This is a test post from my newly downloaded WordPress mobile app, and also a reply to those of you who have emailed to ask if I was dead.
Which I am not. Except I’m not sure because something horrible called “My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding” is on TV right now so maybe I’m in hell?
That Selfie above is to test the parameters of the mobile picture upload. Hot, right? Sunday is a “no-brush ” day around here, which is a natural segue to “rat’s nest” Monday and then “low self-esteem” Tuesday.
DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON WEDNESDAYS.
I may not have posted here a lot recently, but I am having a blast writing for MamaPop.com. Here’s what I’ve written in the last few weeks if you are so inclined.
Which you are, right? (Remember low self-esteem Tuesday? DON’T MAKE ME SWITCH DAYS.)
Things are the same here as always for Sunday morning. It’s raining outside, and I can hear the washing machine running. The dual sound of water is comforting and familiar. There is a pork loin marinating in the fridge upstairs for me to ruin later, my daughter is still sleeping and I am letting her, and my son is on the couch watching commercials which will no doubt rot portions of his tender, still developing brain.
I have a list of things to accomplish today and can tell you right now that many of them will go undone. I have articles to write – deadlines loom and I’ve made commitments, so I will work a bit today. But otherwise I am going forward with no expectations. I think we all need a bit of a break this weekend. Whether you find that peace by spending the day window shopping, or wrapping gifts and watching movies, or sobbing silently while a stranger licks caramel sauce off your toes, whatever; I don’t judge.
For instance, later on I will eat an entire box of Toffifee while I make my kids perform a shadow puppet version of Led Zeppelin’s “The Song Remains the Same,” DVD solely for my amusement.
Just do something that makes you feel good, okay? If you can make someone else feel good while you’re at it, even better. Gold stars for you.
Because YES, the world sometimes is a shit-filled, painful asscrack suckhole of a place.
But sometimes it’s not. And as long as the “not’s” outweigh the “is’s,” we’ll be okay.
Here is something I hope will ease you into a kinder, gentler week. One of my favourite ladies – Smacksy – shared it, and I want to share it as well. Please visit her, as she has lots of gentle posted this week (and always.)
I could easily embrace the hermit lifestyle. I’d be happy with a shack in the woods if the shack was a bungalow in the suburbs with a large grocery retailer and liquor store nearby. And a library. And maybe a doctor; that’s probably important for hermits, what with all the tetanus risk.
But I definitely have hermit-like tendencies. Immediately after I’m extended an invitation I start thinking of ways to get out of doing/going/participating is said activity. I should probably keep a list though, because you can only break a finger or have a bladder infection so many times before people call the authorities on your behalf.
It’s not that I don’t like people; I’d even say that I can be quite extroverted. I have no fear of speaking in public, I’m not generally shy, and I don’t have an issue dealing with others. (Unless they’re assholes. But who can tolerate being surrounded by assholes, besides every single person who works at FOX News?)
Once I actually get to an event, I’m almost always glad I went. I enjoy myself and never once think that I would have been better off had I stuck with my original plan of staying on the couch eating Nutella from the jar with my fingers and crying over “M*A*S*H” reruns.
If I have a project on the go, my hermit tendencies become very strong. Right now I am working on redecorating projects of varying degrees in our living room, kitchen, and my daughter’s bedroom. These projects have become especially difficult because my family isn’t shy about offering helpful comments like: “Well, if you’re aiming for something with a urine undertone, that paint colour DOES work,” or “Our living room is going to look like a tobacco stained bingo hall,” or “Not sure I’m loving the ‘baby-crap’ gone berserk colour theme.” Or my favourite so far, “Oh my God, Mommy! Why are you ruining our lives and destroying our childhoods with your horrible decorating ideas?”
You’d think that with people like this in my house, I’d want to get out more.
But who could help but hermitize (made it up! just now!) when there are things like this on the internet to read from your cluttered but comfortable “Interstate Gas Station Bathroom” coloured office:
McSweeney’s always gots exelllant advice, this time for writers who’d wanna be writin’ more gooder: “The Ultimate Guide to Writing Better Than You Normally Do.” Check out their “Open Letters” page, too. Bring a drink, and teach your children how to use the toaster oven; because you’ll be there awhile.
I’ve been thinking lately about how happy my son looks when he’s fighting. Not the “punch you in the face” variety of fighting; he’s not like that.
No, this stems more from what I saw at a recent sleep-over playdate. His very special friend was here – a boy he’s known forever. They love to rough-house and tumble around, and they know and respect each other’s limits. No one ever gets hurt, or feels picked on, or cries “uncle” or taps out or whatever.
My son has never struck someone in anger, and while he has given one person a bloody nose, he did it under duress as he was being sat on and later told me he was afraid. And guess what? I am totally cool with that. I don’t believe in violence before peaceful attempts to reconcile, but if someone is quite literally sitting on you and you can’t breathe and they’re not respecting your boundaries or complying with your request to GET OFF ME NOW, then they deserve what they get in the way of a bloody nose.
So, back to the play-fighting. After the giggling and thumping subsided, my son and his friend had this look on their faces that sadly I’ve seen less of since they’ve started using things like iPods and laptops. My son is very physical, and very lean. He’s not at all big for his age, but he is very, very strong. (I like the word “very” very much, it would appear, but I’m in no mood for edits, thank you very much.)
After the tumbling they were both pink and flushed. My son’s eyes were positively sparkling and his hair was sweaty and curling up all along the fringe of his forehead. He was beautfiul and happy.
So this week, thanks to some advice and recommendations from my friend Kelly at Black Belt Mommy, he started Jiu jitsu. He’s only been to one class, where he spent an hour grappling and rolling and running and being told “when you practice perfection, you achieve perfection,” and “Making someone feel bad is not funny, and not ‘just a joke’ – this is not friendship material so walk away from it.”
I already love it there and I’m signing my 13-year-old daughter up this week.
For a quiet boy who never says a word about his feelings, a quiet boy who’s started and tried and didn’t love hockey and soccer and baseball, I got this response: ”This – this -is the sport I like.”
Between those words and his smile, my cheeks are a little pinker too.
Here’s some other stuff to read:
Sarah’s ideas are fantastic. You can find her design and DIY ideas at her blog Sarah Gunn, as well as at Yummy Mummy Club. Carve out some time; you’ll be making a list of things to do.
I spent way too much time watching this “Little Rascals” video, but I couldn’t help myself. It reminds me of when I was small and the Rascals environment didn’t feel so different from mine in the 1970′s. I’m sad that many things in this video are virtually unrecognizable to my own children, just three generations later. I especially love Spanky, and you just know from watching him as a child that he would grow up to be an awesome Grandpa. (If you know otherwise, keep it to yourself. I’m in no mood for shattered dreams this week.)
This past week taught me a few things, as well. Like these:
I found this in his room. I blacked out his name so it doesn’t become null and void.
I have so much to do this coming week that’s it almost become farcical. I’m not even stressed or worried about it, because it’s an amount of stuff so large that it’s now become soft around the edges. If the stuff I had to do was a pile, it’s be so big that it would fill my peripheral vision. When something is so big that it’s all you can see – when it’s the only thing in your sight line - it no longer feels big because it’s all you know.
So of course almost none of it is going to get done.
If you have stuff like that this week ahead and you too are looking for quality procrastination materials, look no further. For while I should be calling the Student Loan office and arranging my tuition for January, maybe you’re supposed to be having a dental filling replaced or ordering a new cheque book.
That reminds me. I need a filling replaced, and I have no cheques. Great. My list just got longer, thankssomuch.
Some things to procrastinate with/for/on:
My friend posted this on Facebook, and I loved it. I’ve participated in many of these “Canadian” activities, except I didn’t see the snippet of teenagers in lumberjack jackets drinking beer in a farmer’s field, or teenagers in lumberjack jackets drinking beer under a railroad trestle, or teenagers in lumberjack jackets drinking beer at a Provincial Park campground.
Canada Shared by Canadians
I want to share what Chantal wrote on her blog, and I related very closely to the sentiment. You can see my comment on her post on peeing the bed if you’re looking for my nocturnal “issue.” (Hint: it’s also possibly why I have had so many short-term relationships.)
Like me, Susan also has an eight-year-old son, and so we are both headed to the same corner of heaven or wherever mothers who once had eight-year-old sons go. I’m less sure about where it is and more sure that it is quiet and comfy and decidedly free of Lego and unexplained urine on the floor. Here’s her beautiful letter to him on his 8th birthday. These lines in particular have stuck with me since I read it:
Although recently your teacher told me that you and one of your besties got into a disagreement — a misunderstanding, really — and that you both cried. “And when she cried,” you told me, your chin wobbling, “I felt like I was responsible for every bad thing that ever happened to her ever.” And I thought, Honey, it’s not like you two have been married for 17 years.
And now, I’m back to bed. I had a bit of a fluey thing going on this last week. I pushed it aside to go out Saturday night with some lovely ladies, and while I had a great time, the truth is my achy bones are reminding me that I was up way past my bedtime. (I haven’t even seen the sun fully set in months which puts my average bedtime at approximately 5:30 pm. AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.
Last night my son had a friend here for a sleepover. They are “old” friends, these two. They’ve know each other since they were very small boys, too small to play together in any formal sense.
This friend moved away a year ago. It was sad when he left, although truthfully I thought the friendship would gradually fade into the periphery of my son’s consciousness and then dissolve entirely. But the boys still ask for one another; they still love one another. They do things my son doesn’t always do with his other friends – they rough and tumble and fight and play make believe and run around until they are exhausted and they – in their words – “Settle things like men!”
Apparently, “real men” settle disputes by grabbing each other around the waist and roll on the ground like puppies.
These boys sweat and they yell, and stop only for cookies. They build forts and climb trees, and drink gallons of milk and spill gallons of milk and use my very best pillow case to wipe up the mess.
Next time they are sleeping at his house.
Here are some other things that happened this week:
I read this at GoGoZen this week. I know this frame in time; I was there with my daughter a short eight years ago, and Kelly is right to hang on to these fleeting days. Because one day you are reading in bed together, and then before you know it you are crying in the maxi-pad aisle at the drugstore buying items for a daughter who can now wear your shoes in an non-ironic way, and you’re doing clock math to see if you can get to the liquor store from here before they close.
And as if going to Ikea wasn’t worth the $2.99 meatball lunch special alone, this week I learned another reason to shop there, courtesy of a tweet from Annie at PhD in Parenting. Ikea is teaming up with UNICEF and Save the Children by donating one dollar from every soft toy sold to support the charities and their child education initiatives. My kids love the soft toys from Ikea, especially the tiny collection of mice. They have them in all colours: Brown (they call him “Cocoa,”) White (they call him “Snowball,”) and Grey (you guessed it… “Gary.”)
It made me think about things I’ve read on Facebook from people I know, people I maybe even went to high school with. People I might have let kiss me on the mouth, or shared a beer with, or spent an afternoon together, all the time never knowing what was truly in their hearts. This article was an excellent reminder to speak to my children yet again of the power of words, and that following up vitriolic, racist statements with “But that’s just what I think” does not eliminate or lessen the inherent hatred behind them.
Over at iVillage I am talking about grandparents. My Gramma joined the Air Force after the Blitz Bombing in London, where she lived at the time. She also joined because “girls were allowed to wear pants in the Air Force.” That explains in one sentence a lot about why I love this woman.
She is having eye surgery on Monday – her 89th birthday. In light of the eye patch she’ll have to wear for a few days, her party will be “Pirate” themed.
Arrrr! Raise a frosty grog to the wench, won’t ya? Have a great week, matey!
I’ve been thinking about how quickly time goes. I found out this week that my daughter will likely need braces, and while I wonder how I’m going to cover that, I also thought about how lucky she is that she will get them. I needed them also, but it didn’t happen for me.
My teeth aren’t horrible; I can smile without being self-concious, but I could use them and my dentist has recommended it on a few occasions. But do I want braces at 39? Is there enough time left to make it worth it? When does the time come that you just say “Screw it. I’m not paying for anything with an expiry date that could possibly exceed the time I have left.”
But then I take my Gramma shopping and she buys yogourt, so maybe this never happens?
Today is November 11, which is Remembrance Day in Canada. Last year I wrote about my Grandpa who was a tailgunner in WWII. When I call my Gramma today we will talk about him and we both might cry a little a bit. (We totally will.)
I miss him more the older I get. It makes me sad for my children, who don’t have a relationship with their own grandfather. But, so it goes.
Some other things that made me think this week:
On Friday I wrote about how my week hadn’t been a particularly good week. But no sooner than I hit “publish” I got some good news, and things turned around, at least halfway. They turned around enough that I could breathe again. So hey, if anyone needs a wish granted, let me know and I will take it to the WordPress gods. MAI BLOG IS A MAGICAL 8-BALL.
School is in full swing for the kids and I have to say, we’re lucky here in regards to homework. My daughter in grade eight has a manageable amount, and less than an hour or two a few times a week. It’s appropriately challenging, so far no one has cried yet. She is normally finishes her math and French at school and this is a good thing because I doesn’t do the math or Francias, cuz I ams a English majer. I read a funny blog post about homework this week by Alice Bradley (Finslippy.) It was excellent because – like the best humour – it is true. I had my kids read it and they agreed wholeheartedly. Thank you, Alice.
We’re in week two of Movember, and some twitter friends and I created emoticons to celebrate:
Are you participating, or supporting someone who is? It’s not too late. When it comes to facial hair, it’s NEVER TOO LATE.
This coming week I am having lunch with some new friends, who I met despite that fact that adults don’t make friends as easily as 5 year-olds do. Ann at Ann’s Rants had me smiling all week thinking about what it would be like if we did. She is totally getting invited to my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.
If this post seems disjointed, blame these:
Seven of them in a sitting will give you the shakes, heybutchaknowhat? I don’t care.
Last night was Daylight Saving Time for many people. I love the “fall back” time of the year, mostly for the early darkness that goes with it. It almost like nature giving you permission to go to bed earlier, which the old woman I am becoming appreciates. Plus, less sunlight = less visible wrinkles.
A few nights ago I was in bed and I was thisclose to falling asleep when the phone rang. The telemarketers around here are unbelievable and have no reverence for things like meal times or primetime programming schedules. Who calls this late, I wondered. How badly do people need new windows/air duct cleaning/lawn care/Conservative party propaganda robo-calls that they’re willing to risk calling at this late hour?
It was 8 o’clock. In the PM.
I love the early bedtimes of autumn.
I like warm houses fogging your glasses, slow-cooked oven meals, the smell of wool mittens drying on heating vents, pink cheeks, the rumble of snow blowers, and pond skating.
Here are some other things I loved this week:
Bloggers providing/organizing help for Sandy victims - if you’re too far away to physically help, or you can’t afford to donate, you can donate blood because that’s free and you probably have an extra pint or two anyways. Contact your local Red Cross: Canada here, and the United States here.
If you got some free time this week (and if you don’t – make some) how about planning out an emergency preparedness kit? Here’s a starting point for you. That’s the freaky thing about unexpected events – they’re so unexpected. There really is no city completely safe from having some kind of emergency. Even if you live in an area completely devoid of risk from earthquake, tornado, hurricane, or snowstorm, you’re going to be glad you’ve got those extra rolls of toilet paper and a topped-up Ativan prescription if your mother-in-law comes to visit over the Christmas holidays and stays until Easter.
On the positive side of this past week, there was this:
Halloween Candy Haul – child #2
And this – the thing I wait ALL YEAR for:
I mean, COME ON.
I’ll leave you with that beautiful image. I hope you have a great, hairy-faced, warm-soup, foggy glasses week.
I smell misogyny and stupidity around here somewheres…
When I was in grade four, every few weeks our teacher would get the “This bullshit is not what I signed up for” look on her face, and we knew what was coming. Those were the days we’d get an extra long recess, and once inside she’d announce it was “Ketchup Day.”
“Ketchup Day” was actually “catch-up” day. She’d have us correct each other’s spelling errors and finish our chicken-scratch longhand journal entries. We’d complete construction paper art projects that lay fading on the sunny window ledge, and generally do whatever the hell we wanted, provided we left her alone to read the newspaper, and – I’m fairly certain – sob quietly. This post is not that kind of catch-up, although I will understand if you cry after reading it.
So; the week:
I don’t get political on my blog, but it’s probably fairly obvious where I fall on the left/right spectrum if you’ve read here for more than a week or so. But political affiliations aside, there is some Capital N Nutso bullshit going on down there in the States. I’m not much for the MMA Fighting circuit, but I would donate all the hair on my head to see Donald Trump and Ann Coulter fight each other in a Celebrity Death Match. I just do not understand the hatred and vitriol behind their intentions. I’m not going to make jokes about Donald Trump’s hair, or Ann Coulter’s “pointiness” here. Instead, let’s concentrate on where the ugly really shows: in their words, and in their actions.
As for the nice this week, I found out that my writing portfolio was reviewed and accepted by The School for Writers at Humber in Toronto. It’s a year-long program where writers concentrate on a single piece of their work, while working closely with a writing mentor. It’s a self-paced program, so I won’t need to be in school full-time, thereby meaning we probably won’t starve to death this winter. Probably.
And The Huffington Post featured me in their round-up of funny parenting tweets. Any time I’m called funny and it’s not in reference to my appearance, I’m happy. If you’re not already on Twitter, you need to be. Come over.
My blog was also featured by WordPress.com as “Freshly Pressed” this last week. It was great for having new visitors, and I have a long list of blogs I’d like to visit back. I was out of town and without my computer when I found out I was going to be featured, otherwise I would have dusted and perhaps put out a cheese and cracker tray.
Have a great week, everyone!
Oh, except you, Donald Trump and Ann Coulter. I also kinda hope you’re both eaten by bears.
