My subconscious is weird

I had a dream the other night that I was being actively romantically pursued by Seth Rogen.

First of all -- Seth Rogen? I mean, he seems nice, but....really?

Second of all -- even in my dream, I was schlumpy -- hair in a ponytail, oversized sweatshirt. Really, why would he come all the way to London, Ontario to get some of that?

Thirdly -- when he picked me up for our date (at my neighbours' house, two doors down, for some reason), he said, "I was thinking we could just make some dinner, I see here that hamburgers are on sale." And he was holding a No Frills flyer!

Apparently I prize frugality and low expectations.

Biology question

Why does a sphincter have such a messed up sense of geography?

Or a sense of geography at all, for that matter?

Because inevitably, when you're two or three blocks away from home, your sphincter says, "Oh good, we're home" and starts to relax, even though every other fibre of your being is screaming: "NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET!"

Someone needs to invent a sphincter GPS. In this case, though, it would be a "geographical poo synchronizer."

Top 3 reasons why everyone should listen to Songza

(Specifically, the "Your Own 80's Training Montage" station on Songza.)

1. If you are in the final stretch of making a traditional Sunday dinner, Gonna Fly Now from Rocky will come on, and your husband will suddenly be driven to mash those potatoes to perfection and you will slice the roast beef like a boss, and the completion of the meal will be elevated--in much the same way that your search for a parking space was by that gentleman's classical music--to an epic challenge that you conquer together.
2. When you sit down to eat that spectacular meal, Axel F will then come on, and your entire family will spontaneously start eating like robots.
3. You will be able to face any challenge in life, overcome any obstacle, and triumph over adversity, when this song comes on. (Especially if Billy Zabka and his band of karate bullies are chasing you, and you're dressed as a shower for Halloween.)

Don't get uppity

I was feeling pretty good today.

Got quite a few things accomplished, the house didn't look half-bad, heck, we even managed to get to church this morning.

Dinner was really quite tasty, no catastrophes involved at all (I know!!), and everyone was hunkered down to watch some AFV before bed. (I guess it's not really a guilty pleasure if I keep telling people that I watch it, is it?)

Then I decided to take off my shirt before I started to colour my hair. (Those are reasons one and two for starting to feel less great about yourself, combined.)

And then I looked down and discovered an unidentified glob of food in my cleavage.

No one knows what it was, or how long it was there (to be said in the Spinal Tap voice from the spoken word portion of Stonehenge, please).

I guessed peanut butter. DH guessed caramel.

Answer: cookie dough - undoubtedly from when I was feverishly licking the beater before any children could come up and ask to do the same.

Which ultimately made me think to myself:

New glasses

So, I got new glasses. 

Oh, and the optometrist gently suggested that the next time I get a new prescription, we will probably be looking into bifocals. He really was very sweet about it. Which is the only thing that prevented me from slapping him senseless.

So, the glasses. 

DH said, "They look a little hipster-esque!"

 I laughed and went on with my life.

But then a few days later, he said:

"So! Do you like your new glasses?"

Which, for those of you who don't speak husband, means: 

"I don't like your glasses."

But I assured him that I do, and continued to go on with my life. 

But now I think he might be right about them being hipster-esque.

I was walking to the bank the other day, when a full-on hipster exited the building. Plaid shirt, flat hat, horn-rimmed glasses which may or may not have contained prescriptive lenses, bow tie. I even thought, "What kind of bow-tie worthy event is this hipster attending at 4 o'clock on a Sunday?"

But here's the thing: the hipster looked at me, then looked away....then looked again. As if he were momentarily confused. Like the glasses were a code that we had silently exchanged, but the mom jeans, running shoes and fleece hoodie were sending a completely different message. Were I twenty years younger, perhaps I could've been wearing them ironically. But no, I really was a mom going for a walk in comfy shoes on a chilly day.

So I apologize to anyone who has been similarly confused by my new eyewear. Perhaps I will start wearing them on a chain or perched on the end of my nose in order to avoid further misunderstandings.

Weird things that have happened to me in the car (lately)

1) Tried to find a parking spot in the UH parking building, that seems to spiral upwards FOREVER. Oh, and if you're just a visitor, don't even think about slowing down and looking for a spot on the first 4(00) levels, because those are all reserved.

So, I was corkscrewing my way up to heaven (is that a country music song title? And if it isn't yet, shouldn't it be?), and as soon as I got to level 5(00) or whatever it is where mere mortals can find a spot, I suddenly heard classical music. Really loud classical music. So loud that I stuck my head out the window to determine where the music was coming from, and determined that it must be getting piped in through some speakers. As if the administration at UH wanted to make up for the fact that we might be light-headed and sleep-deprived by the time we got to our parking area.

Higher and higher I climbed, listening to the music, when I realized that the music was actually coming from the car in front of me. I can't overemphasize how LOUD this music was. So the fact that one man was listening to the music at that volume in his car was a little disconcerting. But the thing is, it wasn't all "stringed instruments and angels welcoming us to heaven" classical music, it was Wagnerian, serious sounding music.

Which was totally fitting, and really pretty awesome because it made this search for a parking spot feel even more like an epic quest worthy of such a soundtrack.

When I finally found a spot, I was going to go over and tell the driver that, but he was still in his (parked) car, still with the music at that volume, so instead I chose to just back away slowly.

Because it was a cool soundtrack, but it was still weird.


2) Attacked by a bee.


3) Drove to the International Plowing Match at 7:00 am in pea soup fog.

I could've ended that sentence at "Drove to the International Plowing Match at 7:00 am" and it still would've been a weird thing that happened to me (or that I did to myself) lately.

BUT, I was driving on country roads, in the dark, in pea soup fog, not knowing where I was going, because I forgot to bring a map, and then a red light came on in the dashboard that said "SBS."

I had a vague memory that this particular light had something to do with the air bags. I pondered this for a moment, and then I thought, "Meh."

Not ten minutes later, as I was listening to the Stax 'n' Loop show on 102.3 BOB FM (yes that was a shameless plug, but also, it was truly the only good part about my drive that day) there was a news item that Honda Odysseys from 2003 - 2004 were being recalled because of an air bag defect. Did I mention that I was driving a Honda Odyssey? Guess what year it was made?

Nothing like a bout of sheer terror to jump start your day!

Weird things they have said (lately)

Me: <singing a song from Jesus Christ Superstar>

K: Remember when we watched that movie together?

Me: Yes. I remember you hated it. Well, you hated the woman playing Mary Magdalene.

K: Yeah. She was weird. <pause> <lowered voice> I think she was hitting on Jesus!

____________________________________

DH: Why is that plate on the floor? <no answer> How did that get there? <no answer> Why is that plate there? <no answer> How did that happen???

Child: You want to know how that happened? You want to know how that happened? I'll SHOW you how that happened...

<swiftly and decisively puts pyjama pants on her head>

<end of conversation>

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Child playing with her 'stuffies' and talking to them (quietly, to herself) while we get everyone ready for bed.

<bear flies through the air>

Look, it's flying bear! 

<bear does a little dance>

Look, it's dancing bear!

<holds bear's arms out, and his head falls forward and to one side>

<pause>

Look, it's Jesus bear!

Never assume

K lost a tooth yesterday.

This morning when I woke her up, I thought this would be a good way to get her out of bed in a hurry:

"K, go see if the Tooth Fairy came! I wonder what she left for you!"

Her response:

"Mummy, my tooth fairy is a boy, that's offensive. His name is Eddie."

Important pop culture instruction

One project we undertook for the summer was "watch all of the Harry Potter movies."

We're down to the Deathly Hallows, and we watched part 1 on Saturday night.

The girls are into it, which I love. Occasionally I have to give them a heads up before things get really intense...and I've thoroughly prepared them for the fact that things get really crappy before they eventually get better. In the movie the other night, when they were getting really stressed out about Bellatrix, I was glad that I was able to soothe their minds by telling them that she gets hers, from Mrs. Weasley no less, and that, if memory serves me correctly, Mrs. W calls her the 'b word.' But I should point out that I was the only one who was misty-eyed when Dobby took one for the team! Am I raising a bunch of automatons??

Anyhow, after the movie finished, and for reasons I can't fully explain, we started listening to music, and somehow ended up playing Bohemian Rhapsody.

And again, for reasons that completely escape me, but which seemed quite reasonable at the time, DH ended up doing an epic, emotionally raw, sometimes acrobatic, occasionally awe-inspiring interpretive performance (I was going to say dance, but that would be a bit much) to the song.

Personally, I was dying I was laughing so hard.

The girls on the other hand were less than impressed.

We quietly sang "any way the wind blooooooooooows.....", the gong sounded, and there was silence.

And then K announced:

"I may vomit."

Yep, they're mine all right.

Although the first story also relates to the fact that S is our little Italian girl, taking after DH's heritage with her love of all things pasta, olive or cheese-related... But it's also a well-known fact that I talk with my hands. A lot. In fact, someone once said, after watching me from across the room, "Jeez, if we cut off her hands, she wouldn't be able to say a word!"

So, S and I were out for a walk/bike yesterday. She was riding, I was trying to walk quickly enough that she wouldn't end up falling over every two minutes.

She launched into a story about a particularly beautiful front lawn that she saw once, but she was having trouble describing it.

Finally, she said, "Mummy, I'm going to have to tell you when we get home. I can't describe something and ride my bike at the same time--I need my hands."



This one definitely shows that these children are mine, all mine.

Going out to dinner the other night, we were discussing whether or not DH knew where he was going.
E piped up helpfully:

"You know the one, Pop! It's right by the LCBO."

Who says romance is dead?

So, the low-fat/no-fat train is still chugging along. Although I'm happy (relieved) to report that beer and wine have successfully been reintroduced into my diet...

Now I promise I'm not going to turn this into a blog about food and weight loss and how much kale is really the food of the Gods (mostly because I haven't had that kale-related epiphany that everyone seems to be having lately), but I do feel compelled to mention that we're all eating much better and as a result, DH and I have both lost some weight.

So we were talking the other night, and we had this exchange, which I think pretty much sums up the difference between men and women:

Me: You've really lost weight! I like that when I hug you now I feel closer to you.

DH: Yeah, you too! When I stuck my hand down your pants to grab your butt last night, the waistband wasn't so tight anymore.

Scared straight, part two

At 11:30 on Friday night, I woke up with a pain in my upper middle back.

"That ain't good," I thought.

So I went downstairs and did what any right-minded individual would do - I got on the internet and started looking up all the things that could be causing such a pain.

The two likely culprits were my heart or my gall bladder.

I selected b) and chose to wait it out.

After a half hour or so, I started to think, "Well, even if it is my gall bladder, shouldn't I get this checked out?"  Because, well, in the words of my friend L - "Things burst."

So I went upstairs and woke up DH and explained my predicament. 

Then we both came down and pondered our options.

At that point, the pain got MUCH worse, and I said, "Yes. Do it. Call. Call now."

I had remained calm until this point. I kept thinking, "My blood pressure is fine. I'm not cold and clammy, therefore my circulatory system is not being effected, therefore I am fine."

It was at this point, as we waited for the ambulance, that I went cold and clammy. And my arms started tingling, for good measure.

So that's how I spent my Saturday morning - lying on a gurney, and then in a hospital bed, with many wires stuck to me and various fluids being taken from and pumped into me.

But there are many happy endings to this story.

First, it wasn't a heart attack. This became apparent fairly early in the process. Didn't make the incredible pain go away, but still good news.

Second, our neighbour just bought a new truck. So when he heard the ambulance door slam, he thought someone was stealing the truck, and he came outside to check on it. He then stayed with the girls while DH came up to the hospital with me. Have I mentioned how lucky we are to live in this house?

Third, we asked the ambulance not to turn on the sirens so the kids wouldn't wake up. We got home at 6 am, and they were still asleep. We thought about telling them, but really, what good would come of that? "Hey guys, guess what? We were gone for six hours while you slept last night."

Fourth, I'm riding the low-fat/no-fat flavour train! No, that's not really the happy part, but the fact that I am actually blowing the dust off the ol' Canada Food Guide and taking it seriously is obviously a good thing. I've decided that I don't want to eat any meals that I would be embarrassed to admit to an EMT. Like, for example, when I - at age 41 - had to say, "A chicken burger and fries" when they asked me what I'd had for dinner on Friday. I mean, if I could've at least said, "And a salad" or "And an apple for dessert..."

So I'm off to get an ultrasound of my gall bladder on Friday. I don't really know what the next steps are, but I hope they eventually lead to me being able to eat peanut butter again.

Sleeping with one eye open

 Where I once found pictures of puppies and rainbows, I came home yesterday to this lovely drawing.

Her explanation:

"Mommy. It's just a zombie."

They still count though, right?

We're doing this cool thing at work to encourage everyone to be more active.

Everybody got a pedometer, and we're tracking how many steps we take over an eight week period.

Apparently the recommended daily number of steps is 10,000.

I am here to tell you, that's a helluva lot of steps.

But on Saturday, I logged over 14,000!

I was surprised, because I went on a long walk with S on Sunday, but I couldn't really think of anything specific I had done on Saturday to bump my total up like that.

I had done a little Just Dance magic that morning, and then the usual Saturday morning housecleaning blitz...but frankly, I spent the majority of Saturday afternoon working my way through a pile of unread issues of Vanity Fair.

And then I remembered: Saturday evening I suggested we all walk down to McDonald's for McFlurries.

So. Every journey to weight gain begins with a single step.

Scared Straight

I was in a marathon meeting yesterday at work. When it ended at 2:30, I saw that there was a message waiting for me on my work phone.

"Hi Mrs. C, this is _____ from the Children's Aid Society, could you please give me a call?"

I immediately called back, left a message, and then.....I waited......

To say that I was worried would be an understatement. My mind was racing - had I yelled at one of the girls in public lately? (Let he who does not have the worst brought out of him at Wal-Mart cast the first stone.) Did the lunch we sent to camp with K actually qualify as abuse? (Honestly, all she agreed to take was a bun with butter!) Did the alarming number of mosquito bites on the kids' legs show that I am a neglectful parent? (We're a tasty family, what can I say?)

Eventually the woman returned my call, and very slowly said, "Mrs. C...I received a message from a colleague....[Frankly, at this point I thought I might throw up] ... "

It was regarding a VERY random work question. She didn't seem to have much of a sense of humour when I let out a huge sigh of relief. (She should be thankful I didn't burst into tears.)

DH thought I was being silly, but I defy any parent to sit for an hour waiting for someone from CAS to call them back for an unspecified reason and not get a little antsy.

So, now the great experiment begins! Did this scare me straight? Am I going to cheerfully answer every  request, even at 7:10 am? Am I going to smile understandingly when dinner is rejected with an eye roll or a gagging noise? Will I enthusiastically sit through an episode of Austin & Ally?

Probably not.

But you'd better believe I made some promises to God during that long hour, and I intend to keep them.

Father's Day

I'm usually pretty crap at thinking of gifts. But this year, thanks to the interwebs, I found this idea where you do things that help tell the story of how Dad became Dad (or Pop in our family, or DH in this blog).

So first I asked the girls what they thought of when they thought of Pop, and thankfully they didn't say anything like 'farting', so I was able to come up with appropriate gifts (coffee = Tim's Tassimo discs, trains = gift certificate to hobby store, Duck Dynasty = beardo t-shirt).

My contribution included some Strongbow (shades of our courtship days at The Brass Door) and Red Stripe (from our Jamaican honeymoon). I also decided that we should play pool (also from our mis-spent youth) and go out for wings (can you believe I'd never had wings before I went out with him??).

I must say, the day was going pretty freakin' awesomely.

We wrapped up the celebrations with dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings, and I was feeling pretty good about finally pulling off a half-decent Father's Day.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, as I was, BWW is one of those places where they assume that people love sports so much that they don't want to take a break from watching sports while they eat their meals, so they have many, MANY TVs throughout the restaurant showing various sporting events.

As we waited for dessert (seriously, we were so close to making it out of there without incident), a well-meaning employee changed one of the feeds to the Weather Network to track a thunderstorm that was approaching. Oh, and the accompanying tornado warning.

Did I mention that K has some pretty big anxiety issues about storms, and tornadoes in particular?

She was in mid-sentence with me, and she suddenly trailed off, and I knew she was reading the dreaded 'red screen.' There was no way I could distract her, since it was on every other TV surrounding us.

And things took a turn.

First the tears.

Then the questions.

"Is there going to be a tornado?"

"Will it be a big tornado?"

"How bad will the tornado be?"

And finally:

"I don't want to die!!"

So we excused ourselves to the bathroom, where a complete stranger took pity on her and said that she had been through a tornado before. Well-meaning, but not helpful.

Then we came out of the bathroom, to find that her sisters were now looking at me with tears in their eyes, and DH was desperately trying to get us out of the restaurant as quickly as possible.

Then the rain started coming down sideways, and the power went out.

And I thought, "I really don't want to meet my maker in Buffalo Wild Wings."

It was at this point that K threw up.

To their credit, everyone at BWW was lovely and helpful, and by this time the power was back on and they tried to distract everyone with the promise of video games (because there was now no way we could leave, due to the insane weather).

When the weather finally broke, we all gratefully (and still slightly hysterically) headed out to the van. Only to realize that DH and I had each left our windows open a few inches.

So we commenced our very soggy, weepy ride home.

K suggested we pray, we all made plans to sleep in the basement (even though the storm was long gone) and we agreed to never, EVER go back to Buffalo Wild Wings (as if it were somehow to blame).

Oh, and when we got home, S threw up from residual stress (and perhaps the wings).

In retrospect, though, I think it's fitting that Father's Day be celebrated with an evening of tears and honking.

Those have pretty much been the hallmarks of the fatherhood experience so far.

It's good to keep 'em guessing

After a lovely family walk tonight (I only swore once!), I was hugging DH and told him he smelled nice.

He said:

"I'm really enjoying this nicer, kinder version of you. How long is she going to stay?"

(True, I have been in a very nice mood lately.)

I broke the news:

"Sorry...like Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs or Shamrock Shakes, this is a limited-time offer."

More randomness!

S: Oh, that's weird, I don't remember that at all.

K: I do. That's because I have a nice brain.



(Announced to a Mario Kart competitor in a way that was meant to be intimidating, I guess)

K: FYI Mario, I'm one quarter Italian and I know karate!



You know what's great about Canadians? We're not dumb.

Randoms!

What the? Apparently my desk is buried under so much junk, I couldn't find the computer to update this blog!

________________________________________

DH has got the girls so worked up about Mike Duffy, I'm pretty sure they think he's some kind of boogey man who is going to show up at our house to steal $90,000. (And good luck to him if he tried to find that kind of money here!)

In fact, they were telling a school friend about him the other day, and the little girl started to cry.

Just last night, as I was leaving their room, K was saying, "I can't believe all of us - ALL CANADIANS - lost $90,000 to that guy!"

______________________________________

Got my hair cut the other day. When I came up this morning with my hair sort of just half done, the girls whispered in awe, "Oh my gosh, Mummy. You look just like Missy from Duck Dynasty!" It was the reverential way they said it, like this was the glamorous person they could imagine...

______________________________________

Also last night, one of the girls was rolling on the bed, holding her feet up in the air - I think in yoga it's called the baby pose, or something. And she was blissfully singing, "I'm as free as a bird! Farting non-stop!"

Truly, if you were to define freedom in our house, that would probably be it.

Ooof

The other day I got an email about a theatre group holding auditions for The Sound of Music.

I was intrigued, and mentioned it to a friend of mine at rehearsal that night.

"Oh yes? Are you hoping to play the Mother Abbess?"

And this is in no way an attempt to call out my friend, because you know what? She is absolutely right.

I am WAY past the best before date for playing Maria (notwithstanding the fact that I also can't carry a tune in a bucket--it was just the THOUGHT of auditioning that was intriguing).

Or even Frau Schraeder, who has the best line (in the movie) - Why didn't you tell me Max? (What?) To bring my harmonica.

I then went to get my hair done, which afforded me lots of time to stare at my face in the mirror while the colour set.

At which point I realized that the wrinkles in my forehead are now permanent.

And the only way I can get rid of them is to bring my eyebrows lower, which causes the wrinkles in between the two of them to stand out more.

UNLESS I start pulling my hair back in a Jean Kasem ponytail.

DONE and DONE.

Spring training

I know it's the first one of the season, so I shouldn't be too tough on myself...

But my attempt at leg shaving yesterday was woefully inept.

When I felt the breeze whistling through the hair on my knees, I looked down at the sunlight glinting off of the luscious mane I had left there and actually laughed out loud.

It was like there were two blonde chia pets growing on my legs.

Counter-productive

What I was thinking:

Gee, the workout K gets when she goes to karate looks really awesome. All those crunches and push-ups and the kicks. It's a total body workout. They offer adult classes there. I should really look into that.

What I was doing:

Eating a PC Decadent chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich.

My new idol!

The other day I was a Cherryhill mall. This is a weird mall because the demographic of that area is almost entirely college-age students and seniors.

Mostly seniors.

As I was walking to the van, a car cruised by blaring Let's Stay Together by Al Green.

The driver of the car?

A 70+ year old woman.

And I immediately knew that she's who I want to be when I grow up.

8-year-old cynic

I finished filling up the gas tank and got back in the van.

E: Mummy, while you were doing that, I saw a sign that said "Save the world with just one click. And I rolled my eyes."

Me: Oh, why?

E: Mummy, we're at a GAS STATION. Nothing here is going to help save the world.

Yeah! Science, b--ch!

(That title is for my Breaking Bad peeps.)

Driving down Commissioners yesterday, K and I were guessing what the future road project is going to be. I suggested that it could be a sewer replacement project.

K: That would be disgusting. I would hate to work on a sewer pipeline.

Me: Yes, me too. That's why, if people can do that job without gagging, we should be grateful that they're willing to do it. In fact, I remember reading somewhere that men tend to be less affected by bad smells than women.

K: That makes sense. Because Pop farts all the time, and it doesn't seem to bother him at all.

Whose legs are those?

I went clothes shopping yesterday - like, to an actual clothing store, not just picking something up at the grocery store/Costco - and I had the unfortunate experience of seeing my legs in the mirror under what has to be THE WORST change-room lighting I have ever seen.

I literally thought, "What the hell? Whose legs are those?"

I mean, I can accept the fact that they're whale belly white.

Perhaps even the fact that they have come to look more like prosciutto more and more every year.

But when I tried to make myself feel better by flexing my quads, and it made my knees look like they had a Herman Munster-esque furrowed brow...I became convinced that these were not actually my legs.

(Also, this is a pretty good approximation of the face I made.)

So, nice try, Smart Set! I'm onto you and your trick mirrors and horrifying lighting! (I won't even get into the fact that my upper arms looked like the surface of the moon in there.)

I don't want to brag

...but we totally got everyone fed, homework done, and out of the house in time to arrive EARLY for E's first indoor soccer game last night.

Arrived at 6:50, plenty of time to spare.

Unfortunately, it actually started at 6:00.

That's some A-1 parenting right there, people.

Catching Up

First of all, three days and counting for the crazy arm workout. My friend F (who sent me the link) suggested that I should be switching it up and doing the leg work out on alternate days, but that one involves a  chair, and all I have is an office chair, so it keeps swivelling away from me. Onward!

Now I'm just trying to remember any hilarity that may have cropped up in my absence. 

All I can think of is the fact that we were on our way out to a Good Friday service and K was freaking out about a perceived injustice - I think it was the fact that we said 'No, you can't take a book to church with you' - and her freak out culminated with: "This is the WORST. DAY. EVER."

And I had to point out that we were on our way to a GOOD FRIDAY service, and I could think of at least one person who had ever had a worse day than her.

Does this count as a habit now?

Hot damn, that's two days of coming home at lunch and doing this ridiculously hypnotic arm workout.

If I keep this up, I'll have Angela Bassett arms in no time.

Or the arms of those inflatable things that you see at grand openings and liquidation sales.

Holy cow!

I totally fell off the blogging wagon (blagon?) there!

In much the same way as I have fallen off the 'getting up early and working out' wagon. Seriously, I don't even go to bed wearing my workout clothes anymore! (Probably the only ones happy about this development are my boobs, thankful for a few hours of freedom.)

But today I have a renewed sense of purpose.

I realized that I have lots of energy halfway through the day, so I am actually typing this while at home on my lunch hour -- after having done this ridiculously hypnotic arm workout video:

Special thanks to my friend F for giving me the heads up on this one. You just stand around flapping and flailing and twisting and contorting and then suddenly you've done a 10 minute arm workout. Brilliant!

So now I'm heading back to work with a spring in my step and a kink in both my shoulders!

If I can just get out of the house without stopping at the Easter candy bowl first, I will consider this a completely successful mission.

(And probably even if I do stop there. Come on people, we're talking about Cadbury Mini Eggs here. Who among us can resist?)

Lost in translation (again)

Van conversation:

"Remember that time we saw Sammy the Cat get run over by a car?"

"Yeah. But he didn't get squished, the car just went over him."

"Yeah. He didn't die, but then he died later."

DH: "From complications?"

"No, from getting run over by the car."



Palm Sunday conversation:

"So everybody was all happy when Jesus came to town, but then they turned around and crucified him."

"Why did they crucify him?"

My friend, giving a poetic answer: "Well, they were blind...."

E: "Oh! So they didn't know it was him!"

I've cracked the code

By now you've probably picked up on the fact that one of the girls is an insanely picky eater.

The frustrating part (well, one of 742 frustrating parts) is that this is a case of the chickens coming home to roost, as I was a nightmare picky eater when I was a child. (Full disclosure: I'm still a pretty big pain in the butt about it.)

But she is also the same child who has dipped her cheddar goldfish crackers in vanilla icing, and her french fries in cream soda.

And at lunch the other day, she ate a peanut butter and Dorito sandwich.

So I think I've been going about this all wrong.

I've been trying to feed her NON disgusting food combinations.

Fundamental ideological differences

The girls were getting ready for school, and they were excited about Carnaval that day.

They were discussing the possibility of a Bonhomme sighting, when S dropped this bombshell:

"Yeah, but it's just a guy in a suit anyway..."

Her sisters were outraged:

"How could you say that?"

"What do you mean 'a guy in a suit?!?'"

[general sputtering in disbelief]

I stepped in and explained--in a very reasoned and eloquent manner--the concept of different people having different beliefs, and how it is important to let people believe what they want to believe, without forcing your beliefs upon them. [Give me a break, it was 7:45 am.]

Everyone settled down, and I mentally patted myself on the back for defusing the fight AND slipping in a teachable moment.

Until E decided to prove that she had indeed absorbed the lesson:

"Yes, you're right. It's just like me believing that Rudolph doesn't actually exist, he's just a character in a song..."

Her sisters, in unison: "WHAT?!?!"

...And there was no more peace in the valley.

Now I'm lopsided

Remember the super-sexy way Jennifer Beals removed her bra in Flashdance?

Probably a lot more sexy than the way I removed the underwire that has been poking me all day. At the dinner table.

I think it had more of a 'rabbit from a hat' effect than anything else.

There was an awed silence.

Then DH picked it up and was going to explain to the girls what a hard-working piece of wire it was (and, I assume, give it a fitting eulogy), but he was cut short by E shouting:

"Don't TOUCH it!!!"

I hope it likes me

As I lay in bed last night, drinking a glass of wine and eating Bridge Mix, I downloaded an app for Clean Eating magazine.

Either I am completely in denial, or I am trying to impress my iPhone.

Seinfeld was right

Have you ever just completely forgotten how to do something that you've done a thousand times?

I went to see my Massage Therapist the other night.

I disrobed, turned towards the table, and suddenly couldn't figure out how to mount it.

So for some reason I kind of got up on my knees, but then I realized I needed to get my feet up and under me, so then I brought them up, and then I was kind of perched on the table, like a novice surfer.

And I suddenly thought of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss the difference between good naked and bad naked.

This was definitely bad naked.

Forgive me, Enjo, for I have sinned

...It has been 6 or 7 years since my last use of commercial cleaning products.

But when I hunkered down the other day to scrub the bathtub, I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

And then I took a break.

And then I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more.

And then I realized I had only cleaned a spot the size of a grapefruit.

And I thought, but did not say, because I followed E's advice and gave up swearing for Lent, "Eff this."

And I grabbed a very old bottle of Tilex that I'm sure DH bought one time in a huff.

And I cleaned that bathtub in two minutes.

Yes, I feel guilty.

Yes, I realize that if I cleaned the bathtub more than one during each American presidency, it probably wouldn't be such a daunting task.

Yes, I vow to keep on top of it and keep Enjoing away all the soap scum.

My penance will be to sing two verses of This Land Is Your Land and watch an episode of The Nature of Things.

Ha ha ha...no seriously, I'm old

On Saturday when I was at Jazzercise...

(I'll pause here to let the laughter die down.)

...halfway through a kick ball change routine (I wish I were kidding, but I'm not), my knee started hurting.

And then when I got home, after sitting in the car to listen to the end of a story on the CBC (clue #2), I got out of the car, and realized that I have started wearing my purse on my arm like Sophia from Golden Girls.

Can velcro shoes and seated exercises for seniors be far behind?

This will help

This past Sunday, there were moments over the course of the day where I wanted to strangle every person who lives in this house. Spread out over the course of the day, but still...there was a serious case of a-hole-itis going around.

But that night, we put on the Blues Brothers soundtrack and HI DEE HI DEE HI DEE HI'd at the top of our lungs to Minnie The Moocher, and it made everything better.

So here's the link for anyone having a bad day today. Trust me, just press play.

Yeah, I probably should

On the way to a pancake supper last night one of the girls said, "Oh, that means Lent starts tomorrow! What should we give up?"

There was much hmming and hawing about what we could each give up, when E said to me:

"Hey mummy, maybe you should take a crack at the swearing thing again."

I couldn't tell if she was being encouraging or sarcastic.

When did that happen?

I remember being so excited the day I realized I had cleavage.

Just looked down one day and BLAMMO there were boobs and a line between them.

Fast forward to today, when I was getting dressed and realized I have side boob cleavage.

Still an accomplishment (the brownies and wine diet is really paying off) but not nearly as exciting.

We all know the next step in this evolution, though.....the dreaded back butt.

All this talk of cleavage put me in mind of Miss Dolly Parton, so I'll leave you with this AM '70's Gold tune for the day - which could also be my theme song for brownies and wine:

Do me a favour?

I don't ask you for much - except the occasional rosary when I'm driving on the 401  - but I want you to promise me this:

In my golden years, when I am blessed with the good fortune (literally and figuratively) to retire, and I have all 7 days in a week to get things done...

If you ever see me strolling through a grocery store at a leisurely pace on a Saturday or a Sunday, will you please grab me by the shoulders and yell:

"Don't you remember trying to get your groceries on the weekend, and being stopped in every aisle by lookie-loos and people strolling along, and COUPLES who were casually trying to decide which block of cheese to buy? Don't you remember silently screaming at them that you only have the weekends to get sh-t done, and they have 5 other perfectly good days of the week to get their groceries? GO HOME, WOMAN!"

I would really appreciate it. Thanks, guys.

What the?

Last night, I got in my mini-van and went shopping at Wal-Mart.

I then sat in the mini-van as I went through the drive-through at McDonald's.

And I realized that I have become what I hate.

I guess there's nothing left but for me to start voting Conservative.

Hey hey hey

For some reason, this phrase popped into my head this morning.

But it was "Hey HEY hey" which was someone's catch phrase on What's Happening - not to be confused with "Hey hey HEY" which was from Fat Albert.

So naturally I've had this song in my head since then:

But the What's Happening - Fat Albert - Hey hey hey issue highlighted this fact: for a white girl growing up in London, Ontario in the '70's, I sure did learn a lot about black kids 'keepin' their head(s) above water' in major American cities. (If you don't like the What's Happening song, then maybe that will be replaced by the Good Times song.)

Which then made me think that before the internet, there was another way for people of all races, colours and creeds to learn about each other: WUAB Channel 43.

Yes, I just compared channel 43 to the internet.

Yes, that means that somewhere in this equation, Super Host is Bill Gates. Or at least Steve Wozniak.

Could you repeat that, please?

File this under "Sentences I never thought I'd hear in my house" --

"What is that?"

"Broccoli."

"Broccoli? In cheese sauce?"

"Yes. And there's cauliflower in there too. Do you want some?"

"Yes please! Broccoli AND cauliflower in cheese sauce? I'm in veggie heaven!"

Sponsored by Charmin

Scene:

Mrs. C exits her office and crosses the hall to the ladies' room.

Gentleman whose office is next to the ladies' room is arriving for work at the same time.


Mrs. C: Good morning!
Inner Monologue: You're totally going to hear me pee in a minute.

GWOINTTLR: Good morning!
Inner Monologue: I'm totally going to hear you pee in a minute.


End scene.

This has been another "Awkward Moment In Mrs. C's Day."

Victory, delusion, heartbreak

Victory

Sister L came over on Sunday to coach me through making a proper meal. Goulash was on the menu, and it was delicious. Two of the girls even took it for lunch yesterday. And Picky Eater willingly dipped her bread 1 millimetre into the bowl to try it. Trust me, this is a victory.

Delusion

I was putting gas in the car yesterday and noticed that the girl filling up in front of me was wearing skinny jeans tucked into her knee length boots, and the boots were still LOOSE at the top. Like, she could've been wearing snow pants, tucked them in, and there still would've been room.

Me? I've got a callous on my finger from yanking the zipper up over my "muscular calves" as one saleswoman so graciously put it.

But I comforted myself with the fact that Loose Boot Tops was probably freezing due to her 0% body fat, whereas I could probably be lost in the wilderness for days and still be fine. So there.

Heartbreak

While doing Just Dance 4 with the kids last night, I noticed that the reflection of my body on the colour-block screen looked not unlike like Igor when he would dance on the Hilarious House of Frightenstein:

The sins of the mother

I was a very picky eater.

So when one of the girls despairs that there is nothing for her to eat, there is a part of me that sympathizes.

A VERY SMALL part.

But when she engaged me in a heated debate the other day about the fact that Alpha-Getti and Zoodles taste completely different, therefore there was no possible way that she could take Zoodles in her lunch, I thought I was going to lose my mind.

Her closing argument (delivered at top volume):

"They taste different TO ME! And you are just going to have to live with that!"

I'd better watch my step

The girls are doing their first communion this year.

So before that comes first reconciliation (or confession, as we called it back in tha day).

They were talking about reconciliation in class the other day. The girls were pretty pumped about the fact that you don't have to tell anyone what you told the priest, and the priest can't tell anyone what you said, and that when he forgives you, it's like you're a blank slate.

S: "But ____ already sinned two times today!"

Me: "Really?? What did he do?"

S: "Well, first during prayers, he just talked about ninjas the whole time. And then later, when I said I didn't want to do something, he called me an old grandma."

We'd better talk about tightening up the criteria a bit, or this kid's going to have a full rolodex file on me...

No biggie...

...I just, you know, drove on the 401 again. In yucky, slushy snow. And didn't die. Whatevs.

The reason for this death-defying feat was a brunch date with two dear friends--A (the person behind my first 401 expedition) and L (a former roommate, along with A).

The best part was the fact that we are slowly morphing into the old ladies we envisioned ourselves to be--sitting on the porch, yelling at kids. The only problem is, we're just not ready to admit that we're old yet.

We kept feeling warm, but would only admit that we suddenly felt "hot" in a "flash"...this was in no way to be confused with a hot flash.

We talked about retirement savings.

And we spent an inordinate amount of time discussing Twitter, and how we just don't 'get it.'

At this rate, we'll end up like these gals eventually. Hopefully. (NSFW)

I give up...but not really

My most recent attempt at Sunday dinner actually reduced me to tears.

Honest-to-goodness shoulder-shaking sobs.

Excuse-myself-from-the-table bawling.

Everyone very gingerly coaxed me back to the table, and enthusiastically told me how great it was. (Liars.)

I resolved at that moment to officially let go of the notion of the Sunday dinner. 

"I give up," I said.

"I hate cooking. I am not good at it. I am clearly not able to produce anything more difficult than chicken fingers and fries," I said. 

I felt better. Lighter. Like a weight had been lifted.

The next day the girls and I went to Costco and - my hand to God - I bought a cookbook.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?