Wednesday 23 November 2011
The Christmas Tree
Well, my tree is up, and it's beautiful. Gone are the days of our early marriage where the laughable theme was "Santa threw up" and the tree was bombarded with cast off broken ornaments from family and friends. I look now and see my beautiful swarovski ornaments glistening in the lights, one for every year we've been married, the wax gingerbread men from my childhood that smell like gingerbread, marked with tiny teeth marks of both my brother and I and all of my children, all having decided at one point to see if they tasted as good as they smelled. There's real gingerbread ornaments from 3 years ago when I made a horrid batch so we, as a family, decorated them and hung them on the tree. (Yes, you can go so wrong with baking that it never goes bad.) There's hideous angels from Chris' Nonna (rest her soul) that scream Italian Catholic, there's an awful wicker angel from my grandmother. The baby's first Christmas ornaments from my 3 children, 3 brass ornaments from when I was a child and my mother had a "brass party" and made stuffed mushroom caps that I was not allowed to eat until the company arrived. The felt mice I made with the children for all our friends last year that I remembered how to make from helping my friend Janine's mom make them for Christmas Chaos many, many years ago. The hand beaded, lopsided, jiffy markered beauties from my children's preschool days, the glass ball filled with glitter and marked "Tabitha" for my first marital pet. Candy Canes older than me, and new ones the children can eat, the Snowbells I sold in grade 3 door to door, and the beautiful newer ones that my mom buys me a few of every year. As I sit staring at the beauty of so many years come together, I was struck with the realization of how many of these come from our combined families past, and how these are no longer my memories. They belong to my children, who will one day hang some of these same ornaments, lifting the littlest one to reach the very top to put the star on, singing along to A Very Twisted Christmas, or more likely by then, crunking along to a very Bieber Christmas or something. I still use the stocking my Grandmother made me, black with my name in felt on it. Perhaps this is the year to make my own children's stockings anew, something they can use for a lifetime. Religious or not, Christmas is such a magical time in our home because it brings so many elements- family, history, memories- together in a swirling, sparkling display. It's such a blissed out, peaceful feeling of living for so much more than yourself, of building memories for these little people that you would kill for, and lovely reminiscings to share on an old porch with my husband when we're very, very old. A sappy post, I know, but it had to be done. It's all about the love. And the chocolate.
Wednesday 5 October 2011
Fun Things do to with your Homestay Student
See how many marshmallows she can fit into her mouth at once! We miss you Manami!
Also, teach her the words "hangover", "advil", and "bastard. All in one night! (Fat Bastard wine was behind that one.) The end, i just really wanted to use this pic.
Conversation with my Husband
Me: So, the guy came to install the house alarm today... he was a beautiful black man... wait, can I say "black man"? African-Canadian?
Hubby: I think black is okay, they don't seem to mind.
Me: So there's black people and white people, can I call East Indians "brown"? or Chinese "yellow" then?
Hubby: they're just "Indians", and no, you can't.
Me: So there's black and white and then everyone else you name by culture? This is so confusing.
I have been basically banned by my friends from using the term "lesbian", but "gay" seems to be fine thus far. Apparently I label people too much, but how do you describe then? This alarm guy was beautiful because he was black. He had that football build, the dark dark skin with the white teeth and the deep voice and it just takes too long to say it this way. I've had friends even attempt to use zee instead of he or she, but you know what? If someone mugs me and I'm giving a police report, I am going to say it was a Chinese Man. Or whatever. I like the idea of putting whatever you want in the gender category of passports (Go Australia!) but there are times when racial and sexual descriptors are necessary. If you invite me to a birthday party for your "partner" whom I have never met, I want to know if I should bring wine with a schmaltzy label like "Bitch" or scotch. Actually, most my friends are lawyers so scotch always works. But there are situations where old fashioned, racist sexist language works for me. I'm old school, alright? I still tell the kids I'll tape something for them (They humour me), I still "dial" a telephone (no longer a dial or a tele), I made a reference to "Pigs in Space" from the Muppet Show today to be met by the blank stare of my (slightly younger) friend. Here's an idea folks, look behind the words to the meaning the person using them intended. I love people, most people. (Exceptions: Prowlers, Jehovah's Witnesses on my doorstep, crazy people on the bus that try to touch my son's red hair.) And I think Black People (African-Canadian? How far removed from Africa do you have to be till that no longer applies?) are a beautiful race, male and female. They're just built better.
Bring on the hate mail. I'm trying.
Hubby: I think black is okay, they don't seem to mind.
Me: So there's black people and white people, can I call East Indians "brown"? or Chinese "yellow" then?
Hubby: they're just "Indians", and no, you can't.
Me: So there's black and white and then everyone else you name by culture? This is so confusing.
I have been basically banned by my friends from using the term "lesbian", but "gay" seems to be fine thus far. Apparently I label people too much, but how do you describe then? This alarm guy was beautiful because he was black. He had that football build, the dark dark skin with the white teeth and the deep voice and it just takes too long to say it this way. I've had friends even attempt to use zee instead of he or she, but you know what? If someone mugs me and I'm giving a police report, I am going to say it was a Chinese Man. Or whatever. I like the idea of putting whatever you want in the gender category of passports (Go Australia!) but there are times when racial and sexual descriptors are necessary. If you invite me to a birthday party for your "partner" whom I have never met, I want to know if I should bring wine with a schmaltzy label like "Bitch" or scotch. Actually, most my friends are lawyers so scotch always works. But there are situations where old fashioned, racist sexist language works for me. I'm old school, alright? I still tell the kids I'll tape something for them (They humour me), I still "dial" a telephone (no longer a dial or a tele), I made a reference to "Pigs in Space" from the Muppet Show today to be met by the blank stare of my (slightly younger) friend. Here's an idea folks, look behind the words to the meaning the person using them intended. I love people, most people. (Exceptions: Prowlers, Jehovah's Witnesses on my doorstep, crazy people on the bus that try to touch my son's red hair.) And I think Black People (African-Canadian? How far removed from Africa do you have to be till that no longer applies?) are a beautiful race, male and female. They're just built better.
Bring on the hate mail. I'm trying.
How to tell if you're a Stay at Home Mommy
There are some serious indicators i do not leave the house enough. Here are some of them:
My evening nightcap is often a jagerbomb.
I start crafting Halloween costumes in May, but do not start Christmas crap until Dec. 23rd. (Metrotown Mall on Dec. 23rd is a special level of hell, I assure you. Much, much more so with kids in tow. Hello, jagerbomb.)
My first meal almost every day is at 3:15 pm and it's usually crackers and cheese, or whatever the kidlets have for an afterschool snack.
Telemarketers are officially afraid to call me. Haven't heard from one in months.
I have a huge to-do list everyday, and mostly don't do any of it. I do have fresh lime-raspberry loaf right now though. No, no pics. I'm so lame.
I have like 8 gold trophies on Plants Vs. Zombies, because I'm so awesome.
I got to go for a mammogram yesterday and I was so, so excited about it!! Yay Squishiness!!! (FYI women, they feel like a million stinging wasps in your bra. Not pleasant. But the nurses were super nice.)
I'm really enjoying the books my children bring home from school. For example, my son brought home a superhero alphabet book which included "W" woman, who is wet, wild, and willing. Maybe not quite that inappropriate, but it raised eyebrows. She was also "wonderful" to look at. At least he's learning the alphabet?
I have started singing, because I am an extrovert and I need to hear voices, or I'll be hearing the bad kind of voices, and that benefits no one except JP Domino who can use me for a case study one day. I suck at singing, am the polar opposite of every Disney "heroine". Birds fly into windows on purpose when I sing. I know this is on purpose because my windows are filthy and birds aren't that stupid.
I drink 2 cups of coffee every morning, then get jittery and panicky, then do yoga, then hurt myself and lay on the couch.
I'm too smart for the new fall lineup (2 Broke Girls? Painful. TerraNova? Write something new.) But I watch them anyway, because All My Children just finished it's million-year-run so Susan Lucci can peel off her flesh to expose a Hellraiser-type-Succubus in private.
When I get bored, I cook, way too much, then panic at the amount of food I have made and inevitably end up with a somewhat surprise dinner party of 11 and panic about that.
I have all the time in the world, but no time at all, it seems. And that glorious napping thing I had planned on? Not with this much coffee jostling for space in my veins. Well, I have to run, the sewer guys are coming tomorrow and I'm going to bake them a cake. (serious.)
My evening nightcap is often a jagerbomb.
I start crafting Halloween costumes in May, but do not start Christmas crap until Dec. 23rd. (Metrotown Mall on Dec. 23rd is a special level of hell, I assure you. Much, much more so with kids in tow. Hello, jagerbomb.)
My first meal almost every day is at 3:15 pm and it's usually crackers and cheese, or whatever the kidlets have for an afterschool snack.
Telemarketers are officially afraid to call me. Haven't heard from one in months.
I have a huge to-do list everyday, and mostly don't do any of it. I do have fresh lime-raspberry loaf right now though. No, no pics. I'm so lame.
I have like 8 gold trophies on Plants Vs. Zombies, because I'm so awesome.
I got to go for a mammogram yesterday and I was so, so excited about it!! Yay Squishiness!!! (FYI women, they feel like a million stinging wasps in your bra. Not pleasant. But the nurses were super nice.)
I'm really enjoying the books my children bring home from school. For example, my son brought home a superhero alphabet book which included "W" woman, who is wet, wild, and willing. Maybe not quite that inappropriate, but it raised eyebrows. She was also "wonderful" to look at. At least he's learning the alphabet?
I have started singing, because I am an extrovert and I need to hear voices, or I'll be hearing the bad kind of voices, and that benefits no one except JP Domino who can use me for a case study one day. I suck at singing, am the polar opposite of every Disney "heroine". Birds fly into windows on purpose when I sing. I know this is on purpose because my windows are filthy and birds aren't that stupid.
I drink 2 cups of coffee every morning, then get jittery and panicky, then do yoga, then hurt myself and lay on the couch.
I'm too smart for the new fall lineup (2 Broke Girls? Painful. TerraNova? Write something new.) But I watch them anyway, because All My Children just finished it's million-year-run so Susan Lucci can peel off her flesh to expose a Hellraiser-type-Succubus in private.
When I get bored, I cook, way too much, then panic at the amount of food I have made and inevitably end up with a somewhat surprise dinner party of 11 and panic about that.
I have all the time in the world, but no time at all, it seems. And that glorious napping thing I had planned on? Not with this much coffee jostling for space in my veins. Well, I have to run, the sewer guys are coming tomorrow and I'm going to bake them a cake. (serious.)
Wednesday 21 September 2011
Getting the hang of it...
My kids came home from school today and I asked Bells to fold the laundry, which she did. She's a gosh-darn 5 year old laundry expert. So much win. I asked my 7 year old son to make cream of broccoli soup. He got the pot out, threw in some butter, grabbed some shallots... I almost cried with joy. He needed a little help with the shallots and garlic, but he hacked up the broccoli, added the chicken stock, and did the vast majority of everything to do with it. It was wonderful, with the dubious addition of fresh dill. He got a little carried away, but I'm cool with that. They're just getting so self sufficient!! On the flip side, hubby comes home the other night, in time for dinner even, to lovely homemade crepes stuffed with roasted tomatoes, asparagus and crab and topped with a dill cream sauce. The children were so excited! I was so excited! He emptied his pockets before sitting down and found.... his bosses' car keys. Sigh. So, I pack up dinner, uneaten, and the fam, and we head to Surrey to drop of the keys and go out for dinner with daddy. This makes me feel like a supercool, awesome, laid back and supportive wife and mother. (Except for the merciless teasing I rightfully inflicted upon him.) So now, I am tooting my own horn. My horn is awesome. The kids are both in full time school, hubby's in full time work, and I am doing Jillian Micheals workouts everyday, yard work (this is a very new thing for me), cleaning, cooking up a storm, and generally not relaxing very much at all. I made myself take a bubble bath with candles and rain outside and a trashy magazine... the whole shebang. I lasted 5 minutes. I find relaxing very stressful. I find procrastinating very relaxing, however. I just need to know I should be doing something.
That's all for now, just a rambling stream of consciousness with no lessons, clarity or revelations. Happy Autumn, everyone, now for my first kids soccer practice which the skies have generously opened up for in true Vancouver style.
That's all for now, just a rambling stream of consciousness with no lessons, clarity or revelations. Happy Autumn, everyone, now for my first kids soccer practice which the skies have generously opened up for in true Vancouver style.
Saturday 3 September 2011
To The Prowlers!!
I know you're out there.
I know, because the closer I get to sleep the sharper my hearing gets.
I lay in bed silently willing my husband to breathe more quietly so I can hear you steal our bikes.
It is nearly 1am, I have checked the bikes twice and each child's bedroom three times. Now I've psyched myself out. Somehow, I skipped turning into my mother and went straight for grandmotherhood. Everyone's a hooligan. I may come off as delusional, certainly paranoid, but I'll have you know the first night we moved here I woke hubby up in a panic and he confirmed that yes, the sound I was hearing was gunshots, but they were miles away.
It's not my fault... I cut my big city teeth in Stepford. It's so weird being in a big house that's freestanding and kind of isolated. (There's tall hedges, alright?)
But Dear Prowlers, let this be my warning to you: If you come on my property at all, I will hear you.
And I will stand by the back door and (passive) aggressively flip the back porch light on and off. As long as it takes, MoFo.
Update: I'm slightly less paranoid than previously thought... the prowlers broke into our car last night and took the stereo. At least they left the carseats. I need a dog, or a wolf. Or a woolly mammoth. Kyla, I think you have a team player in your mammoth wrangling scheme.
I know, because the closer I get to sleep the sharper my hearing gets.
I lay in bed silently willing my husband to breathe more quietly so I can hear you steal our bikes.
It is nearly 1am, I have checked the bikes twice and each child's bedroom three times. Now I've psyched myself out. Somehow, I skipped turning into my mother and went straight for grandmotherhood. Everyone's a hooligan. I may come off as delusional, certainly paranoid, but I'll have you know the first night we moved here I woke hubby up in a panic and he confirmed that yes, the sound I was hearing was gunshots, but they were miles away.
It's not my fault... I cut my big city teeth in Stepford. It's so weird being in a big house that's freestanding and kind of isolated. (There's tall hedges, alright?)
But Dear Prowlers, let this be my warning to you: If you come on my property at all, I will hear you.
And I will stand by the back door and (passive) aggressively flip the back porch light on and off. As long as it takes, MoFo.
Update: I'm slightly less paranoid than previously thought... the prowlers broke into our car last night and took the stereo. At least they left the carseats. I need a dog, or a wolf. Or a woolly mammoth. Kyla, I think you have a team player in your mammoth wrangling scheme.
Monday 22 August 2011
I want to sleep in my Braaaaaannnnnd Neewwwwww Beeeeddddddd!!!
I hope you read that in Bob Barker's voice. We have a new bed. It is so, so long overdue. The previous bed consisted of a 50 dollar mattress, a boxspring of unknown origin, and a bedframe found in an alleyway in Kitsilano. Sadly, I'm serious. So we got a new one. An adult bed. Frame, boxspring, firm mattress for old people's backs, the works. Even sheets good enough to make it worth listing the thread count!! (56 is good, right? -I jest.) Presenting, the newest member of our family!
So long overdue. Also, I have had many houseguests and a large party for hubby's birthday!! Happy birthday darling!!! I was cooking for the whole last week, I believe. I made roasted red pepper hummus, meringues, lemon curd, raspberry semifroddo (my favorite dish so far), asian meatballs, chocolate dipped strawberries, profiteroles filled with creme patisserie, a lovely cheese plate... and other stuff. What's that? You want pictures? No. I totally forgot. Sorry. Well, I do have one....
That was a decent dessert. The party went well, the eggs benny bar for breakfast fed 12 people (whew!) and today the guests have left with my son (Yay! Waah!) and I decided to rest so I made...
and chicken and turkey broth. God, I'm a masochist. They were so so good though.... I gave them to the guys at the Mac store who "fixed my computer" (charged me 60 bux to tell it it was broken, duh, and that it may have had something to do with coins stuck inside it... well double duh). However, they were friendly and informed so I made them cookies. (And they clearly checked out my arse which made me feel special.) I need to focus on food less, and um.. life? more. Jillian Micheals, come and get me.
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| Isn't she beautiful? I'm tearing up here. |
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| homemade oreos!!! Win!! |
Monday 15 August 2011
Ti-iiii-iiiii-iime IS on my side... (Yes it is!)
No, It's not. Breathe.
Okay, I sent the kids camping last weekend. (Or was it the weekend before?) As I waved off my family guiltily, eagerly anticipating a few days of rest, I was both excited and missing them before they were out the door. Then the computer broke. Then my friends came, and it was fabulous. Then I drank. Then I woke up, a little hazy, and chugged a large glass of milk. On the last swallow, I realized it was sour. Then I lost it, over and over again. Then I got a call from the homestay organizer (we have been on a wait list for a bit) telling me she was heading to my house now and would be here in 20 minutes. And I was dog sitting an invalid dog. My darling friend flew into action with me, gutted the spare room and made it International Student Worthy. The inspection went well, but the student (who was set to arrive the following morning) was allergic to dogs. Find a home for the dog. Get inspection lady out. Make bed properly, not just enough to look like we made it. Thank goodness for those carefully honed skills I developed as a 14 year old to make a room look clean without (God forbid) cleaning it. I prepped a little more, then went out and got my very long hair chopped/butchered off. I asked for the Betty Draper.
Instead, I got the "Rachel", circa 1995. The 90s are coming back anyway, right? Right?
Damn you, shitty hairdresser!! (And my darling friends, with their excellent points: Have you been to her before? Yes, she's butchered me 4 times now. Facepalm.) So now I feel like David, or Goliath, or whoever that is in that book that lost all of their powers when their hair got cut off.
So, homestay arrives, she's 21, Japanese, lovely and kind. And the family returned. And the rest never came. It's so much easier if you just don't expect it. Hubby is now articling, and he's busy. Like, super busy. His aunties got him as a grad gift a "satchel" that is comically large and comes on a dolly. It holds more than 6 large legal binders. I chuckled. When will you need a bag that big, honey? It's been full every day and he'll need another one to stack on the dolly soon. I wrote my to do list, and now I'm organized enough to watch passively and with some humor as the deadlines tick by. If you're not gonna do it, at least be aware of what you're not doing. That, my friends, is organization. I honestly thought that when the kids were older, could feed themselves and wipe themselves and communicate with me that my job would ease up. It does not, my friends, it does not. I am thankful for the complete lack of summer here this year, I don't feel like I've missed much, and it has been a fun whirlwind. We went to Playland on Saturday where my FIL won my daughter a pink pig stuffy that she named "Chubby" now providing endless hours of entertainment. (Mom!! Look! There's a Chubby on my head!") We went to International Ice Cream (218 flavours, such as garlic, pear and gorgonzola, balsamic vinegar!) The younger ones and I have started the Jillian Micheal's workout video (I have no weights and it still hurts) and today we're off for a family bike ride to get the computer fixed. Mostly I'm just busy growing my hair out. It's hard work, you know! Anyways, the moral of this rambling, disjointed post is that my friends are amazing and my family is amazing and that's why it's all staying together (mostly). I know that I'm a very lucky girl, and I love you all. (The end of this post was punctuated by glass breaking in my kitchen and a little girl crying. LeSigh.)
Okay, I sent the kids camping last weekend. (Or was it the weekend before?) As I waved off my family guiltily, eagerly anticipating a few days of rest, I was both excited and missing them before they were out the door. Then the computer broke. Then my friends came, and it was fabulous. Then I drank. Then I woke up, a little hazy, and chugged a large glass of milk. On the last swallow, I realized it was sour. Then I lost it, over and over again. Then I got a call from the homestay organizer (we have been on a wait list for a bit) telling me she was heading to my house now and would be here in 20 minutes. And I was dog sitting an invalid dog. My darling friend flew into action with me, gutted the spare room and made it International Student Worthy. The inspection went well, but the student (who was set to arrive the following morning) was allergic to dogs. Find a home for the dog. Get inspection lady out. Make bed properly, not just enough to look like we made it. Thank goodness for those carefully honed skills I developed as a 14 year old to make a room look clean without (God forbid) cleaning it. I prepped a little more, then went out and got my very long hair chopped/butchered off. I asked for the Betty Draper.
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| I'm even hot through a mental breakdown. |
Instead, I got the "Rachel", circa 1995. The 90s are coming back anyway, right? Right?
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| I'm still relevant, I swear! |
Damn you, shitty hairdresser!! (And my darling friends, with their excellent points: Have you been to her before? Yes, she's butchered me 4 times now. Facepalm.) So now I feel like David, or Goliath, or whoever that is in that book that lost all of their powers when their hair got cut off.
So, homestay arrives, she's 21, Japanese, lovely and kind. And the family returned. And the rest never came. It's so much easier if you just don't expect it. Hubby is now articling, and he's busy. Like, super busy. His aunties got him as a grad gift a "satchel" that is comically large and comes on a dolly. It holds more than 6 large legal binders. I chuckled. When will you need a bag that big, honey? It's been full every day and he'll need another one to stack on the dolly soon. I wrote my to do list, and now I'm organized enough to watch passively and with some humor as the deadlines tick by. If you're not gonna do it, at least be aware of what you're not doing. That, my friends, is organization. I honestly thought that when the kids were older, could feed themselves and wipe themselves and communicate with me that my job would ease up. It does not, my friends, it does not. I am thankful for the complete lack of summer here this year, I don't feel like I've missed much, and it has been a fun whirlwind. We went to Playland on Saturday where my FIL won my daughter a pink pig stuffy that she named "Chubby" now providing endless hours of entertainment. (Mom!! Look! There's a Chubby on my head!") We went to International Ice Cream (218 flavours, such as garlic, pear and gorgonzola, balsamic vinegar!) The younger ones and I have started the Jillian Micheal's workout video (I have no weights and it still hurts) and today we're off for a family bike ride to get the computer fixed. Mostly I'm just busy growing my hair out. It's hard work, you know! Anyways, the moral of this rambling, disjointed post is that my friends are amazing and my family is amazing and that's why it's all staying together (mostly). I know that I'm a very lucky girl, and I love you all. (The end of this post was punctuated by glass breaking in my kitchen and a little girl crying. LeSigh.)
Friday 22 July 2011
Things the Italians Have Taught Me.
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| cherry perogies |
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| Child labour is an important element of Italy's economy |
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| drizzled with sour cream and brown sugar |
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| Toothless McGee contemplates Maple Bacon, which must always be capitalized. |
2. My other darling Auntie gave me the bestest tip on earth for spaghetti sauce which I am sworn to take to my grave. And I will. But it's a gooder. Really. Sorry for the tease. (She also held me down before my wedding and fixed my eyebrows. Truly, thank you!!!)
3. There are many types of cheese, and I like them all. My top picks: Sheep's Milk Sardo (which, as does everything, tastes better in Italy), Casu Marzu http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casu_marzu which I have eaten, as have all the Italians I know, and trust me, they do NOT burrow through your stomach and nobody knows anybody who has actually died from it. The worms are intimidating, though. Ricotta, homemade, is better and cheaper that all other ricottas, and apparently easy, though I have only witnessed it made and not attempted it myself as of yet. Good Parmesan, the Grana Padano, is amazing in everything, especially cubed and drizzled with a mix of honey, black pepper and truffle oil. (Thanks, Bob Blumer!) And you save the rinds in the freezer to add to pasta sauces or soups!! Genius.
4. Lasagna. Not a meal. A large, heaping plate of homemade lasagna to Italians is more often an appetizer or side. We Canadians have been doing it alll wrong.
5. You can have espresso after midnight and sleep just fine, if you treat lasagna as an appetizer at the beginning of 9 courses. True story!!
6. Mirto, a thick, syrupy alcohol in deep purple is made from alpine berries somewhere in southern Italy. It is not to be consumed till inebriation, but if you do, you will never cough again. You will, however, vomit.
7. Cutting cheese and cutting yourself (accidentally of course, there are no emos in Italy) can lead to a horrific kind of blood poisoning. Thought I'd share, because I for one am now much more careful with my cheesy knives.
8. Ooh- one of my favorite tips of all time, again from an Auntie: Is it way too hot outside? Got bosoms? Shove a sprig of mint or rosemary or basil between those puppies, and you will sweat herbal deliciousness. It was all I could do not to bury my face in them, which would have been hilarious, inappropriate, and hilariously inappropriate.
9. At Italian Catholic funerals that are open casket you have to kiss the corpse. I have no issue with this, but someone should have prepped me.
10. Pasta Puttanesca, whilst being a very good dish, translates roughly into "hooker pasta" as it is what the working girls threw together between clients. This means that it's good, quick, cheap, and even you can do it. Also, don't come to this realization in a fancy restaurant and ask the waiter about it. He will bring out a very embarrassed, stammering chef. http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Pasta-Puttanesca-242590 Ahh, there it is. Ciao, Bella!
Saturday 16 July 2011
Moving on' Up!!!
So this is how last week went for me. Thursday, panicky packing. Thursday night, way too much wine and scotch with our way too awesome neighbours from Venezuela. (It ended with super clumsy Colombian salsa dancing in the living room.) Friday, 7+ hours on the ferry there and back to ditch the kids with Grandma and Grandpa. With a hangover. (Thanks, guys!!) Friday night more fevered packing, followed closely by too much wine, because we *thought* we were ahead of the game. (El Idioto!!!) Saturday morning, got truck, got friends, loaded truck, unpacked at new place by noon, and friends stuck around and helped unpack, some till 9pm!! Then games and drinking. Sunday morning, unpack, on and on and on... until the NKOTB and BSB concert
(stop looking at me like that!!) whereupon I shrieked like a 16 year old girl until I lost my voice, fall into partially assembled bed. Monday, hubby goes off to class, week long buildup of hangover hits, and there is no food or liquid in the house except beer. I cry some, unpack some more, and discover a great dim sum place close by. Also, a friend visits and saves my sanity in a very important way. Hubby comes home with the kids, we put them to bed, we unpack even more. Tuesday, we take my son for surgery so he can have all of his baby teeth removed. Tuesday night is panicking and setting up the kitchen so I can make pureed everything. Insert somewhere in this timeline 2 trips to Ikea and much cursing and assembling of crap. My poor boy looks like a redheaded hillbilly and -bonus- gets super hyper off of any medications that make other children sleep. So I have a bleeding, drooling, hyper boy with bad balance from the general anesthesia who just wants to dance. And he's at that age where he eats all day and never gets full. Hard do do with soup, jello, creme brulee. So, (deep breath) I can slow down right now. And I dedicate this song to my son. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWo1TJZdzqw&feature=fvst I promise I'll get back to my entertaining self soon. And I'll post pics as soon as I find my upload cords for the cameras. And the hairbrushes and toilet paper. Ciao!!
Sunday 3 July 2011
Blog!!
I'm moving, so I'm not blogging. Because I have time for packing (no I effing don't) and child-rearing only. (ha!) And, as hubby points out, a blog isn't people. People need things from me. Like a lay. (Ha! Hahaha!) Things I suddenly have time for now that I'm "packing": reading that book I got for Christmas that I totes forgot about, installing hardwood flooring in my dollhouse (yes it's mine, don't look at me like that), visiting friends (I'm moving 23 minutes away!!! On Saturday!! Get your time in now!) Going to a burlesque show tonight (not dancing in one.. apparently they prefer you to register, have a costume AND have an act.. gawd, this "no fun" city) and over-plucking my eyebrows. I have also taken a special moisture bath I have been waiting a long time for (okay, I just poured some milk in it and now I smell) and painted my toenails. Clear. But it, like, took forever to dry, okay? Stop looking at me!!!
So, my new place is huge by VanCity standards, 2 floors, 5 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. It has a dishwasher older than my grandmother (remember the color before avocado?) and my children may well be learning Cantonese in school and I am happy. Because I have windows. And no bedbugs (yet.) And I plan to dig up the lawn and make a garden, and get a kitty and a puppy and redo the countertops. (If my new landlords read this blog my next post with be about evictions, obvs.)
So I don't have time for this!!! Stop pressuring me!!! Hey, Game of Thrones? You're fucking up my LIFE!!! (and you're awesome. Don't stop being awesome.). Gotta run. Sigh.
So, my new place is huge by VanCity standards, 2 floors, 5 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. It has a dishwasher older than my grandmother (remember the color before avocado?) and my children may well be learning Cantonese in school and I am happy. Because I have windows. And no bedbugs (yet.) And I plan to dig up the lawn and make a garden, and get a kitty and a puppy and redo the countertops. (If my new landlords read this blog my next post with be about evictions, obvs.)
So I don't have time for this!!! Stop pressuring me!!! Hey, Game of Thrones? You're fucking up my LIFE!!! (and you're awesome. Don't stop being awesome.). Gotta run. Sigh.
Saturday 18 June 2011
Feminism and the Housewife
I have the flu. So does hubby. Normally, that would not slow me down. I have an incredible talent for getting sick when no one is available to help me out, in any way, at all. This week I picked the only Saturday in memory my hubby had to attend classes all day. This was not like the epic stomach flu I had a few weeks ago, whereas, retching and fainting, I not only goot the kids to their various schools and activities, but also fed and cared for them quite well. This was an exhaustion flu. I had to give. I slept all day, finding out in my 1 hour awake periods that the children can make toast. And jam. 3/4 of a large loaf of bread later, mostly consumed in the living room, I am now faced with rapture-like levels of destruction. And all this when my vacuum is on loan to a cousin on the other side of the city. I can weather sickness, filth, and childcare. It takes a lot to knock me down. I am, in some dubious way, a take-no prisoners, ultra-capable Mother. And when the chips are down, I can really shine.
Last night with hubby, both of us dying slowly, we watched "I am Legend". Normally I avoid scary movies, and most probably would not find this scary at all, but I had nightmares of stop-motion and cgi monsters throughout my fitful night's sleep. This afternoon, in one of my hours up, I flopped on the couch and sent the kids outside to play. I heard scuttling, barely audible, and blew it off as leftover movie audio-hallucinations. (I really dislike scary movies, especially when I watched the ring at a friends house behind an old well.) The skittering became more prominent, and I was faced with that moment when it became apparent my ears were not deceiving me. That moment of clarity where your brain says, in order, Cgi Monstrosity! Rat! Skunk! Prowler! Hubby? (Not logical, this brain of mine.) And then I saw it. An adorable, tiny squirrel, discarded apple core in it's mouth, staring at me from the midst of my yarn corner. Picture a kitten happily playing with a yarn ball. Now picture a terrified squirrel tangled up in no less than thirty yarn balls. Feminism be damned, I ran for the nearest set of testicles (some neighbor guy) who chased the vagrant vermin from my home. I think. Either that or critter is skulking under the china cabinet, where he will happily breed his family living off the discarded crusts of my own brood. Fine. Just keep the floor clean.
I swear it looked just like this. Damn you, Will Smith!
Last night with hubby, both of us dying slowly, we watched "I am Legend". Normally I avoid scary movies, and most probably would not find this scary at all, but I had nightmares of stop-motion and cgi monsters throughout my fitful night's sleep. This afternoon, in one of my hours up, I flopped on the couch and sent the kids outside to play. I heard scuttling, barely audible, and blew it off as leftover movie audio-hallucinations. (I really dislike scary movies, especially when I watched the ring at a friends house behind an old well.) The skittering became more prominent, and I was faced with that moment when it became apparent my ears were not deceiving me. That moment of clarity where your brain says, in order, Cgi Monstrosity! Rat! Skunk! Prowler! Hubby? (Not logical, this brain of mine.) And then I saw it. An adorable, tiny squirrel, discarded apple core in it's mouth, staring at me from the midst of my yarn corner. Picture a kitten happily playing with a yarn ball. Now picture a terrified squirrel tangled up in no less than thirty yarn balls. Feminism be damned, I ran for the nearest set of testicles (some neighbor guy) who chased the vagrant vermin from my home. I think. Either that or critter is skulking under the china cabinet, where he will happily breed his family living off the discarded crusts of my own brood. Fine. Just keep the floor clean.
Friday 10 June 2011
Hockey Night in Canada! (Yeah, I know that's copyrighted.)
When we watch games at my house, we win. I'm not taking credit for the Canuck's behaviour, but I am. My hubby's and mine pizzas were that good. And our hosstessessing! And our brewskies. Again, I don't care about hockey, much, but I'm starting to. Because a win would be AWEsome. And a win would mean a party. And I loooove a party. I also love the colour blue. And green. And I hate the colour Bruins. Because they suck. I have more horrid food porn to add of our pizza night tonight but I'll do it later because the brewskies were juuuust fine. And, my friends are awesome. More awesome than the Canucks, even. (Especially if the Canucks lose.) Soon again, my friends, shall I carve out a precious pice of the day to assault your senses with useless ramblings full of viscous fluids. But probably not during the playoffs. Because we're house hunting. In other new, I have found my swan song. For realz, bitchez!!!
the best song in the world!!! Because this is me. Forever.
the best song in the world!!! Because this is me. Forever.
Wednesday 8 June 2011
Things Life Has Taught Me.
Wearing smaller clothes actually makes you look bigger!! I don't know how, I don't know why, but I now know it's true. Ten years too late. For examples of how wrong this can go, please see peopleofwalmart.com . The map is really fun to use, and the southern states are magnificent.
When you're 17 and camping with your family and a friend (We shall call her Kelly), and Kelly suggests filling a thermos full of one shot of every liquor in both your parents liquor cabinets, and it sits in a tent in August for 3 weeks before the coast is clear enough to drink it, and you do, and you pass out on the beach in the sun afterwards, it is a bad idea. We're talking Baileys, all the clear liquors, many colours of schnapps, wine, brandy, overproof vehicles of death and destruction, and blue curaco. (Thingy on the bottom of the "c"? Anyone?) The colour it turned upon further fermentation has not been named yet, and the resulting chunks in it should have been a sign... but heck, we were 17. We knew everything. I still chalk this up as one of the top 3 mistakes of my life. (The other two involved a tattoo and a large snake, respectively.)
Silly Putty always, no matter what, bonds with the nearest high-pile carpet. I truly believe it comes alive in the night and seeks it out, falls in love, and bonds with it forever. Seriously, the stuff is worse than chewing gum. It is now a "banned substance" in our home. (Other banned substances include ant farms and rubber bouncy balls that seek out the china cabinet.)
Here's a good one... you have a lovely group of friends assembled for dinner, the sides are nearly ready, and the roast/chicken/meat course is cooking way to slow for some reason! (The reason is life sucks sometimes.) You can shove that sucker in the microwave for 10 minutes. I'm serious. Then throw it back in the oven. Crispy, juicy, and much less salmonella-esque!
Never cut your own bangs or the bangs of those you care for. It's just wrong, unless you're a trained professional.
If you spill your purse or bag in front of someone who is attractive, tampons will fall out. Even if you're a man.
Hugging a child fixes nearly everything in life. (Maybe even everything, but I'm not about to go head to head with life just yet. I know that bitch can hear me.)
Debt ceases to be a worrisome thing once you owe more dollars than days you've been alive. Eventually you get so deep it becomes laughable.
Black food colouring is the most permanent dye on the face of the earth, and on that note, do not let your daughter scratch under her nose with some on her finger. It looks bad, and even more so in a multicultural area.
Stolen cookies taste better than earned cookies. Both taste better when dieting.
Nobody's face photographs well upside down after 30.
If the dress is tight before the 11 course meal, for goodness' sake, do not wear it out.
If you're drunk enough to think you're an awesome dancer, You Are Not.
Karaoke is not for the sober.
Wine tastes better in a darkened closet.
To consider yourself successful in life, one needs only to lower their expectations. ( My impression of Confucius.)
If you think the milk might be bad, do not take a swig from the jug. Even as I type this permanently to the internet, I know I will do this again and again throughout my life. Slow learner.
The Facebook links with cute kittens, dads who walked in on their daughters, omg wtfs, etc, should never be clicked on. It just embarrasses us all. I mean, do you really need to know??? Do you?
I'm sure there's more things I have learned throughout my life, but I have forgotten them for now. Until next time, my 4 dear readers! (lolz!)
When you're 17 and camping with your family and a friend (We shall call her Kelly), and Kelly suggests filling a thermos full of one shot of every liquor in both your parents liquor cabinets, and it sits in a tent in August for 3 weeks before the coast is clear enough to drink it, and you do, and you pass out on the beach in the sun afterwards, it is a bad idea. We're talking Baileys, all the clear liquors, many colours of schnapps, wine, brandy, overproof vehicles of death and destruction, and blue curaco. (Thingy on the bottom of the "c"? Anyone?) The colour it turned upon further fermentation has not been named yet, and the resulting chunks in it should have been a sign... but heck, we were 17. We knew everything. I still chalk this up as one of the top 3 mistakes of my life. (The other two involved a tattoo and a large snake, respectively.)
Silly Putty always, no matter what, bonds with the nearest high-pile carpet. I truly believe it comes alive in the night and seeks it out, falls in love, and bonds with it forever. Seriously, the stuff is worse than chewing gum. It is now a "banned substance" in our home. (Other banned substances include ant farms and rubber bouncy balls that seek out the china cabinet.)Here's a good one... you have a lovely group of friends assembled for dinner, the sides are nearly ready, and the roast/chicken/meat course is cooking way to slow for some reason! (The reason is life sucks sometimes.) You can shove that sucker in the microwave for 10 minutes. I'm serious. Then throw it back in the oven. Crispy, juicy, and much less salmonella-esque!
Never cut your own bangs or the bangs of those you care for. It's just wrong, unless you're a trained professional.
If you spill your purse or bag in front of someone who is attractive, tampons will fall out. Even if you're a man.
Hugging a child fixes nearly everything in life. (Maybe even everything, but I'm not about to go head to head with life just yet. I know that bitch can hear me.)
Debt ceases to be a worrisome thing once you owe more dollars than days you've been alive. Eventually you get so deep it becomes laughable.
Black food colouring is the most permanent dye on the face of the earth, and on that note, do not let your daughter scratch under her nose with some on her finger. It looks bad, and even more so in a multicultural area.
Stolen cookies taste better than earned cookies. Both taste better when dieting.
Nobody's face photographs well upside down after 30.
If the dress is tight before the 11 course meal, for goodness' sake, do not wear it out.
If you're drunk enough to think you're an awesome dancer, You Are Not.
Karaoke is not for the sober.
Wine tastes better in a darkened closet.
To consider yourself successful in life, one needs only to lower their expectations. ( My impression of Confucius.)
If you think the milk might be bad, do not take a swig from the jug. Even as I type this permanently to the internet, I know I will do this again and again throughout my life. Slow learner.
The Facebook links with cute kittens, dads who walked in on their daughters, omg wtfs, etc, should never be clicked on. It just embarrasses us all. I mean, do you really need to know??? Do you?
I'm sure there's more things I have learned throughout my life, but I have forgotten them for now. Until next time, my 4 dear readers! (lolz!)
Tuesday 7 June 2011
Top Ten Reasons I Shall Never Have a Cooking Show
1. My kitchen is a tiny, ill-lit mess at the moment, and often. Silverfish can die in my kitchen. That's a bad thing.
2. I have no idea what I'm making until it's made. If something I am making goes horribly awry, I add either ginger and lemongrass or chocolate, depending on the dish. Sometimes all of the above. Sometimes it works, more often not. I have thrown out dishes that tried to climb back onto the counter after.
3. I'm a bubblehead. I microwave tin cans, forget to take cookie sheets from the oven before I preheat and then forget to put on oven mitts when I do remember to take them out, resulting in epic cursing and my "pain dance", which the children find Hilarious.
4. I can make creme brullee beautifully from the recipe in my head, (how to you do the accenty thing on a keyboard, anyway?) but have been thwarted by brownies every single time save one, whereupon I was making them for a child's birtday cake but was so thrilled with them I ate them all, by the light of the moon, howling and smearing myself with chocolately rapture.
5. I cannot afford the ingredients I want to use. Sure, I live in the big city now and finally have access to kaffir lime leaves, fresh lemongrass, foie gras and sea asparagus, but holy crap does it add up fast. Also, my pots are generally cheap and horrid for things like "blackening", "sauteeing" and "scalding". (Again, the accents, anyone?)
6. I am a horrible food photographer.
You wanna make this dish now? This slimy, slippery, alarmingly flesh-coloured monstrosity? I doubt it. FYI, it's my super awesome Thai chicken soup that garners rave reviews from all who touch it, yet alas, I only know how to use the "auto" setting on my camera despite many generous lessons from friends.
6. It would be very difficult to appear cleanly, orderly and organized on camera whilst battling children, telemarketers, my nervous twitch, and grabby hubbys.
7. I have been known to throw together some pretty stellar 6 course meals, the menu planned months in advance, prep started a minimum of 48 hours prior. When you add pressure, such as my husband's boss, friends I'm dying to impress, or intergalactic diplomats, it all goes so, so wrong. Things I have made a thousand times before just flop, or catch fire, or -most often- turn inexplicably and offensively brown.
8. I drink when I cook. Like, a lot. The first 3 courses are usually much better than the last 4. I now try to end the meal with pre-prepped courses, but I have occasionally failed in that as well, such as the flambe incident of 2004. Oh, and the bbq incident of 2006. Oh, and the... well, you get the idea.
9. I don't really follow directions well, so recipes are kind of my mortal enemy. I'll adjust this, omit that... and then get really, really pissy when it all (surprisingly) turns to shit. (What do you mean it meant it when it said add an egg???)
10. I suck at food allergies. My neighbours son who is super allergic to tree nuts almost got a taste of my butter chicken, my vegetarian friends have all had chicken broth cubes in their meals. (You're telling me there's actual chicken in those? I'm not buying it. Stop being so delicate.)
I'm adding an 11 for the hell of it... I would be so, so fat if I made something good every day. So fat.
Let's finish off with another horrible food porn (like the stuff you get in a back alley in Japan.. not the food, the porn.).
Oh yeah.. that's the stuff.
2. I have no idea what I'm making until it's made. If something I am making goes horribly awry, I add either ginger and lemongrass or chocolate, depending on the dish. Sometimes all of the above. Sometimes it works, more often not. I have thrown out dishes that tried to climb back onto the counter after.
3. I'm a bubblehead. I microwave tin cans, forget to take cookie sheets from the oven before I preheat and then forget to put on oven mitts when I do remember to take them out, resulting in epic cursing and my "pain dance", which the children find Hilarious.
4. I can make creme brullee beautifully from the recipe in my head, (how to you do the accenty thing on a keyboard, anyway?) but have been thwarted by brownies every single time save one, whereupon I was making them for a child's birtday cake but was so thrilled with them I ate them all, by the light of the moon, howling and smearing myself with chocolately rapture.
5. I cannot afford the ingredients I want to use. Sure, I live in the big city now and finally have access to kaffir lime leaves, fresh lemongrass, foie gras and sea asparagus, but holy crap does it add up fast. Also, my pots are generally cheap and horrid for things like "blackening", "sauteeing" and "scalding". (Again, the accents, anyone?)
6. I am a horrible food photographer.
6. It would be very difficult to appear cleanly, orderly and organized on camera whilst battling children, telemarketers, my nervous twitch, and grabby hubbys.
7. I have been known to throw together some pretty stellar 6 course meals, the menu planned months in advance, prep started a minimum of 48 hours prior. When you add pressure, such as my husband's boss, friends I'm dying to impress, or intergalactic diplomats, it all goes so, so wrong. Things I have made a thousand times before just flop, or catch fire, or -most often- turn inexplicably and offensively brown.
8. I drink when I cook. Like, a lot. The first 3 courses are usually much better than the last 4. I now try to end the meal with pre-prepped courses, but I have occasionally failed in that as well, such as the flambe incident of 2004. Oh, and the bbq incident of 2006. Oh, and the... well, you get the idea.
9. I don't really follow directions well, so recipes are kind of my mortal enemy. I'll adjust this, omit that... and then get really, really pissy when it all (surprisingly) turns to shit. (What do you mean it meant it when it said add an egg???)
10. I suck at food allergies. My neighbours son who is super allergic to tree nuts almost got a taste of my butter chicken, my vegetarian friends have all had chicken broth cubes in their meals. (You're telling me there's actual chicken in those? I'm not buying it. Stop being so delicate.)
I'm adding an 11 for the hell of it... I would be so, so fat if I made something good every day. So fat.
Let's finish off with another horrible food porn (like the stuff you get in a back alley in Japan.. not the food, the porn.).
Things I Thank my Mom and Dad For...
 |
| the crow-rat is coming for you |
I would like to thank my Dad for telling me, as far back as I can remember, that I would become "the first thinking woman". The dubious feminism of this statement is so wonderfully offensive and hilarious that it stayed with me forever, and I got your meaning, eventually. I still think about it as I cry over the newest episode of Grey's Anatomy while cooking dinner and folding laundry.
I would like to thank my Mom for making me copy dictionary pages to improve my abhorrent penmanship. My vocabulary improved so much that my girlfriends used to tease me to "speak English" because I used words they did not understand. (Looking at you, Kelly!) If only my penmanship had improved, the exercise would have been a complete success.
I thank you both for getting me Mokey, our cat, even though you found out shortly after that the neighbours were not actually planning on putting her down. She was an awesome friend for 18 years and a good huntress. Leading into...
Thank you for letting me keep and raise and sometimes inoculate the rats, snakes, baby birds, and other sundries Mokey brought home. I still feel there is a group of wild, inoculated super rats out there waiting for the Rapture. You have 10 year old me to thank for that one. You're welcome. Also, the crow with the broken wing we fed crackers and water to until he was nursed back to health? How many kids had a motherfucking crow!?! All kinds of awesome up in here.
I thank you you letting me do murals of dragons and castles on my wall in pencil. Okay, maybe you didn't let me so much as found out too late, but now that I have children I am aware of the near impossibility of removing a full wall, expertly shaded pencil mural (or even repainting - the stuff rejects coverage like nothing I've ever seen.)
I want to thank you for dressing me in brown corduroy, 70s style flowered blouses, and later, mismatched neon socks. That shit was dope.
I am a good parent because of you guys, and I thank you for giving me the higher bar to achieve. I hope my children get some of the same experiences. Now I must part, for it is time to maim a crow so my children may share my experiences.
Monday 6 June 2011
Hockey. No exclamation Mark.
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| what's that? I'm having trouble hearing you over the sound of my Awesomeness. |
What I do not like about the hockey games is that my friends have cleverly deduced that any games watched at a nearby friend's house result in a win, making it hard for me to get people here, or a sitter to get there. (My hubby gets first pick of the hockey games, which is all of them, because I get to go see "Bridesmaids". I think. Soon. I also hold veto power over burlesque shows, which is totally a fair trade.)
Now, a short rant at my father-in-law: You are a Maple Leafs Fan. That is fine, bully for you, to each his own, all that. But you are setting my children up for failure by purchasing them Maple Leafs jerseys!! Bells wore one out the other day and I was just waiting for a drunken fan or overzealous hockey dad to tear me a new one. (It happened, too.) I do my best to instill righteous and correct beliefs in my children's head, and even owning an opposing team's jersey in the final round of the playoffs in Vancouver is just... wrong. Please stop. Thanks!
Things which should have never been said.
I shall divide this into two sections: Things which have been Said to Me, and Things which I have Said. (I'm perfectly aware of my abuse of Caps Lock here, and I don't care.)
Things which have been said to me:
Last year, at the bus stop, an elderly lady looked me up and down, smiled sweetly, and said, "How far along are you honey?" I sucked in a breath through a locked jaw, steadied myself, and replied, "I'm. Not. Pregnant." (Sweet smile back.) Whereas most sane people would have the decency to look away, embarrassed, or even apologize, this woman persisted. "You've had kids though, right? At least 2. I can tell from your belly." Whaaaaaaat? I promptly went home, threw out the dress I was wearing, and thought about doing sit-ups for a few days. (They never materialized. Sometimes just laying down is half the battle... sitting back up can wait till next year.)
(As I volunteered to run my son's school cakewalk on 1 days notice after the managing parent had something come up) "Oh, thanks for your swift response, but we're looking for a parent who's been involved with the school longer." There is so much between those lines, as it was the grade 1 cake walk, so the majority of the parents could only have been involved for about 2 years, as I was, barring older siblings. What they meant, was someone who was active in the PAC, went skiing in the winter and picked up their kids from school in LuLuLemons with a light sheen of sweat on their botoxed faces. (Yes, I'm bitter, because I would have RULED the cake walk.)
Things that I have Said:
(Yesterday, to my 5 year old at a festival when I realized she had foregone underwear): You... didn't put on underwear this morning? (Nooo, mommy, I forgot.) Well, just keep your legs closed today, alright? (I didn't expect to say this to my daughter till she was at least 15.)
What do you mean you lost a slug? In the house? (No sign of a trail, and slugfried von slimebucket never materialized. The nice thing about organisms made mostly of water is that they eventually just evaporate, or so I am choosing to believe.)
(To fighting children) To the Death!! Only one of you gets to come back down those stairs!
(In the bathroom) Oh My God!!! Who's sick? Who did this?? (Panicking now) Oh wait... is that the chicken gravy I tried to flush earlier? Never mind, s'okay. Phew.
Get yourself a snack. Anything, I don't care. Mommy's having Me time. (This is of note as a sad turning point in my life.. I was folding laundry at the time. Me time used to involve margaritas on a patio in the afternoon.)
Well, yes, she's "Mean Grandma", but you can't call her that to her face. That's just what mommy calls her. (Not you, mom.)
(When my son was 3) I know you like sticks, but you cannot, repeat, CanNot, say that at school. (the sound "st" was a hard one for him, so he replaced it with a "D".) Also: this anomaly made the joke "What's brown and sticky? -A stick!" Much more hilarious.
(From my dear friend J) My kids are grazers, so I just make sure to throw healthy food on the floor. (Bless your heart, dear.)
That's it for now, i'm sure this list will grow over time as my children both start full time school in September and I hope to catch up on sleep (Ha!) thereby restoring my memory... does it work that way? Please?
Things which have been said to me:
Last year, at the bus stop, an elderly lady looked me up and down, smiled sweetly, and said, "How far along are you honey?" I sucked in a breath through a locked jaw, steadied myself, and replied, "I'm. Not. Pregnant." (Sweet smile back.) Whereas most sane people would have the decency to look away, embarrassed, or even apologize, this woman persisted. "You've had kids though, right? At least 2. I can tell from your belly." Whaaaaaaat? I promptly went home, threw out the dress I was wearing, and thought about doing sit-ups for a few days. (They never materialized. Sometimes just laying down is half the battle... sitting back up can wait till next year.)
(As I volunteered to run my son's school cakewalk on 1 days notice after the managing parent had something come up) "Oh, thanks for your swift response, but we're looking for a parent who's been involved with the school longer." There is so much between those lines, as it was the grade 1 cake walk, so the majority of the parents could only have been involved for about 2 years, as I was, barring older siblings. What they meant, was someone who was active in the PAC, went skiing in the winter and picked up their kids from school in LuLuLemons with a light sheen of sweat on their botoxed faces. (Yes, I'm bitter, because I would have RULED the cake walk.)
Things that I have Said:
(Yesterday, to my 5 year old at a festival when I realized she had foregone underwear): You... didn't put on underwear this morning? (Nooo, mommy, I forgot.) Well, just keep your legs closed today, alright? (I didn't expect to say this to my daughter till she was at least 15.)
What do you mean you lost a slug? In the house? (No sign of a trail, and slugfried von slimebucket never materialized. The nice thing about organisms made mostly of water is that they eventually just evaporate, or so I am choosing to believe.)
(To fighting children) To the Death!! Only one of you gets to come back down those stairs!
(In the bathroom) Oh My God!!! Who's sick? Who did this?? (Panicking now) Oh wait... is that the chicken gravy I tried to flush earlier? Never mind, s'okay. Phew.
Get yourself a snack. Anything, I don't care. Mommy's having Me time. (This is of note as a sad turning point in my life.. I was folding laundry at the time. Me time used to involve margaritas on a patio in the afternoon.)
Well, yes, she's "Mean Grandma", but you can't call her that to her face. That's just what mommy calls her. (Not you, mom.)
(When my son was 3) I know you like sticks, but you cannot, repeat, CanNot, say that at school. (the sound "st" was a hard one for him, so he replaced it with a "D".) Also: this anomaly made the joke "What's brown and sticky? -A stick!" Much more hilarious.
(From my dear friend J) My kids are grazers, so I just make sure to throw healthy food on the floor. (Bless your heart, dear.)
That's it for now, i'm sure this list will grow over time as my children both start full time school in September and I hope to catch up on sleep (Ha!) thereby restoring my memory... does it work that way? Please?
Wednesday 1 June 2011
whoops!
Have you ever dropped your cell phone in the dumpster and sat down to try and play a game on your garbage? No? Never mind then.
Men are like Cats
I have been married nearly 8 years to a wonderful man. I was with him when, holding our screeching first child, I looked at him with tears in my eyes and told him we had to leave the pizza parlour we both ran. He went for a 4 year undergrad and 3 years of grad school and is now on the cusp of being a real, live, high-fallutin' lawyer. His family is very, very Italian, and when we told them we were thinking of getting hubby a vasectomy, I was given this sage advice (read the following in a heavy Italian accent): Men are like Cats!! Bah! If you do this, they will get fat, and lazy, and sit around the house all day!! Why you do that? You go get a hysterectomy. Don't make the man do it.
We laughed it off and got my hubby "fixed" anyhow because at the rate we were going he sure seemed to be broken. This analogy is coming back to me more and more of late. Hubby likes to be pet, marked me as his territory (with a lovely ring) and leaves little gifts for me around the house. Gifts like socks on the living room floor, wet towels on the bed (less than 3 feet from where they would be hanging up), crusty bowls of cereal bonded permanently to the porcelain. (How do corn flakes do that, anyways? They should build rocket ships out of old milky cornflakes.) He doesn't get fleas, thank goodness, but if I leave him alone for a weekend he gets agitated and makes a huge mess of the house. He's super cuddly, very, very furry, and goes into heat the moment you pet him. (TMI? I know. Sorry.) Perhaps I'm over-simplifying things for the sake of this post, but I found as I picked up the trail of random "gifts" this morning that it is easier to think of things this way. Much less resentment, and a good measure of gratitude he hasn't left me a dead rat.
Did I mention we're also taking swing dancing? And yes, I know I'm catty too.
Update: The other day, at a dance lesson, hubby walked up and batted at a cat toy. True story!
We laughed it off and got my hubby "fixed" anyhow because at the rate we were going he sure seemed to be broken. This analogy is coming back to me more and more of late. Hubby likes to be pet, marked me as his territory (with a lovely ring) and leaves little gifts for me around the house. Gifts like socks on the living room floor, wet towels on the bed (less than 3 feet from where they would be hanging up), crusty bowls of cereal bonded permanently to the porcelain. (How do corn flakes do that, anyways? They should build rocket ships out of old milky cornflakes.) He doesn't get fleas, thank goodness, but if I leave him alone for a weekend he gets agitated and makes a huge mess of the house. He's super cuddly, very, very furry, and goes into heat the moment you pet him. (TMI? I know. Sorry.) Perhaps I'm over-simplifying things for the sake of this post, but I found as I picked up the trail of random "gifts" this morning that it is easier to think of things this way. Much less resentment, and a good measure of gratitude he hasn't left me a dead rat.
Update: The other day, at a dance lesson, hubby walked up and batted at a cat toy. True story!
Tuesday 31 May 2011
and again..
I just made Banana Bread. I am capitalizing it because it was Really, Really Good. So good, in fact, that I sent half to a friend and promptly ate the other half while the kids in their beds (and still awake) are being maddened by the amazing smell and were clearly going to have nothing to wake up to. In case you are interested, and of course you should be, here is the recipe...
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Janets-rich-banana-bread/Detail.aspx
I don't know who you are, Janet, but you are a lovely lady and I will think of you as I am jogging off 2 pounds of banana bread. ( I also subbed in all whole wheat flour, added slightly less sugar, and an extra banana because they were going bad - it's how I roll, aight?)
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Janets-rich-banana-bread/Detail.aspx
I don't know who you are, Janet, but you are a lovely lady and I will think of you as I am jogging off 2 pounds of banana bread. ( I also subbed in all whole wheat flour, added slightly less sugar, and an extra banana because they were going bad - it's how I roll, aight?)
My First Post
Today is a lovely day in this beautiful city of mine. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the coyotes are howling gleefully as they cart off shrieking raccoons. I live on UBC campus, which is the most amazing place to raise kids. The homes are all well cared for, the cookies fresh, the nannies showered. Which one is my home, you ask? I'm the one with the tires on the front lawn. (Actually, they have been recently moved to the back yard, I tend to exaggerate.) I'm the one without the nanny, the one with the sinus infection/hangover/inappropriate footwear/undiagnosed mental instability. (I think it's called motherhood.) My lovely, sweet, thoughtful, lazy husband is finishing up his 7th year of education and just on the cusp of entering the (please god let it be so) lucrative world of law. I have 3 wonderful kids: a 5 year old fairy princess unicorn, a 7 year old ginger/tasmanian devil/future dictator of the Intergalactic Federation, and a 12 year old reserved, thoughtful, intelligent stepson who clearly has not been raised by me. I believe in fairies, ghosts, naps, the Great Pumpkin, and quinoa, though the quinoa thing took some convincing.
I love to cook... pouring your heart and 6 hours time into an edible work of art that your family wolfs down in 3 minutes flat leaving you with only 2 hours of dishes and the right to greatly exaggerate the Dish of Greatness in later years gives me pleasure and, most importantly, kills 6 hours of time that I could have been spending cleaning or packing or supervising homework.
To follow the lead of the other outstanding mommy blogs, I shall give my children code names so as not to permanently scar them in later years more so than I already am doing. The 5 year old girl shall be Bells, for she rings loud and true and does not stop making noise from the moment her long eyelashes flutter open in the morning until the moment the gravol takes effect 2 hours prior to bedtime. (I jest...ish.) The boy shall be LD, for the Littlest Dictator, which was his name as a human baby car alarm that could not be shut off for over two years. The 12 year old shall be Jock. I think that one is self explanatory.
Please be warned that if you are reading this I may come off as a hard-partying, hard-parenting, less than perfect stay at home mom. I suppose it's true, I prefer the hard way. I have the best group of friends anyone could ask for, and my time with them is so, so valuable to me. In order to join them in their nearly-a-lawyer (and the poor, singled out teacher) debauchery, I forgo sleep more often than not. I do not miss my kids extra-curriculars, I still make them breakfast and read to them, they almost always leave the house wearing pants (and sometimes I do as well.)
I suppose this is my bio-ish. I'm new to blogging and do not expect to master the art of recording clear, concise thoughts at any point in the near future. I would need a full night's sleep for that. Signing off! -L.
A truer love there never was.
I love to cook... pouring your heart and 6 hours time into an edible work of art that your family wolfs down in 3 minutes flat leaving you with only 2 hours of dishes and the right to greatly exaggerate the Dish of Greatness in later years gives me pleasure and, most importantly, kills 6 hours of time that I could have been spending cleaning or packing or supervising homework.
To follow the lead of the other outstanding mommy blogs, I shall give my children code names so as not to permanently scar them in later years more so than I already am doing. The 5 year old girl shall be Bells, for she rings loud and true and does not stop making noise from the moment her long eyelashes flutter open in the morning until the moment the gravol takes effect 2 hours prior to bedtime. (I jest...ish.) The boy shall be LD, for the Littlest Dictator, which was his name as a human baby car alarm that could not be shut off for over two years. The 12 year old shall be Jock. I think that one is self explanatory.
Please be warned that if you are reading this I may come off as a hard-partying, hard-parenting, less than perfect stay at home mom. I suppose it's true, I prefer the hard way. I have the best group of friends anyone could ask for, and my time with them is so, so valuable to me. In order to join them in their nearly-a-lawyer (and the poor, singled out teacher) debauchery, I forgo sleep more often than not. I do not miss my kids extra-curriculars, I still make them breakfast and read to them, they almost always leave the house wearing pants (and sometimes I do as well.)
I suppose this is my bio-ish. I'm new to blogging and do not expect to master the art of recording clear, concise thoughts at any point in the near future. I would need a full night's sleep for that. Signing off! -L.
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