Monday, July 31, 2006

density

Climbing under covers still warm with the heat of the evening’s setting sun, and into a seasoned sleep routine focused on, well, sleep, I close my eyes and lie stiffly until sure the Sandman won’t be interrupted by the sound of a baby crying, by the sniff of a puppy yet to pee, by the thirst of a body that’s forgotten to drink. With none of these to call me up, I settle into the dusk ever more smoothly, with eyes still closed, and a mind inspecting its nighttime map, choosing its travel to Dreamland.

To tired to cross the bed to kiss the person next to me, my husband, after realizing this had been ignored, I instead recall the moment of newness, the lightness, of a goodnight kiss that in the early days took my breath away each and every night, that made my heart beat outside my body, next to my skin, every inch of it, as though that kiss were all I needed to live, the oxygen of his life breathing into mine. A pang of sadness convinces me to roll over, press my lips briefly to his, feel better, but still long for the lightness of unfamiliarity that made me addicted to him in the first place.

Ahh, the lightness…

the lightness…

the lightness…

Eyes still closed, heart full (if a bit heavy), I let him stroke my arm in the darkness, singing me to sleep, shoulder to elbow…elbow to shoulder.

And back again…

back again…

back again…

“Have you been drinking orange juice lately?” he asks, stopping on my shoulder blade, hand throwing an echo through my skin to the bone, the pulse measuring density, thinking about the future, concerned for loss, for weakening.

“Sometimes.”

“Because I buy the kind with calcium just for you, you know.”

“I know.”

Eyes still closed, I smile into sleep.

Ahh, the density…

the density…

The Density.

Friday, July 28, 2006

the t-shirts I would buy my friends if, you know, I really, REALLY wanted to, and not just wanted to do this to kill some time whilst the Babe napped

For KP, I would buy this shirt.

For D.-man, I would buy this shirt.

For Rob, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one.

For Bridgee, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For the Babe, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Lesley, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Dame-o, I would buy this shirt.

For Samy, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Cammy and K.'s friend who lives in Saskatoon and who sometimes reads my blog, and all my other home-girls who know what cow tipping is, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Dirty Kurty, I would buy this shirt.

For Regina, I would buy this shirt.

For Kaiggy, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.

For that Dave dude who works with Adoring and Wonderful Husband, I would buy this shirt (in a really small size).

For K., I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Max, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. (You know, if he was human).

For Kevin, I would buy this shirt.

For Matt, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.

For Veener, I would buy this shirt.

For Grandpa, I would buy this shirt.

For Alex, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Julie, I would buy this shirt.

For Gido, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For B-Rad, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. (Or, I would just have one made special.)

For Jodie, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one.

For the Bro, I would buy this shirt.

For Heather and You-Know-Who-You-Are, I would buy this shirt. (And one for me too.)

For Adoring and Wonderful Husband, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

And I would buy this shirt for me. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.

Wow. That was one long nap.

add a baby on the boob and a poopy diaper in the hand and this is SO ME

random thoughts Friday

1. Sending – and receiving – thank-you notes the old fashioned way is a delightful pleasure I’m afraid is too often neglected in this day and age. I hereby pledge to ensure Boh becomes habituated of the practice at an early age, because who doesn’t like opening up their mailbox to find a little Christmas for some nicety they recently performed, like sending a baby gift or inviting friends to a 30th birthday bash? (Thanks for the thanks, K.!)

2. I know my blog entries often contain split infinitives. I do it to hugely annoy Regina (like fingernails on a chalkboard, ain’t it?)

3. (Actually, the truth is I’m just a lazy writer.)

4. Watching COPS with Adoring and Wonderful Husband during the noon hour is a MUCH better use of that time than is scarfing down reheated pasta from the night before while sitting alone in my office and trying to finish up a briefing note that’s due by 3:00 pm. MUCH better.

5. Where in the heck did “snaps” come from? What happened to “props”? Why am I so behind in the new cool lingo? Man, that really harshes my mellow!

6. I wish I could save the pictures I make on TypeDrawing.

7. Add this to the “pro” list for moving back to Saskatchewan: smog, or the lack thereof.

8. Add this to the “con” list: Starbucks, or the lack thereof on every corner.

9. Only eight more sleeps!

10. Dear god, what did I eat to cause Boh’s poop to smell like THAT??

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Elsewhere, Pennsylvania

I like to link it, link it. I like to link it, link it. I like to...LINK IT!

Project RACE monthly update

It’s been exactly one month since I committed to running 5 kms at the CIBC’s Run for the Cure on October 1st. At that time, I also promised periodic updates on the progress of what I’ve termed “Project RACE” (which stands for Reece, Avery, Cha! Cha! Cha! and Emma). So here it is folks:

I’m. Kicking. Ass.

My running improves every week. H. and I usually make it to at least two episodes of Stollercizing per week, and I’ve been running on my own once or twice a week to supplement my training as well. The result so far? Last Monday I ran 5 kms! Granted, it took me a good 45 minutes to do it, but I’ve never ran that long without stopping in my life. Never. And I’m even more impressed with myself when I think I did it all while pushing a 26-pound stroller (and the 17-pound baby that was inside of it)!

I’ve been losing weight and inches. My life-long allergy to scales eased a bit over the last four weeks since I’ve tried to get it in my head that ignorance is NOT bliss. I used to tell myself that as long as my clothes fit properly it didn’t matter how much I tipped the scales at, but that theory only works when you don’t have to go out and buy new clothes every time you’ve outgrown your old ones. Last month was the first time in recent memory when I weighed myself BY CHOICE (all other times in the not-so-distant past were at the doctor’s office when I was preggers with the Babe), and today I did it again. You know what? There was a 13 pound difference! While I’m sure much of that was water weight, and also just the natural shedding of poundage that happens to all new moms, I’m still estatic, especially since my measurements have been shrinking right along with the numbers on the scale (I’ve lost 1 ¾ inches off my bust, 2 ½ off my waist and 2 ¼ off my hips). I think I am now officially down to my pre-baby weight (though that’s not a weight to go and get a parade permit for!)

I have one word for all of this: sweet. Even sweeter than the five cupcakes I ate this past weekend in celebration of Adoring and Wonderful Husband’s 30th birthday. And that’s what I have to keep telling myself, because my middle name is Sabotage. I can’t start thinking that I can ease up just because I’ve dropped a few pounds, which is something I seem to do every time I get myself on the right track. So that’s my goal for the next month. To keep it up. I’ll report back again and let you know how I’m doing.

(PS. Oh ya, and I've already registered for the race. Just thought I'd tell ya in case, you know, you want to pledge early or something.)

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

birthday fun

Happy 30th Birthday Adoring and Wonderful Husband!

Okay, sweetie, I am soooo technically illiterate, and I have been neglecting the Babe for the better part of an hour trying to post this slideshow I made for you for your birthday. It needs to end NOW, before I throw this laptop into the street and wait for the garbage truck to run it over. To see it you will have to click "view" below.

Boh and I love you so, so, so, so, so much! Have a great day! XOX

RockYou slideshow View

Monday, July 24, 2006

The Dog House
















Enter here.
Sunday fun at the B-rotten household

Sunday, July 23, 2006

hable más despacio, por favor

The birthday boy gives a big thumbs up.
Kimu and the Cutest Baby Ever.
Adoring and Wonderful Husband, Chris and Samy.
Chris.
Lesley.
D-Man.

Samy and B-Rad.

a party in pictures

Get stuffed!













Cinnamon Toast Cupcakes. Fat content = 139%.













"Whose toque is this?"













Kym and the avocados, a brief love affair.


















Bridgee.


















Daddy and Boh.


















Chris and Justin eye the damage.













Bridge, Kym and Lesley.













Drink, drank, drunk.














"Man, does this party ROCK!"

piñata etiquette, and cupcakes for breakfast

If you want a social life when you have a baby, you gotta bring the party to you. And so even though Adoring and Wonderful Husband claimed he didn’t want to be feted for his 30th birthday, I eventually caught him at a weak moment, and hastily sent out a “save the date” email the second he uttered “I suppose so...I guess.” I repeat: hastily. As in: an invitation without the address on it, requiring a clarification email the day before the event. As in: an invitation with an hombre on it acquired from Google images that committed me to too much tequila and too little sleep on the designated night. No problem? No, not just no problem. No problemo.

Especially since as the weeks wore on Adoring and Wonderful Husband did half the preparation himself, picking out the piñata and suffering through the sombrero shopping. And especially since not only did K. practically come up with the menu herself, she cooked nearly the entire spread as well. (Babies are the best excuse ever. Don’t want to talk to a telemarketer? “Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t speak right now. My baby’s crying.” Don’t want to help your transient 20-something friends move every four months? “Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t prove my love for you by climbing up and down three flights of stairs 27 times on a sunny summer Sunday afternoon. Gotta watch the Babe!” Don’t want to take responsibility for preparing for the party that you yourself insisted on throwing? “Which would you prefer K.? Cupcake duty or rotten, runny, mustard-seed filled poopy diapers? That’s what I thought.”)

But the impending fiesta wasn’t good enough. D. and C. insisted on a morning kidnapping, followed by a round of golf and (I’m sure) more than a few rounds of beer as well. The nabbing came off without a hitch, with Adoring and Wonderful Husband merely protesting: “What’s going on here? Whose toque is this?” The birthday boy had no problem leaving me to attend to the final few details without him, especially once he knew K. and B. were kindly coming over to make sure I didn’t burn the kitchen down in his absence or accidentally drop the baby into the sangria mix.

24 cucumber shots and 48 cupcakes later, I was ready for anything. Even the illegal fireworks that Adoring and Wonderful Husband crossed the bridge to buy and insisted on setting off in our backyard. Even the Gordonator’s unfortunate puking incident after eating $20 worth of piñata candy grown adults apparently aren’t that interested in (especially when it comes to the options of searching for said bonbons in the dark for 15 minutes – with the distinct possibly of discovering puppy poop instead - or just going back up onto the deck and readily finding a Corona in the cooler. The choice is a clear one, especially if you have an MPA from Queen’s). Even a Babe who cried a little more than usual before going down for the night, because “Mommy! I KNOW there’s a party going on! And I don’t want to miss it!” Even an increasingly drunker crowd despite my increasingly sober and tired self, fully aware that babies? They don’t sleep in, not so much.

Despite the changing themes, one thing is a constant when Adorable and Wonderful Husband and I decide to throw a par-tae: we never fail to wake up the next day resolving “never again!” And ever since the Babe has come along, we sometimes think we’ll actually follow through on the chaste existence we tell ourselves we’d be better off living. It’s cheaper, cleaner, and we wouldn’t be left with 36 cupcakes to eat for breakfast or give away to our crazy neighbours. And we certainly wouldn’t be forced to break it to C., that – yes – there actually IS an etiquette involved in piñata beating, and it doesn’t involve being the second guy to wield the stick and busting the poor paper donkey open so wide that the whole song and dance lasts only 37 seconds. But we all live and learn.

And love. As in: love that there are people out there who care as much as I do about sending Adoring and Wonderful Husband off into his fourth decade in style. As in: love that two crazy kids from Saskatchewan can move 3300 kilometres away and so quickly find people who make this foreign province sometimes feel like home. As in: love that even though we may say “never again!”, a running list of ideas for the next shindig is never far from the back of our minds. As in: love that being thirty means that no one upchucks all over your deck from the insane amount of tequila they drank.

Evidently your thirties is the classy decade. Thank god. It couldn’t have come soon enough.

(Check out K.'s baby-less version of events here, and B.'s tequila-coloured lens here.)
maybe 30 really is the new 20

Friday, July 21, 2006

"how was your day, honey?"

"So, what'dja do today while I was at work?"

"I got in the middle of a huge fight our neighbours were having. Boh pooped all up his back and so I gave him a bath. I found out we get half of my parents' wealth when they expire, no matter how many times Harve Junior procreates. I'm making arrangements to get the Babe baptized when we're in Saskatchewan. And I've made 24 Mexican Stuffed Peppers."

"Cool."

does this mean I have to give Rod back the pyramidy thing he gave us for our front flowerbed? because I don't want to! it's from Martha Stewart!

So I was on my way back from Starbucks, having just had a nice walk with the Woof and the Babe and one tasty cup of coffee to start off my day (I don't care what you say H.; Starbucks is soooo much better than Timmy's, even if patronizing the place does confirm my yuppie status). Tomorrow is the big Mexican fiesta I'm throwing for Adoring and Wonderful Husband's 30th, and there's a lot to be done, including scrubbing away the urine that's dried underneath the toilet seat. Don't judge; if you also live with a man, I know you know what I'm talking about. And so I asked for my coffee "extra bold."

I was just about home, thinking of a cutesy blog entry I could write to get the weekend off to a light-hearted note, when I saw my neighbour Rod* from across the street walking toward me, and so I waved. I grinned stupidly as he approached to talk (the same smile I always force for my fellow THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE ON THIS STREET ARE FREAKING NUTS! Drive inhabitants, for I want to come off as a friendly and approachable neighbour, in case I ever need to borrow their lawn mover, or I want them to give me the benefit of the doubt if they see me burying a dead body in my back yard. They'll say on the six o'clock news, "But she was such a nice girl. Always smiling. We never suspected a thing!").

Anyhoo, what I thought would be a benign/mundane conversation about hostas or some similar leafy plant quickly turned into an interrogation. "Winter, did you tell Ron* I said he wanted to sleep with you?" Oh shit, I thought. Get. me. out. of. here! And then out from behind the bushes popped old Ronnie, the dude who lives next door. "Winter, just tell the truth about what he told you."

I hesitated for a bit, stunned. Is this really happening? Where are the English pubs? Where are all the accents? "Look you guys," I said. "I really don't want to get involved in this."

[So let me stop and give you a bit of background here. We've known all along that there are some weird neighbourhood dynamics. As soon as we moved in people were rushing over from all corners of the neighbourhood trying to get their side of the story in before we formed any opinions. Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I would just nod and smile, knowing full well that if we took sides we'd be the next to be gossiped about. Which is really no big deal to me, because as Dr. Phil would be pleased as punch for me saying, not an ounce of my self-worth is wrapped up in others' opinions of me, but being part of such theatrics is really energy draining, and with a Babe and a Woof, Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I need all the energy we can get.

The nattering was school-yard for the longest time, until Rod from across the street came over one Saturday morning last summer with a dire warning for Adoring and Wonderful Husband, who had the misfortune to be the one to answer the door: Beware of Ron! I know he seems like a nice guy, but he'll try and sleep with your wife! He may even try to kill you! Oh, and here's a flower from my garden. Welcome to the neighbourhood!

Did that really just happen? Adoring and Wonderful Husband's look asked of me as he closed the door. We couldn't even really laugh about it, we were so taken aback. And a bit frightened. Had we misread Ron all along? Was there a sinister reason behind him being so helpful and friendly to us? Nah, we reasoned everytime we talked about it over the course of the day. Rod's just a busybody. He's always going over to this neighbour, or that one, to gossip. I think we're backing the right horse here. But, don't say anything about this to Ron! I admonished Adoring and Wonderful Husband, who is the biggest gossip ever. I don't want to be dragged into this! Oh, I won't, he promised. I won't say anything at all.

Fast forward eight or so months. The cat goes away to Ethiopia on business, and so the mouse comes out to play. Adoring and Wonderful Husband stops by old Ronnie's for a beer (or six) and totally spills the beans. He wouldn't make a great spy, that one. All a Russian would have to do is buy him a couple shots of vodka and that man of mine would totally spill all the state secrets.]

"Well, I can't believe you'd go and tell Ron such a lie like that," Rod spat at me. "I would never say such a thing. And besides, Winter, going around the neighbourhood and repeating what others told you is a very passive-aggressive thing to do. I'm so glad the both of you live on the other side of the street from me."

Did Rod just call me a liar? At the same time as he proved himself to be one? Did he just call me passive-aggressive? What's THAT supposed to mean? And if I don't stick up for Ron right now, will Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I have to mow our own lawn from now on? I did a quick mental calculation, and decided Rod should Bring it! "Actually, Rod, you DID say that. You're asking me to tell the truth, and so I am. I'm sorry; I really didn't want to get dragged into this."

And they continued to throw F-bombs at each other in front of me, Rod and Ron, and - just like I was driving past an accident scene - I couldn't help but stop and stare, with the reality slowly sinking in that Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I were no longer neighbourhood fresh meat, but ROAD KILL instead. We are now officially involved in the daily drama that plays out on a street with too many retired people on it. And we've now officially taken sides. The side that mows our lawn. (And the side that's right.)

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

* To protect their anonymity, Rod and Ron are pseudonyms. Okay. I'm lying. They're not. They're totally named Rod and Ron.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

cutest nieces ever...

...can now be found on my summer off. Wicked.
Boh's saying, "I want a hug from my Grandma!"

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

oozing pus on the hand that feeds him

Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I will be traveling to the holy land this August, the land of green and white and perpetually dejected season ticket holders, the land of all you can drink pop and all you can eat chips because “the kids are coming town so we better go to Costco and stock up on as much Helluva Good Dip as we can buy!”, and the land of contemplation and decision, as in: should we move back, or shouldn’t we?

For various reasons, including that AIR CANADA IS IN NEED OF A SERIOUS ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT ALONG WITH SOME REAL COMPETITION FROM WEST JET, the Gordonator won’t be coming with us this time. Though he flies well (unlike my parents’ dog Max who chewed through his crate and escaped onto the tarmac at Pearson during the move to Nova Scotia), and I know our nieces are going to disown Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I for not bringing him, it just makes more sense to have the Woof stay at Ottawa’s local puppy spa and retreat. Don’t roll your eyes - it’s only twenty bucks a day. And that’s twenty less bucks a day than we will have to spend on a puppy plane ticket, which would only serve to line Robert “MoFo” Milton’s pockets even more than they need to be.

To stay at the puppy retreat, Gorgeous needed updated shots, including the one that makes him chase his tail in circles until he falls down immediately after we tell a guest how smart he is. This year, the vet also recommended heartworm medication, because apparently Ottawa is now in the hot zone for the bugs that carry the worms that like to eat the hearts. I say apparently because Adoring and Wonderful Husband will have none of it. He thinks Gordie’s veterinarian is just a pusher part of a vast conspiracy designed to gouge the average dog-owning Joe of his hard earned money. A scam proportional to the pyramid eye on the US dollar bill that clearly shows that George Bush is part of the Free Masons and that Donald Rumsfeld likes to eat little Iraqi babies for breakfast. Yes folks, Ottawa vets are that shady.

So Woof didn’t get the medication, because I couldn’t bear listening to Adoring and Wonderful Husband complain about it for 11 days straight, which he is usually wont to do when he thinks he’s being ripped off. But – lo and behold! – what did the Bud do but go ahead and get an eye infection, topped off with matted hair so bad it required a trip to the groomer, so that Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I had to spend around the same amount of money we would have had to spend if only we had just refused to tempt fate and gotten the dang heart worm medication in the first place. Even though he chases his tail at the most inopportune times, Gordo is smarter than we think. He knows what karma means. It means: “Put down that damn baby already and quit neglecting me you cheap bastards.”

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

a Canadian baby tradition

on being cheap

There are many instances where I've found frugality to be less than successful.

Instance #1: When my dad used to buy No Name cheeze whiz. Nobody ate it because it was so bloody gross. $2.99 wasted, when he could have just paid 50 cents extra for the real stuff and it would have been fully consumed.

Instance #2: When you fail to take advantage of the pedicure your husband told you to get for yourself for Valentine's Day. Before you know it, February turns into July, and you could use your feet as sanders to refinish that 100-year-old mahogany dresser you found at the antique auction.

Instance #3: When the Babe has grown into size 3 diapers, but you refuse to let those last couple size 2s you still have left go to waste. I give you exhibits 1, 2 and 3 below.

Monday, July 17, 2006

LT talks back re: forcing Boh to spend at least one Canada Day in Winnipeg

Here's a goodie that I didn't want you to miss. Just posted today as a comment to my July 1st entry. Despite being disappointed in LT for not reading my blog EVERY SINGLE DAY, like - sheesh! - her comment to my post more than makes up for it (if only because it let my brain relax a little today). It also fans my flames to institute a guest blogger policy for this website; I know more than a few of you are way better writers than I'll ever be, but are too busy with real lives to keep your own website, so the policy would let you try out the art form that is blogging if only just once. My email box is open. You can write under a pseudonym should you so choose.

***

Having lived through this tradition, I can offer a few tidbits of info that you may choose to ignore:

1) Your kid(s) will hit an age where everyone else is going to Club Med or some such other place that seems so terribly much cooler than spending 2 weeks confined to a van driving from historical site to historical site. Ignore them.

2) The amount of stuff they remember will be directly proportional to their age. So, my memories of Canada day in Vancouver are really limited (I think I was about 7 on that trip), but I can remember things in pretty vivid detail about Saskatchewan (age: 16). For example, impressions of Newfoundland Canada day: cold, early (sun goes up on Signal Hill at some ungodly hour), and my sister throwing up to the extent that some kindly NFLD cops loaded the entire T. family in the back of a squadcar to get us down the hill). That's about it. Good ol' Regina, however, is worth about 25 or so awesome stories that I still have in my head. Like the way my brother insisted on picking up every bleached bone we found while driving around the praries and loading them into the white Dodge Caravan rental van until my dad snapped and forced him to jetison all but the coolest skull he had found. Location of bone dump: parking lot of Double Happiness chinese restaurant (mmmmm). Can you imagine the horror of the next diners to use that spot?!

3) If you can, stay in B&Bs - they are cheaper, and you get to meet local families. Just be prepared to drive away if things get dicey, e.g. the time my dad told us to wait with the van running when we pulled up to a house with used toilets as flower planters on the front lawn (also the great Sask trip). I don't know what happened to him in that house, but he looked pretty pale when he emerged and pulled the van away from the curb in a big hurry.

Anyway, overall, it was a really awesome concept. Take lots of pictures (make sure you get one of you in front of the Dildo post office in NFLD!) DO IT!

Sunday, July 16, 2006

another Single Me bites the dust

To: You Know Who You Are

I just wanted to show you what you're in for.

Signed, W.

(P.S. I couldn't be happier for you!)

when you assume you make an ass out of u and me

My vision of maternity leave was a lot cleaner than it actually is. Not only was there time for sleeping, there was time for sweeping. And scrubbing. And Martha Stewart pound cakes that didn't contribute to the dimples on my bum (or ass, depending on which you prefer me to write). And the baby! Oh, the Babe was a vision of cleanliness and contentedness, with nary a colicky episode in sight. So I definitely didn't ever envision him having crusted snot, which would require me to pick it out and then flick it on to the floor, cuz, like, where else would it go? And the screaming episode that necessitated the suckie to be put in, and then promptly spit out onto the hardwood? It would never happen. And certainly - certainly! - if the suckie had landed on the ground, for whatever reason, I would have properly sterilized the thing before putting back into the mouth of my child of just three-and-one-half months. I never would have just given it a quick suck and then plopped it back in his pie hole. Oh no! And I never, ever thought karma would bite me in the bum (or you-know-what, whatever's to your liking) by having the suckie land on the piece of recently flicked booger before I put it into my mouth for a thorough cleaning during one of the 26 screaming fits he's already had today (and it's not yet noon). Because that? THAT'S JUST GROSS. And not even sweet justice, grandmas, no matter what you think.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Friday, July 14, 2006

uh oh

We're in trouble folks.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

warning: mutton chops aren’t for everyone

Dear Reader,

It’s like a little bit of Christmas every time I check my blog and see that someone has left a comment on one of my posts. I can’t click on the link fast enough to read how others have opined on the topic of the day. Sometimes I crave the interaction so much that I consider giving you all ultimatums: start leaving comments or else! But now that I have had my first real critique (at least, the first one that someone has been willing to say to my face, or as close to my face as Hotmail gets), I’m contemplating quitting my blog altogether and starting a new one that nobody I know has the http-colon-double-backslash to. Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. But show me someone who says they’re not stung by criticism of their work, and I’ll show you a big fat liar.

Earlier today I wrote that I’m going to change the tone of my blog into something a bit more digestible for the readers I have that might not know me so well and so who may be put off by my bulldozer-type nature. And I said that, out of concern for what is sure to someday be a son very embarrassed by his mother’s ramblings, I would tailor my experiences into less “colourful” packages. But I’ve thought about it more, and I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want what I write to be watered down, because I am not watered down (or maybe I am, and I use this blog to attempt depth, but if I do, that’s for me to figure out). And I don’t want to misrepresent myself to the people who read this blog; like my writing, I go from saccharin to sarcastic to bossy to belligerent in seconds flat. And I especially don’t want to lie about who I am to Boh, who will someday read these words, and hopefully get a glimpse into the type of person his mommy really is. Real. Average. Someone who uses words to cover wounds. Someone who uses words to heal them.

This blog has been cathartic for me. I write things in it that I would never say aloud to anyone. I feel like people have gotten to know me better by reading my disaggregated and incoherent prose. So I am going to keep it that way, because that’s the way I like it. And I really do apologize in advance if I offend your sensibilities with anything I happen to write going forward, because my intention is not to aggrieve; it’s to get to know myself better through the writing process and to let you in on my discoveries. (Though I am a Sagittarius, and it is in our natures to sometimes be too blunt for comfort. It’s true. You can look it up.)

That’s all I have to say about that. Let’s get back to our regularly scheduled programming, shall we?

W.

Dear Dad: Don't worry. I am happy. How could I not be when I live with this little guy? Love, Daughter

the blogger's dilemma

My good friend K. sent me an email one day last summer asking me to be part of her very informal focus group. Which did I like better? Under prairie skies… Azure skies of the prairies… Storming prairie sunsets… Relishing the fray…and about twenty other phrases that either invoked her Great Plains heritage, or some Tragically Hip diddy. I had no idea why she was asking, but I took the bait, and picked the three that I liked the best. K. admitted to being a bit taken aback by my choices, and the selections of the others who received the same email, since she was sure we would all elect for completely different options than what we had. For a communications specialist, where focus groups are often on the menu du jour, this disconcerted her. All ended well however, and Relishing the fray became the first blog I became acquainted with, and the yardstick with which I still measure all others.

Now that I contribute my own noxious gases to the blogosphere with Today on Oprah, K. and I often discuss what it’s like to write what are essentially very public diaries. One day, K. told me that she was quite bothered by an email she’d received from her dad regarding her daily scripting. Evidently he was concerned that she might be revealing too much of herself in her blog, and he wondered if she shouldn’t be a bit more judicious in what she chose to expose about herself. I’m not sure how K. handled it in the end, since the substance of the Fray seems to me to be pretty much the same as it always has been (excellent!), but I’m sure her dad’s distress often creeps into the back of K.’s mind the second after she presses the “publish” button every day. How could it not? It is her dad after all.

Today I got my own email from a concerned father, wondering if everything was okay, since some of the language I’ve been using in my posts lately is apparently a bit atypical of how I usually express myself (it’s really not, I think; I’m just not as big of a potty mouth in front of my dad as I am in front of others). But I have re-read my last couple of entries, and while I don’t think I’ve written anything totally outrageous or completely inappropriate, dad does have a point. I guess I could tone it down a bit. I’m really not trying to be offensive, I swear (no pun intended). Also, Boh is going to read this someday; how much do I really want to edit?

Self-censorship. Hmmm. What will K. have to say about this?

ingenuity, or lack thereof

For lunch today I had a salmon, lettuce and broccoli salad.

In other news, came across this book last night on the Chapters website. I want it.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

not just xy, but X!!!Y!!!

I just want to make it abundantly clear that Adoring and Wonderful Husband is COMPLETELY NORMAL and that he ABSOLUTELY DOES NOT engage in any conduct that makes his manhood questionable. In no way does he play dress-up with any item of clothing that may interfere with his DRIPPING TESTOSTERONE or cloud his RAGING MASCULINITY. Besides, could a chap wearing, cape toting man put together a new fence AND a front step AND drink beer at the same time?

Not unless he's Superman, folks. Not unless he's Superman.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

petty annoyances, item #5

When Blogger won't let me put my pictures directly into the posts I want to put them in to.

petty annoyances, item #4

Blog entries that are way too long.

petty annoyances, item #3

The up-sell. I was its princess, winning awards for my nickel-and-diming prowess while working as a pasta slut at the best Italian restaurant in Regina. Getting my patrons to add a side Caesar salad to their meal or order a glass of the dry house wine consistently increased my “per person” to totals that often surpassed my fellow servers, earning me anywhere between three and five drinks on a free tab that management started under my name to show its appreciation for my cunning sales abilities. Though I acted nonchalant about the honour, I was secretly delighted, if only because bigger bills mean bigger tips.

My Ukrainian/rural Saskatchewan farm blood also makes me a fan of the up-sell in other ways. "You mean I can get twice the amount of calories and fat for only 79 cents more if I super-size this stomach ache in a wrapper? Deal!" Who wouldn’t want to maximize their hard earned money this way? Isn’t saying “yes” to the greasy faced teenager behind the till the same kind of investment strategy that Warren Buffet uses to earn his gazillions? It’s as if by declining I would disappoint my dad somehow…

But the up-sell doesn’t always induce the Liquidation World euphoria that I search for while mall-trekking. No. Sometimes it instills within me a rage so intense I almost contemplate never shopping again. (Almost!) Like last week when I braved the soul crushing experience that is (da, da, dun!) bathing suit shopping.

Prior to last Thursday, I naively thought that spray to prolong fabric was limited to leather only, like the studded black leather chaps that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just had to have last season, though they continue to sit in his closet with the tags still on alongside his velvet cape. When we bought the chaps, it was easy to decline the leather cleaner/preserver by saying, “Oh, I already have some of that under my kitchen sink at home. Thanks, maybe next time.” It was a sneaky way of giving an invisible middle finger to the big box leather chap outlet that was trying to rip us off.

But I was shocked last week when I learned that the up-sell now applies to bathing suits as well. After spending 45 minutes trying on tankinis you’d think were made of gold given how much they cost per square metre of fabric until I found one that didn’t make me want to puke as soon as I put it on, I went to the till to pay, pleased in knowing it would be another two or three years until I had to demean myself again by the ugly process that is the bathing suit shopping experience. The sales girl rang up my purchase, and casually asked if I needed any spray to go with the suit.

What? Spray? What was she talking about? The confused look on my face asked the question for me.

"Oh, it’s spray that you put on your bathing suit to keep it from fading," she told me, like – duh! – when was the last time I went bathing suit shopping?

"Oh, uh, no thanks," I replied. "I think I’m okay for now." Idiot! I thought. You should have just told her you already have some under the bathroom sink. Now she’s just going to think you’re cheap!

"Well then, just to let you know that in case you need to return the suit due to fading or anything we can’t accept it if you don’t buy the spray," she frowned, like I was the Biggest. Lowlife. Ever.

"Uh, okay, that’s fine."

And I slinked away, just happy to have the whole experience behind me, until I thought, Was that chick telling me the $90 bathing suit I just bought is crap and it’s going to fade? That’s BULL-SHIT! If this thing fades, DAMN STRAIGHT she’s going to take it back! I should have said that to her! I should have asked her why she was knowingly selling me an inferior product that was going to fade! Asked her, or are you just trying to rip me off with this little up-sell of yours?

I was fuming. And had I not just spent the better part of an hour coming to terms with the damage that decades of super-sized Happy Meals has done to my thighs, I might have been able to call the Bikini Village on what its spray up-sell actually is: the highway robbery of very vulnerable women.

Monday, July 10, 2006

crotch shots forthcoming









Daddy and Boh chillaxing.

























Lucas.


















Horse flies hate Robin.



















Boh.
















Beckley, the hostess with the mostess.












Moi and the Woofs.

stealing jokes from other bloggers b/c I am just too lazy to think today

Four women were driving across Canada. Each one was from a different province: PEI, BC, Alberta, and Saskatchewan.

Shortly after the trip began, the woman from PEI started pulling potatoes from her bag and throwing them out of the window.

"What the heck are you doing?" demanded the girl from BC.

"We have so many of these darn things in PEI, I'm just sick of looking at them!"

A moment later, the gal from BC began pulling apples from her bag and tossing them from the window.

"What are you doing that for?" asked the gal from Alberta.

"Same here. We have so many apples in BC, I'm sick of looking at them!"

Inspired, the gal from Alberta opened the car door and pushed the Saskatchewan girl out.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

cabin…cottage…shit house by the water…whatever you call it, it sounds like heaven to me!

And so there won’t be any posts this weekend, grandmas. We’re going to hang out by the water, drink beer with the mosquitoes, watch Gordie swim in the lake with the bad puppy influence that is Cooper, and totally overload Craig and Shannon’s septic tank.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

letter from mommy: month three

Dear Bohdan,

I think you will be a lawyer, because just after your two month birthday, you learned how to play. You were in your swing with the stuffed puppy that mommy’s friend Regina bought for you, and you discovered that if you touched the puppy’s ears it would make this neat-o crinkly sound. Regina was reluctant to give up the puppy because she too was fascinated by the crinkle, crinkle. Apparently she amused herself by scrunching the puppy’s ear the whole day she had your gift at her office even though she was supposed to be litigating with torts or escrows or some silly business like that. Lawyer Boh. Commuting mommy’s family’s and daddy’s friends’ jail time since 2032. The business card has a nice ring to it, no?

This month you also graduated to Stage One of your Big Boy Bed (to your crib from your bassinet). Even though I think you are old enough to start sleeping in your own room just fine, mommy made daddy take the whole crib apart so that he could set it back up in our room. It seems I can’t fall asleep if you don’t lull me to dreamland with your beautiful breathing - the most wonderful song in the world. (And I might just be a tad bit lazy, preferring to walk three steps to stick your suckie back in to plug your pie hole rather than 10, but this is supposed to be a beautiful letter to my first born, and so make everything rosy I will.) We will soon likely put you into your own room though, because I think you’d sleep through the night longer if I didn’t rush to you every time you hiccupped (I actually don’t, but I sound like a more attentive mommy by saying I do…everything’s shits and giggles, remember?). The Baby Whisperer will make the final decision on this one.

Boh, you continue to make me feel like the luckiest gal in the world (and now I am NOT just saying that…I mean it with all my heart). I love how you sometimes can’t fall asleep unless I rock you in my arms and sing to you. I love how you sometimes don’t need me to do this, too; you’re an independent little soul who makes mommy look like she knows what she’s doing because of how easy-going you are. I love the feeling of your hair in between my lips when I’m snuggling with you and kissing the top of your head (oh! My heart just skipped a beat as I re-read that sentence. I can feel my arms wrapped around you and your thin, blonde little hair in my mouth right now!) And I love the smell of your tummy. Some people like the smell of their babies’ heads, but I’m all about your tummy (mmm…baby Boh tummy! It's tummy-licious!)

I’m learning so much by being your mommy, baby boy. Like that life is all about choices, and that the best choice for me to make is family. And like that time flies too fast, so it’s important to appreciate the moment you’re living in because tomorrow will come soon enough. And like that new moms are full of words of wisdom and unsolicited advice that they desire to pass on to other new moms and moms-to-be every single chance they get, and I could hardly pass up the opportunity to do just that in today’s letter, so here goes:

1. Going anywhere with a baby takes twice as long as it does without. If you’re in a rush, it takes three times as long. (And maybe even four times if K. has told you to be there by six OR ELSE.)

2. The funniest sound in the world is that of a baby farting over a baby monitor.

3. If you want to stop a baby from crying, turn off the baby monitor. (Works every time.)

4. The invisible lobsters that pinch babies while they’re sleeping so that they wake up freaking out while mommy and daddy are trying to relax on the deck with a beer and spend some much needed couple time together NEED TO BE SHOT. (And then served up with butter to mommy and daddy so that they can delude themselves that they can go on dates again.)

5. Bohdan really does mean “gift from god.”

6. Even when you think it couldn’t possibly get better than it is, and that you couldn’t possibly love a human being any more than you do, it does, and you can.

7. Superman could have crushed Lex Luther without so much as breaking a sweat if only he too was able to unleash THE AWESOME POWER OF THE BOOB.

Still loving you so, so, so, so, so, so, so much,

Mommy

P.S. Oh yes, and on June 29 you laughed for the first time. It made my heart smile.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

good-bye Ciggy Sue, hello lung!

Today marks two years since I stopped cheating on Adoring and Wonderful Husband. It wasn’t easy. As much as I love my husband, I also had quite the crush on my little fling. But what I first thought was a seemingly innocent romance soon began to take over my life.

I had to hide whenever we were together. After our lunchtime encounters, I chewed Peppermint Excel gum so that no one would detect the smell of illicitness on me. At night, I shampooed twice so that Adoring and Wonderful Husband could cuddle up to me in bed without getting a whiff of my lover’s scent. I hid the receipts that provided evidence of our encounters together; knowing how much our rendezvous were costing me was simply too much to bear. Worst of all, my crush started to threaten transmitting some disgusting diseases to me. And that’s the straw that broke the Camel’s back (pun intended). I knew if I wanted to stay true to my vows to Adoring and Wonderful Husband to live a long and happy life together I would have to break it off with the Marlboro Man, and that Adoring and Wonderful Husband would have to give his little hussy – Ciggy Sue – the boot as well.

So we both resolved never to cheat on each other again. And while my addictive personality sometimes harkens back to the love I once shared with old Leather Lung, the $10,920 I estimate that Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I have saved since saying sianara to our nasty little habits has made the crushing monogamy oh so worth it.

Monday, July 03, 2006

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Boh's first Canada Day








(l-r): Daddy, Boh and Mommy.











Christopher, Stephanie and Todd.









Baby Boh.








Daddy, Boh and Mommy.








Darcy. (aka: the D-Man)








Kym, Courtney, Bridgee, and Chris.

Darcy, Boh and Kimusan.