HAPPIER TIMES


The death of Meap.

Grace's fish died over the weekend. It was suicide. We were out of town, my brother was tasked with coming to feed the fish, and it was he who discovered the body of Meap just outside the aquarium. The aquarium does have a lid on it, but I suspect Grace forget to close it before we left. Meap threw himself out of his home. Maybe it wasn't suicide - maybe he was looking for adventure (this is what I told Grace ).

Now Meap was a crazy mother f*%&er. He would bash his body around the tank, against his walls, and glare at poor Ariel (Edie's fish, in the aquarium beside him). Luckily Ariel is much like Edie, oblivious to threats and stare-downs, happy to swim around and catch glimpses of her reflection.

When we picked up Grace from her grandparents, I walked her to the gate to tell her the news. She howled noooooo! and started to cry. When coached to the van, the DS was left untouched and books unread. It broke my heart to look to the back of the van and see her tear streaked face, processing the loss of her fish. I crawled to the back of the van (ew) and sat between her and Edie, arm wrapped around Grace, trying to console.

This is Grace's first experience with death. We didn't sugar coat it, it's all part of life. We did offer to buy a new one, to which she said yes, but not for another week, as she wants to think about Meap.

Meap is currently in our freezer, awaiting his final fate. There is talk about a proper funeral, but because it is the haunting season, Grace fears his spirit may come and haunt her from the garden. There was also talk of a good old fashioned flushing, but that seems so undignified for the Mighty Meap Who Took a Leap. There is also talk of putting him under the microscope - a pretty good indication to me that the mourning session is almost complete.

Small things.

My house is like any other house with kids I'm sure. I puncture my feet on Lego that is left lying around, the sight of Polly Pocket shoes lying on the ground makes me twitch a little and while I have made the girls' dirty laundry hamper entirely accessible, welcoming and even a little fun, I still find dirty socks rolled up like donuts (one was stuck on a door handle the other day - yuck!) and underwear strewn on the ground. I nag constantly for the girls to pick up after themselves, and cackle when I hear their reaction down the hall to me putting all their dirty underwear on their pillows (yes I'm evil). I put more pressure on Grace to keep things tidy because she's older and should be helping out more. Edie I pressure, but pulling her down from whatever cloud she is visiting is too damn difficult sometimes.

The battles are not epic, but I do feel a little like Cinderella at times cleaning up after everyone all the time, with no respect or a thanks Mom youarenice comment. I also snap about once a month a show them a little crazy and get them to clean and put away their "treasures" (oh yes, everything is a "treasure", god forbid you suggest throwing it out or giving it away).

The other morning I had to pick up my boss in my van. Now, my van is a petrie dish. I don't go beyond the front seats. There is likely primordial ooze bubbling in the back seats somewhere. Gollum would be perfectly at home in one of the two rows reserved for the 8 and under crowd - I wouldn't be surprised if I turned around and saw him sitting on a booster seat playing DS. There is a garbage bag provided to them to dispose of their debris, but to rub salt in the wound, I often find wrappers on the floor, a quarter inch from the provided bag. I just don't look anymore to save me from having a complete aneuryism.

The day I was picking up my boss though, I was dropping the girls off at school first. Thinking about the boss man's comfort in my mini-van I took a quick look in the back and am pretty sure I dropped a big old f-bomb in reaction to the mess back there. Grace asked what was wrong and I not so calmly told her I was picking up my boss in 15 minutes and the state of the van could make him question the hygiene of our family. Do you know what that kid did? She calmly began cleaning the van, quietly placing all the garbage in the bag, not even complaining that she was picking up her sister's trash. It was tidy within five minutes. The only thing left to pick up was my jaw off the floor.

I love it when they surprise you like that.

I had a terrible dream last night. I dreamt that Grace and I had a horrible fight. It was a balls out yelling and screaming match, and she threatened to run away from home. I reacted by yelling fine! You do that! She was her real age in my dream, 8 years old. She had on her pink sparkly sneakers, shorts and the little pageboy cap she has been favouring lately. I don't know what the fight was about, but it was horrible, and in my dream I rationalized my horrible reaction by saying to myself she'll turn around and come home in no time. Then it became night time in my dream, and still no sign of Grace. And a snowstorm was suddenly whipped up. I felt physically sick to my stomach in my dream. I drove around the neighbourhood, in the blizzard, looking for her. Knocking on friends' doors, asking them if they had seen her. I can't even explain the anxiety I was feeling, it was off the charts. I wanted to wake from my dream so badly, I was losing my mind but couldn't wake up. In my dream I shakily called 911, to officially report her missing, reeling with different realities that could happen to lost 8 year old girls, in shorts and sneakers, in a snow storm. I wanted to wake up so badly from this nightmare but just couldn't. And then, a little voice called out to me - "Mommy"? and again, more insistent "Mama"? I searched for her frantically in my dream, not able to find where the voice was coming from. I then realized the little voice was actually waking me from my night terror. My Grace was calling for me from her room down the hall. She pulled me from my nightmare. And she only wanted to say hi and have a cuddle.

I believe our brains work on levels that we don't understand. And last night I truly believe that somehow, Grace, in her sleep, sensed I was suffering in my own slumber and she came to my rescue.

Do you think I'm crazy?

Why I believe in bribing....


In my line of work, I have been sent on training to have the notion of bribing=bad drilled through my head. I have had to sit through hours of CPAC hearings with toothpicks propping my eyes open so I understand the evils of bribing a-la Clockwork Orange (kidding, but good visual, right?)

Just because in my professional life I don't do bribery, it doesn't mean I can't participate in my personal life .

Enter one sleep deprived Meanie and her cranky husband Mr. Meanie. Since mid-summer we have been suffering the late night calls of Grace, scared of shadows, scared of ghosts, scared of dust particles and scared of air molecules. I won't bore you more details, if really interested, just read down, I think it has been the subject matter of every second blog post.

Enter one tooth challenged Edie. She has lost two baby teeth now and a big one is growing in. And, at the mature age of 5, she is Queen of the Soothers, still taking one at bed time to fall asleep.

Severely sleep deprived, and with the fear of having a snaggle toothed daughter with expensive dental bills, we decided to put an end to some of the insanity in our household. Did we do this by talking calmly, lovingly and reassuringly to our charges? Nay. Did we do this with charts and statistics supporting our arguments for this nonsense to cease and desist? Nope.

All it took was a trip to our neighbours. Grace's dear little friend has recently acquired a Beta fish. The girls covet this fish. They want it. So. Bad. See where this is going? It's this easy folks. You want a Beta fish girls? Give me seven nights. Seven nights of no waking us up. Seven nights of no soothers. You eff up and we go back to square one, start all over again.

Heh heh. We're going to Billings Bridge tonight to get Grace's fish. Edie has three days left for her reward. I feel remarkably rested and so okay with my bribing ways.

I should write a book.

I done got beat with a boring stick!

Hey, what happened? I feel like with back to school I suddenly matured overnight. I'm 37, but for the most part have never really behaved my age. I like to giggle, have been accused of being flighty, and definitely like to have a good time that usually involves ending up dancing somewhere, sometimes all by myself, but always with a smile on my face. I used to love reading celebrity gossip, fashion magazine, uploading my face on to hair style websites to see what I would like. I used to troll Facebook nightly and spy on everyone's day. I binged regularly on junk food, would get really really hyper, then run around in circles and crash. I would stay up too late watching t.v., then wake up way too early to drag myself to work. And at work I was always happy to jump into any conversation, trade a witty comment with anyone, anything to get up from my desk.

What changed? Well, I've been going to bed at a decent hour, waking at a decent hour, exercising, eating really REALLY well, I don't turn the tv on at night, I am losing touch with celebrity (who are Blake Lively and Chace Crawford?) and I merely glimpse at Facebook, and at work my head is down, my fingers type and I rarely waste a minute of time anymore. And when I do get up from my desk it is to do those stretches that you see old people doing because my back and shoulders hurt a little. I am uber organized, prioritizing things and getting things done. I feel great, am losing a bit of the mommy tummy I have always fought with and am rested and content.

One problem, I feel so status quo and boring. It feels really strange being mature, I feel like I should have grown up a long time ago, and somehow just missed the day I was supposed to switch from immature to mature.

Will they take away my Social Distortion license plate for my conforming ways?

Warning, this blog may become really, really dull with my new found maturity.

Oh, but to liven things up I am going to pull a plane tomorrow and then go to a 40th b.d. party in Montreal - I hope end up on the dance floor!

Ahhhh memories.....

Grace's week before school anxiety kicked in last week, which results in a nightly wake up call at two a.m. for us. She calls me into her room to ask for Jo (why wake up only one parent when she can wake up two of them?) We've pretty much accepted this little glitch in Grace's system - the glitch being that whenever there is big change on the horizon, or an uber-exciting even tcoming up (think Hallowe'en, Christmas) there will be a sleep disruption.

She is entering grade 3. Apparently this is a killer year for kids, they have some provincial testing that they have to go through and from what I gather, the teacher breathes fire on them to help them prepare for this big important test and all the fun of being a grade 3 kid is incinerated.

A Facebook thread got me thinking the other day when a couple of childhood friends made comments about our Grade 3 experiences. I don't think we had standardized testing then, but I do remember it being the worst year of my life *polish drama queen crown now*.

Allow me to paint a picture of myself for you, at the tender age of 7-ish. I had legs up to my armpits, a bowl cut that resembled a pyramid because my hair is so thick, madly spaced teeth and the early onset of acne. Cute, right? I also favoured rugby pants with a wildly patterned shirts made of material you might be able to wrap food in if you had to. And so, you might be surprised that I was not the reigning queen of popularity.

Our teacher that year, Mme Bunston, had that wonderful ability (that all good, solid teachers should have) to pick favourites in her class. She saved her nicest, most serene and loving smiles for the prettiest, smartest girls. I craved her attention so badly but she could hardly hide her disdain for me. Like the abused in an abusive relationship, I worked hard at my school work, tried to tame my hair with bad bows and crooked barrettes and emulate the pretty girls as much as possible. All these efforts and I never received a word of praise or one of her beatific smiles that she reserved for her angels. My little 7 year feelings were pummelled on a daily basis by this woman in her simple act of ignoring.

One day Mme Bunston stood in front of the class with a box of chocolates. You know those Laura Secord chocolates, the mint kind? Half are brown and the other green. Soooo good. Anyhooo, she stood in front of the squirming class and asked in her most charming voice, who would like a chocolate? Hands shot up in the air, reaching for heights never before attained. My own hand reached for the speckled square tiles on the ceiling. And miracle of miracles, she called my name. Kids swung around in their chairs, and gave me that look that all kids want to be on the receiving end of - the look of envy. I made my way to front of the class, forgiving Mme Bunston of all her sins, seeing a future of popularity, flat hair and clear skin. She held out the box of chocolates and told me to choose one. I reached for a green, my favourite. She asked me what I should say and I sweetly said merci Mme Bunston. I brought the chocolate to my lips, opened my mouth and bit down.....I bit down on a hard, plastic pretend candy. Mme Bunston exploded into laughter telling the class that the chocolates were fake. The class erupted into laughter as well. The joke went on for what seemed to be an eternity, I felt shamed and humiliated and quickly put back into my place.

From that day forward I didn't give a rat's ass what Mme Bunston thought of me, I had no desire to get on her good side. Even at age 7-ish, I knew teachers shouldn't dick around little kids like that.

Sigh, I hope Grace has a nice teacher this year.

*names have not been changed in this story because she was really really mean.

Wow, that was a big bloggy break, wasn't it?

I'm rested now after three weeks off. It was the best three weeks of my
life. That may be a slight exaggeration, or maybe not, I'll have to think
about that.
Anyhoooo, here it is in a nutshell:

1) We camped, we jumped in the waves, we slept on squishy air mattresses,
we made sand castles. I fearfully trekked to the outdoor bathrooms at the
campsite in the middle of the night to go pee (the simple solution to this
would be to stop drinking after dinner, but, I was just having so much
fun!) We met up with friends in New Hampshire and met up with family in
Massachusetts. We discovered North Conway outlet shopping, and
re-discovered the girls aversion to shopping. I confirmed that I still
don't like lobster. I touched everything at Target and the Liquor Depot.
I spent too much time in potato chip aisles (soo many fun flavours in the
U.S.). We touched starfish at the Boston Aquarium and watched sharks and
penguins get fed. We waited an hour and a half at the border and prayed
thanks to the makers of DS.

2) With us back home the 2nd week and Jo back to work, the girls and I swam
everyday, I hosted (too many) playdates, organized stuff, made messes,
cleaned up messes, popped the girls in day care for a 1/2 day so I could
have a day to myself (ahhhh).

3) My third and final week my bestie flew into town and we immediately
donned appropriate attire and then wisely cabbed over to Barrymore's for 80's Night (we hit the dance floor at 9:45 and closed the place at 2:00). It wasn't pretty
the next day as I had to replace my side ponytail with my Mom hat and be
all mom-like with a terrible hangover. We did fun kid-things during the
day (Saunders Farm, Science and Tech, Mooney's Bay, Ramona and Beezus,
Marmaduke y'know, the usual) and fun things at night (old-girls dinner,
beers at the Prescott, Absolut Comedy, backyard bbq's).

Last night we put the girls to bed at a reasonable hour, knowing today we
would be back to the old grind. Jo and I flopped into bed at 9:45. When I
closed my eyes, welcoming the sweet mistress Sleep to take me, I
immediately started thinking about work and stayed awake until about
midnight. Argh! Oh well, it was a great vacation and I am so grateful at
how much it kicked ass this summer.

I don't remember when it happened, but I started resenting, instead of loving. Was I eleven when it started? Or earlier? I remember revelling in walking over to my mom, after dinner, and having her rest her chin on my head. It made me feel so special, so loved. Not saying anything, just listening to the adult chatter over coffee, feeling like I was being included in something special while I lingered there. Later, she would call me over and I would reluctantly go, eyes rolling, but still going over - she would have to strain her neck a little bit to rest her chin on my head. And eventually the little ritual stopped. I grew too tall for her to rest her chin. I also grew sullen, resentful, rude and awful. The first three years of my teen years were intense, dramatic and sad. I was a bundle of insecurities with a dash of depression and I lashed out against the ones who loved me most. There was bile in my voice when I spoke to them and I did everything I could to infuriate them, alienate them, mock them and make them feel sub-human. That they put up with it is incredible. And that they decided to no longer put up with it and expel me from their home is also incredible, but ultimately what saved me from myself. My departure from home for that chunk of time returned me to them no longer full of hate and anger. A little vulnerable, a little bruised, but no longer lashing out against them.

I'm thinking about this today after getting off the phone with my parents, who are meeting us on our camping trip. We are going to the same destination that they used to take us every second year when we were kids. Those vacations where Dad didn't shave everyday and we played Scrabble at night (they still tell me that I used to beat them at Scrabble, ahhh the pride of parents). Everyone is excited to relive memories and create new ones with our kids. Sometimes it knocks my breath out thinking about those years that almost destroyed us and to think about where we are now.

My facebook status update today.....help!

2 things, looonnnngggg car ride coming up:
1) I'm looking for recommendations for DS games that don't require any reading;
2) Ottawa friends, looking to buy used DS games suitable for Grace/Edie

Grateful for anything you can throw at me!

Jo and I have camped. We've camped a lot, Jo and I. The two of us have greatly enjoyed camping. We make a great couple at camping. A flawless pair, a real dynamic duo. And we are going to do it again. But with two little edits to our past experiences. Two little edits named Grace and Edie.

Jo and I were certainly the types who stated that having babies would not prevent us from our adventures. Once pregnant, we bought one of those fancy backpacks you stick your babe in and planned on lacing up the hiking shoes. Then the kids actually came. And I became a neurotic scheduler. Naps and bedtime were to take place at a certain time in one's own crib/bed. And I became neurotic about a lot of other things (I can sterilized anything with one hand strapped behind my back and closed eyes). And I became the queen of the what-ifs (what if they cry/get sick//lost/bitten/lifted by hawks/adopted by wolves/swallowed by the earth or god forbid GET THROWN OFF THEIR SCHEDULE and so we never went.

Well, I'm happy to say that the post-partum fog lifted years ago (I don't even use hand sanitizer anymore and bedtime is merely a suggestion in the summer months), but a series of events have prevented us from taking camping trips.

This summer we are heading off. I'm excited. I'm also a little apprehensive for a few reasons, but am trying not to dwell on them. For example, for she-who-likes-to-be-swathed-in-velvet, how will she react to the humble sleeping bag? And for she-who-spikes-a-fever-upon-stubbing-her-toe, how will she navigate the tree-stump laden campsites? And of course Jo and I are a little softer now and a little spoiled; how will we-who-depend-on-the-coffee-maker-with-a-timer deal with making coffee ourselves over the little coleman stove (boil mother-effer!)? And what the eff do you cook for a family of 4 on a camping trip? Variations on the hot dog? I suppose we will learn all these things as we go along. If you have any tips though please pass them along!

*Oh, this is very important. We have borrowed a DS for Edie, who does not yet read. Do you have any game suggestions that don't require reading?
**the "effing" as opposed to the tradition f*%&ing is for Grace's benefit. She just caught on that I keep a blog.

Last night was peaceful, relaxing, and found me draped languoriously (ummm, it's a word, okay spell check?) on my new Couch (if you follow me on facebook, you know why the Couch deserves a capital C!) watching a documentary on the Jersey Shore (ahem).

A far cry from last Sunday.

Last Sunday, I gave Jo the kitchen pass to go to Bluesfest (I used up my pass on Joan Jett and Hole......aweeeesommme!)
I put Grace and a complaining Edie to bed. This is the problem with a child who cries wolf 24-7, complaints for her at bedtime is akin to me pouring a glass of wine at dinner. It just happens.

Anyhooo, once asleep, Edie settled for about an hour or so, and then she woke up. And her complaints were minor no more, they were positively off the charts. The poor thing was banging her head on wall, scratching herself here there and everywhere, and crying "I can't take it anymore!" (Can you imagine? These words from a 5 year old? I thought this stream of consciousness was reserved for 37 year old public servants). Now normally Edie is settled with some intense cuddling and crooning, but not that night. I was helpless. I let it go on for a little over an hour before I called Jo away from his revelry and asked him to come home (this has only happened once before, that I have called him home, on an equally dramatic night).

I ended up going to CHEO at about 1:30 in the morning, and the drive there was agonizing, with her screaming in the back, and me with two hands on the wheel trying to keep it together, trying not to cry. Once there, the bright shiny lights of CHEO and attentions of medical staff did much to distract, comfort, and if possible, energize her. The entire wait there she didn't cry, but she did pretty much ask me every question known to mankind about every possible subject. It's really hard to explain genetics to a five year old at 3 in the morning. Just sayin.

We were seen by a lovely doctor, who did not reassure me at all when he took a look at her, chewed on his pen, said hmmmm, and left the room saying he would be back in 5 minutes (we all know what 5 minutes is in CHEO-land, right?) Actually, it wasn't that bad. He did return with another doctor, who assessed Edie and said it could be this, it could be that, or maybe it could be something completely different. He wrote me a prescription for a very expensive medication, that is very powerful, that may or may not help, and whatever you do discontinue use after 5 days.

Okay.

We returned home in the wee hours of the morning, both collapsing with exhaustion. When Grace woke the next morning (and god bless the child who sleeps through all this drama and is genuinely shocked that Edie and I left the house, returned and she never had an inkling of it). Grace then got out her hot lamp, directed it at me and put me through the inquisition all the while inspecting Edie's war wounds and compiling information to assess the situation at hand (hmmm, maybe she'll be a doctor, or work for CSIS questioning questionables).

I then made an appointment to see the family doctor, realizing I wasn't completely satisfied with CHEO's, or Grace's prognosis. This visit wasn't much better, but I did get the okay to dole out some over the counter meds to help with the discomfort. That night was slightly less dramatic, but still, this is Edie, it did involve some Oscar worthy moments.

Okay, so three doctors. No answers.

My mom and dad stopped by the following day to drop of my laundry (a blog post for another day). My dad, who is really smart, took one look and said looks like chicken pox. My mom, who is also super smart concurred. They both have medical backgrounds, so they weren't just making shit up.

This made sense to me! Insanely itchy? Check. Unsightly? Check. Other symptoms? Check. It isn't confirmed by anyone, and I still want to follow-up with a specialist, but man, if this is chicken pox, and not one of three doctors we saw were able to identify it, I'm going to be genuinely freaked out with the doctors I did see.

So, send us some healthy vibes. Oh, and she didn't touch Giant Hog Weed.

And now a short commercial break....

Getting married? Having a baby? Throwing a party? Just like pretty paper, ribbon and fun cards? (and all the things you can do with it)? Check out my brother's store, Urbanfête , which he opened with his friend Christine back in May. This is a unique little shop, something fresh that Ottawa hasn't seen until now. It reminds me of strolling through SoHo and happening upon a funky little shop with lots of little surprises tucked in all the corners. Kevin and Christine will welcome you with friendly smiles and walk you through the invite process or leave you to pick that perfect card for someone.

You also have to check out their paper - some of these pieces are works of art in themselves and are begging to be framed. I have big plans for the girls' bedrooms with some of the quirky owl paper.

So, you've done Westboro, you've done the Glebe, why not go for a stroll down Rideau Street to Urbanfête, tell them Meanie sent you! After your visit, you can either hit up Frenchies for a Famous Burger or to Culinary Conspiracy which is supposed to be a ridiculously good place for some fine food on the go. If you want to sit for a meal, the Sunflower Cafe sounds like another delightful, unique dining experience.

Their store was recently written up on the apt613 blog - where they write much better than I do. Read all about it there :)


urbanfête | 517 Rideau Street, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1N 5Z5 | 613-422-4537
Tuesday to Friday: 10 am to 6 pm, Saturday 10 am to 5 pm

Because you didn't ask......

I am feeling better, thank you! So wrong on so many levels. And my throat still kinda hurts but I am ignoring it (if I ignore my children they eventually go away, why should a sore throat be any different?) What a strange summer cold. Speaking of summer.....

The weather is glorious and I give the mighty third finger to those of you who are complaining about it. This is how summer should be. Speaking of hot.......

Our pool is clear and awesome. Do you know anyone who designs floating dinner trays? Cause it would be really convenient if we didn't have to get out of the pool to eat. Speaking of eating.....

Edie is driving me bananas with her finicky eating these days. She resists her meal then after we all done she then wants her plate back, wants be to feed her like a baby, etc etc. I hate dealing with food with the kids because I never know what the "right" message is to be sending. Clear the plate/don't clear the plate; eat some and get dessert; try something new or not...ugh. I don't want kids who end up with eating disorders because of something we did as parents that messed them up. Speaking of eating disorders.....

I clearly don't have one because I was walking the other day and felt something odd. I realize it was my thighs rubbing against each other. I am not cricket. My legs should not be rubbing together as a means of communication. I am a 37 year old woman who needs to resolve this stat! Speaking of being 37......

I am slathering myself in 50 spf these days in a fruitless effort to reverse sun damage from my mis-spent youth. Am seriously considering bringing my face into the shop for some maintenance. Have you contemplated this yet? Be honest! Speaking of being honest....

I am feeling less than inspired with the olde blog these days. Be honest, should I publish random shit or wait until inspiration hits and hit ya with doozy now an then? Speaking of blogging.....

I had every intention of attending BOLO this year (look it up you non-blog geeks) but something better came up. Seriously. A date with my dad (see item 4) and sister to go see the Gypsy Kings. For all those going, have fun!

A few reasons why summer colds suck by Beamie (that’s how you say Meanie with a cold)

-No one really believes you can be sick when it is so beautiful outside. Especially the 8-and-under-crowd who just want you to run and play tag with them.

-The pool is finally open, my husband has worked his ass off cleaning it, wrapping himself, the children and random neighbourhood animals in tinfoil to attract rays of sunshine, forcing them to bob in the pool in order to heat it up to an agreeable temperature for me and I don’t want to go in because I have the Sicks.*

-Everyone says it must be allergies. I have intimate knowledge of my body people. I know the difference between an allergy sneeze (achew!-achew!) and a cold sneeze (ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-fuck-meeeeeee-chooooo-that-hurt!)

-The four walls between I which I work has woman going through menopausal hot flashes draped in fur coats, who refuses to take off her fur coats, controlling the air conditioner and insists on keeping the temperature at sub-arctic temperatures so she can remain draped in her furs and not break a sweat.**

-Going home sick in the summer sucks. It is so much better being sick on the couch in the winter, wrapped in blankets, watching Pretty in Pink for the bazillionth time while fat snowflakes fall from the sky. It’s nice and cosy and comforting. It just feels depressing when it is beautiful outside and you can’t see your t.v. due to the glare of the sun and because your windows are open you can hear people laughing outside having un-sick fun.

-ough cough. That’s why summer colds suck. Sniff.

*Jo didn’t really do this but I like the visual
**Actually, a guy named Dave controls our temperature but he just ignores my calls pleading with him to turn down (or up?) the AC so I am forced to create an unsavoury character for him. That’s what happens when you cross me.

I read certain blogs faithfully. They are bookmarked as my favourite, I tend to visit them daily to see if they have been updated, and sometimes comment (not my strength). There are about 10 of these blogs – I rarely stray. I will continue to remain faithful to them, but I would like to add a few more to my list.

I have two questions for you – if blogs began to operate on a cost-recovery basis, would you pay to read? And if so, which blogs would you shell out to continue reading?

Did I mention the Sadness that was my and Jo’s last wedding anniversary? On May 21 we (should have) celebrated 11 years of wedded bliss. Instead, I completely forgot about it. Jo remembered around 11 a.m. the blessed event that is our union and called me at work, wished me a Happy Anniversary, to which I said ditto, and then the monkey started turning the crank in my back so I would keep on typing my Very Important Document, and that was that.

We will never be accused of being Ottawa’s most Romantic Couple (no no, we’ll save that for the couple on my bus route who practically sit on each other and stare miserably at the world, as if the rest of us can’t understand their love – chill Romeo and Juliet, you’ll procreate one day and get desk jobs and forget about each other soon enough). However, we can be forgiven for forgetting to celebrate the miracle of Us. We had booked a weekend in the not so distant future to celebrate our anniversary. A weekend where the stars aligned and the heaven’s opened and my in-laws proclaimed “and on this weekend we shall take your spawn and feed them sugary treats and let them stay up too late and take over our quiet lives”. A weekend where we will eat and sleep to our hearts content (hmmmm, I feel like I’m forgetting something here).

This is where I need your help. Our destination is Kingston. I don’t know much about this town, do you? What do you recommend? Shops? Restaurants? Galleries?

(If you recommend Chuck E Cheese I’ll bitch slap you).

Money.

I hate money. I hate talking about it, I hate stressing about it, I hate carrying it on me, I hate not having it on me.

I sometimes wish we were like the Swiss Family Robinson, living in tree forts and wearing the clothes we were ship-wrecked in (as long I was ship-wrecked wearing something fab with amazing shoes on and my Uggs in my oversized purse, for the times I want to be cozy on our little island and I want Jo to be ship-wrecked in his poker shirt and Lucky jeans because that is what he looks best in). I digress.

I need to talk about groceries, because I am in my own little world and have no idea what is a normal amount to be spending on groceries for a family of 4 per week. I am a pretty responsible menu planner, with lunches and dinners written out for the week. I also am on the organic band wagon for certain items, but had to fall off said-wagon for other items because it was just getting too pricey for me. I’m a store-hopper, if there is a particularly good deal at one store I’ll hit it in addition to my regular haunts.

So, what does it cost to fuel Meanie’s household for a week? This past Friday I spent a total of $122.58 – this included groceries and my own special grape juices with fancy names like Malbec and Pinot Grigio. This was a good week – usually it is upwards of $150 if I hit a Costco, or if Joe Fresh has a stooopid-cute bathing suit that I just have to get Edie or Grace (Gah! Have you seem of their stuff? Your heart is made of dark things if you don’t just swoon over some of their stock).

Is this normal? Am I doing well or am I hurtling my wee family of four into debt with my free-spending ways?

The Glue
(Dedicated to Marla, Mara and Mindy (anonymity is important to me – haha).

Last night I went out for dinner with three fabulous women, all three of whom have been friends for a long time. I felt a little bit like we were the cast from Sex and the City, sitting at a fabulous restaurant, wearing fabulous clothes, eating tapas, drinking wine and dishing about every topic you can imagine. I think we were all even having good hair days.

I thought I had made all the friends I needed to make in life, and was quite content to rely on my small circle of friends for my shits and giggles and everything else life throws at me. Then four years ago I moved. I only moved one neighbourhood over, but it was still a substantial move away from direct friends and neighbours. And having young kids, the first thing you do is scope out the hood for other young families, hoping you will like the parents, and your kids will like their kids and that nobody is too weird.

This is where Marla comes in. If memory serves me correctly, I seem to recall that another friend of mine from the old neighbourhood, worried about me settling in the hood, saw Marla walking with her kids down my street. The old friend pretty much accosted Marla, and said that her and I would (not should) become friends. And we did. And our girls and her son became friends. And while Marla intimidates me with her homemade preserves, flawlessly decorated Easter cakes and perfectly behaved children, oh, and her church going, she also hosts some pretty kick-ass shakers (seriously, grown men passed out on her front lawn, people taking their tops off, people rubbing lotion on each other, all while she is serving Coquilles St.Jacques with a perfectly paired wine and a smile on her face). She also hosts play dates, didn’t outwardly judge me when my youngest pooped on her (white) carpet and she lets my whole family swim in her pool when ours is too cold. She rocks. And she introduced me Mara and Mindy. These ladies I do not know as well but have been getting to know them over the past year. As soon as I met them I knew I liked them. Mindy is one of the sweetest, most generous spirits I have encountered, with love for celebrity gossip and movies, just like me. And Mara I also instantly liked for her biting sarcasm and wit, but also for her ability to balance her salt with a little sugar.

At dinner last night we were talking about girlie getaways together, scheduling in dinner parties and filling up our summer calendars. Reflecting on that evening, I am thinking how lucky am I. To be embraced by this group of gals, who really have no need for a new friend and have their own history together. It made me think that not many people would do that, welcome an outsider into their group of friends, be it because they are too busy or don’t want to take the time to invest in getting to know someone new. I’m so glad Marla the Glue (you have to say that with a Marlon Brando voice a-la Godfather) invited me into her circle of friends (even though I don’t own Coach anything). Thanks ladies – you and what you have is pretty special.

Jo has made new golf buddies (Balls! Why did I encourage him to expand his social network?) and last Saturday he was committed to these new friends for 9 hours (I started counting after 6 hours had passed).

Now I have a pretty healthy social life – no complaints in that department. But my social life takes me on outings that last 2, 3 hours tops. Then I return to the loving arms of my husband and freshly scrubbed cherubs asleep in their beds. Whooooops, that’s the fantasy version. So what if the reality is that I come home to a husband basked in the blue glow of the television and children, who are thankfully asleep, but caked with summer substance (that interesting combination of melted freezies, sand, sunscreen and OFF!) It’s still all good because I have ducked domestic duties for a couple of hours and that always leaves me feeling refreshed

But back to this golf thing. And I remember my dad doing this two. Saturday, one of the two days of the weekend, some men-folk leave the marital home and swing their club around (the metal one sillies) for MINIMUM six hours. If I complain, Jo says I’m welcome to do the same. But tell me gentle reader, what activity would take me out of the home for 6-9 hours? I certainly don’t need to do this every weekend, contrary to popular belief I enjoy spending time with Grace and Edie, but I would like to have something in my back pocket, to pull out now and then if I feel like a substantial escape.

Suggestions?

Project Management

Last weekend, I pulled together a team, carefully picked to exploit the current economic market. I had to be ruthless in my decision, knowing that the wrong personality and ill-suited skill set could quash any plans of financial success.

I found the players in my own house.

Edie was chosen for her eyelashes, her smile, and willingness to sit, focused on the task at hand for hours at a time (as long as something sparkly was available to play with).

Grace was chosen for her athleticism (to troll for customers) ability to tell the difference between a quarter, a dime and a nickel, and her ability to spell.

Me? I was chosen for my talent at making the best darn lemonade on the block.

My team made $4.50. These girls were ruthless and didn’t give it away, even to the thirstiest. They weren’t even distracted by the topless, adorable college (god I hope they were at least college age) boys who stopped by via roller blades to sample their wares.

There was barely enough left over for gin of the Project Lead (moi) that night.

I see a bright future ahead of these young ladies.