Spawnling's Toof: The Sequel

Oh, I bet you were wondering if I was ever coming back to this dusty ol' thing, weren't you? Two whole days without a blog post? That's apocalyptic in nature! I'm not religious, but I believe this may be one of the four horsemen: conquest, war, famine and lack-of-blogging. I hope I haven't started some cataclysmic event.

If I have, I'm sorry. To make up for it, how about I buy us some pie while we watch the fall of humanity?

The reason for my absence has a lot to do with a certain two-year-old who's other front toof is just barely clinging to life. Looks like he has some decay that's about to kill it off if we don't do something about it very soon. He's sore and moody and stressing me out with his constant clingyness. Meanwhile I've begged, pleaded and offered sexual favours to virtually every kid-friendly dental clinic in the Ottawa area. I finally scored a timely appointment.

No, you probably shouldn't ask what I have to do for it.

While I love our dentist, I think Spawnling would launch himself out the second storey windows if I brought him back there anytime in the next year. We need a fresh face for his fear and rage to focus on so he can forget his nasty ordeal.

Tomorrow we see a dentist with televisions in the ceiling and access to drugs that can mellow the terror right out of my hoofed wonder. Still, after last week's mini vacation to the trauma chair I'm anything but excited about the endeavor.

Thankfully we're going to the boonies after school lets out to hang with Angelmama and crew. That should take the edge off after a potentially brutal day. I really enjoy hanging out with those hicks country bumpkins country-dwellers. They're even letting the gremlins and I stay over for the night. Isn't that crazy fantastic of them?

Incidentally, tomorrow is the last day of school before March break in our area. We get it over with early around here so we can laugh at all the unfortunates who still have it to "look forward to". Those poor parents and caregivers who have blissfully forgotten the horrors of Christmas vacation and are excited for the "break" a week from school routines will give them.

I'm anticipating nothing short of pure and unbridled hell. I have a cupboard full of coffee and a stockpile of 10% cream awaiting my impending usage. There's also some duct tape downstairs and handcuffs from Gutsy's police kit if things get really bad.

If I survive the week I have the spa party the following weekend. The idea of replenishing my soul with a pedicure, pasta and dancing until my feet are ruined again will probably keep me breathing, even if at a shallow level. Heck, with any luck I'll lapse in and out of a coma for the few days prior and forget anything that happened while all three gremlins were home.

I must stop scaring myself and focus a little more on the present. This is one of the many things 12 step programs have taught me.

Did I mention that I was planning on homeschooling?

Did I also mention that I narrowly dodged yet another I'm-sure-I'm-more-than-capable-of-taking-this-on bullet? I've dodged a lot of those in my long years on this planet. Hey, hats off to the homeschoolers. I'm in no way putting you down. You raise the future generation from your kitchen table. What could be better than that?

On the other hand, I stay home with them for five years and then ship them off to be institutionalized. But, hey, sometimes they get homemade cookies as they walk in the door after a long day of learning to be part of the flock of sheep that make up our sickly society. That's pretty great, right?

The sensible Maven side of me tells me I should keep this short and sweet, as I have an early morning and a not-so-pleasant appointment to keep with a not-so-sleepy toddler. I just had to tuck him back into his pod with the help of my magical boobie milk to lull him back into a light slumber.

I'll update tomorrow on the fun, fun, fun! Fingers crossed that it will go well. The vanity side of me cannot imagine having a child with two missing front teeth for 3-5 years. Between he and Gutsy we're starting to look a little Deliverance 'round here. Last time I checked I did not own a canoe or a banjo, thanks. But I do gots a purdy mouth.

Mavenly Advice, Week 2: Insanely Organized

Rejoice, for I am back from the dead!

Or, rather, the toilet bowl. Stomach flus are incredibly... motivating. Nothing makes me get up and run more than the idea of needing new pants. I probably burned 800 calories in bathroom trips alone. I feel skinnier already!

That was too much info, wasn't it? Probably. Regardless, I have undoubtedly put some worried minds at rest. After not blogging for, like, a day and a half, there were sure to be rumours of my untimely demise. I'm thrilled to report I have not yet died and can once again fill everyone's heart with joy and heads with wonder.

Now that you've dried the sorrow from your eyes, I will go forth with this week's advice column. I was sad that I only received a single question this week. Don't you trust me with your life's problems? Don't you believe I can help you fix your "issues"? I'm the freaking Maven, people! I'm capable for scaling tall buildings while simultaneously talking to you about your crotchety mother-in-law who hired someone to off you because she heard you don't believe in me. That's the type of person I am. I'm hurt that you can't see that.

I'm done making the guilt sandwich, now. I'm sure my inbox will fill with apologies and help requests now. Right? RIGHT?

Right. Damn it.

Don't make me call your mother-in-law.

Onward:

My questions for you Mrs Maven is this: How do you stay sane with 4 males in your house? How exactly does one stay sane, after all? Is there like some magic powder or juice that I could drink to stay as sane and organized as you are Maven?

Sincerely,
Your Biggest Fan Who Thinks You're Really, Really Awesome And Gorgeous, Too.

Dear Bob (sorry, had to shorten your name a little),

If there's one thing this egomaniac enjoys doing it's talking about herself. Three questions instead of one? I feel like I raped a slot machine and am rolling around naked in all the...

...

Nevermind.

How do I stay sane with 4 males in the house? It's easier than it might look. Sure, I don't have My Little Pony parties or spa afternoons with girl children like some of you other moms. Sure, I trip over Rescue Heroes and Duplo monsters every time I head to the playroom to break up a fight (and by "fight" I mean actual fight, and not one of those girly fights where they pull each other's hair once or twice and then pout in separate corners for an hour). I find things with tweezers that should never see the inside of an ear canal, and use duct tape to fix broken dollar store swords. The only pink in the house can be found deep inside my closet and I sometimes open the door just to stare at it so I can remember what the colour looks like.

But you know what? I kind of like it. I'm built for boys. I like to hike and roll in the grass and build forts and use my plastic dinosaur to attack other people's plastic dinosaurs. (Grownups who don't own their own plastic dinosaurs can't be in my Special Club Of People Who Like To Have Pretend Dinosaur Fights). I like to be a pirate and watch scary pirate movies, yar! I'd much rather watch a basketball game than a ballet recital, or make a disgusting zombie costume over a pretty fairy princess one. It's not that I wouldn't do those things if I had a girl - or any child, regardless of gender - who enjoyed them. But since we're talking about me and my sanity, this is what keeps me sane-ish: Rough and tumble, boyish fun.

The other part of the equation is having a lot of girlfriends to do girly things with, and making sure that a good portion of them have female children for me to interact with.

Then, satisfied with my fix, I go home and remind my boys not to eat their own snot.

Is there a magic powder to stay sane and organized? I hear cocaine can really take you places. But I can't say I've tried it and I wouldn't recommend it. I've also heard it's addictive, if you're capable of getting addicted to stuff. I wouldn't know what that's like.

If you let juice sit out on the front porch in the middle of summer for a really, really long time and then drink it you might experience a hallucination in which you would feel put together with an organized life. Hey, it could happen. You could also die, but that's the risk of experimentation.

But if, after reading my blog and knowing a bit about me, you think I'm at all sane or organized, I would have to say there is no hope for you. You poor, poor thing. I think you're too far gone to ever experience sanity.

It's nice to know I have some company in here. We can spend our days babbling nonsensicals to each other.

Sincerely yours,
The Maven

*~*~*~*

Send your questions to mavenmayhem@gmail.com and I'll attempt to fix all life's problems. I'm good at that, and chocolate eating, too.

Stomach Flu and Letters, too!

Hey, it's me, just back from my family's favourite vacation spot in the French city of Vomitte. I only stuck my head through the gate and turned around, but Spawnling stayed for almost three days and Gutsy has just rented a room in Hotel De La Barfe.

I will write more on this topic soon, but one way I know for sure that we're done having kids - other than that vasectomy thing my husband got over the summer - is that I can't fathom six of us going through an illness before it leaves our house. Making mad dashes through Casa Maven with The Puke Bowl(tm) in hand for three gremlins takes up the better part of a week. By the time the bowl is sanitized and put back up in that place where dishes are used for non-cooking puposes only, my mind has one foot through the disassociative door of insanity and it takes a fair bit of coaxing to get it to come back.

(As I was finishing that paragraph I had to break so I could wash out The Puke Bowl(tm) as Gutsy had just finished using it. Stomach flu: 2657. Maven: 0.)

This particular bug hasn't been the worst we've experienced, but it's knocked the life out of our weekend. I had to cancel four plans on Friday. Four fun plans involving things like coffee and sugar and kids to keep my kids busy so I can enjoy the first two things.

Tragic.

Last night I stayed home and sorted movies while I watched Dog The Bounty Hunter and Supernanny. Reality television on a Friday night instead of the usual meeting and lattes with my sponsee? So not cool.

I haven't felt much like blogging. In between feeling gross, caring for other people who feel gross, washing things and people that are in some state of grossness, and watching telelvision that makes me feel even more gross and more than a little white trash, my creative alter-ego has left the building at a run and wearing a biohazard mask.

Today, as Spawnling started to recover, we found a fun Super Why! game on PBSkids.org. When I realized he rocked the letter recognition more than I thought he would, I whipped out my camera and shot some footage.

If I can't feel creative, I might as well show off. I don't have much to brag about personaly, so I'll have my children realize my dreams for me.

That sounds healthy enough, and, now that I think about it, a great reason to have kids in the first place.

The Spawn is 28 months old in this video - that's nearly 2 1/2, for those who suck at math or who are not mothers and therefore can't automatically do the months-to-years toddler conversion. He's a smartypants. When he solves the world's hunger problems in his teen years you can thank my amazing genetics and extended breastfeeding.

And Geekster, a little.

And maybe brothers who like to teach him the alphabet. But I birthed them, too, so mostly thank me.

I Want To Be American Now, Sort Of.

So Barack Freaking Obama was here today, being really cool and telling everyone how much likes us Canadians; a huge compliment, considering he had to spend the day with Prime Minister Stephen "I look like I eat babies for breakfast" Harper.

Now, don't get me wrong: The fact that I don't really care for our Prime Minister has nothing to do with how much or how little he resembles a baby eater. Whether or not he eats babies isn't up for debate in my mind, either, as I'm quite sure we tend to screen for cannibalism in our elected officials.

At least, I hope so.

Is there even an admissions test for Prime Ministers, or is it based entirely on ballot counting?

Regardless, I'm not saying that he eats babies. It's just that he looks that way. That's all. You may have your own opinions. Mine is right, of course, but you can have your own anyway.

Incidentally, I happened to mention to one of my friends - I can't remember who because I have a lot of them, being so popular - that he was a bit scary in the face and really creeped me out, and she brought up the baby munching. I'm just stealing it and putting it on my blog. I, The Maven, am quite proficient at not taking credit for other people's potentially offensive statements.

I save my own ass from hatred and avoid alienating friends. Two birds, one stone.

Anyway, I don't know where I was going with this, other than Barack Obama is cool and I'm glad he's not a baby so he didn't get eaten during his presidential visit.

Now I must go, as Spawnling is whining in his bed. He threw up a few hours ago after a huge burp. Nothing since. Stomach flu? I guess we'll see when I get upstairs.

Stinky bed = stomach flu.

Whiny but no stink = maybe not.

Wish me luck!

Also, I hope that nobody who knows the Prime Minister reads my blog, or I may get stolen and drowned in the repulsive tar sands, thus ending up as fuel in some idiot's Hummer. So not cool.

A Thank You From The Maven

Here I was, on my merrily feeling sorry for myself today, with my Spawnling's missing tooth so very apparent and the weight of yesterday's traumatic experience resting heavily on my already overburdened shoulders (*cue violinists*), when a flurry of comments on my last post started pouring in.

And then I realized something: There are six billion people in the world, and at least fifteen of them are telling me I don't completely suck as a mother.

Fifteen! Fifteen whole, real, live people!

Well, I think. Some of them may have been bots, but there's way of knowing that for sure. They were sincere sounding bots, at least.

Let's do some simple math:

I am 1 person with one opinion.

The commenters are 15 persons with 1 unanimous opinion that differs from my own.

Since we live in a democratic society and vote on important topics like parent suckage, it looks like my pity party of one did not get elected.

It's hard not to let those kinds of numbers turn a frown upside down. Suddenly, I realized that perhaps I'm not quite as sucktastic at this parenting thing as I had thought. That what I've been thinking is not only wrong, but irrelevant: In the end, it's what other people think of me that really matters.

I'm so glad you could sort my problems out for me. Truly, I am a better person because of you. I will hold my head up a little higher now that I know I'm not the only one in the enamel-less offspring club, and that you'll still read my blog even though I can make up crazy shit like elephants hiding in toof jungles.

And for those of you who live nearby, I shall bake you cookies as a thank you. The rest of you will have to look at pictures of the cookies and imagine you're eating them. I'm sorry, but they don't tend to ship well to Asia.

An update on Spawnling: He's really feeling better. I think he only hit three or four times today! ... Well, less than ten, anyway. And sure, he yelled at me to cut up his apple, but who can blame the kid? I should have known to do that anyway for the next few days. How insensitive. That must be why he pulled my hair and wouldn't let go. Serves me right.

*Sigh*.

Same ol' Spawn, one less tooth.

The fewer to bite you with, my dear.

Also, did I mention Barack Freaking Obama will be in my town tomorrow? Too bad I have zero inclination to bring Spawnling downtown to stand in the cold so we can watch his motorcade go by and possibly get trampled on by secret service snipers. I'll just watch it go down on t.v. and pretend like I somehow shared in this historic moment, or something.

Good News and Bad News

I don't know what to report first. The good news or the bad news. I think I'll do the good news first.

I am officially rich and famous, as my name is in print above an article on page 31 of our local paper. I announced it on Facebook, which makes it official, quite like favourite bands and divorces.

I was pretty much jumping up and down until I noticed how much my bum wobbles when I do that and promptly stopped. I shall have to celebrate with a brisk walk on the treadmill.

Fun.

Coffee fairy did bring me a coffee this evening and two copies of the paper so I can have one to brag with and one to keep hidden away in a secret vault until my very wealthy family finds it after my death and uses the proceeds of the auction to build school houses in Africa.

That Coffee Fairy doesn't fully realize the impact her actions will have on generations to come, I'm sure.

Now. the bad news is worse, to state the obvious.

About three weeks ago Spawnling chipped a front tooth. Being the responsible, caring parent with excellent dental coverage that I am, I took him to the dentist to get him looked at. "The enamel on that tooth is weird," Dr. Dentist said. "It's a weak tooth brought on by genetics or possibly due to insufficient dental care. Either way, watch for abscessing, because it that happens it has to come out right away."

Insufficient dental care? Oh, do you mean the lack of tooth brushing brought on by screams of "I CAN DO IT!" and "NO, DON' TOUCH MY TOOFBRUSS 'CUZ IT'S MINE!" ?

If I get his teeth brushed once a day I'm doing very well. Normally it's about once every two days, with the in-between day done by him. Sometimes I have to pretend I'm checking for elephants in his mouth with a pretend flashlight on the end of the toofbruss. For some reason this works.

The last few days The Spawn has been in good form. I have several scratches on my forearms to prove it, and the rest of the family members have at least one goose egg on their noggins from random Tonka launchings. The mood he's been in has been epic and will be written about in the history book of All Things Toddler.

Today was no exception: Spawn woke up on the wrong side of the pod with a slightly swollen face. I checked under his lip: no abscess. I asked him if anything hurt: no. We went about our day, which involved having four other children over. Two of them were singled out as enemy targets and subjected to random terror attacks. I'm surprised their mothers are still speaking to me. (They congratulated me on Facebook for my first article, which I assume means we're cool).

Spawnling's weapon of choice during our playdate was the Guitar of Death, meaning his little accoustic guitar that now only has five keys and four strings. I suppose it's technically an accoustic bass now, but those are semantics. The important thing is that two little boys went crying to their mommies clutching limbs and looking over their shoulders for the tempermental toddler.

I was near my breaking point by the time everyone went home early this afternoon. I had sat Spawnling on the stairs more times than I care to admit and had him apologize half-heartedly to his frienemies at least a dozen times. In the end, I decided the best way to clear up his mood was to serve him two bowls of Kraft Dinner and throw him a bath for some playtime.

And that's when I noticed the lip.

His upper lip had been swollen for two days, but just slightly. Just enough to have me checking for that pesky abscess I had begun to think would never show up. In my mind I knew we would be in the clear of the risk of tooth loss and he could go through the next four years with a chipped greying front tooth, but nothing more. Besides, he couldn't get that one pulled anyway, as his brother Gutsy had the very same one pulled at the very same age for the very same reason - a tooth abscess, but brought on by a creepy half-tooth that combined with the front one, decayed and took the good one with it. Watching little Gutsy go through the frightening and traumatic experience of having his tooth pulled while frozen but fully conscious still goes down as one of my top ten worst days as a mother. And, since I have three gremlins that's saying a lot. So, for no other reason, fate would not deal my boys and I the same hand twice. Too predictable.

That's why, when I found the large bump on the gum above his tooth today, I immediately turned from his sweet but puffy little face and started to weep silently. That's so not fair, I told myself and whoever was listening. So, so not fair.

It all made sense, suddenly: The grouchiness, the swollen lip and cheek, the sleeplessness. He had likely been fighting this off for several days before anything became visible. All the while I had expected him to behave well and go about his day like he wasn't dealing with something terribly painful and potentially dangerous.

Guilt made my tears flow a little heavier. Guilt tends to do that. Stupid guilt.

I wiped my eyes, got him out of the bath, set down my Mother Of The Year trophy on the mantle with all the others, and called the dentist. Half an hour later we were in the office, Spawnling asleep on me. I tried to read an article on Russia in Time magazine, but the stupid thing fell between the chairs in the waiting room and nobody offered to pick it up for me. Thanks, everyone. I'm fine. I'm just holding a sleeping toddler who needs to have his tooth pulled today. I hope he screams loud enough that you can't enjoy your cleanings, jerks.

But I wasn't bitter. Not at all.

I thought about how much I'd miss his full smile. Just recently I had pulled out pictures of Gutsy when he had his full set of teeth and remembered how perfect that grin was. I mean, it still is, but having a tooth missing as a preschooler seemed to have taken something away that wasn't supposed to gone just yet. It also took a little something away from the excitement we all should have experienced when he lost what should have been his first tooth at the age of five. I acted thrilled, but inside it just wasn't the same.

And now we were going to do that again, and that made me sad. I'm a drama queen, so that's not entirely suprising.

I tried not to cry in the dentist's office because that's a declaration of guilt right there. It would obviously show that I felt bad for not brushing his teeth all the time, which would lead to dirty looks and quite possibly an anonymous phone call to the authorities to have all my children removed and placed in a home where they get regular oral care.

"It's going to have to come out," said Dr. Dentist.

"I know" I replied, fighting back tears. He was going to be so scared when he saw the freezing needle. It was going to prick and then he'd feel numb and freaked out.

Dr. Dentist continued. "The problem is that... well... It's best if we don't use any freezing."

"... What?" Did Dr. Dentist start doing meth recently? I couldn't get a good look at his mouth for confirmation, but I knew it must be the drugs talking.

"The puss inside the abscess will prevent the freezing from working, and we'll just hurt him for no reason. Either we take it out now, with no freezing, or we send him to get sedated. But I'd rather do it now, since I don't think the infection has spread yet. Once the tooth is out the abscess will drain and he'll be okay."

Damn it, damn it, damn it... Quick and painful now, or wait for sedation in a day or two with some antibiotics or something.... If that would even work... and he's sore... And, oh man... Why did I tell him he didn't have to wear a condom? When we said we were done, we should have actually started using something. Then I wouldn't have to be making these on-the-spot decisions again and... fuck!

Yes, I thought fuck! I do swear quite a bit in my head, and sometimes out loud, just so you know. I don't even know why I thought about The Spawn in terms of sperm-meets-egg what-if scenarios, but I did. It's not like we don't want him around or I've ever wished he wasn't. It's just that I hated being stuck in that spot, making what seems like big decisions without having a chance to think. Why is it that mothers have to make on-the-spot choices when we can't even think straight enough to put the milk back in the fridge instead of the pantry?

"Can you be quick? Like, really quick? And we won't wake him up until you're ready?" I asked/demanded. Stroking Spawnling's hair, trying not to cry, trying to not feel like I can't make a good decision to save my life, or his tooth, and that I'm a really lousy excuse for a mother or we wouldn't be here at all.

"Absolutely."

He woke up as his tooth was being pulled. It took about ten seconds. He bled a lot for the next few minutes and everyone in the office lost a few decibels of hearing.

Next time you'll get me my damn Time magazine, won't you? Bitches.

We went home and he ate popcicles. I cuddled him on the couch and wouldn't let him go for a long time.

On his second popcicle, Spawnling said "Mommy? I feel a lot better now 'cuz my toof is gone."

I feel a lot worse, Spawnling, my love. I'm sorry for screwing up and not always brushing your teeth, for missing the warning signs, for making you try to socialize when you were in agony, for holding you down while you felt every single thing. But I am glad you feel better, baby.

I just wish I did, too.

Motherhood. We sign up without knowing what's coming, without knowing how hard some of these situations are going to be on them or on us. If we did, would we still do it? I thought about that when we were halfway to the appointment today, him asleep with his head drooped to one side, the sun illuminating his puffy-yet-still-beautiful face.

Motherhood. It sucks sometimes.

I think I should get that on a t-shirt. I'll only wear it in the house though, so the authorities don't remove my children and place them with people who don't have offensive statements written on their clothing.

Mavenly Advice, Week 1: The Energetic Prostitute

I said I was going to do it, and gosh darn it, I did.

Today and every Monday from now until I lose interest I will be answering questions and giving my excellent advice on the internets for all to see. I've chosen two questions this week: one of them is about me and the other is not about me. Naturally, we'll start with me first.


Dear Maven, You seem very busy all the time. I just want to know where you get all your energy from?

- Always Seriously Sleepy

Dear ASS,

Thank you for your question. It's definitely a good one. The answer is that I go to the local oxygen bar three times a week. I suck back some pure O₂
like it's nobody's business and that keeps me going for the most part. I also drink two pots of coffee every morning, do steroids and mainline speed.

Rock on, and on, and on, and on and on andonandonandonand *thump*
The Maven


*~*~*~*~*~*


Dear Maven,

As part of our weekly budget I get an allowance for my stay-at-home-mom stuff. After taking two children out a few times money gets tight. I've come to realize my husband will give me more money for sexual favors. Since I'm normally too tired to put out much I can perform these favors in a matter of minutes. I could argue over needing more money but this is a lot easier. Three minutes in the shower netted me $60 the other day. That's a lot of coffee money!

My question is: is what I'm doing considered prostitution, and is that wrong?

- The Lady in the Shower


Dear LITS,

According to the deities at Merriam-Webster's, prostitution is "the act or practice of engaging in promiscuous sexual relations especially for money". So, my friend, you are, by definition, a hooker. Congratulations!

That being said, we must consider where you're using your *ahem* talents. This is your husband, not some stranger. And you're at home raising his kids. You don't have an income. You're doing something you would probably be doing anyway, except that it's also earning you extra cash. Is that really prostitution? Tough call.

The important thing is that cash can buy you things like coffee, and coffee is good. So I really don't see a problem with this scenario. And, if you were my friend and buying me coffee with your hard-earned money (pun very much intended), I would see even less of a problem, but that's because I'm very selfish.

If, for some reason, you begin to feel degraded by this situation, I have a couple of suggestions: You could either lower your moral standards (it's always been my personal choice), or you could give a course on how to earn that much money in three minutes of sexual favours. I bet you would have a line-up out the door! If there's a niche market for pole dancing and cybersex classes, why not for shower whoring?

In short, keep up the hard work (the pun is probably getting old now, isn't it?). If you're worth paying for after what I'm assuming is years of togetherness, you are a freaking goddess. Drink an extra latte for me, why don't you?

Contemplating not putting out as much,
The Maven

Anyone Want To Be My Publicist?

Firstly, I'd like to apologize to the person who did a search today for 'crowded German train' and stumbled upon my blog. Unfortumately I am not German nor am I a train, although I have been mistake for both on several occasions. You must have felt so mislead. If it helps any, my stomach is crowded with fat cells, but I would compare it more to a Manhattan subway car than anything.

So, anyway, I sold my soul today.

See, I joined the community association a couple of months ago and whored myself out not only as their secretary, but also as their writer and reporter. As it turns out our president has sweet connections on the city level, including the editor of our local weekly newspaper. And today I was able to submit an article on the winter carnival we had this afternoon, via el presidente.

Game. Set. Match. Maven.

If all goes well and I did my soul selling properly, I will have a published article by Tuesday morning. It will hit about 35,000 doorsteps by Wednesday afternoon, and I will be rich and famous.

By "rich" I mean I will have earned zero dollars and by "famous" I mean about ten people might actually read my name along with the teeny little article, and some of my friends may Facebook me and say "Hey! I saw your name in the paper today!"

Yep, rich and famous.

The point is, I will have the very first thing I can put in my portfolio. I can say "look at me! I'm a published author!" and not be lying. Isn't that great?

You must be terribly excited for me. A parade may be in order. Feel free to send me pictures if it's not a local event that I will be reporting on.

I wonder how being rich and famous is going to change me. I hope not a whole lot. I'll still be the sarcastic bitch I've always been, be fashionably late to playdates, forget to brush my children's teeth in the morning and expect a certain amount of free coffee from my friends. The only difference is that I'll also have to fight off the swarms of Paparazzi.

I wonder when I should interview for bodyguards? Maybe I should look at getting the organic chocolatier first. Priorities.

Happy Vinyltiles Day!

So, what did you get for Valentine's Day? Something unoriginal and dull like chocolate or flowers or diamonds?

Yawn.

I got something much more thoughtful than that. Something that tops all that romantic hoopla: Today, I got a new kitchen floor.

That better not be laughter I'm sensing. Or eye rolling. You just don't know my old floor, that's all. It was made of outdoor pine siding that ran opposite the original wood flooring in the rest of the house, and met in a garish clash right in the middle of the kitchen. Design disaster!

The Maven did not approve. It was scheduled to be one of the first things we changed when we moved in a year and a half ago.

But then all these other things needed to be fixed that were apparently more urgent, like leaky roofs and bathrooms. Whatever. Ugly floorboards are more embarrassing than black mould any day. What a little asthma attack every now and then when your entire kitchen looks like ass?

Like that wasn't enough incentive. I mean, just me wanting it changed should have caused a big enough stir to have the task completed on the second day of home ownership. But noooo. We had to incorporate injury into it. I've had a total of at least fifteen splinters in my feet as a result of the nasty old wood attacking me through my socks. The boys have had their fair share as well. Nothing says good morning like pain between your toes.

Siding is not meant to be used as flooring, just so you know. That's my expert advice for anyone contemplating it. I'm sure it's fairly common for someone to look around a home improvement store and say to themselves "You know, flooring is really expensive. I think I might just stain some outdoor pine siding and stick it awkwardly in the kitchen so it can wear down significantly over time and injure people."

If that's one of the things that also goes through your mind, I feel it important to let you know that you are a giant dumbass who is too dumb to own a house. I speak from the standpoint of someone who takes tweezers to her feet every couple of weeks thanks to a reno faux pas made thirty years ago.

Then, to add a cherry to the injuries and eyesores sundae, the fact that the floor was highly unsanitary needs to be discussed. There were huge gaps between some of the boards, resulting in entirely new species growing out of the crumbs and dust that were unavoidably swept in there on a daily basis. Seriously: some of the cracks were so deep that they required their own postal code. I could have charged admission to Canada's version of the Grand Canyon found two feet from my fridge.

So, you can keep your chocolate and flowers and useless diamonds that were probably mined by some enslaved person in a third world country. You can even brag to me about it. I don't mind.

My husband loves me to the point where he gets me on a whole new level. Instead of buying me stuff I would enjoy temporarily, he took me and some coffee to the hardware store. Then he spent his entire day covering up the filthy, scary floor in my kitchen with some lovely vinyl tiles so my poor feet will be spared further abuse and so we will not create the next strain of ebola.

That's love, people. That's the love of two souls who have been together for 15 years and know what the other person really desires.

Besides, my mommy gave me chocolate. Neener neener.

Happy Valentine's Day.

And, also, can you please watch this movie and do something about it? Sign the petition like I did. Let's help some people who undoubtedly love each other enough to put in new flooring, too.

Updated Love Quotes

Since Valentine's Day is tomorrow, I thought it appropriate to update some of our well-known thoughts on love. They just seem outdated and a little idealistic for this day and age. So, without further ado (because I'm speaking at a meeting tonight and have a million things to do first), I present to you my own personal spin on some old favourites:

There is no remedy for love but to love more date a few jerks.
- Henry David Thoreau

True love begins when nothing is looked for in return he tells you the vasectomy worked.
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love Cardio.
- Sophocles

Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired a few pounds heavier because you're not in the dating scene anymore.
- Mark Twain

Come, let us make love deathless out of something chocolaty.
- Herbert Trench

The most powerful symptom of love is a tenderness which becomes at times almost insupportable this weird wart thing that your doctor can give you cream for.
-Victor Hugo

The most precious possession that ever comes to a man in this world is a woman's heart a universal remote, or maybe a game console.
- Josiah G. Holland

Harmony is pure love, for love is a concerto playing Rockband together.
- Lope De Vega

To be your friend was all I ever wanted; to be your lover was all I ever dreamed means I had to sign a pre-nup.
--Unknown

In love there are two things: bodies and words vowels: o and e.
- Joyce Carol Oates

Love Co-dependence is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
- Robert Heinlein

Your words are my food, your breath my wine. You are everything to me Get the hell out of my fridge.
- Sarah Bernhardt

The Maven: Advice Columnist?

A couple of quick things, because I'm trying to get to bed before midnight:

1. Writers should never watch the movie Capote. I'm traumatized. Fascinated, but traumatized. And since there's no money in the ol' budget for therapy, this is a bit of an issue. Nothing a bag of chips won't fix, I suppose.

2. For the longest time I've wanted to realize my dream of being an advice columnist. Now, since nobody in their right mind would pay me money to do such a thing in my oh-so-Mavenly way, I think I might like to try it on my blog, maybe once a week. I could answer between 1 and 3 questions, depending on how many people are stupid enough interested in hearing me tell them how to live their lives.

And, since I'm sure I'll get thousands of desparate fan mail pouring in daily (pretty much like now, but with questions) I'll be able to feel incredibly superior by picking my favourites.

So basically, I'm whoring out my vast knowledge to the masses. You are the masses, just so we're clear. Would you like to know how to properly parent your little crumbsnatcher? How to make your spouse happy? How to have a sensible conversation with little Timmy's teacher without resorting to jabbing her ear with a pencil? Drop me a line by touching my monkey (there's a link on the side, too ----> ) and I'll answer your life-altering questions.

Oh, and, like any good advice columnist, I will ensure your confidentiality. We'll come up with some fun pen name. You pick it or I will. So you might want to pick it. I'm not terribly creative and you could end up looking like a dumbass with a bad name.

That's it. I'm going to bed now. I did manage to get a good night's sleep last night and I hope to get another tonight. Then I'll be well rested when I make a fool out of myself speaking about my sober (and previously not-so-sober) self tomorrow night.

Gettin' Busy Tonight

You'll never guess what I'm doing tonight.

Not writing a long blog post.

Not watching Lost (because I'm ashamed to say I missed the first episode this season and am still catching up online)

Not playing Rockband - a shocking thought in itself.

No, I am doing what all the cool elderly people do and going to bed early. I need my beauty sleep. I need the sleep I slept before I ever had children. The blissful, wake-up-to-the-alarm-after-eight-solid-hours type of rest. To have the sort of morning that says "I'm going to have a coffee because I want to, not because I need to."

I hear that such mornings exist, somewhere. Perhaps if I do some regression therapy I might find a time - say, about twelve years ago - when I too experienced such a miracle.

After several nights of Spawnling waking up around 5 a.m. and doing everything in his power to make sure I wake up with him - lovely, gentle gestures like arm-scratching, face-slapping and hair-pulling - I am too tired for even caffeine to have its usual chipper affect on my personality.

I did manage to haul my ass to a coffee shop this morning with my neighbour after Spawnling threw a brilliant tantrum. He threw his boots. He cried and wailed and screamed. He used all the little demonic tricks he's mastered so well since hatching from his pod twenty-eight months ago.

The good news is that his behaviour vastly improved and was near angelic at not only the child-friendly coffee shop - where he sat nicely, ate his food, made good conversation and played with some of the toys - but also at Walmart while we picked out some fabric for cushions and curtains. He did have one little slip which involved smacking me over the head a few times because I was taking too long picking out new undies for myself. It's not his fault, though. He doesn't understand a girl's need for new undies. I shall have to teach him, lest he smack his date over the head one day in the Fruit-of-the-Loom section and get a slap back followed by some jail time to ponder how his mother never taught him the importance of women's undergarment selection.

Spawnling has been terribly aggressive lately. This week has been hellish. I've seriously considered writing to some carnie friends I met last summer; if the gypsies won't take him maybe the fair freaks will.

But, just as I'm about to email Fish Hook Willy's Blackberry, Spawn starts working his charm. He'll make me laugh with random song hummings, such as today's E-Pro, by Beck. Or, if he figures that's not enough to guarantee a mother/scratching post for the next sixteen years, he'll say something cute like "Mommy, you're my very best friend in the whole wide world. You know that?"

Yes, he really does speak that well. My genius genetics have travelled to the next generation. Either that or he's an alien. We're still on the fence. I'm leaning towards alien not only because my genetics are more of a biological joke than an asset, but also because I could sell him to the travelling freak show for more money.

I am off to watch some Little Britain before getting my granny self to bed. If you haven't seen that show I highly recommend it. It's like Mad TV on crack, except you don't have to do the crack first.

Very good news if you're a recovering addict like yours truly.

Oh, and I'm speaking at an AA meeting on Friday night.

And my sponsee will be there.

So, like, I actually have to be good at it.

Yet another reason for some good sleep. Trying is really hard.

A Very Decent Proposal

Dear Maven,

Thank you for your most recent proposal. Our records indicate you have submitted similar ones 68 times between 1996 and present. We have reviewed your bid to sell us Gutsy, 6, and Spawnling, 2. However, we have some concerns which we will describe in the following paragraphs.

Firstly, most parents ask for at least a nominal fee when the transfer takes place. We were intrigued by your suggestion of a $25 Starbucks gift card. That is not only a minute award but also sounds a little desperate. Why would you not take at least a few gold coins for all the hard work you've done raising them?

Secondly, you describe Gutsy to be "a spirited individual who will not back down in the face of controversy and will probably be very good at scaring bandits and wolf packs away with his mighty yell". Spawnling is said to have "teeth sharp enough to break fishing line and nails that could scare a roaming bear away with one swipe - trust me, I know". These statements appear innocuous and even beneficial to us on the surface, but we suspect there may be more to it.

But what really concerned us was the rumour of a third child you will not part with who is 12 years old. What is so wrong with the other two that you would only sell them?

Also, we have heard you refer to them as "gremlins". What mother would call her kids something so horrible? They must be very rotten to deserve such a nickname.

In short, it is our belief that you are not being fully honest in this transaction and thus, we have decided to decline your offer. We hope you will find a better fit for your offspring in the very near future.

Sincerely,
The People Formally Known as Gypsies Until That Was Deemed Politically Incorrect By Somebody - Probably Us - But Wikipedia Doesn't Have That Information.


Dear People Formally... Screw it.

Dear Gypsies,

Listen. You have it all wrong. My chidren are perfect little darlings who bring me much joy.

My reasons for trying to sell them are purely health-related. See, my cat has suddenly become very allergic to them, and he's been with us for 15 years. That's nine whole years before Gutsy even came along. How fair would it be to my poor old cat if I shoved him down the hierarchy and found him a new home instead?

I'm sure you're beginning to see my point.

As for the descriptions of Gutsy and Spawnling, I only wanted to showcase their unique abilities as they would pertain to life in a travelling community. It is my sincere hope that they be so valued they get their very own caravan. They could send me pictures of their adventures when they're not screaming and fighting over the cam...

(Where's my white-out?)

Also, there seems to be a cultural miscommunication going on here: "Gremlin" is a popular term of endearment in Canada. It means "well-behaved child." Honest.

My decision not to sell Intrepid is entirely for your benefit. He's a bad, bad seed. He stays up until 9:30 every night and watches PG television. He's not even thirteen yet! He also uses gel in his hair to get that spiked, punk rocker look. And sometimes he forgets to feed the rabbits or take out the trash, or he'll eat ice cream when we're out of the house and when we come home there's none left. Now, I ask you: Do you really want someone like that travelling with you? I think not.

In short, I ask you to reconsider my offer given the clarifications I've provided. You may still pay me in a gift card, but I'll also accept a new iPod or 42" flatscreen television. Whatever works best.

Sincerely yours,
The Maven

8 Things I've Learned Today

In no particular order:

1. Rice Krispies Squares are low in fat, which means I can - and will, even if try not to - eat three times as many as I would brownies.
2. It takes marshmallows to make those yummy little hip enhancers and marshmallows contain gelatin, which is an animal by-product. Please ask this vegetarian if she cares to be that hardcore. Go ahead: ask. The answer is no. I like marshmallows. I'm a walking contradiction and I'm going to Hell. Whatever. It's kind of like going down south, right? Warm weather, pitchforks. Do you think they serve lemonade? I like lemonade.
   
3. To-do lists look very nice when they lie untouched on the counter.
4. Strong The Force in Spawnling is, yes. Especially when tired he is also. More effective than Lightsabers sharp nails and baby teeth are. Defeated mommy was. Sore, too.
   
5. Having Angelmama gift Gutsy with a Gameboy Advanced was by far the greatest thing she's ever done for us. Now we have extra leverage at bedtime. Not only can we encourage good behaviour with the promise of a new game at the end of the week, but we can also take the thing away when he just won't listen.
   
6. Reorganizing the pantry with one's mother goes far more smoothly after bribing any exhausted toddlers with a donut or five.
7. Having everything from the pantry all over the kitchen table, floor and counters in a sea of disorginazation and peril will result in a higher number of toddler tantrums and random phone calls.
8. After the day I've had, the idea of going out to Walmart to buy eggs and dishsoap sounds about as good as a hot stone massage. I leave in 20 minutes. Peace out.
   

Manners Suck and are Stupid

I have boys who are most certainly not the of the quaint and quiet sort. They sometimes require a nudge from Geekster or me to use their manners. They will occasionaly spew forth sentences that cause other parents to bore a hole into my head with their judging eyes. Things like 'I hate that game', 'This sucks', and 'Why can't I do up this stupid coat?!'

Hate? Sucks? Stupid?

Heavens to betsy! That Maven needs to tighten the leash on her wild little gremlins. What kind of freak show is she running?

The truth is, it's exhausting to hang out with people who have their children on choke chains. They expect something from me and mine that is virtually impossible.

Allow me to explain: They have little kids who interact with other little kids. They don't have smaller kids who have twelve-year-old brothers. They don't hear the language on some the older kid shows that said twelve-year-old brother watches. They don't have to deal with the friends of said twelve-year-old who may or may not mutter things under their breath when I'm not around to catch it. And, while the use of swear words is prohibited around the very young in our family, we have to make certain non-cussing allowances for sanity's sake.

Intrepid tries not to sound like a preteen around his little brothers. He really does. He's a very good eldest sibling - better than many I've seen. He's kind and gentle and thoughtful. He takes his responsiblities seriously. He comes to my rescue when both little gremlins are clinging to my legs crying while I'm trying to make dinner.

So if he says 'That level really sucked' when he's playing a game with Gutsy, and Gutsy repeats that at a birthday party, and everyone glares at me, well, I'll just tell myself that at least he didn't say 'That level really fucking sucked'.

See? It's all about perspective, folks.

At one point I figured if I surrounded myself with those who are very language-conscious and very strict about things we are not, then maybe it would rub off through osmosis; maybe my laissez-faire attitude would become a little less so. Maybe someone would leave their Childrearing: rules and guidelines book lying around and I could figure out the secret to how everyone else parents so well.

Instead it just made me want to tear my hair out. Do you have any idea how many different words are considered a no-no in different families? How many unique sets of rules there are? How many forms of discipline? How many types of time-outs, time-ins, time-upside-downs, time-inside-outs? How many bedtime routines?

It's damn confusing, is what it is.

(Actually, we don't say 'damn' in this house. Well, not in earshot of anyone under the age of 12)

I've learned an important lesson when it comes to raising my boys: Don't sweat the small stuff, and make a point of hanging out with a lot of people who don't either.

Today we went to visit Angelmama, Devilpapa and their demons (apparently he has the stronger genetics). When we get the gregarious gremlins and disorderly demons together it's always a good time. A loud time, a chaotic time, but always a fun time. I like that they just let their kids be, well, kids. Sure, they have rules based on safety and respect, but they are not taken straight out of a 2008 magazine article on manners by Peggy Post.

Discipline, I've learned, goes through cycles similar to fashion. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes thrown together, sometimes carefully planned. I, myself, have given up on following the current trends. I can't keep up on what's acceptable anymore. I'm too tired, too lazy, or there's usually something I'd rather watch on television instead of reading yet another article on what I'm doing wrong this month.

Terrible, isn't it? You may add yourselves to those who stand behind me, boring into my teeny brain with distaste for everything I stand for. Thankfully Angelmama doesn't do this. She has me over for dinner and relishes every minute our children create beautiful chaos together.

In fact, today she asked Intrepid if he would like to be her daughter's second husband (apparently the darling girl eloped in the school yard and didn't bother to tell anyone until she skipped home with the dollar store ring to prove it). We hoped Intrepid would say yes, because what's a little reverse polygamy between friends?

'No way!' declared Intrepid, firmly. 'I'm not going to be anyone's trophy husband!'

Please don't ask me where he came up with that. It must have been one of his evil preteen shows. When in doubt, blame Hannah Montana. She sucks.

Oops. Sorry. Her television show is not one in which I am interested.

See, Peggy? I'm learning.

Do Not Be Alarmed

Dear blog world,

I know it has been two days. I have not posted anything at all, and my promise has been to post 365 in 365. I get that. I've just been busy.

My social calendar is so hot this weekend it's on fire.

I will have much to discuss tomorrow morning when I sit down to write a real post.

In the meantime, don't panic and please do not break out the emergency Kool-Aid. I'm coming back. Tomorrow.

Ok? We cool? We still friends?

That's good.

The Maven

Enclosed: One Still-Beating Heart.

You know, I really want to get all creative tonight, but I simply don't have it in me. That's the one problem with blogging every day. Who can come up with original and interesting content 365 days a year? A goddess, that's who. And what am I most definitely not?

You got it: Ugly.

"Unpopular" would have also been an acceptable answer.

A friend of mine wanted me to write about Valentine's Day. And since she works at the gremlins' school and knows what an irresponsible and forgetful parent I can be and yet hasn't called me on it, I feel I owe her at least one post.

If she starts spreading rumours that I'm a fantastic mother I'll dedicate a second post to her. Maybe even an entire weekend; a theme, if you will. Bribery will get you everywhere.

So, let's take a closer look at Valentine's Day with our good friend Wikipedia. The Wiki Gods' words will be italicized while mine will be boring, ol' regular... cized.

Valentine's Day or Saint Valentine's Day is a holiday celebrated on February 14 by many people throughout the world. In the West, it is the traditional day on which lovers express their love for each other by sending Valentine's cards, presenting flowers, or offering confectionery.

I truly believe we should be focusing more on the confectionery aspect, and by confectionery I mean chocolate, and by we I mean my husband. Flowers are also nice, but only if they are made of chocolate. Same thing with cards, really. And if the envelope can be an outer candy shell, well, I think you may have just found yourself in my good graces for a very long time.

The holiday is named after two among the numerous Early Christian martyrs named Valentine. The day became associated with romantic love in the circle of Geoffrey Chaucer in the High Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished.

Take note, children: We've come a long way from those primitive times where love was the only thing that mattered on a holiday that now involves confectionery. These days you don't have to court anyone to give them chocolate. For example, you could give me chocolate and not even take me on a date. That's progress for you. You should try it.

An alternative theory from Belarus states that the holiday originates from the story of Saint Valentine, who upon rejection by his mistress was so heartbroken that he took a knife to his chest and sent her his still-beating heart as a token of his undying love for her. Hence, heart-shaped cards are now sent as a tribute to his overwhelming passion and suffering.

Okay. Now that's just gross.

Just because some mistress rejected you - and believe me, once the perfume and Prada bags stop flowing in you can bet she's going to find herself another guy to call "big daddy" - doesn't mean you have to go all goth and rip out an organ. Did this guy also write poetry in his own blood? This is what we're basing our Valentine's cards on? We're sending our children to school with symbols of someone's torn-out beating heart sent to his ungrateful, gold-digging mistress? What kind of sick society are we living in? I'm disgusted with the entire holiday now.

(Except the chocolate part.)

The day is most closely associated with the mutual exchange of love notes in the form of "valentines."

I can't tell you the last time I got an actual valentine card. Now I feel like writing poetry in my own blood, too. Damn.

The sending of Valentines was a fashion in nineteenth-century Great Britain, and, in 1847, Esther Howland developed a successful business in her Worcester, Massachusetts home with hand-made Valentine cards based on British models.

Smart woman. She was probably a stay-at-home-mom with no talk shows or soap operas or mass-produced Harlequin Romance novels, so she got desperate and decided to escape into something profitable. How come I never manage to escape into something profitable?

This post is getting more depressing by the minute. It can't get much worse. I mean, it's Valentine's Day, right? A happy day all about love and stuff and crap. There's going to be a silver lining here somewhere. Let's move on.

The popularity of Valentine cards in 19th-century America was a harbinger of the future commercialization of holidays in the United States.

And Canada, I might add. Stupid commercialization. Sure, Esther was living the high life through her get-rich-quick card-making scheme, but now I have to shell out hundreds of dollars buying stuff in December. Thanks a lot, stupid entrepreneurial woman. Weren't you supposed to be filling wash basins and popping out dozens of babies back then? What were you doing working for money and planning out inevitable yearly the ruin of my bank account?

The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide, making the day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year behind Christmas.

Okay. Hold the phone. There's a U.S. Greeting Card Association? Are you serious? Talk about job creation. Don't have a career? Make one up! Don't have an association that will fit your new career? Make one up! That's the American dream for you. I'm really impressed. I now want to work for the Greeting Card Association for no other reason than so I can say I work for them and watch the reactions of confusion, ridicule and eventual envy.

Also, I hear the trees crying right now. Valentine's Day is raping the rain forest. Another good reason to just buy chocolate (for me). And if it's organic and fairly traded that's even better, but I won't be picky.

The association estimates that women purchase approximately 85 percent of all valentines.

Oh. Well there's a shocker. It's a good thing there's a Greeting Card Association to run important estimates and answer the really big questions. Now I no longer have to lie awake at night wondering what gender thinks of the little things more often. If someone could just tell me what shape the earth is that would be wonderful, too. Do we have a U.S. World Shape Analysis Association working on that?

No? I think I just found my new job.

Settle An Argument For Me

If you're looking for a post in which I actually write stuff, please see the one I wrote late last night. Besides, it's rather funny and you get to hear all about proper negotiation techniques in a relationship.

This post is to settle a dispute.

See, two days ago I posted a picture of Pixie on my blog. A picture she willingly took for that post and asked me, oh, about five times throughout the course of the day if I had written it yet. She was excited to be a blog celebrity. Rightfully so, since this is my blog and I have millions of readers.

Yeah... Anyway, back to reality.

Doesn't she call me after it's posted to tell me she hates the picture I took. She thinks she looks terrible. I tell her she doesn't. She think she looks like The Joker. I think she doesn't.

Oh, but she does, she tells me. She really, really does. She wants me to remove it. She wants me to black out her face or something. I tell her she's being vain and to get over it (because thats' what supportive friends do, you know). And instead I'll get my blog brethren to tell us what they think (I believe most of you are girls, but whatever - this isn't about you or me and my poor choice of words. This is about Pixie. Now stop being selfish)

This is the picture of Pixie that I took a two days ago:



Alright. maybe the lighting is bad, but that's what happens when you don't strategically place yourself in room with northern light so as to have better pictures taken of yourself. Other than that she's looking great, as always. I don't even look that attractive when I'm trying.

This is a picture of The Joker I snapped when he was over at my house last week putting the finishing touches on Joker Junior's project (this "helping" thing is turning into a bit of an epidemic, I'd say):




I see no resemblance.

Okay. Maybe the cleavage, but that's it.

A Lesson on Relationship Negotiations

Pop quiz, hotshot: What do you do when your spouse says he wants an electronic drum kit and you have no interest in owning one nor spending the money so he can own one?

A) Say no and have a discussion in which you express strong feelings regarding the other person's position

B) Say no and don't give a reason, then hope he doesn't spit in your oatmeal

C) Say yes but secretly harbor a deep resentment over the ridiculous and frivolous purchase of yet another thing you have to dust every week, and take out your anger in a very passive-aggressive manner for several months ('Honey, why can't I find a matching pair of socks anywhere? And why does the dog have a bed made out of my dress shirts?')

D) Say yes, but throw in some conditions, like, say, a weekend away with the girls

Here's how I figure out important decisions like this. Pay attention so you can learn how to do it, too:

Option "A" Sounds like a lot of work. Who wants expend all that energy doing something annoying like trying to drill reason into someone's head? There are only so many times you can say 'Look: we don't have the money!' or 'It's just going to sit neglected in a corner after about two months, you know!' Purchases like electronic drum kits are never reasonable unless your name is Neil Peart.

Option "B" could mean not only the silent treatment, but a very nasty breakfast. While the threat of spit in one's cereal could technically lead to weight loss, it's not a significant enough cause to chose this option.

Option "C" could be a lot of fun. There's nothing like doing some passive-aggressive things to one's spouse to liven up a marriage. Leopard cuffs in the bedroom? That's so amateur. Some subtle oneupmanship in the form of packing rotten oranges and moldy bread in his lunch is much more amusing. Feeling superior is a huge turn-on and could actually lead to a better marriage. Still, it's unhealthy in the sense that the black hole that was once your caring heart will eat you up like cancer and, worse, cause premature aging. Wrinkles are so not worth it.

So that, my pupils, leads us to the only right option: "D". If we can't afford a drum kit and he gets one anyway, then you should obviously get something else unaffordable to make up for it, right? Debt is one of those things in life you don't have to think about until after the party stops. And we've had debt for so long that, really, what's a little more? So the whole thing sets us back maybe six weeks in our debt repayment plan. Who cares? In the end we not only have a (boring) drum kit, but also some (amazing, spectacular, way better than a drum kit) memories at the spa!

Once I got the green light to go ahead with this master plan (we can thank Pixie for the suggestion, as she gave it in between grouping dinosaurs together at my kitchen table) I pretty much threw myself at my laptop and put it out on Facebook. I figured I would get, oh, two or three people interested in joining me.

I underestimate my awesomness a lot, I think.

Ok, I don't, but let's just say I do so I can look humble for a moment.

After about twelve 'I want to come, too!' messages I stopped counting.

At any rate, there are six people who want to go for the entire excursion, including spa treatments, dinner, clubbing and hotel. Then there are others who want to join us only for a portion of the two day festivities; just enough time to say they could hang out with me on my very special weekend.

I have two confessions to make so that my readership can understand just how amazing this weekend will be:

1. I have spent a total of four nights away from my gremlins and only two nights away from my gremlins and spouse.

2. I have never been to a spa.

Yep. You heard right. I have never been to a spa. Not ever. This will be my first time. These women are coming for the sole purpose of watching me get deflowered by various instruments and the people holding them.

Doesn't that sound dirty and terribly fun?

March 7th and 8th will be the big, exciting adventure. I'm stoked! Two days with dishes, no laundry, no poopy bottoms. My boobies will be my own for an entire night.

I suppose that's a bad thing to most people. Most people have not been pregnant and/or breastfeeding non-stop since the Spring of 2002.

Geekster is reading over my shoulder. He would like to also point out three things:

1. That the drum kit will not be collecting dust

2. That I spelled Neil Pert wrong ('It's P-e-a-r-t. Look it up. I know my drummers.')

3. That all that stuff I'm leaving behind will be waiting for me when I get back home.

All those things being said, I'm really hoping he wants to buy a plane soon. Imagine what I could get out of that deal...Oh, and he is not leaving me the dishes. He would like to add that,

4. I am making him sound like a big meanie and he is not. Which is actually true, but it's more fun to make him look this way. And it's my blog, so I get to choose.

('Choose has two o's, honey')

Thanks. A lot.

100 Ways to Help Your Child

100's Day.

It's a special day celebrated by children in the early grades at our local school. When Intrepid was in kindergarten we helped him count out 100 pennies, which we placed on a piece of construction paper. He then wrote '100 Pennies' on it and we sent it in.

It cost us about a dollar.

Duh.

Other children brought in 100 Cheerios, or 100 paper clips, or 100 candies (I bet that particular piece of construction paper didn't have 100 things on it for very long).

Personally, I wanted to get inventive by taping on 100 dead ants, or 100 cigarette butts collected outside the seedy bar down the road, but Geekster said no. He's such a spoil sport.

I was just trying to be a good mom and liven things up a little, that's all. I mean, these projects can get so dull and repetitive. Does the teacher really want to see the same 100 things over and over? No. Creativity is key. As a mom, I want to help my little demons succeed in the world by rising above! Cigarette butts make a statement that cereal does not. Even an art gallery would consider buying such a masterpiece!

It's certainly not uncommon for parents to want to help their children with their projects. Why have a home project with no parental input, right? If we were not meant to assist and guide our gremlins, it would not see the inside of a school bag until it was completed and graded.

However, some of us don't need to help our kids. Some kids come up with masterpieces all on their own. I mean, look at this beautifully decorated bristol board by a little boy in grade 1 named Tracker:


Grade 1! Can you believe it? Look at the detail. Ten different types of dinosaurs all roaming the prehistoric plains. Predators with predators, herbivores practicing the pack mentality. It's amazing. I was completely floored when I saw it. I doubt even my braniac boys could come up with something like that at the age of 7.

Tracker wrote down all the different types of dinosaurs: 10 spotted, 10 green, 10 longnecks, and the like. And he put this at the very top:


That's right. On that gorgeous work of art you have 100 dino... sews?

Hang on a second. Something is not right. How can a child who paints a landscape in perfect brush strokes, sponges on trees that would make Michaelangelo weep tears of joy, and glues all the dinosaurs in the upright position without making any of them do lewd things to each other... How can a that child write like the font for Elmo's World? He writes like a normal first grader, and this is definitely not the work of a typical child.

Unless... No. That's unthinkable. And yet...

This is looking more and more like the well-meaning but overly-involved parent who has perhaps become a wee bit obsessed with her child's homework. It suspiciously resembles something that might even have been finished, say, when Tracker was at school. Perhaps the parent even stopped at her good friend's house with some dinosaurs she picked up at the dollar store so she could glue them on before proudly walking the finished 100's Day project into the grade 1 classroom. "Look, Tracker! Here's your project you, er, left at home this morning because you... um... didn't want it to get ruined on the bus. So Mommy brought it in for you! Isn't that nice? Why don't you come up here and show your friends? ... No, sweety, it's not that one. It's this one over here. The dinosaur one, remember? I just fixed it up a little for you and added some paint and some... dinosaurs... and stuff, but you did the rest! You wrote on the cards, remember? You did such a great job!"

But, of course, that's pure speculation. I don't know anyone who does stuff like that. Not even that blonde beauty, Pixie. I mean, if she were to do something like that at my house I would have documented proof to catch her in the act, right?


Right.

Oh, Pixie!

The Sister Shacks Up

Just a quick note because it's Sunday night and I've spent my day reading, exercising and having coffee dates (two of them, if you must know, because I am one of those people other people like to have coffee with).

Despite the fact that I would rather be finishing my book than blogging and that Geekster is making it difficult to focus because he keeps talking to me when he knows I'm doing something very important, I will post something. I vowed to write 365 posts in 365 days, and The Maven keeps her promises.

Also, I must congratulate my sister on her announcement today - via Facebook, no less, which makes it very official - that she has moved in with her boyfriend, Chemgineer.

That being said, I am somewhat concerned with how quickly things are moving ahead with them. They seem to be leaping into something they might not be ready for. Moving in together is a huge step and should not be taken lightly. It shouldn't be "Hey, you're hot. Want to shack up?", or "I like Seinfeld and you like Seinfeld and it's on every night, so why not just live here and only use one t.v.? It's important to think of the environment, you know."

Their relationship has been very much like that: Wham, bam, move in with me, ma'am.

So, Photo Lush, who is my dear sister, I hope you're going to be careful and not jump into everything so quickly in your life. This isn't play time, kiddo. This is a serious commitment.

You can't just decide you're going to live with someone after only dating for five years. How can you know him well enough in that short amount of time to make a decision like that?

I hate to say it, but it's people like you that make relationships into a fly-by-night production. You cheapen them with your need for instant gratification and desire to play house. Don't come crying to me when you realize that his his hair is brown, or that he likes gross bands like Coldplay. You should have taken the time to learn these things about him before being so rash. I see a string of heartbreaks in your future the way you're going, missy.

But what can I do? I can only lead by example. Being the eldest sibling, I have to set the standard for how to do things right. And I have, of course. Was there ever any doubt? Geekster and I took a full month to get to know each other before we signed a lease and moved in together.

So there.