52:10

T'was a good run, made better by three things: B., my groupie, who claimed to have spent the better part of the run reflecting on the last year of my life instead of her own, and who has agreed to hold my hand yet again at the start line of the ING Ottawa Marathon (10K race) in late May; the route along the canal that inspired serenity and reflection, given that it was the same path H. and I undertook countless summer mornings, running shorter distances that were much, much harder than what was endured tonight; crossing the finish line knowing that I've found it - my thing - and that there will be no more broken resolutions after a painful and unsuccessful search for it to carry around like a monkey on my back.

breaking the news to daddy

Dear Adoring and Wonderful Husband,

After throwing a load of laundry in downstairs, I came up to find the Babe - your son - eating cat puke. Please don't hate me.

Signed,

Mommy

tickertape

I remember watching the Challenger explode on the TV in our living room at lunch time when I was five or so.

I remember sitting in a hotel room in Saskatoon, waiting to see the Hip at Another Roadside Attraction, drinking a beer and watching Princess Diana's car hit a tunnel.

I remember 9/11. I was at work.

I remember sitting in my basement when They announced They were going to war. We were in Regina. The basement was cold.

I will remember where I was when they hanged him. I was here, blogging.

project RACE monthly update: better late than never

I wish I could say, If only I knew what a difference it makes, I would have started long ago. It would be nice to think I’m that rational, but, as Adoring and Wonderful Husband can attest, my cognitive functions often focus on, Wow! That shirt is sure pretty! and, Mmm! That cake on TV looks sooooo yummy! instead of, Huh, so output greater than input = size 10 (and sometimes even Size 8, when the Goddess is feeling particularly generous).

But now, officially six months into running, all I can say is: Ho. La. Shat. Why didn’t I start this long ago? This is not meant to be a sermon, because running isn’t necessarily easy (but it does get easier over time). And running isn’t necessarily for everyone (even if it’s working for me). I often have people say to me, Isn’t it amazing how different you look? Yes, I’ll agree, but what’s even more amazing to me is how I didn’t realize what I looked like before. I chalk it up to the Nicole Richie frame of mind, in reverse: like a super skinny celebrity who looks at her 85-pound frame and still sees rolls, I used to look in the mirror and see someone who looked just fine, thank you very much (though I did concede a bit of puff). And now, exactly 45 pounds later, I look at pictures of myself from not too long ago and I can finally see how I actually looked. (Which was just fine, thank you very much, but A LOT puffier than I had previously estimated. Ho. La. Puff.) I don’t know what to make of this. Do I have abnormally healthy self-esteem? (And if so, is that a good thing if it means overlooking indicators of health?) Was I in complete denial? (Perhaps, but what to make of committing to change? Surely that shows I knew something needed fixing?) Actually, I think it was this: I’ve come to love life more than ever before, and I now realize how important biology is. How fragile the balance of healthy equilibrium is. And so for all those things I have control over, I want to get control of. Chalk it up to the end of my teenage trust in invincibility, a decade late.

(And stay tuned for my New Year's Resolutions to help me keep it up. I thought starting running was hard? I think I have no idea the challenge that lays before me to stay running, in winter no less, after a ten-hour work day. The thought of it makes me want to poop. Or maybe that's just the ass-end of the Christmas bug I caught that helped keep me from gaining any turkey weight. As Lainey would say, Praise Goddess.)

happy second birthday bud!

a precedent-setting Christmas

I've been planning this Christmas for over a year, ever since I knew there would be a new little person we got to spend it with, and thinking that my side of the fam-damily would be coming from Dartmouth to spend the holiday in O-Town. Though the latter never happened, it was still important to me to check off all the boxes I had built for myself. Ukrainian supper on Christmas Eve, complete with whole garlic cloves as an appetizer and the Lord's Prayer, even though we are so secular we are doomed to go to Hell? Check. Turkey and mashed potatoes on Christmas Day, capped off by the flimsy paper hats and lame-o jokes that come in Capitalist-Waste-In-A-Tube, uh, I mean Christmas Crackers? Check. There were new boxes to check, too, because this was a precedent-setting Christmas in my mind, and I thought long about new traditions I wanted to start for my own family. Gingerbread-house-building on Christmas Eve, to help keep people occupied while 12 meatless dishes were being processed in the kitchen, and so that Santa would have something to snack on during his delivery? Check. Being allowed to open up one present on Christmas Eve before bedtime, to tide you over til the morning? Check. (And in the Babe's case, this year has set the precedent that this gift should always be a special book from Daddy so that we can all read it together in bed before the lights go out.) Giving second-hand and homemade gifts whenever possible to keep costs low, and to allow myself to bask in the glow of environmental righteousness (but mostly to de-clutter my basement and get rid of all those books I've already read)? Check. And finally, Santa won't wrap his presents anymore in the years to come, and instead will leave his gifts on the floor in front of the tree, saving both time and paper.

Some precedents I hope won't be adhered to in the years to come: the stinging lack of grandmas and grandpas to spoil the Babe (though as we learned this year, they can still spoil him - and Mommy and Daddy! - even from hundreds of kilometres away), and the vomit. Because it wasn't pumpernickel bread that was making Boh sick. No. It was the nastiest bug that's ever taken up residence in my intestines, and Daddy's intestines, and Regina's intestines, causing each of us to alternate parading to the bathroom last night after the turkey to see which end the potatoes would come from this time. Who knew it could be both? As Daddy said this morning, This Christmas is OVER!

vroom, vroom!

Boh's First Christmas Present

poor puppy

This picture was taken just after Mommy decided to let me have a taste of pumpernickel bread (Daddy really likes his spinach dip at Christmas). This picture was taken just before the two baths and eight wardrobe changes that had to take place as a result of my baby innards trying - unsuccessfully - to properly digest said pumpernickel bread. As Mommy always says, What's Christmas without a little vomit?

gingerbread abode

big perogies to fill

Attempted my very first Ukrainian Christmas supper last night. 12 meatless dishes. My Ukrainian Daughters' Cookbook specifies the number to be an even dozen; I have heard people say there ought to be 11, I have heard 13. For the want of a Baba - or an Auntie L. - to lay down the law, I'll go by the book on this one. The menu:

1) Perogies

2) Salmon

3) Haddock

4) Salad

5) Cabbage Rolls

6) Kutcha

7) Borcht

8) Garlic Cloves

9) Kapusta with Peas

10) Mashed Beans

11) Cottage Cheese

12) Blueberry Perogies

-------

Notes:

i) Need a better dough recipe for the perogies. Too thick.

ii) Gotta make my own cabbage rolls next year. Store bought kind are WAY too big.

iii) Kutcha needs less water, less poppy seed, and more honey.

iv) Borcht = yummy!

v) Kapusta = awesome!

vi) Mashed Beans quite bland, but I suppose non-Ukrainians need something to hang their hat on during a supper such as this.

vii) Cottage cheese? Does that really qualify as a dish? Yes. When there is only one cook in the kitchen, yes it does.

viii) Too full for Blueberry Perogies. Will eat them tonight.

ix) Need 13.5 more people around the table next year.

x) Define "meatless".

t-minus seven hours!

Hope this helps you get through the day, Dad!

the blues

I flew out of a funk late last week and into an indigo palette of sky that admonished the horrible thinking that paced my previous evening’s run. “Colours,” I huffed. “Boring,” I puffed. “World. Needs. More. Colour,” as I blew any shred of a good mood away. You see, I had spent that afternoon perusing pixels and shopping for shades so as to paint the wall of this blog. I was uninspired by my options, and blamed the inadequacies of refraction, and bemoaned a lack of conical stimulation on par with the 101 ways you can cook a potato. (Only 101 ways? What I am supposed to eat the other 264 days of the year? Blppft.) Though Nature could be charged for my sour attitude, all right, it wasn’t Her hue deficiency that was the problem. This, I realized as soon as the Babe and I were sufficiently elevated so as to glimpse the gossamer bed of marshmallow that lay below us, the net that caught me as I was falling, veneered with the numberless blue stains I searched for vainly not 24 hours prior. Blues of grey and blues of gold and blues of purple lifted me up, up and away, and into an air thick with gratitude, if not with oxygen. Breathing deeply, I made myself as comfortable as one can get in the upright seated position, peered into the Heavens with my baby, and ruminated on the most chromatic year of my life. Nature, She dresses well.

party planning 101

I've been to my fair share of parties, and this I know: any party that serves beans is a good party.

oooo...that's icky

Needed a change. Don't know if I like it, but who likes change?

(Know what I do need though. Cool masthead maker. Acme Label-Maker just isn't cutting it.)

two birds with one slobbery stone

Would love to chalk up the scarcity of syntax on this blog of late to two things: fodder that's been mulling over in my mind that I don't really want to publish publicly, but can't think of anything else in its place; and a Babe who shimmies up to the laptop everytime it's opened and lunges for the screen, because screens? I WANT TO EAT IT. Thought I would let him get some curiousity satisfied at the same time as some sort of configuration of language could be strung together to cut and paste in this space. Herewith, I give you, Blogging By Boh:

J HJ Bbbbbbbbbbbk .i=;>.no
d007Adxxxz

I had to stifle his creativity midway through the drooly session so that: a) the excessive amount of liquid seeping into the keyboard wouldn't act as a conduit from his face to the electrical impulses just dying to make their way out of the hard drive and onto the TV show, "Stupid Mommy Tricks"; and, b) I could save the "alt" and the "x" keys from an impending final resting place otherwise known as Gordie's stomach, since the Babe, in his valiant effort TO GRAB IT, AND EAT IT, ripped them off during his stroke of genius. (Don't worry sweets; they're back on, good as new. See? x x x x x x)

I'm not sure what exactly Boh was trying to communicate to us in the above, but I figure it is probably one of the most profound things you or I will ever find on this blog. In fact, I am 100% certain of it.

11 more sleeps!

Standy Stettner

me, me, me!

twenty guesses

Which mommy is ETERNALLY GRATEFUL she didn't have to put on socks and go to work this morning?

Okay. Maybe just one guess.

purple ribbon

Women in Politics? I thought. Sweeet. That's gotta be an easy credit; all I hafta do is watch my pronoun use and bemoan how busy the men's room must be on Parliament Hill and I should have no problem.

It wasn't quite like that.

Dr. G. was a ball-buster. If she were standing over my shoulder right now no doubt she would tsk-tsk me for using such an adjective, that make-up-less sneer of hers drilling through me as though I were a topless stripper who was only in university to meet some sugar daddy so I could spend the rest of my days eating bon-bons on the couch while my husband's soldiers took up permanent residence in Château Womb. But it's the truth. Though Women in Politics was an easy credit - if only you spit back at Dr. G. what she spit at you - it wasn't an easy class. And Dr. G? BALL-BUSTER.

It wasn't easy for a nineteen-year-old girl who lived the life of luxury to hear that she was thought less of in the world because of her gender. It wasn't easy to hear that the colour of my skin was part of the problem, since just who did I think would be Windexing my panes someday when I was at work, marking up the glass ceiling there with my attempts to break through it? And it certainly wasn't easy to hear that I would never truly understand, because I didn't suffer beatings at the hand of a man, and I would probably never be a single mother standing in line in -20C weather, and my most private parts would most certainly stay in tact throughout my lifetime instead of being cut away from me. How can this person tell me what I understand about gender, and what I don't? I AM a woman, after all. I seethed. I was just as hostile as most of the men were in that class.

I felt threatened.

The truth is, I still find it hard to reconcile my beliefs with Dr. G.'s hardcore brand of feminism. I don't truly agree with it, because look at my life: a challenging and fulfilling career, an Adoring and Wonderful Husband who cooks for me every night, a beautiful baby boy who will find it hard to believe someday that daddies sometimes hit mommies, because it will be something completely outside of his experience.

But sometimes daddies do hit mommies. Even if we never truly understand it, it happens. And we can't forget it happens. Not every girl can grow up not being able to truly understand what it's like to be lesser, but every girl should be able to. This? I understand. This? I remember. This? It might just be what Dr. G. was getting at all along.

letter from mommy: month eight

Ho, Ho, Ho, Baby Boh:

You can ask Daddy – Mommy is nothing if not a list-maker, especially during the holiday season. Though usually my lists contain chores I want Daddy to do around the house, or baubles I want Daddy to buy me as presents, or reasons why I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world to have a sweet little baby boy like you, the following lineup of the eight cool things you did this month is in celebration of you turning eight months old today. Hope you had a great day, little guy. I know I did.

1. You learned to crawl. (Old news.) You’d think you were a Chihuahua the way Gordie scatters from you as you lunge after him for some fur. (I would say for a pet, but a fist full of fur – always from the Gordonator’s nether regions I might add – is a more apt description of what I think you’re after.)

2. You said “Ahhhhhh, daaaaaaa” which your proud Papa took to mean “Hey, Dad, of all my parents you’re my favourite one” but which I am pretty sure was “Eh? Dion?” - future Prime Minister you are, and one clearly in the Ignatieff camp it would seem. (Or, “Hien? Dion?”, since we are raising you to be bilingual, you know.)

3. You ignore the word “no.” Which is a start…I guess.

4. You figured out how to pull yourself up onto the ottoman. A couple manly grunts follow the appearance of two little chubby fists, and – voila! – your cute little face pops up and stares at us with a look that says, “Daddy! As I settle myself onto this bar stool, howsabout you gettme two fingers of milk, shaken not stirred. Chop! Chop!”

5. You picked your favourite programs. Now, I know this is something I probably should NOT blog about, because I’m just setting myself up for a world of judgment, but I wanted to note for posterity that the two shows you shush us as you watch them are Blind Date and Family Feud. I think this weekend we’re going to let you watch Nightmare on Elm Street III to balance out the universe.

6. You gave up the Boob Juice without any tears or pouting. (Mommy’s tears and pouting don’t count.)

7. You got cuter. How. is. that. even. POSSIBLE?

8. You put up with your mother and her ridiculous list making. Daddy is teaching you well.

We love you, Boh. We love you so, so, so, so, so, so, so much.

Love,

Mommy

PS: Oh, and #9. You let mommy balance things on your head for the sake of her blogging. (That Chuck ain't got nuthin' on you in terms of both talent and BMA - Blogging Mommy Abuse.)

when the world falls in love

The Internet is a powerful medium for this family; our use of it rivals, if not surpasses, the television, and I can safely say we (I) are (am) addicted to it. Our laptop is set up on the ottoman, and we (I) play with it during every commercial break - even times when we (I) should really be paying attention to what Peter Mansbridge is saying, because with his deep and authoritative tone, everything that comes from his mouth must be the gospel, right Adoring and Wonderful Husband? RIGHT?

In those rare instances when the computer is not in use, the picture slide show we have set up to be our screen saver will start to flash across the screen, bringing up snaps of events in our lives long since forgotten, or put on the memory back burner at any rate. For some reason the show almost always begins with one of the pictures of our niece Avery and nephew Dustin that we took during the wedding shower Ginger threw for us in her backyard. It's a good way to kick things off. Sometimes pictures come up of natural gas furnaces that we have never seen before; sometimes pictures come up of my Baba's funeral; and sometimes pictures come up of B-Rad in a black bra in some nameless hotel room in Ingleside. You just never know. Some of my favourites are the ones taken the year Adoring and Wonderful Husband dressed up as Santa Claus for my family. Every time he sees them, he groans, utterly convinced that his performance that year ruined Christmas. The truth is far from it. Donning a red Santa suit and white beard and letting my dad sit on his knee proved to me just how much I needed to ensure Adoring and Wonderful Husband became Adoring and Wonderful Husband. Reason #256 I married him.

Since we're spending the holidays in Ottawa this year, it's time to play Santa again. Now that I'm a mom, there is the chance I could be a Baba someday myself, so I kicked off the season last weekend by drinking Bailey's on the pretense of making perogies for Christmas Eve supper. (Drinking and eating are very Ukrainian things to do, you see.) And yesterday we put up the tree and broke out the Christmas tuneage, making the transition to Yuletide times full and complete with a to-do list I can predict with 99.99% certainty will never quite get done, because it never does.

Whatever. I'm still going to call on all riffraff who are stuck in the Capital this Christmas as we are to choke down our cooking anyway. I have big Baba shoes to fill, and need to practice on you as a result. To wit, one or all of the following options are on the menu:

Christmas Eve - as close to a traditional Ukrainian Christmas Eve supper as you can get (maybe just homemade perogies that fall apart in the pot when I cook them; certainly a Ukrainian vodka shot to wash them down)

Christmas Day - Christmas crackers with those flimsy hats to wear while eating turkey, turkey, turkey

Boxing Day - Dairy Queen ice cream cake and liver to mark the Gordonator's second birthday

Come one, come all.

partisan politics (otherwise known as: drinking for free)

Currently sitting on the floor of my bedroom killing time on the computer. The Babe is in our bed napping so I am confined to this room for now to make sure he doesn't fall off the bed. I could just let him sleep in his own room but he sleeps so much better in the great big bed that Gido built, and after waking up at 6 am this morning, I figure he needs his sleep. So, just keeping abreast of Brit's, ahem, and the ongoings of the Liberal leadership race. You know you're a nerd when the latter excites you more than the former.

Adoring and Wonderful Husband thinks the CBC coverage of the convention shows its extreme liberal/Liberal bias. I see how he can argue that, but I don't think that assertion captures the whole story. The Liberals governed this country for, what, 13 years? How could any national news organization not privilege that particular party in its coverage? It's not a conspiracy; it's only natural. Especially after the brouhaha of the Sponsorship scandal and the electoral fall-out that resulted. It's been decades since a leadership contest has been this exciting, and far from condemning the CBC's enthusiastic coverage of it, I say: Bring. It. Fan the flames of a hotly contested race for the top. Charge the electricity of what hopefully turns out to be an inspired and inspiring weekend. Canadians could use a political event that's not a fait accompli before it's even started. We need to know that the grassroots matters, and that one vote can make a difference. One party's campaign for the top job is not a panacea for this country's atrophy of democracy, but it sure as heck can't hurt (especially if one of them happens to shit the bed during his speech. How. exciting. would. THAT. BE??) Anyway, I know what Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I will be watching this weekend. Which is good, because I've had enough of Britney's bald eagle to last until Monday.

welcome, friend

Ahh, December! Right on time, as usual. Come in, come in! You must be freezing out there. Oh, I see. A new jacket and scarf. Very nice! Such a stylish month you’ve always been. Try as they might, the others just can’t quite capture your fashion sense. Bling, bling!

What’s that? Oh not too much. The usual – you know. Too little time, too little cash. That’s always been your saving grace, you know? We Sagittarians can justify spending a little extra dough on a sparkly new top for the impending Yuletide fiestas because it is our birthdays after all. To be honest though, turning 28 doesn’t give you quite the same license that turning 18 does. Can’t quite ask dad for a c-note in the 'ol card anymore to help defray the cost of going out to Saturday night dinner with the girls. Even if Gido were to send a little Borden portrait in the mail to mark the anniversary of the birth of his first born child – his only daughter I might add, a daughter that he loves, very, very much; much more than sending 100 dollar bill could ever prove, but it would be a good start – I would probably have to hang the likeness of our eighth prime minister on the wall that pays the Visa, or buys cat food. Three double martinis over a Keg steak seem so non-essential these days.

What’s that? Oh, wonderful, thanks! Even though we’ll be spending Christmas alone in Ottawa this year, it will surely be the best Christmas ever because of him. Oh yes, I think he’ll just adore your gift. How could any little boy not love the big, fluffy white components of what can easily be molded into dangerous projectile weapons, if only you pack them right? You’re nothing if not generous on that cold front, December.

Would you excuse me for a moment, December? I just have a couple things to do while you’re here. There are trees to trim and cards to post and ensembles to consider, and re-consider. It won’t take me long. Maybe you could just talk to me while I…

What? No, no, no, no, no, December! You can’t go yet! You just got here! What?! That can’t be! Oh. Dear. God. Who invited him anyway? Ugh. Don’t tell him I said this, but January’s never been a favorite. Too sterile. Uptight. Not the most fun to be around when you have a hangover, either. He won’t go for bacon and eggs and Bloody Caesars with me, like, ever – says he can’t afford them, the cheap bastard. He just doesn’t know how to have fun like you do, December.

Okay, good. Just for a little while longer then. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. Sit, sit. Take off your coat, will ya? I made you some perogies, and C. and B. graciously left a whole schwack of Bailey’s the last time they were here. I’ll pour you a coffee. Warm your tootsies.

Here you go. More Bailey’s? Sure. I love you, December, you know that? Always the last to leave the party. I respect that.