The Lasso of Truth

You know you've found the right one when...

My sweet husband is scheduled to take my kids out to Chapters tonight, on a book-buying trip. 

Since he was already going to be there, and since I have always meant to read it and have never got around to it yet, and since I was helpfully reminded of it by an Instapundit link today, I asked him to pick up a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

His immediate response to this out-of-the-blue request?

"Who are we invading, and when do we start?"

LOVE him.

5 Years & Counting

Time flies when you're having as much fun as we are!

It's been a very stressful year, withstanding the barrage of bullshit from the periphery.  I have emerged from the melee bruised and bloody and utterly exhausted, but I have survived challenges which, five years ago would have broken me.  The credit for that survival is most deserved by my sweet, supportive and eminently patient husband.  Without him, I would be dead inside.  He makes me a better person, a better wife and a better mom.

I hope I give him back at least a fraction of what he gives to me.

I'm glad I know you Mikey.  Thank you for saving my life.

Have you all abandoned me by now?

I am happy to report - to those of you who have not given up all hope of my return - that I am finally done with all that is family court-related!  Long-standing readers may recall that this entire debacle started with this callous and cruel dismissal almost 2 years ago.  A dismissal which the offender has never explained, apologized for or rectified.

I am further happy to report that despite my ex-husband's (and his demented family's) best efforts, I have succeeded quite definitively.  Though I am loathe to gloat most ingloriously, I will permit myself the pleasure of informing my dearly devoted readers that it was pointedly acknowledged in court that the case I presented was notably organized and professionally presented at a level generally unseen from most self-represented litigants.  And despite the likely $20,000 or more my supposedly bankrupt ex spent on his lawyer, it was all for a lost cause.

I am the tortoise.  He is the hare.

This victory represents the culmination of a year and a half's worth of research, information gathering and meticulous sifting through thousands and thousands of muddled documents, for the few pertinent nuggets of useful information.  It has been time-consuming, exhausting, frustrating and expensive and has stolen countless hours of my time and attention from my sweet husband and my beautiful children.  I hope to never again have to put myself or them through a circus like this ever again.

Hopefully it was equally as painful for the other side and will serve as a powerful lesson against attempting to pull the same kind of, let's just say, "creative" accountability for his actions in future.

I look forward to resuming normal life and blogging again.  From the looks of it, a lot has happened while my attention has been turned decidedly inward.

In 10 years I`ll be that crazy hillbilly living on a fortified compound

So I admit to getting completely sucked in by the new AMC series, The Walking Dead.  I'm not alone, so quit laughing.

Other than the quirky and dry-witted Shaun of the Dead, or the terrifyingly hyper-fast and vicious 28 Days Later, I've never really cared for zombie yarns.  They usually tend to get tediously silly or gratuitously sloppy and with a horde of children to pick up after, I already get plenty of that without having to spend money on cable.

But The Walking Dead kicked me in the butt, grabbed me by the ears, and has been dragging me around for weeks now.  I love it.

It has though, deeply affected me in a way that's kind of embarrassing to admit.

You see, after the season finale last night I didn't get a wink of sleep.  It was the 3rd or 4th sleepless night I've had since I started watching.  Contrary to what you may suspect though, I didn't lay awake all night out of terror at every little creak and thump in the house.  Rather, my mind was racing over and over, for hours, meticulously planning my family's survival in the event of a zombie apocalypse.

 
No, seriously.  Now you can laugh.

I've got it all worked out...where we would go and what we would need.  It's rather ingenious, actually - in a curious and somewhat alarming kind of way.

Missing all that sleep, I am utterly exhausted now.  But thanks to a couple of helpful links from Glenn Reynolds, I might actually be able to get a peaceful sleep tonight knowing I am strangely not alone, and that I can get everything I might need in one helpful package.

***ok...add to my Christmas list ;)

My Legal Briefs

This one is for you, Tex...

 
Over 1000 pages.  And I have a similar one to prepare now, for my sweet husband and his own legal battle.

Now I know why lawyers get paid so much.

Deep dish pizza

After all, refuelling is needed before launching into round 2..3...4!

Right Mikey ;)

h/t

Doing my part for our demographic challenges

My day starts at 5:30 every morning.  This is the time I get up to make my husband’s lunch, iron his shirt and brew a pot of coffee for us to share.  Some of you may feel that this makes Mikey spoiled but I do this for him every day because, when I needed it, he graciously negotiated a change to his work day so that he could start work at the ungodly hour of 7am, and thus be permitted to leave in time to pick my kids up after school, and avoid expensive daycare charges.  After he leaves, my morning really begins with packing lunches, shepherding children into clothing and through breakfast, and ferrying out to several different locations for school.
 
All that, before I start work.

When Mikey gets home, he sits the kids down to homework, starts dinner and tidies up the breakfast mess I left behind.  After dinner, we both work for most of the evening on laundry, cleaning and playing games or reading with one or all of the kids.  This is on the days when I don’t work at my second job – when I do, Mikey does it all on his own.

For most Mondays to Fridays it’s rinse/repeat.  Weekends include additional activities like hiking, swimming or road trips and visits to family.

And just when you are all starting to think that Mikey and I are either insane, or we’re shameless masochists, I will explain that you are probably right – on both counts.

This schedule and the tasks that go along with it are exhausting and frustrating, and often thankless.  Our children can be petulant, demanding and heartily ungrateful…sometimes.  They can also be willful and unpredictable and can sometimes inspire profound disappointment…but rarely.

So why do we do it?  I can only speak for myself when I say I go through this back-breaking rigor and thankless effort because, ultimately, I am selfish.

You see, everyone thinks that parenthood is a selfless pursuit filled with sacrifice, and many people, mostly childless ones, regard the relationship between parent and child as parasitic in nature.  But they would be wrong.  This can be forgiven though.  Many people make this mistake mostly because the weaker minded among us child-bearers tend to hide the nature of this relationship.  They have assimilated the negative interpretation of the term “selfish” and prefer to adopt the mantle of the martyr, in parenthood.  The main consequence of which is to give the outward impression, to those without the predisposition for having children, that procreation is all gut-wrenching and no glory.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Understanding my priorities is essential to understanding why my motivations for going through the back-breaking work I do, are primarily selfish.  You see, I get to be somebody’s hero.  Or in my case, I get to be a hero to 6 little somebodies.  Better yet, I get to be seen as a hero to countless periphery characters who only catch a glimpse of the Herculean job I do, and are still impressed.  When people see our 8-person entourage in the grocery store, and they witness our bevy of children being well-behaved, engaged and happy, it is Mikey and I, as their parents, who are being judged most favorably.  We do good work, and it shows.  And everyone likes to be appreciated for their hard work.

But it’s not just family and strangers.

One day, my children will be grown and will have occasion to look back and consider who has had the most impact on their world view and the forming of their own (hopefully highly successful) lives.  When they do, I want my name to be high on that list.  I want them to look back and say “My mom was a force of nature who never let anything stand in her way.  She taught me to go fearlessly after what I want” and I want them to end up better than I am now, so that I will have been at least partially responsible for leaving the world a better place for having been here.  Their success is my success because I believe that the work and dedication I put into their lives now, is the example they will use for their own lives in adulthood.

I sure hope I’m right.  Otherwise, I’ve done all this work for nothing.

But the well of overwhelming pride I feel when I hear my son play Fur Elise on the piano, is the fuel I use when I feel like I can’t go on any further.  I could never play that.  And it sounds so beautiful.  And he worked so hard at it because I showed him how to and gave him the encouragement he needed, to feel like he could. 

They all get that, and I feel that same recharge every time one of them accomplishes something great.

But it’s when they feel the most defeated, deflated and discouraged, that I really know whether I’ve accomplished what I’ve set out to.  When they feel like the whole world is against them and they haven’t got a single ally, they turn to me to guide them through it with advice and solutions that they can trust.  I am their hero, and they know that whatever the problem, I can help them work it out and solve it, and I will never let my wants remain in conflict with what is the best choice for them.

That trust is my life’s work and it is more valuable to me than anything else I could ever accomplish.

People have kids for many different reasons.  Either they regard it as something one is just supposed to do, or they want to live vicariously through someone they can help shape, or they have them because they want to make someone else happy (a spouse or family).

I had my children for some of these reasons, in varying measures.  But I remain dedicated to my children the way I do because, despite the reason I chose to give birth, since then it has become clear to me that what I need and what makes me feel most fulfilled, is to be their hero.
 
Those of you who choose to be childless often fail to understand these motivations, and look at child-bearers as though we are some imponderable species from another planet.  Or you condescendingly regard us as unfortunate mules, relegated to a status little more than slaves – and for many yuppie-centric designer kiddie type households this holds true.  But for the rest of us, our motivations aren’t so different from yours.  The only major variation is the target audience.
 
Childless people want to be heroes too.  They just target colleagues, peers, or the world at large.  They want to be highly regarded, trusted and seen as successful, and they often work just as hard or more so, to cultivate this goal.

Same motivation, just less physical contact required and a little more public glory as reward.  Oh, and (with very rare exceptions) a much smaller footprint left behind.

So, we’re not so different, after all.  And at least I’m doing my part to train the next generation to be vanguard of the values we all hold so dear. 

Please try to remember that when me and my 8-passenger SUV are taking up your precious bike lane, on the way to martial arts or dance classes.

GLORY!

We just received the endorsement in the mail and by every measure, we won!  The decision is only temporary, in preparation for trial, but for the next 6 months we've got all we were asking for and a bid to prove we can make it work.

The net summary is:

-- Mikey gets a lot more time with his kids (YAY!!!) and a lot less contact with his ex.

-- He will no longer be crippled by 4-figure child support payments to a woman who already makes a third more than he does.

-- And the judge agreed that taking custody away from a dedicated and involved father, just because mommy doesn't care for having to include him in any decisions, probably wasn't the best idea for now.

The family court system is very hard on dads.  The many hours I have spent pouring over decisions and case precedents confirms that for me.  But I also see that starting to change, and it is very encouraging.

Mikey says I should go into law.  I like to think I did a pretty good job of preparing his case and maybe when this is all over and we truly have our life back, I'll think about it.  Certainly getting into a position where I can make a big difference for men like him, would be very rewarding for me.

For now, I'm just looking forward to a few nights of stress-free sleep.  Thanks to all of you who offered words of encouragement and kind thoughts.  It's nice for us to have a cheering section...next time, bring your pompoms ;)

GEEK: YER DOIN IT RONG!

So, I'm trolling my daily reads this week, and come across something on io9 that I just know is going to get my Mikey's juices flowin' and heart a-thumpin.  How do I know?  Because for the last 4 years, I have had to listen to his boy like glee-filled exuberance at anything which references or reminds him of his old boyhood favorite, Starblazers.

Frankly, I don't have a firm recollection of Starblazers but it kind of reminds me of that Rocket Robin Hood blight I tried so hard to avoid.  My childhood was filled with Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors, Jem, and a vicious, unholy hatred for Wilma Flintstone, instead.

But ok, Starblazers was the coolest geek-shit this side of Buck Rogers and no amount of eye-rolling from me or any of our poor beleaguered children will convince him otherwise.

And as if the plethora of YouTube clips of the cheesy, lame original weren't enough to torture me into a vegetative state, some egg-headed genius decided what the new millennium most needed was a regurgitation of this historically dorky madness.

Mikey and I argue about whether this makes him a hyper-geek (in the cool sense (um, no)), or a hyper-geek in the very uncool sense (like wearing a cape to the grocery store and renaming yourself Zoltar).  One thing is for sure Mikey...remember that time we went to the Everything to do with Sex show and we couldn't figure out why there were so many people there dressed as Klingons?  Well, I bet every last one of them has the whole Starblazers series on VHS at home...and a mock up of the uniform.

I love you anyway ;)

"Me First" Mommies

Being a stepmom is hard - in many ways, harder than being a mom to your own kids.  Mostly because on top of worrying if you're doing the right thing, you are also painfully conscious of the often not-so-forgiving harsh and green-eyed judgment of the real mommy -- the one who would rather see you gutted like a fish, rather than allow you to wipe away her little snowflake's tears in her absence.  Every act of tenderness or consideration you show her children is viewed as an attempt to usurp mommy's place in the poor little moppet's heart. 

Not that I don't understand the impulse to feel protective and I certainly understand how painful it can be to feel as though you have to share your children's love with someone else - especially someone who truly does serve as your replacement in many other respects.  However, this kind of attitude can lead to fierce confrontations and loyalty battles, with the children always, inevitably, placed in the middle.  A truly good mother would recognize that as something which should be avoided at all costs.

The first new girlfriend my ex-husband had, after our break-up, seemed to be a nice lady with 2 daughters of her own.  My children all liked her and my eldest son, in particular, became very close with her at first.  It was painful and heart-wrenching to hear him talk about how much fun she was and how much he enjoyed doing things with her, but I carefully guarded my jealousy and made a stringent effort to be friendly with her.  I even gave her a gift on that first Mother's Day - the card read "Thank you for making my children happy". 

I'm sure that both she and my ex thought I did this because I was trying to suck up or disarm them in some way.  But they were wrong.  I did this because I understood one very important thing:  That at this time, more than any other, what my children needed most was the safety and security of having loving and responsible people around them - at both their houses.

The break-up of a family is one of the most traumatic experiences a child could face in their lifetime.  It leaves them with a huge sense of insecurity, doubt and fear.  The introduction of a new partner can exacerbate the problem, especially if the new partner is less than sympathetic to the children's' feelings.

Certainly no one wants their children to have a stepmom (or stepdad) who feels comfortable critiquing or reorganizing their own parenting choices - that is far over the line of what is appropriate - but showing them how to brush their teeth, teaching them how to cook, sew or garden, or comforting them through a nightmare are things that all children need, and should be permitted to get and expect from anyone who presumes to be a large part of their lives.  Any parent -- mother or father -- who would begrudge them that out of a sense of wounded pride or a need for control, is too self-absorbed and insecure to deserve the trust their children place in them.

Children in blended families already have to manage 2 homes, with 2 sets of rules and 2 sides of loyalty.  Any mother worth her title would pray and beg for the chance to spare her children the stress and pain of having a figurehead in the other parent's home be cold, uninvolved and impersonal.  It makes the children feel like visitors in a home that should feel like their own.  That anyone would prefer this for their children, rather than have to share their love, both confuses and infuriates me.

In my own experience, we are a family of 8 -- 2 parents and 6 kids (3 are his and 3 are mine).  We are a busy and complicated family and nothing would cause more disharmony, than if Mikey and I didn't fully love -- and fully treat as loved -- all of our children.  I love his children and my heart aches for them when they are unhappy or sick.  I feel pride and joy whenever they accomplish something great and I wish nothing more than the very best for all of them -- just as I do for my own children.  What kind of mother would discourage that kind of support and affection for their children, not matter who it came from? 

Well, a "me first" mommy, that's who.  A narcissistic control freak who can only conceive of her children's needs through the prism of how it makes her feel.  Nevermind the comfort and security their children gain when they know they will be nurtured in both their homes, the usurping harpy at Daddy's house needs to back off and remember who Mommy Number One really is!

Shame on them.

Despite initially swallowing my jealousy over the bond my children had formed with their new stepmom, it wasn't until I had to hear their complaints and concerns when that bond went sour that I really appreciated how important it was for that other mommy to be someone who was capable and willing to step into the role of mothering in my absence, without compunction.  Hearing the sadness and frustration in the voices of my children, as they professed that they loved to spend time with their father but his girlfriend was cruel and miserable to them, was far more painful than the petty pangs of jealousy I had felt before.  I would have given anything for them to have someone there who they could trust and feel good with.  And that is the way it should always be.

For anyone out there who is struggling with this, always remember what it means to be Mommy -- your children come first.  Their feelings and needs are paramount and they deserve to be loved and cared for by everyone in their lives.  And if that means you have to let some other woman pick the lice out of their hair or help them pick a prom dress, or rub Vick's on their chest when they're sick -- well, suck it up and lump it.  Anything less, and you don't deserve to be a mother.

Most days, I find it all worthwhile

...Twelve hour work days, exhausting and discouraging court battles, early mornings and late nights, demanding and sometimes bickering children, expensive car repairs, overwhelming bills and an endless stream of laundry...

Some days, it feels like a contest between which will break first -- my mind or my back.

But every day, without fail, he does something sweet and thoughtful, to remind me why I do it...

Thank you Mikey.  I couldn't do it without you.

Sorry for the quiet

Way back, in the time of the dinosaurs, I graduated with Honours in the legal administration course I was taking to work my way off the stage.  I never did get work in that field because a better opportunity presented itself a lot faster and my bills weren't willing to wait while I played fussy.  Nevertheless, that course has served me well, not just to pad my resume, but to save my sweet hubby and me from an unfathomable legal bill.

Over the last 3 weeks, I have been busily composing 2 legal briefs which are each several inches thick and should reasonably registered as lethal weapons, for their ability to injure a fully grown man with their heft...or at least cause a concussion in a small child!

On top of this Herculean task, I have had the usual responsibilities of full-time job, part-time night/weekend job, 6 kids, spelling bees, piano lessons, dentist appointments and somehow, finding time to remind my sweet husband what I look like (sometimes, even naked ;)

Hence the neglect.

Coming back to it, it's hard to know where to start.  So much has happened these last few weeks, and so much of it has been stuff that I've wanted to comment on and simply couldn't find the time.

Suffice to say, I think this is a stupid idea along the same lines as this public display of mental leftardation.  *Added - On the whole matter of Catholic church child molestation, etc...Skippy articulates my feelings perfectly (except for that whole bombing "large swathes of the former caliphate"...I'm all down with that.

I'm also left wondering why no one seems to be concerned that Vladimir Putin has been put in charge of the "investigation" into the Polish President's plane crash.  How much confidence can be placed in any information passed through that filter?

And I hear that Obama is throwing a nuclear summit...does anyone else think he pitches these things because it's just another excuse to throw a fancy party?  I mean, for all they get done...

I was very sad to hear that Dixie Carter died.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I watched Designing Women religiously, strictly for the "Julia Sugarbaker"moments.  As a young pre-teen, I wanted to grow up to be a combination of Julia Sugarbaker and Kelly Garrett, because I always dreamed of being able to rip a verbal strip off bad-guys like nobody's business, while kicking their ass in spike heels.  What little girl didn't?

Anyway...I'm trying to keep up.  Hopefully, legal battles and baby-killing court briefs are almost over.  Until then, I am quietly praying for a well-targeted meteor.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Mikey and I have a date with an old friend of mine tonight...Little did I know, I was expected to show up topless ;)

My boys have a birthday!

Or at least 2 of them do.  My eldest son and my sweet husband are turning 16 and 39, respectively, this week, and to celebrate, I wanted to do a little something special for both of them...

 

Hey Jay, do I get those geek points back now? 

My comic book obsession continues...

The next work in progress...

 

What I've been up to

We have a huge rec room in the basement of our house, reserved as a playroom to store toys and children.

For the last almost 2 years, there have been a series of comic book panels traced out on the wall, waiting for colour.  As of this morning, the first one waits no longer...

 

Dominating the wall, it's a 7'x5' Superfriends spectacular.  Painted by hand, by me, into the wee hours of the last few nights.  I'll be painting the surrounding wall (probably in a dark red) and adding a shadowbox, but that has to wait until the other panels are done.

Only 7 more panels to go.

I can't afford to buy you flowers ;)

Four years ago tonight, I attended what promised to be a typical night of levity and political schmoozing - a bi-partisan bar night in joint celebration/lamentation of the recent Conservative Party electoral win.

I was meeting up with a few blog friends and decided, since he lived in the area, to invite my most devoted regular reader.

"I'll be the one with the pigtails."  I said in my email invitation.  Cute and saucy, like I always am, to everybody.  Thinking it would be just another chance to interact with a kindred spirit from the blog world, like I'd done a bazillion times before.

But the sweet face that greeted me and my pigtails was not just a kindred spirit.  He was a soul mate.  It wasn't long after, before my heart realized it and my life changed forever.

The realization was terrifying and the changes were painful for all of us.  But I believe I can safely say, on behalf of myself, my children, and the sweet man who is now my husband, that the joy we share now was worth every trial and every tear.

The Conservatives still rule the roost (for now), and they suck in many predictable (and unpredictable) ways, despite being the best choice of the bunch at the time.  But after four years of having to set up a whole new life together, dealing with two very uncooperative and unpleasant ex-spouses, fighting two (going into three) drawn-out, expensive and harrowing court battles, amalgamating and raising six dynamic and challenging (and immeasurably wonderful) children (and the boatloads of laundry and dishes that go with), plus pleasing one very obnoxious and demanding ginger cat - I can honestly confess to not one single ounce of buyer's remorse.

Thank you Mikey, for coming out on that cold January evening, to meet a saucy blogger and her silly pigtails.  You gave me my life back and made me into the person I always hoped I'd be.  You showed me how to live the life I'd only imagined for my heroes.  You showed me that heroes really do exist.

Now, if only they could take office...

;)

Three Little Swine-Flus

My son's girlfriend has been off school all week with the flu.  She's apparently been kissing little piggies.

My son spent the night throwing up and talking in his sleep.  He's been kissing her (I hope).

And Mikey has acquired that sexy raspy voice that can only be the work of a raging virus.  I am now wondering who he's been kissing.

I am surrounded by cranky bags of germs, and I am their nurse.

No doubt my office will be inviting me to keep my infectious disease at home today.

The most Wonderful time of the year...

It's true. Another year has come and gone in the life of our gracious hostess, the one and only Wonder Woman.

It's been a year of challenges.  Nobody ever said that raising a blended family with six kids would be easy, and for all of the predictable social and financial reasons it's not.  Lawyers, fuel pumps and extensive brake repairs don't come cheap, and we've needed them all this year.

For all that, though, I will remember this forever as a year of joy.  This was the year that Wonder Woman married me!

There was sunshine and water and greenery and family and friends.  And most importantly, the two of us, deeply in love, expressing our joy in each other and our mutual commitment.

And there were bubbles!

Who could ask for more?

I hope that my Wonder Woman will remember the year just as fondly as I will.  I hope all of you will join me in wishing her a year ahead that is full of just as much joy.  And with a little luck, fewer challenges!

Happy Birthday Wonder Woman.  You are the very best, and I love you for it!

It's official!

Yesterday was the best day of my life.

Despite the many challenges leading up to the big day, the weather was perfect, the event went off without a hitch and I am now the new Mrs. Mikey.  It doesn't get any better than that.

I will have more pictures once the photog does his thing.  Until then, many thanks to all of you who tolerated my sporadic and frantic posting and still came back.  Normal posting will resume on Tuesday, after I catch my breath.  In the meantime, allow me to pat myself on the back because this beautiful sugary confection was hand made, from scratch, by me...and it was delicious!

There is a God

...and He is punishing me.

Firstly, I did not win this fight.  I had to change my ceremony time by 2 ^1/2 hours and phone each and every guest, to advise them of the new time...reschedule the officiant who is performing the ceremony and move the time window with the photographer.  It was all that, or risk unloading so fiercely on the woman organizing at the venue, that they canceled us outright and told us to take our business elsewhere.

As if that weren't enough, my car would not start on Thursday morning.  After getting it to the mechanic on a boost, calling off work for the day and arranging a lift home, I got the $400 bill for a new battery, transmission flush and oil change.

That was money I didn't have to spare, one week before my wedding.

That was just the primer, though.  Things went downhill from there.

Friday afternoon, in the parking lot of my office, my car would not start again.  I was, blessedly, saved by a coworker with CAA who arranged to have the damned thing towed to Canadian Tire.  That was when I discovered just how lucky I am!  Now that my car had a shiny new battery, it was now in need of a fancy new fuel pump, etc, for a whopping $1150!

2/3's of my wedding plans have already been canceled or modified to accommodate unexpected expenses that could not be put off.  This nearly put me over the edge.

I hope I can be forgiven for having the slightest suspicion that I was never meant to get married, or that the universe is playing a colossally cruel joke on me.

At this rate, I am expecting the catastrophic asteroid to hit somewhere near the northwest of the city, at some point around 10am on Saturday.  If I survive that, or whatever else the next few days have in store for me, I will be back to regular blogging and -- most certainly -- with quite a sordid tale to tell.

Wish me luck.

Kill me now

Oh, don't be silly.  Of course it's all right that you booked another ceremony a half hour before mine, in exactly the same location.  I'm sure the other bride will be quite pleased to sprint down the aisle and quickly herd her guests off the grounds and into her own hall at lightning speed, to make way for my set up and guests.  Otherwise, she could be in for a slaughter.  And I'd really hate to get innocent blood on my pretty dress.

You know, we should really get into a habit of writing these things down, so as to stave off these kinds of little complications...don't you think?

For over 6 years, I've been dreaming of having my wedding there...under the massive willow trees, with the river in the background, surrounded by luxurious gardens.

The presence of another bride will just take the shine off the day, ya know?

Posting will be light

I am 16 days away from getting married and I'm swamped with wedding prep.  Especially considering I'm doing a lot of it myself.  It's cheaper that way.

At any rate...this is my lame excuse for the lack of blogaliciousness the last few days.  It is also the same lame excuse I'll be pawning off for the next 2 weeks, to explain my continued neglect.  You'll just have to forgive me.  I promise to pay you back with pictures!

Open Book

I feel the same way...

So what I’m telling you here is that I’m scared of secrets. I’m more scared of keeping things a secret than I am of letting people know that I’m having trouble. People can’t believe how I’m willing to write about my life here. But what I can’t believe is how much better my life could have been if it had not been full of secrets.

So today, when I have a natural instinct to keep something a secret, I think to myself, “Why? Why don’t I want people to know?” Because if I am living an honest life, and my eyes are open, and I’m trying my hardest to be good and kind, then anything I’m doing is fine to tell people.

That’s why I can write about what I write about on this blog.

And when you think you cannot tell someone something about yourself, ask yourself, “Really, why not?”

My life has been far from perfect.  Some of my troubles were imposed upon me by others but most of them were self-inflicted through poor choices and weakness. 

I've written a lot of personal - not always flattering - things about my life, on this blog, because though I feel shame for some of the mistakes I've made, I also went through substantial, sometimes Herculean, effort to learn from my mistakes and right them.  I deserve to allow myself credit for it.  I also prefer the humility of never forgetting just how bad it got and how far I had to come to get out of it. 

I can never go back and change things and I'm not sure I would, even if I could.  Facing up to it and being honest about who I am is the only thing that affords me dignity.  Those who judge me for things I did decades ago, aren't deserving of the effort of putting on a facade to placate their tender sensitivities, and are perhaps just distracting themselves from having to shine the light of judgment on their own actions.

But life is always challenging and it has a long way to go, to get to perfect.  This blog is cathartic.  It is my outlet.  Friends have always told me I should write a book about my life -- and maybe one day, I will.  Until then, I'll just vent it for free.

There is red in these roots

I hate the dentist.

No offense to dentists out there, but at least Josef Mengele didn't charge exorbitant prices for his sadistic tinkering.

I didn't used to hate the dentist.  I mean, I never enjoyed it...that would be crazy...but since the first time my very first tooth poked it's way through my gums, the dentist was always that one unpleasant thing that could not be avoided.  Until I hit puberty and the pap smear made it two.

I was lucky, though.  I had the same dentist, a wonderful lady, for my entire childhood.  It wasn't until my late teens that I was forced to change when the lovely lady succumbed to an unfortunate scuba diving accident in the Caribbean.  I swear I have an alibi.

At any rate, that was when it all changed from being a mildly unpleasant experience to an agonizing torture session.  It was probably just by pure chance because the lady that took over my old dentist's practice was perfectly nice and made adequate attempts at being gentle.  But within the first couple of visits, I was in need of a root canal that turned out to be anything but gentle.  Six freezing needles, two hours of drilling and digging, and countless buckets of painful tears later, and I was convinced of the pure, unadulterated sadistic evil festering in the cruel bitch's heart.

I have since changed dentists a number of times but ever since then, I have not been able to so much as sit in the waiting room of the dentist's office, without coming dangerously close to blacking out.  I routinely hyperventilate while sitting in the chair and I have, on a couple of occasions, vomited from anxiety during a simple cleaning.

The mind is a funny thing.  I was at a point where my dentist would prescribe me a Valium to take before coming in, just to keep me calm enough to muddle through my examination.  Until I discovered the gas, glorious gas.  Now, I insist on it for everything from cleanings to fillings.  It makes everything bearable as long as I don't spend too much time fidgeting in the waiting room first.

It makes me feel a little silly, to be so neurotic about something that is so routine for everyone else.  I hate that I turn into a simpering wimp at the sight of the perky blond in pink scrubs, who flosses my teeth for me.  Which is why it is so nice to find out that at least some of my fear and loathing is scientifically justified...

New research published in this month's Journal of American Dental Association found that painful experiences at the dentist might cause more anxiety for men and women with red hair, who were twice as likely to avoid dental care than people with dark hair.

"Redheads are sensitive to pain," said Dr. Daniel Sessler, an Outcomes Research Department chair at The Cleveland Clinic, in Cleveland, Ohio, who is one of the authors.

"They require more generalized anesthesia, localized anesthesia. The conventional doses fail. They have bad experiences at the dentist and because of the bad experiences, they could avoid dental care."  [..]

In 2004, research showed that people with red hair need 20 percent more general anesthesia than blonds and brunettes.

A 2005 study indicated that redheads are more sensitive to thermal pain and are more resistant to the effects of local anesthesia.

Because having freckles wasn't punishment enough.

Thanks to Skippy, who shares my unfortunate condition.

Time to cut out the rot

Mark Steyn made me think about my son’s leg, today.  Worse yet, he made me think about my son’s leg and feel a little silly, almost ashamed at the lack of good sense I displayed just the other day, regarding what turned out to be a minor infection.

Two nights ago, as I was getting kids ready for bed my younger son came to me with a complaint about what appeared, at first blush, to be a bug bite on his leg.  As I was preparing to administer Calamine lotion and ferry him off to bed I noticed it wasn’t a bite at all, but was actually a very small scrape that had become very badly inflamed with infection. I once had a very bad infection in my hand and remember the flaming red line inching it’s way up my arm and the remark from the nurse that I was very lucky I came when I did, to get it lanced.  Looking at my son’s leg, I worried that the actual wound was far too small to offer an effective opening to let the infection out and I was unprepared to attempt lancing it myself.  I was also very conscious of the fact that if we left it be for the night and it turned out to be significantly worse by morning, Mikey would have to cart him and 5 other kids into the emergency room himself, at prime time.  Not a fate I would subject my worst enemy to.

So, off to the emergency room we went, at 10:00 that night.  The logic was sound (in a masticated socialized Canadiana kind of way) – The Georgetown hospital, so late on a Monday night, would likely not be busy and my paranoid mommy instincts would be assuaged under the capable scalpel of the on-call doctor.

It was not to be.  Upon arrival, I saw the line for triage in the waiting room was a half dozen souls deep and the chairs densely populated.  I imagined myself, along with my very tired 10-year-old and his older brother (who insisted on tagging along) still sucking up space in the waiting room at 3am, and me having to return to work the next day.

Ok Goober (that’s his nickname – ya, I know)…back to the car and a 20 minute drive to Brampton Civic, to see if we might fare a little better.

What foolishness.  Of course it was packed, too.

I was suddenly left with the dilemma of having to choose between an excruciating wait for a treatment that I wasn’t even sure was an emergency, or taking the chance with treating it myself and hoping for the best.

So, I made a stop at the drug store for bandages and antiseptic cream, and returned home with a profound sense of futility at the waste of time and parking fees spent trying to get my son treatment.

Now I feel stupid.  And worse yet, I feel stupid for some very good reasons.

I have always expounded on the virtues of self-reliance and castigated those who answer the clarion call to consign their fate to big nanny.  Yet here I was, wringing my hands over how to treat a simple infection that, after 2 days of soaking and careful ministrations, has cleared up quite nicely – without carrying the hefty price tag of an emergency room visit.

But how easily I was sucked in.  How quickly my instincts led me to assume the best course of action was to drag my boy out into the middle of the night, and spend hours languishing in a room full of sick strangers.

Mark Steyn says that socialized medicine "alters the relationship between the citizen and the state" and he's absolutely right.  And me -- the neocon hardass that I have always prided myself on being -- I am solid proof of how easily that alteration is affected.  I looked at this festering wound and doubted that I had the ability to handle it effectively.  I chickend out at first, because I thought a trip to emergency would be easier than trying to figure out how to clean it out and clear it up.

Stupid.  And lazy.

That is what socialized medicine makes you.

When I first looked at my son's leg, I was remembering an episode of Little House on the Prairie, where the mother, Caroline, got an infection on her leg that nearly killed her.  In the desperate blur of fevered infection, she heated up a kitchen knife and cut out the infected tissue until she collapsed and nearly died.  It was only tv, I know, but I was afraid of the truth behind the drama -- that it really could get that bad.  I was anxious to spare my little boy from similar suffering.

What I should have been remembering from this long lost piece of sentimental theatre, instead of the fear and suffering, was the self-reliance and strength of survival instinct that led this woman alone to take such a drastic measure to save her own life.

But nanny rocks the cradle so gently, the sleep creeps up on you so slowly, it takes a cold glass of Steyn to the face, to bring a simple soul like me to my senses.

I will have to be more diligent.  So should you.

Like that Star Trek episode where a society without food mimes the motions of eating, to survive

I should really take the summer off.  Between kids home on holiday, a new garden to expand and now last-minute wedding details, there simply isn't enough time in the day to keep abreast of what goes on in the world around me.

Of course, that is also when all the really interesting stuff goes on, so as for taking the summer off -- fat chance!

I did have an interesting weekend though.  Not the least of which is because I had a truly enlightening experience, completely unexpectedly, on what was supposed to be a routine trip to the grocery store.

I know what you're thinking...how interesting could that be?  Well let me tell you, it was something along the lines of that moment when Neo woke up from the machine-induced delusion and realized that the world really was a sickeningly depressing, soul-crushing place of madness -- your worst nightmare in true-to-life technicolour.

Just like that.  But worse.

It started with a little league game in Oakville, a trendy little yuppie-burg outside of Toronto -- just like the obnoxious eco-chic neighbourhoods of Toronto, but with bigger yards and bigger cars.

That's not the nightmare part...or at least the little league game wasn't.  That was awesome!  I only mention it because that is why we were where we were, in the heart of pretentious madness-ville, where we were forced by time constraints and urgent need, to make the choice we did.

We were hosting guests for dinner that evening and were in need of some last minute supplies, to fulfill my menu plans.  We also had an important appointment that could not be rescheduled and a mad dash to make afterward, to get home in time to start dinner and be ready when our guests arrived.  So, the miniscule grocery list needed to be filled at the closest, most convenient location between the little league game and our appointment, with less than an hour to do so.

Now, down the street from the field was a Whole Foods Market.  I have never been in one before -- they have only just begun to sprout up in the trendier enclaves where people treat the word "organic" as if it is a religious requirement for the sacrament of supper.  I have generally avoided this grocery chain, mostly due to it's reputation for being very expensive and the everyday challenge I already face, meeting the grocery needs of 8 people on a restricted budget.

Mikey and I skeptically eyed the Whole Foods and decided between us that the 6 or 7 items we needed would surely not bankrupt us and that the convenience of the location would more than make up for the eco-tax charged at the till.

It's not very often we are both so wrong about something so fundamental but inflated prices, it would seem, are not the only -- or even the best -- reason to avoid the Whole Foods like it were an Ebola-plagued African.

So very wrong indeed.

To those of you who are familiar with what I am about to tell you, and are in remission from the experience, I apologize for any emotional harm caused by forcing you to relive it.  The harshest form of post-traumatic stress disorder can't begin to touch the searing mental flagellation of stepping through the automated doors of this Bedlam.

Firstly, the small line of shopping carts, conveniently located just inside the door, is deceptive.  Although it appears to be smaller than an average shopping cart, the aisles you are meant to navigate through are so narrow and oddly angled, that pushing one from one end to the other requires not just a skill of precision unknown outside of a laparoscopic surgery theatre, but also the absence of any other shoppers or, for that matter, oxygen.  Not since my first pair of PVC pants, have I been forced to squeeze so tightly.  What is obvious is that you are not meant to use the carts and to be fair I suppose most of the customers of this particular establishment likely don't need to.  It's hard to fill even a small cart with groceries, when all you're feeding is your organically pious vegan self and your purse dog...and perhaps your indeterminate-gendered "partner".

But I digress...

Once we (and by which I mean Mikey) got the hang of trundling through the aisles, the next challenge presented itself...

Did you know you could buy bison steak at Whole Foods?  Not just bison steak, but bison burgers and assorted bison innerds, on top of the usual organic, non-steroid-injected, grass-fed assorted meats.  Actually, it was a surprisingly diverse assortment of meats for a store that seems to cater more to a crowd of grass-feds themselves, but I am all for diversity!  Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.  Which is why the next revelation came as such a shock. 

As we weaved back and forth among the bison steaks, the non-pasturized milk and locally grown arugula, one thing was distressingly absent...Coke.  No Coke.  No ginger ale.  No pop whatsoever.  Not even a pop aisle.

And no chips, either.  Unless what you're looking for is locally produced, organic corn tortilla chips in every colour of the rainbow.  That's the chip aisle.

No check mark beside those items on the list.  Move on to the next items...surely a place which offers bison steaks, has phyllo pastry and cream cheese..?!  Nope.  No phyllo pastry.  None.  Not even the organically produced, eco-blessed, exhorbitantly priced kind.

I scoured the shelves for cream cheese but came up short.  At which point, I approached the thoroughly miserable looking woman behind the cheese counter, to ask for guidance.  Whoever told you that eco-consciousness and "organic" life make you happy, lied, LIED, LIED!  With a hearty look of full-on leftard derision, she silently lead me to the last shelf I looked on and pointed out a 2-foot span at which the cream cheese could be located, but do you think I saw the word Philadelphia anywhere?!  Don't be preposterous!  We don't carry that common filth at our sacred trough!  You must purchase the 200 gram portion of "organic" locally produced goat's milk cream cheese for the value-added price of $8.99!!!

I probably could have been arrested for the look I gave the miserable cow, but she didn't pause in her silent pretentious haughtiness to register that my inquiry was more than a socially-generated construct within her existential reality.  Back to the counter she went, without a word spoken.

I had no better luck with anything else on my list, but I did manage to treat myself to a pricey bouquet of locally-grown Gerbera Daisies, in a lovely shade of Tangerine, to adorn my dinner table.  Too bad we couldn't eat them.  But perhaps what I assumed as the Floral Department, was really Produce.  Who knows?

So, with an overwhelming sense of crushing defeat, having wasted precious unwasteable moments, and a list of items still to be acquired elsewhere, I slipped past the pasty-white stick figures in line at the checkout -- with their "recycled" "organic" "paper" grocery bags and bike helmets -- and emerged into the parking lot with an indescribable frustrated rage that took all my will to not vent on the Lexus convertible sports coup in the handicap space outside.

Between the miniscule food portions, the absurd prices, the notable absence of anything which may contain white sugar and the palpable sense of contempt for anyone not fully steeped in the eco-guilt that compels whole swathes of the population to live in a state of austere meagerness, I was faced with the realization that there is actually a market for a place such as this.  Ever more disturbing, that market is growing.

Dare I hope that, since these people never have any babies, one day all of them -- and their purse dogs -- will be gone and with them, the Bizarro universe that is the Whole Foods Market?

Maybe so.  Until then though, I will live and sleep in fear that the world I always thought I knew has suddenly and, without explanation or warning, turned itself inside-out and given itself over to the madness and chaos of anti-space.

Whole Foods *scoff*.  Whole lotta nothin'.

Wedded bliss or narcissistic exercise?

I’m a simple gal.  Don’t laugh now, it really is true.  As such, my upcoming wedding should prove to be relatively simple; I am growing my own flowers, making my own cake and making the dresses for our 3 girls, who will comprise the female portion of the wedding party.  Other than that, most of the usual frills and silly, frivolous traditions are being shunned for a small, simple ceremony and a close dinner.

Like I said…simple.

I’m also the kind of gal who thinks that the poor, unassuming gent who had the courage and courtesy to ask me to marry him, should actually get a say in some of the planning of the day.

This apparently makes me rarest of all.

Most people are subtle about it.  The lady who handles the reservations at the banquet hall directs most questions straight to me, rather than to us…the ladies at the dress shop express surprise and confusion that I would like my fiance’s opinion on my dress…the florists I consulted (before deciding to do my own) invariably expected I would make a decision on flowers without consulting my partner.

I get it.  Really, I do.  Everyone has been imbued with the certainty that the wedding day is the bride’s day.  Apparently, the poor schlep who comprises the other half of the pair, is just another accessory to be incorporated into the taffeta landscape.

Doesn’t anyone notice something seriously wrong with that?

Mikey went tuxedo shopping with my son this week.  I made it very clear to him that I expected him to pick whatever his heart desired.  The only stipulation I had was that I did not want him to match tie or cummerbund with the accent color of my dress – because it’s pink and I think it looks ridiculous to put a grown man in anything pink.  It’s really a mercy, because I love him and do not see the need to humiliate him for the sake of color symmetry.

Sadly, this seemed to be a concession that simply could not be comprehended by the professionals in charge of supplying tuxedos to the poor unfortunate souls who are rarely permitted to have minds of their own.

Don’t you want to match her colors?  What do you mean you don’t need the tuxedo to match her dress?  Gasp!

How did we get here, where a perfectly mature gentleman, entering into a respectful partnership, with (presumably) an equally mature lady, is not permitted the simple pleasure of picking his own clothing for the day without fear of recrimination?

Am I the only woman in this place who is sane enough to recognize that sharing the day with the love of my life involves allowing him the dignity of a say in things?

Seriously.  I see these neurotic, self-centered control freaks who micro-manage every single detail and condescendingly over-ride their partners (when they bother to let them have a say, at all)…and then they wonder why they are divorced within 5 years.

Honestly ladies.  It’s not your day (singular).  It’s your day (plural)…you and him.  If you love him enough to share your life with him, you should love him enough to let him share in the most important day of both your lives.

I’m sure there are plenty of men out there who don’t really care about the color of the icing on the cake, but if the poor bugger is standing at the altar, drowning in a sea of ivory and peach, that is not a relationship where he is getting the consideration and respect of his wife-to-be.

Unless of course, it’s Rupaul.

Oh, my aching feet...

Well, it just goes to show that things rarely go as planned.  If I thought I was going to have time to blog or even breathe in amongst the tightly packed schedule we had this weekend, I was sorely mistaken!

Our trip was fabulous but not relaxing.  A 10 hour drive through the middle of the night on Friday, followed by a full day of walking up and down the National Mall area on Saturday and an early morning jaunt to the Smithsonian Annex at Dulles, before heading home another 10 hours, on Sunday...We're both thoroughly exhausted but we managed to see just about everything we wanted to.  Albeit too briefly.  Another, longer, trip must be planned in the future.

One thing is for sure though, I love this city.  It is absolutely beautiful.  Every building is immense and impressive.  Every spare space is filled with greenery...it's all so lush and exotic looking.  Of course, me being the lame dork that I am, I was pointing out or questioning each and every breed of shrub, tree and flower I could.  Mikey so patiently humored me but I'm sure at some point he considered the possibility that at some point during the day, I was heading up into one of the Magnolia trees for a bark sample.  But one thing is nagging at me and perhaps one of my kind readers can help me with it:

Does anyone know what kind of tree this is?  It's gorgeous and absolutely everywhere, along the highways and on people's lawns, and it looks something like a cross between a Sumac and a Gooseberry tree, but I cannot identify it...

 

Anyone who can help will win my undying gratitude...and likely my consternation when I discover that I have no hope in hell of growing one this far north!

The first time I saw the White House, I stood at the iron fence at the south side and weeped like a little girl.  Not this time, though.  For reasons I could not fathom, this was as far as they were letting anyone get, to the Chosen One's place of residence...

Fencing and police, scattered across the grass, making sure the "common folk" kept their distance.  We never bothered to trek around to the other side to see if we could get closer, because the police had either side cordoned off for a full block and frankly, if they were going to make it that difficult, I wasn't going to build a blister for it.  Nothing like making the White House an "open" and "welcoming" place for "the people".  Welcome to the age of Obama.

It was perfect weather and a near perfect day.  My eternal gratitude is owed to the lovely young man who asked me for ID at the restaurant where we had dinner...if I could tell you how many years it's been since I was asked that...Perhaps he was just being kind.  It was certainly much better than Mikey getting asked, by the gentleman behind the counter at the Air and Space Museum, if he remembered the moon landing...from 2 years before he was born...

And now that I've filled you in on our trip, I suppose the time has come for me to catch up on what you've been up to while we were gone.  It's nice to see that at least you didn't burn the place down yet!

Who's that girl? Who cares...

There’s been a lot of talk lately about anonymity in the blogosphere; some speculation about what motivates people to use a fake identity and a lot of judgment about those of us who do.  There have also been a number of high profile campaigns to “out” some of the more perturbatious among us.  Some of these campaigns have been motivated by malice and the desire to complicate or ruin an adversary’s “regular” life.  Some have been the defensive reciprocal response to such a campaign, and some have been by sheer misadventure or accidental indiscretion.

Regardless of the motivation, I’ve never been a big fan of the sport of “outing” even the most pugnacious of trolls – not for a lack of curiosity, as much as a lack of will to devote my very precious time to the activity of ferreting out jerks who get their kicks from leaving steaming piles of turd on the internet.  Although, I must confess, I have never been the subject of a campaign to maliciously expose me and my extended family to ridicule and attack for the offense of having caused offense to the wrong person.  But I do understand the urge to defend one’s family against the possibility.

That is why I have chosen to remain relatively anonymous. 

Not that it is a carefully guarded secret.  I have attended many political functions and blog functions – all in my real name.  I have also frequently corresponded with long time readers by email, often signing off with my real name and a few close ones have got my family picture as part of my Christmas greeting.  A couple of blogging colleagues have my cellphone number and home address and one mysterious but tenacious little bugger managed to locate me on Facebook, for reasons I can only guess at.

Some secret identity, huh?

The simple truth is that even without these lapses in discretion, anonymity is not the force-field of cowardice as characterized by some.  Each comment I post at another blog gets linked through my “fake” name to this blog and the posts in this blog reveal a more complete picture of who I am than the components of my proper name, or a search of public records, could ever provide.  You readers, without the benefit of my real name, know more about me than most of my own family does.  That is not a consequence of cowardice, but rather a product of comfort -- this is the medium I’ve chosen and these are the terms by which I share my life with you.

A few who pass harsh judgment on the pseudonymous offer some valid criticisms of a freedom – the freedom to be anonymous – that is often abused for the purposes of libel or spite.  I do not disagree.  But some have extended their criticisms into judgment of the courage or principles of all anonymous bloggers, as if they alone hold the courage of conviction by virtue of their willingness to stand by their words in the real world.

Ideally, I would agree.  But the complicating factor, the one thing often missing from the dissection of motivations, is the concession that sometimes anonymous bloggers have more than just themselves to consider in their musings.  Sometimes the urge to remain anonymous is not based on fear of reprisal to oneself, but rather concern for how that reprisal could be affected upon an innocent bystander – a peripheral victim of association.

I have 3 children and all of them go to school in this province.  I have written many words critical of teachers and the education system in general.  Would my courage of conviction offer my son solace if he was failed in a course because his unionized teacher didn’t appreciate my conservative sentiments on unions?  Should he be expected to bear the brunt of retribution from an employer who associated my controversial views with his upbringing and concluded that he was unfit for employment?  Would the publishing of my real name at the bottom of my posts defend my youngest children from teasing in the playground, because their mom occasionally posts a racy picture of herself on the internet?

And it’s not just my children to consider.  I have 3 more who cycle through this household regularly, and on whose behalf I have no right to make such a decision.  What consolation would I ever be able to offer my sweet Mikey, if something I said here were twisted and used against him in a way that interfered with his custody and access to his children?  Would it matter to him that I had the courage to put my name to my convictions?  Are they more deeply held by me, once the characters on my birth certificate are revealed with some super-secret special decoder ring?

I think it is laudable to take responsibility for your words and damn the consequences – but I also think it is an easier luxury for someone who only has to concern themselves with their own starving belly.

If I lose my job because my boss doesn’t like my opinion on immigration, it’s not just me who starves.  There are 7 other people in my household and most of them don’t even understand what immigration policy is, much less whether my opinions have any merit.

I have a responsibility to offer at least a minor buffer between my need to vent and their need to be sheltered from the spiteful jerks out there who would use umbrage as an excuse to exact revenge through my family.

As it stands, I do not guard my identity as zealously as I probably should under the circumstances.  But I have never made a secret of who I am or what I believe in.  No friend, colleague or relative would be the slightest bit surprised of anything written here.  It’s not a double life…just a means to keep the psychos at bay a little.

It’s not a choice that everyone makes.  But then again, there are a lot of choices I make every day that many others don’t have to make – and live with the consequences of.  That doesn’t make them better than me or me better than them.  It just makes our lives, and the choices which affect them, different.

I challenge anyone to question my conviction to principle, regardless of the name I choose to write under.