How to be good at chores in 16 easy steps

Parenthood is an unrelenting barrage of chores. It's a barrage of other things too, but the chores - good god the chores.

Now, to be clear, I don't really care about chores. My house is not one of those pristine magazine houses. On a good day, it barely passes for hygienic. My house is a solid tolerable, and often in some state of repair or renovation (thank you Hubby).

Generally my house borders on embarrassing, but can sometimes look like at least I turned on the robot vacuum.

However, I still do chores. A fucking endless, painful, surprising series of chores that keep my house precariously perched on the fence between "hmm what's that lingering stench?" and "holy shit we gotta call someone my socks are stuck to the floor wait is that poop of course it is what else would it be."

So today I had a single chore goal. Usually, I have zero chore goals. Each day passes with a three-year old yelling and running and making all matter of messes (including, but not limited to, playdoh on the table, milk on the couch, rice on the floor, and paint in her hair) as well as a six-month old who actively spits all of his saliva, food and breastmilk on any and all surfaces.

Whatever chores get done in between all that are a miracle. On an average day, the dishes don't get done and piles of clean and/or dirty laundry become excellent floor pillows for Hubby and I during our best "yes I'm parenting even if I am laying on the floor with my eyes closed" moments.

But this morning, Fraggle marched into our bedroom at her precise 7:17 and announced that her nighttime diaper had leaked into her pants, and therefore into her sheets.

Enter: chore goal.

Today's chore simply had to ensure that I am a good enough parent that my kid doesn't have to sleep in a possibly pee-ish bed.

Chore goal failed, as I'm sure you predicted. Because life.  Fraggle napped in her possibly pee-ish sheets this afternoon.

BUT - I did not allow myself to be deterred. I swore, tonight I will be a better parent than I was this morning. Tonight I will change those godforsaken sheets if it kills me.

And kill me it nearly did.

After washing windows, making dinner, sorting closets, and then feeding, bathing and bedding the baby, this is what it takes to complete a single chore goal in my house:

Step 1 - Strip the pee-ish sheets.

Step 2 - Realize you don't have a clean sheet.

Step 3 - Go down to the main floor to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, for the clean sheet.

Step 4 - Return upstairs, put away those clean clothes, spread out the clean sheet but then realize you don't have a clean towel to lay under the sheet to protect the mattress from other pee-ish nights.

Step 5 - Go down to the basement to retrieve a clean towel from the dryer.

Step 6 - Fold all the laundry from the dryer and put it into a hamper.

Step 7 - Put the wet stuff from the washer into the dryer.

Step 8 - Put new stuff in the washer.

Step 9 - Carry the hamper up - wait, stop - scoop the kitty litter.

Step 10 - Wash hands.

Step 11 - Carry the bag of cat feces up to the garbage.

Step 12 - Take the recycling out because it's overflowing on the back deck and Hubby keeps ranting about it.

Step 13 - Wash hands.

Step 14 - Return to the basement to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, dig out the clean towel buried at the bottom because fucking idiot.

Step 15 - Heave the clean laundry hamper up the stairs and make the child's bed.

Step 16 - Put the pee-ish sheets into another hamper - wait, stop - all the hampers are already in use fuck that - launch the dirty pee-ish sheets over the stair railing.

Oh, and, you have to do all that silently because - duh - sleeping baby.

There it is.  Now you, too, can be the best mediocre parent. You're welcome. Pass the beer.

Easier doesn't mean easy

When I was pregnant with this Warner Brother, several of my friends told me how easy the second child was.  Less anxiety they said.  Less stress they said.  More knowledge, more tolerance, more confidence, they said.

All of that is true.

However: More or less of something does not equate to all or none of something.

Newborndom is certainly less anxious and less stressful this time around. I don't panic as easily regarding his well being.  I don't worry as much because I sorta have the hang of this.  I know when he's hungry, I can tell when his cries are gas, I have an idea how to teach him to nap, and I totally knew as soon as I saw his first real smile.   I don't have to learn as much, so I can enjoy more.

Although I feel tremendous empathy for the first-time parents in my life who have not yet caught up to my level of experience, I still want to be completely clear:

This is not easy.

I am not one of those parents who "forgot" how hard it was.  I remember the misery of newborndom. I remember walking her around the mall trying to get her to sleep.  I remember standing over her bassinet with my pinky finger in her mouth for endless minutes, maybe hours.  I remember the fear associated with her breastmilk intake - nipple shields, pricey consultants, painful boobs, and cold washcloths on her bare, sleepy back.  I remember late-night cluster feeds, kicky gas legs, and crying on the bathroom floor (me, not her).  I remember whisper-arguing with Hubby and assuming we'd be divorced by the end of the day.  (He would have called a lawyer if he didn't have a sleeping baby on his lap.  The survival of this marriage is attributed to a long nap and a rescue visit from @msfreshfish.)

After all of this, though, I also remember that IT GOT BETTER.  I remember drinking coffee while she peacefully napped, visiting with friends, playing in the sun, smiling above her on a yoga mat.

So, when we diligently weighed the benefits and risks of a second baby, I was not operating in a hormonal or sentimental illusion. I knew precisely what I was in for.  Disaster at first, and generally ongoing heartache and exhaustion in one form or another for the foreseeable future.

Until my friends confused me.  They somehow convinced me this would be effortless.  They claimed "It's so easy this time!" And sure, by comparison, it can be... easy - but only in relation to last time.  Not standing alone.

Standing alone, this experience is just a different kind of impossibly hard.  I still only get two hours of sleep at any given time, except I also have to entertain a toddler most of the day.  I still have a baby who won't allow me to set him down, but I also have a toddler asking for my help to reach the soap/put her socks on/play in her tent.  I still spray breastmilk all over the house, except I also spray it into my toddler's dinner.  I still have to whisper and tiptoe all day long while he attempts to sleep, but I also have to make a toddler whisper and tiptoe while she attempts to play live.

I still have the hard parts - albeit minus some of the anxiety - but with a whole other whack of shit to fill its place.

I still have to take off to the children's hospital when my infant seems to have a fever (with the same unnecessary panic attack). Except this time, I have to do it by myself while Hubby stays home with our other precious child who just wants me to tuck her in.

The constant competition between opposite emotions is staggering. Parenting is wonderful. It's bliss. It's joy. It's pride. It's a gift that we are ever-grateful for. It is an incredible satisfaction, a surprising sense of purpose, an indescribable love.  But it is never easy.

Dear Fraggle, Just learn the good stuff, k?

Dear Fraggle,

Newsflash my baby: Lately you are less "baby", more "small human taking over our house." You recently turned 18 months old, and it is finally becoming clear to me what people meant when they promised this parent job would get fun - because holy hell my little monkey, you are so. much. FUN.

Sure, raising a small human is still hellish on a fairly frequent basis.  There are moments when literally pulling out my hair seems like a perfectly reasonable reaction to a toddler who just hit me in the face or chucked her dinner across the room.

That said, those hellish moments are becoming more balanced with neat, hilarious, fun things that I had never quite anticipated, that I am grateful for, that I wish could be bottled and preserved forever.  Like scotch.  (That's a bad example.  Don't drink scotch.)

My point is, Fraggle, you're making our lives so much more fun than they were before.  Life before you was, well, boring, as far as I can tell.  Life now is exhausting, yes, but also exceptionally engaging.  For example...

You talk.  

Like, a lot.

Before I went to sleep the other night, I was counting sheep baby words.  You have almost 40 distinct, regular words - plus a dozen hand signs, a couple special squeals, and a minimum of 50 animal sounds, including camel and penguin.

Obviously there are only a handful of people who can understand these "words," but that fact matters very little when you look at me and say "sheesh" (meaning, please, I want that, help me mama); or "bAL" (meaning, hey look, a balloon); or "WHOA" (meaning, WHOA LOOK AT HOW COOL THAT IS I CAN'T BELIEVE IT).  Or my personal silent favourite: tapping one hand on top of the other when we chase/tickle/toss you (meaning, more! more!).

Communicating with you, my darling Fraggle, is the highlight of my day.


You dance.  

You adore music, bursting a giant grin and wide eyes that light up your face when you hear a guitar strum or a drum beat.

Even better than witnessing the beaming smile is watching you dance (aka run) around our kitchen - with moves including the Knee-bend, the Moonwalk, the Smooth Criminal, and your most recent addition, the Peg Leg.


You count.  

Kinda.  It's more like pointing. You point at all the frogs, or bears or butterflies and say "da da da" as I count.  You understand the concept - a concept that you wouldn't catch if someone (that is, we, your parents) didn't teach you.  

What I'm getting at is that you learn.

You are a person that I grew inside my body, and who, since that time, has absorbed every minor tidbit of seemingly useless information, and then somehow successfully applied it to your own little world.

You use a spoon.  You stack cups.  You tidy up.  You carry your pajamas into the bathroom.  You clap and say "yaaay!" when you place a puzzle piece.  You have a hand sign for toilet, and you run to your potty, hand waving, when you're about to pee.

You copy everything.  You hear everything.  You observe everything and store it away for later.  And when you reveal some new thing you've learned, I get to think to myself: "I taught her that. She got that from me."

Unfortunately, that whole copy-cat thing is bound to bite me in the ass.  One day you'll crack your neck like a prize-fighter, or argue with a stranger in a parking lot, or shovel a slab of cheesecake into your face like it will save your life.  And on those days, I'll have to be there apologizing for teaching you the wrong thing, showing you the wrong example, leading you down the wrong path.

I only hope you'll also be glad that I taught you how to count frogs, how to host a very exclusive living room dance party, how to spit like a camel - because these are the things I want most for you.  I want you to be clever, independent, active, helpful, polite, communicative, engaged, and a fan of Michael Jackson's music.  I want you to absorb the good stuff, the fun stuff (and ignore the shit) because I'm starting to realize that nothing else much matters than being happy.

You're happy, my doll, and I hope I can help you stay that way.

PS.  Seriously, don't drink scotch.  That never ends well.

The Strangercare Show

After 23 months (9+14) of being my baby’s sole provider of care (i.e., eat, drink, sleep, play, learn – let’s be honest, I was her sole provider of life for all intents and purposes), I am now two weeks into my ominous Return To Work. 

This unfortunate Return To Work ritual is one that apparently every parent can relate to – some after only a few weeks of parental leave, others after several months or years.  There seem to be some customary phases of this momentous event, putting your child into Strangercare. 

The Strangercare Dress Rehearsal

Also known as The Transition.  Partial days, or partial hours, easing into the reality of leaving your most precious being in the hands of some hack who will probably drop her on her head and let her play with cigarettes.  Usually exudes only a small portion of the total strength eventually required for the actual Strangercare opening day, partly due to your continued significant daily role, but mostly due to denial. 

The Home Nesting Interpretive Dance

A fast and sometimes furious flutter, organizing and cleaning in an attempt to prepare for the new world order.  An often fruitless but necessary exercise. 

Before you know it, though, it’s opening night and the performance truly begins. If you don’t know your lines by now, it’s too late.  The show must go on. 

The Opening Prayer

A slow and cautious pleading to anyone who will listen, begging for empowerment.  Usually in the vein of “This is good for me.  And for her.  She’ll get used to this.” and ending with a single repeated phrase “I can do this.  I can do this.  I can do this.”

The First Day Acrobatic Display

Usually accompanied by a sense of confusion and awe that fogs you into a convenient submission. Running out the door in high heels, carrying 1-2 children on your hip, 3-to-4 bags on your shoulder, and a giant coffee mug in your hand. Followed by an 8-hour intermission. Then followed by a dash home in the same fashion with desperation in your eyes/heart/soul.   

The One-Woman Show

Also known as The Panic Attack.  When the reality of this being reality becomes a reality and the whole show almost comes (or does come) crashing to an end.  Usually accompanied by frequent (possibly extreme) crying for everyone involved.  This image is a hard one to shake – spectators be warned.

The Team Building Exercise

The rally.  The getting-to-know-each other and setting-a-plan group activity. Comes in the form of a meal planning diorama, or a "Juggle the Flaming Schedule" show, or a guest-starring role for your psychologist.  Or all of the above.

The Meditation

A slow and steady decline of emotions into a pattern of rhythmic movements. Not necessarily in a state of calm, but a state of acceptance. 

The Finale

The reflection on the overall event and how it has impacted your life.  Consideration of how you might change your life based on its influence.  For some, this will have shifted their perspective entirely – finding a new job, or a new income, or a new approach for their family.  Others will make moderate shifts – selling their house, moving close to work.  Some will make small allowances – hugging their kids more often and more fiercely. Some will do all three.  Ultimately, the finale is what brings you to your new you, your new world.  Or at least inspires you to create your own spin-off soap opera entitled Wine and Tears: My True Life Story.    

The truth about Baby-Led Weaning

If you have children, you're probably accustomed to the constantly shifting rules of acceptable parenting... Your baby should sleep on her stomach, NO WAIT HER BACK. Breast milk is all your baby needs, NO WAIT VITAMIN D SUPPLEMENTS. Your baby should sleep in a crib, NO WAIT YOUR BED, NO WAIT HER CRIB, NO WAIT HER CRIB BUT YOUR ROOM.

I think most of us eventually figure out that we just gotta do what works - short of, say, leaving our babies at home alone while we go out for beers.  (I would never do that.  Probably.)

Regarding solid food, Hubby and I adopted a baby-led weaning approach.  Essentially, we skipped the cereal and purees and jumped straight to finger food, for a two reasons:

1) we hate cooking, so preparing separate baby food was a traumatic thought; and,

2) we liked the idea of her feeding herself alongside us, rather than us shovelling food into her face.

This approach has to do with our general laziness, but also to do with acknowledging that Fraggle is a person with independence and free will.  But mostly the laziness thing.

And so I bring you: the truth about baby-led weaning.

("Truth" is a relative term, as in: it's my truth, and I'm no expert.  But I assure you it isn't false.  Or at least I wouldn't lie.  About this.  Although, there is a distinct possibility that the absence of adult interaction has skewed my view of reality.)

Tip #1 - Read the book
But maybe buy it used. If you're already on board with the whole my baby should just feed herself philosophy, then you don't need the propaganda.  The book spends a lot of time convincing you how crazy you are if you don't choose baby-led weaning, with very little time teaching you how to actually implement this genius idea.

Tip #2 - It's messy, get over it
Hubby dislikes Fraggle's grubby food fingers and the pile of sloppy mess spread across her highchair and caked onto the floor.  I could care less.  I just hand-bomb that goop like it's my job (because it kind of is).  I take one cloth, wipe her face and hands, then her chair, then the floor.  One cloth, moving on.

Tip #3 - She didn't choke
Each parent has a certain level of comfort with certain things.  I'm (irrationally?) afraid of jolly jumpers, but choking doesn't worry me.  I might be unfit, but I trust her gag reflex to push out any food that isn't quite right.  If it worries you, stick with purees.  But keep in mind that by six months, rugrats are far more capable of eating and digesting solid food (rather than at four months, when babies used to start cereal).  Also, I actually think learning to chew before swallowing is helpful. I suspect switching from puree to solids is challenging.

Tip #4 - Don't expect too much too fast
As with all of my parenting decisions, I second-guessed myself hourly.  For six weeks, I watched Fraggle chew a ton of food but swallow very little, while her cohorts inhaled giant spoonfuls of mashed goodness.  HOWEVER, by the time she grew two teeth (around eight months) and figured out what we were trying to accomplish (um, eating) she was feeding herself large volumes of hamburgers, avocados, and sweet potatoes and LOVING IT - while my friends were trying to sneak peas into their babies' yogurt.  Also, be patient for the pincer grip, which may actually develop quickly with lots of practise.  Like all aspects of baby-raising, it gets better precisely when you think it never will.

Tip #5 - Roll with it
Some people prefer a hybrid approach - some finger food, some sauce.  The book will tell you that makes little sense, and I think I agree.  Jumping back and forth seems like an unnecessary and confusing endeavour.  The bottom line is that after a few weeks, Fraggle was eating more than she would have been otherwise, and we were all happier.  Just do what your baby seems to want.  For example, Fraggle likes those store-bought puree packets.  This works for me because it tops her up after dinner and I don't have to make it.  It works for her because she can just suck the mush out herself, as much as she wants, and then throw it on the floor to spray across the room.  Win-win?

Tip #6 - What to make and how to make it
The book claims you can give your baby whatever you're eating.  I'm here to tell you that isn't exactly true, at least for the first few months.  Just don't get discouraged.  The little turd will be eating you out of house and home before you know it.  For some more detailed observations, read onward.  Otherwise, however you decide to feed your offspring, good luck and have fun.  Or get a nanny.  Whichever.




The Details

It was a bit of a pain at first, but still not as bad as blending food (in my opinion).  For example:

• I had to prepare our food without salt and without bottled/jarred/canned sauces. A life without mustard is a travesty. 
• I had to cut it into finger shapes. 
• I had to cook it longer.
• I had to take it out sooner so it would cool. (I still have to do that.  Obviously.)
• Eating away from the house was a bit trickier, messier at least. 
• At first there was a lot of food she simply couldn't manage. It was too small (like peas), or too awkward (like tortillas), or impossible without a spoon (like soup).  
• Another annoying bit: she doesn't eat an entire anything, so a tupperware container stocked with half-eaten oranges and tomatoes lives in my fridge.  

However, there are ways to make food that works:

• In the early days, leave the peal on fruit to make it easier to hold, like bananas, avocados, and oranges.  Just wash them well.  
• The microwave is handy.  Zuccinni sticks cook quickly when they're wrapped in wet paper towel.
• Meatballs are a godsend.  I make dozens, freeze them, and warm them before her meals.   
• She learned to pull apart chicken and turkey breast early on.  I cook, cut and freeze.
• Pork remains difficult to chew, but I suspect that has to do with my terrible chef skills. 
• I found one brand of frozen burgers with minimal junk added.  Thanks to George Forman this was an awesome quickie meal.  If you make your own, make them very loose so they're edible. 
• Eggs!  (Read the latest on eggs, but basically, they're safe).  Mix them with lentils for iron (but beware of gas) and cook them omelette-style, then slice.  
• Carrots and apples are a myth.  They never get soft enough to chew, even when cooked.  Bell peppers and non-ripe pears presented the same problem until she was old enough to pick them up in tiny pieces to swallow whole.  
• When in doubt, spread cream cheese on it.  This is also good advice for life in general.
• Soft cheese like Havarti is easier than Cheddar. 
• For someone who doesn't like making food, I seem awfully willing to peel her grapes. They're easier to eat and the skin actually does worry me as a choking hazard.  I slice them in quarters and then the peel comes right off.
• Roma tomatoes are good in early days, sliced in hand-held pieces.  
• Asparagus is easy to hold and the tips are easy to eat if they're soft.  The stems are too stringy so get ready to eat the remnants yourself. Also, beware of smelly baby pee.  
• I steam sweet potatoes, but in hand-held slices with the skin for easy gripping. 
• Cauliflower is softer than broccoli but both are good because they have a built-in handle.
• Rice was impossible until she got older, but now it works - especially the next day after it's been in the fridge because it sticks together.
• She loves berries.  Strawberries (if they're mutant ones) are big enough to slice long for easy gripping. Smaller berries need to wait for pincer skills. 
• Pineapple strips. Mmmm. 
• Penne noodles aren't bad in early days.  
• She learned to pull the little green beans out of the stalk.  She's a genius.  
• She likes frittata (potatoes, veggies, eggs, cheese). Just chop everything to the necessary size.
• Mushrooms were impossible until she could eat them in small pieces because they're too rubbery (but I used to chop them up tiny in her omelettes).  
• I never found a good baby cereal in cookie form, they are all impossible for her to eat.  It doesn't matter anymore because now she eats oatmeal on a spoon mixed with fruit sauce, but for a while there I was super pissed.  
• Some people claim to make healthy muffins mixed with baby cereal.  I don't know who these people are. 

I'm on the #BanBossy bandwagon

For those who don't know what this whole "Ban Bossy" thing is, in a nutshell:

Ban Bossy is a campaign.  Its aim, according to its website, is to encourage girls to lead - without calling them "bossy."  It was launched by LeanIn.org, a nonprofit founded by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg to "empower all women to achieve their ambitions."  Sandberg is building on her book's message with partners like the Girl Scouts and Beyoncé to, well, #BanBossy.

"I'm not bossy.  I'm the boss."

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Now that we're all caught up, I want to be clear:  I LIKE this campaign.

True, no campaign is perfect.  No campaign reaches all the right people in all the right ways.  True, there are things to be said about the appropriateness of any role model/spokesperson (including Beyoncé, whose recent Grammy performance was incredibly impressive but also very sexual).

However, this is a message that makes sense.  It's a message about empowering women and girls, about strengthening our confidence and our leadership skills, and about making it ok for us to be assertive and successful.  At its core, this is a good message, and I'm on board.

Unfortunately, (and this is where I jump up on the #BanBossy bandwagon like a squirrel on peanut butter; or like me on peanut butter), there are those making arguments against this campaign that in my opinion are fundamentally flawed.

Primarily, there's an editorial by Margaret Wente in the Globe and Mail entitled "Ban 'bossy'? Suck it up, girls".  I've also had some thoughtful exchanges with friends and other twitterers on the subject.  None of these opinions are wrong - I just have a sincere and significant opposition to them.

Critique #1: The word "bossy" isn't a problem.

Wente writes that the word bossy destroys a girl's "fragile self-esteem."  Only, she writes it sarcastically, as if it is the stupidest thing she's ever heard.  Well newsflash Margaret: any term that insults a child's personality shouldn't be uttered in his or her direction.  And yes, SELF-ESTEEM IS FRAGILE.

Yes, Margaret, we could also ban the term tattletale.  Perhaps also B*tch, Sl*t, Wh*re, N*igger, Pr*ck, R*tard, Fagg*t, and P*ssy while we're at it.  Those other words, though, are known "curse" words and have their own debate raging about context and reclamation (see below).

Words like bossy (or even tattletale, although it's fair to say that is not a uniquely male or female word) slip into the vernacular and contribute to a broader socialization of our children. Even if more girls are entering law and medical schools, as Wente points out, does that excuse discouraging girls from the get-go?  I should hope not.

These are not just words, they mean something.  A campaign that raises awareness, encourages critical thinking, and challenges the social construction is not the wrong approach.

Critique #2: Teach girls to live with the word and "overcome adversity"

Wente writes that being called bossy didn't get in Beyoncé's way, so isn't that what we should be teaching our girls? To soldier on, "overcome adversity and suck it up."

I tell you what, Margaret.  When your peers are hurling insults at you, you can suck it up.  You can overcome adversity and be better... 20 years later.  I, on the other hand, when insulted as a child would have judged myself and tried to be more likable.  Even as an adult I'm among those who work damn hard not to judge themselves but often take it personally when other people do.

For my daughter, I will under no circumstances tell her to suck it up.  I will tell her lots of things, but to ignore her feelings or dismiss the power of words? I don't intend to do that. Likewise, as Margaret seems to argue, I won't ban bossy as an idea. Fraggle will be strong and assertive, I've no doubt.  But the term as an insult?  Banned.  It's a good place to start.

There is no harm in being aware of the words we use and the social idea beyond their dictionary definition.  Words are symbols - like the American Flag or the middle finger - each having an implied/emotional meaning in the background.

Critique #3: Reclaim the word

This argument is an interesting one, made by a friend this morning.  I adore this friend and her perspective, but...

A couple months ago I said something stupid like "I'm a candy sl*t."  I didn't mean anything by it, except to be funny.  I do eat whatever candy crosses my path, I don't discriminate, and it can't be good for me... but what about the word?  My initial reaction was "It's all context!" or "I don't mean it like that!" And then I called bullshit on myself.

If years ago I banned the C word from my vocabulary, and then banned "that's gay!" followed by "how retarded!", why should sl*t be any different? No. These words have a meaning and I have no place invoking it.

This morning my dear friend made a fair point: she may not use a word but she wants to give others the space to reclaim it if they so choose.  Ok, good.  Except I have yet to think of a word that has been "reclaimed."  Even people who ironically or critically use words have not managed to undo the damage caused under other circumstances.

Further, I have no idea where the line is drawn regarding who can use a word and who can't.  Your grandfather is black so you could use the N word. Her Aunt has Down's Syndrome, so she can use the R word.  I am Depressed and Anxious so I can say "Crazy."

Sure, I'm all about context.  When I call myself Crazy I do it in an ironic and self-deprecating (hopefully humourous) way, essentially aiming to bring mental illness into the socially-acceptable forefront.  But it's still self-deprecating.  If I constantly called myself fat (in front of my daughter?) an impact is undeniable.

It comes down to using one's judgement and tact, walking an informed and critical line.  So yeah, I'll give others space to "reclaim" their words, but I have no idea if they're reclaiming them right.

Critique #4: She's going to hear it anyway

"People aren't going to read the article, and they don't have the internet, and they won't stop saying it."

Oy vey.  That's the point of an awareness campaign, no? Can we remember my first point? I LIKE this campaign, for the exact reasons you're noting.  #BanBossy is just a slogan.  The root of the word's use and its potential impact is now entering the discourse BECAUSE of that slogan.

True.  My daughter will hear it anyway.  And very true, she'll hear and see lots of things that I will discuss with her (The Little Mermaid included) - but raising awareness about the potential harm behind bossy as an insult is not a fruitless effort.  

In the end, let's get personal...

As a kid, I directed the neighbourhood plays, I edited the yearbook, I went to leadership camp.  I grew up successful and relatively well-adjusted, despite (or perhaps in spite of) the fact that I was called bossy.  My confidence (or lack thereof) and Type-Aer style evolved from a world of influence, not one word or one personality trait.  I still ended up Depressed and Anxious (aka Crazy) due at least in part to that leader-ness and to my drive to "overcome adversity."

None of that changes the fact that when I was called "bossy" as a young girl, it fucking hurt.  It was an insult, a sting.  It was something I didn't want to be.

We have lots of things to teach our girls, but to "suck it up" is NOT one of them. Neither is to skip an attempt to make a change because it probably won't have an impact so who cares.  We need to foster leadership in those who are socially and systemically deterred from it, minus the judgement.  A campaign that jolts the conversation is a perfect place to start.  

Hey Canada Post - could you also feed me grapes?

Canada Post announced yesterday that it's going to phase out home mail delivery in urban areas within the next five years, and jack-up the cost of stamps.

From what I understand, this means that Princes and Princesses who receive mail delivered to their front doors on a daily basis are going to have to walk 30 seconds to a neighbourhood group mailbox.  I also understand that some people are feeling pretty upset about the whole thing.

Clearly, I am not one of those people - for about a dozen reasons.

First, the obvious:  It's cheaper.  I think we can all agree, for a business that's been losing money for years this seems a little late.  It makes perfect sense given the move toward electronic everything and the related decrease in snail mail.

There are other reasons I like the idea, though.

The environment, for one.  It's about time individuals and businesses set up online billing, which will save trees, trash, and cash.  Who isn't sick of getting nothing but bills and flyers in the mail - each filled with 23 useless coupons.

It's a hard job, for another.  Although I hope most postal workers won't lose their jobs (through attritian), this must be a very difficult and fairly thankless job.  Hiking through Canadian weather, facing crazy dogs, avoiding reckless drivers - all for a few bills and flyers and some greeting cards at Christmas. Can't be easy.

But the primary reason I support the change?  I don't care.  Sorry, I just don't.

I've been a self-retriever of my mail from a community mailbox since high school (in five separate homes).  Sure, it can be annoying, but I obviously don't have the life-long emotional attachment to home delivery that some seem to have.

In fact, I very much enjoy my little jaunt to the mailbox.  It is literally a 35-second walk (I counted).  Yesterday I plopped Baby Fraggle into her snowsuit and wandered us both to the mailbox and back.  It was exactly the two minutes of fresh air that we needed.

What about the magic of receiving mail at my front door, you ask. Honestly, there's more fun in going to check the happy little box.  What treasures await me in there? How big will the haul be today?  Did anyone send me any money?

As for big packages, sometimes there's a slip in my mailbox and I have to go pick up my parcel.  But other times, there's a special key in my mailbox that opens another larger mailbox to the left of mine.  It's basically a miniature scavenger hunt. And who doesn't like a scavenger hunt.

Look.  I appreciate the romanticism and nostalgia of home mail delivery.  Like e-book versus "real book" or internet vs newspaper.  But guys.  C'mon.  This is a natural progression.  We're already quite spoiled (anyone wanna take their own garbage and recycling to a local depot?) and I think our society can handle this momentous change.

More importantly, we can find fun and romance in something new.  We just have to look for it.

Dear Fraggle - Volume 2

Hello again my dear.  I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and here I am again because I have some new thoughts I want to share.

You will be nine weeks old this Monday.  NINE WEEKS.  I don't have a friggin clue how that happened, but here we are.

The first couple weeks with you were an impossible gong show.  The following four were pretty good - life abounded with small victories and I regained a small semblance of sanity.  You learned so many neat things...

You grabbed stuff - like really reached out and GRABBED it - and then you pulled.   Hard.

You started standing.  Ok, not standing, per se, but extending your legs and pushing off while we held you up.  Your little head and neck got so strong.  Hubby and I predict that you won't really crawl, rather you'll start walking around holding onto our fingers.  Mark our words.

And the piéce de la resistance:  SMILES.  You, my sweet little koalacorn, learned to smile.  You do it all the time.  You grin when you wake up and I lean over your bed.  You grin when I change your diaper in the front window sill.  You grin. At me. And then I melt.

Then the six-week mark hit.  One day I was saying to people "Nah, she never really cries..." And all of a sudden, well, you cried.  It's like you just learned how and you simply had to show off your new skill.  Huh. What a novel idea Mom.  If I cry you'll notice me?  COOL.

And so it went, you crying (and probably spurtishly growing) for 10 days straight.  Hubby and I thought we'd go crazy.  I mean, you were still cute as all-get-out, but holy hell girlie.

Here's the good part though.  After your 6 week vampire conversion, you were the sweetest little angel.  Your dad and I were over the moon having our lovely little darling back again.

For three days.  Three days you were a perfect little doll.  By the fourth day you made a pretty big life decision. No more naps, you said to me one day, and then you cried and cried and cried all the livelong day.

Now.  Here is some advice for you my sweet:

When you are old like me, you will adore, nay, RELISH, any single solitary chance to NAP.  You may nap on a bench in the sun during your lunch break.  You may nap at your desk in the afternoon, with your hand on your mouse so your colleagues think you're working.  You may nap at a friend's house.  You may nap on the bus.  You may nap on a couch, on a pool floatie, on a lawn chair at Home Depot.

When you are old like me, you will not only wish you had more time to nap, but you will wish you capitalized every previous napping opportunity as the precious gift that it is  because naps are cumulative, and priceless.  So nap now, my sweet.  Enjoy it while you can.

I love you Fraggle,
Mom

PS Please nap.

Let's be honest - what it's like to have a newborn

People kept telling me it would be hell.  That doesn't describe anything. That just scares me while also making me doubt that it's true.  So as I was laying in bed at 3am, I decided I needed a way to describe the joy/misery that is nerborn-dom.

I figure it's kinda like a natural disaster, a tornado or a hurricane.

First, the storm is coming.  You have some warning from the experts and you start to prepare, but you don't really know how bad it will be.  Will it be like the one you saw on tv? Or maybe it will pass right over you?

When the baby comes, the storm hits.  In an adrenaline-rushed flurry, you run to your storm cellar.  You grab whatever supplies you guess you'll need and you barely keep your wits about you. For the duration of the storm, you hold up in the dark and inevitably go nuts.  You're scared and you can't concentrate.  You have moments of lucidity and moments of panic.  You can't fall asleep, even if the noise outside did subside long enough for you to try.  You're terrified of what will become of you.  You cling to your partner to keep you sane and safe.

Not only that, but you are weak.  You've just finished competing in the iron woman competition and your whole body is wrecked. Also, you may or may not be recovering from a "saw the lady in half" magic trick you were forced to participate in yesterday (after the iron woman events).

On top of it, in a freak occurrence of nature, you are suffering from puberty, PMS, and menopause, simultaneously.

Oh, and there are stitches in your vagina.

Furthermore, you aren't alone in the cellar.  You've been entrusted with the care of a very tiny, very delicate baby koala bear.  Sure, it's a cute koala bear, but you have no idea how to take care of a koala bear, particularly in these traumatic circumstances.

And this isn't just any normal koala bear.  This is the world's most precious koala bear - a koala unicorn - the first and only of its kind known to humanity.  Should anything happen to this koala unicorn, you will never forgive yourself, and neither will society.

This goes on for a couple weeks - you locked down in the cellar during the longest tornado in Earth's history, scared and crippled by exhaustion.

But then the storm begins to subside. You inch your way to the cellar door and gently open it inch by inch, carefully emerging into the light.  Sure, there's an utter disaster around you, everything is a mess, and your whole world is wiped out.  Parts of your life before the storm have been lost forever (including bladder control) and you're generally very fragile.

HOWEVER, your surroundings have never looked so beautiful.  You're in awe of nature.  It may look grim in some ways, but also so promising in others.  Your friends, family, and neighbours will help you put your Humpty Dumpty world back together again.

Ultimately, you're hopeful that everything will be better than it was before.  You're just so fucking grateful that everything truly important - you, your family, and your koala unicorn - are safe and happy. Everything else will fall into place.

Seven reasons I cried at work today

Crying at work is not necessarily uncommon for me.  Life upsets me and I don't really know how to hold it in.  Today, however, the crying at work was the result of a series of related reasons, of which I will enumerate here:

1) When I arrive and run into a coworker I haven't seen for weeks, I don't need him to exclaim "Well, let's see your belly! Let's see the reveal!" as I'm removing my jacket - even if he is the kindest, sweetest colleague of all time.  This makes me feel like an object that is being pointed at.  Not to mention, I don't think if he were gaining weight he'd want me to point at his ass and shout at him. 

2) I am a whale.  I'm already too big to touch my feet, or bend, or do yoga, or sit up, or roll over, or put on my underwear, or shave my legs, or wear any of my clothes, or find new clothes that I like, or tolerate my bulky winter jackets (WHICH I STILL NEED BECAUSE SPRING WON'T COME).   And guess what sunshine? I still have 3 months to go and this tiny human is less than 3 pounds so far.  There's nowhere else for her (or me) to grow.  I am as big as I can handle, and I'm so terrified about that fact that I can't even type it without wanting to cry. 

3) Add to that: I am fucking tired.  Not only is my mind running at warp speed with baby thoughts all hours of the day, but I can't sleep because my back and hips hurt like hell (yes I have pillows). 

4) I am in pain.  See above.  The back pain has started and I'm still working on ways to relieve it.  Anyone who is in pain might be a little extra sensitive, no?  Well, add pain to the other 6 reasons, and I feel justified. 

5) I am hormonal.  I have to admit this must be part of the problem.  I tend to resist the "crazy pregnant hormones" hypothesis, but I do feel fragile lately which must at least be partially due to the raging ridiculousness that happens to one's body when she is housing an ever-growing human being.

6) I am embarrassed.  Being the centre of attention is hard for anyone, especially when it comes to a person's body.  Not to mention, nobody likes crying in public - it tends to lead to more crying. 

7) The barrage of attention is constant.  There is no reprieve.  So even if you are a well-meaning colleague, friend, or family member, having people comment on or point at my body all day does not make it easier to withstand. If I've learned anything in my life, it's that tolerance boils down to volume and frequency. 


I get that some pregnant women don't feel this way.  Or they do and they just don't talk about it.  Or they do and other people are not paying attention.  But I am not the only one to say this.  I am not crazy.  This is hard, and it's allowed to be. 

My advice to people (including Past Me who has also made this mistake): Please don't make everything about the baby, even if it is all you can see.  Remember that she's a person - a person going through a lot right now - and maybe you could just act normal sometimes.  Or at least be subtle...

The best "you're preggers" response of all time

This week, for pretty much the first time, I actually got a reaction to my pregnancy that felt good.  Other than Hubby (who indulged with me with bug-eyed panic faces for the first couple weeks), most people have the same responses:

Congratulations! That’s so exciting!

Followed by the inevitable:

How are you feeling? Do you feel pregnant?

And then the intermittent:

HOW’S THE BABY?

Although I am getting used to the constant questions (and dealing with the extra attention in a classic Marianna way - with bold and honest answers), I have yet to hear something that truly made me happy.  ME.  Not everyone else. 

This week my guy friend and former colleague was late to the party and finally heard I’m preggers. And this is the email I got…

Congrats on creating human life. Seriously. That’s complicated stuff. Just look at your index finger, like, really closely. I mean, hold it up 1 inch from your face and check it out. It’s pretty spectacular. You’re creating 8 of them right now, with a set of matching thumbs, from scratch. Plus, you’re doing it in your sleep. Come on. How crazy is that? You’re creating human life in your sleep. Who can do that!? You can. Props.

This makes me (granted, in my heightened emotional state) want to cry. In a good way. Because as I’m sure you’ve heard from me before, GROWING A HUMAN IS FUCKING HARD, yo. A message like this from a friend simply acknowledging that fact without making me feel like a weird mutant freak show is, well, fucking priceless.

Not only that, but he gave me some great tips too. For example:

I won’t give you any advice because frankly I was terrified the whole time. Enjoy what you can and be amazed by yourself. YOU’RE CREATING HUMAN LIFE!!!

For the remaining months, you should create scenarios that give you the occasion to tell people that you’re creating human life from scratch. “Hey Dude. That looks like a good salad. Did you make it? Wow, all I made was a whole human being. But hey, your salad is pretty good too, right?” “How was your weekend? Do anything fun? I developed a central nervous system for this human being that I’m creating inside me… while blogging.”

Just go with it and find what works for you. My one piece of advice: don’t apologize for anything. Feel how you feel and establish boundaries.

You are creating human life. It’s hard. You have full license to complain.

I love this email exchange and I’ve blogged it here so I can continue referring back to it and reminding myself how awesome I am. And how awesome my friend is. And how awesome this whole experience is, despite the fact that most days it kinda sucks.

Seriously, best of luck to you both. You’re going to be great.

  ***Dear friend: I hope you don’t mind that I pasted this on the interwebs. I know you’ll tell me if it bothers you, in which case I will edit and/or delete at your request - I promise. In any case, thank you for helping me feel less crazy.

Three reasons you should vote (for Obama)

As most of you probably know, I am not an American.  However, up here in Canada we do happen to follow American politics, American economics, and, most importantly, American vampire and zombie television shows. 

We North Americans aren't that different from each other - many of our values, laws, and ongoing debates are quite similar.  Our cultural influences are much the same.  We like to visit each other.  We're often lumped together when traveling to other parts of the world.  We're two very developed, very democratic, and perhaps very ego-centric, countries.  (And I can see Alaska from my hoWse!)

But, having visited the US several times and with some very close friends living there, I can safely say that there are several things I adore about Canada that are seemingly lacking in large pockets of the grand ol' US of A. 

There are countless reasons that I insist that you vote tomorrow.  But there are specifically three main reasons that I politely suggest you vote for Barack Obama. Like three genie wishes.  Or three magic beans. 

*******

Number 1 - Abortion is legal in Canada. 

Abortion is legal, and will likely stay that way for the foreseeable future, if not forever.  We are not reopening the abortion debate, despite some regular and recent attempts. 

Now.  Depending on the person and how he or she presents the argument, I can in some cases tolerate an opinion different from mine on this.  

I cannot, however, over-state the importance, in my opinion, of allowing a woman to make FREE choices that are best for her and her body.  I mean, we make adoptive parents jump through a shit-ton of hoops, and even bio parents do an awful lot of planning and soul searching before making a decision to grow tiny humans.  I would like to trust women (and their partners, and their doctors) to make good decisions, even when I know many of them can't or won't.  That's what being FREE is about. 

Even if we took this abortion choice away, I cannot even begin to fathom how the fuck we would regulate it.  Would a judge decide for me? Would there be a list of criteria?  Would I have to prove I was raped?  Would there be a scale of "rape legitimacy"?  Would there be a binder full of women representing a series of case studies and indicating who is abortion-worthy and who is not?

This is a fundamental paradigm about woman that ties into all sorts of questionable policies and approaches that I simply do not support.  Birth control.  Equal wages and career ambitions coupled with flexible work hours (for men AND women).  Parental leave (which is a full 12 months up here).  Support in the workplace.  Support at home.  Politicians talk a lot about support for families, but they talk little about support for the parents that lead them. 

Number 2 - Gay marriage is legal in Canada. 

The government does not attempt to pass judgement on our relationships.  Well, sometimes I'm sure it does, but legally, if I love someone, I can marry that person and I am offered all the rights and privileges and responsibilities that go along with that. 

Hubby and I didn't think we needed marriage, but we wanted it, and we love it.  It makes me want to cry heavy, ugly tears that a country as apparently progressive and innovative as the United States (a country that allowed SLAVERY not many generations ago - from which black Americans escaped to Canada) could possibly withhold this right from all its people.  Let alone that everyone sits in judgement on the issue. 

I support you, and whomever you love, no matter who you are.  To be honest, I'm not even opposed to polygamy if everyone is a willing partner and there's no observable harm to the children.  Call me out if you wish, but it's really where I stand.   People deserve to be happy. Just let people be happy.

Isn't that what marriage is about? Isn't that the "sanctity" we should be protecting?  The sanctity of a happy marriage and caring families and a supportive society that loves thy neighbour? In fact, maybe I have a problem with those sham "I'm pregnant so I better get married" marriages that end in pain and suffering and broken homes for kids that potentially were never wanted in the first place.  Where's the sanctity in that?   

Number 3 - Health care is free in Canada.

Ok, so free is a tricky word.  We have high taxes here, and in some provinces people pay a "premium" to support their health care system.  We all pay for it, and it ain't perfect, but at least anyone who needs to can go to the friggin emergency room or receive radiation for their cancer without some ridiculous fee.  And hell, people can even get cancer and not be kicked out of the system or denied.  SHOCKER.  We may wait, but patience is a virtue and good medical care is worth it.  Trust me. 

Some of you might call that - gulp - socialism.  Well, guess what?  I'm  not only a dirty liberal but I'm a crazy socialist too. 

Tax me all you want if it means that when I go to the doctor I don't get an invoice afterward (nor a statement from my asshole insurance company telling me the exact price of every goddam nurse and every fucking tube they stuck into my orifices). 

Tax me all you want if it means that groups of inter-generationally and socially disadvantaged people with whom I share this country need some fucking support. 

Tax me all you want if it means I get TWELVE FULL MONTHS OF PARENTAL LEAVE. 

Tax me all you want if it means I can have full-day kindergarten/preschool in Ontario, or $6 a day daycare in Quebec for my kids. 

Tax me.  I will live within my means and I will contribute.  And I will sleep better at night because of it. 

*******

Now.   Please don't mistake me here - if you're an American I value and appreciate you, and your opinion.   And I don't know everything there is to know. 

But if you refuse to vote tomorrow - no matter who for - I will hunt you down and kick you in the shin with my "poke-the-eye-out-of-a-snake" boots.

And if you're undecided, consider voting for your current president, who, despite his faults, has the drive and determination to accomplish something great for your country - and who has a vision for your future that is actually quite revolutionary and entirely well-intentioned. 

Or consider moving to Canada.  We'd love to have you. 

Mickey Mouse massages are not for me

Yesterday I veered away from my normal massage therapist to a new place that was offering a discount.  And so I have a tip for you. 

NEVER VEER AWAY FROM YOUR NORMAL MASSAGE THERAPIST TO A NEW PLACE THAT IS OFFERING A DISCOUNT. 

This whole operation was the most Mickey Mouse performance I could've ever contemplated.  If it had been any worse, I would've just turned around and walked out.  But it was clean, and the girls were nice, and it was quiet - which is more than I can say for my own house. 

So I gave them the benefit of the doubt and just kept waiting for the situation to improve.  Needless to say, it never did. 

First of all, I left work precisely at 5:00 to be sure I would arrive on time for my 5:45 appointment.  And then I sat there - until 6:05 - reading an old Canadian Living magazine and drinking luke warm water out of a plastic cup. 

Also, I assumed that at some point, as a new client, I would fill out one of those forms.  You know those forms?  The forms with the list of your injuries and problem areas and medications.  (Mine is less of a "form", and more of a "novel" - or a link to this blog.)  But no.  There was no form. 

So then I assumed the massage therapist would just ask me those questions.  I should have known better, of course.  The extent of her conversation with me was telling me where to put my clothes. 

When I crawled onto the massage table I was disappointed at the lack of amenities.  No strategically placed cushions, no fluffy duvet, no fancy bedding, no heated blankets.  This table was just a table - with 2 blue flannel flat sheets and a heating pad placed under my boobs. 

Ummmm...

But it was too late.  I was naked, and cold, and clinging to any hint of hope that at least the massage would be worth it. 

Well, as you probably know, a massage is almost always worth it.  But this massage?  This massage was weak.  I like a massage therapist to know every single one of my joints and muscles and beat the shit out of them until they feel better.  Not the case last night. 

By the time the whole thing was done, I was not only naked and cold, I was also covered in oil. 

So do I want to book my next appointment?  I should think not.

Lesson learned. 

Fuck, I'm nearly out of my twenties.

If you've been reading my crap for a while, you know I've gone through a transformation of late. 

It seems to have started with my Asshole Depression last year - which taught me to get a grip, take care of myself, and acknowledge reality. 

I also found some dark humour that I didn't know I had.  And my dear friend LB describes me as a recovering people pleaser.  I don't really give a shit anymore.  I have less shame, more strength, and I'm more comfortable in my own skin - even if my skin is fatter than it once was.

All of these new things can be attributed, in a twisted sort of way, to losing my path and then having to find a new one - essentially, it all goes back to failing. 

That, and, that normal process of growing. the. fuck. up.  Age and wisdom and all that  jazz. 

Let's be clear.  I've always been a 40 year old at heart.  I go to bed early.  I've had Hubby since I was 17 and we've had a house in the suburbs since we were 24.  I like Fleetwood Mac.  I take stay-cations. 

But the last couple of years have been a growing process for me.  An improvement, I think. A new paradigm altogether, in which I see, act, and face my life differently than I used to.  And I like this new me.   

Which is why I ADORE that my aunt, uncle, and young cousins saw this book and immediately thought of me. 

Fuck! I'm in my twenties.
By Emma Koenig.
Buy it here. 

This book is a perfect representation of the shift in my world view.

For example, cursing -slash- hating things:

I still take this approach.  Although maybe you could add a "this" and "that" and "you" to follow each of those fucks. 

Biting off more than I can chew:

Ugh.  I was SO like this in my teens and twenties.  I was a superhero.  Not anymore.  My Asshole Depression fixed that RIGHT up.  Now?  Weekends and evenings are precious, I don't always feel like leaving the house, and work can wait.   

PRESSURE:

Extremely applicable in my 20s.  Now, at 28, I've chilled out a bit.  Or at least I'm able to acknowledge when I'm freaking out, so I can fucking DO SOMETHING about it. 

Regrets:

This one I'm working on.  It does seem rather impossible, doesn't it?  To hate so many things about yourself and your choices so early in life?  Although I have lightened up on the self-judgement, it's still there.  Lingering...

Oh, hysterical meltdowns are aplenty:

This is more like me NOW.  I used to ignore the potential for a breakdown, whereas now I not only anticipate and expect a breakdown, but I plan my lunches around it.

The classic "waiting for life to start" syndrome:

 

 

I'm still figuring this out.  Am I encroaching on THIRTY YEARS OLD?! That CANNOT be.  I'm still such a childish asshole. 

 

And the related "David After the Dentist Confusion" syndrome:

 

 

 

I've been known to have some less than lucid moments of "where the fuck am I, what the fuck happened, and how the fuck did I get here."  Haven't we all?

 

And finally, people are pretending:

 

 



 

This took me a while to figure out, but I've got it covered now.  It's no longer a question.  The 28-year-old me knows that, yes, people are pretending.  Everyone is confused, annoyed, self-conscious, and messed the eff up. 

 

And if your response to that is "No, not me! Everything is great!" then you're in denial. 

 

The trick is knowing that just because you're confused, annoyed, self-conscious, and messed the eff up, this doesn't make you UNHAPPY, necessarily. 

 

Just own it. Face your crap, be honest with yourself and others, never assume you know everything, and it'll be a lot easier to live.  Promise.  

 

 



Randy Fenoli is an adorable genius

My best friend Skippy is getting married next year!  So excited for her.  I'm even more excited that she picked yours truly to be her Maid of Honour.  (Don't ever say Matron. I WILL kick you in the kidney.)

As part of my Maid of Honour duties, I saw an ad for a bridal show taking place in Buttfuck Nowhere 40 minutes outside of Hometown.  So what? you may be wondering. 

Well, first of all, you should know that leaving work, driving to Hometown, and then driving to a CHURCH in Buttfuck Nowhere for a bridal show was not necessarily my idea of the best Friday night activity ever. 

But I was WRONG. 

Not only were there yummy meatballs at one of the kiosks, and not only was there a 17 year old Courtney Love wannabe hanging around for me to make fun of, but there was also...

RANDY FENOLI from SAY YES TO THE DRESS. 

I  kid you not, my friends. 

"Look at me. I'm an adorable genius with a gorgeous outfit."

Now. What in god's name Randy was doing in Buttfuck is a question for someone far smarter than me,  However, he did happen to appear on the Marilyn Dennis Show in Toronto the day before, so maybe he was just maximizing his time here in the Great White North.

In any case, Randy was fabulous.  He didn't merely show up - he did a whole presentation.  He told stories, made jokes, showed pictures, answered questions, and signed at least a couple hundred autographed headshots.  He was genuine, kind, and honest.  And he looked adorable. 

Randy with Skippy's future mother in law.  That's not her real face. 

Randy's whole message to brides, and to women in general, was to elevate themselves.  We are all beautiful.  We all deserve happiness.  And our weddings should reflect the story of who we are as women.  We can have what we want.  We just have to go out there and grab it. 

I now heart Randy Fenoli. 


*A special dedication to Multi Tasking Mumma who, I found out later, was actually at this same friggin event with me.  Totally random that we'd be in the same blogging circles, and then accidentally cross paths in real life - only to figure that out when it was too late to actually chat.  Classic prank, Interwebs.  Classic prank.

Maybe don’t assume strangers are crazy. Maybe.

This week has not been ideal.

There’s something about the week after the holidays in which “getting back to normal” is a bit of an asshole.  Trying to return oneself to a normal sleep schedule, a consistent work schedule, and a regular bowel schedule is tricky.  Not to mention all those pesky new year’s resolutions getting in the way. It’s tiring, frustrating, and a general pain in my recently fatter ass.

Click here to read more of this post at A Nervous Tic Motion. 


I write at this wicked-ass site once every few weeks and you should totally read, follow, and comment.  Try not to be lazy, people.  Nervous Tic covers a cornucopia of topics - nothing is off limits.  Which is why I like it. 

Plus, I write for them, which means everyone should trust my damn opinion because I totally wouldn't associate with losers.  At least not voluntarily. 

So go forth and enjoy...

Diets. Yea or nay?

How many people like to go on a diet?

Ummmm....

NO ONE.  NO ONE LIKES TO GO ON A DIET. 

Let's be clear.  I'm not a dieter. I watch my diet, but I don't slash it six ways to Sunday to achieve some sort of disillusioned goal.  Diets don't even work, do they?   Aren't we supposed to just improve our diet habits, not go crazy cutting out staples? 

All I've ever wanted was to be semi-healthy and therefore not feel like a total effing loser.  I watch what I eat, but there are no official  "rules" - because rules are ditch pigs.  I simply avoid shoving a shit-ton of crap into my face on a daily basis.  (Weekly, maybe, but not daily.)  I like my sweets and I eat them, but I like my veggies and I eat those too.  I'm ok with my choices.  I usually only feel like a loser when I haven't counteracted the crap with veggies or some type of - uh, what's that stuff called? Oh yeah.  EXERCISE.   

None of this was a problem when I was a gym-goer.  I was a big time yogi and kickboxer and I loved hiking too.  I watched what I ate, but it all balanced out.

Until Depression. 

When Depression first hit, I couldn't eat anything, and then I ate everything in sight, and now as much as I try to be active, motivating myself is problematic.  I'll get there.  I'm on the right track.  But in the meantime, I still eat all the same crap and I've lost all my counteractivity. 

So I'm trying something new.  I downloaded a calorie-counting app for my kickass iPhone.  Based on my weight and my beach-vacation exercise goals, it sets a daily calorie limit.  I track my food intake and energy exertion and then it shows how well I'm doing.  

Or in my case, HOW FUCKING BADLY I'M DOING. 

Thanks to this asshole app, I get to see that even a glass of milk (which I always loved) is a "problem."  MILK.  Which is GOOD for me.  Healthy milk.  Milk that prevents Osteoporosis.  Milk that Canadian dairy farmers make for me.  Milk that provides a cute mustache.  Milk, that I used to like, has become the enemy. 

So I need your advice, folks. 

Should I:

a) keep counting the calories for a few weeks to achieve my bathing suit health goals and to become more aware of what I'm eating (knowledge is power, and all that);

OR,

b) stop adding apps to my kickass iPhone that essentially just piss me off?

OR,

secret answer c) Liposuction?

What do y'all think?

_

Words of wisdom for you, grasshoppers

My dear friend LB sent me this link today: It's So Involved Being Me, which has inspired this post. 

Marianna Annadanna's Lessons Learned in 2011

Wow.  Where to start.  2011 was a big year. 

The year I got depressed, stayed depressed, got anxious, didn't get out of bed, took a month off work, got meds, got a psychologist, got a bit better, had three grandparents die, got a new job, got a new start, went to New Orleans, got to keep my amazing husband, got much better, and booked a southern resort vacation.  And only a few of those were resolutions from last year.   

As for lessons?  Yeah, you could say there were a few. So I've summarized them here, in general chronological order.  Take these to heart.  I don't give free advice often.  Well, yes I do, but still. 

An important life lesson - put your effing shit AWAY. 

If you are not a baker, don't try to be. 

If mornings give you panic attacks, avoid them.  And I learned this before I knew that mornings actually do give me panic attacks. 

Winter is shitty all-round.  Especially when you're depressed but you don't know it yet. 

Some days SUCK ASS.  But blogging helps.  

Actually, blogging is the SHIT.  In a good way.  And blog renderings are HILARIOUS.  And blogger friends are the best part. Especially the cheesy ones.  And when one blog isn't enough? Start another one!

Some people will save you.  Hubby is my saviour.  The best thing that has ever, or will ever, happen to me and the reason I've survived the last year.  My favourite. 

Shopping is an ASSHOLE.  Online and in-person.  Avoid it.  No matter what. 

Sometimes an open letter makes you feel better. 

It is possible to stay happily married for 60 years. 

Sometimes all you need is a day of FUN.  And/or a death coffin waterslide.  And a Diversification Plan. 

Don't ask me for directions.  I don't know. 

Sometimes it's just time to have a baby.  Ok, first maybe it's time to get off the Crazy Pills, but then, THEN, it's time to have a baby.

Sometimes you just need a fresh start. A clean slate.  If you need it, find it.  Soon. 

You might be bad at something.  It's ok.  I'm a terrible cyclist.  Seriously.  It's not good. 

Some habits can't be broken.  You have to get over it. 

Commuting is a miserable harpy, and it's not goetting any better.  You have to accept the hell that is commuting and move on. 

You don't have to take on EVERYTHING.  You can just do what you want.  Huh.  Novel idea.   

So there they are.  Pretty much everything I learned about life - about me - over the past year.  You're welcome. 

_