In Which I Spill Coffee all over my Boss' Birthday Gift

Part of being a mom and a part-time worker bee is that I have to juggle a lot of stuff.  Take last Wednesday, for example: hubby was out of town visiting his grandma in the hospital, and I had to get all three gremlins off to three different schools and myself to work by 9 a.m.

Oh, and I had to buy my boss a birthday gift.

She would argue that I didn't have to, but I had to. I mean, she's my boss. And she's also a dear friend, a mentor and someone who just generally rocks.

No, ladies and gents, this was not optional in my mind. And even though I had scarcely enough time to breathe with all the chaos afoot, making sure the Boss Lady had something nice on her desk that day was top priority. 

Besides, this would all work out. I was doing okay for time. In fact, I was better than okay. I was a whole five minutes ahead of schedule.


Five minutes!


And if you don't think that's impressive then you're obviously childless (and a part of me is somewhat envious, but only a small part - the part that doesn't get quite as much sleep as I'd like). The marathon was almost at an end. It was 8:45 and that meant I had just enough time to pop into Boss Lady's favourite tea establishment just down the street from the office, pick up something she'd hopefully love enough to excuse any slacking off I might do that day, and get my sizeable bottom to work for 9 a.m.

Problem: The tea place didn't open until 9 a.m.

What place that serves caffeine-laced beverages opens at 9?!

Okay, I figured, no problem. BL wasn't going to be in the office right at nine anyway. And, while that's technically my start time, I was fairly confident my tardiness could get excused with "But I had to get you a birthday present." (That and "I had to save some orphans from a fire" are both right up there on the list of reasons why you're boss probably won't mind if you're late for work.)

I waited around the tea store until nine and ran in as soon as the door was unlocked. I carefully picked out something awesome so that every time she gazed upon it she would think "Why, this is awesome, just like my employee."

I had the store clerk gift wrap it in the cutest little turquoise bag with white tissue.  Then I strutted back to my car and drove to the office.

Problem: I had an open coffee.

Okay, so this isn't a huge deal in itself; I often walk around with open coffees. But I don't often walk up a flight of stairs with an open coffee while carrying the following things:

• My purse
• My lunch
• My keys
• My work bag
• My cell phone
• My boss' beautifully-wrapped birthday gift

And I carried all this up the flight of stairs in a new pair of heeled boots. As a former stay-at-home-mom, I'm not terribly accustomed to heels. So, while I was busy humming and fiddling with the office door keys and imagining how much Boss Lady was going to like her new gift, I wasn't paying attention to the fact that I was spilling my coffee all over the damn gift bag, and inside the gift bag, and all over the gifts.

Problem: You can't give your boss a gift with coffee all over it.

You can give your boss a gift, you can give your boss a coffee. Those are two things I know for sure. But I'm fairly confident that you can't give your boss a gift with coffee stains all over it. I think that might be considered a bad idea.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit shit!" was about all that escaped my mouth. Thankfully there are no other employees in our office or I might have lost my Employee of the Month status. How on earth was I going to fix this little problem? I wiped down the gifts, but Boss Lady would be in shortly and I had to make sure I had some kind of wrapping.

Problem: I do not work at a gift store.

The only wrapping paper I could find was sparkly red and had candy canes on it, so I knew I had to employ some serious problem-solving skills.  That's when I noticed the takeout sushi bags.

I hastily grabbed one and stuffed the gifts into it.

Problem: The gift was not sushi.

No worries. I took care of that:

Finally, I hastily scrawled her a note.

And I think she was rather happy with the whole thing, really.

And, most importantly, I lived to see another day with the highly-coveted Favourite Employee status.

"If a hooker comes by, just say no."

I'm so grumpy tonight I might make a baby cry just by looking at it. That's a bad kind of grumpy.

I'm trying to make it better with a latte and some rice pudding, but so far it's not working. Maybe blogging will help. Well, that and loud music in my ears on some headphones with skulls plastered on them. Done and done.

Guess what? I had to buy a car this weekend.

Well, "had to" may be a tad strong. Probably more like "decided it would be best to." I've been thinking about trading in Vanzilla for awhile now. She's a good bucket of bolts, but she's showing her age. Things just keep going wrong, and some of those things are scary. Fires brought on by the brakes seizing, for example (that was a fun day). Or the fact that we were all stranded an hour outside of town Friday evening - that would be Geekster and me with three worried kids and two dogs on our way to see Geekster's ailing grandma for the weekend.

That little kerfuffle resulted in me having to call a friend to come and get the kids, dogs and I and bring us home while Geekster spent the night with the van at one of scuzziest motels I've ever seen.

Oh, wait - hang on. Geekster didn't spend the night with the van at the motel. Ew, gross. Get your twisted mind out of the gutter. He's not weird like you, sicko. He's not automobile-sex-fetish weird, I can assure you.  Last I checked, I had some junk in my trunk but I have yet to make the cover of Auto Trader.

Anyway, that motel was the kind of place bachelors go to die. No lie, dudes. Guys in stained wife beater shirts and days' worth of stubble hibachi-ing the shit out dinner with Achey Breaky Heart blasting from the pick-up truck out front and a string of laundry hanging unceremoniously from the room windows. Beer cans stacked outside, a little bit of yelling... I half expected the cast of Cops to show up.

As such, I gave Geekster two rules:

1. Don't get murdered, please, and,
2. If a hooker comes by, just say no. (In truth, this was primarily based on budgetary issues: no happy endings with the van needing repairs in the morning, ok?)

The long and short of this story is that by the time Geekster came home on Saturday, I had decided I needed a new ride. So we went out and found me one. Instant gratification: that's how I roll.

I bought one of these babies. Yes, the Olympic model - the one the athletes and people who get rich off of the athletes were given to drive around the Olympic village in Vancouver last year. Sexy, right? I figure that I'll probably get skinny through osmosis just being behind the wheel. And it's a hybrid, which makes me instantly eco-friendly. Cyclists will give me a thumbs up as they come up beside my car. Birds will flutter around me and tweet merrily before shitting on the Escalade behind me. Roadkill will rise from the dead just to bow as I quietly drive past. People everywhere will say "There goes that Maven - she's so hot right now."

Or something like that.

Anyway, I'm waiting for the paperwork to go through, making it all official and stuff. This is a huge step down from my van in some ways - space-wise and seating-wise - but it's a dead sexy car with room for all of us and some decent fuel savings. And it's new. And, most importantly, I'm pretty sure the brakes won't catch on fire anytime soon. Besides which, I have six years of bumper-to-bumper warranty and an anti-rust thingy being put in. I may get buried in this car.

In truth, this what is known as a "mild hybrid," meaning that it uses its battery pack less than some other hybrid cars. But I like to measure all environmental efforts on a scale of 0 to 10 rabbit deaths. To demonstrate, I show you this exquisitely drawn example:

So if, for example, a Hummer's fuel emissions are the equivalent slaughtering ten baby bunnies as it drives by, and my old van is the equivalent of around 5, and an electric car quietly rolls over 1 as the driver sheds a tear into her organically fair traded coffee, I'd like to imagine I'm only snapping 2 baby bunny necks with my new car. And that makes me feel like I can sleep better at night.

And, in the end, isn't life all about how well I sleep at night? Your day, my day, all geared toward my emotional well being, just the way it should be.

For the next couple of days until my new baby is ready I am pretty much vehicle-less, which is an impressive 0 on my heartwarming eco-scale. No rabbits were harmed in me staying home and watching reruns of Glee. But I'm still a moody biatch because - get this for timing - Geekster's grandma was admitted to the hospital the same night the van broke down. His parents are out of town and family friends are visiting with her right now, but it's beyond frustrating that we can't be there like we had planned. Hopefully my ride will make her driveway debut by Tuesday, and as soon as she's here Geekster will be driving to Peterborough to see his Nana. He has his own car that can make the trip, but we need to make sure I can get the kids to school and myself to work while he's gone. Like I said, the Universe has remarkable timing sometimes.

So I should be over-the-moon excited and instead I'm just kind of worried and feeling guilty, which sucks. Writing it out helped a little, and I think I've realized there isn't a whole lot I can do right now. Life is what it is.

Technically,  according to the mechanic who looked at it, I can drive my van if absolutely necessary, but not above 80km/h. This is not only because the caliper is partially seized on the back brake, but also because my car will time travel and I will end up having to help my dysfunctional parents fall in love at the Under the Sea dance by playing guitar before my arm disappears.

And if my arm disappears I'll be really grumpy.

PS: I'm trying to come up with a great name for my car. She's sexy, so give me your best exotic dancer name. That's right: I'm going to name her after a stripper. My friend's car is already named Candy and I'm not going to Single White Female her ride, so let's come up with something different. Then I'm only partially a copycat. Here's a picture. Picture her with tassels on the headlights:

Some people panic; I bake disturbing things.

Today marked a special occasion: For the first time in our family history, all three gremlins scuttled off to school and both parental units hit the office. Normally there is at least one of us home during the day, but today the house is empty. (Don't get any ideas about breaking in. We have an alarm and two dogs who will lick you to death. Plus, you could get knocked out by a mystery smell from the compost under the sink as you search for the very few valuables Visa MasterCard we own.)

It's the end of an era. No longer am I a stay-at-home-mom. With Spawnling in school four days each week (beginning today) and I at the office for at least two of them, we are a family who hustles out the door with backpacks and jackets and hastily-brewed coffees in fancy travel mugs.

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic as I remember holding a wee gremlin's hand as we wished his older brother a happy first day of school. I miss signing up for playgroup and meeting new people who will undoubtedly become my groupies. I miss hanging out with my friends Maury and Oprah and Phil, and learning about the important things, like what makeup style is in this fall, or why I look fat in these jeans, or who Latisha's baby daddy is (or isn't). The good ol' days of very little scheduling, lots of parks, the blissful quiet of naptime.

I love that I stayed home with my boys. It's been a wonderful experience. I'm bottling up the good feelings from those times and storing them in the recesses of my cobwebbed mind so I can draw on them when I'm about to go batshit crazy over how busy life is going to get. And make no mistake: it's going to get all kinds crazy.

Some people panic when responsibilities are looming. I can see why. After a couple of months of sleeping in most days, drinking a leisurely coffee on the deck, and only half-assedly parenting, we are now getting three sleepy boys out the door before 8 a.m. four days a week - and thankfully only two out on Fridays.

Intrepid pretty much gets himself ready as long as you wake him up, but like most teens, we still need to remind him to bring his lunch, his backpack and his brain to school. Gutsy is a bit of a landmine - he's unpredictable as he's definitely not a morning person: I wake him up before anyone else so that he has time to eat cereal in bed, watch a show, get dressed, and slowly meander out the door for 7:45. He may or may not blow up in the process, but the likelihood increases as the week drags on. Spawnling will go back to sleep if I don't check up on him repeatedly. He's usually happy, but sloth-like. Since cattle prods are illegal to use on children (no idea why), I tend to entice him downstairs with promises of food. It's far more humane but involves me actually having to make him something. Dammit.

Now, with having my own schedule to keep that does not always allow for the wearing of yoga pants and scrunchies, I feel a little like a domestic air traffic controller. Thankfully, I only work two days a week right now and have a helpful husband. Still, I could see how this schedule could induce panic.

But I do not panic. Oh, no, I do not. Instead, I reach deep within, grab hold of my inner Virgo, and do what Virgos do best: organize, organize, organize.

As of 8:30 p.m. yesterday, I had the following tasks completed:

• Backpacks ready by the front door
• Spawnling's school supplies ready for his first day
• Gluten-free apple crisp cooling on the stove
• Gluten-free homemade crackers put into lunches
• All the lunches made and in the fridge
• Bacon cooking on the stove for breakfast

Boo-freaking-yeah, bitches. By the looks of things I have my shit together, don't I? There are undoubtedly tears of envy flowing down your cheeks as you wonder why you can't just get your life together like The Maven can. It's dark in my shadow.

Well, before your call your employee therapy hotline, can I just point out a couple of things?

Let's talk about those crackers for a minute. I made them from scratch, and they're yummy. I even made them autumn-themed. Check it out:

I should call myself "The Martha"

Cute, right?

Want to be even more impressed? I wrote everyone's names on some of them. (Please ignore the fact that I was tired of cutting out shapes and just smushed them down with my hands. Sort of takes away from the cutesy-ness a little bit.)

I even made one for my boss (not shown here)

But Martha I am not. A true sign of my crazy came through when I got a little tired of making happy faces on the pumpkin and apple-shaped crackers.

My favourite one is obviously the bottom left. I made lots like him.

After snack time today, the teachers are going to flag my children as coming from a troubled home-- or at least a troubled womb.

Does that make you feel better? It should. And if it doesn't, you can smile gleefully as I mention that, despite planning everything down to the minutest detail in my control-freakish way - getting everyone off to school on time with wholesome lunches, and even picking up a coffee in the process - I couldn't control just how much traffic was on the road and was 10 minutes late for work.

You're very welcome.

Maven, out.

Not Just a Mommy Blogger (NOT that there's anything wrong with that)

Did you miss me? Hell yes, you did. And I missed you, too.

No, really, I did. I'm not playing you, boo. I'm not a drunk middle-aged guy at a bar feeling up your leg over those skinny jeans. (PS: most people old enough to go to a bar can't pull off skinny jeans anymore. I thought you should know so that you can reconsider your wardrobe choices. This public service announcement has been brought to you by me, The Maven.)

I've been so caught up in real life crap that I haven't given my baby any attention. I'm a neglectful blog mother. I wish I could say I was doing something made-for-TV-movie-worthy, like working as a high class prostitute while supporting my painkiller habit and go-nowhere acting career, but it hasn't been nearly that interesting. I'm more of the rock back and forth in the corner while twitching and mumbling under my breath because the real life kids are fighting way too much kind of blog mother.

Hard to get enough quality script material out of cowering in a puddle of my own tears. Now, if I had a crack pipe in my pocket we'd at least have a shot at getting on Intervention.

But I digress.

The kids are back at school and today is my birthday. It's like I won the lottery, but instead the gremlins aren't clawing at my pant legs anymore (not skinny jeans, for the record) and my husband bought me a Kitchen Aid mixer (yes, the kind I've been fantasizing about for years) and now we're broke. So not really like the lottery at all, unless it's the sanity/baking lottery.

I actually like the sound of that lottery.

Owning this is the domestic equivalent of street cred.

I'm 35, and I've been waiting for this birthday for a long, long time. Why? Because this is going to be my year. Why? Because my late grandmother told me it would be, that's why.

Once upon a time, when I was about 23 and going through a hard time, my grandma held my hand and told me that I was going to be beautiful in every way at 35. I would be confident, assertive, and have a clear vision of what I want in my life. Basically it was a grandma-to-granddaughter pep talk, but I took it very literally. I decided a long time ago that this would be the year to start doing great things; to come into my own; to fucking shine.

And that starts today.

And, oddly enough, it's starting with a blog overhaul.

I've been posting on stay-at-home-mayhem for over four years now. I love this blog. But lately I've been feeling like I need something new and fresh. I was feeling blocked, and almost shut the blog down. True story.

I love writing about my little ankle-biters, but with all of them in school most of the week, I'm finding I have less to say on parenting and more to say on other things.  So, instead of giving the blog up altogether, I decided a name change was in order. Same blog address (you're welcome), a broader range of content.

See, at my ripe old age of 35 and no longer suffocated by dirty diapers and blinded by scream-induced migraines, I've had an epiphany: There is more to me than simply being a mom.

I know, I know. Let that sink in for a minute. Try not to drop the baby while in shock.

I have a lot to say, and not all of it is about parenting. I've always tried to write about whatever is on my mind, but I felt kind of stifled by being deemed a "mommy blogger." I felt guilty writing about other stuff, like I was somehow straying too far from the theme.

Not that there's anything wrong with being a mommy blogger. Don't hate me, mommy bloggers. Don't throw all-natural bamboo toys at my gorgeous face. I'm not putting you down, I'm just branching out. In case you've forgotten, I have three boys. I'm not just a mommy, I'm a momzilla. So don't get all up in my grill lest I stomp the hell out of your proverbial Tokyo.

Anyway, this is a birthday present to myself. Happy birthday, me. I deserve this change. I deserve to love writing again, and it's been awhile since I've felt that way.

Must go cuddle on the couch with that handsome Geekster of mine. Not only did he buy me a mixer, but he's also making me popcorn and watching a show I like. And did I mention he's handsome? And that he bought me a fancy mixer?

Welcome, 35. We are so going to own this year. Maven, out.