This post contains words but says little and is written primarily out of guilt, much like a birthday card from a distant relative

Happy New Year, everyone. When can we stop saying that? What’s the protocol on seasonal greetings? I’m not much on protocol. Or etiquette, or hygiene.

But I do like tradition. A few days ago it was my most favourite day of the entire Holiday Season. It was the day when I fling my Christmas tree onto the front lawn and yell, “Toodle-loo, MOTHAFUCKA!“

I love Christmas, but no longer wish to impale my feet on pine needles trying to turn on the television, and having my house smell like a cinnamon stick factory next to a pine forest was getting old.

A few days ago, my friend Katja asked me if I was writing a New Year’s post on my blog. At first I was like, “I have a blog? Oh, crap! My blog!” and then I ran here to make sure it was still alive. Really, this thing needs more attention than a naked toddler near a basket of clean laundry. I haven’t posted since before Christmas and the break was lovely. Not that I don’t enjoy writing – I do, almost more than anything else I do.*

*I don’t do much.

So Katja and some other Internet friends (not the kind who size you up for making blazers from your skin..I think) have been busy coming up with their words for the year. They range from serious to funny and everything in between. These are the words they will focus on and remember in their endeavors in the coming 12 months. While I’m not quite sure what word I will use for 2013, I do happen to have a list of words for the departing 2012.

They include:

• Hey, 2012! Go &%$# yourself!
• Excuse me? 2012? Eat $%(* and die.
• (Holds 2012 in a choke hold.)
• Hahaha SPITE

I let you know when I’m ready with my 2013, so I guess for now it’s just “WAIT.”

What’s your word?

Semantics

I settled in the single bed next to my son. There’s a hollow in the mattress in the shape of my body, and when I leave the bed, he will roll into my spot and sleep cradled even in my absence. But I won’t leave until he’s sleeping.

I’ve been on “vampire watch” for months, as I have been every night since he saw a scary movie commercial on television. (Thanks again, Cartoon Network!)

Tonight his face seemed smaller somehow, younger and softer than his eight years. Lately I’ve seen glimpses of an older boy, but since last Friday both my children appear again as babies before me. I search for dimples in their knuckles.

I look until I find them.

On this night my son looked sad. I asked him if he was upset. He knows nothing about Sandy Hook, nothing about what happened there. He knows nothing about the 20 children who were killed – the 20 children who quite possibly slept with their parents still. He knows nothing about the 20 sets of parents who would do anything to further imprint the outline of their own bodies in the mattresses of their small children.

The flags at my children’s school fly at half-mast this week in memory of the dead. I thought maybe my son had overheard me talking with my 13 year-old daughter about the events last week. (If I keep referring to “it” as “the events last week” does it soften it? I don’t think so. But still, this is what I am doing.)

I’ve kept the television off and I speak to my daughter about it only when he is not around. Still, I’m sure he wondered why suddenly I wasn’t complaining about going to sleep in a bunk bed fort anymore and even suggested that my daughter join us.

I asked him if he was okay. Was there anything he wanted to talk about? Something he was upset about or had overheard and wanted to ask me?

He looked at me for a few seconds and said yes. He was worried about something.

“I’m worried that when I wake up I will forget that I wanted to put the mop head under my Santa hat and pretend to be Santa Claus at school tomorrow.”

It is not lost on me how lucky I am that I have a boy for whom this is the biggest fear in the world.

You’re driving me to drink, Charlie Brown

“And so, Charlie Brown, that’s why life is hopeless and there’s nothing to be happy about, ever. Happy Holidays!”

Get your comfy “line standing shoes” polished up and dust off that one man pup-tent!

Yes; pack a lunch and a soup can to pee in, because “Charlie Brown” the movie is coming to the big screen and there is gonna be a line-up for tickets the likes of which you won’t believe! This thing is gonna put “The Hunger Games” pre-sale to shame and I…I can’t do this.

I discovered this exciting cinematic revelation on Google a few weeks ago. I was feeling pretty good – too good, in fact – and realized I needed to be taken down a peg or two on the happiness ladder. Nothing takes me down faster than the “Charlie Brown Christmas Special,” so I Googled it up and it did not disappoint.  It was just as depressing as I remembered.

My cousins and I watched it every year, locked in my Grandmother’s small front room with a kitchen towel wedged in the door frame. I have no idea what possessed adults to inflict this torture on their offspring, other than maybe payback for horrific labours and stolen youth.

Even as a child I thought that Charlie Brown television specials were probably the most depressing children’s programming that ever there was. To be fair, “Charlie Brown Christmas” first aired in 1965, and while this was long before the concept of self-esteem for children was part of the parenting “toolbox,” I still think someone at the originating network was a kid-hater. Five minutes into my YouTube revival and the Peanuts kids had already called each other “stupid,” “hopeless,” and “dumb.” I’m pretty confident “asshole” and “douche-bag” sit reluctantly on the cutting room floor, due only to FCC interference.

So, hey, MERRY FREAKIN’ CHRISTMAS, ya stupid dipshit blockhead!

I read several of the articles outlining the upcoming movie and it appears  that Charles Schultz’s son and grandson will write the movie screenplay, which sounds like a lot of work when you first think about it. But really, how much work is needed for something consisting mostly of depressing tuba music and a lot of WahWahWAH?

Children’s television programming completely devoid of parental presence freaks me out. It’s best not to give my kids get any ideas. I’ve seen the way my son eyes me up after an episode of “Max and Ruby.” Like Max, my son also has a big sister, and the rooms in our house are an odd jumble of coloured, mismatched wallpapers. This boy could be living “la vida orphan” if given the opportunity. No; best not provide a match for that fire.

There’s no word yet on the upcoming movie’s plot, but I’m hoping it somehow explains why so many children in the Peanuts gang have only four greasy hairs on their head. Was having the hair of a retired plumbing parts salesman from Indiana normal for the children of this era? And I’m no professional, but why isn’t Charlie Brown seeing a self-esteem therapist? And could someone please just lock Lucy in a cold cellar?

Charlie Brown television and movie plots really are just the most depressing media events ever. I can’t wait to see what they come up with for the new original movie.Stay tuned until 2015 for my review on “Save our Playground/Abandoned Nuclear Reactor Plant, Charlie Brown!”

I hope they all get “Hair Club” memberships for Christmas

Once you’ve seen Deidre Hall in a sparkly bodysuit, riding an elephant, it’s pretty much over for you, television-wise

I’ve hardly watched any television this year. I’m reality show and sitcom jaded. Hoarder’s is pretty good, but I only catch 15 minutes or so before I feel itchy for all my imaginary bedbugs and start bleaching my countertops and lighting smudge fires to cleanse the house’s aura.

Nothing appeals to me in an appointment television sort of way, except maybe the Khloe Kardashian Odam show. I swear to baby Jesus; it is on my calendar. I still watch episodes of East Bound and Down, but it’s on DVD because the series ended after two seasons when the writers ran out of ways to use “mother” and “fuck” together in a sentence.

God, I love that show.

I used to watch 30 Rock, but it’s on Thursday nights and I am so tired by Thursday each week that I usually start preparing for bed at 5:30pm, right after I hand wash my compression stockings and enjoy a warm Metamucil smoothie.

My daughter will watch American Idol or one of those “Yes, we are a nation that covets flushable toilet cakes but won’t condone Universal health care” shows if she catches it, and my son does likes his Sponge Bob Squarepants. (And couldn’t the world use a little more Bob? I know there was a recent study showing that Sponge Bob can actually reduce your attention span and decrease IQ, or something like that, I’m not quite sure. What was I saying? Oh, right. My kids could stand to be taken down a rung or two on the intellectual ladder if I am to have any chance of surviving their teen years, so I am ALL ABOUT THE BOB right now.)

I’m sentimental about the shows I used to look forward to all week, but it’s been awhile, and by “while” I mean The Love Boat and Fantasy Island while. And remember when the networks (“What’s a “network,” Gramma?) would show Battle of the Network All-Stars and Circus of the Stars?

 What I would give to see Jamie Farr on the trapeze or Gabe Kaplan and Karen Grassle arm wrestle…

And Solid Gold? Don’t even get me started.  Is this what nostalgia feels like? Because it’s electric, and I like it. Wait; that’s my heating pad.

I’m gonna make an AWESOME old person.

Hard Hat Area

 

WordPress.com sent me a note today informing me that they are retiring my blog’s theme.  I’m cool with it; I’m sure he’s ready for retirement after having to store all my crazy these last two years. (That’s like 50 in blog years, or any amount of time spent watching “The Jersey Shore.”)  In fact, I’ll bet my blog is driving around somewhere in Florida right now, going 20 mph in the fast lane with his blinker on for the last 60 miles, looking for a condo on the beach, close to a golf course and 4pm All-You-Can-Eat dinner buffet.  

What all of this means for me, stuck here in Canada, is that my blog will soon have a slightly different look.  

WordPress.com assures me that the theme transition should be painless, resulting in more customized features, and that I should consider it a ‘renovation’ of sorts. I’ve lived through renovations once, and it wasn’t pretty or painless. My husband’s promise of a new “customized” kitchen resulted in me washing dishes in the bathtub, cooking on a BBQ in December, and living without doorknobs for 4 years. It seems fitting to mention here that I am no longer married.

I’m told that any changes will be minor, so you may not even notice the changeover. But I’ve also heard that before – right before our only toilet was re-located to the middle of the kitchen and needed a wrench to be flushed.  

At any rate, this will all be happening sometime within the next two weeks, but WordPress.com hasn’t said exactly when. So if you come by and don’t recognize the the decor, please stick around. Don’t worry – you’re in the right place. I’ll leave the porch light on. You can tell it’s still ‘highly irritable’ by the uncut lawn and bucket of beer cans on the broken front steps.

I sure hope the pizza guy can still find us.

TLC: Time to Lose Cable

I love it when my kids play together. They are  five years apart, so I know these rare days won’t last. Soon my daughter will be a teenager, and her brothers only duties will be putting her “You’re A Woman Now” products  on the dinner table during family gatherings and flushing all the toilets when she is in the shower.

He turned six recently, and so those days will soon be upon us. For his birthday, he received a set of Transformer Walkie Talkies. He LOVES them. They have been so much fun that my lime reamer and the cheese grater haven’t left their drawer in days.

I like that they keep both my kids busy, but I really need to stop listening to their conversations. Every time I do, I go straight to the bulging therapy jar to make a deposit.

It also makes me think they are maybe watching too much television. I had to warn my daughter about watching “Mall Cops” on TLC just last week. I told her for that for every 30 minute show she watches, approximately 500,000 brain cells wither and die. And then she would have nothing left to accomplish in her early twenties.

(Actually, they don’t die right away. First they attempt to run, screaming for their lives. When they see that there is no way out, that she is NOT merely flicking through channels, that she is bound and determined to actually WATCH this show, that’s when they kill themselves by banging their little heads against her skull, ultimately passing out and subsequently dying of thirst and lack of mental stimulation.)

 A snippet of their Walkie Talkie conversation:

Breaker 1-9, we’ve got a 4-17 in progress. You, uh, you better come down here. And wear your bullet proof vest. Copy that, Baby Bear? Over.

10-4, Mama Bear. What’s your 10-20?

Mezzanine, across from Foot Locker.  It’s a real mess down here. Copy?

Roger that. I’m on my way and I’ve got the mop.  Over.  

Little Bear, come in, Little Bear. 10-99 All units secured. Hey, wanna hit Cinnabon?

Affirmative.

 All things considered, their viewing choices could be worse. They could be watching “Miami Ink” and giving out tattoos with our Crayola Airbrush Marker set. Or…shudder… watching “The Duggars.”

Rodent Round-Up

He's cuter in the tiara and teardrop earrings

 

Well, the weekend stared off in a typical fashion. The kids left on Friday night with their dad, headed up to the cottage for some fun in the snow for a few days. As for me, well, Friday night finds me eat crackers out of the package, biting hunks of cheese off the block,  watching “Hoarders” and crying for people who have 47 cats and six bags of dog hair for “sentimental reasons.” If I ever make a request of you, internet, let it be this: Please, dear God, do not let my obituary contain anywhere the words, “found strapped to a lawn chair, amidst piles of rotting vegetables wearing an adult diaper and Snuggie.”   

But by Sunday afternoon, things had picked up considerably. I was prepping snacks and costume changes for my solo Oscar party, and I went to check on the hamsters. Bella, my daughter’s new hamster, was cozied up in a puff of nesting fluff, sleeping deeply and dreaming of peeing on my couch. 

But Shadow was gone. Gone! This could not have happened at a worse time. The Oscars are on tonight! He had chewed through the cable ties we use to keep his cage closed since he learned how to jimmy the lock that used to keep his door shut. That one scares me. He’s the one who can flatten himself and slips under doors like a Sunday circular. He’s quick, and he’s tricky. And I think he can read. 

What am I going to do? Not only will my son be upset that his pet is missing, but who is going to walk the tiny red carpet wearing the Oscar gown replicas I fashioned out of Barbie clothes and old tea towels for my Academy Awards soiree? I guess it’s time to pull out my mining helmet and vacuum cleaner. I really hate hamster hunting, especially when the kids aren’t here to pick them up. I do not touch anything smaller than a cat,  these things don’t go back in their cages willingly and my BBQ/hamster tongs are buried in the sandbox. 

I knew when I became a parent that from then on my days would be spent ruled by – and catering to –  creatures smaller and more cunning than myself. I just never in my life imagined that they would be covered with fur and live on the bookshelf.

Olympic Withdrawl

If lovin' these is wrong, I don't wanna be right

It’s been three days since the closing ceremonies of the Olympics and I am not coping well.

I am having  severe withdrawal symptoms and my buzz-kill roommates have been seriously harshing my mellow. The ten-year old has been  no help building our backdoor bobsled run, and the five-year old refuses to wear his Johnny Weir costume , and he’ll wear anything.

But it all came to a head tonight when the kids found me standing in front of the TV, frantically scanning channels for ski jumping, biathlon, figure skating, curling, anything!  What was I going to post on Facebook if there were no Olympic triumph stories or scoring controversies? How could I secretly judge the weird brother/sister skating pairs if I couldn’t see them gyrating ON ICE? Who would I “pretend marry” if Shaun White wasn’t on my screen to fantasize about? What about the inspirational stories chronicled by a golden throated Morgan Freeman?

WHERE WERE THE AWESOME NORWEGIAN CURLING PANTS?

I started to cry when the reality of situation set in. I felt shaky. I checked NBC. Nothing! I checked CTV. Nada. I checked SportsNet, SportsZone, SportsWorld, CNN, even the Shopping Channel. STILL NO OLYMPICS! What was going on? Didn’t they last longer than this? I couldn’t be expected to go another four years!  I pulled at my four-days-past-expiry unwashed hair. Oh, the humanity!

I was mumbling now. “There must be something, must be something, has to be, has to be, hastobehastobehastobe…” I kept flicking the remote, checking the batteries and then the cable connections. Exhausted, I collapsed on the floor; out of breath, clicker finger spastic and unstoppable.

I couldn’t feel my legs…so…c..o..l..d. I panicked when I couldn’t remember the second verse to “I Believe.”

I heard someone calling, underwater sounds; far away echo sounds. I felt a slap. Hard.

“Mother!”  I was sinking. Garbled sounds and pressure filled my head.“MOTHER! IT’S OVER! They’re all gone!”

The voices came softer now. “It’s done. It’s…done.”

I got up, gave myself a shake and apologized.  I had a shower and  then made dinner. The kids stared at their plates, suspicious. My daughter poked at a piece of broccoli.

“What’s THIS?” she asked.  

“It’s broccoli,” I told her.

“Brock o what? Who makes it? Where’s the can it came in?”

My son joined in. “That sounds funny, Mommy.” He started dancing his food around his plate, singing, “BROCK OH Lee! My name is… Brock O. Lee!”

Who could blame them? They’ve been subsisting on Kool-Aid powder and room temperature Zoodles for three weeks, cans pried open with toenail clippers and heated from the glow of our television while Mommy watched hockey. Don’t worry about them though; I made sure to loosen the child safe caps of the vitamin bottles during a commercial break, so I’m pretty sure rickets isn’t going to be an issue.

But tonight when they are in bed, I am so gonna download “I Believe” on ITunes.

Beating the Christmas Rush

This past Sunday I went to Canadian Tire (think Home Depot but with winter clothing) to stock up on discounted Halloween decorations and additional disguises for my son.  Turns out I was too late for the Halloween bargains – they were all gone; replaced with something more “seasonable appropriate.”

What I could buy however, was a 6-foot inflatable Santa Claus in a helicopter with operational chopper blades. Store staff wore Elf hats, and I could detect a mulled cider odour coming through the ductwork. Immediately upon entry my children began talking of  their “Christmas lists” and started pleading for Nerf Vulcan Blaster machine guns, 6000 piece Lego kits and dogs. I checked my Blackberry, and yes, it was indeed November 1^st. Which, for those of you confused by Daylight Savings Time, is still just the day after Halloween.

When I got home I saw my neighbours pulling the ghoul and goblin figures off of their roof.  Halloween is over and they were clearly done. But a few hours later, I noticed they had replacing them with 12 brightly painted plywood reindeer.

I love Christmas too, but what about the concept of delayed gratification?

Why the hurry? Starting the Christmas celebration on November 1^st  means that there will be 55 days of Christmas. Are they not called the 12 days of Christmas? It’s not the 55 days of Christmas, and I’m sure that not just because it was too difficult to think of 55 rhymes verses for a song, although I have some suggestions –  all including “a man from Nantucket.” 

It’s bad enough that the Sears Wish Book was delivered in August and my kids have committed the toy section to memory. I am afraid when they visit Santa at the mall, they’ll just give him page numbers: “I want a page 345, a page 406 – but the blue one, and a page 452. With turbo booster.”

Last year, I got into “the spirit” way too early. By Boxing Day, I was so sick of holly berries, spray painted pinecones and glitter balls that when the kids returned home from a visit at their Grandmother’s house, they found me struggling to the curb with a naked Christmas tree and bags of used tinsel. At the door were 6 large Rubbermaid bins of Christmas decor waiting to be jammed into the storage shed. I just wanted it GONE.

Christmas cannot happen yet! Not until all the Halloween candy has been eaten and I have raked the leaves. My lawn mower is still parked in the middle of the backyard, waiting for me to either gain ambition or succumb to the circulating neighbourhood petition. And you want to me to hang lights and a wreath? I still have a 4-foot black tarantula with a skeleton head and red light up eyes on my front door. And I like her there! I haven’t had a solicitor or religious converter knock in two weeks.  

Maybe for Christmas I’ll just stick some holly in her eye sockets to make her more seasonably appropriate. I’ll tell the kids she’s the “Christmas Arachnid” and that she delivers gift and goodies in her egg sack to well-behaved children, and eats the bad ones. And the kids who insist on playing “Alvin and the Chipmunks” Christmas CD on loop rotation for the 6 weeks that sandwich December 25? She spins them in a web.

It’s a good thing Alvin doesn’t have his front teeth, because if he did, I’d punch them out. 

Please don’t think that I have a “humbug” attitude or that I am just too lazy to change the seasonal décor. It’s more than that. I am perfectly happy with calendar pages that still show wicker “horn of plenties” spilling harvest vegetables, not glittery Christmas scenes. I am in no hurry. I live in Canada, remember? It gets cold here. You need to buy your kids their winter jackets at the end of August and they can maybe take them off for 5 minutes in April.

I do love Christmas, but I love it more in December. Can we please take November off? I just got over University midterms, sewing Halloween costumes, and battling Swine flu and the chest cold from h-e-double toothpicks. I want to cozy up on the couch with a pitcher of Margarita’s, a mixing bowl of guacamole and the DVD of M*A*S*H Season 5 for a few weeks.

If I smell a spiced plum candle, encounter a shopping mall Santa or get an angel shaped sugar cookie from a well-meaning neighbour, I’m gonna lose my Christmas crackers.

Won’t Someone Please Think of the Children?

Please don’t ask me to babysit. I don’t like it, and I am not good at it.

I have a bad habit of talking to children as thought they were adults. I’ve discovered that when you take a 6 year old boy to McDonald’s and say “Before you place your order, please gauge your hunger level commensurate with the amount of food provided in Happy Meal as compared to the 6 pack chicken and separate fries option,” they just stare at you. Then they start to cry and tell strangers that you are not their mom.

I love having play dates over for my kids, though. But those kids are here to play; it’s anytime I am bound to keep them longer than 6 hours and have their medical information on file that the trouble starts. Play dates are not the same thing as babysitting. Those kids are here just for fun; all I am required to do is put out food and clean up spills. Well, at least provide a cloth so that they can clean up the spills. Or just wordlessly point to the linen cupboard and spray cleaner while giving them the stink eye. Whatever.

Please do not think me cold. I understand how hard it is to do that job well. I think that being an excellent caregiver to other people’s children is one of the hardest jobs in the world. Which is EXACTLY WHY I DON’T DO IT. Did you see the words “hardest” and “ever” in that sentence?

I appreciate and love my child care provider. I can’t even call her that anymore because she is now a close friend, but no longer my sitter. The day she decided to go back to school and stop providing childcare, I cried harder than when my husband left. I’M KIDDING. Okay. I’m not.

I love my sweet, sweet Ms. X. I am not telling you her name because I want to keep her to myself. She is one of the nicest people I know, AND she likes appreciates the culinary wonders of bacon as much as I do. It’s like we were meant to be.

If I ever did become a child care giver, here’s how my ad would look:

__________________________________________________

Frazzled, impatient mother of two now providing child watching services. Daily breakfasts will be served by showing child where in pantry to locate fruit cups, pudding packs and granola bars.

I find lunch to be generally overrated, but if you do wish your child eat a meal before 5 pm, please include preferences from list: carpet lint, stale saltines or leftover guacamole. If the planets align and I have both bread AND cheese, as well as the inclination, grilled cheese sandwiches may possibly be provided. Fresh fruit is available, but will be permitted only if children remember to put the knives into the dishwasher after they finish slicing the watermelons.

Circle time is held daily, and includes such learning games as “Making Jeni coffee – the RIGHT way,” “Proper Ways to Stain Removal and other Laundry Chores,” and “Yard Work Builds Character.” Please provide your child with a roll of toilet paper, as I cannot always promise that there will be any in the bathroom. Actually, give them two rolls. My son ran out yesterday.

Child must be inventive and adventurous, and enjoy playing independently and OUTSIDE. I have things to do in the house. Send child in clothing you care little to nothing for, as tree climbing, creek walking and general leaving me alone are all highly encouraged.

Some level of numeracy is expected, especially the numerals “9” and” 1.”

Hours of availability are from 11 am until 2 pm. Earlier drop-offs are permitted, but expect to have door answered by Medusa-haired baggy eyed woman in threadbare Led Zeppelin T-shirt and men’s XXL track pants secured with baling twine. Tim Horton’s coffee (large; milk only) is happily accepted as bribery and your best bet to securing warm and loving environment for your child before 9am.

Crafts are discouraged. That’s what we have nursery schools for; crafts and getting chickenpox over with. T.V. is permitted, although children’s programming is rarely tolerated, especially if M*A*S*H reruns are on. We pray at the altar of Dr. Benjamin Hawkeye Pierce here, so children must be comfortable with depictions of gaping chest wounds and understand Korean war-era lingo. Okay, Hot Lips?

While I cannot at this time offer school transport services, I do have a child’s John Deere pedal tractor and a 1971 town map available for an additional fee.

lease call at least 1 hour before scheduled pick up time so any necessary first aid procedures can be rendered.

References are not available at this time, pending completion of conflict resolution mediation session.

___________________________________________________

What do you think? Could you trust your children to me?