I remember the first time I tuned into Sex and the City. I had read about it in Vogue (back when my shelves were lined exclusively with fashion mags instead of home decor and parenting mags) and saw that the show was airing on a local station. (Think it was City at first, before it moved to Bravo.)
Like many 20-something girls at the time, I was instantly in love with the concept of 30-something fabulous singles living in New York and making their own happiness with the assistance of shoes and friends.
They were perfect 30-minute slices of outrageous fashion, bad relationships, hilarious sex and NYC. Then they came out on VHS and DVD. That's when I started to see the cracks in the pavement.
While watching each episode in isolation, one forgot the sins of the past week and could judge each episode for its own merit. But watching them back-to-back suddenly revealed annoying character flaws. Mr. Big, for example, seemed so much worse after the fourth episode in a row and left you wondering why Carrie would ever go back to him. And that's just it. The fact that there is so little to find redeeming and loveable in their relationship makes the movie even harder to sell.
Carrie and Big are shopping for an apartment together when they stumble upon an expensive penthouse with great light but no closet space. He offers to buy it for her and build her a closet. (His merits seem only to be charm and cash at this point.) While preparing dinner one night, they decide to get married -- casually -- in mid-conversation.
It all starts out well until she does a bridal spread in Vogue and a horrendously-boobed Vivienne Westwood dress suddenly has her planning an elaborate New York wedding.
Big gets cold feet. Carrie goes off to Mexico, depressed but with girlfriends in tow. She doesn't talk to him for 6 months and instead hires an assistant (Jennifer Hudson) who ends up teaching her lessons on love while cheering her up and bringing her back to life.
In between all this, Miranda and Steve break up. Charlotte gets pregnant and is so happy everyday in her life with Harry and adopted daughter Lily. Samantha is living in Hollywood with Smith Jared (somewhat unhappily) and a very slutty male neighbour next door that is tempting her out of monogamy.
The movie was like a Costco sheet cake: Too much icing, not enough cake. Tasty at the first bite, seemingly never-ending half-way through, yet you feel you must finish.
Here is my list of all that I disdain about this film and it's crappy script: (*** SPOILER MADNESS HERE***)
* Male characters were one dimensional and didn't add more to the film than a Louis Vuitton handbag.
* The lines they gave Big were so bad that I winced.
* Samantha must leave Smith Jared because she's so horny and selfish, yet they don't actually give her any good sex scenes. In fact, they totally destroyed any fun we could have had with her character. Instead of funny sex they gave her a weight problem and a dog. Not nice SJP and Michael King. Not nice at all.
* Smith Jared's bad hair distracted from his hotness. And why didn't we get to see his ass?
* Charlotte had two funny scenes: One where she pooped her pants and one where she tells big she cursed the day he was born. They made her character extra boring. Boo.
* They made the two gay guys (who happen to hate each other) make out.
* They showed Miranda full frontal (OK 95%, Steve had his hand over her bush) -- no one needed to see that. I love you Cynthia Nixon, but they should not have made you do that.
* Jennifer Hudson's character seemed like an insert to advertise Bag, Borrow or Steal. (Though I will say she was likeable, but the Louis she gets as a gift from Carrie was butt uggo.)
* Don't even get me started on the bird in Carrie's hair at wedding #1.
* Carrie and Big. They spend the whole movie apart, so yet again, we see nothing redeemable in their relationship. Oh woohoo. He sent her some plagiarized emails. Was this not the man who FLEW to Paris to save her? Would he not have hunted her down in NYC a bit more? He left her at the damn altar. After countless seasons of doing horrible things to her. And all it took to get back with him were some emails? Give me a break. What's so great about this guy aside from his bank account?
Overall, I feel ripped off. I am reading the reviews of other (albeit younger) bloggers and they all seemed to love it. I don't get it -- did we see the same film? Am I too cynical in my old age? Because I think SJP got some brain damage from Garnier Nutrisse Brown Sugar # 5.
Despite my disappointment, there were things that I liked (The jewellry, THE belt, Miranda's awesome blue bridesmaid dress, the joke about Cosmos at the end). But overall it was a big disappointment for a film that had so many people rooting for it. It was fun, but I don't think I'd see it again.
Did you see it? What did you think?
***
Edited to add: Mush Mush, I WAS totally "accessorized" for the movie! I had like 4 Cosmos before going in. I just couldn't get into it. I know I'm being harsh, but I expected better after all the hype.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
the red shoes -- guest post by petite anglaise
When I was brainstorming for ideas for a guest post which would sit well on 'Martinis for Milk', the tagline “party girl…trades stilettos for stretch pants” jumped out at me immediately.
You see, at the age of thirty-five, with my daughter rapidly approaching her fifth birthday, it just so happens that I've recently invested in my very first pair of stilettos. Red patent-leather peep toes with vertiginous heels, which I'll be pairing with the non-bridal dress I've chosen for my upcoming (civil) wedding ceremony at my local town hall in Paris. Heels were a necessity, as my dress ends a little above the knee, and my legs have never been my finest feature (IMHO) so the magical elongating properties of high heels are compulsory. My only worry now is that the proceedings are to be held on the first floor of the Mairie and I have notoriously weak ankles, which have a tendency to buckle at the most inopportune moments. Here's hoping I can manage a relatively graceful ascent and descent without any major mishaps.
The cover of the US and Canadian editions of petite anglaise features the lithe silhouette of a scantily clad woman leaning against the Eiffel Tower, accessorised with nothing but stilettos and a young child. My partner, Mr Frog, also has his back to the Eiffel tower, the trouble brewing on the horizon symbolised by the fact that we are facing in opposite directions. It's a striking image. I love the wraparound Paris skyline and the fifties overtones, the silhouettes and typos very reminiscent of the opening credits of 'Catch Me If You Can'.
But when I first saw it, I chortled. 'Me in high heels?' I typed, emailing the cover shot to a girlfriend. 'What a joke! I'd be a liability to myself, let alone that babe in my arms.'
The UK cover, which shows a rather less glamorous mother wearing a floral skirt and flats, her hands welded to a pushchair, strikes a very different note. A classic mom-lit cover with a Parisian background, which some of my male readers were reluctant to be seen with in public.
The true petite anglaise, I suspect lies somewhere between the two extremes. She pairs dresses with jeans, alternates between trainers (sneakers) and knee-high boots (depending on the season) and has a resolutely pear-shaped silhouette.
And as for the stilettos, well, she's perfecting her walking-in-heels technique in the relative privacy of the stairwell of her apartment building and crossing her fingers.
****
Thanks Petite! All the best at your wedding. My advice on heels? Wear them around the house while vacuuming and doing mundane tasks this week to get used to them.
You see, at the age of thirty-five, with my daughter rapidly approaching her fifth birthday, it just so happens that I've recently invested in my very first pair of stilettos. Red patent-leather peep toes with vertiginous heels, which I'll be pairing with the non-bridal dress I've chosen for my upcoming (civil) wedding ceremony at my local town hall in Paris. Heels were a necessity, as my dress ends a little above the knee, and my legs have never been my finest feature (IMHO) so the magical elongating properties of high heels are compulsory. My only worry now is that the proceedings are to be held on the first floor of the Mairie and I have notoriously weak ankles, which have a tendency to buckle at the most inopportune moments. Here's hoping I can manage a relatively graceful ascent and descent without any major mishaps.
The cover of the US and Canadian editions of petite anglaise features the lithe silhouette of a scantily clad woman leaning against the Eiffel Tower, accessorised with nothing but stilettos and a young child. My partner, Mr Frog, also has his back to the Eiffel tower, the trouble brewing on the horizon symbolised by the fact that we are facing in opposite directions. It's a striking image. I love the wraparound Paris skyline and the fifties overtones, the silhouettes and typos very reminiscent of the opening credits of 'Catch Me If You Can'.
But when I first saw it, I chortled. 'Me in high heels?' I typed, emailing the cover shot to a girlfriend. 'What a joke! I'd be a liability to myself, let alone that babe in my arms.'
The UK cover, which shows a rather less glamorous mother wearing a floral skirt and flats, her hands welded to a pushchair, strikes a very different note. A classic mom-lit cover with a Parisian background, which some of my male readers were reluctant to be seen with in public.
The true petite anglaise, I suspect lies somewhere between the two extremes. She pairs dresses with jeans, alternates between trainers (sneakers) and knee-high boots (depending on the season) and has a resolutely pear-shaped silhouette.
And as for the stilettos, well, she's perfecting her walking-in-heels technique in the relative privacy of the stairwell of her apartment building and crossing her fingers.
****
Thanks Petite! All the best at your wedding. My advice on heels? Wear them around the house while vacuuming and doing mundane tasks this week to get used to them.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Coxsackie
We have been hit hard by Hand, Foot, Mouth disease. (Not to be confused with foot-in-mouth disease, which I also have and is chronic.)
The thing is, by the time I figured out what it was, (the tell-tale sores on the feet only showed up at bathtime last night on Nate) the illness had packed its bags and was just about to leave. Then it decided to take up residence in me.
Apparently it's really rare for adults to get this virus, but when -- whilst attempting a lesson on germs and why he should stop frenching his sister -- your infected son licks your mouth with his open-sored tongue mid-sentence, your chance of getting it increases dramatically. Go figure.
So I had to sit out the Innovator's Ball tonight. But if you're going to sit home when your whole office is partying it up Westons-in-space-stylee, it couldn't be for a cooler sounding virus. Coxsackie. Say it five times fast with me. It's fun.
At it's height, coxsackie filled my son's mouth with sores, rendering him unable to eat. As he cried out in pain while attempting to down a yogurt (that boy subsists on yogurt), he looked at me all teary eyed and said, "I'm so sick of sickness Mommy. I no wanna be sick anymore."
My boy is a thumbsucker. I realized it's time to wean him off. I told him so. I tried to tell him about germs and putting your dirty hands in your mouth after screaming bloody murder that you don't wanna wash your hands. We're on Day Three of Operation Thumb Out. We've had some successes (I think we made it through story time tonight with no thumbsucking) and some recession (after two nights of falling asleep without sucking his thumb, he told me to leave his room tonight so he could suck his thumb to sleep guilt-free) but overall it's going well.
Next time I'll tell you about my hilarious attempts at hypnosis and how I destroyed all the progress tonight by getting over-confident in my hypnotic ability.
****
Tomorrow we have a special visitor here at MFM. Catharine Sanderson (of the infamous blog Petite Anglaise) will be here with a post about her new book (also called Petite Anglaise) and wearing heels for the first time. Drop by if you're interested. Should be fun. I'm so honoured to be the last stop on her tour.
I spent the afternoon trying to iChat with Catherine the other day. It's so strange to chat with someone whom you kind of know intimately through words, but really don't know at all. I guess that's how some of you feel when you meet me, or exchange emails. Blogging makes you a weird kind of famous.
Catherine's book talks a lot about this perception people have, that they know you because of your blog, when really they're only interacting with a persona, a fragment of your whole self. Anyway, it'll be cool to have her here regardless, whole or part, real or virtual. She's just cool.
The thing is, by the time I figured out what it was, (the tell-tale sores on the feet only showed up at bathtime last night on Nate) the illness had packed its bags and was just about to leave. Then it decided to take up residence in me.
Apparently it's really rare for adults to get this virus, but when -- whilst attempting a lesson on germs and why he should stop frenching his sister -- your infected son licks your mouth with his open-sored tongue mid-sentence, your chance of getting it increases dramatically. Go figure.
So I had to sit out the Innovator's Ball tonight. But if you're going to sit home when your whole office is partying it up Westons-in-space-stylee, it couldn't be for a cooler sounding virus. Coxsackie. Say it five times fast with me. It's fun.
At it's height, coxsackie filled my son's mouth with sores, rendering him unable to eat. As he cried out in pain while attempting to down a yogurt (that boy subsists on yogurt), he looked at me all teary eyed and said, "I'm so sick of sickness Mommy. I no wanna be sick anymore."
My boy is a thumbsucker. I realized it's time to wean him off. I told him so. I tried to tell him about germs and putting your dirty hands in your mouth after screaming bloody murder that you don't wanna wash your hands. We're on Day Three of Operation Thumb Out. We've had some successes (I think we made it through story time tonight with no thumbsucking) and some recession (after two nights of falling asleep without sucking his thumb, he told me to leave his room tonight so he could suck his thumb to sleep guilt-free) but overall it's going well.
Next time I'll tell you about my hilarious attempts at hypnosis and how I destroyed all the progress tonight by getting over-confident in my hypnotic ability.
****
Tomorrow we have a special visitor here at MFM. Catharine Sanderson (of the infamous blog Petite Anglaise) will be here with a post about her new book (also called Petite Anglaise) and wearing heels for the first time. Drop by if you're interested. Should be fun. I'm so honoured to be the last stop on her tour.
I spent the afternoon trying to iChat with Catherine the other day. It's so strange to chat with someone whom you kind of know intimately through words, but really don't know at all. I guess that's how some of you feel when you meet me, or exchange emails. Blogging makes you a weird kind of famous.
Catherine's book talks a lot about this perception people have, that they know you because of your blog, when really they're only interacting with a persona, a fragment of your whole self. Anyway, it'll be cool to have her here regardless, whole or part, real or virtual. She's just cool.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Don't Tell Dad
My mother, the loveliest woman in the world, made an error in judgment tonight. She was helping with the kids as the Dog was working the night shift. We sat down to dinner. Lucy bent over to grab at the strap of her high chair, as she does, when she fell completely out and I heard a sick thud. She was not strapped in. My mom, the worrier, the obsessor, the ultra-cautious, forgot to strap her in.
We have a Handy-Sitt chair. It's convenient because you just attach it to any old chair in your house and she can be at table height without needing a clunky high chair. Our house is teeny. (On a good day it could be 900 sq ft, but it's more like 850. I wouldn't buy a condo of that size, but something about the house seemed viable three years ago.) So we decided that Nate's big old highchair would go out to the deck for outside eating (We were lulled into a stupor when summer decided to come early last month and then changed its mind.) and got this one second hand instead.
So the chair doesn't have a tray. And I realized tonight that the tray is in fact a valuable accessory.
Loogoo screamed and screamed and screamed. And my mother and I went through stages from worry to "Meh. She'll be fine," and back again. The dilemma, as always: Do we go to the emergency room? When she stopped crying and started laughing we decided against leaving the house. But that sick feeling in our tummies would not go away.
Lucy was still recovering from her crying fit when my mom looked at me with fear in her eyes and said, "Don't tell Dad." For a moment, the 16-year-old in me debated how I could spin that request into blackmail. After all, it wasn't that long ago (OK it's getting up there, but shut up) that I would be making that same request.
I can't remember what for. Bad grades? New mini skirt? But I know I'd made that plea in the past. My dad has a slightly irrational temper. It doesn't always correlate to the severity of the event that triggers the rage. My poor mother looked so frightened of the consequence that I thought I should spare her a negotiation.
I had to laugh. The tables were turned. I wasn't begging her not to tell him that I was dating Duane (who was not only not Armenian but not white). I wasn't pleading for mercy when I bought slutty shoes/clothes/lipstick. I wasn't bargaining with her to keep my secrets, my youthful mistakes from him. It was her turn to ask for clemency.
I wasn't planning on telling him anyway. He is obsessed with his granddaughter. He would be so mad. That's the funniest part. I wasn't the weak link. She was.
"I won't tell him. The question is, how are YOU not going to tell him?"
She looked at me and shook her head. "No, no. I can't tell him. I remember when you fell off the couch when you were a baby. He came home from work and I told him. There wasn't a surface he didn't kick... Promise me that you won't tell Dad. Even later on."
So I did. I put Loogoo to bed and tried to cheer my mom up (initially I got angry with her for being so careless when she's always up my butt to be careful with the children), but it was visible that the experience drained years off her life. It broke my heart. It made me wish I was the one who forgot to do up the safety belt.
****
So before I go and agonize as to whether I should keep waking the child who slept through the night last night after cutting 6 teeth in a month, I just wanted to do a bit of housekeeping.
If you read me through Facebook, I will no longer be feeding my blog feed through there. It's creeping me out how people totally associate me with these words now. It was easier when there was the illusion of a veil. So update your bookmarks or feed readers if you'd like to keep up with me. Can you believe I've been blogging here for over 4 years?
Also, I forgot to mention in my daily thankfulness that it totally made my day that people tried my pasta salad recipe. I thought I was pushing it by posting it, but it really thrilled me that some of you actually made it. That pasta salad makes me happy and the fact that my crude directions worked for you makes me do a happy dance. Did I say happy enough times?
Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you about how hand, foot, mouth disease has invaded my house.
We have a Handy-Sitt chair. It's convenient because you just attach it to any old chair in your house and she can be at table height without needing a clunky high chair. Our house is teeny. (On a good day it could be 900 sq ft, but it's more like 850. I wouldn't buy a condo of that size, but something about the house seemed viable three years ago.) So we decided that Nate's big old highchair would go out to the deck for outside eating (We were lulled into a stupor when summer decided to come early last month and then changed its mind.) and got this one second hand instead.
So the chair doesn't have a tray. And I realized tonight that the tray is in fact a valuable accessory.
Loogoo screamed and screamed and screamed. And my mother and I went through stages from worry to "Meh. She'll be fine," and back again. The dilemma, as always: Do we go to the emergency room? When she stopped crying and started laughing we decided against leaving the house. But that sick feeling in our tummies would not go away.
Lucy was still recovering from her crying fit when my mom looked at me with fear in her eyes and said, "Don't tell Dad." For a moment, the 16-year-old in me debated how I could spin that request into blackmail. After all, it wasn't that long ago (OK it's getting up there, but shut up) that I would be making that same request.
I can't remember what for. Bad grades? New mini skirt? But I know I'd made that plea in the past. My dad has a slightly irrational temper. It doesn't always correlate to the severity of the event that triggers the rage. My poor mother looked so frightened of the consequence that I thought I should spare her a negotiation.
I had to laugh. The tables were turned. I wasn't begging her not to tell him that I was dating Duane (who was not only not Armenian but not white). I wasn't pleading for mercy when I bought slutty shoes/clothes/lipstick. I wasn't bargaining with her to keep my secrets, my youthful mistakes from him. It was her turn to ask for clemency.
I wasn't planning on telling him anyway. He is obsessed with his granddaughter. He would be so mad. That's the funniest part. I wasn't the weak link. She was.
"I won't tell him. The question is, how are YOU not going to tell him?"
She looked at me and shook her head. "No, no. I can't tell him. I remember when you fell off the couch when you were a baby. He came home from work and I told him. There wasn't a surface he didn't kick... Promise me that you won't tell Dad. Even later on."
So I did. I put Loogoo to bed and tried to cheer my mom up (initially I got angry with her for being so careless when she's always up my butt to be careful with the children), but it was visible that the experience drained years off her life. It broke my heart. It made me wish I was the one who forgot to do up the safety belt.
****
So before I go and agonize as to whether I should keep waking the child who slept through the night last night after cutting 6 teeth in a month, I just wanted to do a bit of housekeeping.
If you read me through Facebook, I will no longer be feeding my blog feed through there. It's creeping me out how people totally associate me with these words now. It was easier when there was the illusion of a veil. So update your bookmarks or feed readers if you'd like to keep up with me. Can you believe I've been blogging here for over 4 years?
Also, I forgot to mention in my daily thankfulness that it totally made my day that people tried my pasta salad recipe. I thought I was pushing it by posting it, but it really thrilled me that some of you actually made it. That pasta salad makes me happy and the fact that my crude directions worked for you makes me do a happy dance. Did I say happy enough times?
Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you about how hand, foot, mouth disease has invaded my house.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Fantastic Freebie Friday #1
It's Friday! It's Friday! It's the day I talk about all the things that made my week. Then I get to make your week by giving away some free swag. Free stuff tends to accumulate in my house and it makes my husband happy to get rid of it. It makes me happy to get rid of it by giving it to people I like.
1. On Saturday night I had WAY to much champagne before getting in a cab to go celebrate my BFF's birthday. But it was the profiterole I had at Biff's that really made my week.
2. On Sunday, I snuggled my children, willing my hangover away to enjoy the intoxication from fresh baby head.
3. On Monday, after a fantastic potluck dinner with our favourite neighbours, I tried to block out sounds of fireworks near my very mature-treed backyard by catching up on some reading. Marla wrote one of the best blog posts ever. One that sums up motherhood, but is also very telling of how unique Marla is as a mom. I hope Josie grows up to realize how incredibly giving and special a mother she has.
4. Tuesday I went for dinner after work with my old pals from the Really Big Book Company. Green Papaya was fresh and yummy, the type of perfectly-priced Asian fusion this city is really doing well. If London wins for curry takeaway, we take the prize for Pad Thai nation. But the real icing of the day was getting this book from my beautiful friend ragdoll, who is now working for that other Really Big Book Company. I am so excited to read it after reading this perfectly-crafted NYT review.
6. Thursday. I don't want to talk about Thursday. But Jen at Bliss Notes is encouraging us to be thankful for something even on bad days. So I will say that my latest review coming out made me happy and thankful for having such an awesome job. That and thinking about the fact that I booked my San Fran flight for BlogHer! Then itravel2000.com called me to tell me the flight they sold me is unavailable and I have to take the damn red-eye back and they weren't the least bit apologetic. I'm guessing it's Air Canada's fault. (I blame all the country's problems on Air Canada -- including my own personal problems.)
7. Friday. Or should I say FREEday? The kind folks at Hachette Publishing sent me a whack of books for Mother's Day. Except there is no way I will read them all. Admittedly, I pilfered the books that interested me (the Amy Sedaris, the Bobbi Brown, a biography of Kathleen Turner for my mother-in-law) but the rest will just sit here and make my husband angry if I don't give them away. I'm looking to get rid of them fast, so the first people to email me at scarbiedoll[at
gmail[dot]com can ask for their pick of book. (I'll list what's available below.)
See you next Freeday!
1. On Saturday night I had WAY to much champagne before getting in a cab to go celebrate my BFF's birthday. But it was the profiterole I had at Biff's that really made my week.
2. On Sunday, I snuggled my children, willing my hangover away to enjoy the intoxication from fresh baby head.
3. On Monday, after a fantastic potluck dinner with our favourite neighbours, I tried to block out sounds of fireworks near my very mature-treed backyard by catching up on some reading. Marla wrote one of the best blog posts ever. One that sums up motherhood, but is also very telling of how unique Marla is as a mom. I hope Josie grows up to realize how incredibly giving and special a mother she has.
4. Tuesday I went for dinner after work with my old pals from the Really Big Book Company. Green Papaya was fresh and yummy, the type of perfectly-priced Asian fusion this city is really doing well. If London wins for curry takeaway, we take the prize for Pad Thai nation. But the real icing of the day was getting this book from my beautiful friend ragdoll, who is now working for that other Really Big Book Company. I am so excited to read it after reading this perfectly-crafted NYT review.
5. Wednesday, well, we know what really made my day on Wednesday. But sneaking out for a REALLY quick visit with Kate and Henry, Red Rocket Mayan Mocha in hand, solidified the awesomeness of the day. Oh, and fresh fiddleheads at dinner. So the trick is to double boil them. As in boil for a couple minutes. Drain. Boil again for 5 minutes or so, until they're crisp, but there's no raw taste. The double boil takes all the bitterness out. Yum!
7. Friday. Or should I say FREEday? The kind folks at Hachette Publishing sent me a whack of books for Mother's Day. Except there is no way I will read them all. Admittedly, I pilfered the books that interested me (the Amy Sedaris, the Bobbi Brown, a biography of Kathleen Turner for my mother-in-law) but the rest will just sit here and make my husband angry if I don't give them away. I'm looking to get rid of them fast, so the first people to email me at scarbiedoll[at
gmail[dot]com can ask for their pick of book. (I'll list what's available below.)
- A Susan Branch gift set including her cookbook, Heart of the Home, and a journal (perhaps to keep note of your "thankful thought of the day") Days from the Heart of the Home.
- Joyce Meyer's Ending Your Day Right
- Your Best Life Now for Moms by Joel Osten
- Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach
- And just in time for the Sex and the City movie: Sexual Intelligence by Samantha Jones, er, I mean Kim Cattrall.
See you next Freeday!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
A Lucine by any other name smells just as sweet
From almost day one, Lucine has been anything but Lucine. It's a shame really, because her name is so beautiful. Pretty rapidly, Lucine became Lucy. Then she became Lucy-loo, (presumably because of Lucy Liu?) then Lucy Goose, (presumably from Chicken Little's Lucy Goosey?) then just The Goose, Goosey, Ga-goose, Googie.
A few months ago, Nate abbreviated these to Loogoo, which inevitably got whittled down to Loog and its distant mucousy cousin, Loogie. We also call her Luce, which inevitably sounds like Loose and that's about as bad as being called a phlegm ball. (Loogoo seems to be the one that has stuck the most of all these. Because Nate decides. That is, until Loogoo comes around the corner and knocks him off his pedestal.)
For a while I was pushing for Mona Lisa, because she was only smiling out one side of her face. That morphed into Myrna Loy, chosen by my dad, presumably because she's an infant Nora Charles, a little baby socialite in fabulous pyjamas.
She's also quite swarthy and strong for such a feminine thing. (Takes after the Clapper) So we often refer to her as Tank or Hulk. The way she busts out of her sleepers, I lean towards Hulk.
Lately she's been grabbing everything in site and flinging it angrily on the floor. This makes Daddy Dog call her Grabo and Tosso -- names which make Nate howl hysterically.
Yaya calls her Hokeess, which means "my soul."
She looks a lot like her Tante's baby pictures. She has a body type and feisty personality comparable to my sister's. She's tough but girly -- and that's my sister to the letter. So she's also earned the nickname TJ (for Tante Jr) and that of course becomes Teej. If this girl ever becomes a singer/songwriter/rockstar, I think she should go with that. Teej. It makes Tante and I giggle. We just shake our heads whenever Lucine's being a bitch and say, "Teej," as though we're saying "Tsk. Tsk."
We've closed in on nine months now. Nine months of ups and downs with this incredible little person, and we rarely use her name. But she doesn't care. She'll answer to anything, she's that chilled out. She has such a calming, happy influence on me, just like her dad. (When I'm not complaining about him.)
I would have never believed I could love her so much. The way she has solidified us as a family. The way she's taught the Dog and I how to work together. The way she smothers her face into mine when she's tired. The way she growls when she doesn't get her way.
My chameleon-eyed beauty. My iron-armed, backwards-crawler. My drooly, grumpy teether. My restless sleeper. My 12-18 month bodied, 3-6 month footed baby girl. My daughter. My true love.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
My hot new affair
This morning there was a knock on the door at 8:30. I quietly snuck my guest into the house before the neighbours noticed. By the time my guest left 2 hours later, I was completely, utterly in love. The house seemed to dance with light I never noticed before. I could not stop smiling. I'm still smiling.
You might think it was my infatuation that made the house seem to sparkle, but no. It was the scent of freshly vinegared floors, hand washed. It was the cleanliness of my fridge, the emptiness of my dishwasher, the lack of pee stains on my toilet. My new love's name is Rosanna.
In the past, I've felt icky about hired help. I've also had a couple (exactly two) bad experiences where I was either overcharged or the person did not do a good job. But I've also had countless fights with my husband about household chores and who was and who wasn't pulling their weight. In fairness, I may not be very clean, but he might be a little housecleaning blind. In fact, just the other night while I was Windexing my sister's glass coffee table, he gasped, "You don't even do this in your own house!" To which I replied curtly, "When have you ever dusted anything in our house?"
"Um, never."
"Yeah, that's right. And somehow things get dusted, don't they? Amazing how that happens. Remind me to thank the dusting fairies." Admittedly, the dusting fairies don't visit our house on a regular basis. They only seem to appear when the expresso wood furniture is white and I am revolted beyond words.
When we first moved into this tiny house, we thought the dishwasher would save our marriage. But one machine was not enough. Then we thought the slow-cooker would save our marriage. Two machines were not enough. But Rosanna, sweet, sweet Rosanna -- I think she's the ticket.
I pay her a fair wage -- not much less than what I make per hour. She's not working for some Molly Pimp. She genuinely wants to help.
I'm working. And not seeing my children. And though I'm not dying to play Thomas trains at the end of the day, it's preferable to vacuuming. The cat is shedding. (And hanging out with the smokey pirate across the street.) And Lucy is crawling -- backwards -- but she's on the floor all the time. My very dirty floor.
Rosanna says her own house is messy. When I suggest that it's because the last thing she wants to do after cleaning all day is more cleaning, she shakes her head "no." Her kids are adults now. She spends her evenings at the humane society walking the dogs. She tears up when she talks about them. My heart leaps out of my chest and tries to wrap itself around her. She is human, a person, one that I instantly feel close to. And I don't feel the least bit ick when I hand her the wad of twenties.
She gives me a tour of my own house to show me how clean it is. "We'll do more next time we come. We ran out of time because it was so..." she wavers. "Dirty," I complete her sentence without an ounce of shame. I am no good at keeping my house clean. It's time I accepted it.
I immediately beg her to return in two weeks. When Rosanna opened her arms to hug me before I showed her out, I knew she had liked me too. I've had this stupid grin on my face all day. I can't walk into the kitchen without getting teary. I miss her already.
It feels frivolous, but her cost is reasonable, about the same as having both my kids in care for a day so I could clean myself. Except thanks to Rosanna, I can just be with my kids instead of being with my kids and staring at the dust under the TV cabinet, wishing I could be as nonchalant about dirt as Phyllis Diller.
"Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing."
You might think it was my infatuation that made the house seem to sparkle, but no. It was the scent of freshly vinegared floors, hand washed. It was the cleanliness of my fridge, the emptiness of my dishwasher, the lack of pee stains on my toilet. My new love's name is Rosanna.
In the past, I've felt icky about hired help. I've also had a couple (exactly two) bad experiences where I was either overcharged or the person did not do a good job. But I've also had countless fights with my husband about household chores and who was and who wasn't pulling their weight. In fairness, I may not be very clean, but he might be a little housecleaning blind. In fact, just the other night while I was Windexing my sister's glass coffee table, he gasped, "You don't even do this in your own house!" To which I replied curtly, "When have you ever dusted anything in our house?"
"Um, never."
"Yeah, that's right. And somehow things get dusted, don't they? Amazing how that happens. Remind me to thank the dusting fairies." Admittedly, the dusting fairies don't visit our house on a regular basis. They only seem to appear when the expresso wood furniture is white and I am revolted beyond words.
When we first moved into this tiny house, we thought the dishwasher would save our marriage. But one machine was not enough. Then we thought the slow-cooker would save our marriage. Two machines were not enough. But Rosanna, sweet, sweet Rosanna -- I think she's the ticket.
I pay her a fair wage -- not much less than what I make per hour. She's not working for some Molly Pimp. She genuinely wants to help.
I'm working. And not seeing my children. And though I'm not dying to play Thomas trains at the end of the day, it's preferable to vacuuming. The cat is shedding. (And hanging out with the smokey pirate across the street.) And Lucy is crawling -- backwards -- but she's on the floor all the time. My very dirty floor.
Rosanna says her own house is messy. When I suggest that it's because the last thing she wants to do after cleaning all day is more cleaning, she shakes her head "no." Her kids are adults now. She spends her evenings at the humane society walking the dogs. She tears up when she talks about them. My heart leaps out of my chest and tries to wrap itself around her. She is human, a person, one that I instantly feel close to. And I don't feel the least bit ick when I hand her the wad of twenties.
She gives me a tour of my own house to show me how clean it is. "We'll do more next time we come. We ran out of time because it was so..." she wavers. "Dirty," I complete her sentence without an ounce of shame. I am no good at keeping my house clean. It's time I accepted it.
I immediately beg her to return in two weeks. When Rosanna opened her arms to hug me before I showed her out, I knew she had liked me too. I've had this stupid grin on my face all day. I can't walk into the kitchen without getting teary. I miss her already.
It feels frivolous, but her cost is reasonable, about the same as having both my kids in care for a day so I could clean myself. Except thanks to Rosanna, I can just be with my kids instead of being with my kids and staring at the dust under the TV cabinet, wishing I could be as nonchalant about dirt as Phyllis Diller.
"Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing."
Friday, May 16, 2008
Super Seven #1
Here are a few things that have been making my week.
(Will-half-assedly try to make this a weekly feature, but I know you're not harboring much hope. You're thinking, "Where the fark is Scarborough Sunday promise-breaker?")
1. This article on Mother's Day by Karen Von Haan. She totally nails it sometimes.
2. Bliss Notes in my inbox. Because I love her writing so much that I'll do anything to get inside her head. You should totally sign-up for inspiring and lovely messages to make your day.
3. Seeing my old friend/cult leader being all successful and stuff at his new restaurant -- sorry, "supper lounge" -- last weekend. If you're, ahem, older and still like to get out for a nice meal and some house music, I recommend you check it out. (On a Sat night though -- Fridays are a younger crowd I'm told.)
4. I got enough free sunblock to cover the whole family all summer. But I also got a bunch of things I don't need. So I may as well share them. Next Friday, I will start giving away some freebies, so stay tuned.
5. ANTM -- wow, what a finale. I think we all kind of knew it, judging by the comments people were leaving here. It wasn't a stellar finale (like where the heck was Donatella?) but I think it's great that someone who is a normal size won. Though how a size 10 is "plus-size" or "full-figured" is beyond me.
I will say that the episode before last (when Dominique got the boot) was the best ever on any season of Model to date. There was PLENTY to laugh at. Plenty. Tyrant was on fire and she even called herself out for being tranny sometimes. Hello Tyrone! What up?
Also, is it me, or is Paulina just a bit of a bitch?
As I have mentioned, I watch Model with my bestie, my sis and her BFF. Someone should really make a show about how we watch TV together. It's really entertaining. This week, Big J got the runs and decided to run to the bathroom, leave the door open so she could still see the TV, then -- as if the sound effects were telling enough -- she decided to give us a play-by-play of her bowel consistency. THEN, when she could no longer hear us (we were laughing so hard it was silent) she kept asking, "Are you guys laughing at me?" THEN she refused to light a candle in the bathroom because she was worried she would burn her fingers. Oh man -- I am still laughing about that.
6. Post-Model we have a new show we PVR and watch. Naked Fashion on E! provides non-stop banter. They take celeb fashion mistakes and then re-clothe them in more appropriate attire and you get to decide which is best. It is AWESOME! (Though we can't stand the host and judges, the Fug girls, are getting just a tad annoying. We love Irish Paula though. We wish she could replace TV's other Paula.)
7. Pitted nicoise olives from Alex Farm. (Some Loblaws carry them too. Queen's Quay fo sho.) They make an excellent salad that won't break your teeth. Plus your kids can eat them without choking.
I'm an eyeballer, but here's the pasta salad I make that's always a hit. My friend Lynne created it for FoodTV.ca years ago, but I can no longer figure out how that site works, so I just guesstimate.
* Sun-dried tomato pesto/dressing: sun-dried tomatoes, a small clove of garlic, the oil from the sdt jar, a teeny bit of oregano, a lot of red wine vinegar.
* Farfalle/bowtie pasta
* Feta cheese
* Pitted black olives (kalamata or nicoise are best, though I've used the crappier sliced black ones in a can in a pinch)
Once you make the pesto and boil the pasta, you just mix everything else up. It's super savoury and is great for picnics. Also scores you points at potlucks.
*******
Enjoy your weekend! (It's a long one for us Canucks, thanks to good ol' Queen Vic. Who says good things don't come out of monarchies and colonization?)
(Will-half-assedly try to make this a weekly feature, but I know you're not harboring much hope. You're thinking, "Where the fark is Scarborough Sunday promise-breaker?")
1. This article on Mother's Day by Karen Von Haan. She totally nails it sometimes.
2. Bliss Notes in my inbox. Because I love her writing so much that I'll do anything to get inside her head. You should totally sign-up for inspiring and lovely messages to make your day.
3. Seeing my old friend/cult leader being all successful and stuff at his new restaurant -- sorry, "supper lounge" -- last weekend. If you're, ahem, older and still like to get out for a nice meal and some house music, I recommend you check it out. (On a Sat night though -- Fridays are a younger crowd I'm told.)
4. I got enough free sunblock to cover the whole family all summer. But I also got a bunch of things I don't need. So I may as well share them. Next Friday, I will start giving away some freebies, so stay tuned.
5. ANTM -- wow, what a finale. I think we all kind of knew it, judging by the comments people were leaving here. It wasn't a stellar finale (like where the heck was Donatella?) but I think it's great that someone who is a normal size won. Though how a size 10 is "plus-size" or "full-figured" is beyond me.
I will say that the episode before last (when Dominique got the boot) was the best ever on any season of Model to date. There was PLENTY to laugh at. Plenty. Tyrant was on fire and she even called herself out for being tranny sometimes. Hello Tyrone! What up?
Also, is it me, or is Paulina just a bit of a bitch?
As I have mentioned, I watch Model with my bestie, my sis and her BFF. Someone should really make a show about how we watch TV together. It's really entertaining. This week, Big J got the runs and decided to run to the bathroom, leave the door open so she could still see the TV, then -- as if the sound effects were telling enough -- she decided to give us a play-by-play of her bowel consistency. THEN, when she could no longer hear us (we were laughing so hard it was silent) she kept asking, "Are you guys laughing at me?" THEN she refused to light a candle in the bathroom because she was worried she would burn her fingers. Oh man -- I am still laughing about that.
6. Post-Model we have a new show we PVR and watch. Naked Fashion on E! provides non-stop banter. They take celeb fashion mistakes and then re-clothe them in more appropriate attire and you get to decide which is best. It is AWESOME! (Though we can't stand the host and judges, the Fug girls, are getting just a tad annoying. We love Irish Paula though. We wish she could replace TV's other Paula.)
7. Pitted nicoise olives from Alex Farm. (Some Loblaws carry them too. Queen's Quay fo sho.) They make an excellent salad that won't break your teeth. Plus your kids can eat them without choking.
I'm an eyeballer, but here's the pasta salad I make that's always a hit. My friend Lynne created it for FoodTV.ca years ago, but I can no longer figure out how that site works, so I just guesstimate.
* Sun-dried tomato pesto/dressing: sun-dried tomatoes, a small clove of garlic, the oil from the sdt jar, a teeny bit of oregano, a lot of red wine vinegar.
* Farfalle/bowtie pasta
* Feta cheese
* Pitted black olives (kalamata or nicoise are best, though I've used the crappier sliced black ones in a can in a pinch)
Once you make the pesto and boil the pasta, you just mix everything else up. It's super savoury and is great for picnics. Also scores you points at potlucks.
*******
Enjoy your weekend! (It's a long one for us Canucks, thanks to good ol' Queen Vic. Who says good things don't come out of monarchies and colonization?)
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Sweet Searching
So my first review went up today -- hooray! I happened past this new store in the Beach on Saturday and was so pleased with myself for getting the scoop!
But I need more scoop and more scoop scopers!
Are you a writer or a wannabe writer in Calgary or Vancouver? I'm looking for a mom or two who can be on the ground in those cities, finding the hottest new trends in mom and baby gear. Interested? Email me at nadine [at] sweetspot [dot] ca.
Do you know of an awesome business, event, place or product for moms and the wee ones they love? Is it available to Canadians? Email me at nadine [at] sweetspot [dot] ca.
Maybe we could work together -- isn't that sweet?
But I need more scoop and more scoop scopers!
Are you a writer or a wannabe writer in Calgary or Vancouver? I'm looking for a mom or two who can be on the ground in those cities, finding the hottest new trends in mom and baby gear. Interested? Email me at nadine [at] sweetspot [dot] ca.
Do you know of an awesome business, event, place or product for moms and the wee ones they love? Is it available to Canadians? Email me at nadine [at] sweetspot [dot] ca.
Maybe we could work together -- isn't that sweet?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Against the Wind
After dinner most nights, the Dog takes the Goose upstairs for her bath, while Nate keeps me company as I wash the dishes.
Monday night, we were listening to music as I cleaned. Bob Seger's "Against the Wind" came on the iTunes -- a song I never listened to before I married the Dog, except when it came on in Home Depots. Halfway through the song I looked over at the step stool where Nate hangs out to find him sitting on it, shoulders stooped in sad pose.
"What's the matter buddy?"
Natey Drama sighed a big "Woe is me" sigh.
I came around the counter to face him. "Is the song making you sad?"
He nodded yes, eyes to the floor, hands in his lap.
"It's OK Nate. It's not a sad song, it's a wistful song. That means he's singing about a time in the past and thinking about how much he misses it."
He looked up at me, pretending to understand, or so I thought.
"What does the song make you think of, Nate?"
He looked at me earnestly and replied, "I'm thinking about (here's where I got so excited that he possibly understood the concept of wistfulness -- and then...) firetrucks."
Huh? Thank goodness he looked down again after he said it, because I was totally hiding my laughter. "Firetrucks?"
He nodded his head oh so seriously, something he does when he's trying to seem adult. "Because I really miss those firetrucks that we saw at the fire station at Sam's birthday. I want to see them again."
By George I think he's got it!
Oh great. Now he has another emotion to contend with. Like my dramatic preschooler needs to feel more things. Damn you Bob Seger.
Monday night, we were listening to music as I cleaned. Bob Seger's "Against the Wind" came on the iTunes -- a song I never listened to before I married the Dog, except when it came on in Home Depots. Halfway through the song I looked over at the step stool where Nate hangs out to find him sitting on it, shoulders stooped in sad pose.
"What's the matter buddy?"
Natey Drama sighed a big "Woe is me" sigh.
I came around the counter to face him. "Is the song making you sad?"
He nodded yes, eyes to the floor, hands in his lap.
"It's OK Nate. It's not a sad song, it's a wistful song. That means he's singing about a time in the past and thinking about how much he misses it."
He looked up at me, pretending to understand, or so I thought.
"What does the song make you think of, Nate?"
He looked at me earnestly and replied, "I'm thinking about (here's where I got so excited that he possibly understood the concept of wistfulness -- and then...) firetrucks."
Huh? Thank goodness he looked down again after he said it, because I was totally hiding my laughter. "Firetrucks?"
He nodded his head oh so seriously, something he does when he's trying to seem adult. "Because I really miss those firetrucks that we saw at the fire station at Sam's birthday. I want to see them again."
By George I think he's got it!
Oh great. Now he has another emotion to contend with. Like my dramatic preschooler needs to feel more things. Damn you Bob Seger.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Devil Wears Yoga Pants Embellished with Dried Baby Cereal
On the homefront, my first week back to work did not go so well. Nate either caught a virus, or he was doing some super asshole passive aggressive shit. I think it's somewhere between the two.
It started last Monday. "I'm too sick to go to music class. And I'm too sick to go to school tomorrow." He complained of a tummy ache. He refused to eat. ANYTHING. He and his sister got sent to my mom's for a couple days so that they could get over their respective viruses and I could get my head back in the game.
Of course I was torn up about this. I took his illness as a sign that I'd made the wrong choice by going back to work. "Don't go-ta work mommy, stay home and take care of me." Is that some manipulative shit or what? Why does he have to learn everything from me?
I'm not producing enough milk to pump anymore, so Lucy got sent off with a can of formula. I felt awful about not nursing her though her cold. But she was not as bothered by my absence as I was by hers. In fact, if her nose wasn't running, I'd hardly know that she was sick. She's so smiley and happy. She has such a good time at my parents' house.
The Dog and I didn't know what to do with ourselves. Usually when we don't have the kids it's because we have somewhere to go. But two school nights with no plans and no kids? We made dinner and watched Darjeeling Limited, which was over by 8 PM, so we went for a walk. It's amazing what a time-sucker bathtime/bedtime is. It felt like 2003, when we were living in our cool Little Portugal apartment with all the time in the world to be together.
After my second day on the job/first day at the office, I was desperate to get home and be with the kids. My mom had brought them back -- Nate to stay, Lucy for a visit. Unfortunately I got trapped on the TTC, had a claustrophobic panic attack and only made it home after an hour and a half. I bawled when I saw my daughter. I sobbed when I saw my son. "Don't worry mommy, I make you better. Don't be sad. I will kiss you and you will be all better."
After a good cry (and probably a good chunk of therapy needed for my frightened kids) I began to see how much I would enjoy this new chapter. Most days I'll be home, so there will be no battle on public transit. It's rare that the TTC will be so awful once or twice a week when I do go to the office for meetings. (And Pilates!) I'll just have to duck out before rush hour and make up the time after the kids are asleep.
Then Friday -- my first work from home day -- the Dog got this crazy violent stomach flu. He swore it was food poisoning, but when paired with Nate's tummy complaints all week Mom P.I. is going with flu. So I tried to work while taking quick breaks to run for saltines and Gatorade -- spooning the orange stuff to him like soup. Great, I thought, I can't catch a break.
Picked Nate up from daycare, got my Mother's Day card and a free cookie in the hallway. Came home to sick Daddy Dog. Nate didn't eat a bite of his dinner. Then he started complaining about his tummy ache again. Bedtime became a bit of a fiasco. I got Lucy down after much crying. I was trying to sort out Nate when his tummy complaints got more insistent. He'd kind of been constipated, but I think that has a lot to do with not eating anything. What would come out?
I gave him some Advil so he'd go to sleep. Almost immediately he sat up and made this awful noise. He looked like he was choking. I had no idea what was going on. "I can't make the sound to poo!" he exclaimed frantically. I was getting him up to take him to the bathroom when the projectile vomit hit my new jeans. Chunks splattered over the bed and the duvet.
Barfing is scary for adults. I can only imagine what it's like for my little guy who (thankfully) has little experience with it. He was frightened and upset about having to change out of his jammies, but he said, "I like the way my tummy feels now." Thank goodness for that.
All this commotion woke up Lucy, who had only been asleep for 30 minutes. So I had to get the Dog out of his sick bed to come help me change the sheets while I managed to get the two kids back to sleep.
See? Isn't being a working mom glamorous? The universe has a way of balancing things out. For every person who envied my position after my last post, there will be two who decide never to have children after this one.
It started last Monday. "I'm too sick to go to music class. And I'm too sick to go to school tomorrow." He complained of a tummy ache. He refused to eat. ANYTHING. He and his sister got sent to my mom's for a couple days so that they could get over their respective viruses and I could get my head back in the game.
Of course I was torn up about this. I took his illness as a sign that I'd made the wrong choice by going back to work. "Don't go-ta work mommy, stay home and take care of me." Is that some manipulative shit or what? Why does he have to learn everything from me?
I'm not producing enough milk to pump anymore, so Lucy got sent off with a can of formula. I felt awful about not nursing her though her cold. But she was not as bothered by my absence as I was by hers. In fact, if her nose wasn't running, I'd hardly know that she was sick. She's so smiley and happy. She has such a good time at my parents' house.
The Dog and I didn't know what to do with ourselves. Usually when we don't have the kids it's because we have somewhere to go. But two school nights with no plans and no kids? We made dinner and watched Darjeeling Limited, which was over by 8 PM, so we went for a walk. It's amazing what a time-sucker bathtime/bedtime is. It felt like 2003, when we were living in our cool Little Portugal apartment with all the time in the world to be together.
After my second day on the job/first day at the office, I was desperate to get home and be with the kids. My mom had brought them back -- Nate to stay, Lucy for a visit. Unfortunately I got trapped on the TTC, had a claustrophobic panic attack and only made it home after an hour and a half. I bawled when I saw my daughter. I sobbed when I saw my son. "Don't worry mommy, I make you better. Don't be sad. I will kiss you and you will be all better."
After a good cry (and probably a good chunk of therapy needed for my frightened kids) I began to see how much I would enjoy this new chapter. Most days I'll be home, so there will be no battle on public transit. It's rare that the TTC will be so awful once or twice a week when I do go to the office for meetings. (And Pilates!) I'll just have to duck out before rush hour and make up the time after the kids are asleep.
Then Friday -- my first work from home day -- the Dog got this crazy violent stomach flu. He swore it was food poisoning, but when paired with Nate's tummy complaints all week Mom P.I. is going with flu. So I tried to work while taking quick breaks to run for saltines and Gatorade -- spooning the orange stuff to him like soup. Great, I thought, I can't catch a break.
Picked Nate up from daycare, got my Mother's Day card and a free cookie in the hallway. Came home to sick Daddy Dog. Nate didn't eat a bite of his dinner. Then he started complaining about his tummy ache again. Bedtime became a bit of a fiasco. I got Lucy down after much crying. I was trying to sort out Nate when his tummy complaints got more insistent. He'd kind of been constipated, but I think that has a lot to do with not eating anything. What would come out?
I gave him some Advil so he'd go to sleep. Almost immediately he sat up and made this awful noise. He looked like he was choking. I had no idea what was going on. "I can't make the sound to poo!" he exclaimed frantically. I was getting him up to take him to the bathroom when the projectile vomit hit my new jeans. Chunks splattered over the bed and the duvet.
Barfing is scary for adults. I can only imagine what it's like for my little guy who (thankfully) has little experience with it. He was frightened and upset about having to change out of his jammies, but he said, "I like the way my tummy feels now." Thank goodness for that.
All this commotion woke up Lucy, who had only been asleep for 30 minutes. So I had to get the Dog out of his sick bed to come help me change the sheets while I managed to get the two kids back to sleep.
See? Isn't being a working mom glamorous? The universe has a way of balancing things out. For every person who envied my position after my last post, there will be two who decide never to have children after this one.
Friday, May 09, 2008
The Devil Wears H&M -- week one
OK, OK. I'm the one wearing H&M. And there is not one single Miranda Priestly-type character in my whole office. But it's my first time working in fashion since I worked at La Senza when I was 19, so I'm bigging up things a touch.
I'm going to give you an overview here, and then I'm never going to discuss my coworkers or work in detail again. So get your fill.
The first week back to work was both heaven and hell. The job itself? Heaven. I work with predominantly 20-something girls who love fashion.
The office is sort of divided into two camps. On one side there are the just-want-to-talk-about-fashion-and-boyfriends girls. On the other side, the more intellectual girls who want to gossip about Gossip Girl and discuss how The Hills will ever sustain another season.
They say fantastic Gen Y things like, "That's so random!" or "I wish I had cable." They approach me like I'm from the future when they discover I have children and say, "You're a MOM? You SO don't look like a mom." (Why do I find that moderately insulting?) Little do they know that I totally look like a mom when I'm at home. I've just been trying EXTRA hard to look the part and reclaim some of my former fashionista self to win them over.
Then there are my bosses, who are athletic, healthy, glowing and inspiring. There is one dude, who is the only other parent as far as I can tell. He's only 10-months into parenthood, but at least I have someone to bitch about teething with.
There is my acquaintance, now a friend, who is so fun and down-to-earth that she makes me feel right at home. There is awesome talk of a boy she met online who is a nude model with an eleven inch penis. There is no such talk at the playground, so I relish these conversations.
There is weekly company-mandated pilates down the street at the studio of a former colleague of mine. I joined in the other day, worried that my 33-year-old ass (or more like my hip) would not keep up with the younglings. I panicked about removing my shoes and showing my pedicure-desperate feet. But at the "remove your shoes" station, no one had pedicured feet. Then I noticed the nervousness of the other girls at tackling the class and I was totally put at ease. It's nice when you see the bit of dorkiness in everyone.
(Of course I didn't get the memo that on pilates day everyone comes to work in their workout clothes. It was my second day in the office, so I put way too much effort into my outfit, only to find everyone in black yoga pants. Oh well.)
There is the great wall of freebies. As soon as anything comes in for review it gets distributed around the office ASAP. Anything baby or mom-related just confuses everyone, so it comes straight to me. PR people get wind of your new position and they start calling you and inviting you to a million fab things that you can't attend because you're either working or mothering. But it's equally fun listening to the younglings talk about where they've been the night before, or what dress they need to buy for which party that very night.
I love them. All of them. I want to put them in my purse and take them home with me. They are so freakin' cute and they remind me of days when I was more carefree. It's so good for my spirit to be around them. I still cannot believe that THIS is my job!
I'm going to give you an overview here, and then I'm never going to discuss my coworkers or work in detail again. So get your fill.
The first week back to work was both heaven and hell. The job itself? Heaven. I work with predominantly 20-something girls who love fashion.
The office is sort of divided into two camps. On one side there are the just-want-to-talk-about-fashion-and-boyfriends girls. On the other side, the more intellectual girls who want to gossip about Gossip Girl and discuss how The Hills will ever sustain another season.
They say fantastic Gen Y things like, "That's so random!" or "I wish I had cable." They approach me like I'm from the future when they discover I have children and say, "You're a MOM? You SO don't look like a mom." (Why do I find that moderately insulting?) Little do they know that I totally look like a mom when I'm at home. I've just been trying EXTRA hard to look the part and reclaim some of my former fashionista self to win them over.
Then there are my bosses, who are athletic, healthy, glowing and inspiring. There is one dude, who is the only other parent as far as I can tell. He's only 10-months into parenthood, but at least I have someone to bitch about teething with.
There is my acquaintance, now a friend, who is so fun and down-to-earth that she makes me feel right at home. There is awesome talk of a boy she met online who is a nude model with an eleven inch penis. There is no such talk at the playground, so I relish these conversations.
There is weekly company-mandated pilates down the street at the studio of a former colleague of mine. I joined in the other day, worried that my 33-year-old ass (or more like my hip) would not keep up with the younglings. I panicked about removing my shoes and showing my pedicure-desperate feet. But at the "remove your shoes" station, no one had pedicured feet. Then I noticed the nervousness of the other girls at tackling the class and I was totally put at ease. It's nice when you see the bit of dorkiness in everyone.
(Of course I didn't get the memo that on pilates day everyone comes to work in their workout clothes. It was my second day in the office, so I put way too much effort into my outfit, only to find everyone in black yoga pants. Oh well.)
There is the great wall of freebies. As soon as anything comes in for review it gets distributed around the office ASAP. Anything baby or mom-related just confuses everyone, so it comes straight to me. PR people get wind of your new position and they start calling you and inviting you to a million fab things that you can't attend because you're either working or mothering. But it's equally fun listening to the younglings talk about where they've been the night before, or what dress they need to buy for which party that very night.
I love them. All of them. I want to put them in my purse and take them home with me. They are so freakin' cute and they remind me of days when I was more carefree. It's so good for my spirit to be around them. I still cannot believe that THIS is my job!
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Why you should never do business with people you know
I had issues with sciatica in both my pregnancies. But after I had a nice old fashioned vaginal birth with Lucy, I just haven't been able to walk right. My right hip has gone all wiggy woggy. After a long walk, it feels as though someone is stabbing great big sushi knives into my groin.
So after trying homeopathy and massage to treat it, I thought I'd try a physiotherapist on my RMT's recommendation. I didn't really know where to go. I have a friend whose husband is a physiotherapist, so I thought I'd ask for a reference or something. Somehow it seemed perfectly logical to everyone that he, this friend's husband, would treat me.
I called to make an appointment. He was in transit while we spoke, so we set a time to meet at his office rather quickly.
I arrived in my work attire and filled out the necessary forms. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but in my mind I thought we'd just be discussing the injury and setting a time to do further treatments. But no, no. We would be doing the treatment right then and had I brought shorts?
No. Of course not. Nor had I shaved my legs.
I would be asked to remove my pants in front of my friend's husband. Oh well, I rationalized, he's a doctor. He's seen all kinds of things, I'm sure.
What I am most certainly sure of is that he hadn't seen his wife's friend in her underwear. Most certainly he had not intended on seeing the white wings of her maxi pad flapped around the black cotton of her underwear. Oh, but it didn't stop there. He got the added bonus of non-waxed bush that insists on spreading like a weed against my thigh. I can only speak for myself, but I think we both wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
We made small talk, trying to mask how infinitely awkward the situation was. What made it extra difficult was how totally professional he was being. He performed 4 minutes of ultrasound therapy to my pelvic area, and I'm pretty sure he got an eyeful of pube when he exposed the necessary area, but he was all business. I wish he would have made a crack or something to call out the woolly mammoth in the room, but alas, no.
He recommended some stretches and told me to come back next week. He awkwardly passed me my pants through the curtain as he said goodbye. "Bring shorts and a t-shirt next time," he called out as he shut the door.
Duly noted.
So after trying homeopathy and massage to treat it, I thought I'd try a physiotherapist on my RMT's recommendation. I didn't really know where to go. I have a friend whose husband is a physiotherapist, so I thought I'd ask for a reference or something. Somehow it seemed perfectly logical to everyone that he, this friend's husband, would treat me.
I called to make an appointment. He was in transit while we spoke, so we set a time to meet at his office rather quickly.
I arrived in my work attire and filled out the necessary forms. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but in my mind I thought we'd just be discussing the injury and setting a time to do further treatments. But no, no. We would be doing the treatment right then and had I brought shorts?
No. Of course not. Nor had I shaved my legs.
I would be asked to remove my pants in front of my friend's husband. Oh well, I rationalized, he's a doctor. He's seen all kinds of things, I'm sure.
What I am most certainly sure of is that he hadn't seen his wife's friend in her underwear. Most certainly he had not intended on seeing the white wings of her maxi pad flapped around the black cotton of her underwear. Oh, but it didn't stop there. He got the added bonus of non-waxed bush that insists on spreading like a weed against my thigh. I can only speak for myself, but I think we both wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
We made small talk, trying to mask how infinitely awkward the situation was. What made it extra difficult was how totally professional he was being. He performed 4 minutes of ultrasound therapy to my pelvic area, and I'm pretty sure he got an eyeful of pube when he exposed the necessary area, but he was all business. I wish he would have made a crack or something to call out the woolly mammoth in the room, but alas, no.
He recommended some stretches and told me to come back next week. He awkwardly passed me my pants through the curtain as he said goodbye. "Bring shorts and a t-shirt next time," he called out as he shut the door.
Duly noted.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Mini-Break Blues
Put up your hand if you knew that my mini-break would be far from relaxing. Yeah, I figured the only one who didn't factor in the workload was me.
If you decide to take a trip with two kids under age four, you have to be one of two kinds of people. Person A is strict about schedules and follows them to the letter no matter what or where. She plans for nothing but scheduling feeding and nap times, because she knows that this will pretty much eat up the whole day. Any sort of sightseeing or culture absorbing would be icing on the cake to Person A.
Person B doesn't give a flying hoot about schedules and just goes with the flow. So what if the kids don't nap at their normal times, or eat anything other than hot dogs for two days? Person B is on vacation and everything else is secondary.
I fall somewhere in between and A and a B, leaning more heavily toward the B, but not being able to let go of the guilt that I'm not being an A to the letter. So our little jaunt to Blue Mountain proved to be heavily tiring and taxing.
***************************************
En-Route
The day started out OK. We planned to leave at noon, but gave ourselves an hour buffer to allow for any last minute scrambling. The kids were fed, our lunch, clothes and provisions were packed and we were on the road at noon as planned. A miracle really.
The Goose napped for most of the journey there. Nate was also about to doze as we rode up the 400, but then we passed Canada's Wonderland and made the mistake of screaming with enthusiasm as we noticed the new mega coaster, the Behemoth. Our commotion woke him out of his daze and we lost that window of opportunity. It should have taken us between 2 and 3 hours to get there. But we're potty training. It took us 4 hours to reach our destination.
Nate asked to stop 3 times on the way, to pee. Had we ANY sense, we would have limited his intake of fluids. While Nate and Daddy took care of business, my job was to keep the car moving to prevent the Goose from waking up. I did 360s in truck stops, packed or empty. I barreled down side roads. Anything to keep her highness from awakening and becoming instantly demanding.
***************************************
Check-In
We checked into our awesome king bed, jacuzzi suite. We got a great deal online with breakfast and dinner included, and the king suite was the same price as a double -- you just had to ask. It was the benefit of booking mid-week, off-season. Though the Blue Mountain Inn is older and nowhere near as cute as the ski-condo-village at the base of the hill, we were glad to be in the same building as the restaurant and the pool.
As soon as we approached the door at the end of the hall I said, "What's that smell?" Upon entering the room we were greeted by a leaky gas smell. After a call down, the maintenance guy came to check out the problem and found everything to be fine. (Nate kept hounding him though. "Hey buddy, it stinks in here.") But I couldn't relax -- even after he turned the gas to the fireplace completely off. We called down again and were so courteously upgraded to a one-bedroom condo suite in the village that I was smiling again in no time.
The main section of the Blue Mountain resort is designed the way more suburbs should be designed. Shops and restaurants dot the pedestrian only paths, with condo/hotels above. On a Wednesday night, it was pretty dead and we felt like we had the entire resort to ourselves. There's a playground, an aquatic centre, a giant checkerboard and a toy store. There's a pizza place that looks like a fire hall and a chocolate factory next door. And no cars! It's ideal for families, yet grown-up enough that you could have a romantic weekend there, or attend a professional conference as well.
All was relatively fine. The new room had a kitchenette and a bedroom with a door. We could effectively put the children in the living room and keep the king bed to ourselves -- or so we thought. The kids had other plans.
After dinner the first night, our game of musical beds began. Lucy is teething and no longer sleeping through the night as a result. Nate is potty training and middle of the night wakings are becoming more commonplace for him, too. It's frustrating after working so diligently to train these kids into awesome sleepers. We pretty much went through every possible sleep combination possible: Mom and Nate in sofa bed, the Dog and Lucy in the king. Dad and Nate in sofa bed, Mom and Lucy... well, you get the picture. I didn't even get to watch Model and there were two TVs in the room!
***************************************
Day 1
The next day was spent trying to figure out how we would do anything between naps and feedings. We hit the playground after breakfast, came back to the room to get ready to swim, only to realize that Lucy had to nap. When she woke up, we realized she had to eat. In the meantime, we had several different Blue Mountain staff give us varying info about which pools were open. Between naps and feedings and pulling on doors to pools that were not open, it took us 3 hours just to get everyone to the one pool that was open.
The Dog took Nate to be changed, while I got Lucy into her adorable new Joe Fresh red bikini. Oh crap. I forgot a swim diaper.
We'd met a mom (40-odd, brunette, designer sunglasses, and the 20-something girl at her side -- possibly her nanny) and her two children in the playground. She was here while her husband was at a conference. I happened to run into her in the changeroom. Crapity crap. Maybe I should put her in a regular diaper, I thought. I did not want to look like a dirty mom in front of this other together-looking mom. She approached me while I was debating this. "Is that just a regular diaper?"
"Um, oh yes, you're right. It is. I've forgotten to pack swim diapers," I stammered like an idiot.
"Oh, she'll sink like a stone."
"Oh, I'm sure it will be alright," I tried to downplay my shortcomings as a mother. "Not sure what else to do..."
"Does your daughter have regular bowel movements?"
"Oh! Yes! And she's already gone today," I answered happy that there was a possible way out of putting my girl in a wretched diaper and ruining the cuteness of her new bikini.
"Well swim diapers don't hold urine anyway. Just put her in the bikini."
Phew.
Once in the pool area, after all that work, Nate freaked out and started crying because the water was too cold. It was embarrassing. And now I had to face Other Mom in the midst of a meltdown. She looked at me sympathetically, but I couldn't help to sense a bit of smugness behind her knowing nod.
I handed the Goose of the the Dog. They are one and the same and she took to the water with great joy. I managed to convince Nate that dipping his feet in the hot tub would make things better. That boy HATES water, much to our dismay. No amount of coaxing and support will make him enjoy it. After getting over his fear that the water was too hot, he did immerse his feet and sat with me contentedly.
I waited until the other families had left the pool and changeroom before heading downstairs ourselves. I showered with Lucy -- a feat in itself -- while the Dog didn't bother struggling to get Nate dechlorinated. (Hence a huge eczema outbreak on his lower back.) After getting Lucy clean, I wondered how it would be possible to wash my own skin and hair. I wheeled her -- me sopping wet, she dressed and dry -- to the men's and banged on the door until the Dog retrieved her and headed to the game room. I took a moment in the sauna, hoping to de-stress, but all the while thinking of how they must be waiting for me upstairs. Argh.
So that was it. Really. I showered and dressed and we headed back to the room to get ready for dinner and that was the ENTIRE day. Gone.
After dinner, we decided the best course of action was to put Nate in between us in the king-size, while Lucy cried it out a bit in the living room. This strategy worked well -- Lucy only REALLY woke up once. I read my book by flashlight, my two boys snuggled to my left. The Dog was asleep before Nate.
***************************************
Check-Out
"It's very telling that you did not pack condoms, nor I lingerie," I quipped the next morning. "What did you expect?" the Dog answered in a tone that suggested he had married a crazy person. "Nothing," I replied, "Just noting it. I keep forgetting how different our life is now and that it affects everything."
Before we checked out, I consoled myself with a trip to the L'Occitane store for some shea butter hand cream and moisturizing gloves. The Dog found solace in a big hunk of fudge. Nate got an addition to his Thomas the Tank Engine vehicle collection. Lucy? Lucy just took it all in. She is swiftly becoming the anchor of this family.
***************************************
So there you have it. Overall, Blue Mountain is great and the staff are so incredibly friendly and helpful. It's totally family friendly without a licensed character to be seen anywhere. I did get to have some serious quality time with my fam before I trade them for cupcakes and paycheques. I love these kids dearly and it's a pleasure to be in their company.
But the greatest pleasure may have come when we drove straight from the resort to Grandma's. "I'll honk the horn, while you push them out of the car onto the driveway," the Dog joked. "Then we'll just peel out." Heh. Thank you Grandma! You're worth more than a million pretty mountain view hotel rooms.
If you decide to take a trip with two kids under age four, you have to be one of two kinds of people. Person A is strict about schedules and follows them to the letter no matter what or where. She plans for nothing but scheduling feeding and nap times, because she knows that this will pretty much eat up the whole day. Any sort of sightseeing or culture absorbing would be icing on the cake to Person A.
Person B doesn't give a flying hoot about schedules and just goes with the flow. So what if the kids don't nap at their normal times, or eat anything other than hot dogs for two days? Person B is on vacation and everything else is secondary.
I fall somewhere in between and A and a B, leaning more heavily toward the B, but not being able to let go of the guilt that I'm not being an A to the letter. So our little jaunt to Blue Mountain proved to be heavily tiring and taxing.
***************************************
En-Route
The day started out OK. We planned to leave at noon, but gave ourselves an hour buffer to allow for any last minute scrambling. The kids were fed, our lunch, clothes and provisions were packed and we were on the road at noon as planned. A miracle really.
The Goose napped for most of the journey there. Nate was also about to doze as we rode up the 400, but then we passed Canada's Wonderland and made the mistake of screaming with enthusiasm as we noticed the new mega coaster, the Behemoth. Our commotion woke him out of his daze and we lost that window of opportunity. It should have taken us between 2 and 3 hours to get there. But we're potty training. It took us 4 hours to reach our destination.
Nate asked to stop 3 times on the way, to pee. Had we ANY sense, we would have limited his intake of fluids. While Nate and Daddy took care of business, my job was to keep the car moving to prevent the Goose from waking up. I did 360s in truck stops, packed or empty. I barreled down side roads. Anything to keep her highness from awakening and becoming instantly demanding.
***************************************
Check-In
We checked into our awesome king bed, jacuzzi suite. We got a great deal online with breakfast and dinner included, and the king suite was the same price as a double -- you just had to ask. It was the benefit of booking mid-week, off-season. Though the Blue Mountain Inn is older and nowhere near as cute as the ski-condo-village at the base of the hill, we were glad to be in the same building as the restaurant and the pool.
As soon as we approached the door at the end of the hall I said, "What's that smell?" Upon entering the room we were greeted by a leaky gas smell. After a call down, the maintenance guy came to check out the problem and found everything to be fine. (Nate kept hounding him though. "Hey buddy, it stinks in here.") But I couldn't relax -- even after he turned the gas to the fireplace completely off. We called down again and were so courteously upgraded to a one-bedroom condo suite in the village that I was smiling again in no time.
The main section of the Blue Mountain resort is designed the way more suburbs should be designed. Shops and restaurants dot the pedestrian only paths, with condo/hotels above. On a Wednesday night, it was pretty dead and we felt like we had the entire resort to ourselves. There's a playground, an aquatic centre, a giant checkerboard and a toy store. There's a pizza place that looks like a fire hall and a chocolate factory next door. And no cars! It's ideal for families, yet grown-up enough that you could have a romantic weekend there, or attend a professional conference as well.
All was relatively fine. The new room had a kitchenette and a bedroom with a door. We could effectively put the children in the living room and keep the king bed to ourselves -- or so we thought. The kids had other plans.
After dinner the first night, our game of musical beds began. Lucy is teething and no longer sleeping through the night as a result. Nate is potty training and middle of the night wakings are becoming more commonplace for him, too. It's frustrating after working so diligently to train these kids into awesome sleepers. We pretty much went through every possible sleep combination possible: Mom and Nate in sofa bed, the Dog and Lucy in the king. Dad and Nate in sofa bed, Mom and Lucy... well, you get the picture. I didn't even get to watch Model and there were two TVs in the room!
***************************************
Day 1
The next day was spent trying to figure out how we would do anything between naps and feedings. We hit the playground after breakfast, came back to the room to get ready to swim, only to realize that Lucy had to nap. When she woke up, we realized she had to eat. In the meantime, we had several different Blue Mountain staff give us varying info about which pools were open. Between naps and feedings and pulling on doors to pools that were not open, it took us 3 hours just to get everyone to the one pool that was open.
The Dog took Nate to be changed, while I got Lucy into her adorable new Joe Fresh red bikini. Oh crap. I forgot a swim diaper.
We'd met a mom (40-odd, brunette, designer sunglasses, and the 20-something girl at her side -- possibly her nanny) and her two children in the playground. She was here while her husband was at a conference. I happened to run into her in the changeroom. Crapity crap. Maybe I should put her in a regular diaper, I thought. I did not want to look like a dirty mom in front of this other together-looking mom. She approached me while I was debating this. "Is that just a regular diaper?"
"Um, oh yes, you're right. It is. I've forgotten to pack swim diapers," I stammered like an idiot.
"Oh, she'll sink like a stone."
"Oh, I'm sure it will be alright," I tried to downplay my shortcomings as a mother. "Not sure what else to do..."
"Does your daughter have regular bowel movements?"
"Oh! Yes! And she's already gone today," I answered happy that there was a possible way out of putting my girl in a wretched diaper and ruining the cuteness of her new bikini.
"Well swim diapers don't hold urine anyway. Just put her in the bikini."
Phew.
Once in the pool area, after all that work, Nate freaked out and started crying because the water was too cold. It was embarrassing. And now I had to face Other Mom in the midst of a meltdown. She looked at me sympathetically, but I couldn't help to sense a bit of smugness behind her knowing nod.
I handed the Goose of the the Dog. They are one and the same and she took to the water with great joy. I managed to convince Nate that dipping his feet in the hot tub would make things better. That boy HATES water, much to our dismay. No amount of coaxing and support will make him enjoy it. After getting over his fear that the water was too hot, he did immerse his feet and sat with me contentedly.
I waited until the other families had left the pool and changeroom before heading downstairs ourselves. I showered with Lucy -- a feat in itself -- while the Dog didn't bother struggling to get Nate dechlorinated. (Hence a huge eczema outbreak on his lower back.) After getting Lucy clean, I wondered how it would be possible to wash my own skin and hair. I wheeled her -- me sopping wet, she dressed and dry -- to the men's and banged on the door until the Dog retrieved her and headed to the game room. I took a moment in the sauna, hoping to de-stress, but all the while thinking of how they must be waiting for me upstairs. Argh.
So that was it. Really. I showered and dressed and we headed back to the room to get ready for dinner and that was the ENTIRE day. Gone.
After dinner, we decided the best course of action was to put Nate in between us in the king-size, while Lucy cried it out a bit in the living room. This strategy worked well -- Lucy only REALLY woke up once. I read my book by flashlight, my two boys snuggled to my left. The Dog was asleep before Nate.
***************************************
Check-Out
"It's very telling that you did not pack condoms, nor I lingerie," I quipped the next morning. "What did you expect?" the Dog answered in a tone that suggested he had married a crazy person. "Nothing," I replied, "Just noting it. I keep forgetting how different our life is now and that it affects everything."
Before we checked out, I consoled myself with a trip to the L'Occitane store for some shea butter hand cream and moisturizing gloves. The Dog found solace in a big hunk of fudge. Nate got an addition to his Thomas the Tank Engine vehicle collection. Lucy? Lucy just took it all in. She is swiftly becoming the anchor of this family.
***************************************
So there you have it. Overall, Blue Mountain is great and the staff are so incredibly friendly and helpful. It's totally family friendly without a licensed character to be seen anywhere. I did get to have some serious quality time with my fam before I trade them for cupcakes and paycheques. I love these kids dearly and it's a pleasure to be in their company.
But the greatest pleasure may have come when we drove straight from the resort to Grandma's. "I'll honk the horn, while you push them out of the car onto the driveway," the Dog joked. "Then we'll just peel out." Heh. Thank you Grandma! You're worth more than a million pretty mountain view hotel rooms.
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