(On Top of the) Mutherload

We Are Made of Stars.

2013-05-17T16:15:00Z

I've been thinking and thinking about how to feel good when things are bad. Where do you find good in the world, Sara asked the other day, when the world is full of bad and scary news...it feels kinda... hard.

And then I remembered this haunting, acoustic version of Moby's own song, We Are all Made of Stars... it's the cello mixed with those gorgeous voices that get me. So totally beautiful. And hopeful.

People they come together

People they fall apart

No one can stop us now

'Cause we are all made of stars

I really love this version. Indeed, let's be the one who come together, people... and not the ones who fall apart. Go hug your family and the friends you love the mostest. Kumbaya, and whatnot.

Enjoy your long weekend, everyone! Be safe - have fun!!

All Lined Up

2013-05-15T18:45:00Z

I like to think of myself as being an organised and tidy person, but I don't make myself nuts about it. I mean, not for real.

And recently while in the grocery store, the woman behind me remarked on how organised all my stuff was on the conveyor belt, waiting to be scanned by the cashier. I hadn't really thought about it before, but I suppose it was kind of sorted... fruits and vegetables were mostly together, cold and frozen things were close to the meats, drinks were together, eggs and breads at the last. *shrugs*

It's the natural way I tend to sort out the items, and I don't think about it much, but I reckon it's easier for the packer this way, too. And I hope my efforts will mean my bananas and tomatoes won't get squished on the way home.

Today while getting groceries, I noticed the woman in front of me unloading the items from her carry basket lining up each of her items down the centre of the conveyor belt. Dead centre. And as she adjusted each food, she tapped it with her index finger four times.

Oh.

The cashier's shoulders dropped and her eyes blinked with wariness when she saw this woman was next - she was familiar, I suppose - and she wordlessly bagged every single item of this lady's order into individual produce bags before letting them slide past the scanner into the bagging section.

The woman in front of me whipped her head back suddenly, and I got a look at her face. She was rail-thin and just looked... exhausted. Just what you'd think a person with (what appeared to be) such rampant OCD might look like. Her narrow-set eyes darted around, almost suspiciously, and when they settled on mine, I smiled weakly. She just turned her head away away again.

I felt so bad for her.

The cashier kept her lips persed the entire time and just rang up the goods, and held her palm out for money, which the thin woman dropped into her hand, carefully, as not to make any contact.

I tried not to stare, but frankly, I was a bit fascinated. I watched the woman bag every single item into separate plastic bags, and leave the store. She had to have had close to thirty bags fluttering in her bony arms. Made me wonder what inside her house looks like.

When it was my turn at the register, the cashier rolled her eyes at me and gave me a lopsided grin. I leaned in and said, "It takes all kinds to make a world," and smiled at her.

She raised her eyebrows and slowly blinked. "Madame, you wouldn't believe how much of the world I've seen in this place," and then she chuckled to herself as she scanned my stuff.

I don't doubt it. Grocery store clerks have seen it all, I'm soooo sure.

And yet, I really wonder how tired a person must be to have to count everything, sort everything, tap everything, count again, separate, line up... Sure, I joke about having OCD, but in reality, mine is totally imaginary. Wow.

Got any peculiar habits at the grocery store? Confess...

Doing For Yourself

2013-05-15T14:45:00Z

This kid's favourite sport is soccer. He loves watching it, playing FIFA video games, and spends hours kicking a ball around with his cronies in front of our house, for as many hours as I'll let him. And these many, many hours of practice have garnered him some pretty excellent footwork... and he's gentle about it - he's not likely to push his way to the ball, but he'll neatly steal it from between your ankles with quick little jabs of his nimble feet.

Case in point: As we watched the Toronto Maple Leafs let their excellent lead slip away during game #7 and LOSE the other night (after which he cried, poor lamb... okay, we all did... I'm still totally shocked and dismayed, man!) I asked him if he'd like to learn to play hockey. He said, "Well, I like watching hockey, but I don't like all the punching and stuff. I find this game too aggressive. I prefer soccer." (I reminded him that they don't spend all their time fighting, but I guess it's what stands out to him. Gentle, I say.)

So, soccer it is.

He studies the game, and he knows the rules. He's learning about proper positioning, and about defence. He's got a pretty good team of kids to play with, but during one of the last games when he came off for a rest, he looked... frustrated as hell.

Me: What's up, Boo?

He: Well, I just... *hand slaps thigh* ...some kids don't pass the ball. I could have scored before, but... some kids just want to score all the time themselves, even though they could have passed to someone closer to the net. It's not really fair.

He looks positively crestfallen.

Me: *deep breath* Yeah, I understand. It would be better if everyone had more of a chance to score.

He: Well, I could have! And I always pass the ball. You're supposed to.

Me: *nods* I know. But helping assist the shot is just as important...

He: ...but it's bad when someone hogs the ball all the time.

Me: *rubs his head* Especially on your own team. *nods* I know.

He: It's not fair. *tsk*

Me: I know, Boo. The thing is, the team wants to win, so sometimes it feels like the right thing just to get as many goals as possible... but it doesn't always feel good for everyone else on the team. I know.

He: Yeah. Because no one else gets a chance.

Me: But you're ahead by a lot!

He: I know, but... *grumbles*

Me: You know, maybe before your next game, you could ask your coach if you could practice passing the ball for a while... the whole team could benefit, I'm sure, because some boys are still just learning how to play the game, you know? Learning their positions, trying not to be offside... all that stuff. It's harder to play on a team than one-on-one in front of our house. It takes practice.

He: *gives me a dubious look*

Me: I mean, instead of whining or complaining with a sad face, you could just look him in the eye and lay it out like that... sometimes it's all in the way you ask for something.

He: Could you ask him?

Me: *shakes head* I think you should do it. I mean, if it's important to you... and he might even say no *shrugs* but if you ask in a neutral way, he's not likely to refuse you. Smile at the man when you ask him. And thank him if he agrees - he's not scary, or anything. People are often open to good ideas. *smiles* Anyway, he might catch your drift, instead of you singling anyone out... which is a bit like tattling... you know what I mean?

He: Mmmm. Maybe.

It didn't matter that they creamed the other team 12-2 that day. (And he did score one goal himself.) I don't know what he'll decide to do in the end, but I think it's important that he do it for himself. I want him to be able to find effective ways to get what he wants... these are the character-building things I cannot do for him, as much as I wish I could.

I have high hopes for this boy.

The Business of Retail

2013-05-09T18:30:00Z

I've been mulling and stewing and thinking about the issue big business + retail clothing for a while now, but especially since the recent tragedy of the building that collapsed in Bangladesh over two weeks ago. The death toll is nearing 900 persons, lots of them women.

As is the case of every for-profit business, it comes down to the bottom line. Everyone is chasing the dollar - that's what big business is.

So, herein lies the issue of ethical treatment of people everywhere - I'm sure we all agree that this is what we wish for all people, working everywhere in the world: Fair pay. Sane working conditions. Safe working conditions. We all want this and more for each employee on the planet. The problem is, how can you know workplaces everywhere are doing right by their people? How can you know if you don't see with your own eyes?

Moving towards being more conscious socially, being eco-friendlier, making sustainable choices about what we buy, use, ingest, etc. is tricky and complicated business. Trying to live a moderate life without over-consuming, without wasting, without pesticides, without child-labour, that supports your local retailers, and growers, and artisans, and trying to make your carbon footprint smaller... it's all quite a lot.

Okay, maybe it's easier for some. Maybe it's easy for lots. But this stuff is complicated as hell.

We can't all raise our own chickens, or even always buy the locally raised organic variety, simply because the hefty pricetag doesn't allow it if you're budgeted and you need eggs. One could argue that it taxes the environment and one's body otherwise, which is a far heftier price to pay... but did you drive out to the country to get your eggs? Did you take photos of those adorable free-range chickens with your iPhone? They're made in China, you know.

Footprints, footprints.

Are you a bad person if you don't compost? If you didn't ask who picked the coffee you're drinking today, does that make you pro-chemical-ingesting-child-labour lovers? If you don't buy everything locally, are you ruining farming in your community? If you don't buy all your clothes from Etsy or from the Goodwill, are you then saying it's okay for 13 year old girls to sew your jeans for close to twice the average work day in buildings one fart away from falling to the ground in ruin?

No, of course not. Because nothing is quite so absolute. Doing one thing does not necessarily cancel out the other thing. You know what I mean?

I don't think any of us is so unfeeling or uncaring. But I don't think we can take every single issue to task because there are simply too many of them. Since somewhere down the line of each and every socio-economical problem is a person trying to make ends meet for his or her family. That's the crux. And every person on this earth loves and values his or her children and family just as much as you do yours.

So, when we do our best to budget for all things - for our homes, our food, our clothes, entertainment, etc., we make choices at each turn. Sometimes the choice is simply made by our wallets. Sometimes, we get a better sense of love for community, or indeed, for the earth, when we put our money where our hearts and minds are. We have to pick and choose.

Some people live on communes, and live off the land, reap what they sow, and it's all very kumbaya-my-lord, delicious, and nutritious. I applaud these people - no, really. I ~~couldn't~~ wouldn't want to live like that all the time. (And you can't make me try, either.) But, I'd like to think I can be moderate, and do what I can.

~~Maybe~~ probably more can be done. Much more. But I'm not sure a boycott of Joe Fresh or The Children's Place or any-other-retailer-not-totally-made-in-Canada is the answer. Because Rana Plaza fell down in Bangladesh two weeks ago, but it could have been the building next door to it, with other retailer's goods being processed inside. Or it could have been a factory in Thailand. Or in the Philippines. And we already know lots of bad stuff goes down in China, right? And yet... and yet. Footprints are not always of the carbon kind.

I'd like to think that social pressure on companies like these forces them into doing better for the people that manufacture for them, but global manufacturing is not a black and white subject. But, now that everybody's got eyes, the global marketplace gets a little bit smaller every day. (Thanks in part to iPhones - go, China!) The flipside, of course, is that consumer goods go up, Up, UP in price... which is fair and mathematical, and not really a bad thing when you can afford to buy. The question is, can we afford to? And, can we afford not to? Ethically, I mean? On all goods everywhere, amen? If you do right by some things, but not all the others, is that enough? That's the part I struggle with.

Sometimes I just want some coffee, yo.

Spring finally showed up and I need to get myself a few things for this season and next, but I can honestly say I have trouble spending $55 on a t-shirt, even if it's made here in Canada. Corporations will always go where they can find the best value - it's up to government to legislate. In the mean time, we should all just do what we can to strike a balance.

Oh, and? That thing about Abercrombie & Fitch is a bunch of bollocks from a man clearly has some body-dysmorphic issues and/or loves him some plastic surgery pretty hard. I actually ADORE IT when people say this kind of thing out loud, (deplorable as his sentiments are) so you can really know what a person stands for - it's the ones who say things in secret who are shady, not that ridiculous guy. He was being honest about what he thinks. The proof is in what happens to his bottom line... and sadly, I would not be surprised at how unaffected their earnings might be, come Q4. (PS - I've never been a fan or consumer of A&F.)

What to do? What do you think? Let's hash it out.

Open Letter to Lice

2013-05-09T16:30:00Z

Dear lice,

I'm normally a very tolerant person to ~~all~~ most creatures great and small, but I can tell you I'm not alone in hating you and wanting you out of my life. I'd wager (and win!) that even pro-life vegan tree-huggers all want you to die as badly as I do. Even Tibetan monks. (They shave their heads to avoid you, I'm certain.) Because you suck. Literally. You parasidic, reprehensible creatures... I want you all to die.

Not only do you make me feel dirty and weird with your very presence, but the added workload of extra laundry, vacuuming, and the endless hours of nit-picking through my daughter's magnificent Chaka Khan hair is absolutely a scourge on my household, on my biceps, and I dare say, on my sanity. I mean, really. You exhaust me.

*clutches pearls* HOW DARE??!

It is lucky ~~for you~~ for me this child's kinky hair is more "caucasian" than her brother's (who's head we simply shave whenever you show up) and I seem able to save hers. At least this time. Because I'm vigilant as a muther, and I will not rest until you are destroyed.

And destroy you, I will, you fornicating matriarchs. Because I want you to die. Every last one of you.

But, fear not - I am not masochistic - I want you to die as quickly as possible, as I get no pleasure in seeing your numbers dwindle. Please... just die. Be gone. Vamoose, varmints. Sayonara, suckers. Get the hell out of my goddamned house, louse. Er... lice.

And make no mistake... if I could kick you all in the tacos, I totally would.

Until we meet again,

Grumble Girl

Confessions of a Five Year Old - Part II

2013-05-01T17:00:00Z

(continued from yesterday's post... still at the mall.)

She: Mummy? I need to tell you something else. It's kinda bad. *looks at me with solemn brown eyes and then smirks*

Me: *looks to the heavens* Oh my lord, child, what is it?

She: Well... the other day? When I was at Jed's house for dinner? Well... I ate with my mouth open.

At first she looks SO guilty, but this expression quickly morphs into smiling. I bite my lip. This is the kinda bad thing she has to tell me? Oh. My. Days.

Me: *leans in with mock shock* Ava Scarlett!!? *clutches pearls*

She: *slightly pained* I knoooow! But, it's just that... that day? *cocks head and gestures with open hand* I was really tiiiiiired, *cocks head the other way* and Jed was really crankeeeee, and I wanted to lie doooown, and just. wasn't. feeling. so. good anymore. Because I was aaaaall... bloppy."

Me: Bloppy?

She: Yes. *blinks*

Me: What is bloppy?

She: *shrugs shoulders* You know. Bloppy. *blink blink*

I wonder if she means blah-py, as in, to have the blahs... Regardless, it's not a word , and it's clearly made up, but I refrain from saying so because I'm curious as hell.

Me: Wait. Show me bloppy, please?

She gets off her chair and stands in front of me, then sags at the middle, bent almost in half, and mugs the saddest sad panda face you've ever seen, replete with sullen brows and the corners of her mouth turned down. She shrugs her shoulders up and down with each step as she walks in a small circle, demonstrating. The ladies at the table next to us are killing themselves laughing at her insane cuteness.
I almost pee my pants.

Me: Wow. Bloppy is bad, I guess. *chews bottom lip*

She: *corrects me* It's kind of
saaaad
.

Me: I should say! But, *taps hand* what does this have to do with you chewing with your mouth open, at your friend's house, when you know better than that, hmmmm?

She: Well, I was all bloppy... so I was just like this. *demonstrates with mouthful of pizza, nearly falling out of her gaping gob*

The ladies next to us can't take their eyes off her, and this scene just went from funny to hilarious. We exchange glances, and the look on one lady's face is saying

good luck, sistah. I hand the child another napkin, shaking my head. She is from another planet.

Me: *bites top lip* Sweets? Even when you're tired, you need to behave yourself the way you know you're supposed to. *nods* Okay?

She: I know.

Me: But thanks for telling me. That's honest of you. I like that. *smiles* It's important to tell the truth about things.

She: Yeah, because I know you need to keep an eye on me.

The ladies next to us are dabbing their eyes from tears of laughter, which of course is infectious, and I need to put my own napkin in front of my face so I can chortle to myself behind it.

One lady leaned over and asked, "What was for dinner at your friend's house?"

"Chicken," she replied flatly. And the ladies doubled over laughing anew. She looked at me and said, "What? It's important to tell the truth about things!"

She is five. She still pronounces it like "

truuf

Me: It
is
important. And you're a good girl. *pats her arm*

She: I know. *pats me back* You don't have to worry about me.

Aaaaand, scene.
I guess my work is done here. *yawns and stretches* Let's get some beers.

So, do your kids confess all their things to you, too?!

Confessions of a Five Year Old - Part I

2013-04-30T20:00:00Z

This is a scene from a mall...

She: Mummy, I need to tell you something. *picks up napkin and wipes pizza sauce from her mouth*

Me: *takes deep breath* Yeeeessss? *feels stroke coming on*

She: Well... *sheepish* I don't really like apple juice anymore.

I swear to god, these kids...

Me: *relieved* Oh. Well, why not?

She: *cocks head* Well, I used to like it, you know, back when I was a little kid, but now that I'm a big girl, well... I just don't like it anymore. Because it's for babies.

This baby of mine is currently the ripe old age of five, so I feel pretty proud that I didn't laugh right in her face.

Me: It's actually not for babies - it's for everyone, and I enjoy apple juice perfectly well, and so does your dad...

She: ...but you never drink it...

Me: ...because I'm always saving it for you guys! But that's okay. *waves hand* You don't have to like it, and I won't buy it anymore if you don't want to drink it. *shrugs* What do you like better?

She: Coke!

(You know what Coke does to a kid like this, right?)

Me: Yes, I know... but not Coke. Something we have at home, please. Try again.

She: Um, well I prefer orange juice.

Me: Okay then, I'll make sure we always have some.

She: Aaaaand I like bubbly water. *makes effervescent bubble motion with her wee wiggling fingers*

Me: I know.

She: Aaaaand I like that red juice drink thing that you make for daddy with the celery and all those shrimp on the side? I love that.

Me: You mean, you like the shrimp. The drink is tomato juice. You never drink the drink.

(Not to mention the vodka...)

She: Yeah, I don't like tomatoes. *shakes head and scrunches her face with objection*

Me: I know. Eat your pizza.

(Not to mention the sauce on said pizza.)

She takes another big bite, chews heartily, and begins to tell me something else.

Me: Uh, wait until your finished chewing, please... *shields eyes with hand*

She: Mummy? I need to tell you something else. It's kinda bad. *looks at me with solemn brown eyes and then smirks*

Me: *looks to the heavens* Oh my lord, child, what is it?

(To be continued...)

Standing Alone

2013-04-30T13:30:00Z

Yesterday, NBA player Jason Collins told the world he is gay. He wrote this terrific piece for Sports Illustrated, describing his process.

We don't follow much in the way of sports around here, and basketball is no exception - I didn't know this guy's name before yesterday, but I'm pleased for him. I'm glad he feels free now, and I hope his life and career go smoothly forevermore.

This morning on the radio, the announcers discussed this latest news item as my son ate his breakfast. He put his fork down while he chewed on it all.

He: Mummy? The guy they're talking about... what's his name?

Me: Jason Collins. He's a basketball player.

He: *worried eyes* So... what happened to him?

Me: Well, yesterday he made an announcement that he's gay.

He: Oh. *thinks* So... did he... die?

Me: *shrieks incredulously* NO! What?! No, no he's fine.

He: *knits brows* So... why are they talking about him?

Me: Well, I think he's the very first openly gay basketball player in the league. 'Openly gay' is when a person doesn't try to hide the fact that he or she is gay.

He: *flatly* Oh.

Me: Yeah. *blinks*

He: But... so... why is there a problem with that?

Me: What do you mean?

He: Well, why are they talking about it on the news? Is it... like, a big deal or something?

Me: *smiling* You know, this shouldn't be news at all, Oliver. You know it doesn't matter what people do or who they love. His job is to play basketball. *shrugs* That's it. So, where he lives, what kind of car he drives, or who he marries, or what foods he eats... not important stuff. It's just that this is the first time a professional basketball player said so out loud. So... it seems like a big deal, but it shouldn't be. But everything is scary when it's the first time. It takes a lot of courage to stand alone. It will be easier for the next person, I hope.

He nods turning back to his breakfast, quietly chewing and thinking.

He: So, are they going to do this every time someone says they're gay?

Me: Oh god, I hope not.

He: *nods* Mm-hmm...

I can't tell you how much I love seeing this societal shift. I love how my kid has no idea why any of this could be thought of as a big deal. It's mainstreaming at it's finest. I want so much for this not to be a big deal. I want so much for people to just go about their lives, happily and safely. I'm glad to see we're getting closer and closer to a day in time where if you're in opposition, then you are standing alone.

Because really, it ain't no thing. Everybody just shut up and do your work, you know?

I also watched this short film early last week, depicting what it would be like if heterophobia was an actual thing - it's called Love is All You Need. It's an excellent story, well shot and edited, and has already won a slew of film awards since it's release in 2012. It can be brutal to watch at times... but that's largely the point of the message of bullying. It's been flying around the internet, and it's worth the nineteen minutes, if you care to watch.

As you were then... nothing to see here, folks...

All The Needs.

2013-04-25T16:00:00Z

I've had this aching pain in my left shoulder for a while now. For a long while. For months, even. I kept telling myself I'd take care of it... another day... next week. It was February when I first noticed it had been bothering me for some time already, and now April is almost gone.

This is what putting yourself last on the list feels like. And of course we know better than to do that... take care of yourself! Put your own oxygen mask on first! Blah, blah, blah... yes, yes, it's imperative to do so, and yet...

There are just so many things to do, to focus on, to care about... things that need doing, things that need attention, care that needs giving. It's gets rather easy to put off getting a massage when your kids need shoes, or need signing up for this thing or that, and Saturdays get filled up with other things, like birthday parties and homework projects and we need to shop for that thing, and can you sit down and read this to me, please?

It gets harder and harder to say no. To all the things. To all the needs. And the newspaper is full of crappy stuff, and the natural "happy filter" that helps you remember all the good things is temporarily broken, or sprained, or lost beneath that pile of stuff you've been meaning to get to, like those feelings you've been meaning to process but swept to the side to be dealt with at a later date, but of course you can't get to them because we're conjugating French verbs right now, and trying to find soccer cleats for everyone for THIS weekend and how did you manage to put a hole in this already? and WHY AM I SCREAMING AT EVERYBODY? (Wait, is there a full moon?) and holy crap, am I crying at 9 AM? What the WHAT??!

And all the while, my shoulder throbs in my sleep.

And then there are the relationships in your life that need attention - and as Alanna recently mentioned, finding the balance is tricky as hell. Spouses need attention, as do friends and family. And children. Besides the flesh-and-bones people, all around me are the interwebs, and social media, and the relationships we lovingly create there, and stories flood our brains, and images fill our eyes, and people lose jobs, and buy homes, and babies are born, and parents die, and and stuff gets blown up, and other stuff gets renovated, and people get sick.

Throb.

I feel it all. I'm happy for people, and sad for people, and worried for some... worried for more than just a few. But worrying is futile - everybody knows that... and yet, somehow it's become my favourite thing.

Throb.

Then it snows on another Saturday in April and you just want to scream no, No, NO! Nu-nu-nu-nu-nooooooo...!!

Throb, throb, throb...

It took a few emails from friends yesterday to remind me that April can be a weird time - one reminded me of T.S. Eliot's poem The Waste Land, which begins, "April is the cruellest month..." (indeed, it can be!) and the other reminded me of something I told her once... that April and October tend to feel like my hardest months - by these times of year, I am up to here with the sameness of life, and I am in desperate need of a vacation.

My kids are all, "Mummy, did you even hear me?!"

And I'm all, "Whatwhathmmm... stop talking to me for ten minutes, please. Here, have a cookie."

I would love nothing more than to leave this house for ~~a whole month~~ ~~two weeks~~ one week of solitude, but that can's possibly be. Of course I love my family, and I love making a home for us all, but everyone needs a break from whatever it is they do, day in and day out. Most people get weekends... stay-at-home parents have everyone home on weekends, so there's just more to do, even when we love it. (And even when we don't.) Most people don't love their jobs all the time. Especially when there's no break from it.

But what I can do is take a self-imposed break-from-all-things once in a while, since I can't physically be away. I need to turn my computer all the way off. I need to be in other areas of my house - like NOT my kitchen, for a change. I'm trying to work that out.

Because when even your homeless guy on the corner looks at you and says, "Hey... are you okay?" or you find yourself hugging your kid's preschool teacher for longer than you probably should have, or when you almost burst into tears when someone asks you how you are... that's a sign that you need a break.

I'm going to do just that next week - give myself a break. Want dinner? There's the phone - have anything you want... this muther is closed.

Priority #1 is a massage for this shoulder on Monday morning. JOY!!

What do you do to give yourself a break? Do you ever?

The Thing About Running

2013-04-16T13:45:00Z

A thousand years ago, I used to be a runner.

It was my sport-of-choice since I was in grade school, when we'd run for fund-raising causes, like for Terry Fox, or The Heart & Stroke Foundation. As I grew older, I moved from longer distances, to middle distances, and ended up mostly running sprints by the end of high school, but the feeling of running is one I still remember. Beyond the physical parts that are both wonderful and agonizing, the invisible part that forces you to keep on going is really an amazing, inexplicable thing. And all the more sweet when during a race, you see and hear the faces of people around you, urging you on, clapping and cheering for your efforts.

Long-distance running is such a solo thing, so personal, and sometimes even lonesome in it's experience, so it is immeasurable to have such encouragement from others - and you often feel it the hardest when you need it most. That kind of encouragement can make a person feel almost weightless, when ones legs of iron feel like they cannot possibly take another step.

I often have tears in my eyes when I watch the final laps of sporting events (the Olympics is one huge tear-fest for me) as I watch the athletes do the their thing, and hear the roaring cries of YAAAAAAAAAY from the people who support them. Many of those people don't even know the athletes personally... cheering on strangers is such an everyone-hold-hands, collective thing to do, that it makes for a living, breathing, almost kumbaya kind of spirit of goodness and sportsmanship as we shout encouragement to build people up for the day - it is truly awesome to behold. People can't help but smile and be joyous. Uplifting is what it is.

And so, yesterday's explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, where many people congregated to greet those at the end of such a long and gruelling run, jumping wildly as they clapped and cheered at the top of their voices, and totally innocent... I felt instantly sick. I mean, What the hell? Who would DO such a thing??!

And I watched the TV and the numbers of the injured crept higher and higher.

And the dead... two at that time... one child eight years of age.

And news that said in Boston hospitals, doctors have had to perform necessary amputations.

Amputations.

Amputations.

My stomach roiled and I didn't know what to think or say. And such is the wretchedness of this thing happening in another place, somewhere I've never even been, and hearing snippets of interviews, and sound bites of press conferences, watching the news reel run across the bottom of the screen, and seeing bloody images and carnage, and horrified faces, and smoke, and panic, and screaming, and flags on the ground...

I went to bed forcing images out of my head and trying not to worry about the safety of the world for my children, and for us all. I didn't sleep very well last night.

But this morning I remembered the thing about running... and the thing is about perseverance. It is to go on, even in the face of adversity, when things are difficult, and one's not even sure one can succeed. It's like a light that forces you to take another step towards it... and it's the thing runners have. I know runners are out there doing their thing in Boston this very morning, (and everywhere else in the world) despite the tragedy. In spite of it.

It's the thing Boston will do now, as they sweep up the rubble and mend their injured, and bury their dead. They are not alone in their mourning and their sadness. The rest of the world is still clapping from the sidelines... you can do it... you can do it... you can do it... even though we have tears in our eyes. Even though we can't actually be there to help. We are there in spirit.

Boston will persevere. Because it must.

We should all adopt such a spirit of perseverance, whether we don sneakers or whether we don't. It can't help but be affectual in one's own life, in taking on regular tasks as well as the tougher ones, because it helps stem the fear and the sadness of uncertainty.

Boston, we are heartbroken and we mourn with you... but runners and their families from all over the globe will be back next year for 2014 Boston Marathon. You can bet on it.

Take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other...

Seafood & Swiss Grilled Cheese

2013-04-12T22:00:00Z

I read a tweet about it being National Grilled Cheese Day today. Perhaps this is only in the US. Perhaps it's all in the mind of some lonely dude somewhere, in his sad basement apartment, clinging to the internet for friendship. And for his sanity.

But who cares. Grilled cheese? Yes, please! (As long as it ain't this kind of cheese.)

But first, a memory: I worked for a tiny restaurant in the Leaside area of Toronto when I was in high school, and one of the most popular lunch sandwiches we served was made of pollock (used to make that imitation crab product) and Swiss cheese grilled on whole wheat bread. People who didn't know from the yummy of this sandwich would squint and recoil a little when we explained what it was, but those in the know would have it with our delicious salads or choice of soup. We had to change the name from"Crab & Swiss" to "Seafood & Swiss" due to the technicality... but we sold lots and lots and lots of those sandwiches. Freaking delicious, I'll tell you what. (Another dirty sandwich we used to make was the Monte Cristo. Soooooo good. Le sigh.)

Anyway.

That imitation crab stuff isn't something I normally have a use for in my kitchen, though I've bought the crab sticks once or twice, and put them in sushi rolls I made at home. This week when I did my grocery shop, the cashier threw in my gift-with-purchase of the week, which was Clover Leaf's Crab Delectables, which I'd entirely forgotten about it until I unpacked my groceries later that day. I wondered what the hell I'd do with the stuff...

And the tweet said, "NATIONAL GRILLED CHEESE DAY!" on the computer this morning. And I remembered I had a whack of Swiss cheese in the fridge, too.

So, you take your whole wheat sandwich bread, and lay a slice of Swiss cheese on it, shred apart a good handful of your crab meat, top with another slice of cheese, and then top with your last slice of bread. Butter the outside of your sandwich and grill in a pan.

This isn't hard. (It's not your first time grilling a sandwich in a pan, right?) Medium low heat... don't scorch the poor thing. Salted butter is tastier, but it burns faster than unsalted, so watch for browning. It should look like grilled cheese when it's done. The fish should be warm inside, too.

I fed it to my kids as a snack when they came home from school today.

Toasted, crunchy, melty, salty sweetness... freaking delicious, I say.

I'll take National Grilled Cheese Day... even if it isn't recognised anywhere but at our house. I might declare it so tomorrow, too!!

What's your favourite kind of grilled cheese?

Dinner In a Glass - Bloody April

2013-04-12T16:15:00Z

Perhaps the weather is less than stellar where you are today. Oh hai, thanks for the all snow and ice balls, April. Never mind. Make yourself a cocktail, and just wait for that crap to end.

This is basically a Bloody Mary, only with more deliciousness. Let's call it a Bloody April. It's practically got a salad inside it AND beside it, with cold shrimp for nomming on. If you put bacon in it, you cold totally call it dinner.

You'll need:

a glass-full of tomato juice

a tipple of vodka

scant shake of salt & pepper

a few drops Tabasco

a few drops Worchestershire sauce

a speck of horseradish (and I do mean a speck)

squeeze of lemon

tiny handful of shrimp

celery, carrot, cucumber (bacon optional)

Take a few frozen shrimp from the bag in your freezer and put them in a bowl of water for five minutes, or until they defrost. Put teeny bit of salt in the water, and microwave them for about 3 minutes, or until cooked, the way you know shrimp need to be - all pink and whatnot. Drain and cool in an ice bath, and then remove the shells. Pat dry, and try not to eat them before the drink is ready. (This might be the hardest part of this whole ordeal.)

In a glass of your choice, toss in a few ice cubes, and shake in all your seasonings - don't go crazy - this drink can get WAY spicy too fast if you don't use a bit of restraint, so just relax.

Squeeze a wedge of lemon over the glass too.

Add your vodka, and then fill your glass almost to the brim with tomato juice. I say almost, because by the time you rim it up with shrimp and jam all your lovely garden veggies into it, there will be a river of red on your counter, and you run the risk of your guests watching you put your face to the counter to suck up everything that spilled over, and you'll look like you're making out with your own reflection, like a fish making kissy-face against the glass. (What?! ~~It's happened.~~ It could happen. Don't judge.)

Serve anything that won't fit in your glass, on the side. Tender Lebanese cucumbers and/or small carrots look pretty sliced lengthwise, and the last of the shrimp (as if) and a slice of cooked bacon, if you're organised. (Only because everything tastes better with bacon, you know.)

I make this for Martin sometimes when he comes home from work. Of course, first I remove my apron and put on a little lipstick... and you might be interested to know that brand of vodka pictured is gluten-free. (Not all vodkas are made from potatoes. In fact, most aren't anymore.)

It's like dinner in a glass. Or, at least a salad in your glass. Makes for an excellent accompaniment at brunches and fancy-company times, but not recommended for children, unless you want them to go to sleep at 6:45 PM.

PS - It should go without saying that one can totally omit the vodka and make this drink virgin... but why would you?

Happy weekend, all!!

Spring Sorting

2013-04-10T17:15:00Z

Spring hasn't completely sprung around these parts just yet (and I heard someone say we're to expect 15 - 20 centimetres of snow on Friday... I will try not to weep, but I can make no promises.) I may not be able to put those snowpants away just yet, but the itch to get the spring sorting and purging underway has been too strong to ignore lately.

One particular area driving me mental is the TV room, where the kids spend the better part of their indoor playtime. The amount of stuff we can accumulate is kind of astounding. From Christmas gifts to birthday gifts, loot bag items and dollar store junk... is that a plastic tomato on a keychain? WHY do we own this?!

Normally, I like to work on these tasks when the children are at school for obvious reasons - it's the sane way to go, without hearing b-b-but... it's... my... favourite!? being shrieked at every turn - but over the weekend, I just couldn't seem to leave it for another day.

First of all, though I'm happy most of the things get stashed inside a closet or an armoire, and I KNOW these areas get haphazardly jammed with stuff, all willy-nilly and whatnot, after some time, these spaces just need a re-set.

Uch... my eyes.

... all the junk...

And what the hell do I do with all this dress-up fondant-y crap?

If I truly tried to live by William Morris' quote: have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful then believe you me, I would throw away most of this craptastic array... but children love their stuff. It's part of their joy, I guess.

But the McDonald's plastic toys, and the broken bits and bobs, and those stray bits of what does this go with? and stuff missing eyes or limbs, and all the cruddy, drying mixed-into-brown playdough... I just get out my trash bag and start filling it up.

And it's soooo bloody satisfying.

Truthfully, there wasn't so much I could get rid of completely, but reordering what goes on shelves helps. Madame is taller. And waning interests in babyish things, and her growing desire to do more crafty-type projects (solo) has meant moving some things things around so she has access. I never let her use scissors without supervision in the past, but she can be unaccompanied with those in hand, as well as glue sticks and markers now - I trust her. (Let's hope I haven't just jinxed myself.)

All those Lego figurines Oliver had been building and collecting looked cool displayed next to the couch when we had four or five of them, but as the collection swelled to many, many more, always lumped into a massive, tangled heap of super-hero/villian plastic weaponry and such, it became clear to me that they needed a new home. They now have a space on the closet shelf, amongst the Skylander figurines, and the other Lego-stuff he hasn't built yet.

Gone now are the 0-3 aged toys like shape sorters and squeaky toys, but the math games mind puzzles are at the ready. Baby dolls and their accoutrement have been sorted back into their bins, the play foods are back in their basket, and I won't likely find a plastic cob of corn or a doll's shoe inside the couch. Or on the driver's side of the cement mixer truck we have kicking around. Or inside a puzzle box. Or wherever.

And I made peace with the inside of this armoire ages ago. At least it has doors that close.

I gave away what I could, and set some things to donate, but I will not feel bad about any of the stuff Ijusthavetotrashthisrightnowohmygodleavemyhooooouse... that nagging feeling of "wasting" something was gone the moment I put the lid on the trash pail.

*exhales*

I feel so much better now.

Have you started your spring sorting & purging yet? Do you love the process, or do you loathe it?

Can I Put These Snowpants Away Yet?

2013-04-05T14:00:00Z

It's snowing outside my window right now. *dabs eyes with tissue*

We all know by now that winter is not my favourite time of year, but I should probably add how early spring is often in my bad books, too. I mean really, spring... how could you?

What I realise is my expectations of spring are entirely too great each year - come March, I am oh, SO desperate for the dreaded winter to be over, and as the days on the calendar inch closer and closer to the magical twenty-first day of the month, indicating spring at last, I tend to feel crushed when there's still snow on the ground. I'd like for it to magically disappear in a gigantic sled being hauled away by a unicorn. Or something. Like a spring miracle.

And it ain't even that lovely fluffy white stuff around now... by this time of year, whatever's left is the unsightly grey-brown variety, encrusted at the curb's edge, and packed into glacial eyesores piled high in parking lots and at the ends of driveways. It's nasty. And, it's still all wintery.

Being in lovely cottage country at this time of year, when all that whiteness around us makes for a natural tanning bed (SPF for all, please!!) and we can don boots and toques, but ditch coats... that's kind of great. Those blue skies alone are encouraging.

When I think of SPRING! I want to start skipping and braiding daisy chains, and I think of butterflies and bare legs. The reality is I shake out my kids' filthy snowsuits at the end of each day and force myself not to wash them yet, because what's the point and everything is muddy and dripping with dirty, salty water, and I'm not even going to start sweeping up the sand in the entrance up the stairs, because there will just be more tomorrow. Also, it's still below zero a lot of the time. Also? Skipping haphazardly can easily cause a lady to fall into a pothole the size of Africa around these parts. (Don't ask me how I know.)

As Christine indicated in a previous post, last year's March Break looked much like this for just about everyone in Canada. This year, spring is being sucky.

I... just adore a penthouse view.

C'est pas bon, maaaaan.

That picture of spring inside my head? The one with the crocuses and daffodils pushing out of the soil, with grass growing greener with each passing day? That picture is covered with snowflakes. And potholes.

I'm so desperate to ditch my brown parka for the season, but it's just not safe yet. These chilly Montreal winds are still blowing. *shakes angry fist at sky*

I know it's coming. (It is coming, right?) A few more days, maybe. I really, really need temps to move upward of two degrees, please. I need to put these snowpants away, once and for all.

Has spring finally sprung where you are? If not, should we... boycott? Or something?! WAAAAH!!

What's in a Size?

2013-03-27T19:30:00Z

I went bra shopping today, which is my least favourite of all the shoppings.

I went because my boobs are decidedly bigger than they were the last time I bought some, and the "spillage" out of the cups of my current bras was making me feel... very... soft and squishy in ways I do not like.

Now, let me say right here that I know I don't have any kinds of weight issues - I've totally put on some winter pounds, which doesn't really faze me much, except when my clothes stop fitting the way they're supposed to. And I don't have problems using the next belt hole on the leather, or having buttons adjusted on a jacket so everything lies the way it should. But I draw the line at bulging parts around the boobies. That's never a good look on anybody.

I don't mind how the girls are when I'm not wearing anything, even if they're a little closer to the ground than I ever thought they might be. (I mean, really gravity.) My problems come when I try to cram them into suitable devices that shield your nipples from polite company and that keep you from having to tuck said boobs into the tops of your pants, so you won't give yourself a black eye running for the bus.

And when you stuff yourself into a too-small brassiere, it's torture-inducing all the livelong day, and of course everything you lie OVER said bra looks bad, because your foundation garment is all out of whack, and all that squeezing is just giving you (more) back fat and hunks-o-boobs squeezing out of everywhere it shouldn't.

But the shopping can be bad, too.

What's sad is being in the store, and selecting a beautiful bra with it's lacy cups and slim sides and spaghetti straps, and then scaling back on the rod to find a larger one, which only get more and more matronly as the sizes go up. The first bra, and the last bra on the rack barely resemble each other. The first one is gorgeous and delicious. The last one? Looks like the first's ugly step-sister. On steroids. With a lisp and acne. That spaghetti strap turned into a two-finger width of chunky elastic, the side parts are 10" tall, and now you could easily carry home two ripe melons without using a bag.

*Ahem*

And so I tried on some items today... and the one that fit me best? Is a 32F.

Lemme say that again for you: THIRTY-TWO EFF.

I'm an F-cup. (I don't like this one bit.)

The thing looks an uber-racy prayer bonnet for conjoined twins. Suuuuuper-sexy.

Now, I recognise there are worst problems to have in the world - and the flat-chested ladies out there who wish they had more up top are thinking: I should be so lucky. Yes, yes... but honestly, I wish I'd levelled out at a nice perky C-cup or maybe a D. Being this size kinda blows.

When you're small like I am, and you have a DD-cup (or indeed, an F or larger) you run the risk of looking like a dirty comic some of the time, when it really wasn't your intention. And dresses never fit on top. Button holes tend to gape on dress shirts and cardigans. Triangle tops on bikinis are tricky as hell. (I know you want to weep for me.)

Le sigh. At least the bag is pretty.

I hate dropping these kinds of monies on items like this, but I feel it necessary. A well-fitting, comfortable bra will make EVERYTHING else you put on look better, I swear this is true. And now I won't feel like The Incredible Monstrous Mammary Lady every time I get undressed, which is about as sexy as a baby wearing prayer bonnet. Or make that two babies.

And I reckon cutting the tag out wouldn't be the worst thing ever... that's precisely what scissors are for.

But all kidding aside, there are definite cancer awareness times of year, when all the ribbons are pink, and there are walks, and runs, and various social projects to remind people... but please don't forget to check yourself. Do it often - the first day of each month is a good way to remember and April 1st is around the corner.

Just do it.