Potty Pothead

To all you people who claim you can potty train a two-year-old in 48 hours:

You're liars.

You only say that to make the rest of us feel inferior. And I have to hate you for that.

You're welcome. Roo is doing....okay. We have moments of blazing success which serve to fill me with hope, only to have it quite literally pissed on hours later. I'm up, I'm down - potty training has made me bi-polar. Seriously, I am an otherwise normal person - how is it that motherhood has driven me completely 'round the twist?

In many ways, it's good because my tolerance for small bladders has increased, and my tolerance for people who are fucktards has decreased. I no longer have time for their pettiness - there is pee to clean up, after all.

And to the guy who vowed he would potty-train his ten-month-old because diapers were all an evil conspiracy by the paper companies: you're an idiot. I guess I'll train myself to stop menstruating because pads are an evil conspiracy by the paper companies. Idiot.

Just sayin'.

God, it feels good to write for myself where I can say shit like that. (I was recently offered a freelance writing position (blog to come!). I turned it down for loads of reasons, but mostly because they wouldn't let me use the word 'fucktard'. THAT particular word is more useful than most people realize and if political speech-writers were allowed to use it, CNN wouldn't bore the crap out of me.)

Just sayin'.

Neuteronomy

This is it Mr. Dog. Your last day with your balls intact.

I am not neutering him out of malice, although I've had my moments. I'm doing it purely for his sake. Yeah, like you'll believe that.

He's only four and half months old and he's already obsessed with the cute little dog down the street. She's less than impressed with his ardent attention and he, like many males, doesn't really get the "If you touch me one more time, I will bite off your ear" message. I've presented that message to a few men in my time, and the ones that don't get it really should have their balls cut off.

Just sayin'. And Charlie's ears are so cute that if Annie the Schnoodle pulls a Mike Tyson on him, I'd feel bad.

Off With Yer Balls!

Poor guy - he's just snoozing comfortably in his spot by the window right now, with no idea of what awaits his furry little ass tomorrow. On Tuesday, he finished his training and he is doing pretty well. He's still a Challenging Dog, but he is smart. I think we wanted a smart dog, but you know what? That's not always the kind of dog you want.

Smart dogs test you All. The. Time. And really, he figured out the flashlight trick pretty fast. Now it's no fun. My friend's Labrador will chase the circle of light from a flashlight for days and still think, "Where's it at? Where's it at?" After 30 seconds, Charlie gave up in disgust, jumped on the chair, and farted.

But his intelligence also means that I can train him to wear costumes for my amusement. I put Nic's pink crocs on his front paws and Andy nearly called the SPCA on me. What? It was funny!

We'll see how things change when he's singing the Blue Balls of Scotland...

Good luck, Chuck!

Demented Things You Can Do With Mascara

This looks pretty scary actually.

I was desperate for creative, fun entertainment. I'm compiling a list of alternative uses for mascara.

1. Use the dry wands to brush your lashes.
2. Use a tube of mascara to change the colour of your doll's hair.
3. Throw it out.

Martha, I am not.

I. Have Made Fire.

Remember that scene in Castaway where Tom Hanks finally makes fire with sticks and cries out in jubilation? That's how I feel when I make food.

It happened. I made the first meal from my new "Saving Dinner" book and...drum roll...

EVERYONE. ATE. IT.

(Well, except Rachael who is on a hunger strike for nothing but popcorn, so that hardly counts.)

Yes. And God made bowtie pasta with broccoli and saw that it was Good.

This is success on such a gargantuan scale I celebrated by buying some drawer organizers.

Even admitting that feels weird.

Roo Meets a Hogg

I'm driving Roo to our swimming bonanza, when she says, "Mummy? Did you fart?"

Double-takes aren't always a good idea while driving at 80 km/hr BUT how can you not when you hear that out of your two-year-old?

She'd heard the passing Harley Davidson noise and asked me....if it was me farting.

Yeah.

It reminded me of when Andy and I drove across the country to come live in Vancouver. Often we would turn to each other, sniff the air in the car, and say, "Is that you?"

The answer was invariably, "You mean, is that me or nine acres of manure?...Hmmm...."

Book Review

But not really. Because I haven't read it yet. I did, however, buy it. So the review is coming!

Buying this book was radical for me because I don't buy cookbooks. I've checked out loads of cookbooks from the library - thank God I didn't buy them - each of them promising to solve the picky eater problem: mine being that my family won't eat anything that casts a shadow. I tried all the recipes. Lentil patties sound revolting, and quite frankly, they were. I lied to my vegan friend and told her I liked them, but remember that I married a South African - lentils don't go over too well at the braai where all the manly men are warming up the ocelot or umpalot or Y-Pronged Tree Buck just until it stops wailing and THEN they eat it.

So it didn't go over too well. Andy tolerated it quite well because I was pregnant at the time and he knew his life was in jeopardy if he complained about anything.

Nic is the worst, Andy is only slightly less picky because he knows he HAS to eat it to Set An Example, but I can tell when he's choking it down and doing a stellar job of suppressing the gag reflex.

It's not that I'm a terrible cook. Well, I'm not Julia Childs, but I'm not ...who's famous for being lousy in the kitchen? Don't know. Anyway - the point is this: I can cook, and I actually enjoy cooking (mostly) it's the thinking I can't stand. That five-o-clock panic caused by the question, "What's for dinner?". Too often, my answer is: "I don't know, who did you call for delivery?" And that's Nic.

And what's worse is that I dread grocery shopping and I always think I'm going to forget something basic, like bread, so I always buy bread. The problem with this, is that Andy suffers from the same delusion of bread-rationing and we currently have eleven loaves of bread in our house.

So, as I was driving to the grocery store (sans list, as usual) I was praying for a miraculous intervention that would provide me with a way to know what to cook, when, for how long, and give me the week's shopping list with it. Short of having my own personal chef, what I need is a system that has all the thinking removed.

And there on the shelf was: Dinner Survival: The Most Uncomplicated, Approachable Way To Get Dinner To Fit Your Life by Sandi Richard. I picked this up because it's a time-conscious approach that claims to have "foods your family will actually eat". That's a big one for me. But most of all, it's got ten weeks of meals all planned. You just flip to the back, look at the shopping list, and do what it tells you. I like that. I like that a lot.

I'll be putting this to use immediately. Wish me luck!

With apologies to Midnight Oil's Blue Sky Mining, I'm in a non-stop loop of singing, "There'll be food on the table to- niiiiiiight!" Unless I run out of time. In which case, Andy - the book is on the counter. Knock yourself out.

UPDATE: Two weeks later: I've made ten meals from this book. Okay, now Sandi: miso paste? I mean, I live in a cosmopolitan place and I had to go to four different stores to get that. Also the Hawaiian Chicken was totally gross.

Get Out of My Hedley!!!

It's started.

Nic has started humming tunes she hears on the radio AT HER FRIENDS' HOUSES...not mine.

Because I'd never have that station on. Well, sometimes, but as soon as one of Hedley's songs comes on, I launch myself toward the radio and slam it off as soon as I possibly can. Why? Well, I'm sure they're nice people*, but their music makes me ..uh. Let's just say it produces the anuerythm. The adnausehum. The never-ending cerebral track that makes you want to drive a meat thermometre into your head to MAKE IT STOP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

* Canada being what it is: the second largest land mass, and one of the least populated countries, we mostly know everyone. And I know the lead singer of Hedley. Well, I knew him. More specifically, I was his teacher. This not only makes me feel incredibly old, but makes me muster up some grudging admiration for his success. But Jacob - just so you know, if you ever get really famous and the papers interview your old teachers, you'll have to bribe me to tell them something other than the depressing truth of what it was like to have you in my class. Yeah, you were funny, immensely talented and shocking, but you also drove me completely up the wall.

Dog Training 101

Everything I ever needed to know about parenting, dog ownership and life in general, I've just learned from a 30 minute lesson with our dog trainer, Genny.

1. Only give a command once. Expect that it will be obeyed. She noticed that I often put a question mark at the end of my command (like, "Pardon me, dog, but if it's convenient for you, would you please come here instead of bolting into the street? Please? Okay, not working for you, that's fine, I'll just stay here and whine about it.")

2. Fake it 'till you make it. If you don't think you're the benevolent dictator, neither will they. They can sense your feelings before you can. And you have to BELIEVE that you are in charge. Even if you don't feel like you are - pretend. I may start doing mine as Mussolini* so my dog will only respond to lousy Italian accents, but if it works, then it works.

3. Use "no" sparingly. Only when it's something you NEVER want him to do. Otherwise, he will come to ignore the 'no's because they're used so often, they have no meaning.

4. Tit for Tat: Everything he gets he should have to work for: be it a toy or food. I think I'll do this with my kids too. You want breakfast? Make your bed first. That's fair.

5. Go mental with praise. Dogs love praise. Children love praise. Spouses love praise. Who doesn't love praise?

* Not that Mussolini counts as a benevolent dictator. Just sayin'.

So You Think You Can Nanny

We're still looking for a replacement Au Pair. It's so bizarre. But I'm back to ruthlessly editing the applications. I have to be merciless. And I do all kinds of editing: like if you really and truly can't spell, you're out!

Contestant Notes:

1. IF YOU TYPE IN ALL CAPS FOR ALL YOUR COMMUNICATION IT'S LIKE YOU'RE SHOUTING. Stop it. No, please. Stop. Even though all your answers are really good and you seem like a totally great person, I keep wondering IF YOU SHOUT ALL THE TIME!

2. Do a little homework. Even just a little. Canadians have issues with being thought of as Americans. Most of the world knows this. Applying to live with my Canadian family in a Canadian province will not, I repeat, not, fulfill your dream of living in America. You're online, so you have access to world geography. I instantly eliminate anyone who says they want to see the USA so they apply to us.

3. Cleavage and eye-makeup do not a nanny make. Sure, you're very pretty. But, since most of the weeding out is done by the mother of the family, your attractiveness can only work against you. Go for wholesome. We like wholesome - even if you're not, humour us. What we want is Mary Poppins. Whether or not Mary Poppins was actually a junkie is inconclusive.

4. Our profile says "only those with a firm command of English need apply". So writing to us in Spanish....or German...or Hungarian or whatever isn't the best idea.

5. Lastly, the most important point: When we ask you why you want to be an Au Pair, we're kind of hoping for an answer about your liking kids. If you tell us you want to do this so you can travel and learn a new language, that's great....BUT IT'S NOT REALLY THE POINT!

Always remember: punctuation is your friend.

And now...on to more applications.

An Actor Prepares....fishsticks.

Stanislavski would be horrified, but I'm not doing the inner monologue or asking a whole lot about my character's motivation. I am, however, making dinner.

This is tech week. Which means I shouldn't even be writing because I should be eating, sleeping and breathing The Play. But I do have a life, and my children don't care about Stanislavski and think Uta Hagen is a kind of ice cream. So I've got my lines down (mostly), we've got most of our blocking down, we've gone through the agony of cue-to-cue and tonight it's photos with our last run before dress rehearsal.

Nic really wants to come see the play. But she'd be the only six-year-old in the audience, and with the amount of pot I smoke, whiskey I drink, and 'fuck's I say, I think it would traumatize her. Not to mention the fact that I pin down this guy and smooch him like a fem/dom nymphomaniac. (That's my favourite part! This play has really released my inner sex-kitten/bi-polar whack job). It would all be too insane for her.

Anyway, we open for the press on Friday. Wish me luck. Or tell me to break my leg. Or something. 'Nuff rambling. Back to the fishsticks!

Nannygate Has Two New Contenders

In the unexpected turn of childcare events, known to one person as Nannygate, things are now looking up.

I interviewed someone on Friday who, quite frankly, rocked.

Today, I interviewed another someone who also rocked.

Mind you, the first one's English is better than mine, the second one's English is only better than Charlie's - which isn't saying much since he doesn't understand the simple word, "Come!". However, she's still lovely.

I have fears though....I'm terrified that they'll leave me in a free fall. Hmm...why do you have these irrational fears? Oh, because IT'S HAPPENED!!!!

I was bitching talking to a friend about this and she said that I was actually attracting these situations because of the fear. You attract what you think about. I am pretty much an orthodox Law of Attractionist (because it's more fun that most religions and I devoutly believe it will help me win the lottery) so this made sense to me.

But then, I said it to another friend, about how I'd had this huge revelation in talking to a friend about why it happens, and she said, "It's not as simple as all that,". Mind you, she's accident-prone and has more bad luck than anyone I know. So there it is.

Well. I have absolutely nothing of any value to say today. (Like I do other days.) But there it is.

Have a lovely day full of loveliness and hopefully I'll be more inspired tomorrow.

Halloweiners and why I love crap food.

I love this bizarre tradition of dressing up and asking strangers for candy - because it's the kind of thing you can only do on one day of the year. Every other day it is wholly unacceptable and people will chase you away, but on Halloween...off we go.

Andy grew up in the scorching bushveld* of Namibia, and they didn't do Halloween there. Funny. So he feels totally ripped off and makes the absolute most of it now that he lives here. He was disappointed that we lamed-out this year and only had three pumpkins and a skull on our porch. That's because people with more free time and different priorities than me had endless decorations, fake graveyards on their lawns, giant spiders hanging from the roof...cobwebs draped over the front door...FOURTEEN pumpkins. (I'm not making this up - I talked the 14-pumpkin-lady. Carving them took her five and a half hours. I told Andy that this will never, ever happen in my life. There's a limit to how much time I will spend decorating a gourd. Unless it really makes him happy...no, actually, no. There's a limit.)

Anyway, the kids loved Halloween. Roo thought the whole chocolate-eating thing was phenomenal and I'm astonished that she ever fell asleep.

I managed to go through the entire process without eating any of their candy.

Yes. It's true. See, I promised myself I wouldn't eat sugar any more. I did that after last Halloween, and I've now officially gone AN ENTIRE YEAR without sugar. Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter...made it through. But Halloween was the toughest because, I don't actually like expensive, good chocolate. I like the crap. The cheap, badly-made little packets of evil - that's where it's at for me. And there's so damn much of it!

Success on many levels. I think I need, at the very least, a medal.

Rock on everyone. It's the weekend!




*Not entirely true. It was Windhoek, a city like most others, but he had access to the scorching bushveld which sounds much more impressive.