Part-Time Mom

People often comment on my ability to get out so much. The reality of being a fabulous, urban mum is not always so glam.

On Friday morning, Nate said his first coherent two-word sentence. "Buh-bye Mammee," shaking his adorable little hand in his version of a wave. He was heading off to daycare with Daddy and, for the first time, didn't seem the least bit bothered. That evening, as Nate pulled away in Grandma's car, pumping his little adorable fist "buh-bye", I sat on the porch and cried. "Why are you sad?" the Dog asked. "He was totally happy just now."

"That's it exactly," I chortled. The Dog shook his head in that, "I don't get you" way. "I just, I just miss him, that's all." But did I miss him enough to miss my friends' fab Liberty Village roof-top patio get-together?

The next morning, I was paying pennance for the sins of the night before by doing laundry. Every shred of laundry that the cat may or may not have touched with her flea-ridden body -- and then some. My MIL called to say she was with Nate up the street at a fundraiser for my neice-in-law's school. "Oh he's having a great time! They have these roller coasters for preschoolers that he's loving. Too bad none of us has a camera." She asked when I was coming to join them. "Uh, I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry here. Why don't you just bring him here when you're done?" I got off the phone and told the Dog. "Forget the laundry," he suggested. "But if I don't do it now, when will I have the chance? When will it get done? Who's going to do it?" I demanded desperately. "Fuck the laundry!" he insisted. He can be relentless. He agreed that he would go into work late so that he didn't miss it either. We grabbed the camera and raced over. The look on Nate's face when he saw me? "Hmph. Nice of you to finally show up."

When we got home later, I sat on the floor with Nate while I called a grade school friend, who was having his 30th b-day celebrations that night. "I'll have to take it easy tonight," I told him. "I didn't get home until 4 am last night," I added somewhat boastingly. I caught myself and thought, "Why is it so important to me to try to act like I'm not changed by being a mom?" Then my inexperienced-in-the-land-of-parenting friend dropped an innocent bomb.

"Oh yeah, that's right. You said in your email that you're doing the part-time mom thing right?"

WHAT!?!? What "part-time mom thing"? Is there such a "thing"? Did I say that? I log onto my email just to check. Nope. Didn't say that. Phew! But did say I was trying to find balance between my old self and my mom self. It's like I view them as two different people.

There's Nadine, who wears shoes bought on Bloor St., drinks martinis at trendy places with fake-sounding names like Sintra and Kubo, and knows everything about pop culture. Have you met her? She's fab at a party (especially if there is free food). She'll have all your guests laughing. She is sexy, casually flipping her perfectly ironed hair, inviting lust with the bat of a Lancome Hypnosed eyelash. Nadine is your typical Carrie Bradshaw wannabe. Minus the Vogue freelancing gig and the book deal that helped to pay for that collection of Manolos.

Then there's Mama Nad. Mama Nad loves her son more than life. So much so that it scares her sometimes. Sometimes she feels herself being sucked into the vacuum of motherhood. Somedays she wants to fall into the void. The void appeals in its comfortable, effortless undercurrent. The void smells like the fuzz on top of Nate's head and fresh baked cookies and Pine Sol. "Come," the void says, "We won't judge you for your spit-up-streaked sweats and soggy ponytails. You can just be. You're tired of trying, you need a rest. Join us." But Mama Nad is afraid of the void. Afraid of what it means, afraid of who she'll become if she answers its call. Afraid of letting go. She clings on to Nadine, trying desperately to salvage bits of who she once was. But why?

It's a losing battle. And it's hard to say who is losing more, the boy or his mother.

Now I know what MJ felt like

Last night, I went out to celebrate the secret engagement of my good friends and the return of Dings aka Transient Tales from Vancouver to her native Taranna (that's what we locals call Toronto. That's how we can tell if you're not from here).

So I'm at the party for 15 minutes, and I sit down next to Dings at the kitchen table. We were chatting incessantly like two people who love each other, but haven't seen each other since Christmas should.

"ohmigod! You look awesome!"

"Thanks, it's Vancouver. It's making me healthy. I run along the sea wall."

(Oh lord, Vancouverites with their healthy lifestyle and their mountains and their ocean. It scares me that my formerly neurotic friend is now one of them! All chill with good skin and size 5 jeans. What's our excuse in this part of the country? "Um, we can't run, we have smog." Ugh. )

So we continue prattling on about hair and new additions (me: baby, she: dog). All of a sudden, I see our other Vancouver transplant, Dynamo, waving frantically at me. "Dude, your hair is on fire!" Say what? Whose hair's on fire? Just as the words come out of his mouth, I catch the waft of burning hair. Then Dings is frantically smacking my ponytail with what I vaguely recall to be her bare palm. Someone shouts, "It's the tealight!" It all happened so fast that it took me a minute to figure out what had happened.

A tealight was sitting innocently behind my head on the breakfast bar behind me. In my normally animated way of conversing, I had somehow managed to dip my ponytail into the flame. If the damn weather wasn't so humid=frizzy, my hair would have been down and there would have been no incident. But alas, no. All this before my first drink was done. Fortunately, the damage was minimal, although Dings was telling me I needed to call my hair dresser ASAP. Once I washed out the singed bits, the do seems ok.

Our hostess, however, is a fire-phobe and I fear I may not be invited back. So let's recap. In the past week I've survived: a strange rash on Nate's body that won't go away, a house full of coughing sickies, an infestation of fleas thanks to the cat, my hair catching fire, and a scalding incident with hot kettle water that I can't even blog about (Don't call CAS -- I burned myself, not my son).

I am raising a white flag to the universe. I give up. I can't take any more. Bring on the plague of locusts!

Alert! Alert! Breaking News for MFM Fans!

Not too long ago I wrote this scathing letter to Jared Leto, for being a schmuck to me when I met him and generally bursting the bubble that was my-so-called-fantasy.

Then last night, Marla sends me THIS NEWS! OMG! I should be snarky about it, but I'm such a total fag hag that now I just want to go dancing with him at Buddies.

Friday Challenge -- the 10 pounder continues

OK, so I think I've lost some weight. I don't actually have a scale, but I'm going to guess about 4 pounds. Looks like all the walking is paying off! I even made a sandwich today with no mayo. It doesn't taste as good, but it doesn't taste too terrible either. I bought fresh Ontario produce from the Farmer's Market this week and have been making light dinners of meat or fish with greens: fiddleheads, asparagus and wild leeks. They are only available at this time of year! Fiddleheads do not grow anywhere else but Canada as far as I know, and the asparagus the rest of the year comes from Peru. Wild leek greens taste awesome raw in a salad, chopped up finely to make a wild leek vinagrette.

I don't have a scale because I used to have an eating disorder. Much like my addiction to Site Meter, I used to weigh myself a billion times a day. It was an issue of control. My life was out of control, but if I could go a whole day just eating a bran muffin (poster child of the eating disorder), or an apple, or a small yogurt, or a diet coke, I had won the battle against chaos.

When I started eating again, I went completely the other way. I binged and gained 20 pounds in a month. It took me a long time to recover from the cycle of not eating and then eating too much. It's been 10 years since my recovery, but I still struggle with the voice inside my head.

I will, however, weigh myself in other people's houses. By Monday I should be able to confirm whether or not I have lost anything. It may just be water weight for all I know, but my stomach is looking flatter. It will never be flat again, but flatteris acceptable.

Still trying to make time to create buttons in Photoshop. Let me know how much you've lost on the challenge and I'll send you a custom one. Need a kick in the ass? Let me know and I'll email you encouraging notes. Flatter stomach from a few weeks of walking! Isn't that incentive to get off your ass? Come on people! You can do it!

Size Matters

Overheard today as I was stirring sugar into my latte:

"Oh yeah, I think mine's 42 inches! Is it 42? Maybe it's 44. Anyway it's HUGE."

And then I realized that these manboys were discussing their TV screens.

Please Excuse Our Appearance...

I'm working on some changes around here. I've signed up for Bloglines. That way my blog roll is private and I can still follow everyone's writing without playing favourites. I still love you all, I just wanted to try this out for a bit. A test of sorts. We're not breaking up, I'm still here, just watching from the sidelines. I'm having the hardest time without site meter. It's hard to gauge how I'm doing without it. But withdrawal is a 12 step process. Ha!

I'm also heading out with the blogging mommies tomorrow (Thursday) night to the Fox and the Fiddle on Laird avenue near Eglinton. Again the invite is open to anyone who wants to meet the author Ann Douglas and personally thank her for helping you through something with one of her great books. Or maybe you're like us and you want to know what kind of shoes your favourite blogger wears. So come, OK? RSVP to hellomarlagood@hotmail.com -- don't worry she doesn't bite, though her cat BooBoo does.

Please take the time to read my interview with author, columnist, photojournalist, mother Jennifer Margulis below. She is fantastic and I highly recommend her books. And my first bloggy interview turned out pretty funny I think. Maybe you don't? Read it and leave me a comment. I thrive on comments now that I am without Site Meter.

Book #5: Why Babies Do That by Jennifer Margulis

I remember when Nate was about 6 months old. The Dog came into the kitchen ecstatic. "Nate said Dada! Come and check it out!" I was pissed. "I carried you in my body for almost 10 months!" I thought, "I had painful surgery to rip you out of me and now I am feeding you from my body (that you've ruined forever) and you decide to say Dada first?" Then I read a review of Jennifer Margulis's book Why Babies Do That: Baffling Baby Behavior Explained on The Mother of All Blogs that explained "Dada" is just easy to say, so babies say it all the time. Pretty soon Nate was calling everything "Dada" and I was secretly satisfied that he wasn't picking favourites.

Then Jennifer contacted me about hosting a book tour for her on my blog. I can't say no to free books, so I gladly accepted. She also sent me Toddler: Real-life Stories of Those Fickle, Irrational, Urgent, Tiny People We Love, which she edited. I devoured both books (really should be #5 AND #6 on my 20-book challenge). They are funny, heartfelt and best of all short -- which most moms are looking for in a read. Both make fabulous, original gifts.

I had some questions for Jennifer after reading her books, which she was kind enough to answer.

Scarb: The amount of adorable photos in your book makes me swoon. The photos also help me to share the book with wee Nate, who giggles at baby faces. My favourite aspect of these photos is that the babies come in all shapes and colours. Could you talk a bit about choosing to represent babies of different races?

JM: Most of the photos were taken by Paul Franz, a photographer based in Western Massachusetts. Paul, the publisher, and I all worked on the photography and it was a priority for all of us to make sure babies of all races were represented, so I'm glad you noticed that! I think all too often parenting books talk only to the "norm," which is defined as the white middle class (as are things like growth charts, by the way), and we really wanted to be more inclusive.

One woman bought a copy of the book for her mom with Alzheimer's who really likes looking at human faces and my kids ask me to read it to them, too, because they like to look at the pictures.


Scarb: Do people come up to you and ask you questions that didn't make it into the book? Or do they question you on things you write in your columns? Can you give some examples?

You mean like, how dare you write about (add noun here) in your last column? I can't believe you would talk about THAT in the paper? This piece about nursing, for example, that readers found offensive.

When I talk to groups of new moms, they have soooooo many questions about their babies but a lot of questions we thought we might cover didn't end up in the book, usually because the answers were unsatisfactory (there are many things about babies that, honestly, nobody knows). For example, why do some babies have umbilical cords that stick out and others that stick in? Other questions--like why do babies stick Cheerios up their noses--we're saving for the Why Toddlers Do That (though my publisher hasn't officially decided that we're doing a sequel). I think the most common things parents want to know are in there, like why do babies play with their own poop and why do babies say da da before saying ma ma...


Scarb: Can I ask you a question that baffles me? How do you find the time to write and research with two kids?

Actually, I have three kids! [me: Ooops!] Even though I'm home a lot with them (and my husband and I work from home offices), writing is my job. If I don't write, we don't eat. With that kind of fire under my butt, I find the time. My husband and I switch off with the kids, depending on who's on deadline. I get up with them (which these days is at about 5:45 a.m., god help me) and get my first grader ready for school. We all have breakfast together and then my daughter and I bike to school (on a Trail-a-Bike, it's very cool) and I get to work after that, usually around 8:45. My husband has the morning shift with the kids (we homeschool our 5-year-old and we also have a toddler). I write, edit, research, and interview my heart out and then we usually switch. He works in the afternoons and I take over with the childcare. If I don't finish what I need to do (this week I'm on deadline for three articles for a regional parenting magazine, one guidebook to Portland that I'm updating, and one client editing job. Next week I have an article due for a national parenting magazine, six local newspaper article deadlines, and a travel piece for the New York Times--it's hard to get it all done!), I often work in the evenings after the kids are in bed. I don't get a lot of sleep, and our house is usually a disaster zone. I used to be really tidy and the house thing is hard for me but something has to give and it's usually my sleep and the laundry, etc.


Scarb: Do you understand all baffling baby behaviour? Like, why does my son insist on feeling me up when he drinks his bottle?

I can't claim to answer it all girlfriend, but I could theorize! We know (from the famous rhesus monkey experiments in the 1960s) that primates need comfort as much as they need nourishment. Your son probably finds it deeply comforting to put his hand on your breasts as he drinks. Breasts represent comfort and babies love how soft human mommies are (it's nice to know that all my extra fat serves a purpose...) and he's probably responding to that. Of course, if he's tweaking your nipples that's a different story... [Yes, he's tweaking my nipples. Scared now.]


Scarb: Your previous book, Toddler, is full of raw, honest essays by people who love a toddler. In one story, "Slow to Warm", a mother dreams of sex while talking to other moms in the park. Can you talk about the controversy this caused and why you chose to include it?

"Slow To Warm" actually got my book BANNED in Ashland. It's a very funny, very honest, very open story about a mom who feels insecure bringing her son to preschool and exposing their relationship of two to the world at large. She feels alienated from other parents and she writes "talking to the other mommies made me want to bite them." The other moms discuss how to get their kids to eat vegetables and the narrator writes that what she really wanted to say was 'I don't know about you ladies but what I could go for right now is a big hairy cock." And it goes on, in rather graphic detail.

The writer, Brett Paesel, has a book being released this August from Warner. HBO has already optioned TV rights. The book, called Mommies Who Drink, is fantastic (I got an advanced reading copy and couldn't put it down.) Brett's a very talented writer and she's not afraid, like so many of us are, to be herself. It's destined--I think--to cause a lot of stir. Her story certainly did in our small town. Although the images are not there gratuitously, the superintendent of the Ashland schools forbade the book to be in a school sale (not to children or the school library, mind you, we were selling the book--on the kindergarten teacher's recommendation--to parents in order to raise money for a revenue-strapped elementary school, which has since closed). They made this decision one day before the event after we had been planning it for three weeks. They pulled all the flyers out of everybody's boxes, took down all the signs, and tried to hush the whole thing up. Ashland prides itself on being a very open minded, forward-thinking town. But there's something about mommies being sexual, talking about sex, liking sex, that was too irksome for this town to stand. It's crazy, isn't it? Sex is the way all the toddlers got here in the first place and parents would be able to choose to buy the book or not. At first they were going to put a disclaimer on the table: this book contains language that some people may find offensive. But in the end they cancelled the sale and--bleep--censored the book.

Well I, for one, welcome mommies talking about sex. But y'all already knew that from my discussions on hand jobs and Brazillians. Anyway, there is no sex in Why Babies Do That, in fact I was somewhat disappointed that the chapter "Why do babies love to play with balls?" talked about balls, as in soccer, instead of answering why my son won't stop touching his genetalia! I kid, I kid!

Thank you Jennifer for introducing me to your lovely books. I hope I can help to introduce them to others.

What I Did On My Long Weekend

My weekend was defined by all things Da Vinci. Friday started with a special screening at 9 am for all employees of my place of work. Then we had the day off. Fun. Nate didn't scream sick until 9 pm, so it was a nice way to start a weekend.

But of course, Nate did scream sick at 9 pm. And there was no consoling him. Even the cat jumped onto my lap and tried to lick Nate to comfort him. No dice. No sleep for anyone.

Did our usual Saturday Nate to Yaya's deal. He was snotty, but well enough to be shipped of so Daddy Dog and I could have a date. We went to the Tulip and then a walk on the boardwalk at midnight. It was just like old times and since no one was on the beach, save a few teens who didn't want to be seen, it felt like we had the entire thing to ourselves. By the time we walked home it was almost 2 am. I felt that good sensation I can only describe as the internal popping of cellulite. Yay. And of course no sick child at home so we skipped sex and slept instead.

Sunday we did Spring Cleaning until Nate was returned to us. then the Dog stayed home with Nate while I went to Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar (not the clown on US TV obviously) for Queen Nomad's birthday. Wine + tapas = good times. Sick kid + coughing at 2 am after you've been drinking = bad times. This morning my mum-in-law came to the rescue and helped me garden for the first time ever. No seriously, other than some small window planters, I have never gardened. Mostly because I don't like bugs and dirt. But I'm sorta over that now. The garden is looking good.

Then it was off to Tante's for her Da Vinci party. (see invite above) The Dog and I had already seen the movie, so we met up with gang after the film. The menu was as follows:

Templar Tart
So Dark the Con of Man-darin Salad
Priory of Sion Poulet with Pyramid Potatoes and a Basil Fache sauce
Rose Line Wine (does that sound like the OPI Da Vinci Code collection or what?)
Magdalene Mousse and Teabing Tea

Word jumbles and trivia were awarded with Fodor's Da Vinci Code travel guides.

So what'd you do?

Firecrackers Are Going Off in My Head

Nate sick again. Me sick too. Sentences can't write. Why do sick babies not sleep.? Why do babies get sick with every tooth even though doctors claim it's impossible? Why am I blogging when I need rest?

The E I did in college is coming back to haunt me

Are you happy now? All your snarky cracks about Nate's bedtime paid off. My perfect 7 pm sleeper is no more. How do I know this? Well for the past three nights, he's not gone to bed before 9 and has woken up at 3 am, babbling passionately about God knows what. Now one night of this means it's just a bad night. 3 nights in a row marks the start of a phase. I may be the mother of a baby raver.

It's not like were playing him Ritchie Hawtin at bedtime. I am doing all the bedtime ritual shit I always did -- I've been singing the same five sappy songs for over a year people! It's just taking two hours now instead of 30 minutes to get him to sleep. The biggest problem is that he's being the cutest he's ever been while trying to stay up and party. He kicks his arms and legs wildly, claps and dances, shakes his head emphatically to say no, throws himself all over my bed, giggles hysterically, runs over to me for big hugs and kisses. I try to muffle my giggles, attempt to be discreet with my amusement so as not to encourage him. But he is quick and the sight of me feigning disapproval sends him over the top with shakes and laughter. It's like he's high.

Later bedtime cuts into me time, which means I go to bed later and get to work LATE. But he is growing at such a rapid rate and I can't bottle it up or slow it down. He is understanding more and more words each day and my requests for kisses are met with the adorable head shaking, eyes fluttering "Nooooo" (I need to record this and post it for y'all) or an actual slobbery kiss. His wee hand wrapped around my neck is the most delightful sensation known to mankind. It's up there with high quality chocolate, expensive champagne, designer shoes and good sex. Those fingers moving on my nape while he gnaws on his thumb with the other hand and tucks his head into my shoulder is one of the finer things in life.

I think that's worth a little me time (mind you, it's only been three nights). I think I might buy him some glo-stix.

The Return of Daddy Dog

Daddy Dog returned from Vancouver in the middle of the night, completely refreshed, inspired and full of love for his family. I highly recommend sending your partner away for a weekend. Sometimes when you're around each other every. day. day. in. day. out. getawayfrommealready! you forget what you have right next to you. I could sense this was happening to the Dog, who's brain has been in fog since Nate came into our lives [self-proclaimed].

I meant to de-Sasquatch myself and dust off a sexy nightie from the vault, but I ended up blogging -- I mean falling asleep, before I could get to that. So he came home to stubbly legs and Old Navy PJs. Oh well, at least I "went to Brazil" last week. It was my first time "in Brazil" and I gotta tell you, it's a little too bare down there for my taste. But it beats the ol' Busch Gardens any day.

The Dog wished me a Happy Belated Mother's Day. I thought he'd forgotten, but he produced a romantic gift from his duffel bag. Perhaps the best gift I've ever received. A tiny music box, the kind where you take the wee musical part out of the box and turn the crank to play the song. This was no cheesy "Theme from Love Story" (though that song does have its affects on a girl). The thing plays "And I Love Her" by the Beatles. Does that rock or what? It really made me emotional. That song is so haunting. It makes me think of grade 8 music class and breezy nights.

So I felt bad for slagging him all last week. Since he's been back he's been so gushy with his emotions, it's actually kind of fun. We were getting into that rut where I felt like all he saw me as was Nate's mother. He's flirting with me again, which hasn't happened in forever. I gotta start saving up so I can ship him off again next year. It seems a weekend to himself was just the thing to remind him of what he has.

Thought of the Day

If you find yourself stroking your hairy Armenian upper lip during the day, do you think it's time to do something about it?

Blogging is Still Cool

What else are you gonna do when your kid is thank-heavens-taking-a-two-hour-nap-ohmigod-i-am-so-happy-about-that? I could be cleaning, but I'll just procrastinate on that front a wee bit more.

Where else can you meet people from all over the world with such ease? People who give you support even though they don't know you from KFed. People who tell you they love you after you make brash, negative statements about the medium you are all addicted to.

Where else do you get the opportunity to meet writers you adore, who have helped you through some tough times?

Yes, that's right, I did say "opportunity to meet." The Moms and I have had so much fun hanging out with each other. We first met through our blogs, and upon meeting face-to-face there was no awkward weirdness. Thanks to blogging, we knew all kinds of shit about each other already. Highly personal shit. So after sizing each other up to see if our online voices matched our physical appearances, we decided that we would keep meeting up.

And when we added another blogging mom to our meet-ups and that went so well, I suggested that we open it up. I know a lot of us have been wanting to put faces to names/aliases. (Me especially, because sometimes I get knowing looks from strange moms that aren't the "we're all in the same boat" looks and I start to wonder if they read me and I should say hello.) So why not have a coming out party of sorts?

If you're in Toronto, or you happen to be considering a visit to Toronto on Thursday May 25th, Miss Marla has organized a night out (details on her blog). And not just any old drinks, but drinks to celebrate Mother of All Blogistas, Ann Douglas. All are welcome, so if you read blogs, regardless of whether or not you have a blog yourself, please feel free to come and out yourself. I'd love to meet you. And don't worry, I'll be the one with banana on my shirt.

I have started reading Ann's Sleep Solutions book. Oh how I was jonesing for this book to be finished when Nate was 11 months old and wouldn't sleep. The thing about Ann is, well, she's in the middle of writing this book and would actually take the time to email me tips and encouragement. How awesome is that? I am dying to meet her in person and thank her for being an all-round awesome woman.

To make it even less daunting, and to avoid wearing a Hello My Name is Scarbie Doll sticker, I will out myself somewhat right here. My name is not Scarbie (who the hell would name their kid Scarbie?) but Nadine. Scarbie, for Scarborough, the most multicultural (read:ghetto and I mean that with love) place on earth. And if I were a cartoon, I'd sorta look like this. Does that help?

RSVP to hellomarlagood@hotmail.com by May 18. The location is still up in the air, so if you know of any casual places near the Ella Centre (Laird and Eglinton) that serve good food, Marla's open to suggestions.

OK, so how's that for taking the clique-y-ness out of blogging? You can't get more inclusive than that.

Blogging is Not Cool Anymore

This post may make me unpopular.

Like anything underground that becomes mainstream, blogging, frankly, is starting to suck. The niche of mom blogging, especially, is fucking weird. Because it's female driven, there's a lot of bullshit underlying politics. Everyone tries to act like it's all "sister, sister" but there are camps, there are cool girls, and damn you if you read but don't comment! When I started this blog two years ago, you could just read freely, write when you had the time and comment when you wanted. Now, as the popularity of blogging has increased, so has the clique-y-ness of bloggers.

The rules have changed. Oh sure, no one's openly written the rules, but they are there. And you don't have to go to too many sites to figure it out. You must write long posts every day (try to make them as intelligent and essay-like as possible) visit 25 other mom blogs a day, comment on them at least once and make sure you not only read the posts, but all the comments other people have left too. I can see why so many people remain lurkers and non-bloggers. It's way easier to just enjoy blogs behind the scenes than to be out in the open with your thoughts and feelings. Because once you are putting yourself out there, you start to wonder who's out there receiving the message.

The concept of an audience can be highly addictive. You check your Site Meter obsessively. (Don't lie, you know you do) You get worried when people don't leave comments. You get bummed out when you don't make people's lists. You start comparing yourself to other writers. You stay up late to get your reading and commenting quota in. It's fucked. It starts to feel like high school all over again. And I am just too bloody tired to try to be cool enough to make the cheerleading squad.

So I'll just stick to the yearbook committee thanks. I'll be here, continuing to document my journey as a mom when I can. If you like what you read, come on back when you have the time. If you want to sign my yearbook, cool. But if not, I'll be at the back of the class, wearing black, hiding behind my hair, watching the drama unfold as I write down my thoughts in my notebook.

My thoughts on getting this award
HERE

Book #4: Black Swan Green by David Mitchell

Book Reviews that are meant to be about books, but are really about me.

OK, so my last book review was just about the book. After all, I have no experience with cults, aside from walking the line with Christianity. But David Mitchell's Black Swan Green cut a little too close for comfort. Set in 1982 Worcestershire in the midlands, BSG traces a year in the life of Jason Taylor, as he navigates through the politics of being an awkward 13 year-old boy. What you end up with is a bit of Duran Duran references, a touch of insight into the Falklands War, a dollop of parental woes, some bullying and an amazing love for our protagonist. This is the type of book you never want to end. I actually find myself hugging the hardcover to my chest and not wanting to let go. I will definitely be reading more David Mitchell.

So what was Scarb like at 13? At 13, I had braces, acne, a huge nose that didn't fit my face, and unruly, thick, brillo pad hair that was cut too short. Oh and I had some pretty bad dandruff, which lead to being christened "Crickets" by the class bullies. Crickets as in, "She doesn't have lice in her hair, she has CRICKETS!" Hilarious. I was made fun of in some way every day, mocked for hygiene issues that came from differences in culture. In my mother's native Istanbul, you just didn't shower every day. You were lucky to shower once a week. And in a cold country like Canada, in her mind, bathing too often could lead to illness. So we showered when we were told=BO and dandruff. Not good for my burgeoning feelings towards boys.

To top off the daily bullying I got in school, life at home was the shits. My parents were slowly disintegrating under the weight of years of hurt they had caused one another. On the insistence of my father, my mother had just gone back to full-time work as a bank teller after more than a decade of staying at home. My sister and I learned to cook using my mother's Chatelaine Cookbook and were making sure dinner was on the table by the time my parents got home at 5:30. We were 13 and 11 and alone for 2 hours after school each day.

The summer I turned 13, my father took us to the summer home of his friend from work, with whom he'd been spending a lot of time. When we arrived at the cottage, my sister and I were shocked to find that my dad's work buddy was not Barney Rubble, but an overweight blonde woman named Doris. We never spoke about the strangeness of the situation aloud, but my sister and I were always able to get messages to each other telepathically. Doris had a husband (who was always working) and four kids, who took my sister and I out on the waterway to fish. It was my first and probably last time fishing. I remember enjoying the fishing aspect so much: hooking the worms just so, the sunlight glistening off ripples of water, and how dark green the water got when we went out a ways. I remember feeling proud that I'd caught a fish, only to find I had blinded a sunfish, which were not meant for eating. Thus my catch was thrown back, maimed but alive, to find his fishy family.

I think about that day a lot and its meaning changes as I get older. I remember being angry for a long time. My dad had asked my mom to make a lasagna to take up there, unbeknownst to her, for his mistress and her children to enjoy. I hated him for that. I hated him because I wondered if he was doing activities with her children that he never did with us. Then as I grew older, I hated him for what I imagined he was doing that day while we were out on the water with her children.

But now I think about it and I wonder why he even brought us there to begin with? Did he want to introduce his children to his object of lust? Was he the proud papa and I just never saw it? I remember driving back to Toronto, the radio blasting "Always" by Atlantic Starr, my dad making up words for the song, all smiles. Later in life I would find irony in that moment, thinking of Atlantic Starr's other big hit "Secret Lovers." There is no way my father knew that the lyrics to the song he loved were about fidelity and forever, while the band's other song was more suitable to his illicit post-familial activities.

In the year that followed, my father came out of the closet about his infidelity. He told my mother he was leaving and moving to Scotland to be with his love. He had made a commitment to her. "But what about the commitement you made to me? To us?" He didn't give a fuck. He was delirious with 17 year-old boyish exhuberance. He was infatuated, obsessed and I'm aure that had his plans gone through they would have tired of each other and my dad would have found himself on our doorstep once again. At least, I'd like to think that he would. Or perhaps the embarassment of what he'd done wouild be so great that we would have lost contact with him? No, that's not his style. He is a great corresponder.

My father lived within the confines of marriage while carrying on his affair openly. I would hold my mother's hand as she cried herself to sleep each night. I can't imagine how devestating for her to be so fragile in front of her children. How it must have hurt her to reveal that she wasn't God, but a woman with a broken heart. I was 13, but I felt like I was 30.

At this pivotal, painful time in life, I developed my sense of humour. My protective shell, my armour, was grown to make people laugh at me of my own accord. I used the ridiculousness of my parents' situation in the schoolyard to tell tales that rivalled anything that was happening on Santa Barbara. I began to gather an audience around me. People wanted to hear me tell my tales. I learned that being open with the most private details of my life would get me "friends," or at least people that seemed interested in what I had to say. If I tell it all, no one can make up shit about me. If I make them laugh, then they are not laughing at me, but with me. I learned that humour was a coat of armour if I was the one wearing it.

These defence mechanisms often get me into trouble. I disclose too much. I don't understand the meaning of privacy. Often when things get too serious, I make light of the situation in order to deflect the reality of the pain or discomfort. I am slowly learning to find balance in these things, learning that silence is golden and that it is good to have some secrets. Reading BSG reminded me that my own evolution from ugly duckling to graceful swan is an ongoing process, but one that I am solely responsible for. This book gave me a much needed realization that the power to make lemonade out of lemons is in our own hands.

10 Pound Challenge -- Update #2

I haven't lost any weight. Not a pound. I do have my "lady troubles" so this hasn't helped in the chocolate binging department. Having your best friend fly in from Belgium, land of chocolate, didn't help that much either. there is no longer a chocolate shortage in my house.

On Friday when I went to pick up Nate from daycare, I sat on one of the kiddie stools and talked to the kids. I try to do this as often as possible so that Nate feels more comfortable about the situation. Anyway, this kid Clara comes up to me smiling all innocent like. She starts to poke my belly, which is rolling over my jeans in true muffin-top styles. "What's that?" she asks. Snarky little fucker, I wanted to punch her. But she's only 4, so not a good idea. I looked at her fake angel face and said matter-of-factly, "Oh, that's a belly. Mommies get them after they have babies. Unless you're Kate Hudson, who can apparently gain 80 pounds and Elastogirl back into her former body." The puzzled look on Clara's face told me I needed to hit the point home. "One day, you'll have one too."

I got the GI Diet book, because I think I'm going to have to go hardcore and be GI Jane. I have to stop carbing it up every night. I can't help it -- it's easy. It's hard for most moms and working women to avoid making pasta every single night. I'd love to pretend I'm still eating all brown rice pasta, but I'm not. I need a little kick in my saggy ass to get this weight loss off the ground and make healthy habits in the process.

Lord! I miss the calorie-burning effects of breast-feeding. I see now why moms get larger and why I was a bitch to judge moms when I was a skinny 20-something twit. There's hardly any time to do it right. Even normally "together" moms like Marla occasionally send emails like this one:

Subject: Come Over and Save Me

I have had nothing but coffee and half of a leftover orange cream merangue pie since 8 am.

But I couldn't go over and save her. Aside from being stuck in Mississauga, I had just returned from paying $6 for a sandwich, because I didn't have time to make myself lunch. With the Dog gone I'm all discombobulated. How do single parents do it?

Kate invited us to come and play after dinner. But by the time I bought some fresh ingredients to make dinner, picked Nate up, made the dinner, fed us both, bathed him (he was covered in mini-go), it was too late to go anywhere. Nate and I were both in tears. So I ate a square of chocolate for fortitude. (OK, fine, I ate two squares. Happy now?)

So yes, I need to find a way to enforce the rules of my diet. Perhaps the GI Diet will give me the push I need. I'm also working on a button to help motivate myself and people who visit this site and may want to put it on theirs. Should have it up by Friday.

How're y'all doing with the challenge?

Book #3: Seductive Poison by Deborah Layton

Ok, I've been totally sucking at my lame 20 Book Challenge, but I managed to finish a few these past few weeks and I've still got a few on the go. Now with my new job in bookland, I'll have to step up the reading a touch.

A few months ago, I worked on a documentary on the Jonestown Massacre (look it up on Wikipedia, I'm too lazy to add a link). Basically, a bunch of senior citizens, poor blacks and hispanics, recovering druggies and do-gooder socialists/hippies joined Jim Jones's Peoples Temple thinking they were going to change the world. So how come 900 of these people ended up dead in the jungle in Guyana?

We've all heard of the killer Kool Aid, and many of us have the image of the bloated bodies in the jungle burned into our minds, but how many of us really know what happened? How many of us can possibly know the type of ideology and manipulation that would lead so many people to take their own lives at the command of one man? I mean families were found holding each other. Babies, children, old people. Horrific. Some people lost every single person they'd ever known in this mass suicide.

So after transcribing the disturbing interview of a father, whose ex-wife slit the throat of his daughter and two of her other children before killing herself -- long story and the most disturbing, because of all the members that weren't in the actual Jonestown camp, this woman was the only one who went through with the orders to commit suicide -- I needed to know more about these events. A quick search on Amazon, and then the Toronto Public Library website (did you know we have the busiest library system in the world?) lead me to this book.

I always thought that people who got involved in cults were idiots, and it could never happen to someone like me. This memoir changed my view. Seductive Poison depicts a woman who started out wanting to do something good for society, and therefore, how any one of us could fall into a cult and not know it until it was too late. It details the mind games and horrific abuse these people suffered, but also shows how it all began with the purest of intentions. The author, Deborah Layton, is a defector of the cult. Her detailed description of her defection is as nerve-wracking as any thriller you have seen in a theatre. The entire book is riveting and gave me chills before bedtime --- but not in a cheesy True Crime type way. It's definitely not like reading about Karla Homolka or something. And it's extremely well written for someone who works in finance by day.

I recommend this book to anyone who is looking for something between heavy literature and chicklit. It's an easy read without being too fluffy. Plus the story is so interesting that you can't put the book down. I know many of us are turned off of memoirs after the whole James Frey debacle, but give this one a chance.

Link to Blogging Baby post

I realize (thanks to Jen) that I forgot to post the link to the BB mention on Friday. So VOILA! And you can read also about my homegirl Kristin's personal exploits on her popular blog Debaucherous and Dishevelled.

Happy Mother's Day!

Well, well, did we all have a somewhat satisfying, yet somewhat expectedly disappointing Mother's Day? Did we all think our partners should've cared a bit more? Or perhaps your mother wasn't quite as appreciative of your efforts as you had hoped, picking at old wounds you had thought scabbed over long ago? Did you try to remind yourself 40 times that it's just a Hallmark holiday, that you shouldn't really expect anything because you're too cool for that, but found yourself tearing up at moments throughout the day? Fucking dumbass holiday.

I bought the Dog a ticket to Vancouver for his birthday. I knew it was falling on Mother's Day weekend, but I thought we could both use the break. And then my brain made a classic Scarbie mistake -- I began my lead-up fantasizing, which lead to... expectations. OK, maybe more like aspiratons. Hopes. Wishes. He would be so overjoyed that I had sent him on his boys' weekend that he would plan for weeks in advance and leave me a lovely surprise for mummy's day. Yes, for sure. After all, he knows that's the least I would do for him. (Oh you can stop snickering already!)

On Friday I came home to a clean house (we resolved our bullshit from earlier this week. Meaning I resolved to let him clean.) The Dog was gone and I was ready to start my weekend. I packed up our things, picked Nate up from daycare and headed up to my folks' place in the 905. I took off my too tight jeans (more on that front to come) and let it all hang out while watching What Not to Wear with my mom and sis after Nate was sound asleep. Awesome.

I stayed up to finish the best book in forever -- David Mitchell's Black Swan Green (a post on that to come too) and wait for the Dog to call my mobile and tell me he made it. We had a late night giggle, which is always kinda fun when you're sleeping solo at your folks' place. Makes you feel like you're in high school again.

I woke up Sat morning to the sounds of my family enjoying my son. It's a lovely sound, especially when you're not fully awake, to hear the mutual giggles and coos of grandparents and grandchild. I sunk back into slumber. I woke up and thought I should update my damn blog, since I've been so shite at that as of late. I walked into the computer room/Nate's room to find Nate napping in his crib and my dad napping in the armchair. I tiptoed out and cracked open Mary Lawson's Crow Lake . When my mom and sis got back from their morning errands, all three of us were napping. Awesome.

We ladies took Nate into picturesque Unionville for some ice cream. We went down to Too Good Pond and watched Nate run after geese and ducks. Then we headed back to pick up Queen Nomad and have a girls' night at my sister's fabulous new apartment, while my folks had alone time with Nate. Only a week and it feels like QN has been back forever. We bought 6 bags of chips (bad for the diet), veal chops (bad for baby cows), and some expensive cheese, stuffed olives and a baguette from Alex Farms (bad for the diet, but good for the soul). We had vodka tonics (I personally hate tonic, but I'll do it if there's nothing else), then a fab dinner, then a date with 50 Cent. Get Rich or Die Tryin' was not nearly as good as Hustle & Flow but I still enjoyed it. The key was they didn't really let Fitty act much, but that's a tough way to tell a story. Plus, there were no "Party in the club... Mamma I got whachu need..." type songs. The soundtrack was way more "gangsta" than clubby or "crunky" (I betcha I'm the first person to every use the workd "crunky").

I woke up without my husband and without my son this morning. It was good, yet also depressing. I found myself longing for the cliches: messy breakfast in bed, cheesy carnations, a card made by the two of them. So I did what I do best when I'm bummed -- I went shopping. I bought myself some soft khakis and a white shirt at the Gap, some cute new walking shoes (I needed inspiration for my 30-minute-a-day promise), and an awesome new notebook to keep my writing in. It took the edge of my sadness.

The Dog called to wish me a Happy MD and told me he missed me. I realized that there was no surprise, that true-to-form he was procrastinating, totally clueless on what might make me happy. Bizzarre that after 8 years he couldn't figure out that a hand-made card and a GC for a pedicure would have sufficed. Ah well. I know he loves me and the rest is bullshit. But it didn't really sink in until I went back to my mum's and pulled my napping son out of his crib.

I held Nate close to me for a long time. He was extra cuddly and we held each other while I cried for a good 15 minutes, which is hours in toddler time. We had a lovely dinner with my family, my mom thanked me for letting her have Nate to herself that morning, and then back home we went. I sang my son to sleep and thanked him for being the love of my life.

I think the best Mother's Day Gift this year is knowing that after I hit "Publish Post" I will be going up to my Queen-size pillow top mattress ALONE! Bliss. Hope your day was ai'ight.

Welcome Blogging Baby readers!

First off, welcome to everyone who's here via Blogging Baby. A big thanks to Kristin for mentioning my blog in her column. I am flattered. Anyway, this was a slower than usual week blogging wise. As Kristin said, I am a multi-tasking mom. I work part-time at a publishing company and I take care of 16 month-old Nate, 5 year-old cat, Scout, and my 33 year-old hubby, aka The Dog, full-time. The cast of nutty characters are rounded out with my lovely group of friends--including my sister, Tante, my BFFs Queen Nomad and Blondie, and the funny ladies I met via this blog known as The Moms. Add my crazy Armenian parents, my too cool Norwegian MIL and British FIL and their opinions on everything I do and I guess you have my insane life.

You can get a good overview of my life and my humourous writing by reading any of the links on THIS LIST of my favourite posts.

I hope that I can make you laugh with my uber-honesty. That's my aim in life: to make it easier for others to get through strange experiences by knowing that they are not alone. Enjoy!

Bitchfest

I hate mood swings. Mostly because I hate not being in control. The other thing I can't stand is living up to cliches. I hate using PMS as an excuse. But no matter how hard I try, come period time I cannot avoid being a crusty bitch. I can't.

I don't want to get upset about stupid shit like the Dog stepping over clean, folded baskets of laundry to get upstairs (um, could you take one basket up at least?), or the Dog forgetting to write down that we're out of detergent on the fridge list. I know these things aren't that important in the overall scheme of life and a marriage, but regardless, I totally lose my shit. Like calling him at work to yell at him about the detergent. While guests were in the next room! In the moment I am slightly aware that I'm being irrational, but my hormonal rage usurps the logical brain. The hormones feed the nonsense. "No," they say, "You're right to be mad. It matters that he didn't make a note to buy detergent. It means bigger issues are at work here. Make it clear how mad you are." Where the fuck is the angel on your shoulder when the whoremone demons are egging you on?

I busted my ass today for my family. I managed to do laundry AND make THIS healthy meal for all of us AND take care of Nate at the same time. Unfortunately, for this to happen, I had to leave Nate to do his thing next to me. This involved:

* Taking all of Daddy's CDs out of their cases and dragging them on the floor.
* Taking the DVD out of the DVD player and dragging it on the floor, making sure to scratch it up good.
* Taking all of his various cups with their million lids and valves and dragging them on the floor, which is covered in cat hair.
* Taking the laundry that I'd just washed and folded out of the laundry baskets and putting the items on the hairy carpet.
* Splashing his hands in the cat's water bowl.
* Trying to climb upstairs unsupervised.
* Finding old cheerios and bits of cheese that the vacuum missed and eating them.

I let it go, because hey, I am making dinner AND doing the laundry! I am Superwoman! Then I took Nate to Riverdale Farm, in the big stroller, on the streetcar. It's our one day alone together -- the other three days that I don't work are monopolized by grandparents -- so I like to do something fun with him. But there's all this shit you have to think of if you are going to go out midday with a child. Take the stroller for example. The considerations are as follows: Hmmm, the umbrella stroller is easy to pick up and carry onto the streetcar, but doesn't recline or have storage underneath and Nate hasn't taken a nap yet, so I'll need to be able to recline him so he doesn't slump over...

So by the time I figure all this out, I am late for our date with Marla and Josie. In fact, I was pretty much ready to give up. But at that point I had gone through the checklist [Diapers? Check. Wipes? Check. Something to eat while out? Check. Bib? Check. Money for public transit and cookies? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Brain? Hmmm.... it was right here, I swear I just saw it.] and it was all in my bag. No turning back. Luckily, I had kind men help me on and off the streetcar. Phew! Sometimes people pretend not to notice.

The farm was spectacular as usual. The new baby goats were out and about. Chickens we out of cages and walking about like they owned the place. I was moderately disturbed by the biggest, hardest bees I'd ever seen, but they seemed more interested in humping each other mid-air than in stinging us. There was a big backhoe (sp?) and Nate is biologically obsessed with trucks now, so we had to stare at that for awhile. It was also the first day of the farmer's market, and thank God I ran outta cash or I woulda come home with some organic elk! Next week perhaps. It's supposed to have less fat than skinless turkey breast!

Nate and I walked home (well, I walked and he got pushed in the stroller) and it took us 1.5 hours. So by the time I got home, I was bushed and did not feel like picking up after Nate. I felt like letting him play in the dirt in the yard, while I read my book in the sunshine. I knew the fit was gonna hit the shan when the Dog got home. I was dreading his arrival, but this was not enough to motivate me to get up and tidy up.

Did I mention I woke up with a urinary tract infection? Yes, I had dirty sex this weekend after our date. And now I am paying for it with pee that burns like fire. I was so desperate that I took some antibiotics that were kicking around from my last UTI, but I couldn't take because I was nursing. Hooray. That's why I'm up. Because I am researching to make sure I haven't done something stupid. Thankfully Cipro takes decades to expire. Phew! Not dying. I'm also researching dairy and Cipro, because the bottle says not to have milk when you're taking Cipro, but I had a glass after downing half a bar of French chocolat (yeah, I'm bad, but PMS...?) I am freaking out. For nothing. As usual.

The Dog comes home and the house is a mess. There are CDs and toys strewn everywhere. Nate and I have just had a bath together and are getting ready for bed when the Dog walks in. He's got underlying tension, though he's genuinely happy to see Nate. I must also be tense about seeing the Dog, because Nate is non-plussed about seeing his Daddy. In fact, when the Dog picks him up, Nate starts to cry. The Dog heads to the kitchen to reheat his dinner and Nate and I come downstairs to ask him how his day was and spend a few minutes with him before Nate falls asleep. But the Dog's not eating. Well, he's eating, but straight out of the pot. He's too busy to sit down and eat because he's psychotically cleaning up. This made me take Nate up to his room and cry. The good things I had done cancelled out by the fact that I left the house a mess. Ugh. I am not Superwoman. I am deflated.

The tension between us is palpable.

Daddy Dog is all smiles when I return from putting the puppy down for bed. He ends up eating the entire dinner, when I had made enough for leftovers tomorrow. He doesn't seem to get that this means I will have to cook more food tomorrow. He says it shouldn't bother me that he is compulsively cleaning instead of enjoying his evening with his family. I suggest to him that it's not normal that he can't come home and relax, just because there are a few toys on the floor. I get madder and madder as the evening progresses.

He bought a saxophone on eBay for $20. He's so excited until an email comes that informs him that he owes 150 GBP in shipping costs. He swears he never saw that. I click on the link and there, below the 18 photos of the sax, in BRIGHT PINK, is the extortionist shipping cost. How does one miss that? He's used eBay before. Doesn't one normally ask the seller how much shipping is? Thankfully, the guy is in China and is very honourable and let's the Dog bow out of the deal. This only makes me want to kill him slightly less. I can't stop the increasingly negative feelings I have towards him? How do I go from being totally in love with him one day, and wanting to smother him with a pillow the next? PMS should stand for Pretty Mental Syndrome.

Then he goes up to brush his teeth and leaves the laundry baskets. "I can't believe you!" I scream. He runs downstairs with his toothbrush in his mouth. "You're not going to get mad at me for that are you?" Oh, too late my friend. Too late. We won't even touch as we get into bed. There is a Cold War happening in the spot where our son sometimes sleeps between us. Tonight, it's No Man's Land.

10 Pound Challenge Update #1

OK, so how's it going for you? Here's how my weekend -- and my muffin top -- has been shaping up.

Friday was the last day of the conference at work. I started paying attention to the typical mistakes that I make every day. For instance, I had what may be the best croissant in Toronto at Mercato on Toronto Street. And as if a buttery croissant wasn't bad enough, I washed it down with a coffee with three creamers. Bad start to Friday. We walked to lunch, from King to roughly Dundas (the length of 3 subway stops) to Salad King, where I had veggie spring rolls with water to drink. Fried, but not bad if I'm sticking to cutting down on the whites.

When I got home Queen Nomad and her hubby Green Genius were in my house! We hugged each other tightly and giggled about how we missed feeling our Buddha bellies jiggle against each other. She brought me European chocolate (uh-oh) and we sat around drinking tea and catching up. It has been 8 months since we last saw each other. Far too long for two friends who love each other so much.

After the Dog left for work, the rest of us headed to the daycare to pick up Nate. I was worried that Nate would not remember his godparents, that he would make strange, but no, he was totally at ease with them right off the bat. We took a long walk through the cute side streets that lead towards Queen St E and dreamed of a day when they might be a short walk away from me (they're staying with her brother in Vaughan until they get work, etc). I bought some healthy stuff at Meat on the Beach, beers at LCBO and then back home to make up my famous fajitas.

Queen Nomad has an aversion for things of a creamy texture, so it was easy to leave sour cream out of the fajitas. I made guacamole with tomatoes and green onions and decided that a bit of grated cheddar cheese would be OK for the diet. I couldn't find the whole wheat tortillas, so I ended up having white flour. Hmmm, not the best.

And I couldn't have my best friend over without a pint of Ben and Jerry's could I? Drat. Friday was not a good diet day, but I did end up taking two long walks which I hope cancel out my bad eating..

Saturday I woke up, giddy to have my bf in the house. We had brunch with Green Genius's best friend, M, and his fiancee N, at Sunset Grill on the Danforth. I had Eggs Florentine. I only had half a piece of toast for dipping, but Florentine in itself has super fatty Hollandaise sauce on it over poached eggs (not fried), spinach (good) and English muffin (not whole wheat - bad). I skipped the potatoes that came on the plate, but had coffee with cream again -- gotta switch to milk at least.

Then we headed to a gallery, where M's photography was showing in the Contact festival. Nate ran around the showroom and left his own artistic mark -- a dirty handprint on a wall. This lead QN and I searching frantically for a diaper wipe to clean the offending baby grafitti. The gallery owner didn't seem too keen on us letting Nate run around his place of business, so Nate and I bid farewell to our friends and headed up to my folk's place.

At Yaya and Dede's, Tante walked in the door with a pizza. Again, not whole wheat dough (can't we just outlaw white flour?) and fatty cheese (oh cheese, how I love thee) but at least it was cheap pizza, so there wasn't loads of it. I played with Nate in the yard for a while and then left to meet the Dog for our first official date night in a while.

We went out to see MI3. It was a totally awesome date movie, action packed and with the added bonus of being directed by JJ Abrams (Lost, Alias, Felicity). The movie took itself lightly, which is what made it so enjoyable. My favourite element of the movie was that JJ decided to reference memorable Tom Cruise moments from his body of work. So MI3 is dotted with these "Easter eggs" and you can make a game out of just trying to pick them out.

The Dog got butter on his popcorn, so I only took two handfuls. After the film, we ran into some friends who invited us out for Vietnamese. I almost said yes, because I'm usually the more social of the two of us. "Um, actually, we're on a date," the Dog said, "So we should probably just stick to the two of us."

We headed to Kubo Radio where we shared spring rolls (what can I say? We love spring rolls!) and a mango and shrimp salad. I had one Lychee martini and a few sips of some other mango martini that was super barfous. I was tipsy and my liver was glad to be put to work -- we have to start somewhere. The Dog and I talked about all sorts of things, the types of things that fueled our minds before Nate. (We have a date rule where we each get ONE, and only one, "Nate mention".) We took a cab home and fell asleep watching a pre-McDreamy Patrick Dempsey in Can't Buy Me Love.

Watching what I eat involves more concentration than I've been giving it. I don't know how to say no to myself. I feel like if I want it, I should have it. What could it hurt? This attitude hinders me in other areas of my life too. For example, I think this way when I'm shopping too. I guess that in order to get anywhere with these damn 10 lbs, I have to alter this way of thinking first.

Friday Challenge #3: The 10 Pound Challenge

Though I was mostly on good behaviour at my staff party last night, I noticed how obsenely glutonous I was being. I stuffed my face with every whore d'oevres that came by. It got to the point that I disgusted not only a coworker, who steered me away from the buffet, but the hot gay actor/server, who would attempt to beeline away from me when he saw me flagging him down for another mini spring roll.

I need help. I looked over at my buddy who is on a strict diet for health reasons. She can't eat a lot of stuff, but she looks healthy. She has great skin and a great figure. And I thought, hmmm, maybe I should attempt to get a bit fitter before I have to show my stretched out tummy/hip skin to the world again.

Then I thought, well who doesn't need to lose 10 pounds? Well my coworker for one, but most people do! So why not sign up together? I am a huge fan of the buddy system, and on a blog we don't have to weigh in together or share food diaries or tell anyone what we weigh. No! We just have to comment on our successes and failures on the road to 10 lbs. I'll be running this Friday Challenge for the next few Fridays -- as long as it takes me to lose the 10.

My method of losing the 10 will involve

a) reducing the amount of whites I consume (sugar, flour, dairy, mayo)
b) trying to walk for at least 30 minutes a day
c) doing some yoga or other strenghtening exercise at least once a week

You can do this too, or choose your own method (check with a doctor first. Anorexics and Bulimics need not apply). I promise to stalk those who say they accept the challenge to see if they are keeping up with it. That's as uncomfortable as it might get. So who's in?

An Open Letter to Myself

Dear Scarb,

You have well documented your intent to proceed with Operation Baby 2007. So let me be the first to give you a wake up call. You need to start now. No, not conceiving. Partying. Rippin' it up old skool stylee. Givin'er. Because you are about to enter the no-drinking zone (God-willing) later this year. Which means sitting through the holidays (Last Warm Stat Day Off Work Day, Thanksgivin'er, The Night Your In-Laws Get Into A Huge Screaming Match that Ends Up in Tears Eve, and Dick Clark comes out of the Fridge Eve) sober.

Then, knowing you, you'll breastfeed until the new one is going to school. So there's another hundred booze-free weeks. Do you see where I'm going with this? You have a rep to uphold. You can't be putting the international cocktail symbol up on your site without putting in some proof. Some 40 proof. OK, OK, I'll settle for 14% wine.

Seriously though, you haven't done any real damage in a while. You got drunk off two glasses of wine at your staff party tonight. Two. Remember the good ol' days when we used to line up tequila shots at the bar and chase them with beer? And that was just so we could get our "base". Or the time at the chalet when you challenged those ginos to a drinking contest? You mixed tequila and Kahlua and set it on fire and sucked it back with a straw, over and over again until you were the last one standing. Ah... GTs, GTs.

Scarb, I love ya, but ya gotta put me to work for the next few months. Because, frankly, I'm bored with my job. I want it back the way it used to be. Queen Nomad's back in town, the weather's kicking up and the ice cubes are cold. Put on some Montell Jordan and let's show the peeps that "This is How We Do It!"

Whaddya say? Let's do it up one last summer. For old times sake?

Sincerely,

~Your Liver

PS: Stock up on Advil while you're at it. Oh, and spare me the lame ass "Oh God I'm so old and I hate taking care of a baby hungover" excuse please. Thanks. This'll be fun. I promise.

An Open Letter to Jared Leto

Continuing with Open Letter Week...
Inspired by GGC's post about her disappointing meetings with her idols.

[photo removed due to weird Google searches]Oh Jared, Oh Jared.

How I loved you as the dreamy, unattainable Jordan Catalano on My So Called Life. You were just the kind of bad boy a nerdy girl like me--I mean Angela--would fall for. Your eyes, like shimmering blue pools. Your bad boy interview in Details magazine, talking about how you grew up poor and your mom used food stamps. How the 20-year-old me wanted to hold you, to heal your hurts. If I could only meet you, I could show you that I was "the one".

5 years later, I got my chance. I would be working on a film that cast you in a supporting role. I couldn't believe it! No one in the office knew who you were! "Oh my God! He was only Jordan Catalano, the hottest character on TV. Yes, hotter than Dillon McKay. You don't remember him in How to Make an American Quilt? Well what about Fight Club? He was the guy with the bleached blonde hair. OK, but he was way hotter than that on MSCL, I swear! And he is so cool and I bet he's super nice..."

And then I noticed you standing there, fresh of the plane from L.A. My heart stopped. You had heard me gushing. Ack! You could have played it cool, or eased my embarrassment. But no, you looked right at me and WINKED! As if to say, "Here in the flesh baby! I'll be asking YOU to fetch my Starbucks." Sure, I was an iron-on teed, cargo panted, Spice Girl frankensneakered Production Assistant (from fucking Canada no less) and you were dating Cameron-fucking-Diaz! But you're an actor dude, you coulda faked it a little, no?

Then your insane jealousy and immaturity began. When I asked you what you wanted to eat, you wanted to know what HE was having. Before takes you would burp like a child, annoying the crew, yet unable to shake the class act who was your costar. And maybe that's why he gets to be Batman, while coordinators and assistants are still sitting around production offices wondering who the fuck is this Leeto or Leh-toe jerk who needs to be picked up from the airport.

I don't got yo back no mo. We thru.

~ Formerly Your Dream Girl

Who Are the People In Your Neighbourhood? Episode 2

Episode 2: The Skids

The Moms have appraised me that I have never fully blogged about the many incidents with my crazy neighbours. I have hinted at what my hood is like here,here and here. But I have yet to tell you guys the most hilarious of my collection of Who Are the People In Your Neighbourhood tales. I shall breakdown a few members of our cast of characters with reasonable facsimiles to help your mental image, (many of these examples are from Canadian pop culture. We do white trash entertainment at its finest. Though, in the States, you do have Britney.), and offer up small stories to help illustrate my journey of new home ownership.

When we came to the open house, and later to the inspection, we somehow never noticed the house next door had a snowman on the door. In the middle of June. It never fully clicked in, the kind of people that would do that. All I saw was a crafty wood and wire doo-dad that I assumed said "Welcome" and never looked twice. It was amazing that The Skids, as we lovingly call them, weren't at home during the open house, because they were ALWAYS out front of the house once we moved in. The former owner of this house must have paid them $50 to go and get drunk elsewhere for the day. Had I known they lived there, we probably wouldn't have bought this house.

Donny: At the best of times, Donny, my former next door neighbour, reminded me of Mr. Lahey from Trailer Park Boys, without the moustache and the fat sidekick. He was the type of guy who probably started out with big dreams, but never actually wanted to do the work involved to make them come true. He was one failed get-rich-quick scam after another. He could usually be found on the sidewalk in front of their house on his cell phone (guess they had bad reception inside), huffing and puffing, while passing the buck on something. "Of course I didn't sell you a turkey! I've been driving Volkswagons for years! I KNOW about cars. If the car doesn't work, it's because you musta burnt the clutch out, you dumb bitch..." Great customer service technique.

Donny was one of four brothers, many of whom lived in the house next door at some point. Even though some of the brothers got evicted, they would still show up every night, hammered and high, coming and going in cars at all hours of the night. Donny would often get into drunken brawls with his roommate of the month, on the sidewalk in front of our house at 4 am. Except he's not exactly Russell Crowe. So he would just yell and slobber and stumble around like an idiot, putting up his "dukes" like he was in some old movie. Eventually he would give up and get back in his car and drive away. (We have called the cops about this several times to no avail.)

Donny was always polite. "Hi neighbour! Where's the baby?" he asked through beer goggles on night as we tried to sneak by unnoticed. We told him that our son was at my mum's. "Awww. What's his name again?" He lost his balance a bit while we told him, "Nate." He took a drag of his smoke and said, "Aw fuck. I'll never remember that."

Though he claimed to have two children, we never saw them. The only time we saw him with women was on the 1st and the 15th of the month when the welfare cheques would come in.

**********************************

Kevin: The youngest of the brothers, Kevin was the one I trusted least. He was always up to something, always looking twitchy. He sorta looked like Terry from FUBAR, but he was even skinnier. You know, that tiny heroin-loving rocker ass? His hair was short and one might say he was even mildly attractive, but he was sketch, sketch, SKETCH! He is the one who stole de-icing salt off our porch, I am sure, to smoke it.

The Dog was taking the garbage out one night when Kevin called him over. "Hey buddy, you got a pipe cleaner, or a coat hanger?" The Dog asked what for. "Oh, ya see I've got this snow-blower motor here, and I've got this bike. Now if I could just tie them together, I'd have me a motor bike. All the kids are doing it these days. It's not really legal, so if the cops stop me, I'll just untie the motor and ride away." Fantastic logic. Why isn't this guy working at CSIS? (Canadian FBI)

The day we got the keys to our new home, the skids were out front, moving Kevin's things out of the garage. Wife beater tanks, cut-off jean shorts, Playboy bunny tattoos, smokes that got smoked without ever being withdrawn by hand to exhale, Molson Canadians at 11 am. Kevin had been evicted for awhile, but never had a place to take his things apparently. Not like eviction stopped him from being next door 24-7.

The following days, we were busy painting, etc. I was late getting to the house this particular day. Nate was staying with my mom and I had run up there to see him, feed him and hand over my expressed goods. When I got to the house, Queen Nomad recounted this story for me. Someone had come to our front door and asked that the Dog meet him out back. When the Dog went to the back door, he saw Kevin climbing over our other neighbours fence and then onto the roof of the neighbours addition, and then onto the roof of our addition. The Dog had to go to the upstairs bedroom to talk to the dirty skid.

"Hey buddy, I just wanted to talk to ya about this roof. Because, uh, my brothers and I, we do roofs. We've done all the work on this house. I just wanted to point out that whoever they got to do this roof did a shitty job. [that's right, he just said HE did all the work, and then two seconds later he said it was a shitty job] If you give me $200, I'll come up here with my blowtorch and smooth it all out for yas."

Um, yeah right. Needless to say, it was only the start of hilarity to come. To be continued next time with The Tale of the Neighbour Who Tried to Date My Cat

Cute Shoe Competition

I am in an exciting conference all week, learning about the fabulous titles we have coming out in the fall. I know I will never be able to read all of them. *sigh*

I have a technique to stay awake in long meetings. It involves focussing on something or someone. It also involves me writing a lot of notes to Ragdoll to determine who is gay and who is married. Today it involved me making a list of the top 5 shoes in the meeting.

I've always wondered about the whole shoe-on-chicklit-book-cover thing. Now I get it. The publishing world has a shoe fetish. I noticed this yesterday when in meetings with the "downtown girls" who work in our Toronto office (I'm out in the burbs most of the time). There were fabulous shoes on the feet of my co-workers. Shoes to make your eyes wish they could walk. Shoes that would make your credit card drool. Shoes that were green like my envy. Today I brought my A game -- a new pair of Nine West kitten heel sandals, in an edgy choice of bronze/brown snakeskin, with a band of feathers across the toes (hard to describe). I did not make the grade. There were awesomer (it's my blog, I can make words up) shoes in the room.

I felt a bit the dowdy mum. (I know, I know, I'm not all that dowdy, but I felt like it. ) The former hipster in me cried out in pain. "You used to be cool! All this Clinton and Stacey bullshit has made you dull and generic!"

Thankfully, Wednesday is my day off and although I just had to cut a huge income tax check for the government (yes, I KNOW! I didn't even work last year!), I may just have to buy a little ego boost for Thursday's meetings and the soirée aprés.

16 months old

My Flickr Gallery's been updated with our most recent photos. Enjoy!