Catie-ism's

Well I can't write much.  My ribs are still keeping me in check.  Was thinking how much I love Catie's expressions.  Over the years she has come out with some unconscious witticism that have now become part of family vocabulary.

Top favourites.

On describing the food at prom;  It tasted like, "2am seemed like a good idea at the time", food.

 Frustrated with her brother for not making a decision:  "Pick up your mind!"

Responding to her Dad's complaint on her tardiness, "You Smith women.  You're always late.  You will probably be late for your own funeral."

Catie:  You wanted us early?
Another time, "I thought that was the point of living healthy Dad?"

"So Dad, how dark is that cave you've lived in all your life?"

In response to her brother teasing her about being chubby which is a total stretch.  "Um Breyan, Look at Dad and Look at Mum.  Now see how much you look like Dad?  See how much I look like Mum.  If I was you, I'd start a strict regime of exercise now."

"Mum, back away from the girl guide cookies.  I know you're upset but we can talk about this.  Making your heart explode from the slabs o' fat will not help anyone."

When she didn't want to throw out her outgrown clothes at seven, "Well if I keep them til I'm a little old lady like you, I'll shrink back to that size and they'll probably be in style again."

(On my tendency to give fashion advice.)  "Don't stand still around my mom.  She'll redecorate you."   

What I really want for Mother's Day

May 2010


Hi guys;

I know I haven't written but I've managed to break myself again! This is so bloody embarrassing because I did it in such a mundane boring way--getting in the tub; soap was involved; you get the picture.

The Mountain Man has bought me a laptop so that I will stay in bed and prop my foot up instead of sitting at the computer trying to do gymnastics to get it on the desk. I don’t dare try to put my foot on a stool since my leg then becomes an instant dog, cat, or kid and hubby magnet.

I’ve just watched, "the Proposal" with Sandra Bullock because Breyan told me that two of the characters reminded him of me and Aunt Yvonne, (which I'm really hoping is the mom and the Gamma because if he’s saying I remind him of the anal Sandra Bullock character, I'm gonna hit him with my crutch!)

Anyway, it gave me an insight into how my son views me as a Mom; most likely to take over someone’s life, fake a heart attack to get someone to talk to his son like a grown up and remake a wedding dress in one night. All right, well he’s not far off the mark on that one.

This got me to thinking about how lucky I am to have two, pretty great kids who managed to turn into normal, healthy, happy, kind of adjusted people.

That got me to thinking about Mothers Days and I had an epiphany!I don't really like Mother's Day.

No, I don’t hate Mothers Day, what I should have said was, I don’t enjoy the traditional Mother’s Day.

Yes, I love the sappy homemade 'I luv Mummy," cards.  The morning cuddle and the hugs.  It's the rest of the day I usually just don't have the energy for.

I kind of wish I had the courage at some point to tell my kids and hubby what I really wanted my Mother’s Day to be like.

Traditionally, my mother's day will start with me being woken up far too early for it to be considered, "day," convinced that the house is on fire due to the alarming smell of burnt toast.  Then I will hear a crash, the Mountain Man's rumbling at the kids, and the kids frantic promises, "to clean it up right away."

Next, they will all troop into the bedroom with a homemade, cholesterol/fat/sugar laden breakfast on a tray while I sit there thinking, “Crap, I just cleaned the kitchen."

I will paste on my, "surprised Mum," smile as they troop in as I am frantically trying to signal the dog to come into the room so I can accidently drop most of it on the floor.

When I’ve finished every bit of food on the tray and my family is convinced I enjoyed every bite, they will announce they are letting me take a bath all on my own. They solemnly promise they are not going to interrupt. "I can take all the time I need."
Yeah right!

 This sounds like heaven to every Mom, except Dad has been in there twenty minutes before doing his "man" routine involving a newspaper and Caitlin has been in doing her part to create holes in the ozone layer with her hair products and Breyan has been lathering on the aftershave.  If only I could bottle that smell I would RULE the germ warfare market!

After my bath, in which there have only been three knocks on the door, one emergency and one, "Are you going to be much longer, I have to go pee!"  I will come downstairs to open my lovely gifts.

They are very thoughtful gifts but how many bathsalts, housecoats and skin creams can one mom use? I mean really. I don't have enough room in my drawers and if I dare try re-gifting one of the baskets for a wedding or baby shower, sure enough, one of my kids will pop up with, "But Mom I thought you loved that perfume? That‘s why we bought it for you," right in the middle of me passing the canapés.

 Next, Hubby and kids will have planned a family outing. Where do we go? Somewhere that promises 'Good, Clean, Family Fun!" In the car I will have to settle at least two, “He’s touching me,” arguments.  I will dream of the days when the kids were little and we used to sing songs in the car.  Nowadays my kids will spend the entire trip answering their text messages and have their earphones jammed in their ears so tight I have to know gorilla sign language just to ask if they need to go to the bathroom.

 Throughout the day, the kids will consume large amounts of fat, carbohydrate laden, creamy, heart-buster food that they will promptly puke up on one of those clean family fun rides.

Need I go on?

Mother’s Day is just too much work for mothers. So then I thought, "What would be my perfect Mother's Day?"

The day before, everybody would get together and spring clean the house without arguing, nagging or negotiating, so that when Mom wakes up on Mother Day, there is no laundry, dishes, vacuuming etc...

Dad will run out to the bakery and get bagels, (preferably Kettlemens because they rock even without toasting,) cream cheese and fresh fruit already chopped and ready to serve. He will buy the expensive fresh squeezed orange juice, (not the kind in a can that you buy by the dozen since the kids go through the stuff like dope heads in a crack house.)

The next morning Mom will wake up when she wants, to a Martha Stewart designed tray with fresh flowers, a continental breakfast and possibly chocolate. Six cups of coffee will be lined and waiting to be refilled. All presents and cards will wait until Mom has taken her hour long, uninterrupted bath.

Dad will have used the bathroom at the bakery.

Dad will then tell Mom that he has called three of her closest friends (fly them in if you have to,) and made a deal with their partners to chauffeur the women downtown for lunch at which he has paid ahead of time for many, many Marguerita’s. There will be no children, no husbands, and no curfews.

The kids will present the homemade macaroni card and a gift thoughtfully chosen from the three page list Mom gave Dad weeks ago.  Dad will then let her know that his own gift, a gift card, comes from the place that only sells women's lingerie--not the kind that hookers wear.

 There will be no possibility that mom will go to the store and come home with new jeans and socks for the kids.  You see this is the problem with gift cards. If you buy a mom a gift card for a department store, she will buy something for her kids. She will feel guilty if she buys herself new sexy underwear when she knows her kids will outgrow their winter boots and she hasn’t gotten around to buying them a new pair. Usually a mom will save a gift card for "when we really need something."

Moms don't often get a chance to buy underwear that she really hopes she'll never get in an accident wearing, (because, "what would people think?") Moms also do not want Dads picking out their underwear because most mens taste run along the lines of "two pieces of floss held up by a rubber band."  Moms want matching, comfortable, 'put it back where it was 20 years ago' underwear.  I don't care if Mom is now 250 lbs and you have to find a naughty store for six foot cross dressers, that store is where you buy the gift card!

That afternoon, the Dad's will take turns chauffeuring the women; but not all at once. Each Dad will take turns so only one wife at a time will worry; that hubby will get jealous of the mom's giggling at the waiters tight pants, or worry that Dad will say something stupid to the other women or give her the "HOW MUCH DID THAT COST? " look.

Once the Mom's are truly giddy and girly they will retire to the house with the biggest TV, preferably HD and the men will have vacated to one of the other mom's house with the kids, leaving mom to a night of wine, giggling, chocolate and a "Colin Firth in a wet shirt" movie.

No one may call mom to ask; where they left their backpack, is it okay to feed the dog the leftover fruit because they ran out of dog food, how to bake anything.

You may call her ONCE to tell her you love her and make sure she's having a ball. Make sure her friends hear you say you love her.

At the end of the night the Dad's will collect their respective Mom's-- having fed the kids and given them their baths.  The children may stay up long enough to say goodnight and let mom read them a bedtime story. Mom will collect one more "I love you, Mommy, kisses and hugs."

This is the Mothers Day I dream of and am too guilty and afraid of hurting our kid’s feelings to ask for.  I'm sure I'm not the only Mom that would love a day like this.  Is it really too much to ask?

Ah well.  I should be thankful I have a loving, caring family willing to burn toast for me.  As for the rest, I guess I can live without it.  However, don't you dare forget the homemade, handcrafted 'I LUV MUMMY.' card or I will cry and you will be in for a life of hell for at least a year or until Mom's birthday when you may have a chance to get it right.

Kimberley

PS, The Gamma in the movie is my grandmother in disguise--not me. I am a Nona!

Herding Jellyfish and Pressure Cookers

*letter dated November 2010

Hi family;  How is everyone getting set up for the holidays?  Got your Xmas cards out?  I know I had at least fifty left over from last year but for the life of me I can't find them.

Aunt E asked us for family pictures for Gramma's birthday and I am really trying to get one for her. Since the last family picture we have was done was when Caitlin was 12 and she's now 20, I decided it was time, especially since we have new family members. Yep, that was a bad idea.

Caitlin, Spiders and Me

*originally written 12/06/2010

Just a short note to see how you all are.  Catie and I are very proud of ourselves.  We kinda killed a spider.  (And before all you bleeding heart spider freaks start emailing me back complaints....you didn't see this spider.  It was more than capable of fighting back.)  It looked like a spider on steroids.  In fact it looked like the kind of spider who sticks a knife in your back in dark alleys and calls you, "friend."  Like in, "Hey friend, gimme all your flies and I might even let you live."

I woke up and it was on the ceiling, RIGHT OVER MY BED!!
 
Okay so I did do the girly thing and scream but once I realized the Mountain Man wasn't home I called for help from Caitlin.

She said she'd be happy to help. Actually what she said was she would be happy to help, "If it's not too big." 

She first tried shooting an elastic at it. She can hit a quarter from fifty paces with a 12 gauge but give the girl an elastic and she almost hit me.  And I was behind her!

Then we got a newspaper and she limp wristed swatted at it.  She knocked it from the ceiling and we think it went under the bed but we both were too afraid to follow it.

(Hey Under the Bed holds a vital instinctual terror for alot of people.  Mostly people under six but hey...Never said I was a grown up.)

I told Mountain Man all about it when he got home, so he could look under the bed.  He laughed and said, "Well looks like you girls were really brave today.  My great spider hunters!*  Very sarcastically.

"Oh Dad," replied Catie, "You can't say we're brave.  We have to hunt the spiders in PAIRS."

I still think we're brave.

Yes Kids, Mommy is Psychic.

I don't know if I put my kids in therapy for the rest of their lives or just awed them but when my kids were little and when they were teens, they thought I was psychic!

What I was, was a mom who got to know her neighbours, her kids teachers, the other mothers at the school, her community and especially each and everyone of my kids friends and their families.  I had a spy network that made the Kremlin look like amateurs.

Hubby and I made sure that everyone knew that these were our kids and if they saw anything they thought we should know about, we would be happy to take it as constructive criticism and we would never tell my kids who told us.

It helps that the Mountain Man is a shameless, harmless flirt and always takes the time at the local stores to notice if the cashier has a new haircut.

So one day, Breyan decides he's going to take the new skateboard and ride down the middle of the street with no pads or helmets.  By the time he got home, I had received three phone calls.  One from my pharmacist who had been leaving his store when he saw him.

Breyan walked into the house with his skateboard under his arm and his helmet and pads on, (sneaky kid.)

I advised him he was grounded off the skateboard for two weeks.

After the normal, "What do you mean.  I didn't do nothing," argument he finally asked me. 

"How do you know these things???"

I answered, "I'm psychic."

When you think about it, it's a brilliant strategy.  One I'm sure my son will use with his kids. 

There are few options for disciplining kids these days and it's even harder now than when my kids were little.  Now I don't go for the willow switch type thing but ask ten women if there kids has ever said, "I'm gonna call the police for abuse."  Most of them will say yes.

It's harder for me and Mountain Man because while he is Catholic, I'm not and we can't use the God is watching you! threat.

And don't give me these parental magazine ideas of "positive reinforcement."  I've read those articles, (my favourite was the one that says you should explain to your six year old that your family is like a corporation and that Mummy and Daddy are the CEO's. To a six year old?)

For those things to work you have to have a child who is smart, pliable, respectful etc..or on drugs.

Yes positive reinforcement has it's place but after they are twelve, forget it. 

Italian mother guilt, now that works forever.

Breyan's 18th Birthday

BREYAN'S 18TH BIRTHDAY

*  originally written in September, 2005

     On Friday, Breyan reached the adult status age of 18.  When he was a little boy, I had imagined the day to be a milestone in his life.  We would have friends and family over for a potluck dinner, wine would flow and Breyan, uncomfortable in his tailored suit would shyly blow out the candles of the huge cake I would make him.

     We would tell stories of how when he was two, he ran outside naked and the little girls of the neighbourhood brought him back and politely asked us to make, "Breyan stop bothering them."  He would blush as the Mountain Man recounted the time when Breyan played busdriver with the neighbours van, hit the emergency brake and landed up backing the van out of the driveway, into the street.

      As he grew, I knew this idea of a family gathering was a dream.  I grew into accepting the idea that if I was lucky, I could grab him for a family dinner with just me, his dad and his sister and have a box-mix cake as he was on his way out the door to meet his friends. 

      Over the last few months, I resigned myself to answering the door at 3 am as his friends poured him through the door explaining that, "they had just one or two but Breyan wasn't used to drinking and felt a little sick."  Ya right!  I would look stern, send all his friends on their way, put Breyan to bed and the next morning at six am I would start vaccuuming right beside his bed.

     Didn't happen.

     What did happen was:  I made the cake for Thursday night, we had a nice lasagna dinner and Breyan went off on Friday night with two friends for a "surprise" birthday party his friend Andrew cobbled up for him.  I expected this because Andrew called me Tuesday to make sure it was okay and to ask me to help him get Breyan to his house.  (Breyan had informed me about the party on Monday.)  I had thought the drinking age was still 18 in Quebec but it turns out it's 19 and they have the same closing as Ontario so there went one of Breyan's goals.

    I had forgotten an important point.  A few years ago at his cousin Sammy's Italian wedding, Breyan got right snockered on Italian wine.  It gave him a three day migraine and cured him of the teenage idea that getting drunk is "fun."  His friends had told me that Breyan rarely drank at parties but I took that with a grain of salt.  Another experience with drinking was a party he went to at the beginning of the summer when someone spiked his drink, (or so he says) and he ended up throwing up for six hours and having to go back to the house where the party was the next day and clean his friends bed.  (Yes, I volunteered him to do it but it was only fair.  We then had the bed professionally cleaned but we didn't tell Breyan.)  The girls parents had wanted her to "live with her mistake," but I just think that's unsanitary.

     I did not expect that Breyan would come home at 1 am on Friday with eleven kids in tow.  I did not expect him to come home with 14 sets of keys in his pocket that we are still finding owners for. When he first came in the door, I thought he had the three kids we had agreed could sleep over with him and was ready to greet them with a smile but kids just kept coming up the stairs like those red soldier ants in the movie, Scorpion King.  The quality of these kids convinced me I might rather face the fire ants.

     He explained to me that some were homeless, some had missed rides to Gatineau or Bells Corners, some could be sent home right away and all of them had been prepared to sleep in park if they couldn't come here.  Obviously we couldn't send them back out into the night but I was not pleased and Mountain Man, well it was just bad.  I was not prepared for this and I was not prepared for the STINK!!!!!!

    To be honest, only one seemed to have been drinking and since I'm a reformed teen partyer I can usually tell signs of stoners or drunks in a shot.  There was a little punk girl that I would have bet money was on E or some other drug but she was one of the parent pick-ups so I will let them deal with it.  Breyan had not been drinking.  In fact, Breyan had collected keys from drunks by asking for them as a gift for his birthday.  He also turned to me at one point, hung his head and said, "I'm too sober for this.  Do we have Tylenol?  They are giving me a wicked headache."  

     Four of the kids were homeless.  I had gotten my hands on Sheldon, 16, a homeless native boy last week so his stink was only a weeks worth.  He still left a ton of dirt on the shower floor but it wasn't overwhelming.  Mohawk boy, however had not had a proper bath in forever and He left the tub black!!!  He stank so much I was stomping down my tummy with both feet so the first order I gave was to get him in the shower.  The other two weren't too bad but I lined them up outside the bathroom door with towels, soap and toothbrushes and told them to keep the soap and toothbrush.  (and in the case of the Spanish girl, feminine products.)

We desperately need another bathroom.

 Last week I had depleted my supply of hotel soaps and sample packets with Sheldon but luckily Hubby's parents are world travellers and constantly resupply me.  I made sure every kid had at least a bar of soap and some deodorant while Breyan did a cold wash with pretty well everything these kids owned in one load.

     While I was doing this, I ordered Breyan to get the kids to call parents for rides or just to let them know their kids were safe and where they were.  It's what I would want another parent to do if it was my kids.  Two parents volunteered to pick up their kids immediately, most weren't home and some didn't have parents.  We scraped together enough money for a cab for two of them since their parents did not own a car.  This left us with eleven kids. 

  

     The Mountain Man, while trying to be calm, couldn't take the smell dived into our bedroom and refused to come out.  I left him madly Febreeze'ing the bed and mumbling about doom and gloom, groundings till his kids were 35, house insurance and plans to introduce his son to Inquisition style torture the next day.      

     Now, I must note here that I am not in the best of health right now.  I've been suffering some pretty bad side effects of a medication that leaves me chewing Immodium and running to the bathroom every two minutes, physically very weak but on the bright side, has let me lose over 40 pounds in two months which in my book wasn't a bad thing.  A stinky thing yes, but not bad.  I'm going through the medical gauntlet right now but there are no answers as of yet so I muddle through as much as I can and considering that I'm the most spoiled wife on the planet, it's not as devastating as everyone assumes.  I've been through worse.

    I also tore a shoulder muscle a few years ago and am in constant pain with some really bad days.  Friday was one of them.  Caitlin had been sleeping over at a friends that night, (they have cable).  Before Breyan had boiled through the door, I was enjoying a quiet night with the Mountain Man, watching Russell Crowe in Gladiator and had managed to relax to the point that I wouldn't jump when the phone rang.

    I had hubby gather up all the sleeping bags, blankets and sheets we keep in the bedroom closet, he hopped out, threw them into Breyans hands and told him to start making beds in the living room.  Of course that wasn't enough space so we branched out to the sewing room and Caitlin's bedroom.  Breyan had two sleeping in his room, four on the living room floor, one on the couch, two in Caitlin's room and I'm not quite sure where the rest ended up but some didn't go to bed.

    Then they hit the kitchen.  Locusts have nothing on regular teenagers, homeless teenagers are even worse, they make locusts seem positively anorexic.  Before I could properly get out water, juice, snacks and so on, they had cleaned us out of bread, chips, pretzels, lunch snacks, a cold chicken, peanut butter and jam and I even caught one girl prepared to make a cake!!!!!!

     Now we are not so poor that we can't afford some tea and coffee and snacks for visitors but this was ridiculous and I hadn't done the groceries yet so we were low on food to start.  I herded them out of the kitchen, put on coffee and tea and set out the snacks.  Every time I turned my back there was another kid in the kitchen going through the kitchen cupboards.  I will never complain about earwigs again.  I've finally met their match.  At one point I considered telling them to just go ahead and have an earwig fry up, "They are a great source of protein, like the grasshoppers in Africa."  

      It took until five am to get all the kids sorted enough to leave them and I still had misgivings but I told Breyan, he was not only in charge, he was accountable for each and everyone of them and he would be cleaning up after them.  Then I went to bed.

     The next morning I woke to the Mountain Man slamming dresser drawers, still mumbling and bringing me coffee.  (You have to love a man who brings you coffee or tea every morning in bed no matter what else he has planned.  I'd remarry him all over again just for that.)  He was very upset and I don't blame him. 

     There were no eggs, no bread, no cereal, no milk, juice or water in the cooler.  There were bodies all over the house, stinky bodies and "OH MY GOSH!"  HE HAD MISSED HIS FISHING SHOW!!!!!  He hadn't wanted to wake up the kids until I was up so he missed his Saturday morning fishing show.  To my mountain man, this was like missing church!  He was very unhappy.  

     You have to understand.  My guy is a clean cut, all Canadian, security type.  Faced with girls with Mohawks, boys with so many body peircings that you have to wonder how boring their life really is and one girl that I very politely made put on a sweater so she wouldn't catch cold in her teeny-tiny little top, he just couldn't cope.  This is a man who thinks Hippie is someone who grows their hair long!  Fifty years ago he would have a crew cut, horn-rimmed glasses and a cardigan.  He still likes to wear his hair in a flat-top!.  Faced with todays version of hippies, he was at a loss. I let him go play at working on the car to get him out of the house.  My car is now totally spotless.  He cleaned inside and out and even my trunk is organized and vaccuumed.  Greg, our car friend would be very impressed.  

      I, on the other hand, had no compunction about waking them up.  Or Breyan for that matter.  I put on the coffee and tea, got the Mountain Man to put a new bottle of water out, sent him to the corner for milk and started making Cream of Wheat for breakfast.  I put a brush and comb on the table, grabbed the mint plant from the balcony while instructing them that "chewing mint leaves will settle your stomach," pointed the kids to the soap and towels, ordered the little one, Dave to the toast and told Breyan to get the phone book.

     I gave him the list for shelters, bus schedules, Operation Go Home, (Sheldon had specific orders to call them.)  Do you know OGH is a nine-to-five, Monday to Friday operation?  Somebody needs to give them enough money to start a 24 hr hotline!

      Breakfast, well to the Mountain Man's eternal horror, I make Cream of Wheat with milk.  I always have and I love it that way.  It adds calcium and Vitamin D for kids that don't drink milk and Cream of wheat is a great source of iron.  (Sounds like a commercial I know but I really love the stuff for kids.)   For special days, I put vanilla in it.  Topped with brown sugar I figured this would be a treat for the homeless kids and make sure the rest had something solid in their tummies for the day.  (That comes from my Grandpa Smith who was a firm believer in a good breakfast.)  

     So I made a huge potfull and what happens?  Two of the homeless kids are lactose intolerant.  When Mohawk boy snottily informed me of this condition, I almost kicked him.  I'm sorry but if you are homeless and starving and a guest in my house, you do not dictate the menu.  I don't mind arranging other food for allergies and conditions but you do not act like I was trying to poison you.  So I told him that.

     Then I made rice.  Rice is good.  Nobody is allergic to rice.  Personally I'm not a fan of it, always looks like bugs to me but hey, whole nations have been built on a rice diet-----Live with it.

  

     During all this, I listened to the kids stories.  There is something about me that makes people want to tell me their life stories and I always have time to listen to teens.  I was pretty impressed with a few of the kids.  One of them was 17, had been living on his own since 15, went to school and worked full-time.  His mom is a recovering alcoholic, dry for two years but he couldn't live with her and didn't know who his dad was.  I call him the tall-boy because he looked like a beer can, one of the quart ones, not a pint.

     Earring through the nose boy, had lived on the streets since he was twelve but had got it together when he turned 18 and now lived with his buddies and was returning to school.  I sent him to Jane at the Adult High School and hopefully he will make it.

     Spanish girl, I'm not sure if I liked but something Bad has happened to that girl.  She has this incredible pain in her voice and manner that I didn't have the time or energy to get into but I pray she makes it because she has an innocence about her that moves you.

   The rest were a mix of bland, everday or users.  Mohawk Boy downright scared me.  Now don't get me wrong, having a Mohawk doesn't make me afraid.  His eyes did.  I don't know what it is but it had a reptilian quality that put up my guard and made me hide the valuables. 

    Mohawks on white boys are not something I understand.  With one exception from my teen years, they look stupid.  I think they look marvelous on native boys.  The actor from "Indian in the Cupboard," was much sexier with his than with a full head of hair.  I have only met one white boy who looked good in a Mohawk but considering that I was a head-over-heels teen, I probably would have thought he'd look good in a clown suit.  Yet, I look back at school photos and still agree it suited him. 

    

     As soon as they were finished eating, I ordered them out the door.  Breyan, I told to stay as he was going to be doing dishes, deodorizing the couch, doing laundry and such for the rest of the day.  We don't have a dishwasher and don't have room for one so I have teens.  Breyan managed to get most out of the door and finally we were left with two kids.  Sheldon and Dave. 

     I like Dave.  Dave has parents.  Dave is a little computer geek, 5' 4" who used to be a wrestler till he slipped a disc.  He reminds me of my friend Jim S.  He's solid, polite, helpful and just all around a good kid with a cynical yet healthy outlook.  Dave fixed my computer.  Dave taught me to blog. 

     Dave did dishes.  Dave made toast.  Dave helped me to get cake girl out of the kitchen the night before and sat on her all night so she wouldn't raid the kitchen again.

     He helped Breyan get Sheldon to call OPG and then in a blink of an eye Breyan, Sheldon and him were out the door.  I could have screamed.

    Breyan had left all the cleanup behind.  Hubby and I had to scrub the bathroom, disinfect the couch and do the laundry.  We thought about leaving it for Breyan when he got home but I couldn't do it and neither could MM.  The smell was just overwhelming.  

    As we were cleaning, we discovered Breyan's birthday present from his friends that he had tried to show me the night before.  An electric guitar and amplifier!!!!!!!  Lord have mercy.  I was having enough problems with a teen daugher who sang and had her very own karaoke machine, the idea of a son with an electric guitar sent waves of forboding and pure panic right through me.

 I thought about disconnecting a few wires or accidently losing the cords for the amp but I couldn't do it.  Mountain Man could have!  Yet, as an urban mom, I understand that every teen boy needs his guitar phase. You can join me in my frantic prayers that he learns something other than "Stairway to Heaven."   

    The little chicken called on Saturday to leave a message that he was at Dave's for the night.  Instead of ordering him home then and there, I decided to give my temper a chance to cool down and told him I wanted him home the next day and we were going to have a "talk."  (Caitlin once begged a teacher at school not to tell on her that she wasn't doing her homework because, "My parents will talk at me!)

     When he got home yesterday, I presented him with a list of chores he would be doing, including scrubbing stains out of carpet, made it clear that he would be doing the dishes for the entire week, he was no longer allowed to have friends over without full clearance and he would be making up for this for quite a while.  I made him sit down and read a letter from his Granpa L. about responsibility and adulthood and quizzed him to make sure he didn't blow it off.  He was repentant and sorry for his actions but that didn't fool me for a minute.  It's so frustrating.

   Then his long distance girlfriend, Jessica got ahold of him.  Today, Breyan came home from school with a full course load, he had switched to university level sciences and maths, which he should have been in all along and informed me that Jessica had told him that "Unless [he] proved to her that he was willing toward working to a good future for them both, she was getting out of the relationship."  Man!  I just love that girl!!!!!!!!

   So it is now Monday, I have to make dinner and I have spent the day doing this while you have spent your afternoon reading it.  For an 18th birthday I guess from the horror stories I've heard and the recollections of my own and my friends party days we got off light but I still need recovery time. 

   We are letting Caitlin have free rein to give him a piece of her mind about the pretzels she found in her bed Saturday.  So I expect some hollering later and I'm not refereeing.  

Talk to you all soon,

Kimberley

PS:  Being my kid, Breyan's first song to learn is not the dreaded, "Stairway to Heaven."  It's the "Pink Panther" theme.  Industrial earplugs people------a necessary part of every teen parent's survival kit.   

The Nuclear Family has Exploded? Why didn't I hear the bang?

I was not that young when I had my first child.  I was twenty-two.  That may seem young today but I grew up in a generation where our mothers were married right after high school and a few right out of college.  I grew up in the 1960's in Canada. 

The world really was a different place.  In my generation, my family had a horrible secret!  It wasn't a dirty secret but there was always the whispering behind the hands from the mothers at the school, the teachers would be extra nice to me and my sister and I could probably have used our family situation as a defence in court. 

You see, I came from a "broken home."  That's what they called it in those days.  My parents were divorced.  They divorced when I was two years old. 

(There really is a sordid story behind all this but the Mothers, teachers and friends didn't know it because wife abuse was NEVER spoken of!)

It was just so shocking to the average mother of those times that there was a child in their child's class  that had divorced parents!!!! 

And it really affected me.  The teacher would always find a "special project just for me" during Mother's Day activities if we were between stepmothers or when family tree projects came around I was given special permission to either chose another project or my paper was handed back upside down.  I was quietly excused the obligatory Mother Day Assembly, etc..... 

Yes when I was growing up, not only was there the Christmas pageant, there was the Mother's Day one where we wrote poems and skits about how much we appreciated our mothers, there was the Father's Day Pancake Day.  Now my grandgirlz attend the "Holiday Assembly" and there are great savings for the schools in the white paste column of their budget since they cut down the production of Mother/Father Day's cards in today's classrooms.


Some mothers would not let me play with their kids and there were few and far between mothers who would let their kids come play at my house. 

What made it worse is that my FATHER had custody of us.  There were always two camps.  The people who sympathized with my sister and I or the ones that were convinced we were in for a life of degradation and crime~with the latter being the most popular opinion.  Whatever side you were on, my sister and I were the freaks in our class.

Well the world grew up and changed.  Divorce became the popular sport and by the time I got out of high school, it wasn't usual but it wasn't a scandal anymore.  I didn't mention it unless someone asked and I really didn't pay that much attention to the fact that the Nuclear Family was becoming a thing of the past.   Until.....


One day my seven year old daughter came home crying her eyes out.  I poked and pried and finally found out what it was that she was upset about.

"Why are you and Daddy still married???"  she wailed.  "It's just not fair!  I am just such a freak!"

Well after I got over my shock and blew her nose I got the real story. 

It was just after Christmas and the kids in the class were doing the "How I spent my holidays" report.

"Everybody in my class has two Christmas Days, two rooms, two bikes and two houses.  I only have one," she snivelled.  "My teacher told me it's because the other kids parents are divorced and their Mummy and Daddy live in seperate houses.  Some of them have two mommies and two daddies and they get lots and lots of presents."  she sniffed. 

"  [Teacher] said I was lucky 'cause I only have one Mummy and one Daddy."  she started crying again.  "All the kids were teasing me that they had two bikes and stuff."

She looked up with those teary big, blue eyes and asked again, "Why are you and Daddy still married?" 

I almost apologized to my daughter for being a normal nuclear family. 

I almost felt bad for the fact that she was so different from the rest of the kids in her class. 

Then I started roaring laughing and I thought about it and said, "You poor thing.  Your mummy and your daddy love each other and we will never be divorced.  You are just going to have to live with that.  I'm sorry if it means that you aren't going to get more stuff.  If any of the other kids tease you about this again, you just tell them that it doesn't matter what they say, you only need one mummy and daddy."

Curious I went to talk to the teacher the next day and I asked her, "Is there really that many children of divorced parents in your class?" 

She told me about 50% of the class were from divorced or single parent homes.

I was remembering this  and I was remembering that we used to have this saying,  "Of course it's quiet, it's the Father's weekend."   This was when the neighbourhood would get really quiet and you had to call the other parents if you wanted to plan something for the weekend like a birthday party. 

I wondered what it was like now, so I went and asked my daughter in law how many kids in my granddaughters class are from divorced or single parent homes.  

"I don't know the exact number Mum but about 75% I'd guess. "

75 percent??!  Even accounting for the fact that my granddaughters school is in the middle of the low-income housing district and we live in the city, I didn't think that number could be correct.  But it is!!!

This was news to me.

So if I was in school today, I would be the norm? 

I always knew I was ahead of my time!

Hey Kids-Grandpa has groupies

Gramma;

I may make jokes about my Mountain Man and his redneck upbringing but the family is in fact, well educated.  My mother-in-law was a school principal and above all else, my eighty year old (plus,) father in law has dedicated his retirement to recording, getting recognition and campaigning for an extremely worthy cause.  I won't get into the details here, I have another blog for serious issues but let's just say that the man commands respect across Canada in every town and city.  He forced an apology that was overdue by at least a hundred years from the governments of at least three countries. 

He gives lectures, write books, has been on countless PBS specials.

When we first met, you can bet they weren't thrilled their son had chosen me for a wife.  (I really got the clue when my mother-in-law starting crying during the wedding and did not say as quietly as she thought that she was devastated her son was marrying out of the religion.  She even told me once, "I pray everyday for my grandchildren with you as their mother."

After twenty-four years of marriage and a discovery of a mutual interest in theology, history, art and poetry, we get on like a house on fire.  I love and respect them and sometimes, yes, Grandad will go into lecture hall voice and go on and on and on.... (who does that remind you of?)   

What counts is that they love me now!  And I love them, no matter how much I grouch about them.  They are good solid, people.  It's just that like all teachers, they can be a wee tiny bit pompous for my taste.

Anyway, point is that I went to a book signing a few weeks ago and a woman saw my nametag.  I never really understood the definition of "pouncing on a person"  until I met this woman.  "Are you related to Him????"  She wide eyed asked me.   (Him?  Goodness woman I can hear the capital letter in your voice!)

 "Um yes???"  I answered and grasped my granddaughter by the hand ready to bolt for it.  This woman  was really excited.

  "Oh My God! " she squealed.  "I have been to all of His lectures, read all of His books.  I saw the PBS special in November!!!!!!"  (She was practically fainting.)

"It must be such a privilege to be related to such a man!!!"  (I started the frantic behind the back waving and the eyeing of the hubby which in married language means, 'This one's a nutjob!  Get me out of here!')

"Oh to be able to listen to him lecture all the time.  You are S0-0-0-0-0-0-0 lucky!"  (She grabbed both my hands with hers and she had sweatier palms than a teen boy on a first date.)

It took twenty minutes for me to make a graceful exit.  (God bless little children.  I have never heard sweeter words than my four year old granddaughter's 'I gotta go pee!' )

I quickly made my goodbyes.  "Um, okay, well thank you. I'll be happy to let him know that you appreciate his work.  Yeah we are all really proud of him."

Then I grabbed my granddaughter and ran for the exit.

I told Hubby all about it on the way home.

"You're dad has groupies."  we both roared.  (If you have ever seen the man first thing in morning in his housecoat and slippers, scratching his furry chest with what's left of his hair going every which way you would be roaring at the idea of his groupies too.)

"She just kept going on and on about hearing him talk and attending his lectures."  I told Hubby as I wiped the tears out of my eyes and caught my breath.

"Well honey, did you say it to her?" (My Mountain Man knows me so well.)

"No I did not let her hear me say, 'Wow, I've spent half my marriage trying to get out of them!'"

Kimberley. 

PS.  I was talking to my Caitlin about this today and she turned and looked at me in wide-eyed horror!  Grampa's got groupies???  OMG that is just so wrong!

PSS Is there such a thing as History Groupies?

How can I feel sexy with peanut butter down my bra?

Warning, this post walks a thin line between PG and R.


I don't know if you guys know this but this blog is made up of letters to my friends and Gramma. I found one from when the kids were little and with a little updating, nothing has actually changed.  My daughter in law who is expecting in February will understand this one.


May 1994

I have always believed that if you feel sexy, other people will see you as sexy.  I've seen 6' 2" women who weigh in close to a small rhinos be considered sexy because they feel they are, they know they are and they will let you know it too girlfriend!

If you really look at the sex symbols of history you will notice that some of them can in no way be described as a traditional beauty but they were the greatest sex symbols of their time.  They didn't have to wear camel toe jeans or low cut tops.  They didn't wear nine pounds of make up.  They had class!  Name a few? Mae West, Ethel Merman, Lily Langtry. These women could be called pretty, handsome or nice looking today but they were the Hot Mama's in their own time!  What made them sex symbols is that they had no shame, they made an effort, they had class, had a sense of humour about how they looked but most of all, Because they made you believe it!!!!


I will complain about it but I have to admit it's a boost to my self esteem that even after three kids, my hubby still tells me I make his motor run.  It's annoying sometimes and I often want to lend him out to my single friends so I can get some sleep but really, when I look around at the other mothers I see the challenges we have to face. It's a thin line between sexy and trashy.  The mother wearing the mini-skirt, five inch heels and shirt cut down to her navel is not sexy. 

(You are still not allowed not allowed to snub her or whisper with the other mothers about her because if you are going to that, then you are a Bi--h.  If you haven't been in her bedroom while she's doing the football team, you have no right to call her anything.  If it bugs you that much, make friends and then offer a makeover.  I've gotten my best babysitters this way.)

 I don't see very many women at the playground that would be considered "Foxes."  Most of the moms are usually wearing sweats, running shoes, they have no make up on and they couldn't attract flies. 

Then I see the mothers that you would consider "sexy."   Not the kind that men consider sexy because they show skin, the classy sexy ones. They are wearing skirts, have perfect makeup, hair and nails and men are turning heads, opening doors and whistling.  These are the women that are considered sexy. 

Don't they know that Mother Nature herself is standing behind them, just waiting to pull down their butts and boobs and counting the ticks on the biological clock wrinkle bomb? Why do they seem know that the guy who just whistled is whistling at them? 

Yeah they know all that stuff.  They just don't care. That  is part of their secret of being "sexy?" 

They have the same amount of kids as I have and at the same age yet they look ten years younger and I wish I could say, "Because they have an au pair" but I look in the mirror and wail, "It's because I've given up."  I just don't have time to fiddle around with nail polish and hairspray.  I can't keep my clothes free of kid sticky, or baby barf.

How can I possibly feel sexy when there is peanut butter down my bra?


Once you become a mother, time inevitably takes it's toll and admit it, we get lazy.  We figure we are moms and we don't need to be sexy anymore. It's a lot of work. 

My friend told me about a guy who had a sex change.  She met him/her a few months after at the grocery store, wearing sweats, no make up, hair in a bun.  He sighed and told her, "Looking good is so much work!"

 I have nightmares that I will end up being one of those woman who wear hair curlers to the store. 


It all starts in pregnancy.  How can a woman even imagine she looks Farrah Fawcett [or in today's world Megan Fox] in the first trimester when you've been throwing up all afternoon, * your hair is tied back with a rubber band to keep it out of the way when you puke and you may still be riding high on the news but in the back of your mind you're like, "Oh my God I'm going to be huge!" 

Putting on makeup is just too much of a challenge in the morning and yes your skin has either decided to be the best it's ever been or, more commonly, you get acne all over again.


Then you get to the second trimester, where--- if this is your first child--- nothing is showing but you can't wait to wear those maternity clothes and if it's the end of your pregnancy or your second or third~ you can't wait to burn them. 

 Who came up with one piece jumpers as maternity wear?  The label should say Marquis de Sade.  Didn't this designer realize pregnant women have to pee three times an hour?  At one point, you finish going pee and by the time you get to the bathroom door you have to go again!  Worse, the baby starts kicking and for the first few weeks it's a miracle of Nature; after that it's "I think I'm harbouring the next Judo Kickboxing Champ."  You are so tired that, while you won't admit it to anyone, you privately think of the baby as "The Leech."


Oh and here's the sexy part, you're butt is now growing at the same rate as your belly, you get rashes under your arms and between your cheeks and if you are as stupid as I was you will be dying from heat rashes ~that you can't take any medication for because who's stupid idea was it to have a baby in September?  That's it honey, from now on, no sex in January!!


You trade in your "four inch heels" for "four inch wide" shoes to accommodate the swelling.


When people describe you as a "Madonna" they are not talking about the one on MTV, see that big 'ol statue at the front of the church?  They had to make that out of marble!    Men who admit that a six month pregnant woman turns them on are considered pervs.  And baby....there ain't nothing sexy about hemorrhoids.


The last trimester, that is one that really puts you over the edge.  If someone offered to make you a thong bikini at that point?  You would strangle them with it.  "Sex???  That's what got me into this mess in the first place.  I feel like an elephant, I think your son/daughter to be has just kicked a rib out and if you even think of touching me I swear I will tear your manhood off buddy. " were common rants in my pregnancy's.


You can keep yourself up when  your pregnant but it's hard to shave your legs when you haven't seen them in six months.


A few weeks before the birth, during the "gain a pound a week" phase, there is no more wiggling, there is only the waddling.

  There are thousands of written words about how you feel during the birth but 'horny' has never been included in any of them that I've read.


After the birth.  See this is when they really crank up the propaganda machine to young mothers.  First of all; the girls think "once the baby comes out at least my stomach will be a little smaller right away." Gotcha!  It doesn't, you still have the swelling, the lumps and it takes time for the muscle and skin to recover and each baby takes longer and longer until the belly skin just gives up and lies there like a deflated balloon.  Yes Virginia, you will have to wear your maternity clothes home from the hospital.


New mothers marvel, "Man my boobs are HUGE.  Hubby's will sit enviously watching the child breastfeed.  Then those sexy sisters start leaking on you and you have to wear loose shirts to cover the breastpad outlines and leak marks.  After breastfeeding for two days you will have callus's on your nipples, after six months you will have teeth marks.  Oh did I forget to tell you about the acne that erupts all over your chest? 


Oh and don't just think you're nipples will be the only extra leaking going on.  Post-natal menstrual bleeding can last up to six weeks.  This is just Mother Natures way of making you pay up for the nine months you didn't have to buy tampons.


Wow isn't that sexy?  I also think this is Mother Nature's way of making you think before you have another one.

No matter what, at this point you may not be considered a sexy woman but put that newborn little baby in your arms and you really won't give a damn how you look. 

So back to sexy.  You are now a new mother with a two or three month old baby.  You don't have time to be sexy.  You don't have time to sleep.  You have bags under your eyes that are bigger than your old purse.  (Not bigger than your new purse which is a diaper bag but close.)  Get rid of them by cutting up extra cucumber when you make your toddlers snack or cold teabags or --if you really want them gone-- Preperation H.  You will have a tube honey.  I've always wondered why they don't put it in the Welcome Wagon baby basket.

You can't put on your makeup because you are so tired, you can't draw a straight line and how can you be sexy when you have baby puke dripping down your back?  You won't have to turn down hubby for sex because even if you two do manage to run off to a small B & B for a romantic weekend while the Gramma's are looking after the baby, you still will have to haul out the breast pump every three hours and in all reality, five minutes after you check in you will both be asleep.

This is where the crux is.  When you're kids are toddlers.  This is where you will become the attractive, nice looking soccer mom or the Foxy Momma!  The choices you make in the here and now will define you for the rest of your life.

You don't have wear tight clothes to be sexy.  You just have to buy clothes that show off the best of your features.  Any man will tell you that sometimes it's not what you see that gets them going, it's what they imagine they can see.  Simply choosing a skirt over jeans, choosing a nice sweater over a sweatshirt, these choices lead to "classy sexy."

  You can wear jeans --but not the type that give you camel toe for goodness sake-- when you find a pair of well fitting jeans that make your butt look like it spends it's days on a stairmaster--buy six pair.

Choose colours and patterns that hide stains well and keep an extra shirt in the car along with the baby wipes, spare tire or emergency road kit.

One other thing I've noticed on the clothes front, tailored clothes make a woman look much more together and sensual than cheap or loose clothes.  You don't have to spend hundreds of dollars to do this or know how to design and sew your own clothes.  Buy the best you can afford and get it fitted by a seamstress.

Choose colours that compliment you and don't be afraid to ask any woman in a store if this shirt is a good colour for you, (not the sales associates.)  Most women cannot get out to go shopping with friends very often due to playdate conflicts but I've met many women who would be complimented by you asking their advice.  They will stop and give you an answer.  A lot of women enjoy giving advice to each other on clothes and anything else they can think of.  Try to pick someone who's style you want to emulate.

This often leads to friendships or at least you got to talk to someone over three feet tall.

(But don't stop me because you will be in for a two hour makeover.  I have a friend that is always afraid I'm going to whip out my eyelash curler and tweezers at lunch.)

Next go to the local make up counter and ask them to show you how to put on your daily make-up in seven minutes.   Once an esthetician has given you her advice, find your local Avon lady.  She will come to the house.  

You say you can't afford seven minutes in the morning and that you haven't seen your bathroom since your daughter or son discovered their reflection? 
No woman needs makeup to look sexy!!.  She just needs to have good, moisturized skin, her eyebrows should suit her, she should curl her lashes with an eyelash curler so she won't need mascara, her teeth should be white.  Choose a moisturizer with a tint or bronzer.  Use the baby petroleum on your lips, heck use the baby's lotion on you.  When you finish oiling up baby, rub the rest into your own skin.

Tanned women are considered sexy but not the leather looking ones, they look hard.  You have an opportunity every day to keep your tan; take your kids outside.  Be reasonable about it, skin cancer is never sexy but instead of sitting on the park bench and watching your kids there is a million opportunities for a workout when you take your kids outside.  You can play the, "One more time please, just five minutes" game for your cardio.  You can play, "Spin me around till I puke Mommy," game for your strength training.  You can get all the yoga you need just getting the Lego out from under the couch.

Get yourself one of those bikes with a trailer and take them an extra mile or two.  Both of you will be so happy and healthy and yes you will be tired and exhausted when you get home but the more you do, the more you can.  Sooner or later you will have earned the right to wear lycra biking shorts and you will be hauling out your "skinny time of the month" jeans and you will be smoking!

(Smoking hot I mean, not smoking cigarettes because even though I smoke, even I have to agree that there is really isn't much sexy about smelling like an ashtray, yellow teeth and extra wrinkles.)

Now this is where young mothers need to take notes.  Take time for yourself at least two hours a week!  You can do it.  Don't tell me you have no time for yourself.  If you are married then you make a deal with Hubby.  "If you put the kids to bed, take them out to the park etc...you will then have a happy, hot wife who feels sexy and may be more inclined to practice making new babies."  Most men will agree in a shot! 

(If Hubby comes back with, "What are you dressing up for?  Who are you trying to impress?  Either get him into therapy for his low self esteem or pack your bags that minute.  Men who give their women a hard time about wanting to look good have major self-esteem issues and it never ends well.  If he only asks once answer him honestly,  "Me and you.  Me so I will feel sexy and gorgeous and you because as a woman if I feel sexy, sex follows."

Here's another crux in the road.  When you feel sexy and are comfortable with your body, you won't be afraid to tell Hubby all the places he should rub, massage or vibrate to get your motor going.  You will enjoy the submarine race much more when you know your bikini line isn't at your knees.  Speak up~!  The man has seen you push something the size of a football out of a hole the size of a grape and he's still back for more!  You put the work into making it look good, reap the reward!.  A sexually satisfied woman is sexy!

If you are a single mom, you will have to break up the two hours into ten minute nightly intervals but honey you do have the time, whether you have the energy or not is another story.

You take ten minutes for a shower and shave, you take another ten to pluck your eyebrows, the next ten for conditioning or colouring your hair and spend the next hour and half just relaxing with a face mask, you do you your nails in front of the TV, you moisturize any part of your skin that you can reach.  Better yet, get hubby to moisturize the parts you can't when he comes home. 

You will have to get your selective blindness out for this.  You will not see the piles of dishes or laundry, you will not notice the five milion toys on the living room floor that need to be picked up.  You will see only the box under the bed where you keep your secret extra towels (because no one with kids can keep up with clean towels no matter how many you buy. I've bought enough towels in my lifetime to blanket Cuba and still, when I want to take a shower I find that the kids have used every towel in the house and they are all on the bedroom floors.) 

In this box under the bed you will keep the expensive shampoo, the perfume, the bath bubbles, the make up.  A locked fishing box is best because once your daughter turns twelve, kiss the make up goodbye.

There are tons of 'just got out of bed' sexy hair looks for women that don't take a lot of time or products to keep up. Find the best hairdresser you can afford and get a simple but attractive cut.  Never get a bob.  Many women are beautiful with a bob but let's face it, men like long hair.  If you really do look better with short hair then great but never get shoulder length hair.  That is the soccer mom badge.

The most important thing is for you to feel sexy at the end of it all.  For you to look in the mirror and not see the stretch marks or the saggy boobs.  In fact, never look in the mirror naked.  Put on the sexiest underwear you have, always wear at least a one inch heel (Avoid the kitten heel, go for the jazz dance shoe heel, lots of support)  or if you are a curvy girl, put on the "suck it in and up and put it where it will look good" girdle.  Tilt the mirror so you look taller in the mirror.  Like my Gramma always says, "I ain't overweight, I'm undertall."

Oh and if you are a generously curved woman, do not tell me you can't be sexy.  You've got a few things that smaller woman don't usually have.  Boobs!!  If you get a good bra with good support and nice necklines, if you use the "suck the tummy fat into the cups" slimmers then you have a weapon in your arsenal that we "fried-egg" girls pay plastic surgeons thousands of dollars for.  Believe you me, women who have a good upstanding set of girls never have men looking at their tummy rolls.  Buy empire waist tops and sweaters.  (Those are the ones with seams under the boobs.)  Do NOT buy sweaters that have elastics at the bottom.  Do not buy any top that is a-line.  You want to have as many seams and darts on the bust as you can and not too much bulk on the waist.  Wear a skirt if you can but if you must wear pants when you get to the weight where your thighs rub together; consider yoga pants instead of poly-stretchy.  Lycra is for wearing under your clothes to keep things from falling out, rubbing together or jiggling. 

Do not wear any pair of pants that have writing across the butt.  Even Shakira and Jay Lo look like hookers with 'Hot Stuff' written across their butt.  You are not a billboard. 

Speaking of perfume; due to the fact that there are people out there with major allergies, please do not load on the perfume.  Suffocating people to death is not sexy.  Choose an oil that smells like food.  I'm not kidding.  I wear this vannila body oil from the Body Shop and men have stopped me in elevators to compliment me on it and ask what it is so they can buy it for their wives.  Mind you, that's how I found out about it.  My hubby was working with a girl who wore it and came home and told me, "Hilary smelled so good today.  You should buy this perfume."

  I'm not sure why but men are really attracted to food smelling women?  My Gramma told me during the Depression the women would put a bit of vannila extract behind their ears instead of perfume.  And here I've been buying $100.00/ounce stuff when I could just go to the kitchen.  Go figure?


(Of course then I hit him for smelling other women and promptly went out and bought six bottles.  If my redneck, mountain man is noticing perfume and asking about it???? )

The best thing you can wear to be sexy~ Confidence and a smile. 

When you feel confident, you look sexy.  It doesn't matter if there is peanut butter down your bra, if you weigh in with the small elephants, if you have fried eggs for boobs, if you believe: they will.

My hubby once told me that there was this moment when I was pregnant with my daughter that he still remembers thinking, "My God I won the lottery."  We were at a wedding and I was wearing a dress that needed a slip.  I only had a strapless slip.  While the service was going I could feel it rolling down.  I had two choices, I could get red and embarrassed and grab it through my dress and run for the bathroom to pull it up or I could let it slide down to the floor and kick it under the bench.  There were a few people who couldn't get out of the pew until we moved so outwaiting everyone wasn't an option.

So that's what I did, I stood up, gave a wiggle, let it drop and kicked it under the pew.  An older man was behind me and I was really worried he was going to pick it up and offer it back like a knight with a handkercheif but he just gave me a nod with a twinkle in his eye and a charming smile.  I put my chin up, winked back and walked out of the church.  Then sent Hubby back to get it. 

Remember the picture of Princess Diana in the skirt?  You can't tell me that she didn't look sexy.  She is considered one of the classiest, sexy women of all time.  Bet you she had peanut butter down her bra a time or two!

Now that is sexy!


PS when you and hubby are enjoying that well earned submarine race, get one of those doorbells with bells like they have in old fashioned stores for your door--an the early warning of kids about to enter the room.
  
PSS  Since you take so much time and effort with how you look you can blackmail Hubby into making an effort on his part for you!


*(morning sickness is misnamed.  I was sick every afternoon at three like clockwork.)

The changing face of medicine

April 2010

Last time I was home, Gramma, Aunt Liz and I were sitting around the table having tea and discussing our Fibromyalgia.

Yes I'm getting to the age where I talk about my ailments, some days that's all I can do is talk.

We all have been diagnosed with Fibrositis which is one of the most painful, debilitating diseases out there and up until ten or fifteen years ago was thought to be a psychiatric issue.

What made me laugh was the way each of us handles the pain.  I think of us as the "Got a Problem ==take a pill," generation, my kids as the "culture conscience" generation, Aunt Liz as the Hippie Generation and Gramma as the Old School generation.  Each generation has it's pros and cons but I'm really leaning towards Gramma school of medicine.

Medicine has changed that's for sure.

I remember when my doctor would tell me a good family meal consisted of lots of red meat, mounds of potatoes and butter, whole milk and vegys.  This is a recipe for an early heart attack today.

When Gramma was a young mum and her kids were sick, she would call the family doctor and he would drop by. 

When Aunt Liz was younger, she would call for an appointment later in the day at the doctor's office if it was an emergency or later in the week if it could wait.  If she was unlucky she would have to wait a month for a full physical appointment.

I had to wait in a 12 hour Emerg room or walk in clinic and if I want a full physical they can probably squeeze me in next November.  That's if I'm lucky enough to have a family doctor.

My kids are probably going to end up videoconferencing their doctor from home like the Jetsons when they are my age.

Then we got to talking about pain management.

My kids manage their health by preventing it, building up their immune system, making sure they are taking their vitamins and getting exercise.  My son won't even let his kids have antibiotics unless they are on deaths door.

I just pop some Tylenol #3, keep my weight down and go to bed with a good book.

Aunt Liz tries to keep her weight down, does yoga, uses a hot water bottle and goes to physio and massages and lives at spas.  She's eats grass and nuts breads, skim milk and would never think of eating something with more than two grams of fat. 

Gramma has my vote.  Tell her you pulled a muscle or have a cold.  She'll lather you up with Vicks, Ben Gay or her favourite-Dr. Watkin's Horse Linament.  You'll stink to high heaven but you will feel better.  If you have a cold she will make a "Hot Toddy,"  Tea, butter, sugar and a tot of medicinal brandy!  One day in a whisper, she admitted that her medicine cupboard under her bathroom sink has brandy.  "It's good for the nerves."  I almost died of shock.

We all drink tea homeopathic teas, mint or ginger for stomach upset, rosehip and hibiscus for energy and chamomile to sleep but knowing my little 'ol Gramma spikes hers puts me fairly in her camp.

pre xmas Gramma letter 2010 or The War of the Ugly Butt Chair

Dear Family;


First Big Hugs to All, especially Gramma.  I know I haven't called you enough but I really am having serious hearing issues.  I am seeing a doctor about it but I can't get an appointment until February.  Because of the surgery on my ears a few years ago scar tissue has built up.  (Or it could be the loud music but I think it's the scar tissue.)  Leaving the radio on the car at gangster volume could be a symptom of the war but I'll tell you about that in a minute.  Let me just first say that I am sitting here imagining big Gramma hugs and I hope you had a wonderful Birthday. 


Well I know I've been bad about keeping in touch and I do apologize.  I don't have a good reasons.  I've just been so busy lately that I keep meaning to sit down and write and there always seems to be something coming up.  I'm so sorry. 


It's funny because with me not working right now; you'd think I'd have more time or even that it would be ultra important things that would keep us busy.  It really is just little things, getting ready for the holidays, rediscovering the living room floor, selling some costumes and catching up with friends. 


Oh yeah....and the Great Wars in the house.  Forget WWI and WWII, It's "the Big Ugly-Butt Brown Chair War with the Coffee Table Battle," and "The War of the Smurfette Blue Hair," topped off by the fact that I seem to be turning into the "Monster in Law of the Year."  (I'll have to send the history of the Monster in Law award in another letter.)


Let's start with the "War of the Ugly Butt Brown Chair." 


Now that the kids have kind of grown up, I finally reached every Mother's dream.  I have (had) a matching cream living room.  I have white bookcases, bureau and desk.  I wanted a white coffee table and was saving for an amazing one at IKEA that I've had my eye on for years.  It was very expensive, 325.00 but it was one of those "One of these days when we can afford it," items.  My living room was finally bright, light and co-ordinated.  Breyan often commented to his friends, "if you have a small space and you want it to feel big and airy, get my Mum to decorate it."  Yes I take great pride in that.


Like any war this started out as a small battle.  I wanted a coffee table and the Mountain Man (otherwise known as Hubby) didn't.  Our living room is very small, 8 x 12.  The Mountain Man likes the clean open concept. He won't even agree to a rug.  I think he just likes being able to cross the living room without being ambushed by guerilla furniture sneaking into the middle of the floor at night.

  I did want a coffee table and we bickered for months.  I think everyone needs a coffee table.  We can't have end tables, there isn't enough room.


My reasons.


Reason 1.  You have to have a place to put your tea or coffee or for grandgirls to colour on.  Putting tea on the floor involves a lot of bending (which I am now old enough to avoid doing at every chance and often end up with my back out, looking like one of those cheerleaders that spell out words at home games--- without the cute skirt.) 


Hubby's answer:  He bought a set of those TV tables that you see in fifties TV shows.  They set up on a frame?  I admit he bought nice ones, they are pine.  There is a set of four and they go on a nice holder that sits in the corner and doesn't take up much space.


My counter answer:  I broke my stupid finger when I caught it in the stupid frame when I was putting it away because SOMEONE left them set up all over the living room!!!!!


If you don't mind leaving those table up all the time, then why can't we have a coffee table? 


Reason 2


If you don't have a coffee table to put your feet up, the kids will put their feet up on the couch.  Teenage feet not only leave unsightly marks on the white sofa that I earned after years of couches that didn't show the peanut butter, marker, crayon stains, or the dog hair that would mysteriously show in the morning--- they also have teenage feet smell.  I don't care what anyone says;  teen feet smell should be classifed as bio-warfare.  No matter what you do; the smell just lingers. 


Hubby's answer:  Febreeze it to death.  Bleach the slipcover.


My counter answer:  Too much Febreeze or bleach is like sitting next to the kid on the bus who overdosed on Axe.  I actually had an asthma attack from him soaking the couch in Febreeze.  And by the way Mountain Man, just because something is cream coloured, it does not mean it can be bleached!  How is it men do not know this?  Why do they not know that bleach can break down the stain repellent.  It's fourth grade science. 


(Yet oddly they know that a kid can put his babytooth in a glass of Coke and it will break down in two days? They know that if you drop a Mentos in a bottle of pop and put the lid on, it becomes a bomb?)'


And last but not least,


Reason 3:  Storage.  If you don't have a coffee table, ideally one with a shelf, then where do you put down your book and glasses when you go to make a cup of tea?


Hubby's Answer:  The floor--- it's only going to be a minute or two.


My Answer:  What is that noise?  Oh yeah, that was my glasses under your foot Mountain Man.


So you can see that there is every reason for us to have a coffee table.  These reasons are valid enough that hubby went and bought me a little IKEA kitchen cupboard and put wheels on it.  This is not a coffee table:  this is a box on wheels. 


The thing that turned this into a war?  A big ugly butt, Archie Bunker, 1970's brown corduroy lazy-boy chair. 


Mountain Man's father called Hubby one day and asked if he'd like the old Lazy Boy Chair.  I will admit that it is in good condition.  There was only one problem;  it's brown---1970's plush corduroy brown.  The Mountain Man knew my answer if he asked if I wanted it so he just brought it home as a 'fait accompli.' 


The problem for me was first:  Brown.  It doesn't match anything in the room.  My walls are robin's egg blue, my furniture is white and cream with blue throws, pillows and accents. 


Second;  A lazy boy takes a lot of room.  You can't put it against the wall, it needs room to open and lean back.  Our living room doesn't have the space.


Third;   It's brown.  A colour I personally find draining.  Some people call chocolate brown cozy.  I find a room full of brown furniture makes me feel like I'm buried, which at my age is not something I personally want to be reminded of.


Well, Caitlin and the MM love this chair.  It sits awkwardly in the corner, dominating the room like a big 'ol quarterback having tea in china cups with a room full of little old Japanese ladies.  Worse, Caitlin will often leave it locked open.  I have to manouver past the foot jutting out and sit in it to put the lever up and reset the position every morning.


After months of bickering and downright arguing I felt I had two options;  Either accidently burn the chair or recover the furniture.  (Mountain Man says he has plans to buy a leather couch and loveseat that is more co-ordinated but since I've wanted a simple Ikea coffee table for seven years, I knew the living room set was a pipe dream.) 


I couldn't think of a way to burn the chair "accidently" without burning down the rest of the house so I finally convinced myself to recover the furniture.  The cream couch was looking really beat up and stained so I went with slipcovers.  Do you know how hard it is to find a slipcover that fits a ten year old IKEA couch?  Almost impossible.  Even shopping online, a slipcover is very expensive.   (I didn't want a throw cover because experience has taught me that  it will get bunched up, slip down the back or one of my kids will use it as a blanket.  I think a stretchy cover looks tidier.)


  I decided I would have to make one.  There are three steps.  Make a pattern.  Fit the material.  Sew it together. It's a little time consuming, takes about a full work day.     For me it took four days.


Day One:  Make a pattern.  This should be easy.  I bought dust cover material.  It is really cheap and you can reuse any excess for covering plants in the winter, packing,  as a cheap interfacing or even leave it on the couch as a lining. 


So I bought 12 metres of dust cover material and brought it home.  Where Evil Kitty was delighted to discover he'd found a new scratching post. 


Back to Fabricland.  Got new dustcover material.  Hid it from the cat in a closet.  A closet that Evil Kitty somehow magically found a way to get into and he sprayed it.


 (Evil Kitty is a cat that Caitlin offered to look after for her friend for a month . That was two years ago.  Evil Kitty is not fixed, not declawed and has a rabid disposition and got away with everything up until he sprayed and peed and pooped all over Caitlin's room which even she found too much to handle.  Since she's not working, she couldn't afford to fix, spay or get shots for him and has agreed to give Evil Kitty a new home prompting the Blue Smurfette Hair war but I'll get to that later.)


Back to Fabricland.  I wonder what they think I'm doing with all this dust cover material? 


I finally was able to get the material home and keep it safe.  So we are up to about 60 dollars for material that would normally be 15.00.


Day Two:  I needed to make the pattern.  The easiest way is to pull out the couch and pin the fabric to it.  Then you just baste and cut it.  Instant pattern.  Sounds simple?  Not if there is a big ugly-butt brown chair dominating the living room.  So I wrestled the stupid chair out of the way and squeezed around the couch which involved new yoga positions, and I made the pattern.  This went well.  Had it done in about an hour.


Decided I deserved a break with the bending and stretching and all.  Went and had a cup of tea, caught up on my mail; only to return to find Mischeif had sneaked up on the couch and left dog hair all over the pattern. 


Went and got the lint roller and spent two hours getting dog hair out of the pattern. 


Day Two:  Went to Fabricland and spent three hours looking for a light coloured material that would match ugly-butt brown and cream love seat colour. 


Spent the trip over there with Mountain Man questioning whether we can afford to buy 12 metres of material and bitching at the traffic and hinting that we were spending more in gas running back and forth to Fabricland than it would cost to buy the couch.  Be proud of me.  I didn't hit him.


Spent three hours listening to Hubby sigh with boredom and answering all my requests for his input about material colour and texture with, "Whatever you want is fine with me."  (Then after I found something he would complain it was too expensive or maybe didn't go perfectly with the other funiture.)


Did the Snoopy Dance of Joy when I found a stretch fabric, in a champagne colour that was 2.00/metre. 


Spent the trip home with the Mountain Man being very very quiet because I let him know loud and clear that if he was going to bitch about cost, gas, traffic, or boredom the answer was very simple.  Get rid of the chair.

Day Three:  Wrestled the furniture back into place, cleared  and washed the floor to cut the material. 


Spent two hours looking for my sewing scissors that even though they have a huge sticker on them that clearly says, "Mum's Sewing Scissors:  Do not use for milk," were covered with dried milk stains.  Scrubbed the scissors. 


Laid out the material, cut the material.  Dog was still hiding under the dining room table and Hubby was hiding in the dining room. 


I admit I did use a few words Gramma would call "sailor talk" because cutting out a six foot pattern in an 8 x 12 ft living room full of furniture required at one point, that I was cutting while crouching under the desk.


By this time my back was screaming, my patience was at it's end and I just gave up. 


Then Hubby came down and inquired, "Did you make dinner?" 


Be very proud of me.  He's alive.  For now.


Day Four:  Getting out my sewing stuff.  Now when Breyan moved out I was upset, my little boy was grown up and moving out with his own family.  A tramautic time for any mother which impact should not be lessened by the fact I had a measuring tape in my back pocket and that five minutes after he left I was measuring his old bedroom for my sewing room. 


I had great plans for that room.  A sewing desk, a cutting table, maybe some nice checkered curtains. 


Somehow, over the last three years it's become less of my sewing room and more of Mountain Man and Caitlin's extra closet.


 First we had to put in a guest bed because Keegan, Caitlin's boyfriend was spending quite a few nights sleeping over.  And yes, it also became the Snoring room.  Mountain Man has this ambush snore.  He'll snore and I'll hit him and he'll stop.  Until just as I'm slipping back into sleep, he'll belt out a snore that makes the bed vibrate and makes me become a parody of Sylvester the cat with his claws in the ceiling. 

I will tell him to "Please stop snoring, he's making the bed vibrate,"  and he'll sleepily ask me to give him a quarter. After months of sleepless nights, not even those earplugs they make for shooting guns could block out this sonorous snoring, I got up the courage to kick him out when the snoring gets to be too much. 


Breyan came over one day and asked where Dad was.  I said he was sleeping.  Breyan answered that he checked our room and Dad wasn't there.  When I informed him he was sleeping in the spare room Breyan turned to me with tears in his eyes, gave me a hug and said, "Is it so bad you guys have seperate rooms?  I'm so sorry Mum.  Are you getting a divorce?" 

Which of course leaves me to wonder exactly why my son thinks MM and I are on the brink of divorce????


So I had had to take my cutting table out of the room but I still had a sewing desk.  Then Caitlin got a job, bought a slew of electronics for her bedroom and decided she needed to put her dresser in the spare room to make space for the game system and huge TV in hers. 


To compromise, since I was working at the time and didn't have much sewing time, I decided to put a cabinet in the living room and store my sewing machine  and paraphenalia in it.  I would take it out and set it up on the living room desk when I needed it. 


I thought this was a good compromise until I had to spend a few days sewing and realized that each night I needed to pack it all up because if I leave a sewing project it magically transforms itself into a food, dog hair and Evil Kitty magnet. 


So I hauled out the serger, the cutting mat, the sewing machine, pioneered into the basement over mountains of "stuff that builds up in the basement" to get my sewing box with thread, needles etc....


I finally got everything set up prepared to sew the cover.  This went pretty well with the exception that Evil Kitty thought we were playing a catch and release game with the fabric going through the machine, resulting in me locking him in Catie's room and him retaliating by spraying, pooping and peeing all over Caitlin's bed, even though there was litter box in the room.


But I now have a champagne coloured couch with some nice pillows that I reworked.  The furniture matches now, though I still have to repaint some of the picture frames, get throw blankets and accessories that match the new furniture colour.  (This brown is not the kind that goes well with blue.) 


I feel like I've played the entire Hamilton Tiger Cats and I can barely move but I have a nice matching set of furniture again.  I'm happy, Sort of;  I still need a coffee table.

I know this is long but this has been months of irritation and I felt I had to fully explain the War of the Ugly-butt Brown Chair.


The other major war is between Caitlin and I.  Caitlin had to quit her job to go back to school to get her last credit for Grade 12 graduation. ( Last year when she caught the swine[I hate using H1N1 it looks like I'm writing hiney] flu  she was in hospital during exams.  Because she was an honour student all of her teachers but one gave her a pass.  The one teacher that wouldn't pass her?  Her sewing teacher.)


The relocating of Evil Kitty has stirred some resentment.  Yes I did lock him in her room.  Yes I am very allergic to him and I think I've shown Goddess like patience over the past two years.  She was the one who decided Evil Kitty would be better off in a good home that was not ours.  She and the Mountain Man were the ones who lied their little faces off telling the new owner that he was a lovable, sweet little kitty but we just couldn't afford proper care for it. 

For some reason, Caitlin resents me demanding the removal of Evil Kitty.


She doesn't say it outright but I can see it in her behaviour.  It's a passive aggressive type thing. 


Examples:


She conviently forgets to call me when she's staying at a friends house until about 2 am when she will email me that she's not going to be home.  Meanwhile I'm sitting by the phone chewing my nails and waiting for the cops to call and trying to convince her Dad that driving around in the middle of the night looking for his daughter is a bad idea and that tying up the phone calling every hospital and morgue in town might not be a good idea since the cops might be trying to call us.  (He hasn't figured out how to use the call waiting feature.) 


I told the kids I really wanted a new family picture that included the grandgirls and she went and dyed her hair Smurfette blue.


I planned for three weeks an afternoon tea party for my birthday.  I emailed her, I reminded her on facebook, I wrote it on the family calendar but an hour into it she came and advised me that she needed to meet up with her friends for Xmas shopping because she had forgot the date of the tea party and had made plans with her friends.  Besides, I had so many people there that she was sure I wouldn't miss her.


She leaves carpets of wet clothes and towels in the bathroom and manages to stain the counter and the fresh painted walls with make up and blue hair dye.


She leaves the ugly-butt chair out in the middle of the living room floor wide open and locked into position.


All inquiries into how school, friends or job hunt are going are met with one word answers.


I have tried talking to her.  I've asked what I've done to upset her but she opens up those big blue eyes and says she has no idea what I'm talking about?


I've finally resorted to the Jewish Mother school of guilt.  I spent my birthday money on getting her this really expensive perfume she's been craving for Christmas.  I sigh and yes I know this is low but on some occassions I actually go silent.  (Though I'm not quite sure on whether this is harder on me or her.)

It's like cold war with Blue Hair.


Finally to top it all off.  Mountain Man's best fishing buddy from across the street has moved to Quebec.  This is killing me.  I swear my hubby has become a fourteen year old girl who has lost her first boyfriend.  Every time the phone rings he runs hoping it's Joe.  (Joe calls at least once a day.)  Hubby mopes around the house.  He wonders what Joe is up to.  If Joe does invite him over he's elated for days.  When the doorbell rings the MM practically runs to the door hoping it's Joe stopping by.  He wonders what Joe would think about every damn fishing item in the stores. 

Worse I HAVE TO GO TO FISHING STORES with the Mountain Man now. 


I swear I want to put a personal ad in the local paper for a new best buddy for Doug. 

So you can see, the holidays are going to be rough but I will get through, 

I wish I was spending them with you!

Big Hugs
Kimberley