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Elaine's writing has finally tumbled into cyberspace! After writing content under the radar for other websites, she is coming clean and tagging her opinions, humor and sarcasm with her own name.

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Saturday, April 30, 2005

No Excuses!

“I didn’t do it!”... “That’s not mine!”... “It’s not my fault!”... “I’m not losing my mind!”. Oops! Didn’t mean to say that last one out loud. It’s a little game I play to remind myself that I still have a grasp on some level of reality. Just when I think I’ve heard all the excuses, another one pops out of someone’s mouth. Raising three kids - well, in all honesty, two kids and a husband - I tell myself I’ve heard ‘em all. Excuses are as predictable around here as rain on the weekend, empty toilet rolls and starting your period on your wedding day. You just know they’re going to happen.

Everyone goes through life hearing the classics like “the dog ate my homework” and “the check’s in the mail”. My family is so much more creative and original. Lunch bags don’t get lost - someone steals them. Apparently, there’s a gang of nylon and velcro addicts getting their fix at my daughter’s elementary school. I must be buying the low-grade, “street lunch bags”, though, because they inevitably show up a day or two later, in the strangest places, having been rejected by the juice box junkies. Homework never gets forgotten - the high-schooler wants to make me feel loved by phoning within an hour of leaving the house and inviting me to hand-deliver her assignments to the school office. I’ve decided she’s either extremely proud of Mom showing up in ratty sweats and bed-head or she thrives on hearing her name announced over the intercom. Then, there’s the hubby... he never breaks anything, forgets anything, slams anything, stinks up anything or loses anything. “It was an accident”. With the number of times I’ve heard that excuse, I’ve become convinced that either he needs a bigger vocabulary or I’m going to need better insurance.

So, all things considered, I’ve decided that Moms should have excuses too. Why do we have to be dependable or reliable - or at least look like we’re paying attention - ALL the time?! In fact, we shouldn’t have to find our own excuses either - we can just toss theirs right back at ‘em! If they work for everyone else, then in all fairness, they must work for us too.

Them: “Mom, where’s the clean laundry??”
Me: “I didn’t do it”
Them: *dazed and bewildered*

Them: “Mom, why is there still all this stuff all over my room??”
Me: “That’s not mine”
Them: *somewhat indignant*

Them: “Mom, there’s nothing good left to eat!!”
Me: “It’s not my fault”
Them: *stupified and starving*

Him: “I’ve been checking the calendar... and uh... shouldn’t you have... you know.... STARTED by now?”
Me: “Sorry honey... It was an accident
Him: *turns several shades of green and hits the floor in a heap of quivering, pre-partum panic*

Of course, none of these little scenarios are true. We Moms take our jobs, families - and birth control - seriously. We do our very best to always accomplish everything that is expected of us, and more. We NEVER shirk our responsibilities. Like now, for example - dinner’s done and that pile o’ pots and pans is screaming at me from the kitchen sink. I would never leave them there until morning and, say, curl up on the couch and watch tv instead. Not like someone else in this.... ACK!! OH NO! Whatever shall I do? "THE DOG ATE MY... DISHTOWEL!!"

Well now, doesn’t THAT just mess with my schedule?! Off my couch, kids, and go take your baths. Honey? Fork over that remote and doesn’t the trash need to be taken out? Me? Oh, I’m just going to stretch out here and...ummmm.... “re-assess my priorities”. That’s right. There's no rest whatsoever for the weary moms of this world - and absolutely, positively NO excuses.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Oh Joy!

Greetings to all from the “frozen North” – where it’s currently in the mid-50’s or 60’s and pouring buckets. Egads boys – the igloos are a-meltin’!! Someone call “Bob” in Vancouver…we all know him, right? We MUST. He apparently lives “up here” – albeit five provinces and about three time zones away. No matter! Tell him to bring some of that Canadian bacon over when he shows up since we eat ours so fast that we just can’t keep a steady supply. Someone suggested once that we just try HAM… nahhhhhh it couldn’t possibly be the same, could it? Have I covered enough Canadian stereotypes in one paragraph yet? NO? Well gee… let me put down my Labatt’s and I’ll ask for some decorative stationery from the newly-married gay couple next door so I can take more notes.

::: grin ::: Sorry folks. Just having a little fun at the expense of my “South of the Border” friends and loved ones. Thank heavens ya’ll have a sense o’ humor <= note the Americanized spelling, would ya? I’m REALLY sucking up now. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I’m in such a good mood lately. Where I live, this kind of euphoric state is usually coined “joie de vivre”… or, literally translated, “joy of living”. I started to think about that the other day. Joy of living. To what miraculous events, to what momentous occasions, do we attribute this abundance of happiness best summed up in three simple letters… J-O-Y? I mean, even Martha Stewart never called it the JOY of living… just “Living” – which, in light of current circumstances, was probably a good choice.

I decided to pay closer attention and I now realize how we truly abuse the term. For instance, the joy of cooking? Yeah right. Anyone who has ever tried to stretch – and please feel free to join me as I break into song - six soft potatoes, five dried out carrots, four cans of creamed corn, three rows of crackers, two cups of milk and a pound of frozen ground beeeeeeeeeef until pay day finds NO joy in cooking, I’m sure.

Since I seem to have some time on my hands lately, I turned to my trusty search engine to see what else people have deemed joyous. Expecting nothing short of an epiphany, imagine my surprise at what I found. A website about the joy of socks! A PBS featured program called “The Joy of Pigs”. Another website on the joy of home winemaking – well ok, I am pretty sure I could be downright ecstatic once the wine was already made. The joy of sects - WHEEEE! Oh WAIT! Damn. That’s not spelled right, is it? :::sigh::: Keep looking… the joy of handspinning – that sounded WAY too “Exorcist-y” for me until I dared to click a link and saw spinning wheels and yarn. “The Joy of Weight Loss” by Norman Chumley?! Mr. Chumley, with all due respect, I’ll be glad to let you know how joyous that feels too, along with the joys of climbing Mount Everest and winning the lottery – since I have about an equal chance of accomplishing any one of those things!

The simplest dictionary definition for joy is “intense happiness”. I suppose no matter who we are, where we live, what we do in our lives, we all someday experience intense happiness. For some, it comes with the birth of a child. For others, it’s the accomplishment of a life-long goal. For me? Intense happiness occurs in many ways… like finally seeing the light at the end of a tunnel and it doesn’t turn out to be an oncoming train. It has taken me a lot of years but I’ve finally learned that I earn my joys in small doses and I appreciate each and every one.

But, for now, you’ll have to excuse me. I just corrected a nasty little spelling error I made earlier and suddenly have some further “joys” to brush up on. How did I ever manage to spell it “sects” in the first place??

Monday, April 25, 2005

Public versus Private

I’m rather convinced that some folks just don’t understand that there’s a difference between “public” and “private.” Well, either that, or they don’t care. I (like many of you) have been an unwilling witness to things that I really wish people would keep to themselves. Some bother me more than others.

We’ve all seen them – the people who believe that their car is the equivalent of the “cone of silence” (I was a big “Get Smart” fan back in the day). They seem to think that no one can see or hear them once they close that car door and enter the inner sanctum. Well, guess what?! I don’t particularly enjoy watching you gentlemen pick your nose, clean your ears with whatever’s handy or, even worse, stop on the side of the highway to take a leak. Didn’t Mommy teach you to do those things before you leave the house? Oh and, in case you’re that much of a dim bulb, standing behind your car door doesn’t mean people can’t see you. Try to curb the urge to write your name in the snow. It makes you a tad more obvious. Ladies, you aren’t off the hook either. Travel time is not appropriate for a makeover. How a chick can apply mascara in the rearview mirror or paint her nails and NOT have an accident is beyond me. Sometimes, couples can collectively register on the “grossing me out” scale. I have yet to recover from the morning I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The young couple ahead of me seemed to be pretty cozy but, hey, whatever passes your time, I figured. UNTIL the driver rolled down his window and launched a tissue that landed on my windshield… and stayed. I swear I must have used a whole GALLON of windshield washer fluid. Makes me want to grab my shoe phone and give these people whatever piece of my mind I have to spare.

Anyway, yesterday I was standing in the greeting card aisle of the local Wal-Mart, minding my own business, when I was almost knocked unconscious by noxious fumes. No, there was no gas leak in the store… unless you count the old lady who was standing back to back with me, launching silent but deadly stink bombs. When did farting in public become acceptable? In my mind, it never did – and it never will. People give this particular bodily function cute little names to try to make it more “P.C.”: passing wind (I’ve yet to be gagged by “wind” unless I was passing through a town with a sulphur mine), cutting the cheese (well ok, there’s some pretty ripe cheese out there so I can see the analogy) or, growing up with my polite and proper mother, “fluffering.” Yes, fluffering. How harmless does that sound? There were no “farts” in our house until we were old enough to grasp that, when Dad said “pull my finger,” you DIDN’T - under ANY circumstance.

From here on out, we’ll refer to my Dad as the “Fluffer King.” He loved fart humor. I remember being mortified when I’d have a friend stay for dinner and he’d tell this joke:

Fluffer King: Hey did you know I got a new job?
My Friend: Oh yeah? Where?
Fluffer King: At the dry cleaner.
My Friend: The dry cleaner???
Fluffer King: Yeah… I got a job picking farts out of blankets

At this point, he’d erupt into laughter and I’d want to curl up into a fetal position under the kitchen table.

Shopping with the Fluffer King was sort of like shopping with a ticking time bomb. He was set to go off at any minute. He found a way to amuse himself while waiting for my mother. He’d wander around looking for an empty aisle in a store and then he and his “walking farts” would saunter down there. Then he’d quickly leave the aisle and stand within viewing distance, watching his poor, unsuspecting victims come barrelling out, gagging and flailing their arms to ward off the caustic cloud. If no one happened to walk down that aisle, he’d send one of us to “check the price” on something – guess he couldn’t stand to waste good gas.

Now, I live with “Fluffer King Lite” (the hubby). I think he and the original Fluffer King would have gotten along famously, if the reigning king hadn’t already passed on. Although I firmly believe he willed along his Golden Sphinc… oops… Scepter. Fluffer King Lite loves fart humor too – much to my dismay. If the kids don’t wake up fast enough on a school day? Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrpppppppppppppp! That has ‘em hitting the floor in record time.

But I digress; there I was, trapped right behind Gassy Granny in Greeting Cards. What does one do in this situation? Hold your breath and hope she’s done? Give her a nasty look and spritz a little body spray into the air? Ask her how that All Bran’s workin’ out for her? Nope. If you’re me, you drop whatever you were looking at and high tail it outta the aisle, hoping against hope that no one thinks something crawled up YOUR ass and died. Some things really need to be done in private.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Forget Venus and Mars

Someone near and dear to my heart celebrated her birthday recently. As she recounted how her husband had helped her to.... celebrate? .... it made me realize quite clearly that we’ve been misled by the whole “Mars and Venus” theory. In actual fact, when it comes to any special occasion, I think men are from Home Hardware and women are from Tiffany’s. Consider any relationship, past or present, and I dare you to dispute these observations.

Man dates woman for the first time. Man “lets” woman pick up the check. Man thinks “I am respecting her, as an equal, in her right to share expenses”. Woman thinks “Cheap bastard. I’m not even worth the cost of a lousy dinner??!!”.... aaaaand we’re off to the races.

Once entrenched in the dating game and suitably smitten, men usually start feeling inclined to “do something” to mark their territory... errrrr.... to show their affection for their new significant other. What do they do? Offer her a small but tasteful piece of jewellery? Tickets to a play she’s hinted a million times she would LOVE to see? NO! He buys her a stuffed animal. Don’t get me wrong – I quite possibly love teddy bears more than life itself but men seem to have a problem understanding the reason women like these things. We like “cute”... “soft”... “cuddly”... and we attach meaning to each one. They think we like stupid dust collectors to throw on the bed. Example – while dating as a teen, I took a liking to Garfield the Cat. Who didn’t back in the early ‘80s? Anyway, something about this goofy, ping-pong ball eyed cat, made me smile. A potential boyfriend decided to woo me with a gift for my birthday. Picking up the lovely ... umm... gift bag (which was actually the store’s shopping bag with a bow tied around the top), I could tell right away it contained a stuffed animal. I started to think “awwww how sweet... he bought me a Garfield!”. Well, imagine my surprise when I opened the bag to find a stuffed tiger. It was adorable but came with the following sentiment: “I tried to get you a Garfield but the one store I went to didn’t have any so I figured a tiger was close enough. It HAS stripes, right?”. Indeed. Score a 0.5 from the Canadian judge for effort.

I truly think that a man’s heart is in the right place when he tries to impress a woman he cares about. It’s just a case of his mind seeing everything from HIS perspective. Example – he offers to take you out for a “nice lunch”. He takes you to Hooters. “For The Food”. His mind tells him you are buying this. His heart tells him he is treating you to lunch and you will, therefore, be flattered. Indeed. Ignore the artificially enhanced breasts serving your salad and score a 2.5 from the Canadian judge for not going back to work hungry.

Now let’s assume you really love the big lug and you know that he means well. You just need to be patient. Your relationship builds and you’re happy. He’s happy. You learn to understand and accept that the phone call you waited for all night (that never came) was “pre-empted” by “The Game”. You never know WHAT game because, chances are, you just don’t care. From his perspective, it doesn’t matter that he didn’t call because he told you, after the fact, that he was watching the game. In his mind, you are fine with it and will not dredge it up three years later in the heat of an argument over why he never takes out the garbage. Score a 4.0 from the Canadian judge for his optimistic, although totally unrealistic, outlook.

Home Hardware and Tiffany’s stick together through thick and thin and decide they are meant to be together forever. In spite of his lingering “fear of commitment”, he, WITH NO HELP AT ALL, chooses an engagement ring. He believes that you’ll never know the difference between a cubic zirconia and the diamond you’ve been dreaming of your whole life. He picks this moment to become a conscientious shopper. He imagines how your heart will soar when he tells you that your ring is “as big as the one the Ultimate Assassin wears on Wrestling Round-up every Sunday!”. Immediately after you say yes, he is overcome with such joy that he calls his three best friends and starts planning – in excruciating detail – The Bachelor Party. You needn’t worry about him obsessing over the million details of The Wedding though. From his perspective, this is “your day”, he will have no opinion about anything and he will stare glassy-eyed at invitation samples, cake designs and rental tuxedos. He will truly and honestly believe that the right answer to every question is “whatever you want is fine with me”.

You will now have years of birthdays, Valentine’s Days, wedding anniversaries and Christmases together where your gifts may range from kitchen gadgets (“because you love to cook, don’t you honey?”) to weed whackers (“because I know how you love your garden, right sweetie?”) to candlelit celebrations over pizza and beer (“because that trendy new place you keep mentioning is just SO crowded and they make you stand in line!”). You’ll accept each and every gift.... not with resignation but with satisfaction in your heart because what you have come to realize is that – to men – a relationship really IS like Home Hardware. A huge space filled with everything they will ever need or want. They will dive right in - with absolutely NO clue what to do with any of it - secure in their perspective that we will always love them for trying. Score a perfect 6.0 from the Canadian judge for being absolutely right.

Friday, April 22, 2005

I'll Take "The School Wants HOW MUCH?!" for $1,000, Alex

Looking back at my time in school, I fondly remember the “special days”. Special meant so many things.

Craft days! Who can forget the Ukranian easter eggs or clay ashtrays? My dad loved that ashtray. Once he stopped laughing and calling it a “sculpture”, he decided it would work great on the front porch since it was the only one he ever had that wouldn’t blow over in a strong wind and would simultaneously scare neighborhood cats from howling at the door.

Movie days meant dusting off a real humdinger, like “Toby Tyler”. We all sat excitedly on the gym floor, side by side, with our baggies of popcorn and cups of juice that we had just purchased, from the rarely-used cafeteria window, with a dime we had closely guarded all morning. This was positively thrilling to those of us designated as “walkers” since we were banished from eating in the makeshift cafeteria (a.k.a. folding tables in the main hallway) unless winter temperatures plummeted to 40 below. I think the administration panicked at that point, trying to devise a strategic plan for fanning out and covering the “walker radius” with ice scrapers and road salt to pry our frozen little feet from the streets. It was probably more appealing to just let us enter the inner sanctum of the “bus-ers” and eat in the building.

When the nice weather finally arrived, some of us went to school busting our buttons with pride at carrying a small bouquet of mom’s garden lilacs or irises to the teacher. Those were special days - and they were simple.

School, at that time, was about learning. The focus was on grammar, spelling, punctuation and math. Today, as a parent of two school-aged daughters, I have come to realize that the focus is on three things - money, fashion and “how fast can we give every parent a seizure.” Oh - and more money. This phenomenon extends to all facets of school life. Curricular, extra-curricular and even social.

Consider, for example, field trips. We took trips to the zoo or maybe a museum. In recent memory, my younger daughter spent three days at “Space Camp” and the older one left for four days in Boston. Seems we’re shooting our kids over all kinds of borders, time zones and galaxies. My parents were never asked to PAY for our field trips. Hell, they never even had to buy a pencil or a notebook. We just sort of showed up on the first day, fashionably decked out in a new plaid jumper, and our supplies were handed to us by our teacher.

In comparison, Space Camp was about $250 and Boston was around $400 (before any meals or spending money). Now, the schools don’t expect us to blindly hand over this money, right? Oh no! They want to “help and support us”... they allow us to FUNDRAISE! It sounds easy. It sounds harmless. It sounds like a great idea - until you are faced with 75,000 chocolate bars and the sudden realization that you work from home and have exactly two relatives living anywhere remotely close to you. You contemplate just how wide your ass will become if you consume even half that much chocolate yourself - JUST so your child is not the only one in the class suffering from the performance anxiety of being unable to “fundraise”. Then you start calling in favors. “Hey! Remember that time I drove your kid home after the school dance and you got to go to bed early?? BUY A CHOCOLATE BAR”. “Remember when I filled in when your sitter cancelled at the very last minute?? BUY A CHOCOLATE BAR”. “I don’t CARE if you were in labor for 24 hours with me. BUY A CHOCOLATE BAR, MOM”. We get desperate. Forgive us.

The parental seizures aren’t always about money. Many of them are in direct relation to homework. We used to say things like “Mom, could you help me with this math problem?”. On a regular basis, I hear things like “Mom? Can you help me figure out how to dress like a Disney character for tomorrow?” to “Mom? Can you help me make a travel brochure for Saturn?”. Then, there’s my personal favorite - which was presented to me the week before Christmas: “Mom? We are making a Christmas village at school and the teacher wants us all to make a building to these exact measurements and it has to have window panes and curtains and a doorbell and an address and.......”. I think I fainted right about then. Yet, against all odds, we get these things done.

Just when you think things can’t get more stressful, other PARENTS succumb to their multiple, school-induced seizures and forget which side they’re on. Birthday party invitations start arriving - complete with instructions and Rules of Compliance. Costume parties in the middle of the summer. “To make your gift-shopping easier, please add to little Suzie’s Barbie collection!”. One mother got especially carried away - “We’re having a Sailor Moon Party!”, the invitation screamed. Oh wait, sorry - the screaming was me. Not only was my daughter expected to come as a character, she had been ASSIGNED a specific one - because the Birthday Girl (a.k.a. Her Majesty) was going to be the only Sailor Moon allowed. Standing there dumbfounded, being pelted with a darling five year old’s pleading glares, I wondered out loud, “WHO or WHAT is Sailor Venus?!?”. My daughter’s helpful reply was “SEE MOM? I told you we needed cable!”.

Well I’m sorry, sweetie. Once I’m done paying for school supplies, books, fees, trips, clothing (regular and costume varieties), party gifts and more, there isn’t a whole lot left over to pay for cable. Then again, who has time to watch television? If you need me, I’ll be in the basement with your sister trying to craft a working, scale model of the Hubble telescope out of nothing but macaroni, toothpicks, chewing gum and tin foil - and it’s due tomorrow.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

You Are What You Drive

I’m starting to believe there is a classification hierarchy for families. I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought lately and have decided that we all, like it or not, fit into groups which, oddly enough, are defined by the type of vehicle we drive. Bear with me here while I explain the acronyms…

HUMMERS (Happy Urban Money Makers Exuding Radical Success) – This is the one family on your block that’s constantly on the move yet has never once been spotted carrying bags of groceries or lugging the trash to the curb. Their pristine lawn never appears to need cutting (and you secretly believe it’s really indoor/outdoor carpeting). Every weekend, they emerge – supermodel parents and perfect children, clean and camera-ready – wearing their activity-appropriate outfits, tossing their way-more-expensive-than-necessary bags into their way-more-powerful-than-necessary vehicle and off they go. This is a rock-climbing family, a white water rafting family, an extreme sports family. They’re adventurous, daring, and appear to be having so much more fun than your family ever will. It’s hard not to hate them (and you secretly do).

MINIVANS (Moms In Nikes Intently Veering Around Normal Schedules) – We’ve all heard about soccer moms (and some of our husbands routinely fantasize about soccer moms, though they’d never admit it). These are the families with the woman at the helm, shepherding large groups of children (not all her own) to sports activities, dance lessons, martial arts training, day camps – you name it, she drives to it! These women are bouncing all over town (yes, literally – but don’t ask your husband – he’ll swear he didn’t notice) in their designer workout clothes and sleek blonde ponytails, nary a hair out of place. It’s hard not to hate them (and you secretly do).

SEDANS (Sensible Everyday Dads Anticipating No Surprises) – These are the sort of “middle of the road” folks - the common sense family living within its means but harbouring dreams of upward mobility. These families do everything with balance and forethought. They drive a vehicle that’s not too showy, with payments they can actually afford, and with one seat for every butt in the house. They take vacations without the nasty twins, Visa and MasterCard. Most of their fun takes place within a one-mile radius of their backyard and routinely involves a grill. Yet, they are among the happiest, most stable people you know. It’s hard not to hate them (and you secretly do).

HATCHBACKS (Harried And Tired Couples Hauling Bags And Collected Kids’ Stuff) – In your lifetime, there’s a good chance you have been, are or will be a “hatchback.” No doubt about it. Almost all of us will be half of that couple, struggling to cram squirming children through two less-than-adequate doors into car seats with restraint systems preferred by NASA – all the while, balancing a diaper bag on your ass. Even with one child, a stroller, change of clothing, bottles, diapers, wipes, assorted toys and pacifiers compound a simple trip to the grocery store. The worst thing about “hatchbacks” is that, when you’re actually IN this category, it seems that everyone else in the category is doing a better job than you are, with more patience than you will ever muster. It’s hard not to hate them (and you secretly do).

So, I’ve come to the rather startling realization that I must hate my neighbors! Actually, I don’t – not even secretly. They’re all nice people at varying “vehicular” stages of their lives. Our family seems to be in transition. We’re matured “hatchbacks” carefully considering our “sedan.” We could theoretically become “minivans” but I’ll just never be a soccer mom. Sorry honey… but hey, on the up side, at least mine are real. Oh, and dear? ‘Round about the time you’re done contemplating them, we’ll discuss the hummer.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

What's ON My Line?

I was standing outside, coffee in hand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the freshness of the breeze, the chirping of the birds, the flapping of the granny panties… yep, laundry’s out = winter’s over. I’ve never needed a thermometer in my window to follow the changing seasons. I can gauge the temperature instantly by whether or not my neighbor has laundry on his line.

When I first moved into this house, the man next door (a truly lovely retired fellow) made it a point to clarify to me that he’s always been responsible for the laundry in their house. He explained, in great detail, that he and his wife had raised quite a brood of children and that they had alternated their work schedules (she on days, he on nights) so that they needed very little childcare. Apparently, some of the “woman’s work” had become his domain – including laundry. I must say, he threw himself into the job with abandon. They have not one but TWO clotheslines in their yard. Anyway, he seemed to feel I needed an explanation for his hauling the tighty-whities out into the yard every day.

Don’t get me wrong – I love my clothesline. Nothing smells more wonderful than line-dried sheets on the beds. I truly feel bad for those folks who live in communities where clotheslines are “outlawed.” I get why. I know they detract from the stature of the subdivision, the class of the condominiums, the beauty of the bungalows… but, hell, they can be so darn amusing! I’m always amazed at what people are willing to hang on their lines.

For instance, let’s consider my backyard neighbor. She’s really something. Last year, she dried trash bags on her line. Yes, that’s right – trash bags – regularly. I still haven’t figured out the reason. My best guess is that she’s an avid gardener and uses a lot of them. Perhaps washing and drying them makes them reusable? I don’t know – I can’t imagine asking the trash guy if he wouldn’t mind leaving the empty bags on the curb, along with the cans, but to each his own. Oh… and there was also a shower curtain/tablecloth/muumuu that fluttered out there for over a month. I think it got fed up being forgotten because the last time I saw it, it had wrapped itself so tightly around the lines that it seemed to be trying to snap them. Wherever it is now, I hope it’s appreciated.

We also had a great “laundry neighbor” when I was growing up. I still remember my father’s booming laughter and a “what the HELL is she doing?!?” about the lady next door. We all gathered around the kitchen window only to witness what could best be described as a "Hanes Hurricane." The lady of the house had covered their whole back lawn with underwear. Row upon row of her husband’s briefs and her panties. My father’s curiousity swelled to the point of calling out to her, “Hey Rolande… what’s going on over there?” She told him she was bleaching them in the sun. I never understood why hanging them on the line wouldn’t have accomplished the same thing. I personally wouldn’t want to find out, in any way, shape or form, what might have decided to crawl up out of the lawn to lie in wait in those undies. * shudder *

I also vividly remember the day my mom decided to wash all the old dolls she had kept from my sister’s and my childhood. She painstakingly bathed each doll, cleaning off years of storage dust and grime… and then promptly hung about a dozen of ‘em, naked on the clothesline - by their hair! Walking around the corner and coming face to face with THAT scene is about as heart-stopping as any horror movie.

If you’re looking for something to do one day soon, grab a friend, take a walk and play a rousing round of “What’s ON My Line.” Over the years, I’ve learned that someone in the neighborhood has secured new employment (Dickies on the job!), shops at Victoria’s Secret (Dickie’s gonna do the job!), or has had a baby (Dickie DID the job), just by what they hang out to dry.

Have fun and leave a comment or drop me an email to let me know what you see!

Monday, April 18, 2005

Man Flu

There's quite a number of seasons, beyond the obvious four, according to my TV. There’s “allergy season,” “cold season,” “baseball season,” “hockey season,” “barbecue season” and so many more. But then, there’s this other one – and no one seems to mention it. It’s called “Man Flu Season” – and it seems to run on a continuous loop. In my mind, there are only two possible reasons that no one’s talking about this never-ending epidemic. It’s either because (a) there are more female broadcasters on the stations I’m watching and they’re so sick to death of it that they can’t even spew out the words or (b) there are more male broadcasters on the stations I’m watching and they’re in such deep denial that they won’t admit it exists.

For those of you yet to be enlightened (and that would mean you’re either under the age of about 12 or you firmly believe the entire human race is female), Man Flu will henceforth and forever be defined, in the Encyclopaedia of Elaine, as:

Man Flu: n. A chronic disease affecting the human male, roughly two to three times per year. This disease is entirely unlike anything affecting the female of the species. The female cannot remotely comprehend the degree to which the male suffers. The male is totally incapacitated to the point of being unable to work, eat, walk, talk, or think during the Man Flu period. His abilities are limited to sitting, reclining, sleeping, grunting, groaning, whining, yelling, demanding, sniffing, snorting, farting and, on occasion, horking a loogy. During the Man Flu cycle, the male is hungry (then isn’t), tired (then isn’t), thirsty (then isn’t) and irritable (then is, and IS and IS AGAIN!).

It is apparent that, among its afflictions, Man Flu has a retrogressive element. Fully grown or physically matured human males gradually return to a more primitive form of their being, generally referred to as childhood. During this mutation, the male becomes confused and sees every human female as his mother. For this reason, the male may be apt to believe that he is no longer responsible for any aspect of his own care. Formerly capable of orchestrating dinner for a family of four, he continually weakens to the point of being unable to pour a bowl of cereal. In the worst-case scenario, he may attempt to breastfeed for sustenance, thereby enabling him to consume essential nutrients in an entirely prone position.

For the human female, it is physically, emotionally and intellectually impossible to understand Man Flu. Males have proven consistently, since the dawn of time, that females contract nothing in the realm of Man Flu. Females suffer from sniffles, occasional aches and pains or perhaps the slight stinging sensation or light cramping that males have determined to be associated with labor and childbirth. Females will never be struck down by the inhumanity of being unable to taste their food or being unable to get 12 hours of sleep because their nasal passages are congested. Females (wives and mothers, in particular) are - quite miraculously - never afflicted with any illness or discomfort lasting longer than approximately 2.3457684 hours and said illnesses are fully treatable by uttering any one of the following instantaneous cures: (1) “So, what’s for dinner?” (2) “Don’t I have clean socks yet?’ or (3) “Oh… you weren’t napping were you?”

Man Flu enters frequent dormant phases during which time the male appears to return to perfect health. However, be warned: unexpected complications or recurrences may surface with alarming speed – usually surrounding such gravely stressful situations as having to go to work when there’s a “BIG GAME” on pay-per-view or having to visit elderly relatives in or out of nursing homes.

For further references and learning, human females should consult 1 - 800 - MOM - IF - HE - DOESN’T - GET - OFF - THE - DAMN - COUCH - SOON - I’M - GOING - TO - CRAM - THOSE - SNOTTY - TISSUES - ALL - THE - WAY - BACK - UP - INTO - HIS - BRAIN. Toll-free.”

Oh, and in case there’s any doubt, my human male (aka husband) has a cold.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

The Male Domestic Engineer

Someone asked me the other day what kinds of “housekeepers” the men in my life have been. I laughed. Oh.... sorry.... that was a serious question?

My opinions on most men’s domestic engineering abilities have likely been formed by earlier generations. From our grandfather’s “I’m goin’ fishin’. I’ll be back when you’ve cleaned the house, plowed the back 40 and hunted down dinner” to our father’s “What do you MEAN dinner isn’t on the table? It’s 4:30 and I’m two steps INSIDE the front door. I can see the dinner table so why am I not seeing food?” Gotta love ‘em.... our founding mothers were either blessed with the patience of saints or tongues as tough as shoe leather so biting them off would have been damn near impossible.

So, fine, we’ll give the question its due. Let’s ponder for a moment what men consider an acceptably clean house. I know, I know... stay with me ladies... tissues and Depends will be handed out shortly.

We’ll start with my favorite.... the bathroom. Listen carefully. Did you hear it? Legions upon legions of men just screamed, “I do NOT clean toilets”. Well darlings, it’s time to face the fact that the bathroom IS your toilet. Is it really so hard to aim that thing? I mean ... jeez ... after all these years of handling, you would THINK you would have gotten some directional control. The last time a guy actually attempted to clean a bathroom for me, preparation appeared to be the key element. Surgical scrubs, rubber boots, nose plugs, rubber gloves and – judging by the huge puddles of water left on the floor – I would wager, a garden hose. Thinking back, popping in the plug and letting the tub overflow probably would have accomplished just as much. Oh, and don’t expect the mirror to be cleaned. How on earth a man can get toothpaste splatters all over a mirror will remain a closely guarded secret of the male domain but it seems that, as long as you can still see any part of your face between the fragrant, ice mint, tri-colored, crusted-over blobs, then the mirror does not NEED to be cleaned. I invested in cases of paper toilet seat covers and hand sanitizer and gave up the fight.

Men have a different general philosophy about “clean” than women. We see things lying around and ask ourselves where they belong. They see things lying around and rejoice at still being able to see the floor. This was proven to me when I came into the house the other day, carrying a few bags of groceries, and unwittingly entered my first Indoor Iron Woman Competition.

Using my foot, the SLAM! of the door signalled the start of the race. Step over the shoes in the middle of the floor, around the jacket that fell off the doorknob, surf through the rain puddle inching its way from the entrance to the kitchen (YES folks!!! She remains upright and didn’t drop those eggs!), complete the hurdles: briefcase, lunch box, golf clubs AND, wooooooo!, the cat, spin quickly to the left to avoid Miss Nose coming into contact with Mr. Coat Rack, suffer a small set back as right foot unwittingly tries to punt a new case of beer through the kitchen door, only to recover with a brilliant, one-footed long jump, landing on an empty pizza box and “boarding” across to the kitchen counter. I believe I broke a world record and, quite possibly, a rib.

It was at this time that I heard the ol’ “yawn, stretch and fart” come from the living room, somewhere in the vicinity of the recliner, and a feeble voice calling out from under a flurry of potato chip bags and newspapers. “Hey honey? Watch you don’t put those bags down on my sunglasses there on the counter and fix me a snack when you have a chance, k?”

Yeah… sure… one tongue sandwich coming right up, my love... and expect it to taste like shoe leather.

Friday, April 15, 2005

Tips for working moms?!

I’m always interested in articles about how to be an effective working mom without losing your mind. Sanity is something I aspire to regularly, yet achieve rarely. So, when I caught sight of a “tips” item on MSN, I immediately clicked on through. I read the advice… purportedly by a few mothers who “manage to keep it all together”… and have come to the conclusion that there are theories and there are facts.

Paraphrased Theory #1: Wake up earlier. This will allow you to accomplish everything you need to do without interruption and get your day off on the best foot.

Elaine’s Fact: Being awake at all is an achievement. When I finally tumble into bed at night, hoping against hope that no one’s going to wander in uttering phrases like “my tummy feels funny” or “I really tried to make it to the bathroom,” the last thing I’m thinking about is how early I can get up. Sleep is a very precious commodity to a working mom (and we’re ALL working moms, no matter what the statistics say). Much as it seems logical to get up and get things done before anyone else is out of bed, I’m less bitchy if I get 30 minutes extra pillow time.

Paraphrased Theory #2: Get yourself ready before anyone else. This will allow you to get out the door, to wherever you need to be going, on time.

Elaine’s Fact: The purveyor of said theory has never been remotely close to a child. No matter where I have to go or what type of clothing the jaunt requires, I will never – and I do mean NEVER – dress before my kids. Over the years, I’ve been spilled on, puked on, had my nylons shredded by toys, pets, and overly aggressive furniture or had my boobs leak out darling wet spots – long before I can get close to the front door. While I do agree with showering and doing hair and/or makeup in advance, I’ll stick to my “what-the-hell-is-THAT-stained” bathrobe until I can make a clean break for the car. Don’t even ask what I wear when I’m working at home!

Paraphrased Theory #3: Take advantage of your travel time to catch up with your friends by cell phone. This allows you keep in touch between lunches with the girls.

Elaine’s Fact in Two Parts:
Part 1: Who the hell has time for lunches with the girls?
Well unless the girls are under the age of 15, I suppose, because I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time “doing lunch” with my girls. The lunches just end up in bags and I end up never wanting to see another sandwich for as long as I live.

Part 2: Travel time + cell phone = accident waiting to happen. Admittedly, though, that is a fabulous theory if you take public transit and like to annoy the snot out of everyone sitting or standing within earshot. I know there’s nothing I love more than hearing a gossipy, giggling chick on the bus in the morning when I’m struggling to recoup that 30 minutes of sleep I sacrificed by trying to subscribe to Paraphrased Theory #1 (see above!).

Paraphrased Theory #4: Skip television. There are many more productive things to do with one’s time than watch TV – like volunteer work.

Elaine’s Fact: Television? What’s that? Oh yeah! That’s the satellite bill I pay every month! Seriously, the only time I spend watching TV is (a) when Buffy isn’t on (or my older daughter will have my head on a platter – didn’t they write that into one of the episodes??); (b) when AFV isn’t on (or my younger daughter will threaten to get out the video camera next time we’re anywhere near a pool or beach); or (c) when I’m folding laundry (which, judging by the number of loads I do, should be about 98% of the time) … and I never even got to volunteer for the job.

Paraphrased Theory #5: Simplify your make-up. Consider skipping mascara.

Elaine’s Fact: Thanks ever so much!!! You just saved me about a minute and a half. Maybe now I can squeeze in a nap.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Days of Whine and (someone send me) Roses

I’ve had an epiphany. My life is a symphony. OK, that doesn’t really rhyme but I was shooting for something that would sound lyrical. I realized, quite recently, that there are a number of predictable melodies that punctuate my days - and nights. Here is a random sampling - and do feel free to hum along if anything seems familiar.

“Doggie Dirge” - This wailful tune is one of the first I hear every morning. It emanates from the Scottie/Bichon mix that is calling out to every tree, bush and blade of grass in the backyard as if he hasn’t seen them in years. I suspect the actual sound is created by a combination of him crossing his legs, wagging his tail and rolling his eyes back in his head while wondering how the hell long it can take someone with only two legs to get down those back stairs and open the door.

“Teen Daughter” - Anyone who has ever fought to wake up a teenager on a school day probably knows this little ditty... (sung to the tune of Mark Dinning’s “Teen Angel”, minus the tragedy of the car crash, of course)... Teen Daughter... can you hear me? Teen Daughter... can you see me? I’ll fight your hormones for control... now get that breakfast in the bowl!

Days around our house progress with the same degree of orchestration needed to launch a Broadway production - or, at the very least, the Space Shuttle. I KNOW that I jump through more hoops than Shamu, move faster than any Andretti ever has and I regularly covet the balance and juggling abilities of Cirque du Soleil. Unfortunately, we are not “du Soleil” caliber around here... but we definitely have the “Circus” part nailed. Other tunes streaming from soundtrack of my life range from such colorful and uplifting spirituals as the “Mom!! I wanted my OTHER Jeans” Jig and “Damn! We’re out of peanut butter” (not to be confused with the less grocery-related Sophie B. Hawkins tune) to our rousing tribute to Rodgers and Hammerstein, “Ohhhhhhh-verflowing... where the water backs up from every drain”.

I bet you’re thinking that no one’s life can be this musical, right? I sure thought I was at my limit. Then - I got married. Did you know that husbands are equipped with a “Rio”??? No, mp3 players are not genetic implants (yet). In the case of husbands, RIO is an acronym for “Really Intense Odor”. While men occasionally deliver these odors silently, their preferred mode is to use accompanying sound waves varying from a delicate trill, reminiscent of a flute, to the boom of a bass drum or a car backfire. Evidently, men think we will forget about the noxious emissions if they package them in a multi-CD set.

Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they fall asleep - and then comes the lullaby to which I drift off each night. I must give my husband credit for being highly entertaining. Apparently, he doesn’t want to bore me with a milquetoast, breathy serenade every night so he routinely ends my day with the snoring equivalent of a 24-gun salute, a buzz-saw concerto or a herd of buffalo stampeding through the bedroom. If I actually manage to fall asleep, I inadvertently create the opportunity for him to test out his Emergency Warning System. This generally involves a sound loud enough to land me on my feet, ready to rip our sleeping children from their beds and throw them in the basement or bathtub in time to save them from an impending hurricane or other disaster. Then I realize, in the midst of my sleep-impaired panic, that HE is sound asleep.

Reassured that we aren’t under attack, I crawl back into bed, exhausted from the rhythm and blues of another day. As I try to fall asleep, I briefly wonder if I should burn my life soundtrack on a CD. Then I decide that an old-fashioned EP is the way to go... i.e., Earplugs and Patience. It’s the best way to maintain your sanity - especially when you’re married to “Phil Harmonic”.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Reality Check

Not so long ago, the media gifted upon me the knowledge that two more actresses had written or were writing books. This isn’t a phenomenon or anything remotely special, I know. I mean, bookshelves are rife with contributions by actors and actresses alike. They range from the expected autobiographies and musings to cookbooks to children’s stories and more. These are creative folks we’re talking about here. It’s to be expected that many of them might have thoughts and ideas worthy of putting pen to paper – or acrylic nails to keyboard, whatever.

What has been frantically gnawing at the back of my brain (a spot usually reserved for “did I pay the phone bill yet?” or “can I serve spaghetti again without them complaining?”) is the hype that is generated by the subject matter about which many of these celebrities choose to expound in print. They write what some call “real life” books. Real life experiences. Real life emotions. Real life consequences. The thing is, I already HAVE a real life. Most of what they write about has happened or will someday happen to me too. What yanks my chain is that they will inevitably bill their books as the “true picture” of what “really happens”. I suppose the rest of society just stumbles through these events like the apparently blithering idiots that we are, hoping against hope that no one else will ever find out. I know that I’m being harsh. Some people, I’m sure, are helped or encouraged by these celebrity “tell alls”. My initial reaction, though, is never much more than “pppfffffffttttttttttt”.

I know how to plan a wedding. I know how to survive depression - regular and post-partum, thank you very much (I thrive on variety). I know the truths about having a baby and, contrary to what I heard Jenny McCarthy telling Regis and Kelly, I don’t keep things a secret (well – except for the one about me actually standing there listening to Jenny McCarthy telling Regis and Kelly). Labor and delivery hurt like hell. That old “shoving a watermelon through a keyhole” adage is damned accurate, as far as I’m concerned. I know that there is no dignity to pregnancy. The last private moment I can remember was the actual conception of the child. I have endured the uncomfortable consultations where men I didn’t know (and will hopefully never see again) have poked, prodded and discussed parts of my anatomy that even my Mama’s never seen. I KNOW these things. I will share the blunt, honest truth with anyone that feels the need to ask. My sister was enthralled with my ever-expanding belly when I was pregnant the first time. At three years my junior, she had not yet had a child herself. She asked me a lot of questions – and I answered. I wonder if that had much to do with the fact that her own child didn’t arrive until nearly ten years later? Oh well. She ASKED.

Claudette Colbert has been quoted as saying, "Books written by actresses are for the birds. Besides what would I write?...that somebody was looking for an Italian-type to play the ingenue in a film and I might do?". What a smart lady. I’m not implying that maybe a million books don’t already exist on that subject either. I’m just loving the fact that she insinuates that celebrities – while fascinating to most – appear to forget that there are so many things that they are always and forever bound to share with us peasant-y types. The only difference is scale. I paid for an organist at my wedding too. There was just no one suffocating inside the organ, hoping to catch photos of the event.

All things considered, maybe I should take a cue from these celebs. Maybe I should write books about my real life. You know – to captivate and entrance my potential audience and to let them know THEY ARE NOT ALONE. That would be important, I think. So, to coin Claudette, “what would I write?” Here’s a few that are milling around on my back burner….

Desperate to Whack” – The frank and frustrating account of wanting to achieve the perfect and pristine suburban lawn while living with the shame of having no time to haul out that weed whacker before having to rush off to pick up the kids at school;

Generic Jealousy” - The author’s secret humiliation at buying brand name items JUST ONCE, keeping all the packaging, then locking herself in the bathroom in the middle of the night to painstakingly refill each and every one with generic equivalents. How long can she hide the fallacy of the Fruitie Hoops, the misery of the mac and cheese, the anguish of the acetaminophen?

Fired Up Over Flannel” – Share this writer’s outrage at a lingerie industry that refuses to understand what women really want! NOT SEXY, they say. Listen up, we say. Is it impossible to understand a love affair with a fabric that doesn’t pinch, bind or chafe? A fabric that will never be used for car seats or construction boots? Empathize with other women who, just like you, understand implicitly that flannel IS sexy – and are prepared to rub up against every lumberjack, firefighter and cowboy to defend their cause.

Ehhhhhh… who am I kidding? I couldn’t possibly write a real book about real life for real people. I think I’ll go and discuss this idea with my nanny, personal trainer, chauffeur, chef, gardener, bodyguard, manicurist, pedicurist, massage therapist, stylist and perhaps even my personal shopper. I’m sure they will help me gain the necessary perspective to write a book for the REAL world. I’ll get back to you on it.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

The DIY Penis?

I really shouldn’t gloss over the newspaper. I have a habit of scanning headlines or making mental notes about things that others point out. I save the pages and read them in my abundant spare time. This past weekend, I noticed an article in The Gazette titled, “Russian surgeons grow penis on man’s arm”… and you KNOW I put that one aside for later perusal.

Thing is, in spite of myself, I spent the rest of the day wondering why or how the hell anyone would grow a penis on an arm. Was this is a joke? Was this medically possible? Was someone trying to circumvent the embarrassment of catalogue shopping and plain brown wrappers by growing their own? (THAT would be a garden worth seeing -- would probably look like rigor mortis had set in after a rash of deaths in a strip joint). Maybe this was a burgeoning new industry! Viagra spammers everywhere were probably already rejoicing. Most importantly, could we get them grown to order?

Once my practical side dispelled the notion that this was a business article (it WAS, after all, in Section A), I got clinical. Why the arm? Wouldn’t there be more practical places to grow a penis, if one were so inclined? I mean, flexible things that they are, they could certainly serve other purposes while they were being cooked, couldn’t they? Let’s see what springs to mind (yay! accidental pun!) in terms of advertising campaigns.

“Tired of wishing you had an extra pair of hands? Need help lugging those extra bags home from the grocery store? New HIP PENISES can help! One on each side, ready to work HARD at making your life easier. Call today!”

“All you photojournalists and paparazzi out there fed up with missing the great shots? Stuck at the back of the crowd behind those seemingly 7-foot orangutans blocking your view? Get the best HEAD shots with our new PENIS CAM! Grown on the top of your head, this little extender will give you that 7 or 8 extra inches to prop your camera up to just where it needs to be!”

“Electronics enthusiasts rejoice! Never again lose your cell phone signal or radio reception. Our new SHOULDER PENIS will help you get the reception you demand! Customized 5 to 9 inch lengths to suit your geographic location!”

Then, I read the article… and promptly felt pretty guilty. Seems this fellow, known only as Sergei, comes from some remote Siberian village. He’s already 28 years old and has never had sex due to his… um… diminutive genitalia. While they didn’t embarrass him further with specifics, the article DID mention that it’s “thought that one in 200 men are born with male genitalia less than 5 centimetres long when aroused.” Holy crap! That’s less than two inches. I guess that’s why they only THINK they know how many men are suffering with the condition. No guy I know has the balls (sorry!) to admit THAT!

In an 11-hour surgery, for which they may want to contact Lorena Bobbitt as a future spokesperson, “plastic surgeons removed (his) undersized penis and stitched it to his left forearm, where they grafted on additional flesh and tissue taken from his inner arm.” If my male readers haven’t fainted yet, remove your hands from your groin and stick with me here. When it was all over, the reconstructed organ (which had grown to nearly 17 centimetres or close to 7 inches) was reattached. After putting up $2500 of his own money and taking the risk of living the rest of his life with no genitalia at all, if the surgery failed, it’s hoped that Sergei will eventually be able to have a sex life and father children.

Bless you, Sergei. I hope you get your wish. I also feel a little sorry that, for the rest of your life, when people say “Hey Sergei! How’s it hangin’ buddy?” they are actually going to expect a demonstration.

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Battles of the Bath

The bath. Ahhhhh. Those two tiny words bring me such joy. What female doesn’t relish the idea of soaking in a warm tub, full to overflowing with soft bubbles, surrounded by scented candles, a good book in hand or at least some nice music and maybe even a perfectly chilled glass of white wine? Well – to begin with – the two females that I’m raising. To set the right tone for this piece, let’s call them Greasy and Grumpy.

I remember bathing Greasy and Grumpy as infants. Poor things. They howled and clenched their little fists, clearly letting me know they’d punch me good if only their arms were longer … or, at least if their hands weren’t so darn heavy! My solution to their distress was to learn to give a bath so fast that I really should have called the Guiness folks in to time me.

In retrospect, set up and clean up for the event was always three times longer than the actual performance. Baby tub, towels, washcloth, Dove soap (unscented!), cotton balls, pjs, diaper, wipes, Ihle’s paste, baby hairbrush, baby nail clippers, camera and, more often than not, an audience, and we were ready to go. 20 minutes of hauling crap to the kitchen, 10 minutes of clenched fists (their’s), goosebumps (their’s), ear-piercing shrieks (mine and their’s), and another 10 minutes of hauling residual crap back to the nursery. Fait accompli until the next day! Or, until they were covered in baby barf (which Grandma charmingly called “spit up”) and we had to start all over.

However, like so many other little tikes, Greasy and Grumpy soon grew to love bath time. In my experience, this happens as soon as they can sit in a bath seat in the “big bath tub” – as opposed to being splayed open like a Christmas turkey on the kitchen table or in the kitchen sink. The bathtub becomes a playground. Bath seat positioned in the middle, with any semblance of water totally obliterated by duckies, boats, a variety of floating Sesame Street characters, spoons, cups and most of the plastic containers from my kitchen cupboard. Somewhere, under that pile, was a giggling Greasy or Grumpy.

We had so much fun at this stage… singing songs, telling stories, blowing bubbles. Well now, wait -- it was fun when I blew bubbles. Their bubbles usually meant hauling a much-relieved Greasy or Grumpy out of the tub, scooping out the toy flotilla for disinfection maneuvers, being careful to leave the new and offensive floaters for subsequent removal, draining the water and scrubbing the tub ‘til my arms ached. Yep, fun indeed.

After outgrowing “BM bubbles,” Greasy and Grumpy would actually ASK to take a bath. Yessiree, they sure did. They would have gladly stayed in that water for hours, slowly shrivelling into something resembling Sharpei puppies, if I didn’t fish them out against their will. Apparently, the ear-piercing shriek skill acquired in infancy resurfaces at this age. Only now, it’s enhanced by kicking (their’s) and wrestling (mine). They’d finally discovered the pleasures of the bath and obviously felt it best to live there.

Jump ahead many years and here I sit, still firmly entrenched in the War of the Water. Every night, Greasy and Grumpy are told “Time to take your bath.” Every night, they recite from their lists of excuses: I have too much homework! I took a bath LAST night! I waited all night to see this tv show! I only need a few more points to get to the next level on this game! Oh, and my personal favorite, “FINE! I’ll take a bath if I don’t have to wash my hair!”

What is with these kids anyway? It’s not that they don’t want to be clean. They love the feel of smooth, freshly-washed skin. They relish the softness of clean hair. They drink in the scent of a wonderful soap or body wash. But they want it all without the “hassle” of getting in the tub! Some nights I’d be just as glad to hose them off in the backyard and send them to bed.

I realize, very soon, they will understand the lure of the bath. I do my very best thinking in the tub. I’m warm. I’m comfortable. It’s the one and only place I can truly relax…

… until Stinky (aka the husband I’m also raising) comes strolling through the door, uninvited and apparently oblivious to my presence, intent on launching an offensive flotilla of his own at the opposite end of the room. Not even my scented candles can help me now. I lay there, defenceless as an infant, and do the only thing I can possibly do. I howl and clench my fists, letting him know I’d punch him good, if only my arms were longer.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Media Marriage

I’m feeling marriage-minded today. I have no impending nuptials … and, if I did, it would come as quite a shock to my husband, I’m sure. I’ve just seen and heard a lot of marriage-related discussion in a short period of time and it’s got me to thinking about the perceptions of that institution. To say the least, times have changed.

I was feeling a little nauseous the other day. Morning sickness being out of the question, what got me going was the news that another mindless reality show is set to hit the airwaves. This one is going to bring Britney Spears and “Federline Yo!” (sorry, can’t use “Kevin” ever since I watched Ashton Kutcher’s impression of him on SNL) into people’s living rooms. Evidently, Nick and Jessica didn’t numb us quite enough. Now, the TV powers-that-be have decided we need to know every glorious detail of “BritneYo!” Hey! Sounds like a breakfast cereal, doesn’t it? I bet that wouldn’t be good for us either. I digress… How could there possibly be a more loving portrayal of relationships, marriage and commitment than choosing a woman who married a childhood sweetheart on a lark in Vegas, had the wedding annulled hours later, went on to call it a cry for attention from her family, took up with another man who was already in a relationship, with a young child and a baby on the way, and who (if we can believe the media hype) gets his jollies from his own Vegas partying, on her dime? I mean, hell, if that ain’t on par with “Father Knows Best” or “Leave it Beaver” then I don’t know what is. I can hardly wait for my daughters to start taking notes.

Besides BritneYo!, we’ve got Prince Charles and the “forever branded as horsey” Camilla Parker Bowles. Poor things. After years of a not-so-secret love affair, they finally make their inevitable leap, directly into the public’s collective face, declare their love and intention to make it legal and what happens? They are upstaged by the death of a beloved Pope. HELLO? Can we say OMEN, people?!

I’ve heard many people say they don’t even want to try walking on the marriage limb. “I’m never getting married” is no longer the depression-laced cry of a chick jilted at the altar. It’s commonplace. People find no need or value in a wedding. Weddings are just things that little girls dream about while they still believe Prince Charming will come and sweep them off their feet, right? Part of me totally understands it. Have you seen that other glorious TV show called “Cheaters”? Now, there’s a solid testament to people’s fidelity if I’ve ever seen one. I love how everyone that gets caught cheating has the nerve to screech at their accuser, “I can’t believe you did this to me!” Oh, I’m sorry - I’ve been out working two jobs to put you in clothing, out of debt, under shelter and through school and you see fit to thank me by bangin’ a broad whose idea of a promotion is getting a street corner with a mailbox to lean on. How could I be so insensitive.

Then, there’s “that” website. You know the one I mean. They provide space for people who are already in a relationship to find “something more.” Always good to know that anyone that starts feelin’ a little froggy has somewhere to jump. It disgusts me. When did it become majority rule to have your cake and eat it too?

I am married. For the second time… and I’m intensely happy. Surprised? Why’s that? Because the first time didn’t turn me into a whimpering pile of rejected, man-hating goo, drowning in legal bills, never to rise up and look human nature in the face again? Yeah. Sure. Damn legal bills aside, that sounds JUST like me. [end sarcasm here]

The thing is, I believe in marriage. I believe in commitment. I believe that I can love someone to the exclusion of all others. I also believe that real life is hard. But see, there’s the catch – REAL life. You work at it. Sometimes you struggle, sometimes you coast. If you’re lucky, you find someone to come along for the ride and you stick together, no matter how big the speed bumps or how deep the potholes.

Trust me… BritneyYo! won’t be pimpin’ THAT ride on “reality” TV.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Desperately Seeking Spring

I was baking brownies today and, looking out the kitchen window, I got SO excited! I saw GRASS! Wait.... that doesn't sound right. One thing has entirely nothing to do with the other. Really. No matter how open-minded the Canadian government may be. What I meant was - I saw GREEN! This is a big deal to me because basically that meant I wasn't seeing WHITE. To a resident of the "Great White North", this time of year never fails to awaken that childlike belief in fairy tales - especially the one that says Old Man Winter actually takes a vacation. You see, here in Canada, we have four seasons too. Others call theirs Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. Ours are a little different - we call them "Winter", "Filthy Slush", "Holy crap! It's finally over" and "Tune up the snowblower". Harbingers of spring elsewhere are sweet. Romantic. You know, robins singing, blossoms bursting forth with the promise of..... yeah, yeah, you get where I'm going already. Here, a young man's fancy turns to navel rings and ultra low-rise jeans. Can't blame 'em really. I mean, after what seems like a thousand months of androgenous, Nanook of the North cover-ups, it's about time their hormones got a fair shake. Outerwear to underwear in 2.5 seconds flat.

Anyway, this line of thinking made me really sit up and take notice. I've realized that the change of season is much different north of the border. I thought I'd share some of my observations from those of us Desperately Seeking Spring.

Transportation modes: Folks tend to burst out of their cars like baby chicks hatching out of eggs. At any given moment, you stand an equal chance of being run down by a skateboarder, inline skater or, heaven forbid, an extreme cyclist. The differentiating factor here is that all of these folks will still be wearing a tuque. Translation: knit hat, usually featuring a pompom on top.... à la "Bob and Doug Mackenzie". Joggers are the exception to this rule. They break out the spandex shorts when the thermometer hits a balmy 4 degrees Celsius. Next translation: that would be just shy of 40 real degrees. On the less fashionable side of human transportation, the Mall Walkers have emerged to hit the streets. Nothing like sauntering out for the morning paper, decked out in a ratty bathrobe at 6:30 a.m., only to be observed by about 40 arm-pumping, lamaze-breathing, water-toting senior citizens in more expensive footwear than I will ever own.

Cars: Once the novelty of getting out of your car wears off, men, in particular, shift their focus right back to their "babies". Other species are driven to reproduce in the spring. The human male's blood starts rushing south with that first whiff of Turtle Wax. Guys that track snow and mud through the house all winter long are now yelling at you to take off your shoes before you get in the car because they just Scotchguarded the floor mats. There are the Spring Skeptics though. They are the people that still have their snow tires on. Readily identifiable, too, since they have no hubcaps. Oh! These are also the same people who only go through the car wash on really warm days because they are convinced that their doors will still freeze shut overnight.

Canadian Tire: For those of you who are unfamiliar, this chain of stores is a combination hardware / automotive / housewares / gardening / lighting / plumbing / sporting goods emporium. I believe they stop just shy of a grocery aisle. Canadian Tire becomes a world unto itself in the spring. Teens gather proudly in Automotive, buying anything that is cheap and even remotely car-related. They have no idea what the hell they are buying, of course, but holding tight to that bottle of "something" they should probably pour into "somewhere" under the hood makes them very self-important and cooler than their non-driving friends. The poorest of the poor spring for a new air freshener. Gotta have that "new pine tree" smell. Over in the Seasonal area, men are drooling over gas grills that resemble space shuttles. Somewhere around July, they will actually launch the damn things. This phenomenon occurs as "start buttons" everywhere cease to function and men decide that sticking a match into the little hole on the side of the grill to meet Mr. Propane is a better idea than getting the igniter repaired. Women, of course, are not off the hook when it comes to Spring Stupidity Syndrome. Just the other day I saw a woman, who lives in the apartment building down the street, buying somewhere in the area of 7000 packets of seeds. She has a balcony garden. I really hope she is renting several acres of farmland somewhere or I may be renting out my spare room to her children until at least the early crops are harvested.

A pleasant walk around my block reveals that the neighborhood dogs have outdone themselves this year in their attempts to provide spring fertilizer. People gather on front lawns, having in-depth conversations for the first time in months. Their topics of choice? Peat moss, manure, those disgusting grubs that gladly make a meal out of your lawn... and all of this with a straight face and the seriousness usually reserved for summit meetings. All I know is that I love the feel of the warm sun on my skin, the lightness in my step (trading in my boots for good ole Reeboks helps that along) and the hope that winter has finally been put to rest. If I wake up tomorrow to three feet of snow and ice so help me I'm going to clear it with a broom or just wait for it to melt. Once those shovels go into the shed, they AREN'T coming back out until sometime in December.

Well, I'm off to enjoy the fresh spring air, those brownies.... and my grass. Not together. Of course. I'd send you all some but I'm suddenly really, really hungry.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

When is sex not sex?

I was reading the paper the other day and was smacked upside the head (no pun intended) by an article on oral sex. If just the term “oral sex” makes you squirm, then you might not want my opinions on this. But opinions I have. The reason being, this article was about teens and their beliefs about that particular activity – and I’m worried.

As the mother of two girls who are becoming old enough not to believe that “oral sex” means “sex you only talk about,” I’m always aware of the types of messages they might be receiving from their friends or through the media. The report being discussed in the paper stated “about one in five 14 year olds have tried oral sex and one in three intend to have it within the next six months.” Now hold up – I HAVE a 14 year old and if she’s that “one in five” they’re talking about, I’d be truly surprised. If she’s the “one in three” they’re talking about, SHE will be truly surprised – because she won’t be leaving the house any time in the next six months.

Look… I’m not old-fashioned. I sure as hell don’t have my head buried in the sand (or anywhere else) when it comes to the realities of growing up in today’s less-than-innocent world. As much as I’d love to think my daughters would want to wait to share such intimate acts with someone they truly love, I can’t allow myself to be that naïve. Some risks are worth taking. Others are not. Parents who still harbor the “not MY kid” mentality are just fooling themselves.

Most parents I’ve spoken to say they dread the idea of having “the talk” with their kids. I take issue with “the talk” too. Why is it one conversation? Do parents cover everything the burgeoning bags of hormones are going to need to know to stay healthy and safe within a single, 15-minute blush fest? Sorry. Not in our house. We try to foster an open environment at home, much to the sheer agony of both girls. We’ve played such delightful dinner games as “wrong names for body parts” and “do you really know what this means?”… trust me, they eat dinner a lot quicker, if nothing else.

The first time I seriously talked sex with each of them, we covered what I thought was a lot… up to and including masturbation. We even discussed birth control. Feel free to tell me I’m wrong for bringing up birth control with a 9 year old but, if she is curious enough to ask, I am strong enough to tell. At the end of our chat, she looked at me and said “Know what Mom? When I grow up, I’m going to remember to say “No condom? No way!”

I’m no prude. In fact, I’m very open-minded. More than anything, I love my kids. I love them enough to know that, even though they are book smart, that’s a world away from street smart. I didn’t discuss oral sex in those first conversations. It was one thing I left out. I covered your basic plumbing and procreation. When their eyes started rolling back in their heads, I thought it was enough. Now Health Canada says that 30% of 9th graders have already had oral sex. 14-year-old girls surveyed in the U.S. felt that oral sex didn’t collide with their “moral beliefs” the way “regular sex” does, that it involves little to no risk of sexually transmitted infections (?!) … oh and, naturally, it allows them to save themselves for marriage.

So, there you have it. Young people are out there, engaging in highly intimate behavior that they think is no big deal. They believe oral sex isn’t “real sex” so that makes it just fun and games.

And their parents can’t get them to eat BROCCOLI?

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Nothing to Fear

I can change a diaper faster than a peeing child.

I can leap Barbie's breasts in a single bound.

I can help with multiplication tables while simultaneously calculating how long to bake a chicken.

I am Super Mom!

Yeah… right…

Super Mom would imply that I'm capable of anything, wouldn't it? That I fear nothing? Well. Have you seen my reaction to the dentist? It's highly disappointing from your basic super-hero perspective. I worry about it for days. I barely wake up on time (did I… accidentally… set that alarm for p.m. and NOT a.m.???). I change the trash bag, clean the sinks, reorganize the fridge and consider giving the dog a flea bath simply to avoid getting in the car. Strange as this is, once I'm in the dentist's chair, I'm absolutely fine. I don't panic. I don't even flinch, really. So, what's the problem?! Generally, I'd say… fear. "There is nothing to fear but fear itself." Well, Mr. Roosevelt… that's good enough for me.

I often wonder about the things that scare the bejesus out of me. I have a small but select list. Let's see - mice (EEK!), snakes (*shudder*), heights (don't let anyone tell you that you "adjust" once you get up there… you don't), and my personal favorite - the dark. Yes, there you have it. I'm forty years old and still afraid of the dark. Well, not the dark so much as what I may or may not see when I turn on the light. Actually, I'm afraid of what I might suddenly see IN the dark too. Lovely, isn't it? I hate that I will still reach my hand around into a dark room to flip the light switch before I'll walk in. No wandering around in the dark for me. Nope, not even an inch.

I do have a theory about my fear of the dark though. I got it from my father. No, fear is not hereditary and it's definitely not a gift. See, my father used to play this game. On any random evening, once it got dark enough, he would disappear. He'd go down the hall, into my parent's bedroom, and he would lie down on the floor. Now, he must have REALLY dug this little game because any 300+ pound man knows that getting down on that floor means eventually having to get back up! Anyway, he would lie on the floor in the dark, waiting for unsuspecting me to decide to walk to my bedroom at the very end of the hall. As I passed their door, he would let out a fierce roarrrrrrrrrr and grab for my leg, usually managing to catch me by the ankle. I'd screech my head off and he'd laugh until his eyes watered. Yep. Fun.

Eventually, I developed a routine for getting to my room. It went something like this: Turn on hall light, take several deep breaths, run like hell, leap past parents' bedroom door, stick a good two-footed landing, reach around corner, turn on bedroom light, run in, slam door, hyperventilate. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised at being recruited for the track team by the time I reached high school. I'd had plenty of training!

My father had another little cardiac-enhancing game too. Let's call it "Run for your freakin' life up those stairs." Just for fun. The basic premise to this game was for my father to wait until I was leaving the basement family room. He'd watch for me to get my foot up on the first step. Then he'd come barrelling over (again, with that 300+ pound frame) and chase me up the stairs, growling and roaring behind me. My heart always made it to the top of the stairs long before the rest of me could catch up. And he'd laugh until his eyes watered.

Truthfully, though, that's the only way to deal with fear - laugh at it. I try to do that now. I know that most fears are irrational and I try to teach my own children not to be afraid of things that you KNOW can't hurt you. They especially like my "dead mouse lessons." I'm much less fond of them. There's the one where I pulled the mousetrap out from under the stove in the country house, trying to be brave and set it to trap the little bugger that was mocking me by doing the Macarena on top of my microwave. The days old, dead mouse dangling limply from the trap in my hand was so much more of a surprise than I ever needed. I screamed so loud that I scared the kids and promptly threw the damn trap clear across the kitchen and into the dining room, where it landed face down in the middle of the floor. We went out for hotdogs at that moment and came home about 8 hours later.

Then, there's the other one. I was packing to move out of that same country house (can you guess my motivation?!) when I walked into a little-used back room. There, right in my path, was a dead mouse. I slammed the door, leaving the mouse to its... umm… death-dom… and I left. A week later (yes, I'm serious), I made my sister drive an hour back to the country house with me to pick the dead mouse up on a shovel and throw it into the back corn field, a process which took all of about 30 seconds. My sister loves me but she has still never forgiven me.

All things considered, I think a little fear is a good thing. I believe it keeps you safe. It makes you step back for a moment and think about what could happen. Sometimes, it unknowingly gives you the physical training required to become a Super Mom. I took a pass on the track team but I'm the best Barbie-breast leaper I know! I bet my Dad's looking down on me, even still… laughing until his eyes water.

Tossing my beret in the air

*looks left and right*... *looks up and down*... wow... so this is what it feels like. I've been meaning to start a blog. For the last year or more. Guess I've been busy!?! In all honesty, I've been trying to decide whether I wanted one or not. Friends, family and colleagues have encouraged it. I've read their blogs, poked around the blogs of complete strangers (Mom never warned me not to) and thought "yep! that's for me!" - and I still put it off. Typical.

You see, I have this love/hate relationship with writing. I love to write. I hate that it might not be good enough. I hate that I even care what others think. I love feedback. I have broad shoulders and can accept criticism - although I prefer it be constructive or insightful rather than "YOU SUCK!" if it's all the same to you. But, hey, any kind of impact is probably better than none at all. I love that I've been able to touch people with my words. I've felt the sheer joy of making people laugh. I've felt the profound ache in my heart for making people cry.

I've often heard people say writing is therapeutic. It is for me. I write when I'm happy, sad, confused, frustrated, uptight, proud, embarrassed or, more often than not, pissed-the-hell-off :) I write because it's easier than talking... not always the "right" outlet, mind you, but definitely the safest in my case!

I'm not sure what this blog is destined to contain. I admire folks that are focused enough to stick to the topic at hand. Problem with me is that everything (and everyone!) is fodder for my writing. Ask my kids. Ask my husband. Actually, wait and see... they have a tendency to turn up in my pieces way more often than they'd like. Yet, they still love me.

I know one thing for sure - I write from the heart. Whatever's rattling around in there inevitably finds its way out... taking thoughts2page. Now... let's see what I can do...

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