He IS Bionic. Emotionally Bionic...

I can be forgiven for hating this, right?

It's not entirely normal to be consumed by the disastrous state of a kitchen, but well, I have 'issues'. And in spite of these issues, Andy still loves me.

He may wear rose-coloured glasses and be entirely too forgiving of people who are 'bastard-coated-bastards-with-soft-bastard-filling', but ....that includes me.

Yesterday, Andy actually came home from work early to clean the kitchen for me.

I KNOW!

I had something of a meltdown - something to do with too much chaos, house guests, unwelcome advice, stuff to do and not enough drugs.

It's sad because it's true.

You know how sometimes you need to hit the 'fuck it' key and just crawl into bed? Well, when people are counting on you, you can't do that and instead you smile like a crazed maniac and take a lot of shallow breaths and four minutes later burst into tears because WHY CAN'T I DEAL WITH THIS????!!!!

So. I call Andy right after the tear bursting and go on a stream-of-consciousness rantologue, then, without taking a breath, apologize for being such a hopeless fuck-up of a partner and he soothingly says, "You're not a fuck-up. You're just having a tough time."

And home he comes.

Did I marry the right dude or what? This of course means I'll have to forgive him for being so obnoxiously cheerful and liking people.

Oh well. You can't have everything.

Where would you put it?

Job Posting

We are now accepting applications. POSITION AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY.

Wanted: live-in caregiver for my children, and someone to pretty much look after me too. I need a lot of reminding and flattery in order to function normally.

Must love my children. And my dog. And not my husband. Hands off him, okay? (The cuter you are, the less it will help you....)

• Psychic abilities are an asset. (Not in a creepy Louisiana Bayou kind of way.)
  
• Toddler distracting abilities must be at Jedi Knight level.
• Tolerance for demented dog must be high, but not so high that you aren't comfortable giving his nose a whack now and then.
• Understanding and compassion when it comes to my unnatural attachment to my label maker. Oh, sweet label maker....how I long to label.
  

Your wage will be insulting, but the food will be pretty good. The entertainment - outstanding. The accommodations...meh. We did mention the entertainment, right?

The Perks: our last Au Pair left all her stuff here so you can have first pick at that.

Oh Pears....

I'm on the hunt for another Au Pair. Lemee 'splain: we had one. She was great. She seemed really happy...but tragedy struck and we bought her a return ticket to Mexico. Even after profuse promises to actually "return", she bailed out on us with some story of more tragedy.

Because I'm utterly self-absorbed, I'm foaming-at-the-mouth ticked at her. Because I was COUNTING on her being here and now I'm up Shit's Creek paddling away. Luckily, I have amazing friends who dive in to help when Shit Happens. But back to being ticked: I've always appreciated what a Nice Guy Andrew is, but there is a limit to rose-coloured-glasses. At some point, you need to see if the light is green or red. And sometimes I think he needs me there to point out The Blatantly Obvious, like where his socks are, or that most people are bastard-coated-bastards with soft bastard filling.

And some people aren't.

So, I'm busy sifting through the staggering amount of applications I've received in the past few hours alone.

How do you cyber-smack someone? There are so many.

Abdu'l-Baha

This passage was posted in my obstetrician's office when I was expecting Rachael. I have kept a dog-eared copy ever since.

"While they are at your side, love these little ones to the utmost. Forget yourself; serve them; care for them; lavish all your tenderness upon them. Value your good fortune while it is with you, and let nothing of their babyhood go unprized.

Not for long will you keep the happiness that now lies in your reach. You will not always walk in the sunshine with a soft little hand nestling in each of yours, nor hear little feet pattering beside you, and eager baby voices questioning and prattling of a thousand things with ceaseless excitement. Not always will you see that trusting face upturned to yours, feel those little arms about your neck and those tender lips pressed upon your cheek nor will you have that tiny form to kneel beside you, and murmur baby prayers into your ear.

Love them and win their love, and shower on them all the treasures of your heart. Fill up their days with happiness and share with them their mirth and innocent delights.

Ere you are aware it will be gone with all its gifts, forever!"

The Dog. The Spazz.

He's gone from "sweet, cute adorable little Charlie" to "that fucking dog" awfully fast.

I get that he's a puppy. But he's also as nuts as Tom Cruise on Oprah.

Who, in their right mind, eats poo? Or tries to have sex with inanimate objects - oh, wait. Never mind. That's ...uh, a whole other kind of blog.

Last night, he jumped into the bubble bath with the children, was so shocked that he jumped back out again, tore around the living room ass-backwards and knocked his head so hard on the coffee table, he had to sneeze six times. I don't think I can take him to school anymore to pick up and drop off Nic. He goes just as bonkers as if he'd done the bath-coffee-table-head-smash. That is kind of understandable, because if I had groups of children crowding me, I'd go a little wiggy. Who knows, maybe I'd start humping a garbage can too. (It's mighty effective in dispersing the admiring crowds.)

These forays into elementary school with a demented puppy have radically disabused me of the notion that I should return to teaching. It's the swarming kids who come to admire Charlie the Spazz. I never could get my head around talking to young children. Even when I was a student teacher in charge of a group of nine-year-olds for three weeks.

Kai: "Ricardo kicked me."
Me: "So kick him back. What do you want me to do?"

This is the part where my associate teacher suggested I teach high school instead of junior school. So I did. My students seemed to really dig that whole hands-off approach. Anyway, back to the kids at school who interrupt each other to tell me urgent things like, "Your dog is eating garbage!", yeah I know. He does that. He's a bit of an idiot that way. "Why is his leash red?" And "Does he sleep?"

Most people would find this impossibly endearing. I, on the other hand, usually say, "What are you, eight?"

Uh, yeah, actually.

The Pictures Are Up! And so is my skirt...

I don't know why they used this photo. It was taken in the rehearsal studio, without the benefit of a set. I look twelve. Maybe the other ones were worse.

From the Metro's website:

Metro theatre proudly presents……
The Memory of Water

As the title suggests, this is a play about the memories of each of the female characters, Teresa, the eldest (Heather Cant) unhappy in her job and marriage to the hapless Frank (Simon Best), and resentful of her sisters’ lack of participation in their mother’s care, Mary, (Taylor Stutchbury) a doctor who has been conducting an unsatisfactory 5 year affair with a married man, Mike (Lawrence Green) and Catherine, the youngest, (Karryn Ransom) completely self-absorbed and hopelessly inept in her multiple relationships with men. They have been reunited for the funeral of their mother, Vi, (Eroca Zales) who in her heyday was an attractive vibrant woman, but who later in life succumbed to Alzheimers.

The play shows how members of the same family can have completely different childhood memories and although the themes seem somewhat somber, the hilarious scenes of the sisters dressing up, quarreling over men, funeral arrangements and memories of their mother and the bitingly funny dialogue, explains its winning the Laurence Olivier Award for the Best New Comedy (2000).

Previewing on Friday, November 7 with opening on Saturday, November 8, this wonderful play, directed by well-known professional actor and director, Gerry Mackay, will run nightly at 8pm Wednesday to Saturday until December 6 with a Sunday matinee on November 16 at 2pm.

Run: Nov 8th to Dec 6th, Wed to Sat @ 8:00pm

Matinee: Nov 16th @ 2:00pm, Sunday
METRO THEATRE – 1370 SW Marine Drive, Vancouver
BOX OFFICE – 604-266-7191. Tickets: $18/adults, $15/seniors, students
WEB – www.metrotheatre.com

Imagine this: you walk up to a total stranger and say, "Even though we don't know each other, and I know absolutely nothing about you or your life, I'm going to give you some random, unsolicited advice, because, well I know everything".

Who would do this?

Apparently, lots of people.

I was just approached by a stranger who walked up to me and said, "You should be holding her hand ALL THE TIME. Children dart you know. You never know when a car might swerve and she's too little to not be in a stroller. She should be in a stroller with the seat belt on."

All I could think of to say, without slowing my walk was, "I'm aware of cars, thank you," and kept going.

And I get that this is invariably, well-intentioned, if wholly unwelcome advice, but WHY, when you have children, does everyone suddenly have an opinion about what you're doing with them and why whatever you're doing is wrong? Seriously!

My two-year-old is happily skipping along the sidewalk with me without the need for a helmet or shin pads. I think I'm doin' alright here, buddy.

I know, I know - I'll have to get used to people having opinions. It's just that I've always lived by the "When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you" mandate.

Hmmm....maybe it's time to go back to teaching. I seem to be itching to teach people a lesson.

The Wizard of Aus

I am deeply enmeshed in Australian culture.

I've never been there. I'm not related to any Australians. But twice now, we've gone through the intense discussions of "should we move to Australia".

See, Andy works for an Australian company and twice, he's been asked to consider re-locating. At first I bristled, because all I could think of where all the things in Australia that could kill you: snakes, giant insects and the sun.

However, that is perhaps like someone thinking that moving to Canada would involve bear maulings and Inuit attacks by whale harpoons.(Which only happens a few times a month...)

Furthermore, EVERYONE I've ever met from down under has been uber-cool. That would be, uh, three people - but seriously NICE people.

And then there's AC-DC and didgeridoos. Let's face it: does it get cooler than that?

I realize I'm chock full of stereotypes, but whenever Andy gets back from Australia, he actually says:

"How ya goin' mate?"

"Okay people don't actually talk like that, do they?"

"Yes."

"That's RADICAL! Let's go!"

Vitamin Therapy: for real or utter crap?

I recently cleared out my medicine cabinet. There was some very interesting stuff in there. And loads of vitamins which got me thinking: can health actually be bottled?

I suppose it's possible that some vitamin or mineral deficiency might be the bottleneck to exuberant health and well-being. And what have you got to lose by taking some vitamins? I was also a bit influenced by those around me - not Andy of course, because I suspect he's bionic - but I used to work for people who did vitamin therapy based on star signs, and regularly consulted a carving of Shakti for business guidance. While this should lead me to dismiss most of what they said as complete horseshit, rejecting everything isn't necessarily wise.

So I want to know: does Vitamin B really do anything other than turn your pee into Gatorade? The bottle says, "Stress Relief". But unless they're covered in a thick coating of General Anesthesia...I'm not so sure they could do much of anything.

Right now, I'm taking Fish Oil because, although it sounds repulsive, it's supposed to optimize brain functioning. Again, this is something for which I really want PROOF. So, without access to 50 thousand study participants, I will have to conduct my own laboratory testing.

1. Take Fish Oil and do a series of crossword puzzles.
2. Don't take Fish Oil then do another series of puzzles.

I'll let ya know...

But seriously, does anyone have an opinion about this? My neighbour swears by Vitamin D to counteract the Loss of the Will to Live Syndrome that affects those of us on the West Coast when we haven't seen the sun for three months...

Vitamin D is cheaper than a sun lamp. But are they both bogus? I want to know!

Success!

I woke up 25 minutes ago. I'm nearly halfway through a cup of tea that I haven't had to reheat, lost, spilled or had a dog lick out of.

This is success on so many levels.

Charlie has started demanding to go out at much more reasonable times.

Andy had a conference call at work so left in a flurry of corporate responsibility leaving me to feel as though I were The Worst Person Ever unless I got out of bed - at least.

The rest of the household is now stirring though. The first sound of the morning is often, "CHARLIE NO!" from Roo who is invariably outraged that Charlie looked at her toys.

So, no more blog-rambling for me right now. (Although Roo is now having a one-sided conversation with Charlie instead of berating him for something. I can't be sure but it sounds as if she's explaining to him why she needs to have cookies for breakfast.)

Flying Low (like a turkey)

Alright. It was working. Flylady's routines and all that. It just doesn't take into account the bone-crushing fatigue. "Get up fifteen minutes before your family" is theoretically a good idea, but...let's be realistic here. I guess if I were determined to show my family love by having their laundry done and having breakfast on the table for them in the mornings, this could work. But, it all seems so...pointlessly ambitious. I'm all for ambition, but it's got to be for a more noble reason than clean clothes. (Although I did laugh when I read, "Nothing says I love you like clean underwear". True. I've never heard anyone say it like my lace thong says it. With an accent.)

Well, my blissful morning would be waking up when I jolly well feel like it (not just to meet the bodily needs of children or dogs), being served tea in bed, along with a few heaping spoonfuls of compliments. Then I waltz into the kitchen and demolish a hearty breakfast that someone else made.

Since that ain't gonna happen, I suppose I'd better keep at this Flylady thing.

I faltered yesterday. My routines got a bit twisted up because I actually worked. (Excellent voice-over gig for which I have My Amazing Friend Andrea to thank). Then I had a photo shoot (doesn't it all sound so glamourous?!) and a loooong rehearsal. I got home at 10:30 and the thought of preparing tomorrow's meals, and tidying up the house made me want to retch, so I went to bed.

At least I'm not hosting Thanksgiving at my place this year. In fact, truth be told, I've never cooked a turkey in my entire life. If I tried to, I'd look as old as the lady in this picture. No really. I would.

Scarf that bird everyone.

And oh, yeah - be grateful.

For Whom the Bell Tolls (with Peanut Butter)

Charlie. Sigh. He's so cute. And there's pillow stuffing all over my living room.

He truly doesn't distinguish between the edible and the non-edible. Barbies - bad. Carrots - okay.

My neighbour insists that dogs can be trained to do the most incredible things, like write poetry or ring a bell when they need to poop.

Well, I looked into it, and if Charlie can write poetry, I don't want to read it. It'll probably be a Haiku:

Falling to my snout,

I watch a treat being given

Good dog. Good.

So, apparently a more useful thing to do is to be able to ring a bell to go outside. I am going to try this.

1. Before I let him out in the morning, I'm supposed to put some peanut butter on the bell.
   
2. Show it to Charlie.
   
3. Charlie will lick the bell causing it to ring.
4. Then I open the door and he pees.
   
5. Then I put the bell away until I think he'll need to go again (this is the trouble...).

Well, wish me luck. I'm off to smear peanut butter on a wind chime.

*********************************
UPDATE: This so did not work. He earnestly licked off the peanut butter, bit me, then torpedoed back to his business of furiously gnawing the living room furniture. Bad dog.

Emily Murphy wants you to Vote!

This time next week, it's down to us, folks. Ya gotta vote. I'm happy that Emily Murphy did what she did, and delighted that girls today have no idea that someone actually had to fight for their right to paaaaaarty.

If you've seen the slanderous ads on TV (these guys are so mean!), you probably think this whole election is a bit of a gong show. In an effort to understand it all, I made a list of parties and platforms and pontifications. And then I scrapped it, because they're all saying pretty much the same thing.

And now I'm more confused than I was before.

Should I vote Conservative because they promise to reduce taxes? I'm all for that, but at what cost? You reduce taxes, something's gotta give. And there are things that shouldn't give...

Maybe I should vote Liberal because of their environmentally-sound carbon tax system...but I like to drive. I really like to drive. So, it's all good in theory...

And that brings me to the rainbow's end: the NDP promise to fund a national child care program. That alone would make me vote for them, except that they also say they're going to end poverty by 2020 too. And they'd like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony.

So that makes me think they may be delusional. Jack Layton is the best-looking candidate. Steven Harper is made of plastic (sorry, Steve, but you're stiff, man) and Stephane Dion - well, he seems a bit wishy-washy to me.

Of course, it's easy to slip into the paralysis of analysis where you think too much and then wind up figuring that your vote won't make any difrerence anyway so you stay home and eat Pop Tarts.

Not that I'd know anything about that.

I think I've made up my mind. Whichever candidate can get me a fan-freaking-tastic job is the one I'll vote for. Are you listening boys? Sorry Elizabeth May, but I just don't think you stand a chance.

Who is it going to be?

Is it me? It's them, right? It's them.

Here's another reason, I really don't have the hang of this Stay At Home Mom thing: there's this kid at Nic's school. She greets us every day, usually with sneery comments about how whatever Nic has, hers is bigger, better, faster. Even her dog is supposedly better than ours.

Look, kid. Nobody cares. Did I invite you to come over and talk to us? No, so get lost, will you? And I hate your pants.

But I don't say that.

Instead I say, "Really?! How interesting. What kind of dog do you have?" and I feign interest and politeness and I wonder if that's the right example to set for my children; this being fake, because people prefer you to be something you're not. Because what I really am is an intolerant woman who really dislikes annoying children. And well, people, in general.

And that's yet another reason why I could never be an elementary school teacher. I don't know how they do it...how do you not say, "What is your problem?" Like, how?

My brother teaches the slow kids. Which blows my mind, because our parents forced him to tutor me math when we were in high school, and I wouldn't have used the word "patient" when describing his methods. But I guess he's come a long way since:

But I don't get it.


Why don't you get it?


I don't know, do I? If I knew I could tell you exactly why differential equations make no sense whatsoever and their relation to life in general is wholly irrelevant and then you could explain it all in a way that a four-year-old could understand and I'd get it and we'd all have a laugh and I'd sail through school and you'd be allowed to watch Doctor Who instead of having to teach me math, which, let's face it, is never going to happen.


Mom! She's being difficult again!

Flying High

Greetings! Now that I'm a S.A.H.M. (Stay At Home Mom - ick, I hate the sound of that), I need some structure. Because I spent most of my life in a school, I'm hard-wired to eat, sleep and pee at the sound of a bell. Pavlov was right, in a creepy, why-do-you-have-to-be-right kind of way.

Woof.

Adi had to go back to Mexico and as such, I'm now in control. (We all know that the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.) So, now I'm rocking the cradle instead of the boat and it would appear that I have no clue whatsoever how to do this.

Since my mantra is: When in doubt, Google, I wound up here. Apart from the migraine-inducing colours on the site, there is some wisdom buried within. This is a site dedicated to getting people off their asses. Specifially, mothers. What? Mothers are on their asses? When?

Okay, so here's the Flylady deal: Routines Are Good.

I read it all last night and thought, Hell, I can do that! I woke up this morning thinking, "Make your bed as soon as you get out of it," - yeah, and I will, it's the getting out of it part that's difficult.

Alright, already. I'm up. I'm up. Bed. Hmm...Andy's still in it. But I'm supposed to make it, so here goes...hang on. Today on Flylady is sheet changing day. Okay, hold on Andy - here goes!

Fwap! (There is a caveat that you should make your bed as soon as you get out of it, provided your husband isn't still in it. All routines require personal adjustments, however.)

Right. Shower, get dressed, toss in a load of laundry, feed the dog, the family, the self, madly run child off to school while dog tangles itself in stroller wheels eighteen times. Arrive home, switch laundry over, sit down and realize I'm exhausted and it's not even 10am.

Oh, Flylady - could you perhaps just come live at my house? I'll feed you. You like Cheerios, right?

Alright. I'm GOING TO DO THIS! Today is "Home Blessing" day. As I understand it, a blessing is the infusion of something with divine will, or one's hopes. Okaaaay....I'm going to bestow holiness on my recylcing box, and invoke the divine will of sheet changing.

May the sheet bless you, and keep you from sleeping on the mattress;

May the vacuum make its face to shine upon your carpets, and be gracious to you;

May the squeegie mop turn its countenance to you and grant you clean floors.

I know I'm blaspheming, but the thing is, I don't care. If there's a God, I'm sure She has a sense of humour.

What else would explain the platypus?

Whine & Cheese

I have a whiner. She's also a screamer.

Kill me now.

The websites all tell me to:

1. Define the whine: is it anxiety, or hunger? Nobody, not even me, can be worried and hungry 24/7.

2. Use the same whiny voice so they can hear what it sounds like. This just makes me want to smack myself and send myself to my room.

Actually, being sent to my room is something I dream about....

Maybe this is because I whined a lot during my pregnancies, and screamed like a tortured cat during delivery.

It's payback?

Karma's a bitch.