Respect the Elderly

Tonight, when Geekster and I were out shopping for Gutsy's birthday, I pointed out my very favourite slippers and hinted that they'd make a great Christmas gift.

Then, when we went back to the minivan, I took out the hand cream I use religiously on my cracked, eczema riddled hands, and mentioned that some more of said cream would be a great stocking stuffer.

He snickered ever-so-quietly when I mentioned it.

"What?" I asked.

He snickered again. "Nothing, honey."

"WHAT?" I demanded in a definitely unquiet manner.

"Nothing... It's just that, well, hand cream and slippers for Christmas? Are you eighty?"

It dawned on me then that, at the age of 33, I am really fucking old.

I got home, sat down in my favourite armchair (*snicker*), put my feet up on the ottoman (*snicker*) and grabbed the remote to see if I could find a good documentary on Discovery (*snicker* *snort* *snicker*)

I got a text message from my sister asking me if I wanted to go out for coffee. I only hesitantly said yes because, let's face it, I had just sat down for the evening. Having to get back up again sounded like a lot of wasted energy. What got me was the fact that she was high on painkillers. Don't get me wrong: I'm sorry she has a suspected kidney infection and needs something to take the edge off. But if you've ever seen my sister intoxicated on anything whatsoever, you know it's worth the trip out.

Besides, Photo Lush is eight years my junior. Hanging out with someone in their mid-20's would more than compensate for my geriatric Christmas list, right?

I picked her up at 8:45PM. We went to the coffee shop and had herbal tea and paninis. Unfortunately, her narcotic haze was nothing more than a mellow trickle and was barely noticeable. We talked about weddings, trips planned anywhere from six months to three years in advance, bus tours in historic cities, and kids' birthday parties. I dropped her off at 9:30.

My plans for the rest of the evening? Blog, then hot tub, then early bed to read my library book. My sister's plans? Old episodes of Felicity on DVD and planning out what movies we're going to watch when we wrap gifts later this month.

I feel a bit better now. I may be really fucking old, but so is my sister.

Hurricane Kids

First, I want to honour the men and women who have fought bravely to protect our country, our freedom, and our safety from those who do not think we rock as much as we think we do. While I am far too wussy to join the army, I salute those of you who have and who will. Thank you!

It's a wonder I managed to write that at all. I was sure I'd forget, even though I appreciate Remembrance Day and what it reminds us of. When I signed up for NaBloPoMo, I knew it would be one heck of a commitment. I knew I would have to post every single day for thirty days. I knew I would have a hard time. What I didn't know is how much it would drive home my current situation. I was lying in bed with Spawnling a few minutes ago, waiting for his breathing to slow and his eyes to close and his cute little feet to stop kicking the wall in a very un-cute fashion and fall asleep, for the love of my sanity, please. While I pretended to also be sleeping so he would stop talking to me and take the hint, I thought about what I would write tonight. It didn't take long to come up with a topic: feeling completely overwhelmed. What took longer was figuring out how I would put it into words.

I often use metaphors. In fact, yesterday's post involved one mother of a metaphor (self, that was a fabulous pun!), and today we will continue that trend.

Lots of people equate that overwhelmed feeling with drowning, or suffocating, or some other unfortunate situation that impairs the ever-important human function of breathing. That's great, but it's getting old. I need to use something more unique. I am The Maven, after all, and I don't do imitation very well.

Try to picture life as a beautiful house by the ocean. It's everything you've ever wanted: it has cute red shutters, nice wood floors, and a beach for a backyard. Most importantly, it has everything that matters to you set up so you can see it, touch it, and rearrange it if necessary. You like being in your house because the control is entirely yours. Want to redecorate a room? No problem! Just feel like a light dusting? Sure thing! Need to pull out that old recipe book and whip up something nice? Look no further, it's right there!

One day, an alert pops up on your smart phone from the weather station: There's a tropical depression heading your way. Tropical Depression Intrepid, they're calling it. That's fine. There's nothing like some active weather to spice things up a bit! You close the windows, lock the door, and watch the wind blow. A few things shake inside your living room, but it's nothing to text home about.

Then, another alert lights up the screen: Tropical Depression Intrepid has been upgraded to Tropical Storm Gutsy. Well, dang. Guess those clothes will have to come off the line. And, hey, maybe the shutters should actually get shut for a while. Before you close the last one, you notice something fly by... is that the patio furniture? The roar of the storm can be heard from your bedroom, and you hold tightly to some of your most important things. Still, it's just a storm. You can ride those out: you're a trooper!

Another alert: Guess what? This weather hates your face. It doesn't like your positive attitude and ability to wait it out until it passes. It's having none of that. It is now a full-blown category 4 hurricane called Spawnling, and it's going to eat your house down to the foundation.

***

Wow. What a bummer of a post, right? What the hell is going on? Am I trying to say that I hate being a mom by conjuring up images of weather phenomena causing mass amounts of destruction to all I hold dear? Sure sounds that way, but you know that's not the case, right? If not, you don't read my blog enough and should commit to doing so more often.

Like I mentioned above, I'm just feeling completely overwhelmed today. I have what seems like a million things to do and I just can't seem to do them. Emails are piling up, phone calls are not being returned, the kitchen looks like it was a North Korean nuclear test site (except there are no creepy flags of the Great Leader planted in the rubble), Gutsy's birthday party is on Saturday, Intrepid's is in two weeks, we have more commitments than a metropolitan mental hospital, and more appointments than a droopy-faced heiress at a Botox clinic. Throw in what seemed like an unending wave of illness until a couple of days ago, and well, I've been foaming at the mouth.

Anyway, I've been doing some thinking. Let me finish my most excellent metaphor and we'll talk about that.

***

Your attempt to board up the windows does little to save your house and its contents from the hurricane's wrath. In the end, Hurricane Spawnling and his brother storms suck everything up into the clouds, or drown into the waves, leaving you to wonder what on earth happened to your perfectly manageable and very quaint life house.

The thing is, you can't blame the weather for your problems. Intrepid, Gutsy and Spawnling are not responsible for your insistence on trying to maintain your home after their arrival. A smarter move would have been to accept that you can't possibly keep up with everything else while dealing with natural phenomena of that degree; by realizing you're only human. That maybe you should have been more dynamic in your thinking and accepted life on life's terms.

The hurricane churns, and as it does it spits out a few broken reminders of what you used to have in your house: Remembering everyone's birthday, cleaning the gutters, writing songs, painting the hallway, finishing school, jogging every day... You collect what you can and put it in a bag. You start up the beach toward higher ground.

The funny thing is that there are a lot of people doing the same thing. The beach is positively filled with other bewildered individuals. You all turn and walk up the sandbank, worriedly looking behind you for fear that nothing will be as good as what you're leaving behind.

But you know what? It's going to be okay. The weather is still crazy down by the beach, but it's good up here. You sift through lost memorabilia and find a few things of interest: nights out, contracts you don't have to leave half-finished because the school called, the rare R-rated movie, an uninterrupted conversation with a friend. You dust them off and put them on a shelf, one at a time, in your new place a few miles from where you once lived. It's a cluttered, smelly, inhumanely loud patchwork of a place. It really is. But it is what it. And it quickly begins to feel more like home than anything else. Besides, there are always smelly candles and headphones, right?

***

Acceptance. I need to use some of that. My house will not be clean, I will not be able to see everybody I want to see when I want to see them, my plants will die because I forget to water them, I will take a month to finish a 300 page book, and I will swallow my pride when I hear specialists say "We were supposed to see [insert child's name here] [insert a time so old it should be carbon dated here]"

The problem isn't that I have too much to do. We, as parents, always have too much to do. It's how I deal with it that matters. In the last few days I haven't exactly been the essence of serenity.

Acceptance. That's what I need.

And maybe a little less coffee.

Unless it's decaf.

Why The Maven should not teach school children

Gather 'round, children! We're about to learn something new from our very best friend, The Maven!

Hey, kids! Glad you could all be here today! Wow, there sure are a lot of you. Is it possible to sit the quiet ones closest to me? I'm a little frazzled today and I need to be near people who know how to use their indoor voice.

Oh, and ixnay the osenay ickerpay, will you? Move him far enough away that he can't wipe his fingers on my shirt. Gross me out.

Perfect. Thank you.

Now, kids, we're going to learn about my very favourite word. Actually, it's not always my favourite, but after the day I've had, it gets top billing in The Maven's Dictionary of Awesome Words and Stuff. It's a toughie, so I'll say it slowly and you can say it along with me. Ok? Ok! Here we go:

Va-sec-to-my. Va-sec-to-my. Vasectomy. Very good!

It sounds like a lot of you have never heard that word before. That's okay, you'll likely hear it again in about thirty years, either out or your own mouth, or from the poor woman who is suffocating under a pile of your offspring. I'll pull out my pocket dictionary and hold it up so you can all see - and I don't mean that as a play on words, kids. Your teacher is looking a little pale right now because she understands what "play on words" means. Lighten up, teach, and go get me a coffee, will you? My tax dollars pay for what's percolating in the staff room. Don't worry, the class is in good hands. I am The Maven, after all.

Anyway, here's what the dictionary says about our new word:

Vasectomy is a minor surgical procedure wherein the vasa deferentia of a man are severed, and then tied or sealed in a manner such to prevent sperm from entering the seminal stream (ejaculate).

I see the confusion in your innocent little eyes. And the nose picking from the kid in the corner, I might add. Is that a stress reliever, little man? Tell your parents you need a therapist. There's no shame in it; they probably have one, too.

Don't worry about the technical garble, my little friends. That mumbo jumbo doesn't mean much to you or me or anyone who doesn't have to actually perform a vasectomy. Only doctors have to care about that stuff. We need only to know that it helps mommies and daddies regain their sanity. "Sanity" means your breakfast gets made every day and you don't wake up to find mommy making little origami animals in the middle of the night. It's a good thing.

Let me explain how vasectomies work:

See, Daddy is an oil truck that never runs out of oil. Just when it looks like the tank is empty, he refills it. Kind of like the snot in little Timmy's nose. It's just always there, ripe for removal.

Mommy is a factory that assembles people-- Yes, little Sally, kind of like the Play-Doh factory. The difference is that Mommy's factory doesn't involve shoving some goop into a tunnel and squeezing out... Actually, it's a lot like a Play-Doh factory. When you get to high school, be sure to ask your guidance counselor about Harvard scholarships. You're a freaking genius in the making.

Mommy's factory has a furnace that needs oil from the hose coming out of Daddy's truck. If enough oil reaches the furnace, the factory lights turn on, buttons press and pistons, uh, pist, and the intricate and beautiful process of creating life begins. Nine months later, a gorgeous little human is shipped from the factory and into the loving arms of Mommy and Daddy.

Isn't that a sweet story? I'm getting a little teary. Timmy, stop hogging the tissues and give me one. You're pretty damn proficient with those fingers, anyway.

Eventually, though, the factory workers get tired. Building two or three of four of these baby models gets a little much. They start dreaming of warm beaches and looking at people in swimsuits who's bodies have never grown a baby. So, the day comes when the factory needs to be shut down permanently. There are some things Mommy can do to make that happen, but they involve a lot of demolition and renovations that are uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous. Besides, why does Mommy need to do everything? Why can't Daddy take some responsibility sometimes? I mean, it's always up to the woman, isn't it? "Are you on the pill," and "Here, hold the baby so I can go watch football," and "What do you mean you feel 'touched out?' I have needs too, you know," and...

Sorry, kids. I got off on a little tangent there.

Anyway, the point is that if your Daddy wants his truck to still park in the factory hanger on a regular basis, he's going to have to tie a knot in the hose. Otherwise, Mommy might be too exhausted from dealing with the tantrums and the fighting and the screaming and the crying and the throwing and the destroying and the tattling to want anything to do with Daddy, lest she get more of the same in another nine months or so.

And that is what a vasectomy is. My boys' daddy willingly had one, and on days like today, I am most certainly glad he did. In fact, when I am done with our little info session, I may make him some tea and kiss him and tell him thank you, thank you, thank you, three is more than enough and please excuse the twitching; it will go away once they've been sleeping for a couple of hours.

Any questions?

NaBloPoMo Day 9, or When Life Gets in the Way

Dudes. I almost forgot to post tonight! I nearly blew my chances at being crowned queen of NaBloPoMo, or some other imaginary title involving imaginary money for my imaginary retirement fund.

My excuse? I was really busy being social and productive.

I went Christmas shopping (yes, really), had coffee, herded gremlins at the park, chose not to herd gremlins into the library and instead went alone (smart choice), got a surprise editing contract due tomorrow (It's half finished - see following) and watched House (good episode).

I had plans to write tonight - both for pay and for pleasure - but instead I ended up watching The Breakfast Club, which I reserved at the library. See how this day goes together? It's like a giant circle, or some other mystic thing that sounds better than 'it's like a giant circle.'

I should mention that this is the first time I've ever watched The Breakfast Club.

Yes, it's true: this was my first time. I was a virgin, and the Gatineau Library popped my eager cherry. And it was mind-blowing-ly amazing, I might add. Um, the movie, just so we're clear. The acting was first rate, the script was fantastic, and the characters really moved me. Mostly, I could relate to the criminal and the basket case, with a little bit of the brain. Who do you relate to the most?

*Yes, I just asked a question on my blog in hopes that it will detract from the fact that this post is short and poor. NaBloPoMo can, unfortunately, produce some quantity over quality. Tomorrow I'll aim for quality. It will depend on how much coffee I get into my system and how quickly I can send off this contract. That is a hint that you should bring me coffee if you live anywhere in the near vicinity. I accept any and all kinds as long as they don't have sugar in them. Gross me out! Gag me with a spoon! Totally uncool! Barfsville! Can you tell I've been watching 80's movies?)

Last week, I saw Sixteen Candles for the first time. It was meh. I'm sorry, I realize it's a classic and I might get shunned by John Hughes fans everywhere, but I have to be honest: That was his weakest movie by far. I fancy myself a bit of a teen movie expert. There's nothing I like more than kicking back and watching the mayhem of foul-mouthed horny boys in SuperBad, or excitedly seeing Molly Ringwald make her gorgeous dress out of other, crappier dresses in Pretty in Pink. I will never tire of a good teen movie.

Look, I don't want any arguments about the Sixteen Candles thing. As in most cases, I'm right and that's all there is to it. It was a sucky movie in comparison to the others. Don't believe me? This man will help quell any disagreements:


Apology accepted. Goodnight.

A Date with Gutsy

Sunday is to the Blogosphere like Friday nights are to television: dead. So I'm not going to write anything too long today. I've written several lengthy posts this week, so if you're looking for something more in-depth you can scroll down. My life is, as always, pretty amazing, so you're bound to find something that will captivate your attention.

I'm leaving in a few minutes to spend time with my middle gremlin. Gutsy and I have had a hard go of things this week. We've argued a fair bit and I think I've yelled at him as much or more than he's yelled at me. Need a shining example of good parenting? Right here, baby.

I love him, you know. Like, a lot. He's that amazing baby who hung on in my womb for dear life and did not go the way of the miscarriage like several before him. He has brought me an immense amount of joy, and has made our family so much funnier, and more loving, and far more interesting. What other child could come up with a scissor necklace? Only my Gutsy, I tell you.

For a kid who has a scream that could put an opera singer to shame, he sure can be soft spoken and gentle. He loves Hannah Montana, any game that involves spies, ghost hunting and Stitch. He's a born leader and will butt heads with people when he doesn't get his way, but he can also be incredibly gentle and a great friend. He's a good boy. A high strung, easily-overwhelmed, but amazing boy.

Today we're spending time with his friend Diva and her parents. We're going to the library, then the pool, then out for hot chocolate. I'm going to leave the other two gremlins in the care of their dad, because I have that instinctive gut feeling that Gutsy and I need to reconnect. This week has not been kind to our relationship. It's a good day to buy his love with books, swimming and food.

He's turning seven this week. I have no idea where the time went. I just know that I'm happy we haven't imploded in a fiery death match and that I have not sold him to Gypsies as threatened many times over the years. He's a cool guy and I'm an awesome chick; Sure we can work this out. There's nothing hot chocolate can't fix.

Dawson's Mom

Dawson is a little boy in Gutsy's class. I don't know him very well, but I do know that Gutsy really likes him. He lives about two blocks from our place, so you would think the boys would get together and play sometimes, but they don't. And it's all my fault.

One day, about a year go, I decided my van had suffered enough neglect and needed a good cleaning. By 'good cleaning' I mean it probably needed to be dunked in a lake of bleach, but a quick tidy would have to do. So, I brought Gutsy and Spawnling outside to play while I tackled the colossal, overdue task.

I admit, I got a little obsessed doing it. I mean, there was a lot to clean up. Some of the old food I found was growing new forms of life on it, while the old toys had been stepped on so much they had broken into fun and exciting new toys. "Hey, kids! It's everybody's favourite hazardous action figure, Pointy Pete! Whoa! What's attached to his arm? Not a hand holding a jackhammer anymore! No way! It's a long, sharp piece of undoubtedly lead-laden plastic! Nobody can stab like Pointy Pete! Awesome!!"

I was busy helping Pointy Pete and his band of eye-gouging superheroes into my shiny green plastic bag, when I heard a sweet voice from the road saying. "Hey, little guy. I don't think your mommy would want you in there."

We have a ditch in our front yard lining he edge of the road. It's fairly deep as far as ditches go - probably about four feet - and is filled with weeds, varying levels of water, and sharp rocks. Guess where Spawnling was? Spawnling, who had never gone into the ditch and has not again since that day, was splashing around merrily in his rubber boots. And what was yours truly doing while this dangerous activity was going on? Why, I had half my body in the van as I reached for an old juice box under one of the bucket seats, with the radio on just loud enough to drown out any sound of my toddler creeping into the ditch to, well, drown.

I looked up when I heard the voice, and saw a mother and her two boys stopped on the road in front of my house. One child stared at Spawnling quizzically from his stroller, while the other one waved and said "Hi, Gutsy."

"Hi, Dawson!" replied Gutsy.

"Oh, shit," replied I under my breath. It's bad enough that another mom had to coax my child out of danger's way. The fact that our boys knew each other was the cherry on my embarrassment sundae. Awesomeness.

I helped Spawnling out of the ditch, sputtering something about how he had never done that before, and how my back had been turned for only a minute, and how I appreciated her noticing, and how it's nice that Gutsy and Dawson are friends, and that hopefully we'd see them again.

She was incredibly nice and warm, leaving insecure me to assume that she was simply quite good at concealing her judgment. I had it set in my mind that she would be going home to Tweet about how the mother down the road might want to actually supervise her children sometimes.

Fall turned to winter, which turned to colder winter, which turned to warmer winter, which eventually turned to a few short weeks of spring, which turned into a summer that felt more like spring, and eventually into fall again. All through the months I would hear about how one of my friends is caring for Dawson before school, and how nice his parents are, and how another friend's child went to Dawson's birthday party, and how lovely his mother is. I would nod and smile politely, all the while feeling shame churning 'round in the pit of my stomach. Gutsy would tell me virtually every day that he wanted Dawson to come over and play. I would smile nervously and wonder just how much his parents would not want him to come over and play at the irresponsible Maven's house.

Today, I met my good friend The Dog Whisperess and her daughter Diva at our neighbourhood park. While Gutsy, Spawnling and Diva were arguing for artistic control over their sand creature frolicking joyously in the warm fall air, a very familiar boy came skipping down the path.

Dawson.

My heart jumped. This was it. In a few moments, his mother would turn the corner, call to memory our unfortunate first meeting, and blast me with the cold stare of judgment. My heart leaped into my throat as I awaited the reality of what was to come.

She turned the corner.

She walked down the path.

She stopped and... smiled? Was she smiling? No, that must be a grimace. She was grimacing at me because I am an awful parent who didn't notice my two-year-old about to be sucked into the Ottawa River through a series of waterways.

"Hi! How are you?" she beamed. And it wasn't one of those polite 'How are yous' - The Maven would know, as I am a social goddess in most circles - this was a genuine, happy greeting.

She stopped and talked to us for a good while as the children played. In that conversation I mentioned my embarrassing first impression in that ha-ha-but-seriously-I'm-not-a-horrible-mother kind of way. She laughed about it and said something really nice and reassuring about how that happens to everyone - and not in that 'I'm just trying to make you feel better, you trashy excuse for a parent' kind of way, either.

I left the park with their phone number and tentative plans to meet at the park again in a few days.

Dawson's mom is very nice and she doesn't hate me. I'm glad it only took me a year of assumptions and avoidance to resolve this little issue. Not bad. I feel much better.

My Name is The Maven and I'm Addicted to Socializing

If my dedication to NaBloPoMo was ever in question, it will not be again. Folks, I just left a girls' night out so I could come home and blog. That is how much I care about all of you and your eager anticipation for the next post. You mean that much to me.

Well, and the fact that I'm tired, my hubby is tired, and we could really use a good night's sleep. The idea of crawling on top of some memory foam sounds rather appealing right now. But that's only secondary to writing a post. I must honour my craft and my promise first.

We found out today that Intrepid does indeed have the H1N1 virus. The swab test they did at the clinic on Monday came back positive. I suddenly feel trendy, like I just bought a Coach bag or some skinny jeans. After all, we just had the virus of 2009 in our very house! And not simply one of those 'suspected' cases. Just like anyone can walk around with a "Timex" watch purchased from a stall in a Beijing market, anyone can get a cough and call it the swine flu. We have a brand name illness here, people. That earns us extra coolness points. I am working very hard on acting nonchalant about it, though. I'm thinking that if I put my hands in my pockets, lean against a wall and shrug a little when I say 'So, anyway, Intrepid had swine flu. Like, a confirmed case, you know? But whatever, right?', that might pass as humble.

I'm obviously kidding. It's a pandemic, right? Pandemics mean a lot of people have already had it. Talk about beating a fashion statement to death. Having it isn't cool anymore; it's about to go the way of acid wash jeans.

There are two actual reasons why I'm happy we had a doctor who offered to test Intrepid.

First, it's good to know what strain we're dealing with so we can make appropriate decisions concerning the vaccine and any potential treatment should one of us asthmatic types in Casa Maven have symptoms crop up.

Second, most people aren't being tested unless they wind up in the hospital, meaning that the majority of confirmed cases are severe if not deadly. This instills panic and leaves people wondering just how bad this strain is. Testing those who aren't on respirators gives us statistical proof that some people do get a much milder case and recover just fine. Intrepid was knocked off his feet for a few days, but he was able to get through it with a bit of Advil, a lot of sleep, some fluids and, of course, incredible parents.

I never miss an opportunity to pat myself on the back.

So, what does this mean in terms of our previous decision to vaccinate? Not much, really. We still plan on getting the vaccine for every family member who doesn't get sick within the next two or three days. If the rest of us stay healthy - and please, please, please let us stay healthy - we'll go get jabbed early this week. Intrepid, who fears needles like I fear a world without chocolate, is thrilled he won't be waiting in line with us. He has some solid immunity now, and that makes me happy. The fact that he only vomited once and managed to make it to the bathroom first makes me happy, too. Nothing like a puking, feverish child to make the idea of a bridge leap significantly more appealing.

I need a break. A nice, long break from illness. No sick people who are dependent on me to nurse them back to health. We've had a full course of gremlin illnesses for 2 1/2 months: Beginning with Kawasaki Disease, slathered with colds, and hopefully ending with swine flu desert.

I'm just glad we moved a couple of years ago. When we bought this house we specifically looked for one that wasn't of the 'open concept' design. Our last home was, and it was hellish when I had to spend a great deal of time in it for several days in a row. It felt like a loud, smelly, dirty shoebox I couldn't escape. One big room is nice when you're not in it for the majority of your waking hours while caring for sick people or being sick yourself. The stinky shoebox nearly drove me insane. It would have finished the job, but thankfully Spawnling was born. Having that third child drove me over the edge instead! Tag team insanity-building. That's nice.

Today, my inner extrovert - is that an oxymoron? - was able to come out and play a little bit. First, the Coffee Fairy fluttered by with an extra large coffee, some donut holes and chocolate milk for the two gremz who were still scuttling about the homestead. I love her terribly, that Coffee Fairy of mine. I am so glad she takes pity on me, even though she and her two little ones are getting over H1N1 themselves. I've brought her coffee once and she's hit me two or three times in a week. Our relationship isn't terribly equal, but I do give her blog props; that has to count for something.

Then, at lunchtime, That (incredibly beautiful, witty, and ego-boosting) Script Chick came by with - you guessed it - another coffee! I made sure to disinfect pretty much everything her and her son might tough so she could feel comfortable staying. Pretty nice of me, right? Definitely. Way to go, Maven. *pat pat*

Finally, I ended this spectacularly social spectacle of a day with an evening out at K-War's house. Her children were asleep, the air in the home smelled of cleaning products, the company was great (I think there were 10-12 of us - I was too busy basking in my social glory to count), and the artery-choking food was to die for.

A good day, overall. Tomorrow we have the Ottawa Blogger's Breakfast. XUP has threatened to give me a table all to myself, even though I do not and have never had the stupid swine flu. Therefore, I have secretly decided to lick her utensils when she's not looking. And I don't mean that in a dirty way, either. I mean actual utensils. Take that, XUP.