chapel aisle is pretty short and Auntie walks at a clip. And that suited Daughter just fine. Mind you, at the spur of the moment, she decided to play the newly wed couple out with Ode To Joy. No practice ... and you could tell. But it was the thought that counted.

The reception was at this beautiful restaurant in Don Mills. It was converted from a heritage home just south of the 401. Thankfully, we were assigned a separate area. Thankfully because we're a loud bunch. Thankfully because I wondered how long it would take for the kids to start goofing off. Thankfully because it's almost inevitable that someone was going to drink too much.

You know you've had too much when the wait staff literally takes away your table and you're left sitting all alone in a chair. The funny thing is that this relative still brought out his cell phone and checked his messages or whatever, as if this was normal. My younger cousins and I were giggling at this and reveled at how half the family can hold their liquor and the other half can't. "Maybe it's those of us with the big nose that can control it," observed my cousin M. There's got to be an upside to this nose, right?

I ordered the duck and then offered my niece and my kids a taste, without telling them it's Daffy. They all liked it. Then, before I tucked in, I told them what they ate.

Anyway, crazy as it was, I decided that we should drive all the way home. It was a good choice for everyone involved. We were to have slept over at my parents' since we were all going to Oldest Nephew's communion the next day, but I knew my mum wasn't going to be up for company. And I really like my bed.

Actually, a big reason was because I promised Middle Sister that I would bake a nut-free cake and I forgot! When I got home, I thought I would bake the layers and freeze them for easy frosting the next morning but I realized I was out of eggs. I went to bed and woke up at some ungodly hour (when will I get a full night's sleep???). I hauled my ass out of bed and went to the 24-hour grocery store in town. In my Tinkerbell pyjamas. Because I could. And I made a pretty awesome cake to every specification Oldest Nephew gave me earlier in the week (chocolate cake with vanilla icing in the centre and green on the top. I added some chocolate chips between the layers. Huzzah). It looked great. Too bad Middle Child dropped a book on it on our drive down. We had to pull over off the highway so I could fix it. Boy, was I pissed.

Off to Middle Sister's in what we thought would be ample time but traffic was crazy for a Sunday (and that fixing the cake thing). We pulled into the driveway much later than we anticipated and, as a result, didn't have enough time to get a seat at the church. So I played with my other nephew who was left at home with a very huge Baby Sister and her cankles.

Middle Sister really knows how to lay out a spread. There was so much food, it was crazy. After all the rich food at my aunt's wedding, all I could manage to eat was a self-made veal-on-a-bun and some green beans. And Dr. Pepper! What a treat.

And I still woke up at the crack of dawn to hit my class at the gym this morning. I could have skipped it and tried for some extra minutes of sleep but I can still feel that duck swishing around my gut, I think.

And Then There'd Be Fewer April Snowstorms

As an addendum to that last post, I heard on the radio this morning that a sheet metal worker in Seattle is trying to spearhead the institution of a four-day workweek. He figures commuting to and from work is one of the biggest contributors to global warming.

Tack on some extra hours after each Monday to Thursday shift to make up for the "lost" day but, in the end, it's a win-win situation for employers, employees and Mother Nature. People come back to work happier after a three-day weekend. They can do more with their families, so that's good for society. Employers benefit because they not only get the same amount of hours from their workforce, but the employees are more apt to be productive if they're content. And, hey, less cars idling in traffic.

Of course, I already thought one of the smartest men on the planet was a sheet metal worker. Apparently, now, there's two.

Long December

Hooray! I think spring has sprung at last. Although I prefer winter to summer, I'm welcoming the warmer weather but saddened a little to put away my groovy vintage green houndstooth coat. Daughter has retired her jeans and is now in full capri, skirt or shorts mode. The boys are outside playing some take on Marvel/Teletoon heroes game in the tree fort. Husband has left me for golf. And my bulbs are blooming and smelling divine.

Aren't these sweet? Those of you who know me well would understand why I have an affinity for violets. I love how my back garden is coming alive again with a bevy of these little things.

And this is what my in-laws woke up to on April 19th. I'm told Al Gore came over later that afternoon to make snow angels.

Thank You. Thank You Very Much.

Just got back from the spin-a-thon. Much fun. Very hungry. Must eat steak. Eleven teams of four fundraised around $4500 which surpassed the organizers' expectations. Now it is safe to have a heart attack in my town. Thanks again.

Positive Spin

Baby Sister's shower went very well, I think. As is always the case at family get-togethers, there was too much food. Of course, that's a good thing.

Baby Sister had a good time. Her work friends started a chant, "Cry, (Baby Sister), Cry!" which isn't a difficult feat. What took me off-guard about that was it followed a speech Baby Sister had made. The work friend who started the chant is a Jehovah's Witness whom, I was told, would have to leave the room if someone made a speech. Or was it a toast? I served liquor, too.

My cousins on my dad's side arrived first. Mum and Dad were out with some last-minute stuff. "My parents are gone," I said. "Let's raid their liquor cabinet!" My eldest cousin thought that was a riot and she hadn't even had a sip of the vermouth yet.

Middle Sister wasn't feeling well. She stood off to the sides, not wanting to touch anything or anyone, so my mum took over. Other relatives helped out, too, which just sort of happens. You don't ask; you just do. Mi casa, su casa and all that jazz.

The only problem is that I'm not getting enough sleep now. Ever since the baby shower, I set my alarm at the ungodly hour that I always to in order to get to the gym by 6 am. The alarm goes off and it seems so hard to get out of bed. That's unusual. I've been hitting the sack before 9:30 for the last two days, but you'd never know.

This is a drag because I'm participating in a six-hour spin-a-thon Saturday to raise money for the local hospital's ER (they need a new adult crash cart). Three others and myself are dressing up like The Incredibles (naturally, I'm Violet, and most of you who read this know why) and we've agreed to take 30-minute turns on the stationary bike. And it won't be simple cycling. No, it will be half-hour classes by instructors from four different area gyms. I have to pack lots of water and probably some food, or I might just phone Husband to walk over a sandwich or something to me. I really have no idea what to expect except that I will probably be very tired.

And thanks to those of you who have sponsored me, including those who don't even live in my town. My sister said, as she wrote down her name, "I'll sponsor you because I encourage your craziness but also because I'll feel better if Dad's crappy ticker konks out when he's visiting you."

Do The Right Sesame Street

The things you do on a lazy Sunday...

I tidied up the front garden a bit, now that most of the snow has melted (again, I welcome you to the country). There was quite a bit of garbage left lying there through the winter and my bulbs are starting to peek out, so after the boys and I did some serious bubble blowing, I got my fingernails dirty.

Hmmm, then what.

I thought I'd check out my email and from there, I started farting about. And I found THIS!!!

It marries my love for one of my favourite movies and one of my favourite TV shows. Actually, when I first saw Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing, it reminded me of Sesame Street. Both are set in decidedly-not-Manhattan-New York. Both use racial harmony (or disharmony) as a backbone. I took a guy to see the movie once and he was very unnerved by the interracial couple thing. So blind I was that when I was told in sociology class that Sesame's Maria and David were possibly the first interracial couple on television, it hit me like, uh, a bag of hammers. Having been introduced to interracial couples when Sesame first aired on the Buffalo PBS station, it didn't cause me to even blink an eye when I saw Tina and Mookie.

Both Sesame Street and Do The Right Thing are full of colour and character. The first hour of the movie has quite a bit of joy in it; all kinds of stuff that makes me love urban life and my childhood in the Junction. Sesame was lovely and optimistic and fun ... and then adulthood set in, which is kind of like the insipidness that pervades the second half of the movie. WAKE UP.

And, on top of it all, the guy who made this video uses Fisher-Price toys which, after Barbies, were my favourite.

I love this stuff!

From a Communion to a Don Mills Wedding: Reasons to Buy New Shoes!

Middle Child had his First Communion last weekend. Mum brought back one of those white ribbon things Maltese boys wear on their sleeves. So he had a cool silver vest and tie ("I look like a man!" he exclaimed), hair styled in the best skateboarder shag I can do, ribbon pinned on and off we were off to the races. Middle Sister, her family and my parents arrived bright and early for the 8:45 mass.

The kids, Husband and I brought up the offertory. Irreligious Husband was a little freaked out because he didn't know what to do, but we looked okay. Turns out Husband is considering going to mass more regularly after a few of his patients phoned him up this week to say, "Hey, doctor, I saw you at church!". Husband thinks it'll be good for business. He just may be going to hell. I told him he may as well be golfing instead so patients can say they saw him there but he reminded me that we live in the bible belt of Ontario. The links are barren on Sunday mornings.

The highlight of the mass, though, was when the priest called up Middle Child at the end so the parish could applaud him. The kid turned around, puffed out his skinny little chest, arms to the side and had the most serious face ever. Actually, think "deer in the headlights" look and that about covers it. He explained later that he wanted to look solemn. Yeah, too bad his whole family, including Mum the über-Catholic, was shaking violently with the giggles.

I set out a pretty good spread for lunch. I made a pretty good braided smoked salmon tart that went over like a kegger at a frat house. My grandmother and aunt came with some yummies too so there was plenty to go around. Mum got a little cemented on the strawberry daquiris I made but was still fine enough to go to a Divine Mercy hour of prayer halfway through the party. No one minded. Daughter rented - with her paper route money - a karaoke video game because she knew how much Baby Sister loves to sing. Frankly, the whole family likes to sing. Middle Child's youngest son did a swell rendition of the Pussycat Dolls' "Don't Cha".

So the next event on the list, outside of parent-teacher interviews, would be taking Daughter to see Avril. She wants to skip school that day because she won't be able to concentrate. I'm already going to mortgage the house to gas up the car to get there; I don't want to pay for a sitter too. Then we have Baby Sister's baby shower. Oh! And we're getting a Winners, so I'm squeezing in a grand-opening trip this week. Then there's dental appointments, the spin-a-thon (thank you to all who are sponsoring me), Middle Sister's eldest son's First Communion (and grand opening of her renovated basement), and my godmother's wedding in Don Mills. I'm not complaining one little bit. I love parties.

Spending Money

I found out today that training to be a fitness instructor will cost me $300. On the upside, I won't need to get a hotel during the three days because one place is five minutes from Husband's grandmother's house and the other is ten minutes from my parents' place.

Still, I told Husband and he winced at the sum because the gym really doesn't pay well. They mostly cover your expenses and the monthly gym membership fee is waived, but I somehow only pay $16 a month. Shhhh. I think they screwed up and I don't really want to tell them that info, you know?

That being said, I overheard Husband telling a friend that $300 is worth it if he can say he's married to a fitness instructor. Yeah, that's if I pass the test, darling. And the key word here is "say". You can still tell I had three c-sections, if you catch my drift.

Mind you, I couldn't do any worse than this one instructor I went to on Easter Monday near my mum's house. Her choreography was waaay off and her positioning was, well, dangerous. Middle Sister came with me and by the second song, I told her that she should just watch me do the moves. You go for a workout; not tendonitis.

My parents dragged their knuckles out of the Stone Age and bought a computer a little while ago. I took my dad out and told the sales guy exactly what we were looking for. If you know my father, you could well imagine that he did his research before buying anything.

The only problem was getting online. These are two people who asked, "What's that flashing line, Jennifer?" "That would be your cursor." Yes, Baby Boy can maneuver his way around better than his grandparents. Dad tried to get hooked up on his own but couldn't. He doesn't hear well and the tech support has been outsourced to India. An accent and a hearing-impaired computer newbie isn't a good combo. I was there on Easter and realized that the computer was, in fact, already online. Mum and Dad just didn't know how to connect. I couldn't get their email going, though, and I tried for hours at the expense of hanging out with the family unfortunately. I'll get email for them another time and as far as the family goes, Dad is just super happy that the computer is working.

Shave the Last Dance For Me

Ding dong. The beard is gone.

Husband came home Friday at lunch (I was home with the kids because it was a PA day. Yes, a PA day on the Friday before March Break. Go figure). A local dentist called that morning to request a meeting to discuss a possible association with him. Like I said before, money talks. The beard came off because Husband thought it would make a better impression.

"But you never told me I look like a dorkstick. I have a weak chin!" he complained.

He doesn't have a weak chin at all. In fact, I think he's handsomely angular. Okay, he's got a youthful face but he IS younger than I am, after all.

Counting

The days of Husband's beard are numbered. People telling him he looks like the guy on the Febreze commercial didn't deter him. Having the kids run from his kisses didn't deter him. Threatening him to carve "ew" with the Lady Remington while he slept didn't deter him. No, apparently money talks.

He had just finished his lunch and went in to see his 1:00 for a consultation. The patient seemed a little distracted but it wasn't until the guy left that Husband looked in the mirror. He had a drop of his milkshake hanging on the left side of his mustache.

Husband promised it would be gone before my 40th. I told him it wouldn't matter because I'd be gone by then. No, I wouldn't leave him over something like facial hair. I was thinking that I'd like to go on a road trip. One of my friends suggested it because she just came back from one and saw a sweet retro polka dotted raincoat and thought of me.

But, chances are, Baby Sister will be going into labour that weekend so I don't want to gas up the Falcon just yet.

On that note, I'm almost done creating the invitations for her baby shower (April 13 at Mum's). I thought the invitations would be the biggest thing I'd be doing this week (I'm not even joking, sadly), but I was wrong. I got a little editing gig and – wait for it – I was asked, point blank, if I would be seriously interested in being a fitness instructor.

I've been taking a low weight/high repetition class religiously for two-and-a-half years. I really like it and I can open my own pickle jars, thank you very much. There is one instructor who is cutting right back and she does most of the early morning classes. They have people who have reluctantly agreed to take over, but no one else will substitute for them. So, given the choice of teaching or having the class dropped, yes, I'll instruct. Am I physically ready? I doubt it. I need serious work on the shoulders. I must take a break mid-way through the track, but I do half of my push-ups on my toes. Does that count for anything? And I really ought to have stronger abs. Anyway, I'll know more about it tomorrow.

This came on the day someone told me I had a killer bum. She doesn't know how hard it was to earn that Jennifer Lopez booty, let me tell you. Here's a video of the exact class I take, but this one is from Chile.

Y Chromosome Chronicles

Middle Child came home with a sheet explaining that his teacher talked about how male and female bodies are made differently and both help in the birth of a baby. It was very open-ended stuff, and part of the curriculum.

Sure enough, as I was reading it, Middle Child said, "Yeah, I have a few questions about that."

And so, I told him the facts of life.

He was grossed out.

Husband and I told him later in the evening that he needs to keep this information, true that it is, under his hat because there will be classmates of his who haven't been told. "It's not up to you to tell them how babies are made," I said.

"Don't worry, Mum. I won't say anything, but I'm a little disgusted of grown ups right now. And I used to be sorry for you for the doctor cutting your stomach to get me out but I'm glad I didn't come out the way you said is 'regular.'"

Leave it to Science Boy to like things neat and clinical.

And in other news, Baby Boy got to sit in "time out" in class today for saying, "Oh! That almost got me in the biscuits!" When I confronted him about this, he replied, "Fucking shit, Mum. 'Biscuits' isn't a bad word!"

He is in so much trouble.

Shave a Prayer For Me Now

Before CTV starts airing Dexter, my friend Slowplum has kindly lent the three original novels (two down, one to go) and the first season's worth on DVD. The show is great however, like most adaptations, it veers from the books. Characters are a little different (ie. Dexter's girlfriend's son). Plots are a little different (Tony Tucci anyone?). Some book characters are expanded on the show. Angel No-Relation is a very minor character in the books but isn't in the show. Suits me fine. I have a thing for nattily-dressed chubby Latinos. Stop it with the "Jen and Los Lobos sittin' in a tree" jokes.

And speaking of sideburns, Husband is growing a beard. I think. Sometimes on weekends, he blows off shaving and does the Chewbacca. I can't say I'm crazy about that being the daughter of a guy who religiously shaves every morning. I swear I woke up to the sound of Dad smacking the razor against the porcelain every morning. But when Monday rolled around and Husband didn't shave, I wondered. By Wednesday, I called him on it. And you have to understand that Husband never ever comments on my appearance. Magenta hair? No big deal. Another bowling shirt? Oh. So though it's nice on one hand, I also don't get nary a wolf whistle when I've actually put in an effort. It's a trade off, people.

So, yes, I called him on it.

"Ummm, what's with the face?"

"I don't know yet."

"Please don't tell me you're growing a beard."

"Hey, I said nothing about the time you were a redhead."

"But that didn't physically hurt anyone."

And his scruff DOES hurt; never mind the fact that it looks like spikes growing out of his face. All three kids either ran away from his kisses or just flat out told him he looks awful. And I didn't put them up to that, I swear.

He's starting to complain that his face is itchy. I suggested that he should shave. He considered a soul patch. Yeah, I never understood the attraction there. Every time I see a guy with a soul patch, I have to hold myself back from saying, "You missed a spot!"

When we were first dating, I used to love watching Husband shave. He does it old school, with the brush and bar soap. I would squeeze in to his tiny bathroom and silently watch. He thought it was weird of me, but I thought I was watching something rather personal. He wasn't (and still isn't) a very forthcoming person, so to watch him shave made me feel like he was sharing something somehow.

I miss that.

Baby, You Can Drive My Scar

Not only is he driving me insane by repetitively singing the chorus of a Limp Bizkit song (relax, it's one of the rare non-profane ones), but Baby Boy picked the damned scab off his face. So despite having bought $11 vitamin E cream that I was prepared to religiously apply until the scab just gently fell off, the little bastard is going to have a fine scar.

Oh well. It hasn't hurt Harrison Ford.

Marketing Mishap

Here's a rather disturbing advertisement for Kinder Surprise Eggs from the UK. It aired in the 1980s and was pulled, obviously I think, because it scared children. Middle Child found this one.

Another Reason Why Mumma Hates Lego

I hadn't been this knocked out by a cold in probably 10 years. I even missed two of my five weekly exercise classes, which, if you really know me, would indicate how truly awful I was feeling.

I even had to go to the emergency on Thursday. No, it wasn't for me. Just before bedtime (why is it always then?!?), the kids had a great idea to play Super Hero Tooth Decay Fighters while they were getting ready. On his way to the bathroom to get his toothbrush, Baby Boy ran through his room, strewn with his brother's dirty laundry. I've been after that kid to tidy up now for a week. Well, he tripped jumping over a hard container of Lego and fell face-first into the Lego pieces that were spilled out on the floor. And he cut up his face badly.

One cut on his right cheekbone was in need of stitches so while Middle Child guiltily picked up his bedroom mess, I piled Baby Boy in the car and took him to our little hospital. It may not have every diagnostic equipment, but I've never had to wait long and they've always fussed over the kids, making them feel very comfortable.

Baby Boy was coddled immediately upon arrival, which he ate with a spoon. He was given his choice of stickers to put on his admitting ID bracelet ("SpongeBob, please!"). He was carried to the cot in the observation room and was given a warm blanket, fresh from the dryer. Even the attending physician redid the two stitches because she initially didn't like the way it sealed. He was given a topical anesthetic so Baby Boy didn't flinch one bit. At the end of it all (10 pm, waaay past his bedtime which was part of the charm), he was given two huge stickers and a banana popsicle.

"This was the best day EVER!" he announced when we were driving home.

Send In the Clowns

Get this: my MOTHER dyed my hair on Saturday. Granted, I've always trusted my hair care to my mum (she missed her calling, I swear) but what makes this unique is that Mum dyed it that purplish tone I've been trying out. I know she hates it. I know she hates that it's killing my hair. But she still did it, and did an awesome job, too.

She also rearranged Daughter's bedroom furniture (another of my mum's hobbies) to make way for an antique three-way mirrored vanity that belonged to my Aunt F. Daughter woke up completely disoriented. Will I go to mommy jail if I tell you it was kinda funny watching her get out of bed when I woke her?

Cheeses Love the Little Children

I came back after picking Daughter up from Girl Guides last night (anyone want to buy those fricking cookies at $4 a box? Email me!) I found Husband on the phone with his mother. Meanwhile, Baby Boy was reading his new pop-up book while eating a huge chunk of cheddar the size of my palm.

Needless to say, the poor kid is really plugged today.

I don't blame Husband. It's almost impossible to talk with his mother. There are too many subjects that aren't to be touched, and the topics that CAN be discussed can give anyone a headache ("The current government is a paradigm for a military-enforced racist, patriarchal, homophobic society." "Oh... I had the best pie the other day!"). No, Husband needed all his wits in order to concentrate on the mine field that is a mother-son chit-chat.

I think I have some dates and figs in my pantry.

Starry-Eyed Surprise

I crave spontaneity and I so seldom get it. So when my weekends are a crap-shoot, I usually am all ready to start the new week afterward.

I thought this weekend was going to end with me resenting someone (did I write that out loud?) but after Husband put in five hours in the lab, he came home and arranged for my mum to babysit so he and I could catch a movie or something. We piled in the car and drove the two-ish hours. Middle Sister was there with her kids, so everyone was happy, except for Mum who bought bad chicken. The roast was great, though, as were the brussels sprouts until Husband broke the Pyrex my parents got for their wedding.

After dinner, Husband and I split and drove to a new theatre my dad encouraged us to go to. He also had free admission coupons. I guess so did everyone else because we couldn't find parking. So we had to take the highway to another theatre, but that one had a line-up waaaaay out the door, which wasn't moving. Fuck that, we thought. I'd sooner go catch a movie alone in my local pisspot of a theatre.

So we went to Chapters instead. And if you saw us and registered our excitement, you'd have to remember that we're from a small town where we don't have big box stores. I'm not hungry for a Wal-Mart or anything but I adore Chapters. I like the smell. I like the comfy seats where I can peruse AND drink coffee. I like the vast selection. And don't even get me going on the magazines or the stationery. I picked up a cute journal with a Margaret Keane-inspired goth girl on the cover for a whopping $4. I also bought a gorgeous J. Otto Siebold (the guy who illustrated Olive, the Other Reindeer) pop-up book of Alice in Wonderland for only $6, a very encompassing encyclopedic X-Men book for $7 because of the torn dust jacket, and a novel that, well, I just liked the cover which had this retro Latina on it. I really enjoy Mexican folk art and the book is sort of based on La Loteria. I just wanted to have it around and, surprisingly, Husband didn't object or call me pack-ratish names. He must like me these days.

Husband bought the Radiohead CD. He almost got one by Mark Knopfler but I made a face like I would have if I was watching orthopedic surgery or something.

We slept over at my parents' and spent the next day in Toronto. Husband visited people and I took my parents to the Apple Store to introduce my dad to the idea of getting a computer. We looked at an entry-model iMac. "Where's the rest of the computer?" Dad asked when I was showing him around. He couldn't believe that everything was inside the thin monitor. Actually, I think it might have made him more hesitant somehow.

After, we all met up at Baby Sister's house. The guys got all hepped up on testosterone and watched football on the HD. My mum, sister and I got all domestic and discussed baby laundry and ideas for the nursery.

We made our way back home with the kids konked out in the back so I got to listen – without complaints – to my boyfriend, George Stroumboulopoulos. Husband knows well of, but doesn't understand, my thing for Strombo. "Why can't you just lust after Brad Pitt like a normal woman?" Maybe because I'm not normal, sugar. I mean, how many judge their days by the amount of spontaneity in it? And everyone thought I'd grow up and calm down. I must be a huge disappointment to so many in my life.

Ahhh! White Noise!

The Earth is crying today. The weather is insanely mild with a reported high of 12 C today in my area (15 tomorrow). I'm going to use my time wisely and take down the Christmas lights and then all of the decorations inside. It's a hell of a job; that's why I'm writing instead of working.

I'm glad the Christmas holidays are over. It sounds awful but I'm happy to get everyone out of my hair. Husband and I got in a huuuuuuge argument after one of his throwing-out-stuff moods.

Apparently, he tossed our bassinet, which I wanted to keep partly because my grandparents gave it to me and because lots of babies slept in it. I even wrote their names in calligraphy with their birthdays and birth weight at the bottom. I was looking for it to give it to Baby Sister when Husband broke the news.

I swear, unless it's smaller than a loaf of bread (never mind a bread box), he'll toss it. I had to go to the Goodwill to buy back my crib when I found out he just donated it. It converts to a double bed, which might come in handy. It was disassembled and doesn't take up much room this way.

But you could imagine my surprise when I once saw my one and only teddy bear at the Goodwill on my occasional troll for shot glasses. My dad bought it for me on the day I was born. Teddy has been with me during all my surgeries, very lengthy hospital stays, first day of school, and was on my bed forever. Needless to say, I bought him back. Fucker.

Typical Husband, though. I wanted to discuss this like adults should and he left the house for, like, all day and most of the night. I thought for a moment that I should just pack up the kids and fuck off somewhere without a forwarding note, but two wrongs don't make a right. So I waited. And waited. Daughter picked up on the bad air and told me she was scared. Poor thing. I hope I calmed her. She gave her dad an earful the next morning, though.

But that's his way. I need to remind myself that he's from a fucked-up family. If physically running away from a problem is his way of coping or whatever, then I should count my blessings. There are worse things.

Anyway, all is fine now, I suppose. He's back to work. The kids are all in school. My exercise classes are back to their regular schedule and I am thinking that I need to take a long, hard look at myself. I should make a resolution. But will I?