Addiction runs in the family. I’m always observing the girls, to see if there is any sign of early addictions or addictive behaviour. A little paranoid at the ages of 3 ½ and 6 ½, but what the hell, you can never be too careful.

Every Fall I face my problem with cigarettes. I find myself craving a cigarette. Something about the cool crisp air makes me crave a long, deep haul off of a ciggie. Maybe I’ll give in, maybe I won’t, that’s my issue to work out.

Fall has also forced me to face Grace’s addiction. Thank goodness it’s seasonal, and I can live in denial for 6 months of the year. But, this Fall I am facing the fact that I am an enabler of Grace’s addiction. It is me who supports her habit, has me scraping the bottom of my purse for change, usually a hit is a about $3.99 or so.

Grace has a serious addiction to (c’mon Meanie, the first step is to accept the problem) she’s addicted to (oh God this is so hard) she is addicted to…..VELVET! There, I’ve said it! My little girl likes to be swathed in velvet, head to toe, any colour, any pattern. It’s gotten so bad that my dealer has become Value Village, the bastard, who restocks his shelves every day with new velvet. Prettier velvet, softer velvet, velvet-ier velvet. And I buy it for her dammit, I buy it again and again.

And now it’s affecting the rest of the family. I caught Edie rubbing Grace’s velvet encased leg the other day with a glazed look in her eye and she is now refusing jeans because they are not soft enough. And Jo? Well, I know he is one who would not complain if the velvet leisure suit made a come back.

And so, do I pull my family out of this disease or just ride it out until next May, when we can breathe a sigh of relief that the Velvet season is over?

I’m sorry, I’m dumb.

To the poor woman at the park the other day, I must apologize for making you so insecure about your 3 ½ year old. She is lovely and she is right on track and you shouldn’t be comparing her to my brilliant Edie.

The background….

I was at the park the other day with Grace and Edie and they were talking away, climbing the play structure, and just being lovely. Another mom happened upon us who had her daughter with her, and, as park parents do, we got to talking. I asked her how old her little girl was and she said 3 ½. She then asked me how old mine are and I told her 6/12 and……2 ½. . She expressed shock at Edie’s development. Edie was bigger than her daughter, more articulate, and more agile on the play structure. She simply could not believe that Edie was a full year younger than her daughter, and kept telling me so I said something lame like all kids develop differently bleah bleah bleah, (but off course was BEAMING inside that someone acknowledged Edie’s exceptional-ness). The poor woman actually sort of looked she might book an appointment with her daughter’s pediatrician to see why the hell she was so delayed….in everything.

It wasn’t until bed time that night when I was rethinking the encounter with this woman that I realized I had told her a lie. Edie is not 2 ½, she is 3 ½. I lost a whole year somewhere. How pathetic is that?

So I’m sorry nice lady, maybe Edie and your daughter could play one day. I promise to encourage age-appropriate activities.

I have a dream.

A dream that does not involve kids sleeping through the night, winning the lottery or having my house magically cleaned or my laundry done by fairies.

My dream is to play bass. A big bass. I want to get on stage and play Elvis Presley, Gene Vincent and Eddy Cochrane covers. So how does a girl like me, get a hold of

a) a big ass bass
b) someone to teach her how to play this big ass bass
c) some dudes to jam with who are also interested in playing this kind of music?


That being said, I would also like to learn how to play bass guitar. This is probably easier to come by. If anyone knows where I could get a hold of a bass guitar (I know absolutely nothing about musical instruments – a true newbie waiting to be molded by the music gods) and where I should take some lessons, lemme know.

Before I die (nope, I’m not dying, just planning ahead), I want to know what it feels like to jam and feel like Kim Gordon
,
Brian Ritchie

and John Entwhistle


(note the emphasis on feel like – it’s kinda liking singing in the shower and feeling like Boccelli but sounding like ass).

A girl can dream right???

Does this make you sad, mad…. or just make you want to move to a little island somewhere?

I was on the bus the other afternoon going home. Now that school is back in, I share the bus with the local high school kids who happen to leave school the same time I leave work I guess. Most days, I plug in my headphones and try to ignore them as their conversations tend to be loud and obnoxious. I’ve been there and done that, I don’t need to relive it through these kids. And, they tend to keep to themselves with their drama (and trust me, who said what to whom can reach ear piercing drama), so they generally don’t bother me at all. However, the other day, at Billings Bridge, an OC Transpo security dude got on the bus, and a real cop boarded the bus. I of course had to eavesdrop because this is the kind of drama I need to know about.

Apparently, the day before, a bunch of high school kids got on the bus and proceeded to cause all kinds of mischief – including jumping on the rear door steps so the bus would be disabled and the driver couldn’t go anywhere. They were being too loud, too obnoxious, so the bus driver asked them to pipe down and settle down. Apparently, the kids went off on the bus driver, got in his face, told him to f-himself (re. my previous post, I do not approve of this kind of abuse of the f-word) and berated him, harassed him and pretty much made life miserable for all. These are 14, 15, 16 year olds. The driver was upset enough to contact his security people and get the police involved and wanted to have some kind of back up for when the kids boarded the bus. The driver is a NICE man, polite, does his job and he does not deserve to be treated this way, and this behaviour by these kids enrages me. It enrages me so much, I suspect if I had been on the bus that day, I would have stood up to these kids and told them to sit the fuck down (this is proper use of the f-word). And, it enrages me so much, I may have stalked one or two of these kids home and informed their folks of how their children treat other human beings.

I was a teenager. In many ways, I wasn’t a very good one, I get it. But, I would NEVER had treated someone, particularly an adult, in such a way. What are we teaching kids that makes them think they can speak to someone and affect an entire, standing room only bus, in such a way?

The kids didn’t get on the bus that day, so the security entourage was in vain. But it really saddens me that it came down to this, and that this bus driver was so shaken up.

I might add that my bus route goes through some pretty darn nice neighborhoods. This has nothing to do socio-economy. It has everything to do with some kids who need to be taught some respect.

I promise next post will be happy one. I have so much angst lately!

Who says the F-word the best

I saw Burn After Reading last night, and I was mightily impressed by John Malkovich’s performance, particularly how he says “What the fuck”.

Some people say the f-word with such conviction, it becomes music to my ears. I really fell in love with the f-word when I saw Goodfellas for the first time, and heard Joe Pesci say ‘what the fuck kind of people are they?” Awesome stuff.


And then, there’s my back-up husband, Mike Ness, who growls a mean “fuck-up” in the great tune “Don’t Take Me for Granted”


And, I blogged about his use of the F-word a year or two ago, but it bears repeating: when Samuel L. Jackson sings the blues in Black Snake Moan he spits out one of meanest fuck’s I’ve ever heard….(grrr, I can’t link to an un-censored version, what the fuck?)

Being a mom, I can’t practice my f-word as much as I would like, even though I’m a mean mom. I wonder though if I won’t be a little proud when I hear one of my daughter’s mutter their first sincere “fuck!” when they stub their toe.

And, for more on the f-word, a Masterpiece Theatre of the f-word for your listening pleasure.

Oh my God, am I?
My little Edie goes to a great daycare – wonderful staff, organic meals served up everyday, communication notes left all the time, bilingual, no t.v. policy….I could go on, but it’s been great, just great, really really great. And she loves it there. There has been a change though. She was bumped up to the Senior Room in September, a prep course in kindergarten if you will. The regular care-giver, an efficient, loving woman, has had to take leave for an undetermined amount of time. Shake up number 1. Shake up number 2, a new staff member has been hired as the primary caregiver in Edie’s room, and, brace yourself, he is a he. A man. A man, who is not Edie’s father, grandfather or uncle, is caring for my baby. He seems nice enough…actually, to be fair, he seems extremely nice. He has his early childhood education certificate, he is qualified. I’ve spied/observed the class and all seems in order. But I can’t shake the fact that this is a man looking after her, a man I don’t know, and I have to admit, I am confronted with the fact that I am a sexist. My gut is telling me that she is fine, but I’m also filled with thoughts that he is not a woman, therefore not capable of giving her the same kind of care that the fairer sex can. I have always thought myself to be a fair, unbiased person who would never discriminate. But here I am, discriminating and riddled with insecurity about Edie’s care.

I’m the first one to pump my fist in the air and fight for gender equality, but my roar is a whimper now that the roles are reversed.

There is a conspiracy at hand. My work puts on a facade that they are vacation friendly, want us to go, rest and relax and come back to work all refreshed. Huh. I came back to work last week with a kajillion emails in my inbox and I have not taken my daily walk-to-maintain-retain-sanity since I returned. In turn, this makes me wonder if taking a holiday is really worth it or not. I suspect this is the plan of the workplace – send them away and make’em wish they never left.

I jest, a little bit. Work happens to be a shitstorm right now, and I pine, absolutely pine to see Grace on and off the school bus and it just ain’t happening. Also, I wish the time I spend with Edie didn’t revolve solely around arguments at the dinner table and pushing her off to bed. Why does everything have to happen in your thirties??? Why do the important career years and most-precious-kid years have to run parallel to each other? Why do the stresses of work sometimes wake me at 2:00 in the morning, and on alternate nights a wee one with a nightmare wakes me instead?

I guess I’m just having a rough day, but I sorta feel like moving to the country and eating a lot of peaches…with my kids.