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!

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.

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!)

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.

Things I Thank my Mom and Dad For...

the crow-rat is coming for you

First and foremost, I thank you for making me get my driver's licence right away.  I was a horrible driver, and I still remember my Dad smacking his forehead as I exited the entrance of the DMV on my road test.  I probably (definitely) should have failed, but then the rules changed and I already had my ticket and never had to go through the chicken dance of having my "N".  I have adult, educated, independent friends who still cannot shake that horrible letter.  I would also like to thank you for paying for that tow truck after I drove over that cliff in a friend's car, and not killing me when I backed your car up the driveway and maimed the side brutally and still drove away because I knew you were watching and that this was probably the last time I would borrow the car.  (It was.. they still won't let me drive it.)

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.

Hockey. No exclamation Mark.

what's that?  I'm having trouble hearing you over the sound of my Awesomeness.

If you live in a cave, or have a newborn, or belong to a tribe of hippies in the Kooteneys somewhere I should probably let you know that the Canucks are in the final round of the playoffs.  This is a big deal for... everyone on earth but me?  I don't dislike hockey, I just don't really care.  What I do like about hockey is that it gets people over to my house whereupon I can feed them.
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?

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!