Today on Oprah

redirecting

2007-03-17T07:36:00.000-05:00

Click here for The Wild Rumpus.

Click here for Table for One.

going live

2007-03-11T17:50:00.000-05:00

Okay. Here we are. The royal kiss off:

The Wild Rumpus - Life, 99% of the time. What most of you come for; now served on its own platter.

Table for One - The remaining 1%. Just for me, and those of you who like to watch me stew in my own juices. Don't come here if you haven't been into the "wordy" Oprah of late; you'll be sadly disappointed.

This ending - like all endings - is anti-climatic. Not what you expect, or want, or think it should be, if it was going to do justice to your own investment in it. Because - what? - you've come back here everyday, or almost everyday, for the last 11 months or so? And how is Oprah rewarding you for that? Answer: she's not. Fickle, that Oprah.

Oprah has been with me for almost a year. She's been very good to me - so, so good - but I'm done with her. And I don't know what to say beyond that. Of course, except for the obligatory, I'm going to miss you, you were good to me, blah blah blah. A bunch of bull, really. Because the truth is, I used her more than she used me. And there's no atoning for that.

stay tuned

2007-03-09T16:14:00.000-05:00

It's the beginning of the end for Oprah, friends. She talked too much about things that didn't matter, at least not to everyone all of the time. So I'm splitting her into her two complementary and competing parts.

Don't change the channel.

mathematical certainty

2007-03-08T21:38:00.000-05:00

I can guarantee that you hate this layout. I'm sorry; I just need a change.

a girl's best friend

2007-03-07T12:02:00.000-05:00

Maybe I shouldn’t be so open in the company of thieves and scoundrels, but I’ll just go ahead and say it: I’ve got a pair of big freakin’ diamonds adorning my lobes. They’re beautiful, and extravagant to the point of ostentatious (at least, for me). They were a present given to me on the second Sunday of this past May. Mother’s Day, otherwise known as: Dear-God-Where-Can-I-Get-A-Brunch-Reservation-This-Late-In-The-Day-And-Do-You-Think-She’ll-Disown-Me-If-I-Just-Bring-Her-Burnt-Toast-In-Bed? You can forget birthdays, anniversaries, and even skip Christmas once every couple of years, but Mother’s Day? MOTHER’S DAY? Forget to buy a Hallmark for this one and you forever more live in peril. Or you at least will have to wash your own underwear from then on.

I’ve learned long ago that when I want things from men, I have to ask for them. Be direct, and as clear as possible. (The worst they can say is no; which is fine, because half the time, I don't even really want what I'm asking for anyway. Complicated or just confused? Meh. No matter.)

Anyway, the point is that when it became apparent that the Babe was waiting to make his entrance into this Cruel and Beautiful World sometime in April, as opposed to the end of March when his train ticket had originally been reserved for, I seized the opportunity to finally rid myself of the latest pair of cheap and rusting Shopper’s Drug Mart studs ($8.99) to slowly give me lead poisoning. “You know,” I purred to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. “April is the diamond. Maybe someday I could get a pair of your first born son’s birthstones for my ears to commemorate the fact that I will soon go through the most excruciating pain in my life ALL FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FAMILY NAME, hmmmm?” (Stage director’s note: Character bats eyelashes and pouts.)

It only took about four centimeters of dilation before Adoring and Wonderful Husband was on the line with The Official Jeweler of Jason Spezza, because DEAR GOD, DO YOU KNOW HOW LITTLE BABIES COME OUT? I wasn’t surprised when I came back into bed after a morning pee that Sunday in May to find a little blue box tucked beside Boh as he lay sleeping in his bassinet on my side of the bed. I was surprised by the size of my newly found heirlooms, though: I had specified small diamonds, which Adoring and Wonderful Husband took to mean, Rocks As Big As You Can(not) Afford.

But I was sincere when I told him I didn’t want anything too flashy, just something small and dainty to remind me of my Favourite Little Guy in the Whole Wide World; something to keep the holes in my ears that my Baba took me to get when I turned five from closing up. Why? Because I’m scared. Scared of losing the things in this world that mean anything to me. Scared that if I let myself get too attached, I will wake up one day to find that one of the backings has fallen away, and that I’ve lost my treasure forever. Scared that people who don’t like diamonds will judge me for putting value in them myself.

Scared that I’m not worth it.

Slowly (well, not so slowly) I got used to my first ever Mother’s Day gift, and I no longer compulsively check to make sure the earrings are still there. And when I’m scared that I’m not worth it, all I have to do is look in the mirror and be reminded that there are people in this world who think that I am.

Bling, bling baby.

beautiful singing

2007-03-06T20:45:00.000-05:00

Vienna was the only European city that immediately struck me to be one that I could live in. In retrospect, I could live in any of them; but then retrospect has always been the best looking glass through which to find beauty. But Vienna was the only one near-at-hand to Home: A tad lazy, but just enough to keep me warm and fed and contented when my head hits the pillow at the end of the day.

My favourite place was the State Opera House. I am not cultured, nor wise about these things. And I don't particularly desire to be, either. I am happy not to know how long the wine I'm drinking has aged, or what type of oak it was barrelled in. So long as it doesn't give me heartburn, or too severe a hangover the next morning. A free bird, or apathetic? Each a side of my coin; though still one coin, surely.

The only time I ever willingly listen to classical music is on the airplane. I'm not a good flyer, digging my nails into the hand of the person next to me on take-off. Even when I travel alone, I think of asking the married suit who's next to me if he will agree to be the last person I kiss as we go down together in a fiery inferno. Strangers, together by chance alone; unrequested, but necessary nonetheless. Though I'm getting better at keeping my heart rate at a manageable pace in the process of becoming airborne, because I try to live my life so that if my plane crashes, I can kiss this Sweet World goodbye instead of wanting to slap it in the face, or throw my drink on its lap.

Chopin and Tchaikovsky are the soundtrack of this love story.

But back to Vienna, city of in-bred Hapsburgs; brothers and sisters devouring each other despite that they already each possess what they crave in the opposite. Vienna, secret capital of the Holy Roman Empire, that stateless beast of redemption and resurrection. (Voltaire can see right through it - neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire - so why can't I?) And back to the Opera House, where I heard the most beautiful music of my life.

T'was an olio, really. A mish-mash of stories woven together for tourists posing as connoisseurs. ("Foie gras? Why thank-you. The livers of geese that have been force fed until the organs are 10 times their natural size? Too barbaric. I would not - could not! - ask another to spend so much for my pleasure alone. But, please, could you pass the foie gras, because that stuff sure is yummy?") Half-way into the show, I discovered that I understood the stories being told to me through song better when I closed my eyes; when the unnecessary clutter of ocular stimulation had been shut out, evicted. I possessed! I perceived! I was thoroughly penetrated. Notes made love to me; octaves caressed the nape of my neck, my fluttering eyelid; stroked me in a way that only a true lover would know how to.

It was one of the most romantic hours of my life.

I kept my eyes closed even when the music ended; it continued to echo in my head, despite that the stage had been abandoned, with onlookers left to stand before it, expectantly shouting: Encore! Encore! Expectantly, and ultimately to sad conclusion. Because there is only so much one person can sing without straining his or her voice box. There is only so long one performer can go under harsh stage light before his or her make-up starts to wear thin. And we don't pay admission to see real life, do we? We can simply look in the mirror for that.

Even though I forget what songs were played for me that night - don't know, even, if it was really Chopin and Tchaikovsky I was listening to - I can still hear that beautiful music sometimes, when I remember to close my eyes. And it breaks my heart - tears it into pieces - that I never hear it when my eyes are open. Never, ever when they're open.

***

Post-Script: If I could go back in time, I would be sure to tell those singers thank-you too; because I got to know a bit of myself better through their music, and I like the person that I found.

clef

2007-03-04T14:58:00.000-05:00

And this? This is what I've been carrying around in my heart lately. It brings me infinite joy to know that I am connected to people in this Cruel and Beautiful World who feel the same way. People who try to capture through writing the Love that drains our hearts. We fail; we always fail. And necessarily so. But at least we try. We can only ever try.

My heart pounds for a language that communicates with my soul: The treble. I sing like Sarah Harmer in my writing. Gliding, sliding, high notes go low: One trombone is playing so-lo.

I leave embarrassed, having told you too much. Wonder: Is it just me? Am I the only one who has no idea what's going on here? A consequence of my grace deficit: I always go too far, and never as far as I want.

Lay it on us, D-Man. Thick like cream cheese on your morning bagel. My best advice is this: Leave embarrassed.

cool because Vogue told me so

2007-03-04T09:01:00.000-05:00

I wanted to believe it was Real. So much. So, so much. So much, in fact, that my heart hurt, quite possibly damaged forever. Everyone would ask me, Is that Real? Yes, I would reply. (Chirp, more like.) Cheap, but Real. Stolen, perhaps; but Real.

Sadly, I found out this weekend it wasn't. Real, that is. I know because it finally fell apart on me. The lining had been fraying, which should have been my first clue. All my pennies were trapped in the parallel purse universe, having slipped through black holes that tore faster than I could stitch them up. And yesterday? The clip that kept the guts of my bag from spilling out all over the floor broke off. I was able to deal with a ripped liner; But what good is a purse if you can't close it?

It's my own fault, really. I asked for this. Said to mom, When you go to New York, can you get me one of those knock off bags that you can buy on the street corner? She obliged, of course, because she is The. Best. Mom. Ever. Brought me back two, in fact.

Please allow me to clarify: The purse - obviously - was real. It existed. I know this because I put my wallet in it. A couple hard candies. A bomb the colour of Blackberry waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. Diapers, sometimes, depending on the task at hand. And pens. Many, many pens. But it wasn't a Prada. I knew it, but others didn't. People will see this purse, I thought, and think I'm fashionable. What a poser.

What a liar.

I threw out my lie yesterday afternoon. It wasn't worth salvaging, taking it in for repair. Because it would cost more to do that than to buy a new purse altogether.

Instead, I went shopping. And my new purse? Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. It's yellow, and reminds me that Spring is just around the corner every time I look at it. There's room for Blackberries and diapers and pens and hard candies and more. And best of all, it's Real: Because it's not pretending to be something that it isn't.

At peace with myself and on the cutting edge of fashion for only $25.00 at Suzy Shier. Deal.

the Hill

2007-02-28T18:48:00.000-05:00

The Hallowed Halls of our Ivory Tower
Pulse well into the Night;
lapdogs, lackeys, fools in suits:
Buzz, text message nothing.

We erected these Marble Slabs together, Friend
Built Chambers and Antechambers;
Constitutions, and Freedoms spent:
Codified by what they are not.

You told me once you knew what It didn't mean
Defined It through It's absence;
Maybe, but is that Something to sacrifice our Sons and Daughters for?
No. No, no, no: Never.

We separate Ourselves by False Distinction
Caress through Man-Made Border Lines;
And though this Map points to where Home is, should be -
It fails to capture This.

la petite monnaie

2007-02-28T01:11:00.000-05:00

Keep me in your left breast pocket, Boss; bills neatly folded, ready to be spent. It's not like you're George Costanza, and you've sent your hard candies and three-year-old expired warranties to me to die. You know what your currency is, and how much of it you're willing to spend. I know you're concerned about recent news events, and so you're questioning your strategy of my strategic location - wondering if you should switch to a money belt, placed dangerously close to your liver, so that would-be thieves would have to shoot you in the gut for it.

Don't. Don't let yourself go there. Night-time robbers following you home from the opera will get what they want from you no matter where I am on your person. A money belt at your abdomen, silver coins in your pants pocket, a roll of bills stuffed into a sock: if hoodlums want these things, they will take them. Yes, keeping me in your left breast pocket makes the level of your wealth more visible and prone to beggars, and isn't the safest location for me if you're worried about truant children swarming you in a dark city street one night as you make your way home for supper. But the damage done from a potential mugging is less violent than if they go for your abdomen, or your pants pocket, or your sock: in those instances they would make away with more pieces of paper, words and numbers ambiguously - and ultimately meaninglessly - scrawled atop.

Keeping me clearly visible and easily accessible means you are less likely to be stabbed for my contents, leaving a trail of blood to follow you around like breadcrumbs, showing others where you've been, suggesting where you're going. You are less likely to be scarred during burglary; wounded forever, permanently, the mark of the beast burned forever into your forehead for all to see. And you are less likely to lose it all. Vultures are happy to get a dollar here, a toonie there, when they know they can come back to the well for more when they like. Keep your bills in a smelly state of wetness in your Asics and, well, the leeches just might want all of it, right then and there: What would you be left with?

No, Boss. Continue to keep me in your left breast pocket, close to your heart. Let others know how much capital is at your disposal. People are more likely to pass you over that way, and look to the person behind you to rob. Humans always search for the greater payoff; they're willing to risk everything to see what's behind door number three, even if the Vegas odds all point to a goat. That's the beauty and the tragedy of currency, Boss. Besides, in this day and age of wireless transaction, faceless and touch-less - and love-less - communication, the Big Banks insure everything; the most you'll ever be out is the first 50 bucks. And it takes more than that to purchase your favourite pair of Gap jeans, doesn't it?

project RACE monthly update

2007-02-27T17:14:00.001-05:00

163 bpms. Addicted.

requiem for a blog

2007-02-27T09:29:00.000-05:00

What is it about you that makes me want to vomit words? Open the shades at my darkest hour, expose myself to you? I am Mona Lisa, a Shakespeare play; studied, dissected, and – worst of all – rehearsed. Circus clowns escort you past me: “Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see here.” I know this, and yet I still scream. Dangling in a cave in a Utah canyon; unknowable, unknowing. I cut off my nose to spite my face.

I sit before you, coffee in hand, and try to think of something to say. Nada. Ziltch. Zip. Void. You stare at me blankly, vacuum tubes pulsing light; we play a game of chicken. Who can make a fool of themselves first? One, two, three…GO! I lose. I always lose. One of God’s gifts to me was never a poker face. A pair of fours may be all I have, and I want to share it with you. I show you my hand before I even know what I have myself. If I had an eating disorder, it would be bulemia: binge, purge; binge, purge. Not to eat at all? That takes real restraint.

How sad, that I should feel this way, when I can hear the whispers of the most important people in my life in the background: Talk to me! they plead. Tell me a story! Catatonic, I keep the life preserver they request to myself. I don’t have the energy to throw it ten feet. But if it came down to it, I would swim for them. Jump in shark-infested waters. Drown, never to speak – or write – again.

In the end, it’s just garbage I give you. Thoughts that cannot translate into deeds. Caveat: Not all thoughts, of course. Some letters strung together (signs) form words that would be too much (signifier) for your pious selves to bear. WITNESS! your soul granted a pergatory pass would scream. A SINNER IS BEFORE YOU! (Indeed it would, because even THIS is too much for you, isn’t it?)

Another heap for these words I should find, lest they continue to bounce around inside me trapped - rotting, stinking, festering – until one day their toxic gases seep out of me, poisoning both of us in the process. Mona Lisa had a secret journal; that’s why her lips are curled.

cheese, wine, and other imports

2007-02-26T19:28:00.000-05:00

If I were a Dude, I would be all over French chicks. Especially ones named Annick. I have yet to meet an Annick I don't like. The woman who leads my Saturday morning gym class is Annick; a beautiful brunette with an imperfect tongue and an infectious smile and laugh: the pale and predictable prairie girl I am is pathetic next to her. She's a dream, and is one of the only ones who can coax me to count aloud squats with her (I don't chant with the others usually; I feel like a dumb ass). But for Annick? I'll even numerate en français.

One of the women I work closely with is a Francophone. Spending time with her in Whitehorse made me realize why I always pick up the phone when she calls my desk after 6 pm (I don't with everyone). She's always been a sweet thing; accommodating, understanding, and, most importantly, patient. These qualities were tested though, when at the Fancy Dancy Supper we were at, we walked into the room to discover an Assigned Seating Arrangement (party planners everywhere are gasping). We had planned to sit next to each other; the master list had us at opposite ends of the room. "I hate when people tell me where to sit," she hissed, unleashing her inner sovereigntist - personal, not political (although how can these two things ever be separate?) "I. Hate. It." Beowulf couldn't slay that dragon.

This is why I love them, those thorny roses who could care less if you'd prefer they not smoke in front of you. ("There's the door. Use it.") Because - piss on it - doesn't matter what you think. No one tells them where to sit. No one suggests to them when it's time to go home. No one writes their constitution for them.

Blow smoke rings in their faces because, well, piss on it. And that's the only reason. I dig it.

happy birthday grandma-ma-ma!

2007-02-25T10:55:00.000-05:00

I can't wait to see you at Easter! I am practising running to you for kisses and hugs. See?

Love, Turkey Roll

xo

the dresser

2007-02-24T00:04:00.000-05:00

This is the third time I've been made-over. Fourth, really; but one cannot really count the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next as "reinvention." At least, I cannot. True change requires a stripping of my soul; a new purpose. Ironic, how in each instance less of me remains, but my value increases. Funny, how a society of such gluttons - mass producers of Che images, collective individuality; insatiable consumers of artificially-flavoured breakfast shakes in the pursuit of health - should value me more now that I've been used, sanded down into something brittle: my purpose, questionable. Open to interpretation.

Do you chase the history of humanity through your desire of me, or do you crave the chemical lacquer that covers my wounds, now called "character?" Is it love, or do you like choking me? Starving out my oxygen with each coat of clear, just to see your own reflection in me better?

Does this really matter to me? Not quite. They're just questions I have. The truth is, you can never define yourself through me, and I think that deep down you already knew that, despite how you sit on the edge of your seat, waiting for my number to be called, so that you may frantically, casually, raise your paddle, assert your authority over me. I am just a cover for you; a facade. You will stuff me full of socks maybe; summer soles in winter. Guest linens. Yellowed letters of love, buried like treasure, but just paper, just words: everything and nothing simultaneously.

You will give me much more than the deed to your house, folded neatly in a lock box, the bottom shelf (because thieves are too lazy to bend over). You will surrender more than the stains that tattoo your outer shell, the pieces of cloth that you strip away each night: equalized.

The currency with which you purchase me is more valuable than the manifestations of Mammon you humans are so quick to shed blood for; and yet you do not value them at all. Your secrets. Your essence. Your measure of self-worth. The representations of your own image in your mind's eye. What you do not share with others in this earthly life, but leave for them to discover in your death, once it's too late.

I am much more than slabs of wood precisely nailed together; a whole of parts, constructed, reconstructed, until, inevitably, deconstructed, used for kindling for the Christmas fire, memories of dressers past forgotten against the prospect of the new Dustbuster under the tree (so much cleaner, don't you think?)

Me? I am Your Protector.

what, me bully?

2007-02-21T12:33:00.000-05:00

I call it a "grace deficit." Dad? He calls it "rammy." Whatever it is, it's true: I am a bully. It finally hit me last night, as strong a thump as when I'm walking down a hallway and run right smack into a doorframe. Suddenly, without warning, I veer to the left, causing a hip hematoma the size of a grapefruit. Grace deficit? Nah. I claimed for bankrupcy a long, long time ago.

My ramminess causes me to hemorrage words as well. Sitting last night in the hotel bar with the only colleague I have here who doesn’t consider me a spy, I interrogated him: How old are you? Where do you live? How old is your financee? How did you meet? Where do you see yourself in five years? Where do you come from? These rapid fire questions held him against the wall not ten minutes after he’d complained about the nosiness of a woman at the airport, who’d come up to him to ask him why he was so moody. “You look stressed,” he said she’d said. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

He’d thought her odd, and rightfully so. Who was she to probe him for such personal information? What gave her right to lay claim to his secrets? I agreed, and noticed no irony in my own line of questioning later on, until I’d tucked myself under the covers, thinking about how I’d asked him to expose himself through response.

He’s 37. He lives in a condo in the Market. His financee is 10 years his junior. He met her a lawyer party. (Um, isn’t that an oxymoron?) He’s not sure where he wants to be in five years. He comes from London, Ontario.

Aha! My mind’s lightbulb flashed bright as I clicked off the bedside lamp. That’s the difference between him and I. I am too open, too honest, a consequence of my Western Canadian immigrant heritage, maybe, ghosts within me recalling their wait in the line at Pier 21, answering The Man With The Stamp: Where do I come from? How old am I? Where do I want to be in five years? These answers pour out of me; my heart leaks onto the table. Which is fine for me, but maybe not so much for the person I’m confessing to, who is left to clean the table up.

And for him? Gentrified sensibilities of proper tea times past cause him to get his back up when the questions start coming. Ontarians like to keep themselves corseted. And while I have the ability to draw them out, like a naïve farmer harvesting friendship, I have to remind myself of my grace deficit before people start to feel like I’m pushing them into the doorframe as well.

Besides, generalization like that above is what keeps this country great.

traitor

2007-02-20T21:18:00.000-05:00

It's a small country. Plane mates on the Vancouver to WHITEHORSE stint (yes, I'm in Whitehorse; which, I guess, is better than finding out mid-flight that you're going to Winnipeg, or something) included two dudes with whom I used to work with in Saskatchewan. Been almost four years since I've seen them, and save for a few grey hairs on their heads (not mine, of course), they are the exact same friendly, down to earth guys they've always been. I felt transported back in time for 2 hours and 18 minutes, until the plane touched down, and the various passengers scattered to form groups of colours around the baggage conveyor belt: red, Ontario; blue, I don't know who; black, well, you get the point. I drifted to the reds, who were hanging out with the colourless (because we can't pick favourites, now can we), and watched from afar as all the green plaids hugged, chatting happily with each other. The reds and colourless? We all checked our Blackberries, confirming that there is indeed no wireless service (THANK. GOD.)

I miss my green plaid peeps, even if their fashion sense is questionable.

4:12 am

2007-02-20T04:12:00.000-05:00

Dear Fate,

You have perfect timing. Shortly you're to ring on my door, and carry me away for 96 hours. To a place where maybe Blackberries work; maybe they don't. Don't count on anything. Don't take anything for granted.

A good book, and two solid days to read.

No computer, green light flashing "on"; siren song of escape, and confinement.

Just me and, quite possibly, a pickled thumb.*

-----

*No, I guess that's Dawson City, not Yellowknife. At least, that's what Google says.

sending in my $1.99 plus shipping and handling

2007-02-19T20:13:00.000-05:00

By now you will agree I've never been a normal girl. I've tried; oh, how I've tried. I've made the requisite list of Teen Beat, Teen Street and Seventeen and told my Dad I neeeeeded them, could he just pleeeasse pick them up on his way home for me? And, perfect papa he is, he did. They never really did anything for me, though. Kirk Cameron was kind of a weirdo. (Although Joey was always sooo much better than Jordan; maybe I was just drawn to him though because he was a December baby like myself. Though he was technically a Capricorn, that was close enough for this narcissistic Sagittarius.)

I flipped through the flimsy pages, passing easily the advertisements promising a one-on-one conversation with whatever heart throb my little heart desired. Nah. Not interested. I pored over the advice columns, solely for the smirk factor. What kind of self-respecting person cares about what her best friend thinks of her new shoes? Just go tell her to $@#& herself! Leo DiCaprio full face centre-fold? Pshht. (Though maybe I'd put that up on my wall now.)

The one page I could never get past? Usually, it was in the last two, maybe three, pages of the magazine. The ones where they advertised packages of sea monkeys and t-shirts with your boyfriend's name on them and pen pals? Yeah. I wanted a pen pal.

introducing the dank

2007-02-18T16:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Uncle Chris,

Daddy is taking an on-line real estate course right now, so he needed a couple hours of "Boh-free time" to study on Saturday afternoon. So Mommy took me to Irene's, because where else to take a baby on a sunny weekend afternoon whilst Winterlude is keeping our Nation's Capital aglow and abuzz but an ill-lit stinky pub with greasy burgers, cheap Blue on tap, and the names of patrons past carved into your table? We think we saw your picture on the wall...

Uncle D. had rented out the basement to host a jam session with Uncles B. and S. The girls ate greasy fries and showed Mommy their wares from a morning of spending too much money.

Mommy said she missed the days of disposable income. The only thing disposable in her purse now are diapers, Size 3.

It was open mike, and some regulars got up to play a few tunes. The last song they played was a Neil Young cover, Rockin' in the Free World. I was getting fidgety, so Mommy and I got up and danced. (Funny that; Irene's has no highchairs.)

It was my first live band. Mommy said it reminded her of Paris, and the night she danced with Carlos, a Mexican who could not speak a lick of English but for Elvis Presley lyrics. The band then played Can't Help Falling in Love, and Mommy took Carlos by the hand to a small spot by the stage to dance.

Carlos glowed.

The band yesterday didn't look much different than the band from the restaurant in Paris (pictured below). Except, you know, they were English, so the flare was relatively muted.

But it was still a good day.

Love, Boh

XOX

saturday night

2007-02-17T21:54:00.000-05:00

Epic – Faith No More
Your Woman – White Town
Tom’s Diner - Suzanne Vega
Fast Car – Tracy Chapman
Smoke Baby – Hawksley Workman
Mind Flood – Sam Roberts
Let Go – Frou Frou
Missing – Everything But The Girl
Only Happy When It Rains – Garbage
Papa Was A Rolling Stone – The Temptations
She’s So Cold – The Rolling Stones
Freedom! ’90 – George Michael
Lola – The Kinks
Somewhere Over The Rainbow – Ab Orchestra

echocardiogram

2007-02-16T18:46:00.000-05:00

You'll no doubt be pleased to know that today was finally a slow day at work. I'm down to about 99.

I. Rule.

email jail

2007-02-15T21:06:00.000-05:00

As a self-acknowledged Crazy List Maker, one of my favourite itches to scratch is to keep a very thorough and organized email filing system on my computer at work. I pride myself on my Folders. My first few weeks at a new job are invariably spent lovingly nurturing A System - a system that lets me pull up an email on any given topic with just a few assured clicks of the mouse. Though it's occurring to me as I write this that I could use the general Search function to the same effect, there is no glory in that. There is no challenge in typing, "Sport", and "Hosting", "Good god, HOW MANY TIMES do we have to go through all this sh!t AGAIN?!!", so that the email with all the answers pops up, to remind you of that funding formula that you still don't understand, but have to brief up on anyway. No. That email is in its proper Folder, waiting. Waiting for me to dig it out again, show it the glaringly florescent light of day (or early evening, as is too often the case these past few weeks).

It's why I got the twitches briefly, earlier, as I watched in the matter of seconds seven emails come in at once. Bang... Bang... Bang, bang, bang, bang.

BANG!

And I looked at the counter, and realized the ridiculousness of my days: over 300 emails. Unread. And most of them: un-Foldered.

I. am. losing. control.

Sure. Many, if not most, of these emails are the day's headlines. Notices from friends about social gatherings long since past. Diatribes by up and coming young whipper snappers about what reasonable accomodation really means in Quebec. Emails by bright young things years younger than me, some of whom will someday be my boss. And so I want to keep them, read them one day when I have a half hour to spare.

But - alarmingly - there are also too many emails left unopened that I know contain some important nugget of information relevant to one or more of the twenty-two tasks at hand. I'm skating. And I've fallen through the ice a couple times already. Today. I'm not too concerned about my ability to manage all this - yet. I am learning at an astonishing rate; exponentially. I've reminded myself that I'm generally a good employee. I ask questions. I admit error. And I move on. (Or try to, anyway.)

It's the lack of Folder organization that's going to kill me. The next time my boss Berries me frantically four times in 10 minutes without recieving a response, it won't be because I'm getting a coffee down the street. It'll be because I've reached 400, and my heart could no longer take it.

love

2007-02-14T19:13:00.000-05:00

We're all so quick to define what it is that we don't love: "I hate spinach." "I can't stand it when you do that." "I would prefer the yellow one, please." But in love? We're silent. Partly because days like today have taken the concept to a grandiose level, have elevated the word "love" to mean something we think is - or should be - unattainable. And it's not.

I love Adoring and Wonderful Husband. I love my baby. (Though that doesn't mean I love waking up to a diaper so poopy from a meal of beans the night before. Um, yeah. Won't be feeding him those again.) And I love my family, and my friends, and myself. I love writing, and I love reading, and I especially love those things when the subject matter is me.

I loved Dead Tooth, until he came in for the kiss.

I love the movie Goodfellas. (The Departed seems like just a cheap knock-off, but worth the five bucks, nonetheless.)

And I know I will love the Chocolate Dipped Strawberries Blizzard Adoring and Wonderful Husband is bringing home right now, so we can watch 'Til Debt Do Us Part on the Life Network later, and gush about how well we're doing compared to those sorry suckers.

We, ourselves, should be the ones to define love. So that we're not scared of it. Love is a continuum. It ranges from a trite love of chick peas, to the profound sense of partnership that you find with the person you share signatures with on a legal document in City Hall. The only way to find the land where we tell each other we love each other each and everyday, and not once in a cold and snowy minute in the middle of the winter, is to learn how long your continuum is. Someday you'll find your end*, and that person there will be your truest Valentine.

(*Yes. I am aware that there is no theoretical end to a continuum, but there is in this life, okay?)

20 Minutes at Snowflake Kingdom

2007-02-11T21:30:00.000-05:00

It should have been A Day At Snowflake Kingdom, according to Uncle Samy's very elaborate email, which apparently none of his jerk friends read. But Boh cried his little eyes out after only a short time, requiring Mommy and Daddy to get out of the cold and into a toasty warm apartment full of red wine, homemade hummus and yummy cheese. (We've trained that baby of ours well.)

Boh's first taste of a Beavertail.

Grumpy (but so very cute).
Daddy and Boh in front of the only ice sculpture we were able to see. Maybe next year, hey Uncle Samy?

memories

2007-02-08T21:50:00.000-05:00

O. was apparently married this past Christmas. Good for her. I Googled her name one day for the fun of it, and saw her engagement photo. She looked happy (and thin). (And if you're wondering, yes, I've probably Googled your name at some point too. But don't worry. I must not have come up with anything too incriminating, otherwise it would have been posted on this blog.) I don't know that O. was happy in high school; I doubt that she was. I wasn't. And even though we could never be considered close enough friends for me to firmly establish that fact, I think we had a connection: I'm a bit sad, trying to be happy, shall we hang out once in a while? And so we did. We did the Brewster's trivia thing on Monday nights. My code name was Zyma. I don't remember what hers was. We both drank Wheat Beer and had the obligatory order of 10 cent wings.

That's where we decided that we would go to BC for a week before class started up again in September. We pinky swore, O., J. and I. It'll never happen, I thought. I'm not even really friends with these people. But it happened. An hour or so outside Regina they asked, "Do you really have to smoke?" and I said, "My van; I'll smoke if I want." So I did. And that was just the confirmation I needed to prove that I didn't know these people, and they didn't know me - and they surely to God didn't know smokers. That's why we offer to drive. That's why we'll host you at our house instead of asking to mess up yours. It's so we can smoke when we want, as much as we want, without feeling guilty or stinky - it's that simple.

Despite my best intentions, I actually enjoyed my week with O. and J. We met up with J.'s artistically tormented cousin on the Island for a couple days (or at least that's how I liked to think of him), and spent a night off-roading somewhere-only-God-knows, only to set up camp on a pristine beach in the middle of nowhere, drinking beer and placing bets on whose crayfish would make it back down to the water first (Irving lost; he died before becoming the true champion I know he was in my heart). I don't know whose house it was, but another black void was enjoyed on the patio of a 1500-sq foot house overlooking the Pacific (the only ocean I can claim to be mine, despite that I'm a prairie girl - - I miss you Auntie Denise!).

I remember the clean, crisp freshwater air while eating a sandwich in front of Lake Louise. The blue burned into my brain. I remember the chill of the campground of Salmon Arm when the conservation officer pulled up to tell us to put our fire out (stupid girls!), we weren't allowed to have one in the dead of summer. I remember the grogginess after waking up to O. putting on her runners for an early morning sprint through the streets of Victoria ("Crazy," I thought, laying my hung-over head back down for another hour of sleep (Need. Greasy. Sausages, I thought, but now I wish I'd have went with her).

And I remember the slime on the crayfish that gave his life to me, so that one day I would have the memory, the memory I share with you today. It was cold, and felt the same way on my fingers as when I'm sick and blow my nose too hard. You know. When it goes through the tissue.

Thanks, Irving. Thanks for the memory.

evicted

2007-02-07T21:06:00.000-05:00

My Summer Off? With three babies, a night-time serving job, and the general insanity that must come with living near the in-laws (just kidding Grandma and Grandpa!), I can understand the lack of time to blog. No hard feelings.

But Longings of Youth? LONGINGS OF YOUTH? There is no excuse. For shame, B. FOR SHAME. (Um, unless you're planning to do The Trials and Tribulations of a LavaLife Junkie thing. I am so into the peep show that would be.)

like answering the door to Ed McMahon

2007-02-06T22:19:00.000-05:00

"I talked to our financial consultant today."

"Oh yea?"

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"We were approved for life insurance."

[Silence.]

"Really?"

"Yup."

"WHHHOOO HOOOOO!"

[Silence.]

"Oh. My. God."

letter from mommy: month ten

2007-02-05T21:54:00.000-05:00

Turkey! Roll!

Okay, kid, this is the BIG TIME. Double digits. Methinks it’s almost time to buy you a razor. At the very least, your own blender. Chicks dig guys that bring their own blenders to parties. (At least I do.) Seriously though, what kind of cake should I make for The Big Day, now only two short months away? A vanilla angelfood cake in the shape of a puppy dog? Double fudge chocolate dressed as a fire engine? A cupcake tree of many different kinds, so you can try all the flavours of the Duncan Heinz rainbow? Because you deserve it, you know. You deserve the world on a platter in front of you. I want to make sure that, if you wanted to, you could GRAB THAT WORLD, AND EAT IT: squish it in your hand, mush it on your face, smash it up your nose. Have fun with it, and taste it all, Little Guy. Life is yummy, sweet, and best served with coffee. Strong, bold coffee, preferably from Mexico or Africa, because those are two regions of the world we really need to put our $1.79 behind. Like, yesterday.

This past month went by wayyy too fast, and you grew up wayyy too much while being out of the peripheral vision of mommy’s watchful eye. I jump off of the bus before it’s even come to a complete stop and begin to sprint towards Our Cocoon everyday with an urgent need to smell your belly and a secondary requirement to pee (why don’t I just go before I leave work, you may wonder? Because I can’t wait to get home to see you, that’s why. One minute extra with you is worth the bladder infection I am sure to shortly get.) You came back after a week at Grandma and Grandpa’s able to stand without holding onto anything for a good five seconds, and a baby baritone voice that you pull out whenever you want us to pay more attention to you. (“Mommy! Daddy! Quit watching Intervention on A&E and look at me put my wooden wrench up Gordie’s bum! HEUGGGGHHHH!!!!”)

You’re also quite the explorer, opening drawers, crawling onto things, and just giving Daddy a run for his money generally as he spends his day trailing your path of destruction. Office jobs and arbitrary deadlines and surly supervisors frowning at your inappropriate use of the company fax? Puh-lease. Those things ain’t nuthin’ compared to what it is to spend a day managing your expectations. At least as a desk jockey you don’t have to wipe your boss’ butt. (It’s a fine line, I know.)

Five bucks paid to each and every reader of this blog. That’s what I’m going to wager that the next time I write your monthly letter I get to brag that you’re both walking and saying mama. And if not, hey kiddo, it’s your birthday present fund that I’ll be using to pay off my bookie. Think about it. I love my best guy so, so, so, so, so, so much. So much that every time I want to scream obscenities over the phone at people across the river, throw my Blackberry against the wall in retribution for some irrational demand it’s making of me, or fall into a heap under my desk of whimpering incompetence, I look at your picture which I have beside my monitor and remember what’s really important. And then I put my big girl panties on and continue to fake it through the day, because the sooner I just take it like a man, the sooner I get to smell you. And that’s worth missing all the kick ass blender parties in the world.

Love,

Mommy

scraping the bowels

2007-02-04T18:37:00.000-05:00

He walked out of the tiniest bathroom of the tiniest bachelor apartment I had ever squished my parched self and a six-pack of Stella into, and nodded to D.: "I like the reading you keep in the office. You can tell a lot about a man by what he keeps on the toilet tank." And that's how Adoring and Wonderful Husband decided that D., previously a mystery, was, in fact, a cool dude: he laid out an Uncle John's Ultimate Bathroom Reader for the viewing pleasure of his guests. (So much more practical than a coffee table book of sea shells.)

Had a couple runny eggs for breakfast? The resultant five-minute trip to the throne could yield you fodder for your next date about how the average human foot has about 20,000 sweat glands, and can produce as much as half a cup of sweat per day. (Okay, a bad date.) Two too many Guinnesses the night before (and maybe a shot of Prairie Fire thrown in for kicks?) The necessary half-hour stay in Loo-Land is an Uncle John's PhD equivalent; three-pages about the biggest ever fire in London in 1666 keeps your mind off your own ring of fire, if you know what I mean.

My own toilet tank inventory tonight yielded interesting results. We normally prefer the latest Economist because of its short, crisp articles that one can get through in just a pee (though there often is a 14-page special report to entertain on those nights when the meat was just a smidgen undercooked). Our subscription to that great trumpet of the trickle-down theory was sadly out of reach earlier when I was, well, trickling-down, and instead I found a trusty old stand-by that Adoring and Wonderful Husband often pulls out in cases of emergency, Just Give'r, A Handguide by Terry and Dean (a signed copy no less; Dave D. would be so proud). Also, the February 2007 edition of Today's Parent (free from the doctor's office), an early January Maclean's swiped from my parent's house (cover story: "Why do we let our daughters dress like skanks?" Uhh, because if we do, MACLEAN'S WILL PUT THEM ON ITS COVER IN A DESPERATE EFFORT TO SELL MORE MAGAZINES, MAYBE??), and, finally, The Running Room Magazine, January/February 2007, featuring cross-Canada images from the Santa Shuffle. Who knew you could experience the runs in more ways than one?

better than paper napkins

2007-02-03T20:07:00.000-05:00

"Maybe as a special treat we can get one of these tomorrow?"

[Looking at the Chocolate Dipped Strawberry Blizzard feature-of-the-month advertisement in my Hotmail]: "What? What's this? Winter! Do you get these emailed to you?"

"Yes."

"And they're personalized. You. Are. Ridiculous!"

But he still didn't answer my question.

fair is fair

2007-02-03T20:02:00.000-05:00

"What's he eating?"

"I'm not sure. A piece of a paper napkin, I think."

"Whatever, Boh. You're the one who has to poop it out."

"Just like Gordie. What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"Yes. That's what that means."

AND OH MY GOD GUESS WHAT?

2007-02-01T20:07:00.000-05:00

I totally wrote that last post before I had a chance to read this post. No foolin'.

I guess great minds really do think alike.

lost in translation

2007-02-01T19:04:00.000-05:00

During the 1995 referendum, We Westerners were pretty unequivocal: Let 'em go, We said. Don't matter to us, We claimed. And, truth be told, it wouldn't really matter to the West were Quebec to separate. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I want them to (as though I am the voice of the West or something - though I guess at least for this post I am.) I'm just saying, aside from a few bumps and bruises, life would most certainly go on. It would probably be good for Quebec's tourism industry, actually; somehow, it would become more exotic.

To my consternation, I am not even close to being bilingual. And why should I be? I come from a family of farmers. I should know Ukrainian if anything, and I don't even know that. I can barely speak and write English, for mercy's sake. French? I remember one friend in university ask me why I took Spanish instead of French: French? I looked at him quizzically, (and somewhat disgustedly, I must admit). French? The only reason I would have to learn French is if I moved to Ottawa someday, and that will only happen if Hell freezes over. At least with Spanish I have an excuse to drink tequila in Mexico.

News flash: Hell has frozen over. But that tequila was so, so awesome, wasn't it girls?

I have A File that's blown up at work over the last week or so, A File that involves Quebec. As such, I've spent a good part of this last week on Alta Vista Babel fish, trying to figure things out. As an average Canadian citizen, does this scare you? Because it scares me. And it makes me feel like an a-hole, every single time I have to ask one of my bilingual buddies, Umm, what does this mean? (It means Yes, Winter, they tell me. Oui. Means. Yes.)

But as dumb as I feel when it comes to French, Bureaucrat-ese is even more ridiculous. Today, in a three hour meeting, I discovered a new language. I expect anthropology PhD candidates everywhere to line up to get behind this new line of study (because I would guess that the federal government would only be TOO HAPPY to use its spending power to dole out grants to become an international leader on the subject). Can anyone, ANYONE, please tell me what this means?

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a trilateral, not a bilateral.

OH REALLY. I SEE. SORRY I GOT CONFUSED ON THAT ONE.

labels

2007-01-28T16:57:00.000-05:00

When I was 13, I used to take the tags off the inside of my collar and sew them onto a plain t-shirt, probably of the Zeller's variety, to stretch my dollar. Two Mexx shirts for the price of one. 13-year-old girls are a stressed out lot. Stressed that the boy that sits beside them in Algebra thinks they're fat and ugly. Stressed that they only got 84% on their English mid-term (why not just one mark higher?) Stressed that they'll stand up one day and there will be a tell-tale mark on their bum, proof that their hips are widening, a signal of their impending right of passage from Pretending to Make Ken and Barbie Kiss to Thinking About Him, All The Time, Would He Just Get Off My Mind Already? I Have a Computer Science Assignment Due. Guhh! And, of course, stressed that the clothes they're wearing don't at all say about them what it is they want to be said: I am beautiful. My dad can afford to buy me Mexx, all the time. Not just one shirt out of two. Yup. Nothing but the best for me!

I re-read the last few months of my blog this afternoon, after cleaning the floors so that Boh won't have to crawl around on hardwood covered in dried-up, week old beans, or Gordie fur, when he gets home tonight, and before a beautiful run that made me both happy to be where I was at the same time as slightly regretful that I didn't go skiing in the Hills this weekend, because if not this weekend, then I don't know when I could next get around to it. I re-read it with an eye to thinking about what it says about me, how it labels me, to people who might pick it up in the middle and look back and follow forward, people who I don't really know but who know me, now, because of the words I bring to your screen. I'm not sure it's a completely accurate depiction of who I am or what I think, this blog. But it's pretty good. There are certain places I will never be able to go, demons I will never be able to unleash on you so that you sit there with your mouth slightly agape, morning coffee in your hand, horrified, wondering who this crazy person is that you had drinks with last weekend or gave birth to 28 years ago. But I like that you know things about me that you might not were it not through my writing in this medium. And I hope that you still like who I am.

the not-so-fabulous adventures of a wannabe Single Me

2007-01-27T11:13:00.000-05:00

I'm on day five of Temporarily Suspending Reality So That I Can Pretend To Be Single Me Again. I'm tired. Being a Single Me is tiring. And expensive. And did I mention tiring?

So.

Tiring.

The warm nest I've created for myself is disrupted. Dirty dishes grow mold on the kitchen counter, and instead of neatly folding my trousers to hang them back on the hanger so as to get another wear out of them before requiring a wash, my pants are scattered all over the bedroom floor, legs inside out, panties still inside of them, a consequence of late nights that push me into slumber before I can properly undress.

I've slept with my makeup on twice in the last two days. I haven't done that for two years.

There's a whole different side to Ottawa that I wasn't aware existed. It's an Ottawa where you go from an eight p.m. office departure straight to a downtown pub and then straight into a cab to speed you home so that you can go straight to bed and wake up five hours later to do it all again. It's an Ottawa where you listen to a smartly dressed young whipper-snapper tell you about her bad date with Paul Wells. ("I don't think of myself as Paul Wells, prominent writer for a major national newspaper and magazine, I think of myself as Paul Wells, little guy from Sarnia trying to interpret the world for others." RIGHT. THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU THINK OF YOURSELF.) It's an Ottawa where, if I were really a Single Me, and not just pretending to be one during the couple of days that the Babe gets to bond with his Grandpa and Grandma, I would live in a small one-bedroom apartment at the corner of Metcalfe and O'Connor, with an overweight apartment cat and a dead houseplant, and my Friday nights would all be about Thai food and cheesy chick flicks and awkward dates with random dudes who got gift certificates to LavaLife from their mothers for Christmas. The parallel universe is sexy for about two hours, and then you wake up the next day with a hangover and a need to buy two or three Starbucks just to make it through the day. And you remember that the steak and salmon you share with the love of your life over a nice bottle of red on Fridays is so much healthier for you than take-out Thai. Honestly, who knows how much MSG goes into that shit?

Fun is fun. And life is life. I look forward to the return of my guys tomorrow. The nest is cold without them. (But don't worry girls. Single Me has it within her to make one final appearance tonight in the Market. Be there or be square.)

project race monthly update

2007-01-27T11:03:00.000-05:00

Still runnin'. I've been getting into the good habit of waking early during the work week to take the Woof for our 6.5K runs. It's a harder run; there is no time to let my oatmeal digest before embarking - so I don't eat anything at all, for fear of the stitches - meaning that after about 4Ks in I have to pull out everything I got that the previous night's sleep didn't completely deplete within me. These morning runs are a good four to five minutes longer than when I do them any other time of the day. But I can't wait until the sun rises earlier and I can watch the warm glow of the world open the door to another day. Photosynthesis for my soul.

if the shoe fits

2007-01-22T20:58:00.000-05:00

My Zen constantly ebbs and flows. One minute, everything clicks; the next, woe is the world. I can tell which way the wind blows by my footwear. If life is good, I care; if I’m simply living, it’s black flats with every outfit, worn until even the smallest puddles provoke water rot on my soles. Itchy.

I think, if I was to answer K. honestly, it’s the same reason I write. It’s more a reactive thing for me than a proactive one. A consequence.

You see, I have big feet. Gi-normous ones. Ladies’ size 11 wide. Men’s? Size nine. Skis. Thus, shoes were always an afterthought when I was growing up, contemplated just once a year during the annual family pilgrammage to Minot, a once-great beacon for the almighty south-Saskatchewan dollar prior to the Walmart invasion in 1994. Payless Shoes had yet to make its debut in a mall near you, and since it was the only store that reliably had my size in semi-decent styles, I stocked up. And then I went to Appleby’s.

Even with a Payless on every corner though, it took me a long time to get excited about footwear. Just until recently in fact. I’ve finally come to realize that I’m worth a great pair of shoes, and that it’s okay to call attention to my feet. I now see my soles for what they can be: glorious exclamation points at the end of an equally fabulous outfit. Even the sentence itself. I can think about shoes, because I am happy; and when I’m happy, I’m creative; and when I’m creative, I write.

If I had patience, I might scrapbook instead. If I had talent, I might paint. If I had mettle, I might sing, or let an instrument consume me. But, because I have none of those things, I expose myself through the written word at the same time as I let it veil me. I will know I’m in trouble if the flats return, or if there is silence on this page, because then other more weighty things must be on my mind. In the meantime, I’m happy to shoe shop.

the disappearing baby

2007-01-20T23:04:00.000-05:00

babies for breakfast

2007-01-20T23:03:00.000-05:00

better than coffee

2007-01-18T08:00:00.000-05:00

getting to where we need to go

2007-01-17T19:08:00.000-05:00

Gack! [ed: or maybe something just slightly more obscene, hmm Winter?] I knew I should have left a minute earlier! I hate when this happens. Oh well, maybe this can give me something to blog about: Shitty Ways To Start The Day. (Or maybe just Poopy Ways To Start The Day, depending the extent I want to censor myself.) This could be number two; number one would be stepping in cat puke on the way downstairs to get socks. Number three? Sleeping in? Maybe. The list needs more thought.

My pace slowed. There was no rush now; I had another nine minutes before the next bus came. Just enough time to think about what the first task accomplished should be when I sat down at my desk. Just enough time to wonder how Adoring and Wonderful Husband really is adjusting to the life of a stay-at-home dad (he says No Big Deal, but I know better: I know it takes more than two weeks to come to terms with the fact that The Outside World spins without you, that it's okay to nap twice in one day. So even though I’m sure he's happy as a clam, I still worry.)

It’s cold in Ottawa today. Perhaps I judged Global Warming too quickly. Maybe it was just nervous, needed time to digest its drink before it felt comfortable to speak without stuttering, to lure me into a conversation I didn’t know I wanted to have until we started talking. Global Warming? He’s not such a bad guy. Give him another chance, you’ll see. I tucked my ears into my coat like a turtle, bracing for the next seven minutes. Examined the bus stop graffiti with the sensibility of an 80-year-old. Stonerville? Where’s that? My 18-for-life persona chimed in: Maybe I should go.

"Morning," he said, crunching into the shelter. I had seen him once before.

"Morning," I replied, and looked away. A too short wait for our ride seemed to preclude anything further; a too long wait in the cold pressed me to keep my mouth moving so as to keep warm.

"Ottawa police have too much time on their hands if they’re able to come out to every little fender bender that happens," I remarked, gesturing to the car with a broken tail light flashing its emergency signals just down the street, and the police cruiser blocking traffic in the next lane stopped behind him. "That’s one thing I found really different when we moved here. Where I come from, your car has to be practically totalled off before the police will come. You practically have to be in the hospital from the injury."

"Oh yeah, where you from?"

"Regina," I said, with the measure of pride I reserve for when people ask me about the Queen City, as if my prior address was a war wound. "Been in Ottawa about three years now."

"Oh yeah, I’ve been here two. I’m from Iqaluit."

And that’s how I met B., from the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, Canada’s national Inuit organization. During my 30-minute commute, which usually takes, like, forever, but not so much this morning, B., a grandfather of three and who is close to retirement (don’t worry, Adoring and Wonderful Husband; I only have eyes for you), told me a little bit about his past, the places up North he’s been to, the places he recommends I see. ("You’ll really like Whitehorse when you go there. Lots of really unique urban pockets sprinkled throughout the city.") He also reminded me how woefully ignorant I am about Aboriginal issues (though not so pointedly as to call Bullshit). ("Who do people think of as the spokesperson for the Aboriginal perspective? Phil? How about Mary Simon for the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami? Or Chartier for the Métis?" I had to admit the latter failed to cross my mind, and that the former, well, I didn’t even know it existed.)

We talked about land claims and political jurisdiction, and about sports and cars and retirement. ("Of course Ottawa doesn’t see the issues facing Aboriginal people in the same way as people in Regina do," he agreed, going further: "People here have cars.")

Blink.

Blink, blink.

"I’ve never thought about it that way!" I gushed excitedly, because even on issues of such solemn gravity I am happy to learn. (And my, oh my was I learning.)

"Often the issues are the same for every community," he went on, because I wanted him to, and because I think he is a teacher at heart. "I had a neighbour who everyday goes to the bar, from four until eight, gets drunk, and drives home. But society doesn’t see him on the street, they don’t judge him the same way as they do someone stumbling down the road, because he has a car. He can make his problem invisible in a way an Aboriginal cannot."

Not because he (or she) is different from you or I. Not because we all can’t be as tortured in the same way (and, on the other side of the coin, be as successful and productive). But because one person has a car, and the other doesn’t. (If they're lucky), The Other has to take the bus, like I did today, when I became him, and B. became me, and I learned that - for want of a steering wheel - we are each other.

"It was nice to meet you, Winter." "It was nice to meet you, B. I am sure we'll see each other again." And I tucked my ears into my coat, bracing myself for my two block walk. Hmm…next blog post? How about, Super Ways To Start The Day. Number two? Not stepping in cat puke.

quick on the draw

2007-01-15T21:46:00.000-05:00

Squatting gives one time to think. "Prolly shouldn't have ate that chili before I got here" and "Shoulda titled that blog post 'Kinda the same thing as sitting in line overnight in -20 weather for front row seat tickets to Metallica and then getting a real desk job two weeks later and being too scared to ask for the morning off (but not really)'" are just two things that come to mind. I thought I might have time to change the title of my previous entry without anyone knowing, but you already read the last post (at least some of you did), so you would know that I am neurotic enough to go back and rework something so inconsequential as a blog post, when there is laundry to be done, gall-darnit! Couldn't expose myself like that, now could I? It would be on par with pretending that I didn't smell anything in a BodyPump class full of women ("It wasn't me!") when I know in my heart that the female persuasion is simply just way too discerning when it comes to the subtleties of bodily function, now aren't we girls?

Best just to suck it up.

poop

2007-01-15T18:40:00.000-05:00

Life's Little Instruction Book is decidedly less clear about how to handle this situation:

Hi, Winter:

Thank you for your email to CBC News Sunday. We appreciate you taking the time out and sending us your thoughts on our program.

While we regularly ask viewers permission to use a portion of their email on our show, in this case we would be interested in finding out whether you would be interested in coming into the nearest CBC studio and read a portion of your email message that will be taped and included in the feedback segment of our Sunday morning show.

Write back and I would love to hear back from you with a contact number so that we can work out the logistics of the shoot. Thank you so much.

What would you do?

101 things to do before you die

2007-01-14T12:45:00.000-05:00

#78: Write a letter to the editor at least once a year. (Does an email to CBC Sunday Morning count?)

"Tony Merchant's legal tactics are admittedly obnoxious. That said, I wonder if the same criticism for his role in settling residential school claims would be heaped on a firm more politically palatable to Central Canadian political interests, such as Ogilvy Renault? Somehow I doubt it."

[Edit: Not from "101 Things To Do Before You Die", but from "Life's Little Lessons." Mea culpa.]

exonerate me, fully and completely?

2007-01-12T18:12:00.000-05:00

A number of you have written to ask what Ferberizing is, or wonder how it is going. On Question #1: Theoretically, the Ferber Method is an approach that trains babies and toddlers to sleep through the night; parents respond to crying only after increasingly extended stints, eventually teaching the child that it's not worth the effort to exert so much energy for so little reward. Practically, Ferberizing is an excuse parents use to make them feel better about taking time for themselves at the end of the day while their kid screams bloody murder upstairs.

And how's it going? Depends on who you ask. I think okay; despite being in the midst of sprouting his upper front teeth, the Babe has had only limited night wakings in the last few days. Ask Boh, and he might tell you he hopes that I am saving - saving for years and years of the therapy that he will surely need as a result of my neglect.

It's all about interpretation, really.

going to Hell

2007-01-11T21:54:00.000-05:00

It's a different world than it was 10 years ago, my friends. I now ask Google what Peter Mansbridge is like in real life - as if the G.-man had beer with him after work last Friday or something - and this is the first hit that spits back out at me. I didn't write it, but I feel that The Big Man is frowning on me just for having pointed it out to you.

But on the Peter issue: Seriously, who knows whether or not he is an ass in real life? Let's dish. (Also, he is TOTALLY tapping that Claire who does the weather, no?)

buried in three feet of snow

2007-01-11T21:16:00.000-05:00

You need something to read. Obviously. I still do this with B.'s blog, and G.'s, and D.'s, check back compulsively, that is, even though I know it's more miss than hit. (Though D. is slightly better at the update - only slightly. And while we're at it, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GRACE US WITH A 2007 POST C., HMMMM?) So if I haven't the time to write anything good, I'm going to let you in on my dirty little secrets: indulgence blogs, even if they're not featured prominently on the sidebar. Why aren't they there, you ask? Simple, really. They're like the chocolate I like to leave at the back of the freezer, or the fudge that Adoring and Wonderful Husband's co-worker N. made for us just before Christmas. I'll sit back at 10:00 pm with a nice cup of tea and suddenly remember them, Chocolate! Sucre à la crème! Both at the back of the freezer! Making me so, so happy, hitting the spot. Hereforth, I give you:

inspiredbycarriebradshaw

and

Blog-O-Licious

My prairie peeps. Happy shovelling.

(PS: Forget the social and economic union. French-Canadian dessert is really the reason we need a united Canada.)

answer: damned near impossible

2007-01-09T20:38:00.000-05:00

Question: How is it to Ferberize your child at 9:30 at night while writing a briefing note for the Big Kahuna due at 8:00 am the following morning? (At least Adoring and Wonderful Husband is out watching the Sens get their asses whooped instead of sitting here tsk tsking me with his, "Are you REALLY SURE we should be letting him cry like THAT??!")

Don't worry, Blogging Buddies. I am still alive. (Just barely.)

letter from mommy: month nine

2007-01-05T23:12:00.000-05:00

Dear Little Man,

Sigh. Today I publish your nine month letter...two days late. Whereas before I drafted these words well in advance of the actual month marker, from now on it will be a race against time to translate my thoughts into type, my heart into my head and through my fingers. These are the deadlines they don't tell you about when you start back at work after parental leave, I suppose. The ones that matter.

Things you've done this month: You venture up the stairs (and promptly fall down them). You continue to babble and coo, but still don't say mama. Or mum. Or moo. Or anything that would suggest to me that you love me at least as much as you love your dad, whose name you've been saying - repeatedly, and in the most heart-breaking sing-songy voice my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear, ever - for over a month now. (And I tell ya kid, I have never wanted anyone to call me moo before, but I want you to. I want you to wake up right now, even though it's 11:30 at night, and say Moo! I love you! Can I watch those cheap adult TV shows that are on Showcase on Friday nights too? Just like daddy is? Because I would say, Yes. Yes you can. But don't get any ideas when you see all those boobies. Because mommy's have been put away, and they can't come out to play anymore. Sorry.)
I miss you, Sweetheart. At work the other day, sitting in a computer room listening to techies drone about how to save files into the fancy computer system they built (um, you press Save, in case you were wondering), I imagined you crawling around through the chairs, under the desks, greedily eyeing the wires before you GRABBED THEM, AND ATE THEM. My mind wandered from the subject at hand - printing (um, you press Print) - and my thoughts turned to your smell. Ahh, your smell. It is my oxygen when you're near me, and the death of me when you're not. And your daddy is so, so lucky (and so are you) for this time the two of you now have together. And this is what I remind myself of, what I say silently, internally, when I need to snap myself back to the task at hand: Searching for electronic files (um, you press Search), or learning about the proper way to format a briefing note (one inch margins, 14-point font, and never EVER over two pages, because THAT is how policy gets made).
And when I want to transport myself back onto your car mat on the living room floor that sops up your spilt milk and which is covered in books, green plastic rings, and more than a few of the six toy cell phones you have now in your possession, I look down at my pant leg at the medley of formula, goober and oatmeal tattooed in an oval just above my knee, the place where you pull yourself up to kiss me as I stand at the kitchen counter to pour my morning coffee just before leaving to catch my bus to work. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, but I wear mine on my pant leg, at least until I walk in the door after a too-long day away from you. Then, I scoop up my heart in my arms and inhale deeply, able to breathe once again, at least until the next morning, when the process starts itself again.
And that is what you did when you were nine months old, Mr. Man: You taught your mommy what it means to breathe.

A million sloppy Boh kisses, C'est Bon. I love you so, so, so, so, so, so much.

Mommy

happy birthday niece!

2007-01-03T21:52:00.000-05:00

Love Auntie Winter, Uncle Justin and your Big Cousin Boh. Can't wait to meet you.

one down, two to go

2007-01-02T20:29:00.000-05:00

Edit: I resolve not to eat at my desk while emailing the Pope asking him to troubleshoot why I can't type question marks, only e accent aigus. This, I think I can handle. (Unless nobody else can help me on that one. In which case, I won't have to worry about eating at my desk because I WILL JUST QUIT MY JOB, BECAUSE E ACCENT AIGUS? THEY ARE DRIVING ME $#&*ING CRAZY.)

resolve

2007-01-01T00:13:00.000-05:00

1. Run two races in 2007. (Have already enrolled for my first one, the 10K race at the ING Ottawa Marathon on May 26th. My goal is to finish in 48 minutes.)

2. No more eating at my desk at work. Even if I have to stand outside my office door and wolf down my turkey on whole wheat, I mean it.

3. Decrease my carbon-based energy consumption by taking the One Tonne Challenge. (I can still do this even if our elected officials think this is a waste of time, can't I? At least they left up this AWESOME website that calculates how much energy I use based on my activities, and how much I could reduce my emissions with certain small lifestyle changes. It amazes me how a few simple adjustments and investments will reduce my consumption by over 10%.)

52:10

2006-12-31T22:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-30T18:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-29T22:13:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-27T09:07:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-12-26T13:02:00.000-05:00

a precedent-setting Christmas

2006-12-26T12:34:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-12-26T10:15:00.002-05:00

Boh's First Christmas Present

2006-12-26T10:15:00.001-05:00

2006-12-26T10:14:00.001-05:00

poor puppy

2006-12-25T17:39:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-25T17:30:00.000-05:00

big perogies to fill

2006-12-25T17:04:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-12-22T08:56:00.000-05:00

Hope this helps you get through the day, Dad!

the blues

2006-12-20T14:18:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-17T10:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-14T15:25:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-14T13:23:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-12-13T20:37:00.000-05:00

Standy Stettner

2006-12-12T15:12:00.000-05:00

me, me, me!

2006-12-11T08:21:00.000-05:00

twenty guesses

2006-12-08T10:04:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-06T08:34:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-05T21:48:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-04T10:35:00.000-05:00

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)

2006-12-01T15:08:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-01T09:54:00.000-05:00

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.

setting mommy straight

2006-11-29T11:22:00.000-05:00

Oh He Of Dirty Knees says: "Daddy, forget a skull watch. This is what mommy really needs for Christmas."

in living colour

2006-11-28T12:44:00.000-05:00

I was a different person when I woke up this morning than I was on Saturday. More myself than I have ever been, I think. The physical difference? Minor. A few millilitres of ink, maybe. A light scab, perhaps. (More like sunburn, really). Marked. Branded. Both words better than: defaced.

Because that’s not really the truth. I’ve carried the design around with me for nearly seven years, across the prairies, through the Northernmost states, around the Golden Horseshoe, to Canada’s capital. The heliotrope flyer it was drawn on the back of at one point littered the U of R campus with an invitation to hear the veritable Marilyn Waring lecture on Valuing Women’s Work. (Ahh, the heady days of post-secondary radical feminism. So much more tranquilized than the suburban reality, with a baby and a dog and a man that brings home the bacon and the nipples-on-demand and the pooping scooping and the laundry that are the consequence of each.) Depending if you believe that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or if it is in-your-face plagiarism, I am either paying Melissa who used to sit in front of me in Grade 12 Calculus a huge compliment, or I am breaching her intellectual property rights. Sitting in some greasy spoon on the Island, the memory of Melissa's ivy of ink running down the back of her neck inspired the sketch on a napkin that I pulled together for KP, who only minutes earlier mused, “Maybe I should get a tattoo in Victoria while we’re there.” We had nothing else to do; we only decided that the capital of Canada’s grooviest province would be a pit stop on our road trip through the mountains the night before we got there. “How about this?” I enthused as I began to doodle, but not before passing the cream and sugar. “It’s kinda like the one that girl Melissa has on the back of her neck. Remember her? From Grade 12 Calculus? I drew one for myself with my initials in it. Your initials are in this one. See? K and P. Right there.”

I would have gotten inked with her that day, only my own baby was fermenting in a container somewhere in Regina, waiting for its debut this past Saturday, seven years after it was born. Besides, I had already suffered through ink and needles that spring with J. in Calgary at the Smiling Buddha. With tatts you have to pace yourself, because they really are addictive. (I already know what my next one will be; I just have to let it simmer for a while before it can be served.) They have to mean something special, and reflect well the change on the inside that had to take place before the change on the outside could be realized.

Seven years. I don’t know how much a seven year old wine costs, but I bet it would be a good vintage. (Paired well with salmon, and an assortment of in season vegetables, no doubt.) Seven years. It was high time to uncork my own initials. Let them breathe.

(By the way, sorry mom.)

project RACE monthly update

2006-11-27T08:27:00.000-05:00

I wish I had one or two more days before I had to write this post. I almost convinced myself to just skip it for the month, or at least postpone my accounting until a time I would be much happier to fill in the ledger. Not that things are going badly - they're not; it's just that this is a bit of a transitioning period for me, and I need to figure out a way to make the adjustment work. (Also, I didn't go for a run yesterday, and my weigh-in for the record this morning wasn't after a good sweaty workout as I usually like to make it. It was all me this time, baby. All me.)

This month's less than overwhelming weight loss can be attributed to a number of factors, all of which are instructive and offer insight into what I need to do to continue to make being healthy a part of my life. First up on the list: my trip early this month with the Babe to visit Grandma and Gido and their Big Drawer Full of Tempting, Luscious Chocolate and Irregular Eating Patterns Writ Large. Lesson #1: Simple avoidance is easier than will power. I personally cannot have a Big Drawer Full of Tempting, Luscious Chocolate in my house. I can have a couple reasonably portioned chocolate treats, but nothing that would easily let me over-indulge, such as the gluttony six extra large Hershey's chocolate almond bars inspire in me. Lesson #2: For me, eating healthily is all about routine. I don't know how their blood sugar levels do it, but my parents can eat supper at totally different hours one night to the next, and even skip a meal now and then. I cannot do this lest I become a ravenous lunatic who greedily eyes the Big Drawer Full of Tempting, Luscious Chocolate and snaps like a timber wolf at anyone who comes between it and my chops. I need structure, in terms of both what I eat and when I eat it. This helps me control my desire to binge on less than healthy food choices, and keeps my portions at reasonable sizes.

A second reason to account for my slowing weight loss is that I am no longer breastfeeding the Babe. He is weaned, which means all his calories come from formula and the goopy mess-in-a-jars the Heinz people like to call "solids", and not the fat stores off my rather rotund arse. Which sucks. I don't want to sound all preachy on the Boob Juice, because to each Mamasita her own, but breastfeeding was good for at least 15 pounds, I'm sure. It accelerated my early weight loss, making it easier to keep up with my running, and seeing such big changes early on kept me motivated. Lesson #3: I can't get complacent. I need to constantly reevaluate my strategy to stay successful.

Finally, a third excuse I'm going to use to explain why I only lost one pound this last month is because it's Christmas. How can I expect to report another five pound loss or something crazy like that when yesterday's menu consisted of six small gingerbread cookies complete with neon icing on top, two pan-fried blueberry perogies, and one rather large piece of H.'s to-die-for chocolate ice cream cake, consumed while doing a little holiday baking with the girls? I guess the question is, would I want to? Lesson #4: Sometimes living life is worth the pound or two you gain doing it.

All in all, I'm happy with the course Project RACE is running. I've kept up with my exercise, and Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I generally continue to eat well. And, hey, a one pound weight LOSS is better than a one pound weight GAIN, right? Still, the coming snow is sure to let my running slip if I don't do anything to ensure I maintain my output levels. And just because it's Christmas doesn't mean I can throw all caution to the wind and eat and drink like a 230 pound man. And nor do I want to, really. Fitting into a size 10 for the first time since high school is much, much sweeter.

Dear Daddy, I learned to crawl while you were at work today. Love, Boh

2006-11-24T14:05:00.000-05:00

A couple nights ago, our good friend C. called us to say that he was coming to O-town for the weekend. The law finals sure to incarcerate him in his tiny Kingston apartment in just a few short weeks apparently are calling him to the bar early. Likely a couple bars, actually; bars that are likely in Hull. While just over a year ago we would have started the party right then and there with a quick trip to the store to buy both beer and clam chowder in bulk (don't ask), our response on Wednesday night was less than subdued. It was almost catatonic. "Really? That's great," we whispered, fearful that even the slightest increase in the volume of the spoken word on the ground floor of our house after 8:00 pm would re-awake the Babe upstairs, two rooms over, fanning the flames of another crying fit of fury that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just put out minutes earlier with the promise of a car at 16. A fast, red car at 16, one that will surely give Mommy ulcers in case there was any doubt she has them already. "You should really call us when you're in. Stop by for breakfast Sunday morning before you go back." And that was pretty much the end of it. These days we don't even pretend that we might make an appearance somewhere on a Saturday night, and certainly not an appearance together. As I've said before, Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night. So C., in my mind I am speaking very loudly, and with much excitement, when I say this: "Sunday afternoon. Come see Boh and watch me make perogies. It'll be more fun than a night in Hull, I promise, mostly because you'll remember it, and I might even send you home with perogies."

The other thing we'll be doing on Sunday? BABY-PROOFING.

Christmas crushing (the first of many)

2006-11-22T10:53:00.000-05:00

Anything by Monteal artist Peter Hoffer. Anything. (Estimated price: in the $000s.)

Black-banded skull watch. Not this one, but the one from Pom Pom. (Again, Adoring and Wonderful Husband, in case you missed it, THE ONE FROM POM POM.) (Estimated price: $26.)

The History of the English Language. (Estimated price: $99.95.)

Tattoo on the back of my neck. (Estimated price: I'll see on Saturday.)

good citizenship

2006-11-22T08:20:00.000-05:00

My tea water rolls, not just boils. I was finally convinced after this summer’s trip to the Holy Land of the benefits of a kettle. I had thus far been using a pot on the stove to do the trick, which really hadn’t. I never drank tea much, and when I did, tepid water always made the steep seem a bit callow. Not worth the effort, really. Grandpa’s kettle was a pleasure in Regina. A luxury. Coughing up the $11.67 at Loblaw’s for my own version was money well spent. All I have to do is fill it to the 1L mark (and just a bit over, if I’m feeling wolfish, and lazy), flick up the little switch, and wait for the roll. Premium. Steeping. Capacity.

I use the time between pouring the water in and pouring the water out to prepare my pot. It’s stainless steel; one of my mother’s garage sale conquests, I’m sure. It was part of the generational transfer of wealth that happened as part of my parents' cull before moving to Dartmouth. Its fee simple is now my responsibility.

I put two Tetley’s Decaffeinated Orange Pekoe at the bottom, and two packets of sweetener (usually Splenda, but in these tight, pre-Yuletide times every penny counts, and so the bounty from the most recent excursion l’épicerie was less than luxe - No Name all the way). And then, as soon as little switch I flicked switches back, I pour. I pour slowly. I pour very slowly, so that the first drops spit at the sides of the pot, so that the metal pings. Ping! I pour so slowly that I can watch my tea bleed into itself. So slowly that by the time I've finished pouring the water, my tea is perfection.

That’s so steeped.

bell-ringers

2006-11-19T11:23:00.000-05:00

Sometime in the months getting prepared to move from Regina to Kingston, I developed an ulcer. I think. I've never had a formal medical diagnosis of it, since every time I happen to be at the doctor's office I conveniently forget about the pain in the pit of my stomach that doubles me over like a you-know-who who's been sucker punched every time I get severely stressed. Thus, in addition to the mega pack of Tums (various fruit flavoured, fortified with calcium) that saw me through my nerves as our cross country journey loomed ever closer, I had a couple motivational quotes sticky tacked to the wall behind my computer at work. I just had to look up past the briefing note I was typing to remember why I was uprooting our lives and dragging Adoring and Wonderful Husband away from the haven in our hearts that will forever be home. Two quotes were my motivation.

1. A ship in the harbour is safe - but that's not what ships were built for.

2. I have never let my schooling interfere with my education. (Twain)

(To be honest, that last quote had been on my wall for a while; it's what helped convince me that it was okay for me to take six weeks off work to travel through Europe with Adoring and Wonderful Husband for our honeymoon. Strange, how I should have felt so guilty for asking for that time off. I wonder if my former bosses even remember me anymore, but I will never forget sitting on the cobble stoned streets of Lyon having a beer with our new found best friends - some of with whom we never had a conversation in English, but were bonded nonetheless - watching and waiting to see who would be the first pedestrian to step in the pile of dog poo we saw being freshly laid only minutes before. Stereotypes are stereotypes because they're often true.)

At the gym the other day, I saw another motivating quote on the t-shirt of a member (who must have gotten it from the club when she signed up for her membership): "Don't let the things you can't do prevent you from doing the things you can." And today, watching Boh as he again proves to me what a marvel he really, truly is, I caught on TV an interview with Paul McCallum, former kicker for the Saskatchewan Roughriders, now the kicker for the BC Lions. Talking about his move to the cloudy waters of the West Coast after the horrible way Saskatchewan fans treated him after he missed the kick that would have taken the Riders into the Grey Cup two years ago (the year the Cup was in Ottawa by the way, and Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I had tickets), he explained how difficult his decision was. But, he said, "sometimes you have to take a step back before you can move forward." Think I just might add that to the list of things that move me into action.

My other motivation?

the itsy bitsy belligerence in mommy got worked up, and up went the post that freaked the grandmas out

2006-11-17T09:00:00.000-05:00

"Maybe I shouldn't put so much rice on the spoon and more would go in his mouth instead of everywhere else? Yeah. And maybe I shouldn't breastfeed him in a bar and give him plastic bags to play with and let him watch TV all morning. But a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do, ya know?"

for daddy, by special request

2006-11-16T14:21:00.000-05:00

I debated on what I should call the following series of videos. The Rice is Right? Why We Have A Dog? Yummy, Yummy Rice: A Trilogy? Finally I settled on, C'Mon and Find Me Child Protection Services - I Am a Mommy Who Likes to Pimp Out Her Son for the Sake of Her Blog.

insomnia

2006-11-16T08:18:00.000-05:00

10:00 pm. A quick channel flip to the Outdoor Life Network brings up Pilot Guides. Featured destination: Australia. "We should go there for the winter next time I'm on maternity leave," I say to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. "We'll take off for four months or something and rent an apartment on the beach. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Crawling into bed, my mind is racing. Australia. Australia. I want to go to Australia. We need to start saving money. I want to go to Australia.

I want to take the kids travelling for two years when Boh is 14. (The others will be 12 and 10.) I want three kids. I want to take my three kids to South America, put them in school for a year, have them learn Spanish. (They will already know French by then.) Then we'll go to Africa for eight months. Volunteer somewhere doing...something. Then just travel for four months. Start in Spain and work our way up the through Eastern Europe, to the Nordic countries, to London, and back across the pond again in time for grade 11. (But what about the eastern Pacific Rim countries? Maybe the kids should learn Chinese instead of Spanish? I could teach English in Korea, or Taiwan, or something. I want to go East.)

I want to be the Go-To Guy at work. I want to be excited every day I wake up and jump in the shower. I want to make a difference.

I want to learn French. I want to learn France French. I want to take my kids to spend eight months in the South of France. Check out the Cannes Film Festival. Lie topless on the beach.

I want to learn to write. I want to author a book. The ABCs of Policy Analysis. Or fiction to rival Atwood. Or just be able to blog something witty once a day.

I want to keep my house clean. I want to walk my dog everyday. I want to spend my nights watching Boh play hockey, football. I want my kids to follow their hearts. I want my kids to be kids. Have the time to follow their hearts.

I want to learn not to want.

I want my kids to grow up with their grandmas nearby. I want my kids to experience the world. To know how they would solve the crisis in Darfur by the time they are 18. To know where Darfur is by the time they are 18.

I want my kids to feel the Saskatchewan soil of farmers past course through their veins. I want my kids to smell a prairie spring day. Fresh.

I want a cabin at Regina Beach.

I want Adoring and Wonderful Husband to live his dream. I want a four bedroom house in Sandy Hill. I want to live out of a backpack.

I want to live the simple life. Learn to live in the moment, be happy with the day.

I want you to like me. I want to be the kind of person people like.

I want to run the New York City Marathon.

I want to learn to paint. Or sculpt. Anything that will outlive me. Capture my essence. Say something about humanity. Sign and signifier.

I want to understand the market. The world economy. The rise and fall of our empire. Mathematics.

I want to die an old woman, surrounded by my husband of 50 years, and our kids, and our kids' kids. Speaking Russian. Say to them, "There's nothing I wanted but you. You're all I ever wanted."

I want to go to Australia.

I want to fall asleep.

[I want to quit coming back to add things to this list of things I want.]

mixology

2006-11-15T07:30:00.000-05:00

After Adoring and Wonderful Husband got me an iPod for our fourth anniversary, I spent countless hours searching the web for playlists that would lend themselves well to running. A good playlist is hard to find. How death metal can motivate your metabolism, I don't get, but to each their own, I suppose. Anyhoo, in lieu of posting anything interesting, I give you the two playlists for running I have come up with so far. The first one is called I'm f***ing beautiful, for reasons that are clear once you listen to it, and the second one is called New Running Mix, because a creative genius I ain't.

I'm f***ing beautiful - 1.1 Hours
Continental Drift (Intro) - The Rolling Stones
Let's Get It Started (Spike Mix) - Black Eyed Peas
Deceptacon - Le Tigre
The Empty - Le Tigre
Steady, As She Goes - The Raconteurs
Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes
Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Rebellion (Lies) - Arcade Fire
Hung Up (SDP Extended Vocal) - Madonna
Friendship Station - Le Tigre
Children Of The Sandstorm - Darude vs Robert Miles
The Most Wonderful Girl - Lords Of Acid
Slid - Fluke
Hey Ya! - OutKast
Crabbuckit - k-os
Hot in Here - Nelly
Don't Cha - The Pussycat Dolls
When It's Good - Ben Harper

New Running Mix - 52 minutes
Tom's Diner - Suzanne Vega
When the Night Feels My Song - Bedouin Soundclash
Float On - Modest Mouse
When It's Good - Ben Harper
The Hardest Button to Button - The White Stripes
White Rabbit (Club Mix) - Latin Headhuntrz
Tainted Love - Soft Cell
Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani
Let's Run - Le Tigre
Mind Flood - Sam Roberts
Music - Madonna

(Oh yeah, and if anyone is interested in having me burn these onto disc for them, don't ask, because I won't do it. I especially won't respond to any emails that ask me nicely to make them a couple cds, maybe as a Christmas gift or something, because burning cds for distribution is wrong. Very, very wrong. So don't ask. But if you wanted to email me about other things, you can click on my picture at the top right hand corner of this blog to get in touch. I am a law abiding citizen. Most of the time.)

tales from the cubicle farm

2006-11-14T13:25:00.000-05:00

It’s started. Sifting through my mental list of possible blog topics inevitably takes me to one flavour: bold, dark roast coffee, from either Africa or Mexico (it doesn’t really matter which, because they’re both under-developed regions I can put my $1.79 behind.) In another word, work. Because high octane java is what I’m going to need to get my juices flowing everyday in just two short months, instead of the 9:00 am cuddle session with a warm and slightly snotty baby I currently count as part of my morning breakfast. (Zero calories, BTW.) Work. Is this the only topic that’s going to inspire fodder for this blog now? Because blogging about your 9 to 5 agenda is a slippery slope, my friends - one garbage mountain covered in dirt and snow I refuse to slide down this winter.

I have no doubt this will be hard. Because garbage mountains covered in dirt and snow can be so, so fun to slide down - if you have the right toboggan. And the right snow pants. And a helmet in case you happen to smash head first into a tree on your way down. Because garbage mountains can be dangerous. Especially if you write about sliding down them. And especially if your boss comes across your blog and decides that he or she isn’t comfortable with you writing about how your co-worker stole your low-fat yogurt out of the mini fridge, or about how your boss’ boss hinted in your private meeting with her that your boss might not be around for too much longer. It can be the stuff of Desperate Housewives in those ivory towers sometimes, except for all the warm and slightly snotty babies.

Yes, garbage mountains may be fun, but they pay for neither the mortgage, nor the morning coffee you pound back on the bus at 8:45 am like you do Jagermeister on a Saturday night. So on this issue, I am willing to self-censor. Which may mean there will be a lot more pictures of a warm and snotty baby on this site to greet you as you sip your morning java and do some blog checkin' come January, but I can honestly think of no better way to start the day.

take two sloppy Boh kisses and call me in the morning

2006-11-13T12:13:00.000-05:00

A quick trip to a daycare last week to see about fee schedules and visceral reactions resulted in one baby with a cold and two people posing as adults figuring out ways to break it to their own parents that the Babe? He will likely be an only child, because responsibility? We can’t afford it.

Dealing with Boh’s first cold had me thinking a lot about what makes me feel better when I am sad or under-the-weather myself. Logic goes out the window when you are dealing with a child, because babies don’t understand that the ability to pass oxygen through the nasal cavity is regained after you blow your nose to get rid of all the icky boogers temporarily camped there. All babies know is that, MOMMY, I CAN’T BREATHE, AND I AM SCARED THAT I WILL FEEL THIS WAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

It’s a feeling I can relate to, though thankfully not that often. And so in dealing with the Babe and his mean little virus I had to think hard about all those things that unconsciously lift me when I’m down in the dumps. Thing #1: Timeliness. When someone wipes my tears away before the salty wetness can get into my ears, I know everything will be okay. But if the tears make it to my lobes, it’s game over, at least for the next half hour, because all I can do then is whimper and wait. Thing #2: Hugs (of course), but the kind of hugs where the other person’s arms are wrapped so tightly around you that your world shrinks down to the size of a cocoon, and your hurt or sadness shrinks too, and becomes manageable, something you know you can deal with. Thing #3: Faith. Actually, this is one the Babe is teaching me. To put your head on hold and trust your heart. Trust that mommy’s hugs will be enough to make you feel better. Trust that everything will turn out okay despite logic and reason. Trust that logic and reason sometimes aren’t necessary - sometimes all you need are Cheerios.

(Turkey Monkey is doing just fine, if you’re wondering. A few coughs here and there but other than that he’s happy as a clam.)

we remember

2006-11-11T08:31:00.000-05:00

And for every mother who's lost a child so that mine could live freely, thank-you.

babies, lies and the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration

2006-11-10T15:43:00.000-05:00

I go back to work in less than two months. Two Christmas season months. So, basically, I start my new job tomorrow.

I've been trying to get into the head space of someone who's in paid employment for the last little while in anticipation of my return to the cubicle farm. First stop: a new bra, because I don't think I'll need my nursing bra in the boardroom. (At least I hope to God not.) Second: figuring out what the heck is going on in the real world.* So this afternoon is a trippy juxtaposition of watching the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration discuss the Supplementary Estimates (A, I presume?) and reading about Borat and FedEx on the gossip blogs. (And of course, watching the Babe as he squirms and sqiggles along the floor, having recently - like yesterday recently - learned to pull himself up into the sitting position from his stomach). In addition to looking forward to the dinner party B-Rad is hosting at our place tomorrow (what shall I bring, I wonder?), and planning my December calendar obsessively, much like K. does, I'm sure, I'm secretly loathing the person (man) who said that moms can have it all: a career, a happy family, a fulfilled and actualized self. Oh really? Where does Borat fit into this? Answer: HE DOESN'T.

* I am so sad that my real world consists of Supplementary Estimates. Even more sad that I find pleasure in guessing if it's Supp A season, or B. Puke.

workplace crushes I have had (in no particular order)

2006-11-10T07:37:00.000-05:00

1. A baked potato topped with brown beans, cooked mixed vegetables and grated cheddar cheese at Bonanza. (Ahh, luscious, luscious carbo loading, with nary a run in sight. How I miss yee.)

2. Jim. Even though I don't work in The Office, and I know it's just a show, I. Heart. Jim. Like, REALLY heart Jim.

3. At the first job I had when I moved to Ottawa, we had a secret Santa exchange at my boss' house one afternoon. J.'s gift was a baby bonsai tree in delicately wrapped paper. A BABY BONSAI TREE. Who wouldn't have a secret work crush on a guy that buys baby bonsai trees for secret Santa exchanges?

4. Adoring and Wonderful Husband. Only he wasn't Adoring and Wonderful Husband then. See what after work Friday cinq à sept drinks - preferably double G and Ts, and preferably 6 to 10 of them - can do?

5. Jim from The Office. Did I mention Jim?

it's posts like this that will come back to bite me in the ass someday

2006-11-08T08:40:00.000-05:00

A recent tata injury that kept me off the pavement for the 72 hours it took until the first signs of healing appeared made me once again consider my addictive personality. (Regarding my Booby Juicer damage, suffice it to say that sometimes lemons get bruised when lemonade is on the menu. And for all you men who think that doesn’t sound like too much of a big deal, consider how your own fruit might feel if they were damaged from the inside out. Damn straight you should be cringing right now, in addition to picking up the phone to call your mother for everything she’s done for you.)

Luckily for me, the same compulsive tendencies that witnessed me start a half a pack a day habit at age 13, and convince me that the words “two” and “beer” should never be uttered in the same sentence (unless that sentence is “I’ll bring twenty-two beer to the party, if you bring the cake”), motivate me to make a run for it every day I can. Whether the course is 5K or 10K matters not; the high I achieve when I walk in the door after a solid run keeps me coming back for more. The walking I was forced to resort to for a couple of days a week or so ago now seems so pedestrian (“har-dee-har-har, Winter”), even though that was my exercise of choice for a full year before I took up running. Small steps, right? (“GUF-FAW.”)

I don’t often write about how much I’ve started to enjoy running, because I don’t really want to be that person who sometimes inspires, but always annoys, every time he or she writes about a recent run. I know this is how I will portray myself, because there is no other way a runner can portray themselves to non-runners, even if they never utter one word about their habit. Just the mere fact they run past you as you walk down the street is enough for you to simultaneously think “What-EVER, Exercise-y. Give. Me. A. Break.” And then to also secretly pout: “I wish I could do that.”

Because admit it, all you runners out there. You’re pretty darned proud of yourselves for running, and like to brag about it once in a while too, even if that brag is silent, and consists only of owning the latest shoe that communicates with your iPod to tell you how far you’ve run, and at what pace. (How. Rad. Is. THAT?) While I usually shun the cool kid’s club (partly because I’m, like, so anti-establishment, maaannn, but mostly because I don’t want people to stare at me with a puzzled look on their face that asks “what the heck does that fat girl think she’s doing here?!!”), taking up running has been for me like getting into the Wisha Coulda Eata Pie sorority: it’s a license to download all the latest hip-hop I can shake my booty to, and collect the Do Not Pass Go card when I think I might be turning a bend that will take me someplace where I might feel bad about myself, and how I look. So, yes, hate me for a moment like I loathed all those runners who came before me, with their snide v-neck long sleeve running shirts with moisture wicking, and contemptible cardiovascular capacities, and all. Hate me when I say this, but: I love running, and not even a swollen jug can take me down.

letter from mommy: month seven

2006-11-06T19:12:00.000-05:00

Dear Turkey Monkey,

Yesterday you turned seven months old. I would have written earlier, but I was too busy yelling at Gido for letting you have some of the ice cream cake from Dairy Queen that we got for Uncle Harvey's birthday. "What are you DOOOIIIIIIIIINGGG? He can't have SUUUGGGGGAAAAARR before bedtime! He can't have MIIIIILLLLLKKK before he's a year old!" I whisked you out of Gido's arms as though he was shovelling uranium or boogers into your mouth - or something even more awful, like Super Baba's head cheese - and five minutes later, I realized I have to get a grip. Because you're seven months old now. You might as well be a teenager. A drooly, sometimes smelly teenager who can't walk (or crawl) yet, let alone steal mommy and daddy's car to joyride over the bridge to Hull to see strippers with Lucas. It's just a matter of time, I know...

Speaking of which, I think you must be a leg man, because this past month you started drinking formula from the sippy cup with such gusto that it's almost like you've forgotten about mommy's boobies altogether. Which may be just as well, since you just cut your bottom two teeth, and we all know nipples and incisors don't mix. At least not all the time.

By far your best parlour trick is waving hello and good-bye. I don't think you know what you're doing it for, but you still do it, and this morning when we pulled out of Grandma and Gido's driveway to catch the plane back to Ottawa from Halifax and you waved good-bye to Grandma, I think you made her very proud and broke her heart all at the same time. Or maybe that was just me.

Boh, when I first met your daddy I knew he was the one for me because I could share my air with him. We could lie together, nose to nose, and I wouldn't have to move my face so I could breathe my own oxygen, so I didn't feel like I was choking, which is how I would have felt with anybody else. I could breathe with him; that's how I knew. It's how I knew he would be the great love of my life, how I knew he would be the daddy of my babies.

I feel kind of the same way about you, except for you? For you I would not only share my air, I would give it to you if you needed it. All of it. If only one of us was allowed to breathe, there is no question who would get the O2. This is how I know; this is how I know you are my baby and I am your mommy, how I know I love you more than anyone or anything that exists in this world.*

Boh C'est Bon, I love you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so much. And so does your daddy. Now could you please just put the learning to crawl thing on hold for a couple more months? Thanks. Owe you one.

Love,

Mommy

* Caveat for potential future children: I love you all the same. Swear.

it's all just degrees of The Running Man, isn't it?

2006-11-03T23:54:00.000-05:00

Recently spent An Hour Of My Life That I Will Never Get Back watching Deal or No Deal for the first time. Apparently Howie is coming to Canada, and you can apply here to be a contestant on the show.

I think my passport application required less information. Also, if you get on I better be one of your supporters. NO DEAL, BAY-BAE! NO! DEAL!

transplanting prairie lillies

2006-11-03T22:11:00.000-05:00

The first six months I lived in Ottawa, I was introduced to the same Saskatchewan ex-pat at four different parties. "Where are you from again? Oh! Saskatchewan. I should introduce you to one of my friends who's from there too!" And so I would be led into the living room, away from the fridge full of beer, and invariably meet Matt D. yet again, so that we could do the ritualistic exchange of pleasantries and make some idle chit chat until the awkward pause when I excused myself to get another drink. And then I would park myself back in the kitchen where all the good action is, because the kitchen is never far away from the gin. My kind of parties pulse in the kitchen; I've met all my best friends there.

Aside from Matt D., the other institution for newly transplanted Westerners in Ottawa is Friday morning French at work. The best and worst classmate is always the fifty-four year old pre-retiree who's counting down the days until his pension kicks in and who cannot for the life of him understand: a) why he's being forced to take the class in the first place, and b) why the partitive article has three forms. Aging Bureaucrat X, as belligerent as is possible at 9:30 am while sipping bad coffee from a Styrofoam cup in a workplace boardroom, thinks he is obliged to take the poor instructor to task, a cute little woman from France who's just trying to make a go of it in this True North of ours, Strong and Free. "Why is it this? and Why is it that? and Why do they do THAT WAY?" he grills, sneering as if the language police will suddenly burst into the room at the genius of his observation, declaring that, Guess What? We Anglophones? We were right all along! English really IS the best language going! Enough of all this verb conjugation and other Franco-silliness! GO BACK TO YOUR DESK RIGHT NOW BECAUSE FRENCH CLASS IS CANCELLED...FOREVER!

I love Aging Bureaucrat X, because I can empathize. He means no harm; he's just frustrated. Also, I look good compared to him - not because I necessarily know more of what supposedly should be my second language given that I was born in, you know, SASKATOON, but because I don't question it. I know enough about my own first language to know there are some things about language you can't know. Like this, taken from a recent Maclean's:

The median age [in] Gaza is 15.8. How do you persuade a pseudo-nation of unemployed, poorly educated boys raised in a death cult to see sense?

Obviously, the big question here is not, How do we massage the peace process into something less knotty and prone to spasms? or, What kind of rag has Maclean's turned into since Anthony Wilson-Smith resigned? but, How does ANYONE see sense? What, exactly, does sense look like? What colour is it? Is it 3-D? Does it stand in the contrapposto pose? What? If you know, PLEASE, tell me, because I would really like to take a picture of sense and have it framed it for my wall. I would hang it in my front landing so Adoring and Wonderful Husband could be reminded of sense everytime he left for work, or to go out for BEERS with some jackass. Like I said though, I don't usually ask about these kinds of things, because I just take language for what it's worth. Questions like mine and Aging Bureaucrat X's always seem to have the same answer anyway: go vote, dummy. Because if you don't like it, you shouldn't have let Trudeau get elected in the first place.

ingrates

2006-11-01T05:06:00.000-05:00

And the best line of the night goes to...

35-year-old woman with pillow sack: "Can I get some more?" [as she reveals yet another pillow sack hiding beneath her jacket] "My son is too lazy to come up to the door himself."

Yes. That's exactly what your lazy kid needs then. MORE CANDY. GET A JOB. THE BOTH OF YOU. AND GET OFF MY FRONT STEP. NOW.