Gian Ghomeshi turned me into a 10-year-old

My cousin used to have this husband who used to play songs he'd like over and over again. I remember once, during a ride back home from babysitting his son, he had Eric Clapton's "Tears From Heaven" (I think that's the title) on a loop. We must have heard that song fifteen times in a row.

Okay, my uncle had recently died and the guy was obviously bereaved, but c'mon. I always thought that practice was unusual and, frankly, a tad dramatic. I knew a lot of people doing it ... when they were 10.

Now I found myself doing the same with "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars the other day. I heard it on The National Playlist on CBC Radio and I was gobsmacked.

What is my attraction to the song? Is it that the lyrics are something I can relate to as I'm empathising with my sister and the on-going divorce hassles she's experiencing? Is it the odd arrangement? Is it because I'm PMSing?

Yet Another Grey Hair

Maybe I was tempting fate.

When I pick the kids up from school, most times, I let Middle Child (always out first) play in the front of the school while I chit chat with the other parents as I wait for Daughter (always one of the last kids to leave).

Today, I went to my friend's house with Baby Boy. She lives around the corner from the school so she suggested that I leave Baby Boy with her and I would go get all our kids and bring them back. When I got there, Middle Child's class was the first to be dismissed.

"Where's (Baby Boy)?" Middle Child asked.

I told him and then added we would all walk to my friend's house together with her boys, whom Middle Child thinks the sun rises and sets upon.

"Can I play outside?" he asked and, of course, I said he could, thinking he'd remember my rule of "be sure my eyes can see your eyes."

Yeah, right.

He was there one minute. The next, he was gone. Thankfully, the three remaining kids met me right at that moment, so we went looking for him. "Oh, he probably just went to my house," sluffed off the younger of my friend's children.

And he was right.

Needless to say, Middle Child has been punished.

Needless to say, I'm rethinking my allowance of letting him leave my side.

Just Pricing Really Big Bats For Now

Wanna hear smooth?

Daughter sits near this boy in class. On Friday, he asked if this boy she always plays with is her boyfriend.

"No!" she laughed. "We're too young for that stuff!" (Ah, good! She listens!)

"Well, when you are old enough, can I be first in line?"

He phoned today and asked if Daughter wanted to have a playdate Sunday. I told her he could come to our house instead.

I picked up the kids from school and was met by my friend Slowplum.

"Did you read your emails yet?"

Turns out A Million Little Pieces may not be entirely memoirific. The Smoking Gun went looking for some mug shots of the author for their large collection when, ho ho, they couldn't find much. The one they did get looks like James Frey was a little hungover but that's about it: just some preppy who smoked a little pot and drank a bit too much Rolling Rock, not some freakazoid crackhead, oozing toxic crap out of every orafice. But, whatever, looks can be deceiving.

A few things in the book had me wondering about its veritability, but they weren't the things that were picked on by The Smoking Gun. No, I questioned how a boy from the suburbs from a nice family, who was loved, could get into the shit as far as he said he did. I questioned how someone who was so fucked up from the tons of different drugs he was purportedly doing could graduate from university.

Real, fake or somewhere in-between, A Million Little Pieces is still a great read. One could question the written tales of ancient history too. I'm not one to poo-poo the author with possibly taking liberties with facts. Rather, I'm more discouraged because the author took liberties with basic rules of punctuation.

It's like grammar karma!

And the cover is gorgeous!

If you're a comment-reading person, you ought to know that my friend Slowplum was true to her word. She brought me some peppermint bath salts. She labelled the container "Bath Candy" and Middle Child confessed that he took a piece. "That was the worst candy I've ever tasted!"

She also lent me a book: A Million Little Pieces by James Frey.

I devoured it in the course of an evening and into the night, getting into bed at 2.

The book is a memoir of Frey's experiences in rehab (Hazeldon, I would deduce). It was gut-cringing, eye-blinding and even foul-smelling. The guy must have sat down at his computer and just let it flow. You can tell it's coming from a deep, dark place of the soul.

Unlike William S. Burroughs accounts of his drug-soaked past, or that 60s era diary-esque Go Ask Alice which was required reading when I was a girl, I don't think Frey intended to scare or to gross anyone out. His account of the pain he endured getting caps and root canal without anethesia was detailed enough to put you in the chair with him but not with a mirror as well. The part of him pulling out his toenail, on the other hand, I'd rather not discuss. I'm someone who can stand the sight, sound, and smell of vomit, but that was when I put the book down and got myself a glass of water.

Being a stickler for punctuation, however, I was distracted by his complete disregard for quotation marks, commas and question marks. Ditto the freedom to capitalize just about anything (someone's House, they had Kids, my Room, the Dealer). But then again, I don't think James Joyce really got away with it either.

However, I really enjoyed it. I just went to look online to find out more about the author; see what else he has written about. Well, wouldn't you know it, it was chosen for Oprah's Book Club. Yeah, I could just see someone like Husband's suburban aunt reading about vomiting up chunks of stomach.

Someone found the food colouring

and gave it to Baby Boy.

Mmmm! Cheddar!

I'll be a little lighter today.

If you're an old gal like me, you'll remember Christopher Ward doing the yearly "Fromage" show in Much Music's early days. We were discussing it over New Year's dinner with deep sighs of respect and our lament of its passing. Frankly, Ed the Sock just doesn't have it quite like Chris did.

So, if you enjoy cheese like I do, please watch this video, put out in the 80s by the Calgary Flames.

And I can't stand Brett Hull so it makes it that much sweeter.

I am woman. Hear me meow.

Husband goes back to work tomorrow after having over a week off. I can't say I've seen much of him. Our Christmas is all travel. We hit my grandmother's, his grandmother's and my parents' all in two days and there are a LOT of people at these homes. So, no, I can't say I'm by his side the whole time. And when we've been home, he's holed himself with the XBox playing Madden.

Usually, I don't mind him doing his thing. Particularly after work, I know the guy needs to wind down a bit. He never brings crap home and, after his "alone time" he is always easy-going, helpful and generally in a good mood.

But I had my mother-in-law this week. And Husband had me doing all of the entertaining.

It started off okay. She didn't really want to do much, so I just made sure the kids didn't knock her out or annoy her too much. I cooked nice meals, made sure she had her bagels, cream cheese, soy milk and a never ending supply of coffee. I kept my bathrooms spotless and Pine-Sol fresh. We had a previous engagement at my cousin's where she was hosting a big family party for her son's 16th birthday, so she came to that. I guess she was fine (I told Husband to keep her company because I was expected to help out). There was a great spread. But then she broke a tooth off her third pastizzi. Even that didn't annoy her that much.

She was in pretty good spirits, if you don't count the bitching about her mom and siblings, but that's par for the course. She brought out her fortune telling cards, for lack of a better term. I'm not into that. I don't even read my horoscope. But I played along (unlike Husband who chuffed it off, calling it "bullhooey" or something like that). Middle Child loved the illustrations and I fostered his new interest by getting him a half-price calendar of "fantasy" illustrations (fairies, dragons, wizards, mermaids, etc).

We had a kid-friendly New Year's Eve party with friends and their children. I fast-forwarded the clocks by three hours so the kids could count down midnight at what really was 9 pm. The kids had a great time, allowing us moms to be more relaxed than usual (I had five or six drinks). The dads and my mother-in-law spent most of the three hours playing Scrabble, which is MIL's favourite game ever. My friend even said she enjoyed her company out on the porch for smoke breaks.

They left and, it's a blur how it started but, as we were tidying up, MIL got on the subject of Catholic education. She couldn't understand how intelligent people like my friends and I would subject our children to such archaic, expoitative and harmful teachings. "Frankly, it's a little hypocritical of you to call yourselves feminists and then support such a hurtful organization that may very well damage your precious children."

And it got better than that. Oh yes. She cut down just about everything I believed in and stood for. She mocked my opinions. She questioned my intelligence. She refuted my culture. She even, at one point, went on a litany of, essentially, what a shitty weak-assed woman I was. For example, she insisted that I wasn't at all close to nature and that would be my downfall. "I'm the champion recycler on my block," I argued. "I turn off the lights when I leave the room. The house is cooler than it could be in winter and warmer than it could be in summer. I walk my kids to school. I buy organic and locally when possible. Why do you say I'm not close to nature? Because I don't enjoy camping? Because I don't live near mountains and an ocean? I do the best I can with what I can."

Oh, but I fraternize with the masculine too much. Okay, I admit it. I love men. So, I disagreed with her. Women are not better than men. I was raised to believe that I was any man's equal. No, but, you see, I'm just not in tune enough with my feminine side. Huh? I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a neice. Go further. I'm creative. I'm intuitive. I'm fucking sensitive, or else I would have put my hands over my ears and walked away when she went on her rampage, just like Husband did. Don't tell me what I am and what I'm not. That was truly insulting, especially to a near 40-year-old. I'm not a child. I've had experiences and, like anyone else's, they have value. From my experiences, I have opinions which hold as much water as anyone else's.

The arguement or debate or whatever it was stemmed from the topic of organized religion, which is something I hate to discuss. I live in a community where it's nothing to blab about your church, and I find that weird and intrusive. Spirituality is a personal thing. To me, it's like telling me how you like to wipe your ass. I just don't want to know. Flip that around and I can also say I don't like to discuss my beliefs, thank you. How can I go to church and be pro-choice? Gee, I guess the same way you can protest government cutbacks to environmental issues and smoke at the same time.

She kept pressing but I wouldn't budge. All I would say is that, true, organized religion has had its moments of unholiness for certain, but billions of people in the past and present have found grace from it. For some, it gives them a set of guidelines on how to stand upright. "But that's common sense," she argued. "But some people need to be told. Not everyone is as intelligent as you are," I responded.

In the end, we saw that our feminism enacts in different ways. She wants to single-handedly change the world. And I just want to go through life doing no harm, teach that to my kids, and hope other people are doing the same. My wish is that she respects my decision as I respect and do my best to support hers. It's the womanly thing to do.

So Be Good, For Goodness Sake

Have you beennaughty or nice?

Daughter's best friend reminded her of this website. We did it last year and, boy, it was accurate. I know it's all in generalities and only has a handful of reports, but it was pretty cool. The kids bought it, anyway.

Three Hours I'll Never Get Back

Husband and I ditched the kids yesterday and caught King Kong.

What a waste of my time.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Everything that is being said about the special effects in this movie is bang-on. Frankly, the guy who played King Kong was great. I think he also did Gollum in those series of movies that, I'm told, I'm the only person on Earth who hasn't seen them.

What got me were the tiny details; the physics of it all. I mean, with all that dropping and catching and throwing around, the Naomi Watts character should have died or, at the very least, had motion sickness. Arms should have been ripped off at the sacrifice scene. And why wasn't the wind whipping around up at the top of the Empire State Building in December? And she was in a sleeveless gown.

It's kind of like taking a crazy long time to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and then doing stick figure hands on God.

Husband's rebuttal was simply put: "Jen," he sighed, "it's a movie about a 25-foot gorilla."

Staples Calendars Suck Bobo

I usually give my mother one of those calendars you get a photocopy shops where photos are enlarged on the colour copier and then coil bound with the months.

The place I usually go has a cut-off of November 30 and my sister hadn't given me any photos of her kids by then. So I scrambled for a place that would do it with a fast turn around. Staples just opened up in town and they said they'd do one in 24 hours.

True to their word, I picked it up yesterday and I'm so disappointed. Not only is there some weird photocopied smudge on my nephew's cheek (he's Mr. December), but there were no annotations for holidays nor was the coil bound the whole way. And, it's a little thing but a big thing, there was no little hole drilled at the top for hanging.

I asked if they had such a drill and the person said they didn't but I could use their 3-hole punch (why???). And then she adds, "I use thumbtacks." Even in December? Must be pretty long thumbtacks, honey.

Why I'd Make a Lousy Teacher, Reason #43: I Intrinsically Hate Knowitalls

I just got back from watching the two older kids skate. Their school booked some time at the rink nearby. Middle Child's class went first so after helping tie skates, I put the bobskates on Baby Boy and hit the ice.

I was astounded at how well Middle Child's skating has come along (Daughter is doing great too). Baby Boy spent most of the time sitting on a chair while his brother or his brother's classmates would skate around with him.

So, after an hour with Middle Child's class, a bunch of moms and I were sitting around waiting for the next batch of classes to come (I was waiting for Daughter's). The Grade 3/4 class were the first to arrive. Her kids didn't even have their skates on when she came clear across the arena to tell us, "Our insurance doesn't cover anyone who isn't in the classes, so you can't skate. Sorry." This was the same cow that seemingly broke the news to me last week that my friend's son, whom I've known since he was a toddler, has autism. Oooh, what a news flash! Thanks, Bessie.

One mom was livid. "Why could we skate for one class and not the other?" She wasn't angry enough to push the envelope. She waited for her daughter to arrive, told her what was going on and went home.

On the other hand, I waited for Daughter's teacher until I started untying my skates. "No, no, Jennifer! I need you out there with the kids because I don't skate!" I told her what I was told and the teacher replied, "Give me your word that you won't sue the school and then go out if you want." Nyeah, nyeah, ni-nyeah nyeah.

Needless to say, Baby Boy was upset. I still kept him off the ice because I didn't want to start a big war (just a little one). Besides, what if my kids get her as a teacher one year?

And then my friend Slowplum gave me a Sudoku book and some wicked awesome banana chocolate chip muffins — still warm! So it all balances out. How very Zen.

Sick, But Not Sick Enough

Yesterday, Middle Child woke up and puked a bit. Obviously, Husband and I thought it best that he should stay home from school.

He moaned and bitched on the chesterfield until about 9ish, when I invited him to do some printing practice. He finished his lines of Bs while I was folding laundry.

When I was done, I found him in his room, stuffing his face with candy that he's been squirrelling away since Halloween.

Needless to say, I sent him to school after that. If you're well enough to eat candy and not barf it up, you're well enough to go to school. He was excited about that because he forgot it was Science Monday at school.

Lego and Let Go

Last weekend, we braved the cold and went to the local Santa Claus parade. At least Husband, the boys and myself got to walk around a bit when we couldn't feel our toes anymore.

Daughter wasn't so lucky. She was on a float.

Her Brownie pack went as the Island of Misfit Toys. Her Brown Owl and Tawny Owl made costumes for all the girls but as they were handing them out, Daughter piped up. "You don't need to give me one. My mum makes awesome costumes. She'll make mine, if that's okay."

That was Wednesday. The parade was Sunday. Why, oh why didn't she take the free costume?

Fine, I told her. You'll go as a stray piece of Lego.

"But there was no Lego in the Rudolph movie, Mumma!"

I made the costume Sunday morning as we were busy at my nephew's birthday party on Saturday. Thankfully, the leftover housepaint dried and, lookit, she looked great.

In the end, she was thrilled with her costume. Brown Owl thought she looked so good, she had her sit up front.

"Could anyone tell you were a piece of Lego, honey? Did you hear anyone say, 'Oh look! Lego!' on the parade route?" I asked.

"Oh, I only heard that comment about, um, A THOUSAND TIMES! It was awesome!"

Building happy childhood memories one by one. That's what it's all about.

Why Do I Bother?

I just finished the last of my 12 sessions with a personal trainer.

Oh, I can see it has been working. My upper body is something else. In fact, just two nights ago, I wrapped a towel around me after having a shower and Husband came in to get ready.

"You're looking a little macho," he said.

I should have slugged him with my superior upper body strength.

But, even sadder, was that I have only lost a measly one per cent of body fat. All that fresh hell for one per cent?!

Another Reason Why Rudolph's Nose is Red

We went to my cousin's child's first birthday party yesterday. It's always great to hang out with my extended family. All the families there lived within a ten minute walk of each other for a good period of time and we used to get together a lot when my grandparents were still alive.

All the families were there except for one, who, ironically, didn't live near us, and are on the outs with the family these days, for reasons I'm not privy to. Not that I care or anything. I'm too old to worry about popularity.

We got stuck in traffic on the way home, so we got some good views of other people's vehicles.

Daughter shrieked, "I just saw a truckload of bleeding mooses." Meanwhile Husband and I questioned her while Baby Boy exclaimed, "Look! Santa's reindeer!" Frankly, it was a more accurate comparison.

There was a pickup filled with about six or more elk or caribou (we think - they were too big to be deer). Blood from their noses, they were piled atop each other, heads hanging off the back of the pickup.

Daughter started to cry. "Roll down the window, Daddy," she asked. "I want to call them 'Meanies.'"

Bonnofie Pie: So Good!

While I was putting away laundry on the second floor, the kids completely destroyed the living room. All the cushions were off the chesterfield. The stocking were down, with one stocking holder broken. Mandarin peels all over and spilled applesauce on the rug. And toys. And paper. And crayons. Ho-lee shit.

So I tidied up the living room and had asked the kids to tidy the playroom. I had just finished vacuuming when Middle Child came down and said, "Yeah, um, well, ah, you see, er, the Christmas tree is broken. (Daughter) tried fixing it but she made it worser."

Sure enough, the tree (fake) was on its side; the top part snapped off. Broken ornaments abound, I fixed the tree the best I could and then went to a friend's house before I did something I would regret.

Of course, the kids were still squirrelly there but a little better behaved. It just didn't seem like it to one of the boys who lived there. Tears abound.

I sat in the kitchen with my friend and her older son, who, with his whack load of play dough made this pie. What's in it? Orange, strawberry, banana, whipped cream and, after a while, he didn't care to name. He just wanted to use every colour he had. The masterpiece is called Bonnofie Pie and is a thing of beauty.

At 4:30, I had asked the kids to start tidying up. By 5:00, they were starting to put on their coats. By 5:30, we realized that Middle Child lost a boot.

I carried him to the car, came home to answer the phone. "Did you forget you had dinner plans with us tonight?" I didn't when I woke up, but by that time, the horribleness of the day kinda smudged my memory. Anyway, we made our way over to their house to be greeted by my university friend, "You look like hell." She knows me well.

I only asked for liquor after Middle Child busted up a guitar their son had made by himself. I asked for another when Middle Child knocked over a shelf of toys in the basement. And threw a pizza. My friends are very diplomatic women. "Oh, he's just acting silly because he worships our son." Probably very true. Their son got Middle Child into Star Wars. They're very, very similar, though their son is three years older than mine. But, further, I thought maybe Middle Child felt like he needed to be noticed because he knows that Daughter and this boy have been friends since they were very wee. Whatever, it all got worked out once the boy brought out his new obsession: dragonology. He indoctrinated Middle Child into that world and, this morning, my kid has a million questions about dragons.

And then I came home to watch INXS perform on Much More Music. I would have turned it off the minute I saw that twit Traci Melchor was the host. Man, that woman can't interview her way out of a paper bag. And why waste airtime complimenting audience members over their tops? Anyway, I watched it all the way through just in case I could spot my baby sister who was in the crowd. And I did.

Loser

I feel like:
a) the biggest doofus in town
b) the worst mother ever
c) the school board make yet another error

I went out this morning, as I always do, and surveyed the weather and roads. Seemed fine. Sure, there was snow but it was rather temperate.

So I bundled the kids up in their snowsuits and off we went the four blocks to school.

I knew something was amiss when I noticed the parking lot was empty of teachers' cars. The only one there was the custodian's. Sure enough, there was a note posted on the front door: No school today Friday the 25th.

Bless Me Father

Daughter had her first confession yesterday. She came home from school and was a bundle of nerves.

I made one of her favourite dinners and then she said she wanted to dress up for the occassion. She put on her emerald salwar kameez (and we aren't from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka or Pakistan) and her winter boots. Oh yes, quite the look.

There in the church were all her friends from school and she was actually surprised to see them there. One of her best friends made it a family affair. The little brothers wore suits. The aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandmother were there. Meanwhile, Daughter and I just closed the door to the house with me saying, "Back in about 30 minutes."

She lined up for the youngest priest of the three "because he's closer to being a kid than the others" but the line didn't move fast enough. So she and her three friends started line-hopping. She got out of the confessional beaming and loudly proclaimed, "I only have to say two Our Fathers!"

One of the priests was doing confessing face-to-face up on the altar. He had Parkinsons or something, as he was flailing big time. Needless to say, this was the talk in the schoolyard this morning.

It's Christmastime in the City

We spent Saturday visiting the great-grandmas. Mine already had a visitor, my mum's cousin, who has the amazing ability to mouth the words you are speaking as you are saying them. I don't know how she does it and I'm sure she isn't even aware that she is doing it. But it's cool to watch.

The grand dames are doing fine, despite all the doom and gloom that others say about them. Sure, mine is still very upset about the death of her son this past summer, but she was cracking jokes and was otherwise interested in what others were doing. But, when she was talking about posting some letters, she held up one addressed to my cousin but she was referring to my nephew (both with birthdays in December). She realized she was holding the wrong envelope and went back to the dining room to put it away. Meanwhile, my mum said in a hushed tone, "Oh, my poor mother! She's so disoriented and confused." Whatever.

And Husband's grandmother is getting a little hard of hearing, but is still more "with it" than many people my age.

The next day, Daughter got presented at church. It's not a big deal; the kids in her class were called up to the altar and the parish was told they're going to receive the sacrament of first reconciliation this week. Everyone clapped ("Way to go, little sinners!") and they went back to their seats.

Daughter thought she should milk this so she implored, "Since I didn't faint up there, can we set up the Christmas decorations?" So, tempting fate (the kids are bound to destroy something with this extra time), Daughter and I put them up. Of course, she left me to tidy up.

Meanwhile, Husband went grocery shopping for the first time in about six months. I'm not sure how he did it, but he managed to spend $300 and he didn't even buy half the things I needed (diapers, mozzarella, laundry detergent).