Let me tell you 'bout the birds, and the bees, and the socks, and the...what?

It's funny, the things that come out of your mouth when you're under duress. The kind of duress that is experienced when you have to tell your best friend that the dye job and cut she just got makes her look like Angelina, when you really want to tell her she looks like Brad, or telling your husband that the 40 or so pounds he's put on look fine with that tight shirt, or, as I recently experienced, trying to explain the purpose of a prophylactic, to a 5 year old. You know, when it comes right down to it, I would take the Spanish Inquisition ANY day, over having to explain that last one, which brings me to today's topic.
In the March issue of Today's Parent, I have the unbelievable good luck of being quoted in a article about lying to your children. It was brilliantly written by the awesome Lisa Van De Geyn, and I think everyone should read it. Like, now. Well, maybe right after you've read my piece here, that is.
In the article, I'm quoted as saying that I told my 5 year old that the condoms he found in my husband's dresser were, in fact, socks. Which I did, mainly. The whole conversation was a little more convoluted than the magazine would have you think, and I would be remiss if I didn't set the record straight. I didn't just come out and say, 'Yes, son, those are little (well, OK, not THAT little - I do have standards), lubricated, rubber socks.' What follows is what I like to think of as a mature, responsible conversation, between a Mother, and a child who really doesn't need to know about those sort of things until he's at least 18...or 40, and finally starts to date. Nice girls. Who are saving themselves for marriage. At any rate, read on.

At this point, we are rearranging furniture after lots, (read: months) of renovating. I'm replacing the books that were in the nightstand, and Riley is "helping". He reaches in and grabs the first thing he sees. 

R: "Mom, what are these?"
Me: "Those are breathing strips for Daddy's nose."
R: "What do they do?"
Me: They help Daddy at night so he doesn't snore, and keep Mommy up all night." What I'm really thinking is, they're totally effing useless, because he winds up on his back anyway, and all the strips do is make the snoring sound less like a motor boat, and more like a large, 4-door sedan. You'll know if I'm ever arrested, what it was for. 
R: "Oh." Totally uninteresting, and he throws them back in the drawer. He then spots and grabs the large, economy sized box of condoms sitting next to the strips. (What? Tell me you don't buy your condoms in bulk at Costco, and I'll tell you you're paying too much for a couple minutes (well, it might be longer than that) of pleasure.)
R: "Mom, what are THESE?"
Me: "Those are Daddy's as well." You can see at this point how I'm cleverly trying to deflect the topic, in the hopes that he'll drop it. Yeah, I need to stop being so naive. 
R: "Are they for his nose too?" At this point, I'm thinking, no, his nose never ventures anywhere NEAR the vicinity for which condoms are required, and then I start thinking that maybe we should discuss that some time soon, and then I'm brought back to reality by my 5 year old, trying to open a wrapper.
Me: "Riley, don't open that. No, they're not for his nose. They're for further down his body."
R: "You mean like for his feet?"
Me: Seizing on a way to get out of this conversation, which, at this point, is right up there on a scale with making small talk to my doctor while he's shoving a speculum up my hoo-hah. DeLIGHTful! 
"Yeah bud, they're like socks." And after this point, they're not going to be left lying around, like the rest of the socks in our household. EVER. 
R: "Cool! Can I try them on?"
Me: "NO!" At which point, I grab them, toss them back in the drawer, and mumble something about getting to try them on when Daddy's around. 
Fortunately for me, my son has the attention span of a gnat, and I was able to lure him away with promises of Kinder Eggs and chocolate milk. What can I say? I'm prepared for emergencies.

And before you get on me for not being truthful to my son about such an important topic, let me assure you, he does know where babies come from, and how they're made. In fact, he laughed at me when I explained the whole process. "Storks... yeah right Mom! That's so silly!" All kidding aside, he does know. In fairly graphic detail. And, one day, probably sooner than later, he'll learn about how to prevent pregnancy as well, and the responsibilities that both adults have when it comes to doing so. I have it all written down, with all the different methods there are, and I'm sure my husband is going to do an AMAZING job of explaining it. Really.

Just Do It! No, seriously... go ahead!

Have you ever jumped off a diving board? I have. A few times. Most often, I end up in a spectacular belly-flop, writhing in pain for a few minutes, and then cursing myself and swearing that I'll never do it again. Until the next time, that is. There's always that one time though, where I make a perfect dive, and slice through the water, sharp as a blade, and surface, feeling like I've just won the freaking Olympics. Those dives are the best. I revel in those, perhaps because they happen so infrequently. It's sort of like going ahead, and trying something that you've never done before. Chances are, you're going to fail miserably, and feel like a major dork, but maybe, just maybe, that one time you do it, you'll come out on top, and feel like Leo DiCaprio did on that damned boat. You know, before it sank, and he along with it.

If you'll recall, my last post was about inspiration. I think. I might've been drinking when I wrote it, so I'm not too sure, to be honest. But, all that talk of things that blow my fur back got me to thinking. What if, this time, I take a giant leap off the diving board, and not worry if my bathing suit falls off? So, with that in mind, I'm going to do it. Not actually dive, but rather, I'm going to step out of my considerable comfort zone, and do something new. In this case, it's going to be starting a new career path, hopefully. In May of this year, I'm going to embark on a Visual Design program, with a specialization in Interior Design. I know. I'm just as shocked as you are. Like I said last time, I love messing around with colours, and fabrics, and art work, and paint, and everything that goes with, even if it is on a shoe-string budget most of the time. I love making things pretty AND functional. (which, sadly, my kitchen is only one of the two currently. Who designs a kitchen with only one and a half drawers, anyway?) I'm constantly going to friends homes, and itching to re-hang their photos and pictures to a proper height. Which, in case you're wondering, is about 58" from the centre of the piece to the floor. Usually. It depends on where it's hung. Doesn't it always depends on how it's hung? So, I thought I would make it official, and actually get an education in the process. Ultimately, I would love to be able to design interiors for people, but for now, I'm aspiring to staging homes for the real estate market. Well, that's in addition to actually passing the program. Baby steps, right?
I'm as nervous as hell, but so excited at the thought of making a dream a reality. At least a dream that doesn't involve standing in front of JLo, Steven Tyler and that other guy... Yeah, like THAT'S gonna happen.

I also thought, in keeping with actually having a blog, that I would track my progress. So, please expect to hear, in the coming months, plenty of commentary on my journey. You know it's going to make you laugh, even if it's only because I showed you some of my work. ;)

Inspired? Eh, maybe...

Well, the cold weather has hit with a vengeance, and along with it, my motivation for accomplishing, well, anything at this point. I think Mother Nature must've finally realized that it's supposed to be cold, and she's making up for the last two and a half months by giving it to us all in one shot. Minus 30 doesn't really inspire anyone to do anything, other than occasionally turn up the heat. I think I almost froze my tongue to the window glass this morning, and I didn't even think such a thing was possible. On the upshot, the power and gas companies must be loving this whole "Christmas in January" thing.

At any rate, seeing as I'm going to accomplish 2/5 of nothing today, I started thinking about what really does inspire me. At this point, I really can't think of anything. How sad is that? Does eating count? I'm trying to think if I've ever really been inspired by anything, other than a plate of bison tartare that I once had the delight of tucking into. I was inspired to order more. Which I did.

There really isn't a lot that I'm extremely passionate about, although I'm sure if you ask my husband, he'll tell you that yelling at speeders on our street ranks pretty high. Actually, I am pretty passionate about our little community, to the point where I now sit on three separate boards in the area. On the days where I think I can do anything (which, at this point, let's admit it, isn't bloody likely), I aspire to one day being a City Councillor. I've always wanted a job where people can criticize my every move, and lambaste me on a daily basis. I mean, I can do that now, being a Mother, but I just don't get paid for it.

The other thing that gets my blood pumping, to my husband's EXTREME chagrin, is home renovation and decor. I hope to one day find that hidden gem of a house, just crying out for my fabulous sense of design and vision. (at least I "think" that's what it's crying out for. It might just be that it sees me coming and doesn't have anywhere to run.) I'd like to think that I have a good sense of what works and what doesn't as far as home style is concerned. My wardrobe is another matter entirely.
We've now renovated two homes, and the second one still isn't done. There's a full-on kitchen reno coming in the next couple years, and I already find myself planning and scheming as to what mayhem I can come up with. My husband is already stocking the wine and Ativan. In a perfect world, I think I would do reno and design for a living. Sadly though, I'm currently stuck just playing with my own home. Still, you never know what can happen in a year.

So, that's what makes me tick, other than a good bottle of wine and some foie gras pate, of course. What inspires you? Anything? What really floats your boat these days? I'm genuinely curious. Go figure.

I think I'm entitled to write this...

A Belated Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and early Happy New Year to everyone. I hope everyone got what they wished for, and if you didn't, I hope you weren't too put out by it. Not like THESE entitled schmucks...  home.comcast.net/~gn0me/random/ ...which brings me to the topic of this post, entitled, "I think I'm entitled to write this..."

If you click on the link, you'll find a page of tweets compiled by someone other than me. I haven't been able to ascertain who it was exactly, but if I ever meet them, I'd like to shake their hand. Maybe buy them a drink too. ETA: the tweets were compiled by Jon Hendron aka @fart. Great name. Anyway, back to the point of those tweets. They are all written by people who, for some mysterious reason, unbeknownst to me, are actually bitching that they didn't get any of the following for Christmas:

iPhone
iTouch
iPad
insert other high priced electronic device here
Car (a few people complained about this one, and it's SO ludicrous that I'm not even going to touch it)


I'm stymied as to why ANY of these ungrateful little shits would broadcast their obvious slights for the world to read, and even further baffled as to why they think they deserve these things in the first place. I mean, yes, I know we live in a digital world, and I am a digital girl (props to ripping off Madonna here), but not in a million years would I DREAM of going online and kvetching (and I use the word loosely) about my lack of latest Apple product that should have been gifted to me. My jaw actually hit the desk when I read some of the comments directed at the poor parents of these little ingrates. There are things written that I've never even THOUGHT about my Mother. (well, maybe once, but that was a long time ago, and she wouldn't let me go to the Poison concert because she said I was too young.)

Upon further examination of these tweets, I was struck by apparent fact that the large number of these twits are likely under the age of 25, based on photographic evidence. I'm going to put on my "old lady" hat for a minute, and make note that when I was 25, we didn't even HAVE an iPad. We had to use Palm Pilots. How do you like that? Huh? My point is, what does this apparent lack of appreciation and all out greed say for the "younger" generation? (and I use quotation marks only because I'm not that far removed from said generation. OK, so I'm about 12 years removed from it, but so what?) Is this the message that Gen Y really wants to send to the rest of the world? I mean, hell, that generation is the fastest growing segment of the work force, so I can only IMAGINE the conversations that abound when it comes to talking salaries and benefits with potential employers. "What, I don't get 250K a year and my own car as a burger flipper?" "Don't benefits include mani/pedis every two weeks?" "Um, I see by my schedule that I get lunch, but there's no slotted "online shopping" time?" You get the idea.

In other words, to make things nice and simple; I fear for our society. Greatly. So much so, that I'm thinking of moving to Bora Bora. I hear they have really nice beaches. I wonder if they have Wi-Fi?

To RSVP...or not to RSVP, that is the question...

Let's get something straight first off... I love hosting parties. LOVE it. I even use renovating my house as an excuse to have one. (come to think of it, the renovation work is a whole other blog in itself) What do I love about them? I love planning. I love decorating things in such a way that people will wonder if I hired Maaaaartha to come over and do it for me. I love designing a menu which I then press my husband into executing. (hey, I didn't marry a chef for nothing, you know!) I love gathering family and friends and filling them full of food and drink. (I love doing this to myself even more, but a party's a GREAT excuse to do so.) 

But, in all of this silver lining, there's a black thread. The R.S.V.P. - which, as you may or may not know, is French for Repondez, s'il vous plait. Merci beaucoup. In other words, if I take the time and effort to invite you to my party, then please, do me the courtesy of responding, so I know how much brie and wine to purchase. I mean, don't get me wrong. I LOVE brie AND wine, but I don't really want to consume my body weight in both, just because you couldn't be bothered to let me know you wouldn't be attending my little shindig. I'd gladly do it, but really, I can do that any old night of the week. 

It's really not that difficult, especially with the advent of social media like Facebook. I create a swell little events page, and lovingly choose the people I want to spend my evening with, come up with a catchy little phrase to invite them, and voila! (There's that French again. It's SO good that I took that in school instead of typing.) I hit "invite", and there you have it. So then WHY, for the love of all that is good and Holy, is it so freaking hard to hit "yes", "no", or "I don't know you, so please eff off"? I even send updates and reminders to people, and if you knew how much I hate looking desperate, you'll know how much I hate doing that. Nothing smacks more of desperation than "oh, hai, I see you haven't responded to my invitation, so could you please head over to my events page and reply? Because otherwise, it's going to be me and my 14 cats enjoying the salmon ball for the evening." 

And, people can't even use the excuse that the invite hit their inbox and they didn't know about it, because Facebook did me the great service of explaining their new messaging system, which I thought was exceptionally timely. And for all you old-fashioned folks who think that using social media as a invitation tool is lame, what exactly am I supposed to use it for? Updating my kid's bowel movements? Sharing that lame-ass "what colour is your bra" thing? That's why it's not called "anti-social media". You dig? Now, next time? Just grab your French'English dictionary, and Repondez, s'il vous plait.

When I'm done laughing, I'll give you an answer.

Someone asked me last week if I was going to have more children, and as always, my reply was, "well, I'm not, but maybe talk to my husband. If he's willing to go through nine months of puking his guts out, then HEY! I'm all for it."

I'll be honest, I do miss having a wee bairn to cuddle, and having that babe gaze up at me adoringly, like I'm the only thing in the world. It sure beats the hell out of "Mom, can you come wipe my bum? I think I got poo on my hand..." or "Mooooooommmmmmm! I'm hungryyyyyyyyyy! Can you bring me a bagel & cream cheese and some strawberry-banana juice?" Like, who in the hell does this kid think he is? Coco Chanel? Now the only time he gazes at me with that loving expression is when I happen to have a McDonald's Happy Meal in my hand.

So, when people ask if we're going to expand the family, my first response is to laugh hysterically. It's similar to what I would do at 3 AM, when the child wouldn't latch to save his life, and I was at the end of my tether. No, sadly, there are no more kids in the mix for us. My sanity just won't allow for it. Let this serve as a PSA for everyone out there who feels that they have to ask, which brings me to the reason for penning this post.

WHY, when I say that I'm not having any more kids, do people look at me with such pity in their eyes, or like I've got a boil growing out of my forehead? Oh, right, it must be all those "Mother of the Year" trophies I have lining my walls. Listen up people. All I'm really doing is depriving some lucky child the chance to eat dry Rice Krispies while watching Spongebob, while Mommy whiles away the day at the computer, challenging Alec Baldwin to that 14th game of Words with Friends. I'm not spending my day, making life-size impressions of my child's head with decoupage, or recording his every burp, fart and bowel movement with a scrapbook page. Hell, I'm lucky if I can get two matching socks and a clean shirt on his bod before hustling him out the door for a few hours, so I can develop my Sims Social character in peace. It also gives me time to come up with witty comments on Twitter, without having to deal with petty problems like what to serve for lunch or dinner. What I'm really trying to say is that we all have our own reasons for not wanting to over-populate the Earth. When I give you mine, please respect that fact, and please don't tell me that "oh, your poor son. He's not going to have anyone to play with as he grows up." Bitch, please. My kid is a bigger social butterfly than the entire cast of Gossip Girl. Trust me. He can make friends with anyone and everyone, and he does. Even if they don't want him to. Just stand still long enough, and you will get his entire life story, all five years of it, in a nutshell. We're working on just name, rank and serial number, but it's hard work.

Another favourite of mine is, "But you'll regret only having one at some point, and then it'll be too late, because you'll be too old." First off, I highly doubt it, because I like my sleep too much, and secondly, that's right! I WILL be too old. Do you think I want my kid to be getting out of diapers as I'm going into them? Hey, I could do what Madonna did, and adopt a child at 50. Just think of the fun we could have playing "braid Mommy's wrinkles" or, "help Mommy find her keys/clothes/house/remember her name". Good times!

No, boys and girls, I'm quite content with my, as some ditz once put it, "token child". He and I have a great relationship when I'm not trying to figure out how much I could get for him on the black market. Having another would skew that dynamic horribly, and would skew my brain function even further. The bottom line is, not everyone is meant to have a brood of children. Therapists would lose a shit ton of money on those "only child syndrome" types if that were to happen. Think on that the next time you want to project your opinion on poor, ol' mother of a single child, me. It'll save you having to back away slowly, looking around for the nearest exit.

Tis better to give...

I had an interesting conversation with my 5 year old yesterday. We were talking about Christmas and gifts, and how it's nice to get a gift that you really want, as opposed to when you were 13 years old, really hoping for a Sun Ice jacket, and instead got a sweatshirt with kittens on it. (The rhinestone eyes were the real piece de resistance - I'll have to go into more detail in another post) I said that maybe he should ask his Daddy what he might like for Christmas, because I don't have a clue, other than beer, socks and underwear, in that order. Isn't that what every man wants? That, and a Victoria's Secret model wearing a bra that's two sizes too small?
5 year old immediately pipes up and says, "oh, I already know what Daddy wants!" So I said, "Oh, really? And what's that?"

"Daddy wants an 'Air Hog Crane and Helicopter'."

I should probably, for those of you who aren't up on your Air Hog merchandise, explain what that is. It is presumably a toy crane and helicopter, which according to the bright, splashy advertising, can "REALLY FLY!" I highly doubt it.

Uh-huh. So, I think he's got the whole "getting a gift you really want" thing down pat. Really. It puts a whole new spin on "it's better to give than to receive". Indeed. I hope the husband likes his Air Hog.