Yes, an alternate universe!
Stay with me.

In this alternate universe, the "Happy Kid" post never happened.
That's right.
It neeeeeever happened.

In that alternate universe, there is a post lamenting the fact that I have lost the last three April entries. This means that this alternate universe is devoid of all things connected to dirtyolive and strawberry karma, space obsession or poop.

When I am at work, I see the post lamenting the other posts. Supa and my sister see this universe.
When I am at home, I see “A Happy Kid” and this little dribble you are currently reading – as does Barbara, Jess and Andrea.

Can someone, with more geek skill than I obviously have, explain this to me? I recently changed nameservers. Is this the problem?

Regardless, I know you are all breathing a sigh of relief that this is the side of the universe that still is privileged to read such incredibly "been there, done that" material.

The “been there, done that” is a teasing reference to a woman who may mistakenly think I am angry with her for presuming that I, with the one child, is so sufficiently fascinated with my life that I will post anecdotes on the internet about my son but which anyone who has already had a child has.... “been there, done that” and oh... yawn.
Yaaaaawwwwwn.

I’m kidding, Jess.

There is no way on earth that I would be angry with you for speaking your mind on your blog. I didn’t feel like you were slamming me - or my one child family. You were talking about what it feels like to be a family with four kids in a world where people seem to think one or two children are enough, for whatever reason.

If I were mad, I wouldn’t be talking about it on the net.
I would be marching right up to your blessed doorway and snapping my fingers like an idiot. Ha. Yeah, right. That would be funny though.

Seriously, I'm not mad.
I understand it is all part of the mother debate going on and the big hubbaloo surrounding that infamous book. To me, it's not only exclusionary because the world (including the blogosphere) seems to concentrate on the single child families - although I can see your point.

If you are going to start commenting on who is excluded in the mother who works versus the mother who stays at home, then lets open the picture to both the multi family households and the women who work because they have no other choice. You feel there is little choice to be a SAHM because of the size of your amazing family. I feel there are far more who do not have the choice to stay at home OR have more children due to simple finances.

(And here, my other friend, Charity will scoff at my constant beef with our society’s invisible classism, which seems to range from Thomas the Tank Engine tales to crappy social commentary best seller books.)

So this book, from what I've learned, is a personal account of many wonderful women and their somewhat different ways of raising their children. Apparently, even Naomi Wolfe feels it is a great representation of “real women everywhere”, which actually surprises me.

You see, the working versus SAHM debate doesn’t exist in my everywhere. However, I have a feeling that Naomi Wolfe lives in a vastly different everywhere than I.

In my everywhere, most families can’t afford to have another child - with or without childcare. There is still a face-off in my everywhere, but it is not this way because women are defending their choice, but out of frustration, insecurity and “the grass is greener” envy of ignorance.

In my everywhere (and perhaps, for Jess), the women who have more than one child do not have a choice to work or not to work. The debate is thrown completely out the window. Thrown out that same window is the feasibility of childcare for multiple children – multiple meaning two or more. Infant care, toddler care, after school care…. Yikes.

In my everywhere, some women weren’t even ready to have one child and now they are doing it alone. SAHM? According to many in society, this is the role of a “nurturing mother” (excuse me while I roll my eyes). If this is the ideal, then why are single mothers on social assistance so vilified? Why does our government try to limit this opportunity? There seems to be a narrow image of a SAHM and I object to this.
(Incidentally, I absolutely love the stupid factoid they give about mental and verbal development on that linked site. Yes, lets makes the “other side” feel like crap too. Yawn)

In my everywhere, there are families who would love to be able to adopt a beautiful child without a stable home but are stopped due to their financial status. Today, I felt like crying as I watched a thirteen-year-old girl testify against her adoptive father’s sexual, physical and mental abuse. SAHM? Working Moms? Who cares! There are children out there who just need a loving home.

What about the Dads who want to stay at home? I have one. I’m sure there is a hell of a lot more. Is that even a question? Nowhere in literature or on the internet do I see this debate. Dads? Stay at home? They don’t bond with their children! They do sporty stuff! They are adoringly removed! They pat heads and straighten collars!
They don’t wake up in the middle of the night! They don’t wipe the noses, bums and tears! They don’t worry about food groups and chemicals and if Jimmy knows how to share.
If I make more than my partner, why is it odd that I would be the one at work? What if I (gasp) enjoyed working and knew my partner would prefer to stay at home? From my experiences, I find it hard to believe those who try to tell me that there is a wire inside mothers that isn’t present in fathers that make staying at home more of a desire for women.

In my everywhere, we are all doing the best we can and yet, everyone thinks that everyone else is doing a less thoughtful, less stimulating and less nutritious job of raising their children.

To me (in both universes) the “right choice” isn’t really much of a choice – either way.

If 50 Cent were to knock on my door I wouldn't know who the hell he was. Yet, the other day I found myself performing an Easter, kid-friendly version of this song in front of strangers. The song was the challenge section of an Easter egg hunt we attended on Saturday. When I asked my team-mate to "rap" a few lines she mentioned something about drinking Bacardi so I said, "Oh I get it, it's a commercial!"

Crickets were chirping
I have now firmly established my music cave dwelling status not only on the internet through my "discovery" of Radiohead a little while back, but now people I'm just getting to know think I read books and paint water colour all day while listening to my son play Handel on the harpsichord.

Apparently, this song is not a commercial. However, I must state that if you're singing a song and you mention a certain brand of alcohol in the lyrics, isn't it a commercial? I mean, don't you think Bacardi is doing quite well with 50 Cent singing its praise and drinking its product with or without any birthday shenanigans?

I'm just saying.

Regardless of my pop-culture faux pas, Easter has been wonderful. We've met some great people and have done so much. Let's just say, my Flickr account has been busy.

As for the eggs pictured above, I dyed them using onion skin for the orangey yellow, beets for the red and blueberries for the purple. They turned out much darker than I expected!
I also used the fancy nylons from my wedding (white fancy stay-up silky things I will never wear again) to encase different plants from the garden and around the complex before hard-boiling them in the dye mixture.

The result reminds me of sun prints (which I want to do with Franklin once the weather gets a little more reliable). They are a little rough in places, and I will never use witch's hair moss again, but I love them. It's a good thing I only bought a dozen though. I would have done them all afternoon only to discover that I am the only one in the house that will eat hard boiled eggs. D doesn't touch them and Franklin only goes as far as the whites.

All the more for me.

When Franklin first started to talk there was a lot of imitation and pronunciation of every word under the sun. Everything was "What's that?" What's that?" What's that?"

It was entertaining at first and normal routine by the end.

"What's that?"
A squirrel

"What's that?"
A duck

"What's that?"
A tree

"What's that?"
A Shoe

"What's that?"
A pimple - look over there! A moose!

These days, it's a whole new slew of questions, but now they require more concentration:

"What does Custom mean?"

"What is a Gypsy?"

"Where are the leprechauns?"

"Why is my hair curly?"

"What are genes?"

It's a funny feeling, being my son's main lexicographer. I'm beginning to feel like Dr. William Charles Minor. His definitions will forever be tainted with our feelings about the environment, manipulative consumption and society's treatment of the mentally ill as we answer his questions as to where the garbage goes, why commercials seem louder in the movie theatre than the actually movie and the reason for the man walking down the street yelling and punching the air (ironically).

I know this is part of parenting, showing your children your views of the world, but isn't another large part of parenting the ability to let them think for themselves? My parents were good at that. I say this because I always thought they were wrong (har). Perhaps, in time, Franklin will understand that D and I don't know all the answers and that we are doing the best that we can with what we know. Perhaps I'm just jumping ahead of myself.

However, this absolute trust in our definitions of things can be hard. The other night, Franklin asked me the following question:

"What is an army tank for, Mom?"

That's such a loaded question.
It's one that I know will bring on so much more,

"What's war?"
"What do soldiers do?"
"What do they do fight / kill / destroy?"

I have a choice here. I can be obscure and evade the question with a vaguely true definition, or I can face it head on.

I evaded.

"Army tanks are big vehicles with strong treads so they can drive over a lot of rubble and dirt"

"What's rubble?"

See, that line I can handle.

rubble n. 1. A loose mass of angular fragments of rock or masonry crumbled by natural or human forces. 2.
a. Irregular fragments or pieces of rock used in masonry. b. The masonry made with such rocks.

Except that my "masonry" was brinks and bits of building. However, I forgot that I was talking to the patron saint of all things inanimate.

"Why do the buildings fall down?"
(worried)

"Oh, some building fall down, Franklin. It's a good thing. This means construction workers can come in and build new buildings."

"oh"

"Are there army tanks downtown, Mom?"
(There is a lot of condo construction going on in our city)

"No, Franklin. Not yet. We don't have that kind of rubble."
(worried)

Okay, that title is embarrassing.

Whatever. I write a blog. It's a mommy blog. It's about nothing but the amount of snot in my son's nose and my disasterous ability to convince everyone that I want my son to be gay. I should be BEYOND embarrassed by this point.

Anyway, Easter is coming. My family has always decorated Easter eggs for this holiday. It was always a treat for me, not just for the opportunity to be creative but to spend time with my family in an environment where they are all concentrated on an activity yet still felt the need to talk talk talk.

My family talks. It's especially funny because when they are concentrating, be it on a puzzle, an oversized Christmas colouring book, or Easter eggs, the conversation is really odd. It's a distracting conversation that results in all of us actually thinking a bit longer than normal before we speak - which is an interesting phenomenon for us.

I have always enjoyed this dialogue. In fact, now that I think about it, I should have brought over a few more boyfriends in these situations. The first time D met my family was at Easter time and although I believe he spoke about 5 words (Nice, To, Meet, You, Good-bye) he at least felt safe enough to stay around for the long haul.

Anyway, my point is that Easter is coming and I thought I'd post some easily-found-elsewhere methods of dying your eggs naturally - just in case you don't think of looking for it yourself (now, how holier than thou is THAT?)



Add tap water to come at least one inch above the dyestuff. This will be about 1 cup of water for each handful of dyestuff. Bring the water just to a boil, and then reduce the heat to low. Let simmer about 15 minutes or up to an hour until you like the color obtained.

Pour mixture into a liquid measuring cup. Add 2 to 3 teaspoons of white vinegar for each cup of strained dye liquid. Pour the mixture into a bowl or jar that is deep enough to completely cover the eggs you want to dye. Allow the egg to sit in the dye water overnight if you want the colour to be really deep - but make sure you store the soaking eggs in the refrigerator.

You need to use your own judgment about exactly how much of each dyestuff to use. Except for spices, place a handful (or two or three) into the saucepan.

Eggs colored with natural dyes have a dull finish and are not glossy. After they are dry, you can rub the eggs with cooking oil or mineral oil to give them a soft sheen. Rubber bands and waxed crayon are good for making designs, as are sponging the colour before it has dried.

Blue: canned blueberries, red cabbage leaves (boiled), grape juice

Brown Gold: dill seeds

Brown Orange: chili powder

Green: spinach leaves (boiled)

Greenish Yellow: yellow delicious apple peels (boiled)

Grey: purple or red grape juice o beet juice

Lavender: small quantity of purple grape juice, violet blossoms plus 2 tsp of lemon juice, red zinger tea

Orange: yellow onion skins (boiled), carrots, paprika

Pink: beets, cranberries or juice, raspberries, red grape juice, juice from pickled beets

Red: lots of red onion skins (boiled), pomegranate juice, canned cherries (with syrup), raspberries

Violet or Purple: violet blossoms, hibiscus tea, small quantity of red onion sins (boiled), red wine

Yellow: orange or lemon peels (boiled), carrot tops (boiled), chamomile tea, celery seed (boiled), green tea, ground cumin (boiled), ground turmeric (boiled), saffron


What kinds of methods have you guys used?
Any other ideas?

I can hardly wait to get everything ready only to start with a gusto and then see Franklin get preoccupied with a vehicle and leave me to do it all by myself.

Yippee.

Early last week, Franklin and I (okay, mostly I) got so excited about worms and dirt that we (okay, that was also primarily me, again) thought it would be cool to make Compost Art.

We saw this sort of thing while perusing other compost photos on flickr and Franklin (really, it was him!) wanted to make the same picture. I wish I could find it again so I could give credit where credit is due. Really, we didn’t think this up on our own. It was a teacher’s curriculum thing-a-ma-gig.

Anyway, I showed this photo set to a couple of co-workers - partly because I was proud of my budding scientist/artist and partly because the other day I was lamenting that there didn't seem to be any courses to take over the summer and too many people for my comfort told me I can now spend more time with my son.

What the...?

Really now, everyone. Do people actually picture me ignoring the little precious while I slave away at the computer or my text? These bags under my eyes are precisely because I spend every waking minute with my son – those that aren't taken up by work or preschool.

I know, I know... it wasn't meant that way and I should just say,
"Yes! Thanks for that wonderful and thoughtful insight into my personal life!”
But alas, one of those apparently concerned for the well-being of my son is my mother and when in the presence of my mother, I whine and complain. This seems to be my official role (sorry Mom, you are just such a good listener – especially when the phone cuts out and I realize that I’ve been talking to a blank void for 5 minutes).

Another part of me is all up in the,
Look!
Mothers who work do things with their children, too!
It's not all left to the preschool/childcare!
Really!
He’s not an accessory!
Look!
Attentive Mother walking!"

It’s ridiculous because there have been certain events that have taken place the last few weeks that have “Mother” written all over it. I’m clearly a Mother and I realize this. So, why do I care if you know this? I certainly don’t have to justify it to my working co-workers, do I?

Why?
Because mothers are brutal and insecure and as I have a hard time relating to the brutal and insecure, I tend to want to either stomp them with my feet or gain their complete adoration. You see, the world isn’t filled with people like this and while I really really really wish it did, I will continue the stomping and gushing.

First: Bikram Yoga may not have been marketed as Zen as the rest of the yoga fad that's been going on but man oh man will those 90 minutes of sweat kick a gaping hole in your butt. I went at 8:00am this morning, made an ass out of my inflexible and dehydrated self. I then proceeded to be about as non-functional as the lingerie that I "wore" on my wedding night. Yet! I'm addicted! I'd go back tomorrow except the squash addict that lives here seems to have a court booked at the same time as my class.

I'm also up at 12:47am because for some reason I have an insane burst of late energy that makes me want to paint the entire living room and re-design this website in one night.

Bikram Yoga: an insomniac's worst nightmare.

Second: The work bench has yet to be located. The subject is not brought up around here. I may be asking for a new plastic work bench for Mother's Day. We'll see how long mother's guilt can last - I'm betting on a lifetime so why not get this episode over and done with so we can just go on to the next one.

Third: I accidentally logged on to some insane site called hi5 and it rudely emailed everyone in my hotmail address book. I am now extremely embarrassed. I don't mind that people I read and know have answered back, I would have sent an invitation to them if I had the chance to actually choose to do so. However, to all the journalists, commenters I have answered (good and bad) as well as the occasional website designer... oops?

Fourth: Hi Bob. Dinner was great. I think you may have surpassed Franklin's Bob the Builder expectations - and that's tough. Although, he said something to me about how you have gone home to play with Muck and Dizzy so perhaps he's still a little blurry on the whole thing.

Fifth: My right eye lid seems to have an occasional spasm/flicker. Now that I've said that, my Mother will call and tell me to get to an optometrist. Don't worry Ma, it's the blind one so I don't use it anyway. Besides, it keeps the crazy people afraid of me and who needs neighbours? They only ask for things like coffee and butter all the time... oh wait, that's me.

It's a beautiful day. My mother in law tells me they are practically snowed in up in Edmonton and here I am planting broccoli seeds on my patio. I've become a little paranoid of my worm compost ever since hearing other's troubles keeping the little guys alive. I was told that the ideal spot for the container is inside but if you saw the size of our home you would understand why this isn't an option - unless we used it as a coffee table... but there isn't room for a coffee table in here.

I think the guys will just be a little slower right now since it's still a little breezy and when it heats up we'll move them to the front porch. Of course, this means other things from the front porch will have to be moved.

For someone who is absolutely terrified of a clutter, I certainly have my work cut out for me. What you may think is a few pieces of mail become a mountain of paper work in relation to this place. Last week, the toys seemed to be collecting too high for my unhinged minimalist brain and so I collected what I thought was a variety of things Franklin no longer plays with.

Yikes.
What a mistake.
I think I may turn my child into a pack-rat if I keep this up. It will be his ultimate form of rebellion, saving every essay and kinder surprise he has ever created. If he starts to collect the junk mail I will have to ask him to move out.

I took back the work bench. I say "took back" because we got it from Value Village (where 99% of our toys come from) and back to the big V.V. it went. He hadn't played with it for a long time. Honestly! I couldn’t remember the last time he played with it.

What did he want to play with last night?
Yes, the work bench.
He had his construction hat on, his tool belt and suspenders fastened and all the hammers, pliers, calipers and wrenches a guy could wish for stuck in all the right pockets. But where, oh where was the work bench?

Although Franklin is easily distracted like every other kid his age, once he's into something, his power of concentration is a mighty force. There was no substitution for his work bench. The work bench was essential. ESSENTIAL

Mother guilt, anyone?
Jeez.

So, I explained to him that I had made a mistake and that I thought he no longer used the work bench. I told him that I was wrong to not to ask him first and that I would never do that again. He wasn’t in hysterics but the three of us had had a sufficiently horrible enough day that this seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Poor camel.

He had the following solution though:
So Mom? You need to go to Value Village and get my work bench back.

Sigh.
So I did. I went back. I was wrong. I wanted to make it right – I wanted at least one bloody thing to go right that day. I trudged back to Value Village and asked the nice lady with a thousand scarves in her hair (just because they are there, do you have o wear them all at once?) if there was a way to retrieve something that had been dropped off last Sunday.

Apparently, this is a common thing.
Apparently, there is someone whose job is actually to deal with this.
I'm so happy I’m not the only tool in the work bench (groan). However, I have to return during the day (later today) and I'm sure this person will be expecting me to ask for a watch, or a leather jacket, or an appliance - not a plastic work bench that has all of its parts missing and legs no longer extend.

This morning, I was going through the toys to find a train part and I asked Franklin if there was anything he'd like to get rid of… perhaps send to Value Village for another child to play with?

My little 45 year old man replied,

“Thanks for asking first, Mom.
We can give them Mike the Milk truck. I don't like his singing.”

This mother thing isn't getting any easier but at least he is well aware I'm not perfect.

Last summer D, Franklin and I were lying in bed talking about... things. Franklin probably said something about wanting a train, or a car or the Golden Gate Bridge. So, as a naturally sarcastic mother, I replied that I wanted a compost and D added that he wanted an ipod.

D got his ipod for Christmas.

As you can see, I am now the happy owner of a worm composter.

Franklin has enough trains.

There used to be a time when I would write here everyday.
Everyday.

Back then; I was glued to my computer. I guess I'm not so glued (and D is more glued) and I tend to go to bed at 10pm. I know, I know, it's unheard of in Ada-land!
However, going to bed a decent hour has transformed me. My skin looks... normal... for a 32-year-old mother. I don't watch crap on television. My assignments are done far ahead of time and I'm writing, writing things that are to be published in print, things I may get paid for, things that require more concentration and less babble.

What else does sleep do for me?
Well, I seem to have an overwhelming urge to skateboard. I don't know where this came from but all of a sudden, my new sense of consciousness has woken the 14 year old inside of me and I want to grab a long board and feel that rush of wind as I carve down the street with a skullcap strapped to my head.

Franklin, as you read this in your sixteen year old distain, you can mark this date as the turning point from when you might have had a mother who was normal (rode a bike with a wicker basket and grew rose bushes) to a mother who skateboards and says, Doooode.

Besides skateboarding, I have a renewed urge to smoke.
I know! Huh?
The only cigarettes in this house are one of two packs of Serbian "smokes" I bought in Belgrade back in, um... 1997? I smoked the first pack and went back to my European staple, Camels. The second pack I thought might be good in a pinch but by the time I rediscovered them I had long since returned to Canada and was not able to stomach North American cigarettes. Now, I can't stand the smell of smoking.
Yet, I illogically want to smoke.

That sounds snotty when I am really just trying to make fun of myself.

I'm reading! For pleasure!
I'm embarrassed that it's an Oprah book but I'm not in that it's an amazing piece of writing.
Night, by Elie Wiesel. Has anyone read this? Has anyone read the first translation? Is there a big difference? I'm having trouble finding a copy of the first publication (for obvious reasons) but I would be interested if anyone who has had the opportunity to read both has an opinion on the differences.

Most importantly, I've got the time now to spend a couple of lunch hours with Franklin at preschool. Today I stayed as he fell asleep after lunch and it would have been sweet and dear and oh so loving had it not been so weird and funny. I'm not a childcare worker so I was not prepared for the show that a gathering of 3 and 4 years put on as they drift off to sleep. There they are, all cozy on their mats with their sheets and their blankets and their various stuffies. There's a story being read about fairies and whatever. After the story is done, some extremely relaxing choir music is playing softly in the background. By Jove, even with the stupendous amount of hours of sleep I've been accumulating, I wanted to curl up and drift off to never never land.

However, these kids? They are wiggling and squirming, banging their heads, shaking their bums in the air and generally squeezing out the last vestiges of movement possible so that their bodies can finally relax. To sit in a dimly lit room with comforting music playing and soft blankets all around with such a flurry of suppressed go-go dancing was really quite funny. I giggled most of the way back to work.
I am both disappointed and relieved that childcare is not my chosen career path.
If I worked there everyday, would I find it as cute and funny? I think the lucky ones do.

Well, that's what's been going on - vicarious carving and inhaling while giggling to choir music and bum wiggling.
Fun Times.

A little while ago, Mimi Smartypants made a reference to a competitive mother she has the unfortunate tendency to run into once and awhile. I, on the other hand, seem to be awash in competitive mothers and other females who feed the inner "fuck-you" of my soul and makes me have to find my "happy place" on a regular basis.

I wrote that about two weeks ago and never finished the post.

In the meantime I've spent time with one amazing friend who I've never had a competitive vibe from in all my years of knowing her and met another wonderful woman who is the same. Both of these women are extremely different and I can't exactly place why I feel more comfortable with them except that there is no "one-upmanship" going on.

I can't tell you how relaxing this is.

I am, I think since birth, an extremely competitive person. I am also fiercely loyal.
If you screw around with my friend I find it hard to contain my anger. I will go out of my way to make life miserable for you. No one is allowed to make the people I love feel bad. Apparently, this is my personal mission in life and definitely not something my friends ask of me.

In the past, this has got me in some strange situations.

I've learned to curb this and keep my distain to myself unless it is asked for. I haven't actually "leapt" on anyone for about two years - even though I'm pretty tempted at the moment. I'm proud of this.

I suppose, as someone who spent much of her adolescence competing with any other woman she got to know (ski racing) and getting sabotaged by her own team-mates (a regular occurrence and all part of the sport), friendships mean a lot.

So when I entered motherhood, you could either consider me extremely well prepared for the competitive edge of Mommy insecurities of woefully scarred and easily sucked in. Whatever the case, I've been extremely hurt by people I hardly know and others I've known for years. Motherhood can do nasty things to some women.

I hate the one-upmanship. The need to judge another person's parenting skills and exalt your own is transparent and laughable and not really worth my time. However, the subtle digs and innuendos are definitely my area of expertise. I can play this game - really, really well. I don't like this about myself and yet, I find I am in battle maneuvers about once a month.
It used to be more, when I met with a baby group during my maternity leave. Now, it's only sparingly, when I occasionally meet someone outside of preschool or work and whom I don't generally socialize with. There is a reason I don't see these people, I don't like them (and they don't like me). I don't discuss little Suzy's speech impediment and how her parents aren't doing enough to help her. I don't whisper about Johnny's temper tantrums and how highly strung his mother is. It makes me feel awful.

So, what do I get when I choose to stay out of these conversations? Petty insults when we do meet.

"I'm sure Franklin's already writing his third novel, right? He's always been so advanced in his own special areas..."

"You work so hard, Ada. Franklin will always look back on this time of his life and remember how busy you were - getting things done."

"Children are such a blessing. We worked hard to be able to afford more than one and this was always our plan."

"We don't vaccinate our child. We have read the literature and thought critically about the issue instead of just followed our friend's advice."

Yeah.
I succumbed.
I showed them what for.
They didn't even see it coming.

I feel gross.

In an effort to be helpful, my brother transferred our many precious files from one sick computer to another. We didn't know the second one was sick at the time so in essence, he was being helpful. However, things didn't turn out the way I had hoped.

- but only because I am an idiot.

I had some trouble with Yahoo when I left my geocities account for Tart Graphics. Just for anyone out there using Yahoo, you don't own your blog. You may think that you do because you write there every day and you pay for the hosting, but you don't. In fact, Yahoo does. So, if you ever have trouble with your account and they decide to cancel it because say... they decide that international credit cards are no longer valid (just an example, of course) you may not get any warning and you will definitely not get your words back.
Your words, apparently, belong to Yahoo.

So I lost a lot of content. I fraction of that content was saved in my email folder. When I moved to Tart Graphics, I would load more archives whenever I felt like it but I felt safe that at least they were in my computer and no longer with Yahoo.

When my brother transferred everything over, my archived emails didn't make it. It seems that much of first few years were never meant for the long haul. Well, to be honest, none of these words should stand the test of time. Although I fully intend to print them out (or save them to a disc), they will not stay here if Franklin asks me to take them down one day .

At least, this is how I'm thinking right now.
Feel free to give me ideas.

Anyway... what I'm trying to say is that I believe I've written about my first memory before but it's in one of those posts that has vanished forever so I'm doomed to repeat it - and you are doomed to read it again (if you were one of those 5 people who read this blog near the beginning).

My first memory is important to me. From a couple of emails and one comment from my last post, it doesn't seem that everyone's first memory is as important to them. This is a bit of a relief and yet, somewhat troubling. On one hand, I'm glad that Franklin can have any old memory and still grow up to be somewhat sane. For the record though, I am not all that worried about his sanity. However, it's both a little sad that I cling to mine so much as well as the fact that others don't really have anything to cling to.

Yes, I'm feeling sorry for you guys.
You people have to get yourselves some memories!

I was born in Quebec City. My family, which consisted of my brother, my sister and my parents at the time, lived in an old brick house. It seemed like a castle when I was small. D and I went back there on our honeymoon and I was astonished at how small it actually was - the house, not anything else...

Behind our house was a smallish back yard with tall flowers and grass growing by the brick wall. Seeing that sort of grass and that particular type of flower now, I realize that I was about 2 and half feet high. I remember the sensation of the rough grass poking my ankles and how I got up the courage to get up close to this thing that was flying around so smoothly and silently. I watched it for, what I thought was, a long time. I remember getting excited that it was staying so close to me. It was hard not to reach out and touch it. I felt very grown up by resisting the sensation to disturb it as it landed on the grass. I turned to my Mom and asked her what it was. She was looking down at something and I remember that she flipped her hair up to see what I was talking about. I remember her hair. I remember that she told me it was a dragonfly. The way she responded to my question is the same way I respond to Franklin now.

Wow, I just realized this.
When Franklin asks me a question about his surroundings, I answer him in the exact same voice, same stress on the syllables, same excitement, same approval of his curiosity.

So this is my first memory - courage, wonder, temptation, approval, love and a very strong sense of how special I was to my Mom. It's important to me.
I want that for Franklin.
I guess I want to be that for Franklin too.

About 4 years ago, an old friend of mine had a baby and it wasn't going well.
She mentioned uncontrolled crying (on her part) and thoughts of throwing the baby out the 3rd floor window. She knew she wouldn't throw the baby out of the 3rd floor window, but My Lord she thought about it.

I asked her what she thought it would be like, as I hadn't had a child at that point. She mentioned things like rocking in her expertly picked out antique rocking chair and gazing lovingly at her baby as the afternoon sun went down and homemade soup sat bubbling on the stove.

Based on her expectations and how things were going for her then, I thought I could somehow get a grasp on what a newborn would be like. After Franklin was born, the not sleeping and the crying and the body that still doesn't belong to you would have all been more manageable if my breasts weren't rock-hard globes of fire and pus.

Nevertheless, I do think of those days fondly. I knew that whatever happened, I could handle it. I bit through the pain, I woke up for each feeding and I kept going on (and on and on and on). For me, this young baby was a clean slate and something I knew needed only the most basic things. I could handle that.

What I knew I would be scared of is the parenting we are at now; the less basic, more complex issues that make me feel like there is no opportunity to do anything over, there is no rewind button. Either I get it right or he is subliminally horrified for the rest of his life. Our first memories are formed at around his age. He's three, he's asking questions, he's noticing things, he's feeling so many emotions - sometimes it seems he's feeling them all at the same time. I want to create the most well-adjusted human being I can - but I worry I don't have much to give.

I'm not well adjusted.

I know I haven't jumped on the Parade of Pain bandwagon much compared to others and apparently, this pisses off a few people. It is not my thing. There are issues I deal with daily (especially these days it seems) but I choose not to write about them. Please don't think I'm criticizing people who write about their more personal trials. They are who they are and I am who I am and well… why do I have to write more about that than I already have?

Everyone has his or her issues.
Everyone thinks they are screwing up their children. I'm sure I'm not screwing up mine any more than the average over-anxious mother. I'm just saying that these days I'm hyper aware that anything D and I say or do could be one of Franklin's very first memories.

Very. First. Memories.

That's so important.
I find it hilarious that it's only now that I fully realize that yes, we are raising a human being.
He's a human being.

Hopefully, he will be fully functioning.

I've just been driving around listening to an interview with Peter Robertson of Chevron on the BBC World Service.

There is something about driving around and listening to talk radio that relaxes me. When I was in university.... okay, when I was of the age that is more socially expected to go to university and was distracting my way through an English degree, I would often drive around Edmonton and listen to the CBC and the BBC. I saw a lot of Edmonton this way. I saw a lot of the construction and I liked to check back once and awhile to see the changes. I even remember getting lost in what would be the neighbourhood of my future in-laws - North Edmonton is a maze to me.

My boyfriend at the time wasn't as fond of my late night exursions - not because he thought I might run into danger or that I would get into a accident on icy roads, but that as we had agreed to share my car, and therfore each pay for half of the gas, it meant that he was paying more than he used.

He was extra thoughtful that way.
Ah well, it doesn't matter.
I was stupid enough to date such a "thoughtful" guy.

Nowadays, I feel quite guilty. Gas isn't cheap and radios can be listened to at home. However, there's just something about listening to the radio and wandering through the city.
I realize the irony here. I'm driving around in a car, listening to a guy talk about his responsibility to his shareholders, the remarkable "improvment" Chevron has made to the society and culture with their presence around the world and whether or not his company should have plans that span for generations, not just for the next 60 years. According to Peter, technology will save us.

I'm listening to him justify his lack of research into renewable energy while I drive around listening in order to relax. In essense, I'm showing him that I need his product as much as he's betting I do.

I need to start walking more.
I need headphones.

So... Valentine's Day...

Franklin and I arrive at preschool and there are little paper bag mailboxes for little valentines all around the library.

Crap.

I felt like that time I brought him to Sporty Tots in his rubber boots. Get. It. Together. Mother.

Seriously though? There was some kind of notice sent around with all the kids names on a list so that parents could choose to participate in Valentine's Day.
We didn't get this.
How could I miss this?
I didn't miss it.
It wasn't there.

But you know if it was, I'm betting D and I would have thought, "Nah, it won't be a big deal. This is preschool for God's sake. Who does this kind of thing at preschool?"

Apparently, everyone.

We're both pretty down on this whole exchanging Valentine's cards thing. The cheap Scooby-Do commercials to drop in every box sounds down right insane. They get enough of this crap in the media everywhere we go, do we have to buy it for them/succumb to it too? I want to avoid the pleading store requests to buy cheap merchandising just to "be like everyone else" argument for at least 2 more years...

However, a few of the children made their own Valentine's cards and wow, some were really sweet.

So, when I was called at my office to pick him up, I thought we could just make Valentine's Day cards that afternoon and bring them the next day. However, Franklin was pretty sick - fever, throwing up sick - so there was no wax crayon shaving going on.

Instead, I demonstrated what I was doing and he watched me and directed me as to the colours and shapes.

It was a group project. We're pretty proud of them.

P.S. If you try this at home, it's just the ol' wax crayon shavings between wax paper and iron it all to melt. We learned that a little shavings go a long way. Too many and the shapes are hard to cut out.

I have a midterm tomorrow and I have a firm conversational knowledge of all the material that will be asked of me... but nothing more.
What this means is, if you were to ask me what "crisis of accumulation and spatial fix" meant while we were sitting in a pub and there was someone more knowledge at the table (who was obviously too drunk to answer this question themselves), I would be able to hold my own without causing the previously mentioned expert to snort something incoherent and shake their head in an uncontrollable manner.

I have no idea why I'm excited about this.
I think I get high on academic pressure situations.

My God. I have a prof who is most likely quite adept at searching for people on the internet. If he were inclined to go searching for my name, I wonder how difficult it would be to find me. Back when I had that weird legal trouble that I will still not mention because there is/could be/who knows whatthefcuk is going on with that in the works, I attempted to remove any mention of my last name and this website.
Regardless, it's out there.
I can't avoid it.

There is no such thing as an anonymous website.
whoopee (lower case)

Of course, this begs the question, "Why on earth would the man be googling one out of his 60 or so students?"
Yes, I know, I'm shaking my head too.

I'm also excited because come September, D goes back to school to study something he's talked about for the entire time we've been together. He's only recently found a school which will teach him the skills he wants to learn and low and behold, it's here in the city.
See? We were living here for some asinine reason!

Whoopee (upper case)

Every once and awhile, I start to see my life in a series of steps to the future. During these times, I don't feel the need to make plans, reassess my life, or fantasize about what I should or could or might drastically do.

I'm not fantasizing.
Well, not about my life.

So be warned.

I have a mid-term next Monday on this book. It’s an excellent book - was a tad dry in the beginning but I have begun to appreciate what it has to say. I suppose it’s like realizing your crusty co-worker isn’t all that bad and that her humor is just a little dark with a side of extra - and then finding out she runs a S&M club in her basement.

Of course, not that I know of anyone who does this… or that I even frequent such establishments.

Anyway, I digress.
Why am I digressing when I have such precious moments to spend with you? Simple, because that’s what this whole website is about, digressing the pants off my life.

Lets see, what did I not get to tell you while snot plugged up all crevasses of my brain…

Franklin had his first dentist appointment on Saturday. We go to this team of doctors who are surfers and who also happen to have gone through dentistry school. I believe they may live on the island primarily to surf. In fact, I think the whole “dentistry thing” is merely side hobby.
They all talk like surfers too - very funny.
Most importantly, they are cute, which helps when one of them is telling you about an impending root canal.
"Crown the sucker, buddy! Just keep talking to me with those blue eyes!"

Most importantly (ahem), the check-up went well. His teeth are excellent, his funky mutant tooth/teeth will most likely grow into two and he has charmed the pants off of everyone there. I think the dentist is my son’s hero.

It could be worse.
It could be the exterminator.

We also went to the Royal BC museum – D’s Mom, D, Franklin and I. Quite frankly, I’m surprised we saw anything other than “Manfred the Mammoth” in the Natural History Gallery. At one point, two very official looking men in suits were discussing something most terribly important in front of his beloved mammoth and Franklin gleefully skipped up and spoke in his super fast information chatter,

“Thisisamamoth... Thisismanfred… Heisfromtheiceagemovie... Thisismanfredfromtheiceagethisisamammoth”

All the men heard were,

“This (mummer mummer)... Mammoth (mummer mummer)… is from the (mummer mummer)… Ice Age”

Both suits turned to me and nodded approvingly like I had taught my little wonder child all about the Mesozoic Era and prehistoric life when, in actual fact, he watched a cartoon while I drank coffee and tried to remember what Portugal looked like.

I should have been a teacher.
Clearly, I have skills.

I'm really sick.

Hence, the lack of posting.

I just made a hero's appearance at the mall to get thread and the only thing that made the trip worthwhile was the crowds. The crowds make enough noise to hide my terribly satisfying snort of snot right up my nose and down my throat.

yeah.
gross.

When D and I first met it was a pretty large experience. I tried my best to screw it up in my own special way, but even I was aware of how crazy it would be to not spend the largest amount of time as possible with this person.

Some of the things I did with him are funny to look back on. At the time, they were meaningless, but it was as if I had some sort of relationship godmother making sure I took the right steps to show exactly who I was and what I wanted to be.

One of those steps was putting a copy of Germaine Greer's "The Madwoman's Underclothes" in his pack before he left for home. I don't remember why I did this. I wasn't thinking, "You must know that I will not be a SAHM" or "I do not care if you have clean socks and a prepared lunch every morning". I didn't even think he needed to know my stance on underwear or pornography. Yet, the book meant something I think. It meant I wanted him to think and be aware that there was more to me than the small amount of time we had so far to get to know each other.

No matter what you may think of this Greer and whether she could even hold a candle to the likes of more prominent feminists, this time in my life, when I knew (and was scared) that I had met someone I would love very deeply, is what I thought of when I heard that Betty Friedan had died today.

I am married. I am a wife. I have a son. However, I am married to a man who sees me, not a wife. I have a son who has tea parties with his dinosaurs. I work fulltime and study at university. I will be the bread-winner in the house come September and no one bats an eye at this decision. I think it would be safe to say, I am growing to my full human capacities.

Also, I'm happy. I think much of that has to do with Betty.
So, I just wanted to say thanks.

You know, I have actually done this exact thing.


Blogher seems to be gaining momentum. When Chair contacted me to ask if I was going I nonchalantly replied, "I'm really not that interested". Then, when she mentioned that she thought it was in San Francisco I thought, "Blogher Schmogher, but hanging out in SF would be a most excellent time". I thought of my brother who lives there (free bed), I thought of a road trip down (alone!) and I thought of meeting people I read everyday (and not in an I read your work and analyze it academically. Therefore, you scare the living shit out of me with your big brain way). Blogher was quickly becoming an extra bonus to a mini adventure that was forming in my mind as I tried to concentrate on the Thailand Bhat and shorting stock.

I started to run up and down the Blogher site reading this and this and this and this. I started to imagine what it would be like to be in a room full of people who don't think I'm a needy exhibitionist but rather, someone who enjoys writing in a form that is conducive to such dynamic communication.

Then I kept thinking of this post and thinking... I might actually like blogging.
Blogher might actually be a large experience for me.
Blogher was not only on the same continent as I was, but on the same coast.

This was no good. This meant I wanted to go.
You can see where this is heading.

I bought a ticket.
I'm a university student, work full time and have a family.
What was I thinking about? - that I was a university student and therefore, score!
Student Discount!

I wasn't thinking about that potentially free bed moving to the East Coast in the Spring, or that D was heading back to full time school in September. I also didn't think of my marvelous talent that consists of immediately turning people off on first impression ("cold, snobby bitch" is a phrase I hear often).

I can't go.
Crippling bitchiness aside, the money just isn't there.

Of course, there's always Gocco cards to print. The Birth Invitations sailed out in a flash...
- but to raise the $800.00 to get there without having to camp out in the nearby airport each night?

Yeah, not bloody likely.

okay, here we go...

4 jobs you've had in your life:

- waitress/server/bartender
- bookstore... everything
- nude model
- university psychology department guinea pig

4 movies you'd watch over and over again:

- bleu
- solyaris
- shadows and fog - or pretty much any woody allen movie
- mindless mining - or anything by shekar dattatri

4 places you've lived:

- quebec city (birth)
- northern bc (childhood)
- central bc (adolescent angsthood)
- edmonton (university)

4 tv shows you loved to watch:

- eight is enough
- the nature of things
- the bionic woman
- snl

4 places you've been on vacation:

- western europe
- hungary
- tunisia
- greece

4 websites you visit daily:

- http://enbridge.com (it's an assignment)
- http://gateway.uvic.ca/index.html (ditto)
- http://www.indymedia.org
- http://www.economist.com

4 of your favorite foods:

- pita bread dipped in diet coke
- sardine and olive pizza
- vanilla soy and strong coffee
- week old black licorice

4 places i'd rather be right now:

- in front of a computer... no wait....
- reading in bed in the middle of the day
- tofino
- in the middle of a forest, alone (see post below)
- in a budapest bath house with my friend, Jen

and most importantly:
rest in peace, Sid

It's quiet.
All I can hear is the trickle of the fish tank, the hum of the computer and my typing.

There is no child upstairs "singing my life with his words" at the top of his lungs.*
There is no television playing behind me.
There are no dishes washing and no music playing ever so quietly through headphones that I'm not supposed to hear.

Only the blissful sound of silence.

I love this.
I can write 500 assignments on geo-economy and local governments in this atmosphere.

I remember sitting in the front seat on a ski trip one winter. The rest of the team was quiet and it was only my coach and I traveling down a small highway with snow shooting straight at the windshield in small white pins. The rest of the world was completely blank and void of life. It was so peaceful. I remember telling my coach that night that I didn't really want to be a racer but that I prefered to live in a cabin, in the middle of a forest, totally isolated.
My coach was surprised at this - not that I didn’t want to be a racer (he had mentioned a year earlier that I analyzed things too much to really let my skies go), but that I wanted to live in silence.

People who meet me assume that I like action. I suppose, when placed in a hectic situation, I tend to get excited like the rest of the adrenalin junkies out there. However, silence is heaven. Silence gives me the space to think the thoughts that are yelling at me on the inside. It also gives me the focus to get things done. Silence is… golden.

This is why you will get emails from me at 3 in the morning and comments on your blog at 4. I need silence.

This isn't a Mom thing.


* I've been singing a little Roberta Flack to him before bed these days. "Hush Little Baby" was gettin to me, man. There are only so many mocking birds and dogs that don't bark that I can take in a lifetime.

Of course, it has not been completely established that I'll be going or anything but HA!
Wouldn't this be like going to the concert and wearing the shirt of the band you're actually going to see?

- except it's more of a Lollapalooza kind of thing, isn't it.... and it's more like my own band... and it's my own advertising of my own band... and it's not a band really, but a blog... and it's a blog about my own life...

okay, forget it.
I just wish the word "vagina" was a little bigger.
I have to work on that.

(via drowninginkids who got it from sweetney)

Back when I was a blogger held hostage by my own ignorance, I had a ton of things to write. There were epiphanies of parenthood, epiphanies of growth and epiphanies of housework.
All incredibly boring things now that I type them out here - well, at least that last one.

This morning the only thing I could remember was an epiphany of the dynamics of an old relationship and my behaviour during the first few years of university. You don't want to hear about it. It is truly dreadful and too self-absorbed even for a personal website.

Really. It's that bad.
Why do these thoughts just appear out of thin air?
I'm masachistic.

Franklin's doing well though. Sporty Tots on Saturday morning is hilarious.
Would it be terrible to admit that we actually practiced before going there this time?

I know, I know. It's the perfectionist, my son is and angel, what do you mean he's not an angel, we must practice at being an angel so we can show you he is an angel... in me.

It's pathetic.

However! He stayed with the group, followed direction and played Go go go go go go go go STOP! like a professional Gogogogogogogostopper.
In actual fact, I believe he had a better time once he got the hang of listening to the group leader rather than flying around the room and wondering what the hell the rest of the kids were doing.

I seem to be determined to beat whatever sense of individualness he has right out of him.
Yay Mom.

Actually, most of the kids were pretty good. I think the people running the show gave up on the Frozen Tag and obstacle course sets and have settled with Go Stop and basic ball practice. Of course, this is far less entertainment for the parents on the sidelines.
Today was some sort of toddler version of Lacrosse. Franklin had a scoop and ball and once he understood the mechanics of throwing the ball out of the scoop, he'd chuck it forward and then prance (and boy, does he prance) after it with his legs high in the air.

In a gymnasium with soccer for 3-4 years on one side and Sporty Tots for 2-3 year olds on the other, D and I could still hear the high pitched squeals from Franklin every time his ball went flying.
Just like his Dad.

There's this thing I have with mix and matching stuff. I remember when I was younger there was a watch that you could change the colours on depending on... everything - your mood, your wardrobe, the weather, the seasonal holiday, the favorite colour of your new best friend's bedroom... everything.

ooooh, it was heaven.

Of course, I didn't have one (something about saving my own money or something impossible like that). This is why I coveted it so much.

Here's a funny confession... when Franklin was young, I used to change him a lot. I loved changing him.

Pooped your pants, little one?
Yipee!* New outfit!

Of course, now it's striped shirt or Thomas shirt. Not much else gets by him but the bright orange Greenpeace garb that he got from his uncle.

My kingdom for a prissy daughter.

and yes, I'm back.
I have very little understanding about what exactly went wrong. When people ask I mumble something about servers and little olives floating around the internet with no home. Then I mention intelligent people with big butterfly nets who catch my floating olives and bring them back down to earth.

Then I make the motions of duct taping someone to a chair and slamming the door.

I have a mime inside of me just fighting to get out.

.
.
.
.

I have tried over and over again to edit that last entry. There are a number of things I've tried to change - word order, spelling mistakes, profanity (I'm a good Catholic girl) and nothing is working. The version in MT looks the way I want it to but this doesn't seem to translate to the actual webpage. I've even rebuilt the entire site and nothing seems to work.

So, I have to live with it.
It's killing me.
You have no idea.

Thanks for all the help with the sewing machine and income funds. The acid taste is still there but I think it may have a bit to do with stress. There's a bit of stress in the job these days. It's nothing that can't be managed but as my co-worker so aptly put it, "We're up as far as we can get and we're slowly slipping backward". It's a matter of too much work for too few people - half of which have no idea what they're doing (I'm one of these clueless ones).
All I think about these days is the job. It’s quite funny, really. I have a job that, for most people, would be great. It does not really require overtime and isn't very stressful - there are no dying babies in our vicinity. As a result, many of my co-workers find it perfect. It's moderately well paying and allows one to go home to a family and not be thinking of your day all that much.

Cripes. If I'm thinking this way with such a la-dee-da job, I might as well become a surgeon.
(Dad, I'm kidding. Don't get your hopes up. Your medical magazines made me nauseous and all those years of saying I wanted to be a ophthalmologist was only to get your approval).

Okay, enough of the childhood confession, what about Franklin?

This weekend, we went to Franklin's first organized weekend sport "thingy". D and I have both been very athletic. Well, D is still athletic. I am not. We had always assumed that our children would be coordinated and athletic as well. It's not that I'm dying to become a soccer Mom but aren't kids who are invested in their bodies supposed to stay away from drugs?

Sometimes D and I wonder if Franklin may be more of a "stay at home and read books/play with my trains" sort of kid. It’s not that we're disappointed; it's more that we're a little surprised. Of course, we haven't given him a whole lot of opportunities. Well, no longer! He is now enrolled in a program that is supposed to introduce him to a variety of sports. From this, we figure, he can decide what he wants to do in the future and we'll just follow his lead.

I'll wait until all of you older, more experienced parents stop laughing before I proceed.

Still waiting.

Done?
Okay.

Our first Saturday was entertaining. Franklin has a cough that sounds like a ferryboat crashing through the docks. As a result, we slept in and leisurely made our way to the rec centre where we were to meet his friend and commence with the "You will do a sport instead of play Warcraft all day in our fictitious basement" training.
So we were horribly late.

Also, he was in his rubber boots. I'm such an idiot.
No wonder he doesn't do sports, he has inherited some drastically faulty equipment - his parents.

The most entertaining part of it all? His complete lack of concentration. There were two year olds that were able to follow direction better than our child.

I was thinking back when I was ski racing and what held me back. I was as strong, if not stronger than most of my competitors. Yet, I would screw myself up somehow. A sport psychologist came to talk to each member of our team and he told me I had a fear of success. Now that I can look back on those years, I know what was the problem. It was my lack of concentration. If I had the concentration that yoga, maturity and desperation gave me during labour, I would have been I racing champion. Of course, I think I wanted to have the labour over and done with more than I wanted a gold medal so perhaps it was a combination of success and concentration...

What all this navel gazing is supposed to point out is that Franklin's apple is most definitely short on concentration. I'm about to go search out books and websites that will help me help him - if this problem continues in later years.

Someone tell me it's just a three-year-old thing because I will believe this.
My attention deficit disorder may be completely unrelated, right?

Three year olds.
You talk to them, and they utterly ignore you. You ask them to do something, and they do the opposite.
I don't care if he is 30 some odd pounds. I'm willing to stretch open my vagina and suck him right back in there.

The first time I felt like I had a real connection with another person was sometime in grade school. I remember tentatively bringing up the topic of farts with my friend, Leslie B, and how you don't... you know... ummmm…. like, have to fart out LOUD so that everyone could hear. (?!?)

She quickly followed up with her solution of slowly leaking the fart out so that no noise was made. Voila, no embarrassment.

You have to understand, we were approximately nine years old; embarrassment was a fact of life and something I dearly wanted to avoid. Boys could take the mere mention of a “training bra�? and turned it into the story of the girl "making out" with the principal and the janitor - complete with Broadway show tickets and popcorn.

To think that someone else had thought up the same tactic for slowly releasing her farts!
To hang out with someone else who was actually willing to discuss farts with me!

These connections happen few and far between with me in real life. The world seems like one big rush – to everywhere and everybody. When people ask you how you're doing and how your day has been, they don’t really want to know.
Sometimes I believe this is why I write a blog in the first place. I know that I've said in interviews that it had to do with Mother-to-Mother support and keeping in touch with old friends. I remember even pretentiously babbling about a global village raising my family along with me.

However, I'm beginning to think it was/is something a bit more personal.
I just want connections. Of course, I have connection with my spouse, but there is something that I love about that initial connection one can unexpectantly have with someone when he or she tells you personal flatulence strategies.
I've heard of infidelities when a person merely wants to experience that first kiss again; they want those butterflies in their stomach and that electric shock when their skin brushes against the other person. I'm doing wonderfully in that department so I'm not craving electricity. What I actually look for on this blog is that sparkle of recognition in another kindred spirit who also lets out silent, but deadly, gas attacks and could care less if her feet stick all the way to Tibet and beyond.

This is why I write in a blog.
I meet these people and have these strange little sparks almost every time I write here.
It's wonderfully addicting.

Then I think to myself... how did my public space, the place where I meet people and connect with the world, become so isolated?

Now I'm going to bed.

Yeah, I know.

Life and blah blah blah

These days, for me, computers suck. We have this annoying "Trojanhorse BackDoor.Generic.W2X" hanging around our place and although we have made plenty of "backdoor" references to make the situation more humorous, it's not. Nothing will make this thing go away.
argh

Add the fact that I got this really nice email about my weblog that made me stop and say, "Holy Rollers, there are people, REAL people, with jobs that have to do with writing and editing and publishing and journalism that read this blog!"
I've gotten sweet emails, I've gotten Moms-Around-The-World-Unite emails and I've gotten really crappy "YOU SUCK!" emails but nothing stops me more dead in my tracks than a real writer emailing me suggestions.

So I have been seriously contemplating stopping the blog.
You see, nothing spells out failure like the potential for success. I'm one of those runner-ups; do my best, dark horse running, "back door" kind of people who isn't really comfortable when she finds herself in a situation where people are taking notice. It kinda makes me want to use words like, "kinda". I also tend to stop handing in my papers and will usually break up with boyfriends who love me.

You know what I mean?
Okay, then.
So, stop it.

In other, less self-absorbed and more horrifyingly crazy, news....

My New Years quest to rid myself of irrational fears is going well - kinda.

I've watched a horror film - a boring courtroom drama horror that deals with abstract things like the devil and demonic possession, but it was a start.
(I think growing up Catholic builds a tough skin in terms of "devil terror". The church I attended during my childhood had an extremely detailed, 16 ft tall statue of a crucified man hanging from the ceiling. The fear of God seems to be a MUCH better theme for a horror flick if you ask me. Show me a story where I die and actually have to meet the maker and I'll show a scared woman.)

Another hurdle has been the ability to leave the curtains open during the evenings. You see, there is a park situated right behind our home - with a sidewalk that goes right by our patio.
"People" walk through this park.
"People" can see right inside our home!
"People" better not be crazy, man.

As well, I walked home from a friends house after dark. Nothing happened! - Except that I saw a beautiful city view from the top of a huge hill. It was wonderful.

Of course, I think I am paying for this in other ways. I may be thinking logically during my waking life but I'm sure not doing well in my dream state. Ever since I've started to think through my fears during the day, my sleep has been filled with horrific scenes. I can't tell you them. Seriously, they would disgust you. In fact, in a blurry state of waking, I thought about telling someone "professional" about one of the latest ones and then panicked that I could potentially tell someone who got off on this stuff and make me act them out.
THAT IS HOW CRAZY MY DREAMS ARE.
I AM PARANOID ABOUT EVEN EXPLAINING THEM TO PEOPLE.

That is, except D.
He knew I was crazy when he married me, although I think he thought it was more of an "eccentric" sort of thing back then.

... and you were speechless .... and I was giddy
.... and you drank too much ... and I was tipped too much.

I love you , D.

Yes, I watched that last night. What a warm Christmas flick, I tell ya.
It was a gallant attempt at facing some of my more irrational fears
- a bit of a New Years quest, if you will.

So the film ended at about 11:30pm.
D watched the casting and the genesis of the movie with me as I tried to convince my over-active brain that although it was based on a true story, it wasn't based on the future of my true story - or Franklin's, or D's.

D went to bed at midnight.
I was up until 2am.
I'm not even studying - honest.
I'm really that freaked out by these unscary Hollywood courtroom Catchecism class seminars.

This morning, once I examined everyone for signs of demonic possession, we started the official Franklin Boot Camp of Independence.
Now, this would make a good horror story.

Ask me how long it took to get dressed this morning with not a finger lifted by either Mother or Father.
Answer: 45 minutes.

Actually, I think it's going not too badly - considering.
The week of slow transition to the preschool has the little guy seeing things a little differently. As well, it has me seeing how much I shelter him and, as a result, hold him back.
Yes Ada! Your child can put on his own slippers, coat, boats, mittens shirts, pants, underwear and socks. Amazing!

The socks shocked the shit out of me.
(Say that 5 times fast)

But, you know? It's not so much that he can't do these things, it is that he gets so easily distracted. I do believe he has an abnormally fickle brain for concentration on one task. Watching this distraction in action (5 times), I am frightened for him and his scholastic ability.
Was it the scotch I drank on New Years? He was conceived on January the 8th - thereabouts.
Perhaps it was more like December the 28th?

I remember my math teacher in Grade 12 realizing I had a serious concentration problem. In an effort to help, he told me that whenever my mind started to wander I had to say, "NO!" out loud and get back to my studies. The only problem was there were many times when it took me 45 minutes to realize I was actually wandering. By then, I was drawing a sketch or examining my pimples and couldn't possibly be interrupted to do 15 calculus questions that were essentially the same anyway.
Right?
I mean, weren't they all the same?
I wouldn't know.
I was drawing my right big toe.

Yeah.
I'm scared for the guy.
Clearly, his father would have been the more suitable gene parent to choose from.

We had such a wonderful Christmas.
I hope all of you did as well.

My increasingly geeky sister and her partner came for a visit and introduced my son (and me) to the world of Warcraft. I have pictures of Franklin making a troll (or something) jump up and down.
He thought it was hilarious.
For the first time in my life (and hopefully the last because I have no willpower) I killed a bunch of wild boars. What a dangerously addicting game. It's a good thing this big beast of a computer can't load that game.

I notice I haven't been much of a blogger lately. I am starting to resent that little calendar in the top right side of my margin.
School was crazy.
I learned a lot though. I learned that as a control freak who just-wants-everyone-to-get-along, group work takes a lot more work than just doing it yourself. That, and you can't trust anyone that says they are a professional writer to be a good writer, and sometimes when you are editing someone else's work, you have to be brutal. You don't get good marks by worrying about ego.

I'm babbling.
Perhaps because I've had more than 6 hours of sleep for about 4 days in a row.

Anyway, one of my papers was phenomenal - both in the writing and the marks. I thought I could have got a better mark, but what I thought was a good thing (getting more outside sources than just the class readings) was essentially a bad idea. Different profs, different tastes. What can you do?

I writing this just to get something out online. I can't believe I'm still going over last semester. Especially when I have school work to think about come January. I'm trying to take a break but it's difficult. Especially when I can't play Warcraft...

Anyway, I dropped my sister off at the airport after witnessing a virtual orgasm in a comic book store.
Thanks for coming you guys. I miss you already - especially the laptop that played Warcraft.

I think I have a problem.
Seriously, I'm not kidding.
har.

I am rewriting a paper for publication. The first version was dismal.
D.I.S.M.A.L.
I'm hoping this second draft will be acceptable because the process may just give me the last set of gray hairs and extra sallow skin that will make my transition from good-looking woman to tired looking... complete.

I'm not sure I resemble a woman anymore so I can't tack that onto the last phrase.

This will teach me to hand in a piece of writing with my eye shut and fingers crossed. That almost never works. I think the last time it worked, the person looking it over had malaria.
Clearly, we need more malaria in North America.

Seriously, I'm not kidding.
Har. I love writing that.

If I were to make a list of things I dislike doing, analyzing a paper of mine would be right up near the top. Clustered around it would be mastitis, arguments with my older brother and cleaning the bathroom after a balding man (or woman in my case, it seems).

The only thing that's making it palatable is the Check Your Head, Beastie Boys album I'm listening to.
Dr. Boot-ay.

Crap.
D just took back his headphone to do the dishes.
Bastard.

Sigh.
Le Sigh.
Someone give me another way to say,

"The main strategy of industry groups has been to suggest that recycling of plastics is best accomplished by what industry figures call waste-to-energy recycling".

There's too much "recycling" in that sentence.
It sounds dumb.

"You think you know something, don't you? You think you're the clever little girl who knows something. There's so much you don't know, so much. What do you know, really? You're just an ordinary