Surprise!

On Friday, I had 10 kids over for a birthday slumber party for Daughter. It went off without a hitch and ended in the requisite pillow fight. The last kid to fall asleep did so at about 2:30, which was kinda crazy because on the very next day, Baby Sister and The Boyfriend got married in Niagara Falls.

Let me backtrack. About a month ago, Baby Sister called The Boyfriend at work to complain about how tired she is and how demanding her job can be. She mentioned off-hand that it would be great to re-charge at a weekend getaway somewhere. She wasn't asking or anything.

The Boyfriend called back a little while later to tell her that he booked a weekend in Niagara Falls.

Fast-forward to Friday, February 9. They went to a pub. Boyfriend left first; Baby Sister dragged her ass home a bit later. How about when we go to Niagara Falls next week, we'll get married, Boyfriend asked. But let's keep it secret, he added.

Yeah, well, that lasted a nanosecond, I'm sure. But I have to tell my parents, Baby Sister said. Boyfriend agreed. And your parents? Okay. How about my sisters?

I was out having a few drinks with Jules when my house was called. When I came in, Husband said, "Call your sister."

"But it's after 10! It's too late."

"Call you sister."

"What's wrong?"

"Jeez, Jen, just call your sister!"

At the time, the plans were pretty sketchy. They didn't even know if they'd be able to get married, what with having to find someone to perform it as well as getting a license.

It was the day after, when Baby Sister was over at my house, when Boyfriend called to say it would be on Saturday February 17 at 4 p.m.

We went to my cousin's fiancee's shower, sworn to secrecy. Being a bridal shower, talk kept coming back to weddings and it pretty much burned our tongues not to say anything. Middle Sister didn't even tell her kids because she wasn't sure they'd be able to keep a secret (my mum told them later).

So the week went on. Everyone made their own preparations. Mum went blonde (!) and went to Michael's to make bouquets (including some flowers from her own headpiece into the new bouquet). I bought a dress for myself (think goth June Cleaver) and matching velour and rhinestone tops and taffeta skirts for Daughter and Niece who were flower girls. And, of course, also prepared for Daughter's birthday party. Baby Sister tried on about 50 dresses and settled on a purple chiffon Anne Klein from the Bay. Just so she could be like every bride-to-be, she had her obligatory meltdown when she found a stain on the inside of the dress when she took it home. Boyfriend got it dry cleaned and it looked great.

Saturday came. Mum and Dad picked up my grandmother and made their way to Niagara Falls, where Baby Sister and The Boyfriend were already staying since Friday with friends of theirs from the Ottawa Valley. My family met up with my parents and Baby Sister at the hotel, with Middle Child screeching in delight as we drove through Clifton Hill, noting all the places he wants to visit for his birthday. We overshot the drive time and got there about an hour early, but my friend came over to my house to do my hair and Daughter's, so that saved us some time.

We met again at the little chapel, not five minutes away (and really close to the Flying Saucer Restaurant which is shaped like, uh, a flying saucer. We really are going back to Niagara Falls for Middle Child's birthday and that will be my choice of attraction). The Boyfriend's parents were already there, as were Middle Sister's family. There was a wedding before ours so we stayed in the basement, where Baby Sister had her last freak out (a minor one) when she thought they needed to pay in cash.

Four o'clock came around and the pastor, or whomever he was, got us organized. Daughter and Niece were flower girls (and sooo thrilled to be) and were taught how to walk and reminded to smile. I think I remember a little giggling when the time came.

"Who's the maid of honour?"

"She is," Baby Sister and Mum pointed at me. I thought I was only going to sign a few documents after the ceremony. Nope. Up the aisle I went with a bouquet I borrowed from the chapel. It matched nicely with the ones Mum made, albeit the flowers were the ones with the fake dew on it.

The pastor dude had told Dad, who led Baby Sister up the aisle, that he'll be asking, "Who gives this woman to be wed?" Dad said, "And I'll say, 'I do.'" Baby Sister and I suggested, "How about saying, 'My wife and I do?'" And he replied with a curt, "No." Baby Sister sighed and we knew not to pursue it.

So with a click of the remote, the chapel filled with the sound of Pachelbel's Canon, creating the trifecta as now all my sisters and I walked up the aisle to that song. The pastor pulled out a brochure and read from it through the ceremony, with the exception of a little crib note he pulled out with the top ten bits of advice to a happy marriage (come together on financial matters, respect the past but look forward and plan for the future, resolve problems before bedtime, etc).

I noticed The Boyfriend's father weeping, but my grandmother, famous for her very loud crying at weddings, did not. I asked her later what she thought. "It was different, but it was still a wedding and that's the main thing. All weddings are nice and this one is nice most of all because your sister is so happy."

We signed the documents (wow, there was a lot) while some country song and then Ricky Martin's She's All I Ever Had came on, which was pointed out by Middle Sister in a stage whisper they must have heard in Norway. Niece was dying to toss her bouquet, but I advised both girls to stand as still as possible and not to say, as they planned, "Ewww gross" when the wedded couple kiss (and they didn't). In fact, all the kids were well behaved. Youngest Grandson was in the back playing with a potted plant. He was a little vocal, but not for long, and wasn't distracting. The others were quiet as anything, as I gave them all lollypops before the ceremony started. Gotta have something to occupy them!

And, as quick as that, the pastor said, "May I be the first to present to you the new Mr. and Mrs. Boyfriend's Full Name." Baby Sister giggled a bit, probably because she was deliriously happy and also because she's keeping her maiden name. We walked out to the back of the chapel (where there was another couple waiting to get married). The first thing the Boyfriend's mother asked was, "Are you really going to be Mrs. Boyfriend?" "No, you'll still be the only one," Baby Sister said, and then turning to Boyfriend's father, "I hope you don't mind." And, being reasonable and soooo nice, they said they weren't offended in the least and laughed it off.

(They did ask me later about my experiences having kept my name too, particularly when it concerns the children. I assured them that it isn't that rare any more and I haven't run into any problems at school or with other parents or children. "And as far as my own kids are concerned, they don't know me as Jennifer Last Name. I'm Mummy.")

From the chapel, we went to the Hilton where we had a private dining room reserved for us on the 33rd (top) floor. We were a little early, so most went to the lobby bar while Middle Sister, myself and our husbands watched over our kids who were longing to go for a dip into the hotel pool.

Before long, we made our way up to the restaurant, where the staff had the menu printed for us on the large banquet table where we all sat together. As I understand it, the selections were made by The Boyfriend, who has an exquisite palate. And the view! All I can say is that it was breathtaking! As tacky as Niagara Falls can be, you just can't deny the majesty of the falls themselves. Incredible.

So with Middle Sister bringing out the Playdough (God bless her) to occupy the kids, we started with some Niagara wine (of course) and all sorts of different breads. Then came a wedge of panko-crusted camembert with flat bread and red pepper jelly, which I had to share with Baby Boy. Then we had mixed greens with an herb vinigrette, which Boyfriend's mother gave to Daughter and Niece to share. We then had a choice between rack of lamb, two grilled chicken breasts or prime rib, followed by our choice of dessert (chocolate caramel cheesecake with dark chocolate holding it together in chocolate and caramel sauces, an ice cream truffle in a pastry cup with berries or a lemon curd tart with raspberry coulis. And coffee. The kids had a huge mound of chicken fingers and fries, with mint ice cream for dessert. The portions were HUGE for everyone. And the quality was excellent. Service was wonderful and they were very patient and accommodating with all of us.

I could also go on about how Daughter and Niece thought it was the world's most fanciest restaurant, mostly based on the waterfall faucets and fresh towels in the bathroom.

After prompting from Middle Sister ("Welcome to the family. Now, listen to what I have to tell you..."), Boyfriend added to the many lovely speeches (including Purehearted Nephew's, "You love my aunt because she's beautiful") where he thanked every single person at the table for getting him and Baby Sister to the altar. The only one that left me wondering was when he thanked Middle Child for the trip to the Science Centre because that day got him thinking about getting married.

Everyone had an incredible time. It was intimate. It was private. It really felt like we were permitted to witness the love Baby Sister and the Boyfriend have.

I guess I'm going to have to call Boyfriend something different now.

The Police and the Trots

I went to my cousin's fiancée's bridal shower on Sunday. It would have been really nice had Daughter not put on the drama quite so much. She's developed the ability to cry at the drop of a hat. I'm wondering if I should really, REALLY talk to her about menstruation. Ick.

It would also had been nice if I didn't get the trots afterward. Middle Sister was also ill.

She drove us there and back, which was nice. She was so excited because she was going to put the kids to bed early that night to catch the Grammys. "I gotta watch The Police, man!"

I told her I might or might just find the clip on YouTube after or something. I then reminded her what they were like in concert.

"Oh, yeah. They WERE kind of boring, weren't they?"

And then I told her I was hesitant because I really didn't care much for the musical wank Sting would put into the middle of songs (or at least that was what he used to do).

"But you'll watch it anyway, Jen, just like me. It'll be for old-time's sake."

And she was right.

And I was right, too. They were as dull as watching paint dry. Andy Summers looked fabulous for a senior citizen. I saw him recently on The Hour. I swear, he hasn't aged much. I was digging the glasses and grey hair on Stewart Copeland. He was always cool. And Sting. And musical wank.

Of course, news was released yesterday regarding - surprise! - a Police reunion tour. Tickets are $225. Yeah, right. I've seen them before when they were young and active. It cost me $30 and opening for them were The Talking Heads, The English Beat, Joan Jett and, er, I'm forgetting (Middle Sister: help me out).

Anyway, I turned off the Grammys earlier than Husband thought I would. I mean, it was like, "Welcome to the Grammys. I'm Jamie Foxx and, yet again, I'm going to spend the first few minutes here acknowledging all the African-Americans in the first couple of rows." Boring!

But, shhh, I was loving the Shakira/Wyclef show. Not very punk rock of me, is it?

Mommy, Wow. I'm a Big Kid Now.

Baby Boy turned 4 yesterday.

We bought him a bike with training wheels, which he needed and yet he probably wouldn't have ever asked for. He's been riding it around the house all day today. And he's good at it. He'll be doing wheelies by summer.

Someone must have told him that he'll be going to Junior Kindergarten when he's 4. Today, a nursery school day for him, we pulled up to the older kids' school, which is right next door. He was ready to get out. When I walked him across the parking lot to his nursery school, he flipped out. "But I'm 4! I go with them now! I'm big!"

Thankfully, it only took 10 minutes to calm him down and get him settled at nursery school.

I'm reading Bridge to Terabithia to the older kids. They really want to see the movie that's coming out in a week. I was read the book by my Grade 4 teacher. I know what's in it. I'd rather they find out before we see the movie so we can discuss the subject matter.

Elroy is my Homeboy

I knew the day would come that Middle Child would ask me a question I couldn't answer.

I thought it would be about chemistry or quantum physics or calculus. But no. He got me on vocabulary. Me! On vocabulary!

"Mum, how do you spell 'acolyte?'"

I had never heard this word before.

"Er, could you put it in a sentence?"

"Dr. Frankenstein's acolyte was meddling."

I confessed I had no clue. We were at Baby Boy's nursery school at the time and I didn't have access to a dictionary. Needless to say, Middle Child wasn't impressed.

I told this story to Baby Sister. "So, Jen, are you prepared to have a son who is smarter than you?"

"But he already IS!"

And on a different note, I have an excuse to watch the Grammys. The Police will be playing. If you knew me when I was a preteen, you would understand my excitement. I went to The Police Picnics. I still love Outlandos D'Amour, good stuff before Sting got all academic and boring. Andy Summers was recently interviewed on The Hour. He's still so damned cool. And he's as old as my mum.

Majhor Loss

Do you remember watching Toronto Rocks after school in the early 80s? Every kid my age from the Hogtown region did, just as we also watched The Flintstones on CFTO when we were home for lunch.

The host, John Majhor, went barefoot behind the desk. I didn't know this until he was interviewing Julian Cope of The Teardrop Explodes. Cope couldn't concentrate because he couldn't get over the fact that Majhor wasn't wearing shoes. "I'm a radio guy," he explained.

Anyway, Baby Sister told me that John Majhor died from cancer on Tuesday. He was 53.

The Best Slumber Party Invitation Ever

Come on! How cute is this?!?

I printed the invitation on coloured card stock (8.5 x 11" in three columns). Using scrapbooking paper, I made a sheet (with a coordinating strip of paper for the edge) and glued it to the bottom of the invite. The "sheet" is cut a third of the way down. With regular white paper, I cut a pillow shape and glued it on to the top. Using a regular black pen, I "embroidered" the invitee's name, using a mix of dots and dashes.

Husband watched me and Daughter make one. "What a waste of time," he said. "Why didn't you just go to the store where they have general invitations and fill in the blanks? That would be the easiest."

I'm sorry, but wouldn't you love to get an invitation like this? I think it's inventive, cute, makes a point, memorable and personal.

Or maybe it's just a girl thing.

Meat My Husband

Remember that foray into vegetarianism/veganism that Husband tried for, oh, two days?

He's put it in reverse.

Now, I don't cook meat every day. Coming from Maltese stock, where meat is at a premium, I didn't grow up eating meat- vegetable-potato meals. So, like my mother, I alternate meat and meatless meals through the week. I make a lovely grilled tilapia in lemon, garlic and olive oil.

Well, Husband's new year's resolution is to gain weight. He re-joined a gym near his work (I give it until golf season warms up) and has gone back to making these protein shakes. A bucket of the powder costs $80. Of course, to keep his title of World's Most Expensive Husband, he has to buy the premium stuff sold at the gym.

And, with that, came the request to cook red meat every fricking day.

I try to introduce the kids to new flavours all the time. I cook a new recipe every week - maybe even two. I want to cultivate in my children a varied palate so they don't end up being picky eaters or have eating disorders or whatnot. Enjoy food, babies mine. So to cook only beef, er, that's a little too limiting for my plan.

On Monday, I made a curried beef with lots of tomatoes. On Tuesday, I made penne with a "meat" sauce (it was actually soy). On Wednesday, we had hamburgers and sweet potato fries. Thursday's dinner was Yves veggie tacos.

He figured it out that day. The jig was up.

On Friday, I made beef stew.

And then my mother came over on Saturday with a hunk of slow-cooked roast.

And here's a clip of what dinner is NOT like at my house: A Date With Your Family. Why not? Because I can't break Husband of the habit of reading the newspaper at the table. He was raised by wolves, you see.

Middle Child's Big Day

It will probably be one of those days he'll remember his whole life.

Baby Sister and The Boyfriend took Middle Child to the Ontario Science Centre for the Marvel Comics exhibit on Saturday. I had to wake him up a little after 6 that morning in order to get to her place at Bathurst and St. Clair-ish. He just bounded out of his bed and quickly got dressed in the clothes he laid out the night before.

By all accounts, it was a great exhibit, which explained the science behind the superheroes' powers. Of course, Middle Child also had them walk through every square inch of the Science Centre itself; not just that exhibit.

The Boyfriend always thought that there was something in the boy that might find magic appealing. So they also took him to a magic shop and bought him a few easy tricks. He was going to bring them to school today to perform in front of his class, but the buses were cancelled due to icy roads. He'd rather have a full class.

Science and magic. That in itself should have made the day wonderful for Middle Child, but I think the fact that he was singled out (this was his Christmas gift from them) and got some "alone time" with his auntie and sorta-uncle made last Saturday just incredible.

He's Bringing Sexy Back

I know it's not very punk rock of me, but I enjoy Justin Timberlake a teeny tiny bit.

No, Up YOURS

So James Kopp is being retried, of sorts.

Kopp was already convicted of the murder of an ob/gyn who provided abortions. He's currently serving 25-years-to-life but American federal prosecutors want to make sure they guy stays in prison forever.

Good, I say. And I hope he gets raped and then pregnant and needs an abortion.

Oh wait! Men can't get pregnant! They don't need to make that abortion decision!

But this fucker wanted to make the decision for me and womenkind.

I still stand firm that it really is a woman's choice. It may or may not be something I'd do, but who am I to tell another woman what to do? And I know what it's like to be pregnant, to go through labour, to raise children. Outside of the last thing, how many men know? Not a one; not even the best male ob/gyn. And THAT was paraphrased from the great guy who delivered my boys.

I Still Sleep Well at Night

After years of complaining, Husband finally agreed with me that we needed a new mattress. We bought one last week and had arranged for it to be delivered yesterday.

They came, alright. The older guy came in first.

"We take another set out, yeah? Where it be?"

Geez, bozo. Look at my house. Where do you think the bedrooms would be in a two-storey home?

When I told him, he shook his head and went outside. He helped the younger guy, talking busily in an eastern European language. And as someone from an immigrant family, I'm very conscious of two people speaking in a language foreign to others nearby. It's a huge exclusion and, frankly, rude. My parents never do this (a concerted effort on their part) but other relatives were famous for it.

Anyway, they left the new mattress set in my front hallway for the time being and went upstairs to bring down the old box spring. For a couple of big guys who move furniture for a living, there sure were a lot of grunts and groans. And they were being really ginger about it.

"It no fit. We damage your home, we bring this down. We no want to do that. It not good for you or us."

"Well, it fit going up."

"You buy house with bed already?"

"No. How about putting it down over the bannister? We moved only three years ago. I'm pretty sure that's how it got up."

"No. Movers took out bannister."

"No. Nothing was removed or damaged in any way. They took the mattress up the stairs and the box spring went over the bannister. I could help you."

They laughed at that. "No, maybe you not see. They take out bannister." Completely dismissed like some cat purring for attention. I asked them to try again, but they continued to ignore me and talk to each other.

"You get husband and strong friends to get new set up and bring old set down. You call Sears and we pick up." Very professional. And they left. Yeah, I'll catch you later, bitches!

They weren't in the house for five minutes. They didn't even TRY to bring down the old mattress. So, to prove a point, if only to myself, 51 lb. Daughter and short little me brought it down and put it on the porch. Our home is now looking very Sanford and Son, by the way. Anyway, after that, there was no living with Daughter who was going around feeling very tough and wanting to high-five me all the time. "Girl power! Eh, Mum?"

Of course, she was a little freaked when the delivery guys were here, practically coddling me while steam was coming out of my ears. She called Husband for a play-by-play.

So against my mother's advice ("If you do it and you get hurt, Sears can't be held responsible"), Husband came home after his very busy day and we did the job. Husband, who is 140 lbs. soaking wet, and the little wife who has an opinion.

And then I called Sears.

And the new mattress is great. For the first time in three years, I slept undisturbed.

Pat and Chris

Bet you didn't know they made lesbian Cabbage Patch Dolls now.

Actually, they're boys; Christmas gifts to Daughter and Niece, and quite loved.

Egg Carton Creche

Egg Carton Creche
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

Of all the presents given and received, I think this one is my favourite. Middle Child made it for my mum. He told no one what it was and wrapped it himself.

I think I looked just like Mary after I gave birth as well.

Yes, it was even better than the gag gift Baby Sister gave to Middle Child and Eldest Nephew: canned snails and a styrofoam head.

Christmas was good. Hectic, but good. Daughter woke up on Christmas Day at about 5:55. And so our day began.

We got to my grandmother's a little after noon, where we had dinner for the whole extended family (save a few people). We played a little bingo, drank a little wine, had to listen to my Colombian aunt whip out her guitar and rip into Feliz Navidad again. Daughter got to be Santa this year (she called out the names of the gifts' recipients), which thrilled her. It was my grandfather's job. When he died, it went to my eldest uncle. And last year, the first Christmas after his death, probably the shyest uncle I have was told to take the chair. He was more than happy to relinquish the job, I think.

Slept over my parents' place. My mum had lots of work lined up for the kids to do in preparation for our celebration on Boxing Day. Daughter, Middle Child and I made Christmas crackers (I found the snaps at Michael's). I put a bit of thought into buying the prizes, ensuring they were going to be suitable for boys, girls and adults. But that was for nothing because my niece ended up opening them all. I didn't even know until I walked into the kitchen, garbage everywhere and I catch her tossing a pore strip, saying, "Garbage present!"

Needless to say, I was livid. Mostly, I was upset with Daughter who, for a time, helped her. Angered me on many levels.

But I digress...

Yesterday was spent again at my parents'. Mum actually cooked a big honking meal. Baby Sister and I brought some appetizers and dessert, but, really, it's the only day of the year that my mother doesn't mind being chained in the kitchen.

No one was sick, which was nice because Middle Sister's boys were quite miserable on Christmas. I guess they're carrying on her torch. She was always sick through Christmas when she was little.

We had a little party with friends on New Year's Eve. I fast forward the clocks three hours so the kids can count down to midnight, but it didn't matter this year. At about that time, my friends' youngest was puking. Party over.

Daughter and Middle Child were still raring to go. "Please let us stay up to midnight for real," they pleaded. Sly mumma that I am, I said they could and I turned it to Newfoundland TV. God, I love the satellite.

I was surprised to see them still awake. The night before, we had all attended Husband's lab tech's vegan wedding reception. Daughter, who remembers my cousin's wedding three years ago, was a little shocked to see a buffet, a cash bar, and that no one was dancing. We had a great time, though. Daughter and Baby Boy immediately made similarly-aged friends. Middle Child was happy to sit with me and drink forbidden pop for once.

And now, Husband has gone back to work and the kids still have one week before school starts. They had a playdate mid-last week and will have at least another one this week. But they aren't going nutty. And there's lots of left overs.

Tis the Season

Everyone has their own Christmas traditions. Some are your standard stockings at daybreak and a turkey dinner with plum pudding and hard sauce for dessert. Others spend the day at a soup kitchen, helping out those who have nothing.

I found out yesterday that someone I'm related to (not by blood, thank God) plans to start a new tradition for herself. I should first start by saying that she's not one to believe in Christmas as she isn't a Christian. She kind of has a self-styled religion that she takes from Wicca, Shamanism, and Isis worship, if you will. And it changes at her whim.

That being said, one person she told her plans to feels that she may have her nose out of joint for not being included in anyone's Christmas celebration. "Why the hell should she be invited? She couldn't care less about Christmas and she isn't rational to start with anyway."

Whatever.

Anyway, this relative had told two people, on separate occasions, that her Christmas Day plans are to go around breaking other people's Christmas decorations and then going out for Chinese.

Bah humbug.

For a while, a big chunk of her family didn't buy that she is mentally ill with bi-polar disorder. We had a big ol' family gathering yesterday. Yeah, uh, that opinion has changed.

Obviously, the woman needs help, but she doesn't think she does. And that is the catch-22 of the illness.

All the same, and call me a total callous bitch (it's okay, I've heard worse from the person in question), but I am absolutely going to be screening my calls for the next little while.

New and Improved

We got a new hamster last night. It's a sweet dwarf hamster, dark grey in colour. Daughter is so thrilled, but still holds hope that she'll find Peewee. She's no idiot, though. She has entertained the thought that it might be dead, but she is an optimist.

Husband likes the new one. It's way more docile than the last. And it didn't bite him.

Three Wise Women

I had a lovely conversation with my neighbours today. Okay, it bordered on the blasphemous, which is funny because we were standing in the church parking lot.

"If there were three wise WOMEN, they would have asked for directions and have arrived on time."

"And they would have helped deliver the baby," my neighbour added (she's a nurse). "And then they'd clean up the stable a little bit."

"And forget about frankincense. They would have brought practical gifts." This neighbour works in retail.

"And made some casseroles for Mary to store for later."

Peewee's Big Adventure

As hamsters are wont to do, Peewee escaped.

It probably happened on Thursday night. I went to feed it on Friday at dinnertime and saw that the cap on the end of the tube popped off and the hamster was gone.

Where ever she is, I'm sure she's regretting her decision. Clean cage, food and treats on a regular basis, love and play from Daughter.

Yes, Daughter was positively distraught. As soon as we found out, the whole family totally cleaned the ground floor where the cage is. I checked the stairs to see for "signs" that she may have climbed it. There wasn't any.

In fact, there was no sign (or "sign", if you like) of Peewee anywhere. We checked everywhere. We even pulled out the stove and fridge. Husband and I stayed up Friday night (we rented An Inconvenient Truth - everyone should see it and then do their part). We listened hard, in the dark, for scurrying sounds until I started doing the head whips and packed it in just after midnight. Devoted dad that he is, Husband even went around the house at 4 a.m. to listen and did so again last night.

My theory is this: Peewee made her way off the dining room sideboard where her cage is, scurried close to the walls and went down the floor grates (our home was built in 1905) through the duct work and met a fiery death in the furnace. Seriously, I hope this is what happened. I, for one, don't want to be playing the "Where's the smell coming from" game.

Husband disagrees with me. "I'd have heard her if she went into the ducts." Not if you were sleeping, Steve Austin!

We're giving it a week and then we'll welcome Peewee #2, with Daughter's blessing.

Meanwhile, her faith is being put to the test. "I prayed to God and asked all the saints to help me find her." I reached into the deep recesses to find the proper spiritual response "God's will, blah, blah, blah" but I don't think she's buying that. Nothing like having doubts so close to Christmas.

Nothin' says lovin' like...

If you know what Husband looks like, you'd be surprised to learn that cute-faced husky boys tickle my fancy.

Happy Monday, y'all.

Trick Monkey

Baby Boy is registered for kindergarten next September. It was an exercise in futility, frankly, as I had to make an appointment for some woman from the county health board to "interview" him so they can assess his abilities and readiness for school.

Uh, I'm his parent. I say he's ready for school (as am I). Are my taxes not good enough for you?

Anyway, the kid was not pleased to be pulled away from home to perform like some kind of trick monkey. I tried to diffuse the situation, telling the woman that the child goes to nursery school and if there's a problem, his teacher will contact her. "Oh, he goes to nursery school? We can go there to assess him!" And she started clearing things away.

"Uh, yeah, it's like this. If you think my son would prefer you pulling him away from his friends and a gym full of ride-on toys and all the Hot Wheels and blocks he could play crash-up with, you're sorely mistaken. Nu-uh. Gimme a minute."

So I turned our backs to her and whispered in Baby Boy's ear, "If you do what this woman asks of you, I'll give you some jellybeans at home." Of course, I didn't want this health board so-and-so to know that I bribe my kids. Next thing I'll hear is a knock on the door from Children's Aid.

Sure enough, Baby Boy saddled back to the table and said, smacking his hands down on the table, "Let's get to work, lady."

Needless to say, the little guy did swimmingly, easing through all her hoops with ease and his usual charm and precociousness that makes him so appealing, even to strangers at the grocery store.

And the older two kids got incredible report cards. Middle Child got straight As (many A+s) and one B-...in gym!

Dead Squirrel

Dead Squirrel
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

Squirrels go all, well, squirrelly in autumn in their preparations for winter.

I ran my car over one the other day.

I was taking the kids to school (yes, we were late again). I wasn't driving fast or anything. In fact, I knew I was going to hit it before it actually happened because the squirrel hesitated.

"What did you run over, Mummy?" Daughter asked.

Should I lie? Deciding against that, I said, "It was a squirrel."

"How late are we?" asked Middle Child, "because I'd like to go see the guts."

I thought the kids were going to freak. We felt the bump and everything. I promised them I'd show them after school if it was still there. Baby Boy and I checked it out when we got back home. It looked like I snapped its neck as I ran over its head. Only the eyeball popped out.

This happened right in front of the church I live near. At least it was on consecrated ground.

I'd make a horrible Buddhist.

Dr. Hook Was Just a Liiiiiiittle High

Your Tax Dollars In Action

My uncle presents not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times to a big city hospital emergency with severe abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting. They finally keep him overnight for tests and observation, but send him home without a concrete diagnosis. "Welcome to your forties," the physician says.

Shit, I better be bracing myself then. Forty is dangerously close for me.

My uncle just turned 40 and is the most muscular guy I'm related to. Big guns, I swear. He has a physical job, is very active recreationally, and, outside of smoking since he was a teenager, is a pretty healthy guy.

Where is Dr. House when you need him?

"...I'm not using drugs anymore. I am, however, still hooked on phonics." - House

He's Gifted But He Still Can't Tie Shoelaces

Middle Child was quite indignant at the concept of Yul from Survivor possibly being voted out.

"But he's the smartest one," he said. "Why would anyone want to vote out someone who can help them back at camp? It's so unfair! They're probably just jealous."

Recently, his school had assessed him for his academic standing. Turns out that he's at a Grade 3 level.

"In our day, we would have kids like him skip a grade," the principal explained but I said (without Husband's knowledge, but he thankfully agreed with me later) that I was not at all interested in that.

So now, his teacher and the school's resource teacher will be preparing special homework for him. That means I'll be teaching him. Oh.

Action Doesn't Only Take Place on the Field

I haven't looked, but I'm sure there are comments going around that the CFL is so "budget" that their prized trophy ends up snapping in half.

Is it any wonder? I mean, I'm sure that thing has seen some action over the years: people drinking out of it, getting manhandled in bars (let alone on the football field), etc.

Like most sports trophies, the Grey Cup is permitted to stay with team members for a day-ish. And not to implicate anyone, but, er, I know someone who was allowed to have the trophy for a little while. Out of that little stay came a roll of Polaroid film starring the Grey Cup.

...someone eating cereal out of it.
...someone in bed with it, smoking a cigarette.
...someone putting it over their head, pretending to get bangs cut.

The top of the Grey Cup snapped off? I'm not surprised.

As a Rule, I Don't Watch Daytime TV

Pickles! I swear to God!!!

If I wanted to ditch Husband, I wouldn't trade him in for an ex-con anyway

If this is someone's idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.

Yesterday, I got a call from a woman named Alison from an internet dating service.

"In your initial contact, you asked a representative to phone you with more information about what we can offer," Alison said.

"Buuuut, I never contacted you in the first place," I replied. "You have the right name and the right phone number, but I'm not interested, thanks."

"Are you sure? Do you, er, want me to call you later, if you're understanding me?"

"I get what you're trying to say, but there's no one here but me. Sorry you were led down the garden path, so to speak."

I hung up and thought, "Wow, that was odd." Then I thought, what if Husband picked up the phone? What if Alison or whomever left a message with him? I'd have some explaining to do, for certain.

If I find out who did this, I'm already thinking of ways to get him or her back. Sleep well, fucker.

Chicken and Wal-Mart

How does one spend nearly $400 on groceries?

Perhaps buying six trays of boneless, skinless chicken breasts will help. Oddly, what if the person buying it isn't really a fan of chicken? But this happened in real life, as my kids would say.

Buying all sorts of organic or otherwise purportedly-labelled healthy products will raise the total. And, even though it is a healthy choice, if you let it sit in the fridge to rot, it didn't do you any favours.

Anyway, I'm not sure how he did it, but Husband managed to rack up the biggest grocery bill ever in our history. This was a couple of weeks ago, and, believe me, it didn't last longer than most trips. In fact, I think it lasted less because he didn't buy all of the staples I use. How nice to buy curry paste and fish oil, but I'm not making Indian or pad thai every day, you know?

Man, we've come a long way when we were first living together. Salad days for certain, as we would only bring $50 and a calculator to the grocery store, making sure we didn't spend more than that for the week. And it was tough: remember this was before everything was made in China. Few things cost just a dollar.

Segue.

We have municipal elections tomorrow. One of the big topics is the possibility for a Wal-Mart to come to town. They already bought a chunk of land, but it is zoned industrial so they're taking the city to court. Nice.

I can't say that I've never shopped there, but I don't go out of my way to do so. For instance, the older kids needed skating helmets. We were late in the season to get them. We checked Canadian Tire, and the usual suspects in town, but we're not going to spend $80 each for two kids who couldn't care less about ice time. So, we drove 20 minutes out of town and hit Wal-Mart. It wasn't any cheaper than Canadian Tire, but they had them. Lots of them.

In fact, they had lots of everything. Husband hardly ever shops. He was a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store. Getting back in the car, he said, "If Wal-Mart comes to town, it will swallow it. I totally see what so many people are upset about."

I don't know if it would decimate the downtown core, what with all the boutiques and specialty shops. They're so tourist-driven. I can't see a tourist coming in and saying, "Let's go to the edge of town to see if their Wal-Mart looks just like ours." But the old pharmacy downtown? Gone. The little sporting goods store? Bye-bye. The pet shop? See ya. I'm sure the grocery stores and the Zellers, Sears, and especially the Giant Tiger will be very badly hit.

Middle Sister swears by Wal-Mart. But then she complains that the downtown where she lives is dead. "There's so few shops, really. There's only services like doctor's offices or financial planners and stuff." Guess why?

Love Will Keep Us Together

Last week, Husband and I went to Baby Sister and The Boyfriend's apartment in Toronto to go to a grown-ups-only Halloween party. It was our first is a looooong time.

I went as Marg Delahunty because, though I had a Xena costume (borrowed from my aunt), I couldn't find an appropriate wig. But I had Marg's glasses. Husband went as a pirate. Yeah, with headwear courtesy of a McDonald's Happy Meal. You can take the kids away from the parent, but you can't take the parent out of the man.

I wanted Husband to dress like a hippie and I'd wear a mime costume. Then we could have gone as "peace" and "quiet". My other idea was to go as Ricky and Julian, but Husband is more of a Bubbles kind of guy.

Anyway, I had such a good time. I've always like my sister's friends. She's very social, so she tends to attract very cool, very interesting people. And The Boyfriend is a natural foil for her. He's a born entertainer: he prepared a bajillion dips and stuff, and don't even get me started on the bar he built. She's a born hostess: easily flitting around, sparking up conversations, with her laugh punctuating the five-minute mark. He'd turn on the music; she'd lead the Bunny Hop. He's the Captain to her Tenille.

Kim Jung Il and friend: Scary Jack-o-lantern 2006

Kim Jung Il and friend: Scary Jack-o-lantern 2006
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

I can't say this was my best jack-o-lantern because most people didn't know who it was.

I thought, as I was carving, that people who don't keep up with current events wouldn't recognize the leader of North Korea. That's why I carved a missile and a nuclear explosion on either side of him.

Serves me right for being tongue-in-cheek.

Nitrous oxide is good stuff.

Baby Boy's first teeth erupted at a preposterously young age (almost three months). Probably because of this and genetics (thanks Husband!), the kid has soft teeth.

He had his first cavity at about 12 months, so at his age, he knows all about dental offices. In fact, recently, one of his early cavities popped out.

We went to the pediatric dentist this past week to get the tooth refilled. Earlier, the dentist noticed Baby Boy had loosened a tooth, possibly from his usual active antics. When the dentist got to looking in his mouth now, I mentioned that the tooth was dying and it was shifting.

"That's because it broke from the root and is only holding on by the nerve," the dentist said.

Baby Boy got his nitrous oxide. He had the hygienist in stitches when he was getting the freezing needle. "Dr. Bob, you should trim your nails. They're a little sharp."

The fillings were done quickly but the extraction took little slower than was expected. It turned out the root of the tooth went up really high in his gums.

And it hurt the little booger but I was totally digging the show. Sure, it pained me to see Baby Boy cry, but I was fascinated at the procedure. And I knew it would mean an end to my kid putting his fingers in his mouth. He may even regain his appetite.

So now, Baby Boy is missing a tooth. Thankfully, it isn't in the very front where it would be noticed. However, being off to the side like it is, it wouldn't look out of place if he started chewing a stalk of wheat and wore a floppy straw hat. Yee-haw.

Wee Peewee

Peewee the Hamster
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

"Can this day get any better?" Daughter asked as I tucked her in.

She had a fun day at school. She found out she'll be going to a sleepover with her Brownie pack. Oh yeah, and she finally got a pet.

Please welcome Peewee to our family. She's a cute little hamster, although her name is a little pedantic for my taste.

I have no idea how old she is, so I'm hoping she has at least a year in her.

Wipeout

I found myself with a bit of time so I started to surf the internet for points on hosting the perfect 1957-esque (or is it mid-century modern) Polynesian-themed party.

There were lots of sites that sold tiki-related barware and tips on mixing the most delectable mai tai.

Then I bumped into a boyfriend from my past.

What shocked me wasn't that the guy was still into the things I enjoyed, or that he's married and seems to have a great job, or even that he porked right out and has a comb-over for Pete's sake. What's so disquieting to me is how a whole chunk of my life is over. What was normal for me during this guy's era will probably never happen to me again, even if I wanted them to.

I didn't choose to stop living that life. I didn't even try to consciously continue to live like that. I just didn't notice when it ceased to be.

I'm not in the habit of reflecting on what my life was like 5, 10, 20 years ago – at least not in broad terms. Sure, I'll hear a song on the radio and I can picture what I looked like at the time. I may even get a general feeling of where my head was at. But when I saw this guy's picture on the website, I was disturbed as I realized how certain elements of the things I cherished and thought defined me are utterly dead.

Consider, if you will, all the things from your past that used to happen all the time but never happen anymore and never even cross your mind. For some, it would be keggers in the field or just getting blazingly cemented, or making out with people you just met for a lark. For others, it may be as innocuous as cramming for mid-terms or keeping awake to catch Christopher Ward's City Limits. Whatever. It's almost like those things never happened, or that they happened to someone else.

Maybe they did define me. Maybe I had to experience all that to get to where I am now.

Thanks, I guess, ex-boyfriend. You freaked me out, though.

Failed Experiment

I would say it all started when I decided to clean like a Maltese mother.

I live in a 101-year-old house, so I have to dust very often. I was doing ledges and window sills when I decided that the walls could use a good washing.

I started up in the corner when I noticed these things that looked like rice but had stripes of red through them. They kind of clung to the wall and ceiling. Just like weeds are plantlife growing in places I don't want them to grow, these rice thingies got sucked up by my vacuum cleaner.

An hour later, I noticed that the area where I previously removed these things had a few more.

They're alive, I thought. Shit. I don't know why I didn't think of that before.

I took one down from the wall and inspected it closer. Fuck me, they were some kind of moth larvae. Certainly, I was noticing more moths than usual in the house, but ewww.

So later, I asked Husband to help me move the chesterfield so I could vacuum under it. We had this red area rug in the living room. I say "had" because after we found a foot wide hole in it and noticed a hundred or so of these rice things near it, on it and in it, the rug made its way to the dumpster at Husband's office building. The red stripes? Carpet fibres.

The "old houses need a cat" discussion came up mere hours after. We've been fortunate not to find any signs of mice but we've certainly had our fair share of ants and, now, moths.

I developed a cat allergy in my late teens. It used to be quite awful but I notice that now I can go into a house with a cat and be just fine for hours. How bad are my allergies, I thought. Maybe I've grown out of them?

Discussing this with Daughter's violin teacher, who always seems to be foster caring for a stray, she offered a sweet black kitten that was rescued from a drug house. "Just see if you can handle it," she said. "My husband used to have a cat allergy and it wasn't until we got the first stray that he realized he grew out of it." And so begun the experiment.

Daughter was just thrilled with Houdini and the cat was very friendly. Middle Child was a little freaked out, but he's nervous around all animals. Baby Boy was indifferent but eventually really warmed up and spent the whole day playing with her. She even let him rub his face on her.

We had the kitten for a little over 24 hours. However, I knew we wouldn't be able to keep her after about 3 hours. My nose started dripping within 30 minutes. When I walked Daughter over to her Brownie pack, I cleared up within a few minutes. By bedtime, my eyes were red, swollen and so damned itchy. Husband walked past me as we were tucking in the boys and said, "Look at you! We can't have you like that." So, in hushed tones, we agreed to go downstairs together and break the news to Daughter, who has been begging for a pet for about two years now.

Needless to say, she was devastated. Her cry was soul-wrenching. I felt so incredibly awful to do this to her but, as if she read my mind, she stoically held back her tears to hold my hand and said, "It's not your fault, Mum. I don't want to make you sick but I'm just so disappointed."

We let her stay up as long as she wanted with the cat. I myself had one of the worst sleeps of my life. When I get upset or stressed, I end up either puking or sitting on the toilet. So I would sleep briefly (maybe an hour), and then wake up and greet the porcelain.

Anyway, Daughter was very cool about everything. I'm so amazed at how grown-up and clear-thinking she can be sometimes. It proved to be a hard lesson she learned about love. Sometimes love can hurt because you end up putting the other person's needs before your own.

Like any parent, you want to shield your kid's heart from ever breaking. Little did I know that I would cause the first offence.

I Miss the Nose Ring, Though

Have I mentioned how happy I am that The Hour is back on TV? I missed you, Yorgos.

It's such a great show. How Canadian is it that our public television network would have a news programme that allows for a different view of world events? Something like this would never be on CNN, I bet.

Anyway, they had Jian Ghomeshi on, showing pics of his trip to Los Angeles. There was a small area cordoned off in LAX, possibly for security reasons, that people were respectfully avoiding. It was just yellow tape tacked on to pylons.

"Thank God we weren't there," I said to Husband. "I mean, what would it take for (Baby Boy) to get the idea of knocking them all down?"

"And then airport security would detain him," he replied, "and extract his DNA and then all hell will break loose when they find he has Arabic blood."

Baby Boy's Day at the Dentist

Yesterday was a little slice of hell for me. Baby Boy and his weak tooth enamel went to the new pediodontist. Why did Husband have to pass down all the icky stuff like that? Wasn't the eczema enough?

I tried taking him to our local dentist but since he's had fillings before, he knew just what she was going to do and wasn't buying what she was selling, if you catch my drift.

The receptionist made an appointment with the dentist's friend, a paediatric dentist in London. Never mind the hour-long drive to get there—it's the nine month waiting that I don't agree with. So I asked for someone else who handled, er, special cases.

This guy is in Kitchener (Go, Penguins, go! Really!) and saw us the next day. This was about two weeks ago. He was awesome and really got Baby Boy calmed down. The hygienist was a right beyotch, though. When walking him down the hall to the opertory, the kid was crying. I said some calming words and let him tug my necklace, which is a soothing habit he picked up when I used to breastfeed him. The buzzard snapped, "You think I've never heard this before? Just be quiet and sit still. I know what I'm doing."

So I sat in a corner of the opertory with my arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on as Baby Boy was giving her his best maniacal screaming and squirming. If it wasn't for the dentist to come in and was way more parental and gentle than the hygienist, I was ready to gouge out her heart with a spoon.

Of course, after the dentist left, I told her, "I'll be asking for another hygienist the next time because, though I don't doubt you've seen this behaviour a million times, YOU are not the one who he'll call for at 2 in the morning with dental nightmares. And, frankly, it appears to me that I would probably know better how to calm my son's fears than you would. After all, I've known him his whole life and you just met him 15 minutes ago." She tried to rebuttal, but I did something I rarely do: I held out my hand, turned my face and then my heels and walked away. She doesn't know how lucky she was.

Anyway, yesterday, new hygienist. Strangely, she looked like me, which worked in our favour. Baby Boy liked her right away. Mind you, we also had some practice runs at Husband's clinic and even went to the dentist's with vinyl gloves, a mask and a Dixie Cup for laughing gas play. We practiced on teddy bears in the waiting room with Baby Boy improvising with Lego for dental tools.

His permanent teeth better come in gorgeous.

And What Happened to Freddy the Magic Flute?

See what posting a comment can do?

Jules mentioned HR Pufnstuf and, immediately, I had a flood of memories of me sitting in my grandmother's living room watching the show with my similarly aged aunt and uncle (did I mention I'm from a Catholic family?).

So, hey, I've got a few minutes before the Leafs game, I thought. Let's Google the show.

And then I learned that Jack Wild, the guy who played Jimmy, DIED! He died this year, March 1st, from oral cancer, of all things. Husband's grandmother has a copy of the 60s movie Oliver, where he played the Artful Dodger. The guy had pipes! And he had to get them removed, as well as part of his tongue.

The Hilarious House of Frightenstein

I remember waking up at the crack of dawn to catch The Hilarious House of Frightenstein when I was a kid.

My kids are astounded to hear that their dad and I didn't have round-the-clock children's programming on TV; that kid shows were only on Saturdays from 6 (this show) until 11, when Fat Albert ended. Of course, there were after school specials, but that was only for an hour, and there was morning cartoons on the Buffalo stations. My favourite was Rocketship 7. There was some morning shows on for the wee, like The Friendly Giant (my sister was afraid of Rusty the Rooster), and Mr. Dressup (God rest his soul). If you went home for lunch, you could catch the Flintstones at 12, just after The Uncle Bobby Show.

That last show actually really resonated with me. I went to Brownie camp with Traffic Officer John's daughter, but moreover, there's catch phrases that I use to this day that, after checking out this website, I realize originated from that show. And, if I'm remembering correctly, my mum once sent in my name and Bimbo the Birthday Clown read out my birthday greeting. Or was that by Dave on Rocketship 7???

What I would do for one of those Uncle Bobby or Rocketship 7 t-shirts. Of course, it would totally date me and place me. Husband didn't have these, being from another province, but he did have J.P. Patches, which I didn't.

And, you know, these shows weren't all that great; not when you compare what is being offered today. Case in point is the show made by Billy Van, Billy Van, Billy Van, etc. As entertaining as I found Frightenstein (and I did, in fact, love the show), it was kinda slap-dash and cheesy. I guess that was part of the charm.

Well, over the weekend, Middle Child stumbled upon it. He was riveted! We found out that it also airs on the Space Channel at 7 am. Guess what he did this morning? He even set an alarm for himself. I kissed him at the door of his school this morning and he replied, "Ooga booga!"

Teeth and Grins

After dangling by a thread for days, Middle Child's first front tooth came out when I gave him a piece of toast. Cruel Mumma that I am, I had been giving him only crunchy things to eat, hoping that would instigate some tooth extracting.

The Tooth Fairy gave him $4. It's more than the going rate, but that's the balance due for the X-men Evolution DVD he's been saving for. But, though I explained, er, what I thought the Tooth Fairy meant by giving him the $4, he huffed, "Well, why didn't she just go out and get me the movie instead? She did that for (Daughter) once."

Okay, that was true, but it was also Easter. It was supposed to be from the Easter Bunny, but she assumed it was from the other mythical creature.

So, I just flubbed, "But that movie was Fairytopia. I think the Tooth Fairy only has fairy movies and she knows you wouldn't be interested in them. Am I right?" Thankfully, he was satisfied with that answer.

My parents gave Middle Child $5 for the lost tooth; something my mum promised the kid ... and he remembered. He actually has money that he hadn't spent from his birthday so he can get two X-men Evolution DVDs if he wants.

We went over to my parents' place this past weekend. Husband and I took off to go on a date. It wasn't anything spectacular; we just went to a bookstore and then to Lick's for dinner. I swear, Daughter grew inside me because of their turkey and vegetarian burgers. We had a Lick's near our big city condo where we lived before we had kids. Okay, Daughter lived there for 12 months, which she lords over her brothers.

Wouldn't a Lick's do well in my little tourist-driven city? If I had a million dollars...

I also went shopping with my mum, Daughter and Niece. I bought the girls a banana split to share. I think they snorted it. Anyway, they were so impressed that they want to make it a tradition. "Any time we're at this mall, we have to share a banana split, okay?" Yeah, because they're at that particular mall so often.

And while the girls were gorging on ice cream (they asked if the pineapple could be substituted with carmel, which is an awesome substitution in my books), my mother was on her favourite topic: planning Baby Sister's wedding. She isn't engaged or anything, but that's not stopping my mum. She can be a little old-fashioned concerning marriage but, I think she just loves a good party.

Seriously, conceding that it would probably be a small wedding, she was wondering if Baby Sister and her boyfriend would have dancing. Uh, hello. Are you a part of this family? We don't look to the food or even the liquor at weddings. It's all about the music!

Question of the week: What is the best love song? Poll your friends; I bet their choices would be telling. Today, I'm leaning toward Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes because, well, I'm a sucker for Lloyds in ill-fitting trenchcoats holding up boomboxes outside my bedroom window.

Whom is Your Ideal TV Husband?

Take the quiz!

I get Dr. McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy.

What can I say? I come by my love of examining gloves with the best of intentions.

Look, Mum! A Skeleton!

Having my mother over wasn't too bad. Sure, she rearranged everything in my kitchen (and I put everything back yesterday, thanks). Sure, she criticized most everything I wore. But she did make her awesome soups every single day, which made the kids (and Husband) so incredibly happy. It was also wonderful to have an extra adult to take care of one kid while I was off with another. It was like being two places at once.

"Why are all the grandmothers we know the cookers? Why aren't the grandfathers?" Daughter asked this morning.

"Because grandfathers are old and in the olden days, boys weren't taught to cook. That's why our grandmothers always cook for our grandfathers," replied Middle Child.

And then...

"But what about Gramma? She never had someone like a husband," reflected Middle Child.

So I reminded the kids that once, a long, long time ago, Gramma and Granddad were married and lived together.

"I keep forgetting that because there's no pictures of them together with Daddy and his brothers," shrugged off Daughter. Honey, I'm sure there was but it got destroyed.

And then...

"But who is the guy with the glasses holding Gramma's hand in the pictures of your wedding, Mummy?"

"That's Gramma's second husband."

"Whaaaaaaaaaaa???!!!!" the kids said in unison.

"Er, yeah, Gramma has been married two times."

"Did Daddy know the second husband?"

"Of course, he did. And so did I. He taught Dad how to drive, how to shave, all kind of dad things. And your Dad and your uncles liked him very much."

"So why did Gramma get divorced TWO times?"

I gave them a short answer, something about them fighting all the time. One day, I'll tell them the long story, which they need to know but just not right now. Maybe then I'll also tell them that Granddad was married and divorced twice too.

How Would a Canadian Chef Plate Maltese Food?

bragoli
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

Apparently, like this.

I went to a local restaurant, which was featuring Maltese food, and ordered bragoli. Really, it was the only authentic dish on the menu; the rest were just recipes using commonly found Maltese ingredients (like the tuna steaks in blood orange sauce that my mother ordered).

The bragoli was terrific. You would have thought someone's nanna made it. I loved having it too because it takes so bloody long to prepare that I never make it. Basically it's a steak hammered thin and then rolled up and stuffed with ground beef, hard boiled egg, some herbs, and usually Maltese sausage called salzett but the restaurant used pancetta.

Best of all was spending the time with my mum alone. We used to go to the Eaton's restaurant at Sherway Gardens in Toronto every Saturday for high tea when I was in university.

Anyway, now I've been ordered to disinfect my fridge while she plays Star Wars with Baby Boy.

A Note From a Pro-Choice Fruit Fly Who Supports Stem Cell Research

My mum is visiting for a whole week.

Let the debates begin!

If I Were American, I'd Be in Court

So at the end of the day, UPS delivered a package full of Mexican and Indian food from the distributor.

I opened it and went, "Ugh." As much as I love Indian food, I'm leaning on Middle Sister's comment on not buying food canned in a third world country. Serves me right for being liberal.

Mind you, Husband's response to my reaction was, "Looks good to me!"

Eerily similar to the Maltese dad's adage, "If it's free, it's good to me!" This is what happens to nice eighth generation Canadian boys when they've been around my family for 20 years.

I still want to know what the company is doing about the bugs, though. Think I'll get an answer?

Gross-out Update

I did my research and found the Canadian distributor of the beans. I went through the proper channels and was given an email address by someone, the receptionist promised, "would take this very seriously."

So I wrote a nice but serious email and attached the photo.

The next day, I received an email back from the owner and president saying that he called Mexico immediately and is trying to sort out the problem. He apologized profusely and said he would get back to me.

I'm happy with that, but I'm still never buying that brand again.

Bugs in Refried Beans

Bugs in Refried Beans
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

It's times like this that I wish I could make myself barf.

Daughter skipped dinner yesterday. It was build your own vegetarian burrito night but she had a huge snack at a friend's. "Save me some and I'll make it for lunch tomorrow."

So, together, we got everything out of the fridge again. I microwaved everything and put it on the table.

"What are the black things in the refried beans, Mum?" Daughter asked as she was assembling her burrito.

"Yeah, I guess it's a new recipe," I replied. "I bet they're peppercorns."

Daughter isn't a fan of pepper so she started picking them out. "They're not peppercorns, Mum. They have legs."

I don't want to tell Husband or the boys but I strongly suggested they join me in a psyllium husk cocktail (which no one took me up on).

Maltese Food at Fellini's in Stratford, Ontario

If anyone is at all interested in coming to Stratford, Ontario during the week of September 18 - 24, for some unknown and, to me, completely unfathomable reason, the most excellent Fellini's Restaurant on Ontario Street will be featuring Maltese cuisine. It's part of a five-week promotion highlighting the best (!) in Mediterranean food.

Seriously, when asked where my family came from, the response to my answer has almost always been met with, "Where?" or "Like the falcon?" or, my favourite, "I love their chocolates!"

As my friend said, it could be great or it could be bad. Real. Bad. But I'm so piqued that this place would choose to highlight the pencil dot of an island my family is from. And as far as I know, there's only two Maltese in this town: myself and another mum from my kids' school. And, of course, we knew of each other before we met.

So with only two of us around, when I'm jonesing for some qaqqoc or aljotta and my mum or grandmother aren't around, I have to make it myself. Mind you, I make a mean hobz biz-zejt with some olive bread I buy from Ace Bakery.

Most of all, I think I'm looking forward to see how someone who isn't from Malta makes the food. What dishes will they choose, I wonder? And how would they plate a pastizzi?

But Ikea SWEARS it's a leg

Like they don't know two huge chunks of their clientele are women and gay men.

Ikea Catalogue and the Incredible Doggie Dink

I've had my copy of the 2007 Ikea catalogue for a number of weeks now. It ranks up there with books I can read again and again.

But today, Baby Sister alerted me to the inside front cover. She said it was all over the news.

I never noticed it before; all I saw was an image of the Virgin Mary in the gingham blinds.

Ian Has the Last Word on Shoelacing

The two older kids are chomping at the bit. They can't wait for school to start tomorrow.

I mentioned that to a few people, only to get the response, "Are they weird?" Okay, maybe they are a little, but I understand why they are excited. School for them is a huge part of their social selves.

Daughter has had her backpack filled for a couple of weeks now. Indoor shoes: check. Filled pencil case: check. Lunchbox with a container of non-perishable rice crackers and a peanut-free granola bar: check.

Middle Child, on the other hand, figures that I'll get everything ready for him tomorrow morning, and he's right. I got out his indoor shoes - very cool black low-cut Converse-ish ones with lots of Jolly Rogers all over - and had him show me that he remembered how to tie shoelaces. Oh, he can ... it just takes him about two minutes per shoe. I've been to their school at recess and that just won't cut it.

So I've replaced the black shoelaces with black elastic from my sewing-kit-of-wonders. Daughter thought it was sheer genius. Hell, I'll take the adulation because I have a very limited time until I will be incredibly uncool in her eyes.

Anyway, I didn't have a lot of elastic left, so I went online to see if there's a lacing method out there that could show me a way to lengthen the laces. People, Ian's Shoelace Site is all you will ever need regarding the subject. Parents and elementary school teachers, check out the "Ian knot" and thank me later.

Hanging Laundry is a God-Given Right

I know I've waxed poetic about my clothesline before, and even gave a tip sheet on proper outdoor laundry drying, so obviously I am biased.

Lots of subdivision developers have put in a clause in home purchasing agreements that state the homeowners are not allowed erect a pole-to-pole clothing line for drying their laundry. There's one right here in the small city where I live, which makes resident (and my friend) K nuts.

Finally, a city councillor, this time in Aurora, is tabling a motion designed to protect the tried and true clothesline from the housing industry. A couple more councillors from around southern Ontario are joining in to fight for the Right to Dry.

Estimations put clothes dryers as accounting for 6 per cent of energy consumption in the average home. Hell, I do a load of laundry every day. If I were to machine dry every damned load, I'll bet I'd be using more than that.

Some American governments have waded into the waters on this and have created measures to protect the clothesline. Florida has a state law that encourages the use of solar power and mentions clotheslines specifically. Utah punishes developers who include terms that restrict the use of clotheslines.

I'm told that developers think they're an eyesore. I disagree wholeheartedly. In this age where we're strongly encouraged to conserve energy (and it's common sense anyway), let Mother Nature do her chores.

Is it a playdate or am I babysitting?

So for the third time this month, an erstwhile friend of Daughter's is coming over for the bulk of the afternoon.

She's a nice enough kid, maybe a little rough around the edges. Daughter was friendly with her during school, but did she play with her at recess? Nope.

Still, throughout the summer, I get these last minute phone calls from her mother, "Can Raggamuffin come over? Like in an hour?" And then I'd have her for several hours. This happened twice during school as well.

Now, I don't mind taking care of other people's kids, but within reason. Heck, just yesterday, I thought I'd take Jules's son off her hands for the afternoon so she could get some work done before she splits for her second honeymoon of sorts. But that's entirely different because:

a) I offered
b) Jules's son is a super close friend to both Daughter and Middle Child and, frankly, he's like my surrogate nephew

But with Raggamuffin, I feel like I'm being used. I know her mom is off doing stuff; the kid tells me as much. I personally loved, "She's going to Toronto with her friend to do some shopping. What's for dinner?"

Are there playdate guidelines that I don't know about? Let's open it up here because, obviously, if there are rules, I'd definitely need to see them published.

Crazy Shirt Folding

Middle Child and I were folding laundry like this yesterday. He thought it was like magic. That's one way to get the kid to help around the house.

She's Crafty!

DSCN1247
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

It was one of those projects that I meant to do earlier but life got in the way.

When Daughter got her "big girl bed", which was mine when I was young, we bought her a new canopy and comforter. It is purple with lilac and pink daisies bordering the Barbie dream house.

She's still young enough to enjoy it but I thought I'd make her summer bedding; one that will grow with her.

This was a quilt cover from the Sears catalogue which I cut up entirely and sized to fit. I also got a groovy curtain panel that would be complementary. My mum and I ripped apart the panel and made a roman blind, lined of course, and a pillow with sequin detail.

We'll be painting soon, too. But I first have to finish painting all the trim in the house - a job that turned out much bigger than I anticipated.

Now if only we could get Daughter to clean the room.

It's Mary J. Bilge To Me

My sisters went to a Mary J. Blige concert yesterday. Baby Sister's boyfriend gave her two tickets for their anniversary but told her he had no intention of going.

"I hope you don't mind that I'm taking (Middle Sister)," Baby Sister said, "but I didn't think it was your kind of music."

No kidding. I wouldn't know a Mary J. Blige song if I stared at it in a paper bag. If she had tickets to see Stars or Broken Social Scene or Weezer, well, I'd be miffed if I didn't get the phone call.

I whipped out my old Bob Marley tunes yesterday, as I felt like something very summery. Husband kind of snubbed his nose at it (he likes political reggae; I like the happy lovey sexy reggae). I don't take his opinions on music to heart. The last thing the guy was listening to was (let me look at iTunes here...) Marshall Tucker and Shakira's Hips Don't Lie (!!!). He's rediscovered his enjoyment of Rick Springfield and I'm left wondering how the two of us got together in the first place.

Opposites attract - and then they drive each other crazy.

Anyway, check out this site where you can see what was the number one song when you were born. They also say that your life's theme song is what was the top song on your 18th birthday. Middle Sister's is "Kokomo" and Baby Sister's is Michael Jackson's "Black or White", which is pretty appropriate on both parts. Mine is "Spirit in the Sky" by Doctor and the Medics, because I'm such an upright Catholic girl. You'd know that's a crock and, to boot, the answer to the previous question of attraction may be apparent when you learn that Husband's life theme is Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer".

But I'm a Creep, I'm a Weirdo...

Daughter and Middle Child were bickering over the ownership of a placemat with a labelled illustration of the insides of the human body.

Okay, it really is Daughter's; bought for her when she wanted to be a doctor (now she wants to be a pediatric dentist). However, Middle Child is the one who is truly interested in all things science now, so he figured it was his because, well, it's a science placemat.

Sure enough, they come to me to settle the dilemma. And though I said that it was given to Daughter that maybe now Middle Child would enjoy it more. Nope. Daughter is taking what's hers.

That started Middle Child off. You can tell when he is really, really upset because tears well in his eyes, though he tries to shield that from everyone, and he starts muttering under his breath. Being right beside him, I could hear him.

"She's just another bossy popular kid. I hate popular people. They think they're better than everyone else."

Ugh. Why isn't there an index page in a parenting handbook that I can reference to at times like this?

Right or wrong, I let him settle down and waited for Daughter to leave the room and I pulled him to my lap. I asked if he thought he was popular. No.

Would he like to be? He didn't care, really.

Did he think things would be better if he were popular? He paused. Then he went on about how he doesn't have a lot of friends - really only two boys that invite him to playdates and one of them started out as Daughter's friend and his fifth wheel status graduated as he grew older. I tried to use that as a point of reference, that as he is getting older, more people recognize him for the interesting and fun kid that he is.

And it may be time to reread the How To Be a Friend book ... again, though it is an excellent, awesome, wonderful book. What can I say? All maternal mammals protect their weakest.

I hope the new school year is a pleasant one for him.

Jason Newsted is a Nerd

Yeah, the guy wants to hear that from some fat-assed minivan-driving chick from small-town Canada.

But, fuck you, Jason Newsted is a geek.

I don't watch a lot of TV but there's something about the Rockstar series that piques my interest. Maybe it's the house band. Maybe it's some weird subliminal vibe Mark Burnett emits from the shows he produces. I don't know.

It used to be Dave Navarro but hearing him referring to all female contestants as "sweetheart", "honey", "darling" and all, I don't know how Carmen Electra withstood his very tiny penis. Hey Dave, you could make it up to me and all Donohue-raised women by calling all the men "handsome" or "stud". Your choice.

But I'm rethinking of taking back my Monday to Wednesdays and stop watching the show because of Jason Newsted. I kinda got my first icky feeling when, after he played with one of the contestants, he then came back to his ostentatious throne (Ozzy he ain't) and jumped up and down to giggle, "How'd I do, guys? How'd I do? Did I make the band?" Oh shit, for that, Gilby Clarke should have just upped and left.

And his comments are so unimaginative and not very constructive. It's like the guy is just talking because he likes the sound of his own voice. Honey, didn't your mamma tell you if you have nothing to say, keep your pie hole shut? He tells the contestants the same damned thing every effing week. What a prat!

Mind you, the guy is some kind of corporate-rock suckhole. "Boo-hoo, because of the internet, I only made $10 million this year."

Honestly, troll doll Dilana (you wrote lyrics like "greased up my thong" and was proud of that fromage?!?), or skunk boy Lukas, who I think are the front-runners, will singing for this band be much of a prize? With the personalities I see in the short time they're on, I can't see Supernova lasting any more than two years at best. And, well, are these guys going to be relevant?

Mind you, I was never a fan of Guns n Roses, Motley Crue or Metallica. So if it were Rockstar: Bauhaus, I'd be a fucking panelist.

I'll give it one more week to see if folding laundry is more entertaining.

A New Look

My friend at The Saddest Girl didn't think the pink paisley thing was "me" enough, so she began to tweak stuff around a bit on my behalf. I'll be tweaking further, just to get used to the whole web design thing, but The Saddest Girl has given me great bones to work with. Any suggestions?

She came over yesterday, a planned playdate with our kids, and gave me a handy-dandy lesson on code while Baby Boy had diarrhea and didn't make it to the toilet. Welcome to my house!

Check out the melons on her!

Art by Jules at Grrraphics.

She'll make you one too, for a price. Give her an email. She could use the money, but can't we all?

What Do You Think?

Just shaking things up here. I was never one for the plain pink thing, but for months now, I've been trying to design my own space here with some crazy cool retro housewife gifs.

As you can see, I couldn't figure out how to do it.

Mind you, I didn't try that hard.

Daughter just came back from a week at my parents'. She had a blast with my niece. My sister and I agreed that it was one of the more peaceful weeks we had, just having our two younger boys at home. Sad, eh? But, in my case anyway, there was mucho cooperation going on between Middle Child and Baby Boy. They only had each other to play with and they did so incredibly well. Middle Child really got into it. "You know, it would be okay if (Daughter) died and there was just me and (Baby Boy)." Nice.

We also went to a restaurant on Friday and got seated much quicker as we were a table for four.

The restaurant thing was Husband's idea, after learning that splitting the hydro lines in the new building would cost about $7000. Yeah, we aren't going to do that now. Husband figured he saved some money there, so he came home and suggested going out for dinner. It seemed a little stupid, but I wasn't going to complain.

And we all ate chicken. So ends Husband's sojourn into vegetarianism. He thought he'd like to try it, so I humoured him. I was surprised when he ordered meat AND a side of potato salad. "You know they'll make it with sour cream and not yogurt (which is how he's had me make it for years now)." He shrugged at my comment and ate like Survivor contestants on food auction day.

Then we went to Middle Sister's house yesterday and she barbecued beef, pork and chicken, which he ate all of the above.

He's off of his "healthier lifestyles" rant, particularly after I had to wake him up when I came back from my 6:15 am weight-lifting class, where I did 30 minutes of cardio prior. I believe his words were, "I better get my lazy ass out of bed before you beat me to a pulp."

Now, the topic du jour is the suspected future airplane bombings. Oh, he's Mr. Conspiracy Theory now. It's so much easier on me. There's no effort on my part.

Starsky and Hutch's First Names

After months of arguments between Husband and I, and my on-going harassment of friends and relatives, I have learned Starsky and Hutch's first names. They would be David Starsky and Ken "Hutch" Hutchinson.

I remembered Hutch's name from watching an episode a year or so ago. Hutch was hopping out of bed and the woman called after him by his first name. She ended up getting killed, but not by Hutch. Or Starsky.

No, my question now is what was Huggy Bear's name?

Now you can answer at least one of these questions.

Click Your Ruby Slippers, Dorothy

There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome.

Royal Jules

I talk a lot, it's true. But I have a very good memory making me, in turn, a good listener.

I can't tell you the amount of life skills I've learned from my friends. Husband and I have the upstairs of the new building rented and the new tenant wanted some sort of lease agreement. Oh crap. We tried to figure it out ourselves, when I said, "Bah! I'm calling my cousin M." And, of course, she imparted a wealth of knowledge through her experiences. And she's so damned cool.

But lately, advice from my friend Jules come back to me in waves. "Treat husbands as if they have autism. Praise the good behaviour and ignore the bad."

Holy doodle, does that work! Yesterday night, when he got home from golfing with his apey "I've been outdoors all afternoon" stink, he kissed Baby Boy who was having a bath and then sat beside me on the bathroom floor. And he started, "I bet you had a busy day. I'll take the bedtime shift and you go relax."

Okay, he didn't smell like another woman. No visible hickeys. And then ...

"It's days like today that I realize how good you are to me."

This is after a whole week of, essentially, not cooking. It was partly because of the heat but more because no one is helping to tidy the kitchen; not even clearing their dinner plates from the dining room.

I scoured the kitchen on Sunday night, leaving me happy to make a nice garlic salmon on the grill, a Maltese recipe for thinly sliced baked potatoes, and some brussels sprouts. I had to clean everything. Fine. The next day, I made spaghetti. Husband told me to leave the leftovers in the pot and he'd take some to work the next day. The pot didn't move. For days. Wednesday, I made sandwiches and a tossed salad. I made a half dozen hard boiled eggs on Thursday. I made nothing on Friday. And I let the dishes pile up. It killed me, but I thought a sharper point couldn't be make with a knife.

Daughter totally understood and loaded the dishwasher on Friday night. But I buckled and scoured the kitchen again yesterday.

Now, Jules has made a rule in her house that if she cooks, her husband cleans and vice versa. Makes sense. I'm told this is common in most households (hello to my gym mammas ... and Ken). So if the kitchen isn't clean, Jules just won't cook. I wish. If supper isn't ready by 6, I've got three foragers pulling all sorts of food out, making even a bigger mess.

We had Jules's youngest son over for dinner once and he asked to be excused when he was done. Apparently, I beamed like a million suns. Even my little egotist Middle Child said, "Wow, you're sure happy that K has good manners like that." Yeah, Einstein, so does that give you a hint?

I have a strict rule about us all eating together at the table, and I've just broke Husband from his habit of reading the newspaper during dinner. I also came up with a game to promote conversation called "Two Truths and a Lie" where everyone has to say three things about their day. The rest of the family has to guess which one didn't happen.

But I think I'm going to come right out and tell them all to start cleaning the kitchen. If they don't like it, they can make dinner and I'll be happy to wash their dishes.

However, this week I've been strictly enforcing (think bad-ass South American police) my rule of no eating except in the kitchen or dining room. I'd be almost enticing a revolt.

Autism Rocks

"I like autism rallies!" Daughter said with a pizza sauce smeared smile, hauling her booty to the car.

We went with Jules at Grrraphics (I link to her rather excellent illustration blog), and her two sons, the eldest having high-functioning autism. We grabbed our signs and kept an eye on our brood of kids who were either playing with the Thomas the Tank Engine set or getting their faces painted.

Daughter not only got her face painted but also wrangled some Madonna-esque gloves and a fake hair scrunchie.

The speeches begun. Daughter grabbed a sign herself and left us to stand front and centre to listen. She must have been pretty attentive because she was on the 6 o'clock news and had her photo taken by two newspapers.

On the flip side, she obviously learned a few things because she asked a bevy of questions at the dinner table. Mind you, I was kind of hoping she'd see that not all autistic kids are like her friend; that her friend is doing alright because of the very hard, tenacious work of his parents and his workers. But, of course, all the kids there were super well-behaved.

Except for Baby Boy.

Ugh, the kid was screaming all through the speeches and wouldn't keep still any other time. When we went out for lunch afterward, well, my friend's boys were quite astonished by his behaviour. Yeah, it didn't make for witty banter over the pomme frites, let me tell you.

But this too shall pass.

Bat Outta Hell

A rather restful week was spent at the cottage. The kids played nearly the whole time at the sandy beach where Lake Huron was so clear and blue. Our beach had a large sandbar, so it was nice and shallow and warm.

Yesterday night, I was watching the news seeing hysterical Lebanese mothers mourning their children. "How do these women do it?" I wondered. "How can they find oxygen while they see their lifeless child?"

I looked down at Baby Boy, who couldn't sleep and was playing with his Hot Wheels in the dining room.

And there was a bat flying over his head.

At first I thought it was a silhouette from the window but...nope. So, I called Husband as calmly as I could. No rustling from the attic where he was playing Urban Dead.

Frick it. "There's a bat in the dining room!" Okay, that got him down the stairs but it freaked out Baby Boy.

We ended up opening a door and shooing it out. The whole thing took maybe three minutes.

"You were graceful and calm," Husband told me. "I was freaked because I wasn't wearing a shirt."

Daughter came down. "I heard Mum yell. Is everything okay?"

"Sure, honey. We just had one of those Ontario Little Brown bats, but he went back outside," I said.

"You sure it was a Little Brown?"

"Yeah," I said. "Thankfully, you did that project on bats so we know their not going to kill you. And they don't bite people; just bugs, so it was no big deal to me and Dad."

"Uh, Mensa applicant. Bats bite people. Remember our neighbours at the old house needed tetanus shots?" Husband reminded me.

Ignorance is bliss.

Oh My God!

I have never bought Lego for my kids. What a sin.

A Place to Live. A Place to Grow.

Middle Brother-In-Law left for home after a week with us. The kids didn't leave the poor guy alone. I think Baby Boy dive-bombed his crotch at least a dozen times.

And he emptied the dishwasher a few times. That would make two more times than Husband ever did.

We didn't really do much. Husband still worked, though he took a bunch of afternoons off to golf with his brother. The older kids had birthday parties to go to - two each - which they weren't missing for anything. MIddle Child had the choice of hanging with his friend (The Saddest Girl's son) or going to a Blue Jay game. Let's just say the lure of a Bavarian pretzel and team sports wasn't nearly as attractive. The other party, which both kids were invited to, was all about watching Pirates of the Caribbean and eating candy. Johnny Depp AND chocolate??? Why wasn't I invited? We did manage to go out en famille to the beach, which our guest thought was a great spot. Personally, I also like the drive through the country to get there.

I live in a weird city. It's a strange mix of industry and the arts, rednecks and homosexuals, abject poor and, uh, the opposite. And it's surrounded by working farms. And mennonites. I'm more and more conscious of the dichotomy the longer I live here. I wonder if a visitor notices.

I also wonder if my brother-in-law noticed the many differences between Toronto and this part of Ontario. Too often, non-southern Ontarians lump the whole region with Toronto. Smell the air. Okay, wait until the manure truck passes. Or blow your nose. See? No black specks.

A report just came out stating that, on average, it takes someone 79 minutes to commute to work in Toronto (76 in Montréal, 66 in Calgary). Meanwhile, Husband walks to work. It takes him about nine minutes. And this city is so small, I hold strong to the belief that it takes seven minutes by car to take you anywhere within the city limits.

Mind you, it has its drawbacks too. Unlike a big city, it's pretty homogenous here. City-run activities can be a little hokey. But we're really good at "quaint". Please, get some locals to discuss how much money the city spends on flowers.

But I'm happy enough to live here. I didn't want to be in the middle of nowhere. I had to be within a two-hour drive to a metropolis. I wanted the kids to walk to school. I wanted to be near a fully-functioning hospital. Outside of that, I think your home really is wherever you hang your hat.

I lived in a place where many can't believe I left willingly. Sure, the first two months I was there, I loved the mountains and the ocean. But then it was just a place to live, with pros and cons just like anywhere else. I stopped seeing the mountains. I seldom went to the beach.

And, you know, the beaches nearby where I live now are on a lake that, to the naked eye, appear as expansive as an ocean. And clean. And blue. Yeah, it's not the same, but it's home. It's not so bad.

One Day Down, Another 66 To Go

"You want to watch 'Little Einsteins' while I wash the breakfast dishes?"

"Yes," said Baby Boy, "because that will mean (the baby I used to babysit) will be here soon."

"Uh, no, honey. You'll see her again to play but she won't be staying here anymore."

"What about (Middle Child's classmate whom I babysat on Wednesday and Friday afternoons)? Will we pick her up later?"

"No. That's over too. It's summer vacation! It's just you, me, your sister and brother in the day time. We're going to have so much fun together!"

He cried. Hard. I didn't take it personally.

Should I?

Birthdays are a Drag When You Get Older

Belated wishes for a happy Canada Day to you all.

My day started with the usual watering of the garden, thanks to my very cool and city-subsidized rain barrel. It was then that I noticed some jackass broke off my flag off the door window of my car.

Then my dad called to say, essentially, that we live in the best country in the world. I didn't feel like agreeing at that moment.

The day turned out well though. The family went to Middle Sister's house for a swim and a barbecue. If anything, my sister makes incredible salads. My contribution was a paltry cake made with whipped cream and strawberries shaped like the flag. The kids thought it looked incredible and they actually ate it all.

We went home, caught up with friends and watched the fireworks show. It was at a field that was maybe a 25 minute walk, but figuring it would end sometime after 10, we thought the kids would be too tired, so we drove the car to the half-way mark. As the show ended, another show of thunder and lightning began and down came buckets of rain.

Husband went to work on Sunday and found that the upstairs tenant of the building we bought was giving us 60 days notice. She gave us the name of her sister who would be interested in moving in. We'll see if she still wants to when we tell her I want to up the rent. Currently, the two floor (second and attic), two bedroom apartment, with all utilities included is being rented for $700 a month. I don't think we paid too much for the place - frankly, Husband and I think we got a deal - but with mortgage payments and hydro rates being what they are, we may need to look at that rent.

It's bloody hot and I'm having a fat day. Although I got three pairs of shoes today (one from my birthday money and two a birthday gift), I'm not feeling better. But, hey, I got a loot bag after Canada's birthday: one per cent less on GST AND I get some extra baby bonus money. Just like that cake I ate on Saturday that I'm blaming my fat day on, I feel like I'll be paying for the Harper treats later.

P.S. Got to see Oliver! with my friend, The Saddest Girl To Ever Hold a Martini. It was good, but it was better because I got free tickets!

Sounds Like Dairy Queen For Everyone!

Yesterday was the last day of school for Daughter and Middle Child. They got incredible report cards.

"How many marks were A, A- or A+?" she asked. Ten. The other marks were B+ (all in math, so guess what we're working on this summer). She was thrilled, particularly in French because she started the year with only a B so she really buckled down. How great is it to realize at her age that you CAN be rewarded when you exercise effort?

Middle Child's report card is entirely written. Glowing. I wept. Seriously, the kid has come so far. Sure, he's blossomed into this smart geek (as I told my friend Jules, I'm hoping for Clark Kent and not Urkel), but socially, well, it's another case of being rewarded after much effort. He's making friends.

As I always do, I wrote the teachers letters of gratitude. I figure they can use it when they're up for review or something. Or just read it. Whatever. Being a writer, it comes to me like peeing. It has come to a point where my father prefers mushy greeting cards to my writing a mushy note in a blank one because I've spilled none of my blood. It's more of a joke between us; not quite so maudlin. Anyway, Daughter said it made her teacher cry.

Daughter cried last night because she didn't want school to end. Should I take that as a slap because she'd rather not be at home, or rejoice that she loves learning?

And now Husband is reading over my shoulder, giving me writer's block. See? It does shut off.

Here's a fun and freaky math game.

Two Full Bowls of Chips and a Burning Question

Middle Child had birthday-o-rama. He got his extended family party. Then the immediate family celebrated it on the actual birthday. Today, he had a few friends over to see a movie and then back to the house for barbecue (no one ate), chips (no one ate), fruit (no one ate), and cake (pretty much everyone just licked the icing).

My mum stayed the whole week with us. It was great having her around, even just to pick up the kids from school. She took each kid out individually, which they loved.

She got to see Baby Boy's year-end extravaganza at his school. He spotted us right away and looked happy and all. We were right in the front row, so he couldn't miss. But then he noticed the many, many other grown-ups in the gym and was like a deer in the headlights up there on stage.

All in all, I think the week took a lot out of her. The kids wouldn't leave her alone and her back was acting up quite a bit, particularly in the morning. The doctors still don't know what it is. Getting older sucks, it seems.

And for all of you who know my mother, yes, I cooked fish on Friday. I made a rather nice grilled mahi mahi with homemade parmesan fries and berries for dessert.

BURNING QUESTION
What is the protocol if someone sends you an email (obviously personal) in error? I get this a lot. Post what you do, should it happen to you. Please.

Attending Journalism School Made Me Sensitive

And I'm making ashtrays. I'm so witty, I'm a regular Quentin Crisp.

Crappy journalism is alive and well and seems to have made its home at Fox News.

So I'm at the gym, forced to watch either Fox news, the country music channel, an infomercial or Much Vibe. Some talking head on Fox is going on about the "terrorists in Toronto". Blah, blah, blah "... and one of them went to flying school!"

Had I mentioned how much I enjoy The Colbert Report?

It was made perfectly clear last week that the kid took a very basic introductory community college course on airplane aerodynamics and mechanics. And he dropped out not far into the class. No flying, but maybe the kid can identify components of avionics.

I've worked at a number of Canadian news sources in my career as a journalist. People got fired for less reason than that. I myself almost got canned for putting the wrong page number on the Sunshine Boy page (unintentional, I swear). I pleaded with the editor and managing editor that they couldn't hire my replacement for as little as they were paying me. They laughed and kept me on.

My cousin works in law enforcement. She drives a van, shuttling prisoners from the jail to the courthouse. She made a special trip to see the terrorist suspects but was starstruck (my aunt's words) when she saw the guards in full battle gear and handling pseudo machine guns.

Follow your dreams, my darlings.

Hot Iron

I'm on a t-shirt making bonanza. This is one I made for my dad for Father's Day. I made one for myself that reads "It's not PMS. It's you." I gave one to Daughter's violin teacher that says "I graduated summa cum laude for this" and even made it in University of Ohio colours. A diaper shirt I made for my friend's daughter says, "Does this diaper make my bum look big?"

Someone stop me.

My Son Likes Orange; He Cares Not About Oranje

My city, full of folk with Dutch heritage, is awash in orange. Apparently, World Cup fever is alive and well in southwestern Ontario.

Unintentionally, Husband dressed Middle Child, who has a Dutch name, completely in orange yesterday. He received lots of admiring looks from soccer-crazed Dutch patriots. Aardige kleren!

Retro Family Night

We went to a drive-in movie last night. Husband and I used to live in a bigger city that had a drive-in theatre not far, but that was when Daughter was a newborn. I loved being able to go to a first-run movie with Husband and not have to leave the baby with anyone.

Yesterday's theatre was about a 30 minute drive from the house, or it should have been had we not taken the left instead of the right. When we found ourselves 20 km away from Paris, Ontario, we knew enough to make a U-turn.

Of course, this didn't make matters any better from the peanut gallery in the back row booster seats. The "Are we there yets" had begun not 10 minutes out of town.

We actually got there in very good time. Baby Boy was already asleep, so the older kids and Husband went to the loo, the concession stand and had 10 minutes to play on the swings and such until the movie started.

Of course, by then, it was pretty late. The first movie ended at 11. Wouldn't you know that the kids stayed up until the end? I ended up making a screen out of a blanket so the kids couldn't see the second, more grown-up feature, The Da Vinci Code (and, by the way, don't waste your time). They fell asleep in no time, mind you.

It was a fun little outing for us. Daughter in particular found it to be totally novel ("I saw a movie in a field...in my car...and I was wearing pyjamas!"). And for a total of $27 and the opportunity to gas up in a town that sells for seven cents a litre cheaper than where we live, we might just do it again soon.