Mary, the Bird, and the Roses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Auntie planned on going to Sunday mass this morning.

I slept in.

Does This Outfit Make My Ass Look Pregnant?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So when are you due?"

"I'm not."

"Pardon?"

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

Help Fill an iPod

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

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

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

How Many L's Are There In Buffalo?

Just one!

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

Boys are Gross

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

"Um, like manly lemons, Baby Boy."

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

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

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

24-Hour Party People

Baby Sister elopes and she gets not one, not two, but three receptions (of sorts).

And after all the shit she's been through, and to celebrate the happiness and new lease on life that she found and created, she's deserving of more.

So party #2 was at my parents' place last Saturday. Mum pretty much made everything and even found time to decorate with tulle and white flowers. Mum served pastizzi. The universe appeared to be in order.

I was going to make vegetables but was told, at the last minute, not to bother because there was going to be too much food. So I came over early, helped prep, and did my best to act as associate hostess/garbage collector/Mum's lackey.

A few of, er, I used to call him The Boyfriend. Now what? Let's call him Home Chef. Okay, a few of Home Chef's aunts and uncles came, along with his super nice parents. Two of Baby Sister's oldest friends came as well, which it's always great because they're so fun and warm. But, by far, the party was made up of my relatives, and lots of them.

Many people from both my father's side and my mother's side came. And they stayed! A few of my cousins come to family gatherings for a couple of hours and then leave early, but my mother was thrilled that everyone stuck around and seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The good thing is that there's history between my maternal and paternal families (no, my parents aren't cousins; that's not why I'm weird), so everyone gets along. Though they may only get together like this once in a decade, it's still very friendly. It also helps that my family (both sides) are 24-hour party people. And I mean that in the best sense.

One of the coolest things that has evolved is that the newest generation, mine and my cousin's kids, just fall in together. Some of these kids never see each other, but you'd never had known if you saw how they played last Saturday.

And there's lots of relatives. My dad is the fourth child of eight, and my mum is the second-born in a similarly relentless Catholic family. Still, we all came home with doggy bags of food.

Of course, some things didn't go as planned. I had hoped to do some party games. I even had prizes for the brave souls who wanted to participate in my Newlywed and Not-So-Newlywed Game, but I couldn't really see a break in the party to rev the sucker up. Mum had me set up all the appies in the living room but the party was obviously going on outside at that point, so I moved everything out there after a while. Mum also set up a nursing room for my cousin J but she's breastfeeding her second kid. All shred of dignity leaves women long before that second kid pops out, let me tell you. No, J nursed where the party is. I'm sure she's also at the point where she's thirsting for adult conversation. Ah, yes. I know it well...

Where these were just little blips and really not even the slightest deal, the fucking elephant in the room was my mother's black-hearted brother. He wasn't invited but he came because no one else could drive my grandmother. Mum knows quite well my feelings for this bottom-feeder, so she told me of his attendance a few days before.

"Don't expect me to even so much as make eye contact with the scum-sucker."

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling."

"And don't force my kids to be all nicey-nicey with him, either. He lost that privilege."

"Don't worry. I won't be drunk that day."

Oh, you may be thinking, "Jen, c'mon. How bad can this guy be?" Well, let's just paint the picture with the very first thing he did when he walked in the door and if it isn't enough to make you even THINK that there may be one brick short of a load in that pea brain of his, correct me.

Again, he came in and went into the kitchen where Baby Sister and Home Chef were. I discretely backed off giving him the familial hugs and kisses. If I want a disease, I'll go somewhere exciting like Africa ... or Halifax. Anyway, the guy shakes Home Chef's hand and says, "Uh, hello, er, (insert Middle Sister's husband's name here). So! You're number two, eh?"

Home Chef's eyes widened. Baby Sister turned her heels and walked out. I stood there ready to remove the fucker's vocal chords with a potato peeler.

Seriously. Okay, you got Home Chef's name wrong. Fine. You probably haven't met Middle Sister's husband either. But is the only thing you could say to Home Chef is, "You're number two"? What did you really mean?

"So! You're next in line, eh?"

"So! You bought a used car, eh?"

"So! I have the social graces of a crazed, homeless junkie with the farts, eh?"

I can only hope to God that he crawls back under that rock he came from and then we don't have to see him again until the next solar eclipse. Or ever.

But the rest of my family? I can't wait until the next time. Honest.

Unintentional Porn: Mother's Day Cactus Planters

My cousin sent me this email probably about five years ago and I've saved it ever since. In honour of Mother's Day, I repeat it here.

An elementary school class started a class project to make planters for Mother's Day. They wanted to have a plant in it that was easy to take care of, so they decided to use cactus plants.

The students were given green ware pottery planters in the shape of a clown, which they painted with glaze. The clown planters were professionally fired at a class outing so they could see the process.

It was great fun. They planted cactus seeds in the finished planters and they grew nicely but unfortunately the children were not allowed to take them home…the cactus plants were removed and small ivy replaced them and the children were then allowed to take them home instead.

The teacher said cactus seemed like a good idea at the time…

It's a thankless job, but the benefits are incredible.

Getting the kids ready for school has been not the best. By that, I mean, a little slice of hell.

I reached a breaking point with them regarding this (as well as other things that made me thisclose to just walking out for the evening. If only Husband was home). On Wednesday, I sat them all down and we talked about it. I came up with some rules, to which they agreed to, and put them in play.

And it's been wonderful. Nothing is rushed. No feathers are ruffled. We (meaning I) even have time to relax before we start our day.

So when Middle Child wanted to talk this morning, we were afforded a nice long time. We needed it.

"So, you know this Mother's Day Tea Party my class is throwing for all the mums?" started Middle Child. "Yeah, well, you'll be getting a book that I made. I had to write about why I love you and about the nice things you do. Just so you know, it was late in the day and I was tired and I couldn't think of anything. Don't be shocked, okay?"

He couldn't think of a single thing. He wanted to, he said, but it was too taxing.

I asked if he felt that I loved him. I'm his mom, he said, and I have to. So from there, I gave him leaders on a few things that I do to show that I care. It took a while for Middle to get up that hill, but then it all hit him like a ton of bricks. When I mentioned that I quit my very good job to raise my children (I didn't get into the fact that I am a high risk for stress-induced miscarriage, of course), he was dumbfounded. And then he started to cry.

"Why don't you tell me all the great things you do for me?"

"Because telling you isn't important, but it's important that I do these things."

And then I got a rare Middle Child hug. It was better than the book.

My Crucifix Scab

I live across the street from a Catholic church. They're great neighbours, really. We turn a blind eye to the "no street parking" signs and they let our kids ride their bikes on the parking lot when there isn't anything going on.

It was there when I was watching Baby Boy on his training wheels and misstepped off my wedge heels and lost my balance. I ended up scraping my hand through a shrub on church property. It stung. I looked down and saw the scratch made a crucifix.

I ought to pick off my scab and sell it on EBay!

Loving Husband. Loving Beer.

Fifteen years ago today, Husband and I got hitched.

I'd marry him again and again. Who else would have put up with me?

We went out for dinner, en famille, and then, like any good Canadian adults, we hit the Beer Store. Daughter was iPodding us out, singing aloud to Avril Lavigne (she's learning "Losing Grip" on her violin), but Middle Child desperately wanted to follow Husband into the store.

"Where's he going?" Baby Boy asked. "I want to be with Daddy, too!"

Granted, one of my fondest childhood memories is going to the Beer Store with my dad. Sad, eh? Maybe it's the cardboard and yeast smell. Maybe it's the muffled order the clerk barks into the mike, one octave lower than his or her normal talking voice. Maybe it's the chuffffff of the fresh new case of beer bolting out of the hole in the wall making a "ching, ching, ching" sound as the case rolls down the wheeled chute.

But Husband isn't my dad. When he goes to the Beer Store, it's labourious. There's waaaay too many choices for him and what took my dad two seconds (it was 50 in the '70s, Blue in the '80s, the cheapest beer available in the '90s, and now it's whatever my sisters and our husbands want), it takes Husband approximately 4 minutes. Add TWO kids into the mix and the choice is even harder to make for him.

So I did my best to keep Baby Boy in his car seat. And he cried. And cried.

Husband came back and took him out. Baby Boy smiled brightly, dried his tears and walked ahead of Husband with such purpose.

Husband said he took one big sniff and sighed, "I love beer," took his hand and walked out.

I'm a Winner!

I figure it has a lot to do with being one of the last ones to drop in a ticket.

I don't win raffles. In fact, I've only won two (technically three) in my life. One was in 1983. I was so moved by the senior band's prize of a JVC boombox blaring Duran Duran that I bought a ticket during the dying minutes of the last period. I'm pretty sure I was the last person to drop a ticket in the box. Anyway, I won my very first stereo which got to play all sorts of fine 80s music (Japan, anyone?).

The kids' school had their annual Family Fun Night. The school doesn't fundraise, but holds these sort of things in order to get some bucks for extra school supplies.

I really hate Family Fun Night. Imagine every kid at the school, along with their family, coming out for fall fair type games in the gym. And the hall is lined with baskets that each class had made. Middle Child's class basket had an "I Love to Bake" theme so everyone donated something related to that. Daughter's class had a Family Bath Night/Spa theme.

We got to the school 30 minutes before it wrapped up. We quickly bought tickets (from Slowplum - here's your shoutout, child) and divided them up - 3 raffle tickets for each kid and one for me. Daughter and Baby Boy dropped them for the baskets they really wanted. Middle Child told me that we had a better chance mathematically to enter a ticket for a basket that didn't have too many tickets. So I put one in the Coffee and Tea Time basket. He chose Patio Days, I Love to Garden, and the autistic children's sensory toys.

The president of the council called out the winning numbers shortly thereafter. We won the coffee and the patio stuff. Husband went up to accept one of them and was coming down the stage steps when another one of our numbers was called. If you know Husband, geez, was he embarrassed.

But he said it was worth his embarrassment because the stuff people donated was insanely good.

Crackbook

I blame Baby Sister.

She was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back when she "invited" me to join Facebook.

Granted, it's been a nice way to keep in touch with my cousins whom I used to see very, very often growing up and, now, we hardly see each other at all. With the exception of a few of my younger cousins who don't want their geezer cousin Jen listed as a "friend" (chickens!), most of us have a Facebook profile.

What I hadn't expected was to be found by all sorts of people from my diverse past. My best friend from Grade 7 found me last week. A gay friend who was relentlessly teased at my high school is now in contact with me. People that I see every day are on my friend list, too. And, yesterday, one of the coolest people I worked with at one of the worst offices I worked at found me.

But what slays me is that it can be a real time-sucker. Middle Sister won't go on it for that reason, I believe.

This past week, my kids had a Turn Off the Screens week where they not only didn't watch any TV, movies, played with video games - Daughter didn't even play with her Tamagotchi - there I was feeling REALLY guilty for turning on the computer.

I'm back from my vacation and a good time was had by all.

Jules sent me off with a travel journal and a pen with the strict instructions to write, write, write. And I did, did, did. In fact, I wrote so much, I ran out of ink.

So, obviously, there's tons of detail in there. If you want to read it (and you know me), let me know. There's nothing untoward or offensive. Maybe because writing on paper is labourous and my mind works slower (or that I'm afforded the opportunity to edit in my head before I plunk it on a page) there are very few swear words, even. And if you're a regular reader of this blog, or if you've been out with me socially, you'll know that I swear like a sailor.

Honestly, the only disappointment I had was getting my period because I packed lots of white pants. Oh, and I wish there were fewer Canada-hating, US-centric Americans, but there's always a few bad apples.

I also posted photos on my Facebook page as well as many as I could on to Flickr. Again, if you have my email address and you want a link to the photos, tell me. I've detailed the photos best I could so that would be the best way to describe my trip rather than me writing about it here.

But to sum up, it was a good trip and long overdue. We were expecting lots of liver spots and Husband thought he'd have to trudge through dinner with old people complaining about their dentures, but this wasn't the case. There were lots of families with pre-teen or teen children, so most of the adults were about our age or just a tad older. There was absolutely tons to do on board. We only swam at night (the pools were salt water) under the stars. It was great and we didn't have to share the pool. I won the trivia contest. Husband learned to play Blackjack from our dinner table mates from South Bend, Indiana (they were so incredibly nice). Husband also saved an old lady who fell face first in the ocean in her all-white outfit. She was from Syracuse NY and was with 9 other friends for their 50th high school reunion. When we got back to the tour bus, they all sung O Canada in appreciation. Freaky. I still went to the gym every day. Husband ate and ate and ate and is still skinny.

My OCD is in full swing. I blame my esthetician. You see, I went for my pedicure yesterday (it's a pre-vacation rule, you know) and told me what I thought was a cracked heel was really plantar warts. I gasped because I know they're highly contagious and they're an HPV with loooong roots. Ick. Ick. Ick. I probably got them (I have two very close together) from walking barefoot at the kids' swimming lessons. You have to take off your outdoor shoes and, well, I didn't want to get wet socks!

I apologized to the esthetician, telling her that I know they're very contagious. "Oh, please. I'm not exaggerating if I say that every other client has them. I bleach everything and I think I'm genetically incapable of catching them."

Still, now I'm going to be scrupulous about covering my feet until they heal, and probably afterward so I don't catch it again.

So, from this nasty reminder about viruses came a renewed interest in ensuring I have enough Purell. I was going to anyway because of all those reports of people on cruises getting ill. I'm also bringing a bottle of anti-bacterial Febreeze. I intend to spray the bedspread. They don't wash them, you know. I don't even want my capris touching some stranger's spunkum or whatever.

Jules thinks I'm a little off, but any one in my family (extended too) can attest that we're all like this. How many outside of us were washed in Dettol as children? "But Mummy, it's buuuuurning me!" "Hush. That's just the Dettol killing all the bugs on you." Is it any wonder?!?

*********

"Middle Child is going to hell," Husband announced yesterday.

Apparently, some kid in his class was wearing a Sidney Crosby shirt and Middle Child taunted him by saying it was "Sidney Crotch-bee".

Going to hell? No, he's just a Senators fan.

See? It's stuff like that which will make me miss my kids when I'm away on vacation. I'll miss it when Baby Boy climbs on my lap and says, "I have a present for you" and then he plants a kiss right on the lips. Daughter hid love notes in our luggage. It's supposed to be a secret, I think, so I haven't read them yet.

Baby Boy is going around saying he's "going to par-tay" when we're gone. I swear, that kid really will be the president of his frat. This is why I call him Otter, people.

But they will be in excellent hands: the hands that raised me (and washed me in Dettol). I wouldn't be leaving if it were any other way. Probably.

My Ersatz Homemade BodyPump Tracklist

I know the stuff my mother says comes from total care and concern; a really good place in the heart and mind. Like yesterday, when I told her that I plan to go to the gym on vacation, she got all freaked. "Don't you be going there first thing in the morning like you do when you're home. You don't know who's in there lurking behind a treadmill or something."

As a reporter for a large daily newspaper in Toronto, I was sent out countless times in the wee hours of the night to get man-on-the-street reports on shit like gang violence and crack houses. And they didn't send me out to Rosedale either. No way. We're talking Parliament and Gerrard, Chinatown alleys, Regent Fucking Eww-Eww-Eww Park.

And my sweet mother is worried about middle-aged guys on a cruiseship?

I go to the gym at the crack of dawn at home because that's the only time I have to myself. Whether I do that when I'm on vacation is still up in the air. But I do totally intend to hit the gym every day (or so).

My workout depends almost entirely on people barking orders. I really need the classes or else I get lazy. I can probably get on an elliptical trainer and cardio out on my own, but for muscle conditioning, I can only do the BodyPump class. I've been at that for about 18 months, so I'm pretty good at it and have the choreography down for the most part. Some of the music sucks (call me old, but Trance is boring), but I figured out what is looked for in a song they choose for the classes.

So, I'll load my iPod with these and have a go at my very own BodyPump class:

Army of Me - Björk (warm-up)
Pump It Up - Elvis Costello (squats)
Love Shack - The B-52s (chest) (or Salt n' Pepa's Push It? I'm Not Dead by Pink?)
In Between Days - The Cure (back)
Take Your Mama Out - Scissor Sisters (triceps)
Pump It - Black Eyed Peas (biceps)
Castles In The Sky - Ian van Dahl (lunge - trance, I know, but I'm really good at this one in the class)
Sabotage - The Beastie Boys (shoulder)
Lose Yourself - Eminem (abs)
Bobcaygeon - The Tragically Hip (cool down and because I need some Canadiana while I'm away)

Kinda commercial, I know, and really old school but it's worth a shot. And some of these songs are from the class, too. But if you have any suggestions, let me know.

Fight the Power!

I went for a check-up this week. I'm fighting genetics, people. I'm fighting hard.

I am at the gym five fricking times a week. I do nearly two hours of cardio in those five days, as well as muscle conditioning. Yet I still look pregnant. I've lowered my cholesterol, but not nearly what it should be due to the exercising and taking those awful salmon oil pills.

Many, many tell me that I am the spitting image of my paternal grandmother, which is true. Of all her bajillion grandchildren, I took after her the most. And she was obese. Funny, though, I have no recollection of her eating. Ever. Cooking? yes. Drinking coffee? Yes. Eating? No. And Nanna had loooots of heart trouble. As does my dad (not nearly as much as she did, but enough to say he has heart disease).

Anyway, that visit made me even more determined to spend my Good Friday morning at the gym. I completed that 90-minute exercise class (props to Jules) and will be starting a new diet on Monday (more fish, less meat and no junk food until Sunday). It will be just in time for the vacation. If you have any words of advice, please comment below or email me.

When you see your kid's school on Call Display, you kind of don't want to answer because, nine times out of ten, it isn't good news.

Yesterday, I received one such call from the school principal.

"There was an altercation in the playground with Middle Child. He and his buddy were trying to get in on a basketball game with the more athletic boys in his class. Anyway, they didn't want any new players and that somehow escalated to one boy announcing, 'Let's attack Middle Child.' He was caught and another boy spat in his mouth."

Ew. And oh!

"So, Jennifer, I'm calling for two reasons. One, Middle Child has calmed down some. He spent the remainder of the lunch hour with his teacher in the staff room, but as he knows more about bacteria and viruses than the average 6-year-old, he was really, uh, grossed out. We have some anti-bacterial mouthwash. It contains alcohol. May we have permission to let him gargle?"

He could drink the whole bottle, as far as I was concerned.

"Secondly, he hasn't mentioned anything but do you think it would help if you came by the school to give him a hug?"

If it were Daughter, I'd already have my coat on, but Middle Child would be mortified if I pulled him out of class. I mean, when I'm in the school tutoring other children, he doesn't even acknowledge me! No, I think it is best that I stay home. If he can't settle down in class, then give me a call and I'll come by.

I spoke with his teacher after school. She was dry heaving while she was telling me. Anyway, he settled in and seemed comforted to have that bottle of mouthwash at the secretary's desk if he needed more, she said. But the whole incident ruined her day. She explained that after giving the kids a piece of her mind, she was so put off by the whole thing that she scrapped her plans to do something all Eastery with them. Thankfully, no one knew of these plans. As if Middle Child doesn't feel ostracized enough, imagine if the others knew he was part of the reason why the class didn't get treats or do a fun craft?

It was report card week. Daughter did excellently. Mostly As with big improvements in math (two As and a B+). Middle Child got A+s all the way through ... except gym and drama/dance. And in the "Learning Skills" section, he only got a "satisfactory" in the "patience with other students" section.

Good Morning!

This is what I woke up to.

And we're expecting 15 cm more this weekend. This is when my daffodils were just about to bloom.

We had a green Christmas, but we'll have a white Easter.

What I'm Up To

I went to the One of a Kind Craft Show in Toronto on Sunday with my pal Jules. Then we hit Lick's and - gasp! - Square One Mall, for old time's sake.

I joined Facebook and, after reading what my younger cousins are up to (they are about 20 years younger than I am), I should be ashamed to admit that my Sunday outing was the most fun I've had in absolutely ages.

I picked up the world's coolest keychain. It's made of pink marbled vinyl with a clear vinyl bubble in the centre which holds a jewelry box ballerina. Okay, it's the most I ever spent on a keychain, but this guy's work was so incredibly unique. He had these insane backpacks that, if I had $80, I would have bought one for one of my kids.

My mum called yesterday in full-out freaky mode. "You gotta find a place where you live to hold your sister's wedding reception!" Didn't she elope in order to avoid fuss? Well, yes, but now there's an apparent need to hold a party. I called a handful of places, but I don't know if anyone from, say, Toronto would want to make the effort to drive 90 minutes. I mean, every time we go to a family gathering in Toronto, we're bound to get at least one person commenting how great it is that we came "all this way." It's not a big deal to us but we're used to it.

Anyway, I found one place that seems to be a great deal. If people want to make a day of it, come visit and walk around downtown here during the day and go to the reception for dinner, it might work. But that may not work for everyone. Anyway, whatever. I did what my mother told me to do, like the good girl I am.

No laughing!

And I was told I was Mother-of-the-Year by Daughter and Middle Child because I bought those Vachon Igor muffins for their lunchboxes. Whole grain, trans fat free, with prebiotics and calcium, and nut-free, I thought it would be a nice treat. And it was on sale. Tried one. Tastes like cake. No wonder they loved it.

Speaking of eating crap I shouldn't, I've signed up for a 90-minute exercise class. I'll be doing BodyPump (weights), BodyStep (step aerobics), BodyAttack (high impact aerobics), BodyJam (a hip-hop cardio class) and BodyFlow (a mix of yoga, pilates and tai chi). I'm hoping to finish the hour-and-a-half. If I crumple to a heap and cry like a baby ... or die ... it has been a slice!

Indeed!

It's amazing what you'll find at the supermarket these days.