Who Needs Botox?

You want the Fountain of Youth? Go back to your parents' house for a few days.

Don't get me wrong. I love going there in the same way my mum liked going to her mum's when my sisters and I were little. Granny kind of takes over and the shackles to the oven are loosened a bit.

The kids absolutely love going to my parents' house. They are the creme de la creme of grandparents. They take them to the park and everywhere. They have a very fine collection of movies. They play with them outside. They always have great (and favourite) food. They even have a play room stocked with toys, books, and craft supplies.

But, as it should be, their house means their rules. And that goes for me, too. This is how a nearly 40-year-old instantly loses 25 years. They didn't yell at me for not making the bed by 8 am or anything, but I did have to mind my p's and q's.

My mum's mind is on a host of other things. Baby Sister is in the process of moving into her first piece of real estate, just a week after getting in a yucky car accident. Middle Sister has a lot going on (I live the life of Riley in comparison) and Mum just wants her to be happy. And there's my grandmother (very active but well into her 80s), my dad's health, her volunteering and now this month-long trip to the Motherland.

She and Dad are going with my aunt and uncle. Now, I don't know if my aunt is more organized or if she's just really, really excited, but Mum was all freaked because she hasn't packed yet like my aunt did. My dad is more relaxed about it. "What's it take? I'll pack two shorts, two pairs of light pants, six underwear, a bunch of shirts and I'll wear my jeans on the plane." "Two shorts? Two?! Honey, that's not enough! You're going to embarrass me." Then again, what does my dad care? I doubt he'll do the laundry.

Anyway, I got the distinct feeling that she was glad to see our backs. Initially, she wanted us to spend the week with her but I didn't want to. As it turned out, she also realized that we'd get in her way. And whenever I'm there, I never know what I can do to help. I try but my efforts aren't up to their standard. Again, feel like a kid.

No, I'm sure that as soon as our car pulled out of the driveway, she was packing.

I'm an Adult Now

Daughter is into Avril Lavigne. She's been listening to her for about three years now, but, being a pre-teen, Avril is part of her identity. She's dressing like her. She's reading everything about Avril. She's a member of her fan club. Frankly, I'd rather she'd be into her than having her singing around the house about her "lovely lady lumps."

Niece found the Beatles at summer camp this year. She's borrowed her Granny's CDs and when her brother sings along, she defiantly tells him, "You can't like the Beatles. They're MY group!" I wonder if she knows how old the songs really are.

My boys will listen to just about anything, really. They have their favourites. Currently, Baby Boy is digging on Peter, Björn and John and, since getting the Shrek 3 soundtrack for his birthday, Middle Child is just loving Led Zeppelin of all things.

So, good and groovy mum that I strive to be, I made a mixed CD of Zeppelin songs for him. And I confess here that I've been just cranking it in the car.

Yes. Led Zeppelin. Me. All of you who know me can stop laughing now.

I'm a west-end girl from Toronto (I don't usually get personal but I've learned that my efforts for anonymity on the 'net are shite). By and large, west-enders don't go east, and vice versa. Honestly, the first time I hung out in Scarborough was when I was 20 (unless you count my cousin's baptism) and, until then, I always painted that end as populated with a bunch of long-hairs who go to Laser Floyd at the Planetarium, spitting out sunflower seed shells and hanging out at donut shops. And pregnant teens. And Led Zeppelin. Lots of Zeppelin. In other words, everything I was not.

Zeppelin to me was just my cue that the high school dance was going to end. Like I wanted to slow dance to "Stairway to Heaven" with some guy with lame come-ons like, "I guess I can't hide my affection for you." I would rather cut an apple in half and watch it turn brown.

Did you see "Wayne's World"? Mike Myers said many times it was a pure reflection of living in Scarborough.

Then what of the "Bohemian Rhapsody" scene in the Mirthmobile? High school friends of mine who read this now (thanks, Facebook!) can attest that I did that all the time.

I guess it's a sign that I'm – gasp! – mature. I can look past labels now and accept things at face value. I can listen to Led Zeppelin without looking over my shoulder and play it as loud as anything else I like.

But I still can't stomach Husband's Steely Dan.

Hmmm...

This is what I don't understand: why do radio stations play Bryan Adams's "Summer of 69" but bleep out, say, in Wheatus's song "Teenage Dirtbag", the word "gun"? The lyric goes something like, "Her boyfriend's a dick/He brings a gun to school."

I mean, the whole Adams song is about, well, 69. Not the year. Not some number between 68 and 70. No, it's about THAT 69.

You could go crazy with censorship. Where do you draw the line? I don't play Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently" around the kids, but they've heard all of the latest Amy Winehouse CD many times in the car. And I have no problem with the un-Wal-Mart version of the Avril Lavigne disc I bought Daughter. Like she hasn't heard swearing.

It's thoughts like this that hit me like a sudden itch. "Summer of 69" was playing at the grocery store and I found it very incongruous when I saw a grandmother singing along. Mind you, she must have been in her 20s when the original "Lady Marmalade" came out. And my grandmother just loves Tom Jones. She's the mother of 8.

When it gets down to it though, I wish radio stations stopped playing "Summer of 69" because it sucks hard. And you can read into the word "sucks" all you want. Censor that.

Yin and Yang

I just want to say that I have, for the past year, kept off 13 lbs. I could still lose some more but I'm quite pleased with my bum.

Meanwhile, Husband is still thin in a pale, concave, weedy, oven-rack-for-ribs, baguettes-for-thighs kind of way. He hasn't seen an exercise machine (or weights) since watching me do my thing on the cruise last spring. He farts away these protein shakes which cost $80 per bucket to buy and have done squat for his intension of having a Daniel Craig body.

Damn!

And I say that because $80 is a crazy amount of money to spend on a protein drink when I, personally, would rather spend the money on some really fine steaks. And "damn" because I confess to seeing Casino Royale more than a few times if only for the beach scene.

See? There's always been a few blond guys in my life who have broken through the tall/dark/handsome barrier I had. Husband included.

I wonder if mild-mannered Husband ever envisioned himself with a purple-haired girl? Oh, he knew what he was getting into. You should have been there today at Baby Boy's final soccer game. Soccer Mom. Drives a minivan. Purplish hair, the t-shirt with the fondue pot on it saying "Let's Fondue It!", sweet new wave Vans, getting all nostalgic and shit by listening to Black Flag on her iPod. And 13 lbs. lighter.

Snap

My father-in-law has never been in good health for as long as I've known him. He's sort of confined to a wheelchair but he does have some movement. The wheelchair and scooter is just his transportation of choice. The guy would take his scooter in his apartment to go from one chair to another.

You can imagine our surprise to hear that he was actually standing (with support, I'm sure) when he had a big wipe out and broke some bones on his good side. Thankfully, he fell in the hall. If he was in his apartment, he may not have been able to get to a phone and, as no one lives with him or near him, who would hear his cries for help?

So Husband was told by his physician that his dad will be in the hospital for - get this - six weeks. Husband is very, very bummed out now. He's upset that his dad didn't get to go to his small Manitoba hometown, but Husband is also upset because his dad didn't buy cancellation insurance ("But think of the money he'll save on hotel and restaurant bills," I said to lighten things up. I only got a "harumph").

But I think what might upset Husband most is that this totally cramps his own style. He was to be going out west to visit his brother and friends, but now he figures he's going to have to spend more time with his father. Oh yeah, and he's resurrected the idea of putting him in a home. I don't think that idea will see the light of day, but it does ride on his mind. I think it's just that he would feel more comfortable knowing his dad was being taken care of, especially since he lives so far. But, hey, he made that choice. Anyway, that may give a glimpse of the conflicting emotions swirling around Husband these days, even though he's the king of the poker face.

He has yet to comment on my violet highlights. It's the most I've ever spent on myself, I think. Oh, and it's way more sedate in indoor light.

This is Volunteering?

I'm one of a small handful of moderators of an online group. I do it for free. I do it in my spare time. I do it because I think it's a valuable service.

On Thursday, I learned someone wanted to sue us.

It started when the person who is moderating this week approved a post that shouldn't have seen the light of day for a number of reasons. She went back to it a few minutes later, realized her error and deleted the post from the group's archives. Of course, it was already sent out; there's nothing she could do to stop that.

A flurry of really biting emails came in shortly thereafter. Who does the moderator turn to? Me. Of all the others, she came to me. Damn.

So I've been spending the last few days putting out fires. Thankfully, we moderate on an anonymous basis but when someone said they were going to sue for libel, I cracked open my university notebooks. Nice to know my legal liabilities class was good for something.

So far, so good. No one has been served with papers but this has been a stress I will be glad to be rid of.

My Accoustic Motorbike

After much procrastination, I finally took my bicycle to the shop for a tune-up. The back tire hasn't been holding air very well and, as you can see, it's probably older than me.

I bought it at a Value Village for the tidy sum of $18. It was in fabulous condition; no rust, bent spokes, nothing. There's a sticker under the seat that states the bike was bought from a shop in St. Boniface, which hints at its age. St. Boniface was a Franco-Manitoban town, but has now become part of greater Winnipeg (which is another reason to buy the bike: an homage to Husband's family).

Another clue as to the age? The store's phone number starts with two letters. Mind you, I remember my mother ordering from the Eaton's catalogue, giving our number as "Roger 9, blah, blah, blah". Perhaps that makes no sense to my friends in town because, while Bell Canada had the monopoly on home phone service here, everyone had the same first two exchange numbers. Some people still give their numbers here in five digits instead of seven.

I'm digressing.

Anyway, when I wheeled the bike in to the shop, the sweet young things behind the counter made various comments like "What a relic!" and "It's a Garry!" (which is the name brand of the bike). Of course, after they took a look, they assured me that there's absolutely nothing wrong with the bike, but that they'd check out the tire problem.

Sure enough, they oiled the chains and changed the leaky valve and it runs like a dream now. I have my little wicker basket and I ride totally upright, channelling my inner Hepburn. If only my hair could grow faster, then I could pull it back in a jaunty ponytail. Until then, I will put up with, what someone used to call it, my Ramones hair. And I'm sure he didn't mean that cute little bob that Dee Dee had. No. It must have been that bird's nest mop of Joey's. At least, that's how I feel about it now. Serious action is needed soon. Humidity is the devil's work.

I'm digressing again.

So the total cost for the tune-up was $11, bringing the total cost of my sweet ride to a whopping $29.

I brought it home, freshened up the paint on the bumpers (which I regret because now it looks too white) and I shined up the wheel rims. Lovely.

That being said, yet again, Husband retains his title as the World's Most Expensive Spouse. He brought in his bike, a racing bike he probably spent too much on in the 80s, and also wanted a tune-up. Oh, and change the handle bars to something more upright. Total for his bike? $108!!! This comes days after he spent hundreds on a new driver golf club. And he gets mad at me for bringing back another souvenir shot glass. "But it only cost 35 cents!" "Jen, it's just another piece of crap. And you don't even drink straight liquor!" I'll give him the big Margaret Keane eyes and he lets it drop.

And I know my family out there agree with Husband, so I'll let it rest.

Pedal on!

Wino-Might!

Woo hoo! My sinus infection is no more and I'm done with the "no alcohol allowed" antibiotics which cost a ridiculous $55 for seven fucking pills.

So, to celebrate, I went to the LCBO and bought some Tanqueray (the kids wanted me to buy blue Bombay Sapphire but it reminds me of antifreeze), whisky (mmm, whisky sours...) and lemoncello.

And, yes, I bring my kids to the liquor store. They don't touch and I think there's nothing wrong with being raised around hootch as long as the imbibers are using it responsibly. I've never been drunk. Never needed to be. They also know not to touch Mommy's mixers, dammit.

My kids are easier to shop with than Husband. As you all know, walking into a liquor store with him is like (no offense, Slowplum) reading The Hobbit for me. I was no better off when it was done and, if anything, it left me with that "what the fuck?!?" feeling. The last time we went out together, it took him at least a half-hour to decide. And he picked up rum. Dark rum. He doesn't drink dark rum. He doesn't drink anything but beer and red wine and only at home. My first, Husband would have drank with me, though.

Funny, I'm rereading this post. I'm upset about spending $55 on medication which I needed but had no qualms about spending, er, at least that on happy juice.

Canadian Nightmare

I was walking out of the most awesome GT Boutique (arguably, as I heard the one in Smiths Falls is rather excellent) when I saw an older woman walking with a little Asian boy. He was about 6 and crying really hard. He was also very sweaty and barefoot. It was an odd sight and I sized up the woman.

Walking by, I suppose she noticed and told me, "This little guy was left in his car, crying, with the windows rolled up. I'm letting the store manager know." She walked him into the store.

That sort of thing shakes me to the core, more so because I'm a mother I think.

There was a little gathering in the parking lot. A Mennonite family and a woman in a tank top were talking when they stopped and the Mennonite mother asked me, "Was that your child?"

I told them that he wasn't, and that the woman was taking him in to see the store manager. At that, the Mennonites muttered that they didn't want to get involved and made a quick and quiet departure. Tank top woman said, "Good! I hope they call the cops."

The manager came out and asked us which car the child was in. He walkie-talkied it in and went back.

Right after, an Asian woman came out with four bags of stuff. I mean, she must have been shopping for a while. She went to the car in question, looked in the back seat and kinda rolled her eyes.

"You looking for your baby?" tank top woman asked sharply. Not waiting for a reply, she added, "They took him in because he was screaming and crying."

"But he didn't want to get out of the car!" she protested.

Then, here's me in my Murray's Hi-Fi bowling shirt and skull-and-crossbone Airwalks (the vision of maternity!). "Far be it from me to tell people how to care for a child, but you're the adult in the situation. I would have hauled him out of the car anyway. Or, if he's that adamant, turn the car back home. Sobey's is open 24 hours. Go some other time. What you did is illegal and the store could report you. Did you need your stuff that badly?"

She was rolling her eyes again when a group of employees came out and told her to come inside the store. She bit her lip and walked away.

"Wow," I said to tank top woman. "Thankfully, you don't see that very often."

"I bet you would if you were in Toronto or Ottawa or something like that," tank top woman sighed. "You can tell she's not from Canada."

Whaaaa? Fricking small town xenophobe. This is the reason why I like taking the kids south. It's not just to see escalators!

Not letting that one pass, I smiled and said, "Well, I'm not from Canada either." A lie but not too far from the truth.

She stumbled a bit and backtracked, "Uh, actually, I meant that, uh, you don't see many Canadians anymore."

"But I'm Canadian." Pause, letting her er and em some more and then I added, "You have a nice day, eh?"

I left wondering what would be a worse case of parenting: abandonment or raising a child with racist attitudes?

Saturday Afternoon Fever

There is a rather excellent toy store, scarily, one block-ish from my house.

I love how they have educational and relatively uncommercial toys. I love how everything is organized and decorated. I love how the sales staff don't ask, "May I help you?" but "Wanna see a magic trick" instead.

Every hour, they make an announcement, "It's dance time! If you're caught dancing, you win a candy. The best dancer wins a drink from our soda bar!" Then they crank up some lively Motown or something and all the kids start jumping up and down. As they get older, it becomes more of a shy shuffle, which is why my two older kids didn't win the soda.

Baby Boy did for his rather inspired rendition of "the robot".

Where does he pick this sort of stuff up, I ask you?

Headaches

I've been battling a cold for about a month. On Sunday night, I started getting this pain behind my left ear. Great, I thought. I have an ear infection.

I went to the doctor, alarmed now because the pain was traveling to my jaw. "It's not the ear, Jennifer," said my doctor. "It's a sinus infection."

He prescribed me some antibiotics. "They're powerful," he warned.

He also could have warned me that seven pills were going to cost me about $55. And I've been getting a migraine and gut-rot every single day now.

On the bright side, my cold is gone.

My friend M, who lives in Vancouver now, brought her daughter to visit us. Thankfully, I was feeling well. Daughter got her "I-want-a little-sister" bug out while M's daughter was here. Middle Child had his nose in a book all day, but everyone else played really great.

I've known M since grade 7. We were like two peas in a pod; she was my maid-of-honour. And despite all the years, she hasn't aged. She may even be skinnier now.

Seeing her now, a mother of one, a second and happier career, a home owner in a tony area of Vancouver, attentive wife, she seemed like she had her shit together. She came to my lived-in house with the funky coloured rooms and the jumped-on furniture, three totally different but equally spirited kids, and the marriage that fits like a broken-in pair of jeans. She confessed, "If we have another child, it will kill us. And I mean that almost literally."

Middle Child will come home tomorrow after being at my parents' since Sunday. I've spoken with him every day and he's having a great time. Frankly, I don't even think he misses home at all.

When I first called, I got an "I love you, Mum. Do you miss me like I miss you?" But by the second day, and just about any other time I've called him, he has been either distracted or pissed that I interrupted him.

Mum was a little shocked at how much the kid can pack away. "I could give him a portion like I'd give your father and the little guy will eat it all!" Oh, I guess I didn't warn her about that. Don't let that oven rack for ribs, baguettes for legs look fool you.

Eldest Nephew also shared the week at Camp Granny and Granpa but I'm told he's homesick and wants to come home a little early. This is cool with Middle Child because after Daughter called him up, he's anxious to come home too. No, he's not homesick. Daughter called her brother to lord a party invitation over his head.

"Jules's Baby is having a birthday party. It's on Saturday. Too bad you won't be here to come!"

Middle Child was having none of that. Mum said he phoned Jules's house to invite himself.

Cheeky as anything, he is. Thankfully, he's being accommodated.

I missed him like you can't imagine, even if caring for two children has been infinitely easier than three (for me, anyway).
God, I hope he'll let me hug him.

Middle-of-the-Night Thoughts

Ever wake up in the middle of the night and you're doing Grand Prix laps in your head?

I am having one of those nights. It doesn't help that my stomach has been upset almost all day and I have a cold that I just can't shake.

The only hint that I was feeling poorly was a few days last week when the cold made me lose my voice. To be honest, it freaked the kids (and my parents who phoned) to hear me talk like Brenda Vaccaro. Although I was actually feeling alright those days, Daughter in particular really picked up the slack around here and helped out.

She has these bouts of maturity beyond her years, and then there are days when she screams and cries at the drop of a hat. I'm sure we're dealing with the onset of hormones here. What else could it be? This sort of behaviour started almost overnight after her last birthday.

I'm shaking in my Blunstones, fearing those teenage years which are around the corner.

Slowplum came over the house a couple of days ago. She slapped me upside the head when she reminded me that Grade 8 is but a handful of years away. The Grade 8s at my kids' school tower over me. The girls have breasts. Slowplum swears some of them are sexually active. Shaking, I tell you.

Candidate for Fromage 1982

Is it just me or does this video remind you of Benny Hill too?

Middle Child's Birthday Extravaganza

Middle Child has come a long way, socially.

Last year, he didn't really have any friends in his class. It could have been because of the bullying. It could have been because he can have a bit of a superiority complex. It could be because his kindergarten classmates were not interested in chemical reactions, planetary sciences or were tucking into chapter books.

This year, he learned he needs to give a little and he found himself a little niche. There are even a few of the popular athletic boys who eagerly seek Middle Child to play with "because he's smart and has neat ideas." My cup runneth over.

But given the chance to have a birthday party with classmates or spending a weekend with family in Niagara Falls, Middle Child picked the latter.

Middle Child is completely obsessed with facts. The books he reads are often stuff like trivia books or the Guinness Book of World Records. More than anything, though, he loves the Ripley's Believe It or Not series.

So when we went to Baby Sister and Home Chef's wedding in Niagara Falls, he made a decision to go to the Ripley's museum of oddity for his birthday. And he talked about it on a daily basis, believe me.

Last Friday after school, we piled the kids in the car. I booked us a room at the HoJo near Clifton Hill, where all the funhouses and rides and museums are. Middle Child had his list of things he must do and, thankfully, weren't unattainable.

One thing NOT on the list was to see the actual falls, though. There were no complaints when, after checking in, we walked down to the falls. We stuck around until dusk, watching the light shows on the American Falls, but were more mesmerized by the one on Horseshoe Falls. Of course, the kids got all puffed up when we told them that Horseshoe was entirely in Canada. "Ours is the best. Ours is the best," they sang and did some funky chicken dance. I'm sure it was very amusing to the Republican American tourists nearby. They had tons of energy considering it was way past bedtime and they did all that walking. So we stuck around until 10 when the fireworks started. Walking back to the hotel, Daughter sighed, "That was so nice–and it didn't cost us anything!"

Cost was a factor the next day. We ate at the Denny's next door with their inflated prices. The kids' meals were still $1.99 but Husband's bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes were something like $13. I had an egg, toast and grits for $8. Anyhow, it was totally palatable despite my conviction that no self-respecting Maltese person would willingly eat at a place called "Denny".

For those reading this who are not lucky enough to be Maltese, "denny" in Maltese means something along the lines of "gut-rot". I am not joking.

After breakfast, Husband took Baby Boy to the pool while we hit Must-See #1: Ripley's 4-D Moving Theatre. Baby Boy wouldn't make the height restriction, so off we went alone. We were the only ones there, but they put it on for us anyway. We were shaken about, imagining we're on an out-of-control logging truck, snowmobile, dune buggy and a bunch of other reckless vehicles. Fake snow shot around us, steam, rain. It was fun but Middle Child left a little green. Guess we shouldn't have come so close after eating breakfast.

Back to the hotel, the kids went into the pool for about a half-hour and got bored even with the curly slide and stuff. So we went back to the room, got clean in the completely red bathtub and shower (thumbs-up on Jen's tack-o-rama meter), checked out and hit the hallowed Ripley's museum. It was lots of fun for all of us, but Middle Child was in his element. You can easily tell when the boy is happy because he has this walk, walk, skip, walk, walk, skip. Anyway, he insisted on reading - I swear - every display. We were there for almost two hours.

The building itself was a marvel. It looked like it was a tower tipped over on its side. Wicked.

Next on Middle Child's Must-Do List was eat at the Rainforest Cafe. His teacher raved about it once and he's wanted to go ever since. The restaurant is right next to the Marvel Adventure City. If you know my kid, you'd know that place was on the list as well. But, disappointingly, it was only an arcade and not even specifically Marvel either. When Middle Child stated, "This probably isn't the one they advertised. Or maybe they changed it" we took it as a cue that we could shuffle the kids out of there. And, by now, Hollow Leg Husband was hungry again, so we went next door to the Rainforest Cafe.

Ever left somewhere feeling you got royally ripped off and felt really dirty? Our experience at the Rainforest Cafe did just that, and left me in a very sour mood afterward. Not only was the prices outrageous, but the food was lacklustre. Of course, it would have been nice had we been served together. Yup, just to prove a point yet again, I get bad service almost everywhere. My food (a simple grilled vegetable panini) came to me 15 fucking minutes after the rest of the family was served. Husband was long done his burger, as was Middle Child. Was it worth the wait? It was okay, but, c'mon. It's a sandwich. AND it would have been an extra $2 if you replaced the potato chips side with a salad or fries. I'm already spending $14 on a meatless sandwich. It should be wrapped in fucking gold for that price.

They sat us next to a fountain largely emblazoned "Protect the Earth". Meanwhile, their menu was mostly beef, beef and more beef. We waited for the fountain to do something crazy when the next rainstorm happened. The maitre d' really pumped this storm up to us as we were being seated. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. We heard thunder and some of the large mechanical animals came alive. Niiiice.

Anyway, I could go on about the washroom attendant who practically held hygiene hostage for the sake of a tip (I carry Purell so shove your soap up your ass), or how the waiter threw our bill on our table with it landing between Daughter and Middle Child, but let's just leave it as one of those places we will never, ever, ever go back to. I mean, if the $78 bill wasn't enough of a battlecry, I could go on and on.

We hit the Guinness museum (world records and, unfortunately because I could have used one, the beer). That was a little dull. It was completely lost on Baby Boy because there wasn't really any hands-on exhibits. "I could just read the book," Daughter said with that pre-teen attitude just starting to bubble up.

Husband and I really wanted to go under the falls or take a Maid of the Mist ride but the kids were exhausted. We took one last look at the falls, bought some ice cream for the kids and got outta Dodge (with a quick photo pit stop at the Flying Saucer Restaurant.

And, since it was on the way, we dropped in on my parents to wish my old man a happy 63rd birthday.

Tucking in Middle Child that night, I got a very rare hug and kiss. "I love you, Mom," he said. "Thanks for making my dreams happen."

Again, my cup runneth over.

Sunday

I think we saw the last of the food from the family picnic this weekend.

Home Chef and Baby Sister brought, like, a hundred hot dogs (no doubt bought from a butcher because that's the kind of guy my brother-in-law is). They also brought news that they put in an offer on a house near Husband's grandmother's home. I think by now Baby Sister has spread the news so it's safe to say here that they got the house.

Word has it that Home Chef would like to convert the shed into a smokehouse.

Anyway, now all of my parents' kids have mortgages. Hooray for us.

Eldest nephew came in and made a beeline for the XBox. Niece and Daughter holed themselves in the treehouse.

My mum sat on her ass for the first time in a long time. I was so happy to see her relatively relaxed that I kept the wine flowing. She brought a box of chocolates so big, you could have sailed to Portugal on it. She left it on the kitchen table and Baby Boy made short work of it. I swear, the kid ate about half the box. Needless to say, he made lots of trips to the toilet.

Dad installed a new porch light for us, happily giving direction to Husband and Home Chef while Middle Sister and Lumber Guy sat in the backyard with one eye on the kids and the other on their frosted mugs of beer.

We were celebrating all sorts of June events: Middle Child's birthday, Father's Day, my dad's birthday, my parents' 40th anniversary, and - I totally forgot - my own birthday. Seriously, I forgot maybe since it passed and no fuss was made other than Jules taking me out for the world's most amazing chef-created burger and an incredible midday cocktail. So when Baby Sister (who arrived first) gave me a gift bag with Sephora cosmetics (it was a first for brown eyeliner) and a Zellers gift card (I'm buying Taboo!), I was a little taken aback. Middle Sister gave me a Lush shampoo bar that kind of smells like denture breath but does absolute wonders for my hair, and a Winners gift certificate which I'll hold on to until the one in town opens. My mum also gave me two pairs of capris in, uh, a small size.

"I thought they'd fit because you don't have an ass anymore," she explained.

Nice sentiment and maybe I have lost a bit of junk in the trunk but I still have a Falstaffian belly. She gave me the receipt.

This post is poorly written. I leave you with these awesome guys freestylin' at the McDonald's drive-thru. Sweet mother, I bet it just made the minimum-wage employee's day.

And Now Back to Anna Nicole Smith

Hopefully, this soothes Jules's oral pain.

I caught Entertainment Tonight on TV for the first time in years. Man, I used to watch that show like a religion. Then I got a life.

Anyway, turns out Paris Hilton tried to kill herself at a Robin Thicke party before she went into the slammer. She swallowed ten Valium tabs with a bottle of wine (which, I assume, was her caloric intake for the day).

Someone saw her and stopped her.

"Ten pills for her is a suicide attempt," I yawned to Husband. "But eight pills would have been Friday night."

I didn't even get a smirk for that one. He was reading his latest issue of Golf Digest. Great. See you in October, Husband.

Leave Well Enough Alone

Was it just me or did you notice, too, that my images weren't appearing?

So I fiddled around with the layout and screwed everything up. So put up with this pink for a bit and I'll try something new...when I get around to it.

I am the World's Best Mother

I was told by Middle Child that I am the world's best mother because I made bacon this morning.

Apparently, ladies, this is all it takes.

My Memory of June Callwood

Husband gets lots of magazines at work so I get to read them all.

This month, lots of them have tributes to journalist, author and social activist June Callwood, who died recently of cancer.

I met Callwood once. She was getting an honourary doctorate during my university commencement. Many of my journalism classmates wanted to shake her hand, and we did. I don't know about them, but the woman made me feel like I was the only person in the room. She looked at me so intently that it seared. And I glowed.

And as I was shaking her hand, the one thing that struck me hardest, the singular three-dimensional impression left behind, were June Callwood's hands. These hands which wrote gargantuan phrases, cleverly strung together like pearls and as beautiful as a lei, these hands which helped to build herculean organizations like Casey House, PEN Canada and the Canadian Civil Liberties Association, these hands were boney, liver-spotted, and frail. These were old lady hands.

I can still remember the feel of June Callwood's grip.