Mini-Break

I'll be offline for a few days. We decided to squeak in a little family time before I head back to work.

All the Petite Anglaise books have been spoken for, so thanks for writing. I do love getting your emails and comments.

Stay well.

The Sweetest Job

So um, I kinda, sorta got a new job.

And I like, kinda, sorta, er, wanted to tell you all about it, but:

a) I'm Middle Eastern and therefore extremely superstitious. Case in point: I have the job, have signed the offer, they are ordering me business cards -- yet I'm still thinking this post is going to unintentionally get me the evil eye. And then I will have no job. That's why this post is getting slapped with one of these --

If you don't know, this is a Greek/Turkish/Armenian talisman for keeping the evil eye away. It's supposed to be an eye, that deflects the evil eye. If you don't have one of these handy, you're supposed to wear something blue as a consolation. This reminds me that I owe you a post on what I like to call Middle Eastern voodoo, soon.

This achk will make my mother proud. In fact, when I finally get MotherBumper to give this site a facelift, I'm gonna ask her to plaster my site with these. Maybe they could sub in for my signature fertilized olives.

Where was I? Oh yes...

b) I kinda, sorta had this other job to go back to. And I really love that company and the people who work there. And so if I blogged about the three interviews I had to get this job, the old job would know, before I had anything to tell them. This was the first time in forever that I went for a job when I already had the safety of another one. It puts you in a really great position. How great is it that I was happy to have either job?

In the end it came down to a few things:

1) My former employer feels really strongly that the success of her team is dependant on everyone working out of the same office at the same time.

2) Said office is near the airport and the cost of gas is going up.

3) I didn't want to spend every morning in a chaotic (read: bitchy) state of forcing small people to wake, get dressed, eat and then out the door, only to remember while on the Gardiner that I forgot to eat breakfast or wear shoes.

4) Though marketing great books online is fun, it's not totally what I want to do in the long run. This new job is a better fit for my skill set and the big picture.

5) The owner/creator of the new company is very inspiring. She built this company herself and it's doing incredibly well. She's someone I could learn a lot from.

6) I DO NOT want to let these amazing women down. I like that the bar was set during the interview with a very telling sentence. It's been a while since someone trusted me to take such ownership in something they are so invested in. That motivates me to my peak performance levels.

7) Their office is pink and the office manager makes notoriously fantastic cupcakes. CUPCAKES!

I could go on, but I get the feeling the suspense is killing you, so I'll divulge. I am the new Editor of Sweetmama.ca, a subsidiary of Sweetspot.ca, which is kinda like Daily Candy, but Canadian! You can't beat the local factor of this kind of information.

Who can keep up with all the latest trends, products, shopping info, online stores, etc? Well, that's our job. All you have to do is sign up for our free newsletter, and our pretty emails will be delivered to your inbox. You'll be talking about the next hot stroller before it hits the stores. Come on! That is valuable info at the playground.

Anyway, I'm thrilled to bits. I get to play with words. And images. And shopping. And freelance writers. I get to work from home most days, so I won't be rushing off in a huff each day. I can help make a small business take off. There's definitely a feel good aspect to the job. And cupcakes. Did I mention the cupcakes?

Thanks to all the people who sent me good vibes. Here's to the next chapter of Scarb. There is ample good blog fodder to come!

Oh look! Free blooks!

Well it's been a LONG time since I gave away free books here. For one, I no longer work for the lovely free book company. (Detailed post to follow.) For two, I was so pregnant and then doing the newborn thing for so long that I think I've just been keeping my reading habits to myself. (I'm sure if I listed them 99% in the last year would be sleep books -- seriously, I should have a sleep PHD after all this.)

Anyway, I have freebies to give away. For one, because the big and lovely free book company still loves me. (*sigh* the feeling is mutual. The decision was tough...) And for two, the big book company really loves all of you.

So who here loves Paris? Who loves London? Are you like me? Are you torn between your Francophilia and your Anglophilia? I won't ask you if you like reading blogs, because if you didn't you would not be here.

Well what if I told you that one of the biggest bloggers on the web (NO. Not Dooce! Argh. Why does everyone immediately think of damn Dooce?) had written a blook? What if I told you that she's a Brit, living in Paris and that her blog was Petite Anglaise? Does that strike your Coronation Street-watching, croissant-eating fancy? It does mine. I'm halfway through aforementioned blook and can't wait to turn off this laptop and get back to it.

So then what if I told you that I had THREE copies of Petite Anglaise the blook to give away? Not quite enough to get you dancing behind your desk? What if I said that the three winners of this lovely Eiffel Towered blook would also get to come to brunch at a very posh French resto in Toronto in June, where the author will be joining us via webcam? (The day before her wedding no less!)

The first three people to email me (scarbiedoll[at]gmail[dot]com) will win an advanced copy of Petite Anglaise by the one and only Catharine Sanderson, AND brunch at an amazingly reviewed establishment with other bloggers or blog-lovers. (Don't be shy non-bloggers. You read. That's all you need to do to win really.) But we need an extra skill-testing level here. You must write me in Franglais (so that I have a good laugh) OR just send me the names of three fabulous places in Paris. Could be bistros, or cafes or shopping destinations, even parcs.

Oh and for those who don't win, Catharine Sanderson will be doing a GUEST POST HERE! On my little blog. How cool is that. I think she'll be dropping by May 30th. I'll keep you posted.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be sneaking some Madeleines up to my bedroom so I can quell the stress as I continue reading about Catharine's... predicament. (Though really, a trip to her blog sorta tells you that all ends well, but I keep pretending I don't know that so I enjoy the read more.) Bon soir!

April 24

I wrote a long post tonight about the Armenian Genocide. But I am too afraid to post it. Can you believe that? I live in Canada, a country where it’s now illegal to deny that the genocide did in fact happen. Yet I’m still afraid. Afraid for my family who still live in Turkey. Afraid of what people who drop in via Google will say. Afraid that any mention of Genocide will land me on some watch list that will have someone get all fundamentalist on my opinionated, liberal, female, Armo ass. It's happened before -- just over a year ago, to a journalist who was as critical of Armenians as he was of Turks. That's effed-up.

Interestingly enough, I must have googled enough red flag stuff to make Big Brother shut down my Internet connection temporarily. I took that as a sign.

I don’t like to get political on my blog. It’s my sanctuary and I loathe when strangers decide to take a shit on my blog carpet. I don’t mind when people scold me for a snarky viewpoint, or disagree with a choice I’ve made. It’s the pure anonymous vitriol that gets under the skin of most bloggers. But hey, if we’re exposing ourselves on this level, then we should just suck it up, right? Unfortunately we are humans with feelings and that’s harder to do sometimes than it is to pay lip service to.

But sometimes it's good. Sometimes a comment that smarts gets you thinking. Last year on April 24, all I was thinking about was my sorry pregnant self, when I received a comment that said, "What a post for an Armenian to make on April 24th." I was mortified. How could I forget?

All I will say about the Armenian Genocide is this: We have to learn to forgive in order to have a future. We’re never going to get back our lost relatives. Most of them would be dead by now anyway. We’re never going to repair the lives that were severed (on both sides) because of this horrible black spot in history. It's never going to hurt less that an entire government thought that we should be exterminated, or that the world was too busy to do anything about it. But maybe, just maybe, if we could find a way to release the hurt and the anger, we could start over again.

ANTM: Viva Roma

Well, since I'm catching up on my TV, I might as well weigh in on ANTM this week.

I kinda hope Anya doesn't win, because she could actually be a successful model. And let's face it, Tyrant Banks has never turned out a working model. The winners do one cover shoot for Seventeen, one Covergirl ad and then you never see them again. (Except for that first one that ended up on Surreal Life and bizarrely married Peter Brady. Oh wait, Caridee did one horrible turn on Gossip Girl last year as Bart's date.)

Witney needs to watch tape of herself on the show over and over again and then just not do whatever it is that she's doing. I've had it with her. Come on girl! We need some size 10 heroes! Enough already.

Fatima -- whatever. She bugs me, and I'm certain she bugs you as well.

Dominique -- oh dear. I am starting to love her a bit. She's just so herself. Plus Miss Jay saying he still thinks she's a "brother" made me spit tea across the room. This poor woman has a BABY! But yes, there is definitely something unmistakably tranny about her. And I live for good tranny humour.

Katarzyna -- I'm a bit sweet on her too. She's got a bit of attitude. I want to see more of that. They keep treating her like some smuggled in Russian Natasha when she's clearly a very American girl.

Lauren -- well, well. Even your doppelganger Martha Plimpton knew how to rock a room. The apathy thing won't get you past 25. After that it's not cool to not give a shit anymore. You can be edgy without being blasé about things that make you uncomfortable.

What did you think of the show? Looking forward to next week? Who's next to go? I have seen my sister's pics with those shitty Roman gladiators molesting her and her bestie and lemme say, I think that could make for good TV fodder next week.

Gossip Girl

Spotted: Karla -- from the world's most annoying kids' show Hi 5 -- serving Bellini's to B at Butter. Betcha didn't know that little teeny boppers.

Yours,

GG

Nateisms: Big Brother Edition

While leaving in the morning to go to preschool/daycare:

"Bye girls!" Then mumbles to his dad, "They're the girls and we're the boys, wight Daddy?"

"Right buddy."

"Because we have tethticles, wight?"

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

The Dog and I are in the middle of an argument and it's getting rather loud.

Nate: "Stop it guys! Stop it wight now!"

Us: "Sorry Nate. We'll stop."

Nate: "If you don't stop, I'm going to put you on that step and you won't even get to play. No TV! No nothing!"

Us: (repressing laughs) "Uh, OK. We promise. We'll stop."

Nate: (on a roll) "And Mommy -- if you take your slippers off again, I'm gonna get weally mad at you!"

**************************************
The last remnants of baby talk worth saving:

"I want to wear my lellow sweater!"

"Don't forget your helmlet daddy!"

Sprung

The Earth is experiencing her renaissance again. Each day as I watch the buds form on the heaping trees in my yard, I am reminded that Spring is a time of rebirth for every living species on this planet. Including me.

This morning, father and son tenderly assembled patio furniture on our deck. I fed our newest bud the purée du jour so she would blossom into the flower she's meant to be. I thought back to a year ago, the anticipation of her arrival, the early kicks. The secret of her identity.

The sun shone on our smiling faces this morning, reminding me that our fights are petty and what we have is so precious. Soon, when the leaf canopy fills in, we won't have to squint as we stare into each other's eyes.

We had dinner at my in-laws, the first burgers of the season. Baby girl was passed from lap to lap as she gurgled and drooled and made everyone fall in love. "Wow! She's so big," said the neighbour.

We made a motion to leave. We're responsible parents now and need to address bathtimes and bedtimes. So the fifth beer was put on ice as we gathered our children and our things.

"I'm not going anywhere," came a taunting, defiant wee voice. "Can I stay here?" He is a boy now. He decides when to go, when to stay, when there is unfinished business that needs attending to. We told him he needs to ask Grandma. He approached her with the sweetest of coy looks. "Grandma, can I stay here tonight?" She is helpless against his cuteness.

He is growing, growing and soon he'll be grown. One day he will use those same eyes to convince a woman to spend the night. It will happen just as quickly as the filling in of the trees. One day there is nothing, the next a bud. Then bam! The most beautiful, vital, mature paean to living you've ever seen.

"Bye Mom," he says casually. Before you know it, it will be autumn and they will leave me with an empty tree.

For now, I watch the buds and pray for time to be kind.

Flu Savers

Because I can still barely hold my head up, (and methinks the baby's about to get it too, poor thing) but I hate to leave people reading the same depressing crap for a week, I thought I'd tide you over until I can form sentences that are fewer than 30 words long.

Here's what's been keeping me going:

1. My Mom: Really, the woman actually deserves a medal. But since I can't do that from my sick bed, I'll dedicate an entire post to her tomorrow. Because she puts the ierce in Fierce. Whatever that means.

2. Gemma Townley's Little White Lies. If you're going to be decadent and read chicklit, you may as well sink your teeth into Townley. Her books are like cupcakes: sweet and cute on the outside, with just enough yummy substance in the middle. This is not a new book, but one I'd never gotten around to. It was just sitting in the spare room of my mom's house, daring me to take a chance and it was well worth it.

Quick Summary: Natalie from Bath moves to London and feels like a lonely loser, until she decides to open some fancy mail left for the former occupant of the flat. Lies, love and designer fabulousness -- what could be better in a chicky novel?

3. Reg Harkema's Monkey Warfare: This was a Last Chance on the TMN on Demand so ti had to be watched. I love a good Canadian movie that's not trying to be anything but itself. This fit the bill. I had loved Harkema's first film, A Girl is a Girl, and the Dog told me that Monkey Warfare would not disappoint. It made me nostalgic for my West-end, bike-riding, garbage picking, stoner days.

Quick Summary: Two ex-revolutionary, bike-riding, scavenging, Torontonian stoners meet a cute 20-something pot-dealer. Quirky, adorable, awesome, hilarious Don McKellarness ensues. If that turns your crank, you can download the movie for $10 here.

4. ANTM: Does it get any better people? Really! Here's what I predict -- "Oh my gosh, my name is Anya and you should totally get this concealer. Because, like, easy, breezy, bootiful, Covergirl. Like, you know? Because, like, omigod, it's really awesome." (Damn, it's no good without the inflections.) Although to me she looks like one of those underwater psychics in Minority Report, she's starting to win me over. At least she's keeping it together. Plus it's fun to do colour commentary during the show in Anya-speak.

Witney! Stop with the overcompensating! Who gives a shite that you are a size 10? With a face like that the world is your oyster. Argh, she reminds me of myself at that age, all stupidly mouthy. But I HAD to! I was a size 10 AND I look like me. Which isn't that bad, but I wouldn't even make Armenia's Next Top Model. Fo rilla. Pull it together girl! You actually have a shot. Stop trying so hard and just chill. Tyra is right. (Oh Lord, I just said that, didn't I? Must be chilly down in Hades...)

5. My Homey: What is not to love about my homey? Oh sure, there's the incredible price tag that comes with the pleasure of her company and healing remedies, but it's a small price to pay. She will probably email me after reading this to tell me that her prices are not exorbitant, and it's true, I exaggerate a bit. No, I take it back, it's a total luxury to spend your money on custom healthcare. Some people spend it on shoes, some on spas -- me? I just want this family to feel better and be up on their feet fast. I have seen firsthand what can be done without resorting to the modern medical system and I stand by it.

While we're on the subject, she also wants me to tell you that she's not anti-vaccine, however she is opposed to the one-size-fits-all regime of modern medicine.

6. The Seal Hunt: Oh a strange one perhaps, but few things divide this country like The Seal Hunt. (OK, Quebec separatism, Buble vs Feist, East or West, who hates Toronto the most**... it's a really big country. We divide a lot.) Each year I like to debate the issue in my own head.

For the record, I like baby seals. They are cute and seem smart. Though definitely cuter with the baby fur on them than without. Sure they are clubbed to death pretty brutally. Sure lots of seal stuff is sold abroad and that's fucked up. But have you seen these sealers? They are not living it up like Paris Hilton based on illicit seal sales. You and I would not live where they live for good money. Seal is pretty much the only kind of meat around there. Mind you, if there wasn't a market for seals, perhaps no one would have ever moved up there. Tough call.

I do think that we forget a very important fact in all this: Eating meat of any kind is brutal, ugly business. Since we no longer have to do the dirty work ourselves and it comes all pretty and packaged, we are desensitized. We are such a spoiled, wasteful bunch of idiots spouting our mouths off about everything. (Including yours truly.) If we each had to be completely self-sustaining, we wouldn't even have time to think about what people were doing to seals. Poor, cute, innocent seals...

** Oh they get their knickers in a twist, trying to outdo each other on the Toronto-bashing. But I'm sorry Canada, we actually do that best too. Nobody hates Toronto as much as we who love it most.

Ship. Sunk.

I've often wondered how it would go down when I finally managed to succumb to sickness with two kids. In these... hmm... fantasies doesn't seem appropriate here, nor does daydreams... anyway, whenever I thought about this scenario, there was one crucial part to it -- The Dog would be around to deal with the chaos.

After being on Snot Patrol for a week, it was inevitable that I would go down. After five days of feverish three-year-old and his neediness, I turned to homeopathy to help get rid of his virus. The result was a violent expulsion of mucous. Sneezes that ended up in globby, green messes on the floor and, of course, on me.

My sister has been listening to a Deepak Chopra audio book and after Model on Wednesday we were discussing the power of mind over matter. I really tried. I really, really tried to ignore the snot showers. I pretended that they didn't harm me, but it was no use. On Thursday when the Dog got a flat tire on his bike, right after a well-deserved hot shower on my part, I had no choice but to go out with wet hair and pick him up. I'm sure I caught a chill.

Friday morning I woke up to a sore throat, but I chalked it up to three bottles of wine the night before and went on with the day. Plus, Nate was still so ill and clingy, that there was no time to think of myself. But I knew it was coming. Because after I sent the kids to my mom's ahead of me, I had to drive the Dog to the airport.

That's right. He's away. As in, NOT HERE. And I am so farking sick. I am sick to the point that I can barely stand, barely open my eyes and I just wanted to sleep all day. I most certainly did not want to breastfeed a baby, wipe projectile snot off a preschooler, or force aforementioned preschooler to use the potty all day. Thank heaven I am at my mother's.

The Dog is off to Edmonton. Our friends there are getting divorced and it's sad. So the Dog is consoling his much-loved friend with beer and disc-golf and talk about wrestlers and how they played Dungeons and Dragons when they were 14. It's sad to know that a 6-year marriage is dissolving over differences that don't seem so irreconcilable from the outside. I admire that the Dog would fly so far to be there for a friend. But the other half of me wants to throttle him for running off to have fun while I'm up to my armpits in sick.

In the midst of child-minding today, I almost passed out. Nate was desperate to sit on my lap to force Lucy, who was nursing, off. When he is in these moods, he gets so furious when I nurse his sister. It's brutal on days when you don't have the patience for it -- and neither does he. So after I fed her in a very half-assed way and passed her to my mom, I tried to run away to the guest room where I sleep and shut the door. I just needed to lie down and be alone and pretend that no one needed me for 30 minutes.

A mega melt-down ensued and no matter what my mom tried, Nate would not relent. "Fine, you can go lie down next to your mommy -- but don't you dare touch her!" my mother scolded.

Nate came into my room and crawled into bed next to me. I was crying. I needed to take care of myself. Could I not get a moment's peace? Even though there are so many hands here to help, the side effect of attachment parenting Nate is that he is up my ass all the time. He wants no one else but me.

I feel horrible for poor Lucy, who has done nothing wrong, but only gets mum for a few minutes to have a quick drink. She is always being passed off to someone else in times like these and though she goes happily, I feel guilty about it. Because I know she will be the reverse. She will be too independent for my comfort and that's going to cause static when she's 16.

Anyway, Nate nestled against my body with his back to me. I was feeling so sorry for myself. I took his hand and placed it on my cheek, hoping to get some comfort from his soft paw. He looked at me earnestly, with those big eyes, and said, "Ya-Ya told me not to touch you. So I'm twying to keep my hands to myself!"

Well who could not laugh at that? And though my head felt like Baghdad, I held him close and we fell asleep in each others' arms. Maybe there's a little life in these sails yet.

******************************
In other news, I think Kate has had or is having her baby. As in right now. Finally. I talked to her stomach on the phone yesterday and basically said, "Hey there, this is your Auntie Nad. Get the fuck out. It's time." I think it worked. I got a cryptic text around 4 pm that said something about contractions and tired and hospital. So I'm going to guess they were on their way. Exciting!

Treble/Base

April 10, 1998. Friday night. We managed to find street parking. Always a sure sign of a good night to come. We four hot young things, too hot for this particular bar, made our way down the stairs to find my friends from school. We'd finished our classes and it was time to celebrate. It also happened to be the birthday of a guy friend who had recently started to make my stomach flip-flop when he entered a room.

I had taken special care getting dressed, wearing the super-tight electric blue pants that made my butt look spectacular. I teetered on ridiculously high heels as I ascended each step. I adjusted my boobs in my push-up bra and smacked my glossy lips, like a modern day, good-girl-gone-bad Sandra Dee. Show time.

I introduced the girls to my college crew around the table, making sure I paused and gave a special intonation when I said, "And that's Jan." Somehow, over a few drinks, I lost the girls and found myself nestled next to him, playfully antagonizing the drunken birthday boy. His former crush, the girl that all the guys had the hots for, sat across from us in high-waisted jeans and an Everlast tee. Her buxom chest warped the letters on the shirt.

I wanted to wipe that smug smile off her attractive face when my friend CF leaned in to me. "You know, she tried to come on to him last night at the bar and he turned her down," he said with a suggestive smile. Oh really?

"So, I hear Michelle was all over you last night. Why don't you go for her?" I taunted. We were such good friends that it was totally normal for me to bug him about girls he liked. That's what we did. I mocked his infatuation with Michelle and he laughed at my crush on Petey Mac. It was laughable after all -- we two outcasts, mere mortals, vying for the affections of these stunning Titans.

It was also comical because Petey Mac had this crazy love for the Celine Dion song from Titanic. And that's what sealed his fate. Oh sure, he was way too young for me and wasn't all that into me. But when we had danced at the formal a few weeks earlier and he sang the words to "My Heart Will Go On" passionately and out-of-key, I knew there was no chance. Instead my heart leapt out of my chest at the boy who asked me to dance to Depeche Mode's "Somebody". Letting me know quietly, passively, that he was looking for somebody to share the rest of his life and he had a hunch that somebody should be me.

But passive and quiet hadn't even gotten us to first base. Liquor lubricated the shy brain and gave it the illusion of bravado. "So, why didn't you? Why didn't you just go for it?"

He giggled and stammered and made excuses. But the tequila forbade me to give up. "Come on, she's right there. Go ask her now."

"Noooo..."

"You're being ridiculous. Why not? She's clearly into you!"

"Because... because I like someone else."

I feigned shock. I knew it was coming but wanted to savour the win. "No! Who?"

"You. I like you. OK?"

A huge grin spread over my face like a fat ladies ass cheeks on a lawn chair. "Good. Because I like you too birthday boy."

"I was thinking we could go to the AGO to see the Andy Warhol exhibit Sunday."

"Oh, erm, I would, but I'm actually going to the Radiohead show."

"Oh, uh, that's OK, because I don't really have money to take you out anyway," he laughed. "I kinda want to kiss you, but I'm stupidly drunk right now."

"Yeah, you're right. That might ruin it," I replied and ran up the stairs to find the girls and tell them that he liked me. He really liked me. In that way. It would be another two weeks before he got up the nerve to kiss me sober.

Little did we know that these little hiccups painted the larger picture. That he'd always be broke and cheap and often drunk. I'd often think I was too good for something and miss the opportune moment.

Yet here we stand, 10 years later, covered in spit up and snot. Married, mortgaged, and moderately mad. Last night, we got drunk together and danced in the candlelight of our dining room after the guests had gone. While we danced, I realized that our feet shuffled to different beats.

He dropped me on the floor to play an air guitar solo. I lay there smiling like I'd found religion. "Oh my God! You're the treble, I'm the base!" It was an epiphany, a new way to describe this cat and her dog. So different, yet one so necessary to the other.

Here's to the next 10 years of making beautiful music together. I love you.

When the fit hits the shan

Aside from this latest plague to hit our house, things have been going along fairly smoothly here. I've been getting into a groove, finding time to write with a baby and a preschooler crawling all over me most days. But Friday evening I had one of those moments that made me wonder if I should give up on the idea of a career.

The Dog was making dinner. Lucy had been a bit backed up (yeah, I know, that's just her thing) and I was pureeing prunes for her dessert. I turned to hang the oven mitt on the rack and my hand slipped off the hand blender for a moment. The ENTIRE container of saucy, sticky prunes crashed to the floor.

Now let's be clear. There was no cinematic slo-mo of prunes flying through the air as I contorted my face and screamed, "NOOOOO!" It happened too fast. It was more like that scene in Pulp Fiction where Marvin gets shot in the head. (I think I've used that imagery before, but it's a good one.) BAM! Prune shot across the kitchen. On the floor, on my pants, on the Dog's socks, on the cupboards. Then I noticed that the skin on my foot was burning. Frack! I frantically wiped hot prune off my foot before I lost any skin.

Then I saw the horror show in the living room. The prune had somehow made its way to the antique Turkish rug, to the orange couch, across the floor to the basement door. "Stay PUT!" I shouted to Nate, but it was too late. He stepped in the puddles of mush and tracked them further across the carpet. "Argh, just go into the next room until we get this cleaned up," I commanded.

The Dog and I were busy laughing at the horrific Exxon-Valdez-sized cleanup operation we were in the midst of, when Nate came back into the living room. "Dis is my video, dis is my video," he was saying and I didn't fully register what he had in his hand until he asked, "Hey. What iz dis?"

I saw a microcassette in his hand, the kind I use to interview people, with all the tape pulled out. And ripped. "OHNONONONONO!" I screamed on reflex. I had one last interview to transcribe for my CTV contract and it was clear that I wouldn't be doing any transcribing.

My shocked shouting lead to scaring the crap out of Nate, which lead to a mega-meltdown. He hit octaves that I've only heard Mariah Carey do. His shitshow set off Lucy, who was chilling in her bouncy chair waiting on the damn prunes.

And right in the middle of that, the phone rang. And this dummy answered it.

"Hi Nadine?" It was the publicist of a rapper, trying to schedule a pre-JUNO interview. As in right then.

Do you know any music publicists? They are most often late 20s, early 30s with no attachments and have pictures posing with Perez Hilton on their Facebook profiles. They don't have time for wannabe journalists with screaming children in the background. They have parties to get dressed for. Thankfully, this one was super nice and we managed to arrange for a post-JUNO interview. (Yes it's JUNO apparently -- ALL CAPS -- which makes me bonkers.)

After I hung up, I sat on the prune-stained couch and muttered to the Dog, who was fastidiously trying to mend my microcassette MacGyver-style in the kitchen, "Isn't this just how you always pictured it love?"

And we laughed and laughed as the world around us cobbled itself back together again.

Poetry Prompt: The Scent of a Mother

It's Poetry Month. I subscribed to Knopf's Borzoi Reader Poem-a-Day, w
hich sends you a poem every day in the month of April. I'd forgotten how much I love reading poetry. Then Sunday night, I watched Sarah Polley's Away From Her. (Which is really worth watching and will have you thinking about the characters long after it's over.)

In the film, Grant (Gordon Pinsent) and Fiona (Julie Christie) struggle as Alzheimer's takes over Fiona's feisty mind after 44 years of marriage. (It might be noteworthy to add that I am Dr. Zhivago-obsessed and Julie Christie can do no wrong in my eyes as a result. She may just be the most gorgeous human to have ever graced the screen.) Grant reads to Fiona often, in particular W.H. Auden's 1937 work Letters from Iceland. Auden is one of my favourite poets. His As I Walked Out One Evening, being one of my all-time faves.

So all this thinking about memory and remembrance, coupled with poetry on the brain and lying oh so still next to a feverish dictator inspired a poem. (I can never turn my mind off.) Then I thought, Hey, I can post it and maybe it'll inspire some other people who spend too much time in their own heads to write their interpretation of the same topic. You don't need a blog. You just need a keyboard or a pen. If you feel like participating and then feel like sharing, drop me a line.

I hadn't written a poem in nearly a decade, but it felt good, even if it might be terrible. So I'll be doing this regularly here. Likewise, if you have a prompt to suggest, let me know. So here goes. *Gulp* First draft and a bit rusty, so forgive me if it sucks.

As I lie next to my son's feverish body
my mind travels to my mother's bedroom.
I imagine my son, sleeping on my pillow, finds comfort
in the sweaty smell embedded in my pillow case.
300 Egyptian threads per what? Per inch perhaps?
Embalmed in my unique oily, soapy scent.

It makes me think of the reassuring combination
of Chanel No. 5 and Nina Ricci's L'air du Temps
that permeate my mother's top drawer,
mixing with the teak and the pleasant stench
of leather wallets that will never be used
nor thrown out.

That top drawer held so many wonders
for me as a girl. Boxes of baubles
deemed too precious for daily use.
Bracelets and necklaces that seem so sad,
as though they might disappoint the robber
who would happen upon them.

Trinkets that once held such promise
--the impression that they were trousseau-worthy--
are now tarnished memories of Mother's Days past,
or decades of smiling behind a desk.
Serving as reminders of a life not-fully realized,
they taunt me from their blue Birks boxes.

Yet now, now that I've borne a daughter
--she who sleeps coolly, quietly in her crib--
my mother's top drawer smells
of adventure once again,
as I imagine soft hands reaching out
to touch and play pretend princess.

I can see sun-stained hands,
leathery, diamond-embossed skin,
gold-bangled wrists and
gaudy emerald-ringed fingers,
passing down these gypsy treasures
to she who inherits the earth.

My breathing slows to match his
musty, hungry exhalations.
I tuck my notebook into my top drawer
where it lays expectant,
waiting to be discovered.
And I fall asleep smiling.

Influen-tial?

Whenever I've been absent from posting a few days, I think that should sound off alarms that we are back to being the Centre for Infectious Disease. I am typing from my dark bedroom, where my 101F (that's after the ibuprofen) son is having a sweaty slumber beside me. He's drinking fluids again, finally, so I'm taking that as a good sign.

I've got an extra close eye on him because there's a measles outbreak going around. How (not) funny would that be if we were to get measles after all the vaccination crap I stirred up last week? We were at the Science Centre Friday. You can't get more germy than a place where dozens of school groups converge daily to touch and interact with displays.

Add that to Saturday, where Mr. 3-going-on-13 decided it was "cool" (his words, not mine) to not wear your jacket. I know he's so done with winter, but come on! It wasn't that hot. And no matter how many times we put his jacket on, he would take it off. Or only wear it unzipped. Because that's cool, don't you know? My 3-year-old thinks he's Phillip Bloch or something. "I like this skirt for LooGoo," he said at Baby Gap. Um, hi. You're to young to be styling your baby sister's wardrobe.

Anyway, don't laugh at my insanity. He actually has many of the early symptoms of measles: Not too crazy fever, runny nose, red, watery eyes. Though those could also be the flu. All he wants to do is sleep. With me. And watch movies all day. With me. He's not even dancing during Yo Gabba Gabba. I have to carry him to the toilet because his legs hurt.

What is awesome about this is how amazingly verbal he is. How he can articulate every ache and pain. It really helps me to freak out less. Plus, the sage wisdom of a feverish 3-year-old at 2 AM is priceless.

"Mom, wake up. I want some milk. In my Sponge Bob cup."
Drag my ass out of bed. Get the milk. He takes ONE sip.
"Done!"
"Anything else I can get you?"
"Um, yeah! Popsicle."
"Oh, um, OK. I'll allow it this once."
"De orange ones. Dey're my favowite. Dey have peach in dem."

After the popsicle, he talks to me about best friends, the girl he likes, how Spiderman and Ironman are friends. But there's something in his tone, in his mannerisms that take the content of his delirious speech and make it seem as though he's the Oracle at Delphi.

"So let me see. My choices are I can wake up or we can go back to sleep?"
"Yup."
"I think we should go to sleep."

I am a prisoner. He dictates what must happen and I can't even sneak in some writing time. He wakes up and sees me typing next to him and declares with sweeping motions, "Put dat 'puter away Mummy. It's snuggle time."

And what warm-blooded person is going to argue with that?

MFM Video: SpiderNate vs. Captain Chop

Here's what happens in my house when you cross a McDonald's toy and my comic book-brainwashed son with my too-much-time-on-his-hands husband. Enjoy.

Reasons the coffee shop makes a crap office

Top 10 things I love about the coffee shop as my office:
1. The coffee -- it's really good
2. The people who run it are truly fabulous people
3. Free wi-fi
4. The light that streams in
5. The sound of the streetcars nearby
6. My kids aren't here
7. Neither is my husband
8. I'm supporting a neighbourhood business
9. They have the best banana bread
10. The tables are more comfortable than my desk

Top 10 things I hate about the coffee shop as my office.
1. The person to the left of you will laugh out loud at her emails.
2. The person to the right of you will talk annoyingly about how she's going to piss off her kids by selling her Haliburton cottage, that they were so lucky to buy before Haliburton "blew up".
3. You can't control the music that they play in the cafe.
4. Other people come in with their kids and either make you miss your own kids or make you wish you never contributed to the annoying universal disruption called crying kids.
5. Random weirdos walk by the window with weird shit like rabbits on their shoulder
6. You end up consuming so much coffee that you are as shaky as the crackies walking by and making eyeballs at your pretty laptop. Or maybe the caffeine is making me paranoid.
7. Annoying "indie" director dude and his lackie will talk loudly at length about the musical horror movie they just wrapped on.
8. Very young aspiring composer will pass his card to directory dude and try to network
9. The guy that makes the delicious sandwiches will sometimes walk out of the kitchen and scratch his ass with the latex gloves ON. Aren't the latex gloves meant to protect us from ass scratching?
10. I don't have the discipline to block them out.

So I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of plans, ordered from my fave DIY site and mag ReadyMade.com, for a swank 100 sq ft shed to be built in the back of my yard. Ever since reading Faulkner Fox's seminal momoir Dispatches From a Not-So-Perfect Life, I have been craving what I now refer to as "the Foxhole."

Some writers dream of a Thoreau-esque hermit shack in the woods. I dream of Fox's garage-turned-office in the back of the house. It's pretty good. You can see your kids from a distance. Or pull the curtains closed to get work done. You're not in the house, but you're near the house in case of emergency or boobs required.

With the Dog and I both having active arts/freelance careers, we are a) always broke and b) always in need of private space to do thinking, concentration, etc. Our current set-up works-ish, but it's really become apparent that we need something more. Especially since my fun jaunts to the local coffee shop are proving to be more mirage than oasis.

Fingers crossed that the DIY portion of this building project goes well. Will keep you posted with photos as it comes along.

My daddy cuts hockey players

Casa Scarb was abuzz tonight. A special "tease" (as they call it in broadcastland) that the Dog had put together at work was being shown at the start of the hockey game. Two of them in fact.

I let Nate stay downstairs to watch his daddy's work. We're usually upstairs at 7:30 but tonight was a special occasion. I even ignored the violent video game ad that came on 30 seconds before the show. 7:30 sharp and daddy's tell-tale editing style filled up our screen. Yaya and I were shouting, "Yay!" It was a proud moment.

I turned to Nate and said, "Hey, isn't this cool? Your daddy cut this!"

Nate jumped up and down and exclaimed, "Yeah! My daddy cut dose guys wid his stick! He cut dem all up!"