Bread Crumbs In The Butter

The Answer Is Swords

Every day on the drive in, as we pass through Little Italy, we encounter a small group of ladies practicing Tai-Chi. They're presence there is so Zen, so calming. The way they slowly move about the park makes me not want to throw my coffee as we hit that particular red light. I count on those tiny ladies for my daily dose of peace.

And then one day, they had swords.

Yes! You read that right. Swords.

I am not sure of the significance of the swords and while I am fully aware that I could research more and find out why they were wielding swords, I don't want to. I would prefer to think of the significance as being that swords kick some serious ass. Really. Ask yourself how many times a sword could have brought peace to your day.

Tim Horton's messes up your coffee again. Not only did they give you two milk and four sugar when you asked for two cream and a half sugar, there is an empty Splenda packet in the bottom of your cup. The answer? Show up the next day with a sword. They'll get it right.

Bell Canada has once again messed up your bill, charging you for a phone line you don't have, removing the phone line you do have and invoicing you for midget porn. Give that automated chick Emily a call and tell her you've got a sword being held to the telephone poll on your street. If she says "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that, please repeat" one more time, you're cutting the phone lines to all of Almonte!

You've sent a report for the same revision twice only to have it come back with anything but that revision and it now includes a paragraph in pig latin and a doodle of a ladybug wearing a top hat? Smack that sword down on your colleagues' desk. That report will come back in English and addressed to the Queen of the Effing World!

You asked the kids to do their laundry. And they did. Or rather, they threw a load in the washer and left it there for three days. What you are left with is a load of wet clothes that smells so bad your eyes water and you have to dry it and wash it again, twice, just to salvage the sweater you paid $120.00 for. The answer? Take a picture of you positioning the sword right over their favourite teddy bear or the game console of your choice. Those kids won't ever forget the rinse cycle again!

You're at the grocery store. You've been in line for twenty minutes and suddenly another cashier descends from the heavens and opens up. To which the chick three people behind you runs in to get served by. The answer? Actually, I have no witty banter for that one. Bitch deserves whatever she has coming to her with that sword!

The sword. I don't know how I've ever lived without the idea in my head!

 

 

We're Going On The Road

It was about this time last week that Kim, an amazing friend and carpool buddy of mine sent me the most inspring text ever.

 

"Dude! JR's has KARAOKE - THIS THURSDAY!"

 

That Thursday just happened to be my birthday.

 

I'm kind of a shy girl. I don't really like being in front of a crowd and drawing attention to myself kind of freaks me out.

 

Believe me? Didn't think so. You bet I rounded up some of my girls and demanded they indulge my birthday wish!

 

Honestly, the idea of getting up on a stage in front of a room full of strangers and singing makes my heart happy. It's not even that I'm good at laughing at myself, it's mostly that I know two things have happened if I am singing karaoke:

 

1- I have had a lot to drink.

2- I am surrounded by friends who love attention and adoration as much as I do.

 

Both of those were the case on Thursday night.

 

The night started on Jaime's porch with Kim, Christina, the lovely Emily and her friend Rhonda. Emily and Rhonda went home to tend to babies and potential fire hazzards, so Christina, Jaime, Kim and I hit the rode like Abba. (Does that really apply? Abba?
Did they hit the road? Does it even make sense considering we were four girls and not two girls and two boys and we didn't wear white velour pant suits? Doesn't matter I guess, Abba is what struck me first, and let's face it, Abba is the epitome of rock and
roll!).

 

Anyway …

 

JR's was mostly dead that night as most of Almonte was in Pakenham watching my birthday fireworks, er I mean the early Canada Day Celebration! That didn’t stop us from snagging a song list, which we later just started calling our "set list" and a huge
stack of song request sheets. The song suggestions were flying! All you could hear was:

 

"Oh, Wind Beneath My Wings! We gotta sing it! I love you guys so much!"

 

"Gypies, Tramps and Thieves! Shut the front door! Get your ass up and your Cher on! Let's lay our money downnnn!"

 

"Is it wrong to want to sing about afternoon delight at midnight!?"

 

"They have Defying Gravity! I call Glinda!"

 

And then we saw it.

 



The resounding "OH HELL YES!" sealed it.

 

Goodbye Earl it was.

 

And it was pur bliss.

 

Not only did we sing like goddess-like songbirds, we were talented and sexy and eloquent. We totally made love to those microphones. As soon as we were done we were met with demands of knowing where we had come from and suggestions that we hit the road
in a big pink bus.

 

Okay, so that last part isn't true. I've seen the video. We sounded like drunken miners and probably slurred and drooled more than we sang coherently. But who cares? We kicked that songs ass, made those mircophones our bitches and got told "You didn't
look like you were having fun AT ALL!"

 

Knowing that, admit it, you'd pay to see these chicks sing, right?

 



 

 

I can top your worst day ...

We've all had bad days. I'm reasonably sure you're nodding your head right now.

 

You might even be saying out loud "I once had this day where I walked out the front door and got shit on by a huge crow and it only got worse from there!"

 

Heck, you might even be saying "I once had a day where I got stabbed by a two year old!"

 

I can still beat you.

 

Friday had potential. Because I work in Gatineau, Quebec, I had the day off to celebrate St Jean Baptiste Day. I didn't celebrate. What I did was shit all over it like the crow did to me a few years ago - which is how I admit to you that I have also been
stabbed by a two year old.

 

Let's back up to Thursday night to get the full picture. I play ball hockey on Thursday nights. Have done so for years. Every year John points and laughs at the bruises on my legs and reminds me that women who play ball hockey without protective gear are
stupid. Personally, I think we are tough as nails. At least I used to. In the spirit of going for it and giving it all you got, I got a stick blade right in my shin. Not only did it hurt like the ring of fire only women will know, it left me with a sizeable
gash. Being a smart and responsible woman, I completely ignored my fourteen year old daughter and did not go to the ER Thursday night, I went Friday morning. The ER doctor simply shook his head, put some glue on it, gave me a tetanus shot and gave me crap for
not going in when it was fresh. No chance of stitches or it healing nicely, but a huge change of a really badass scar!

 

From there I went about my day thinking it couldn't get worse, and for a while it didn't. I had lunch with my kid and my mother, did a little shopping and stopped at the liquor store on my way home. Keep that last stop in your mind. I will need my purchases
there later in the story.

 

Why?

 

Because on my way home I got into a pretty decent car accident. The details aren't of major importance (mostly because they make me look like a complete doof), but everyone is healthy and my truck is currently in the shop being appraised for damage. At
first it drove fine, even though my front bumper was in the back trunk and my license plate nowhere to be found, but now we seem to be dealing with some mechanical issues that make it feel more and more like I may have really, really screwed us over.

 

If that wasn't enough, don't forget I live in a small town. This happened on a reasonably busy street in that small town so not only did people who know me see me, a lot of people who know me saw me. I could see the fingers as they drove by. The
questions of "Hey, isn't that the girl who read our magazines at the post office?" or "Isn't that your soccer coach from last year?" or "Isn't that the treasurer of the Catholic School Council!? What did she do!?"

 

Like I said. Bad day, right? I didn't dare go out that night. Or attempt to operate machinery. Or start a grill. I didn't even try to brush my teeth! Who knows what I'd stab out with that kind of plastic!

 

 

 

 

40 minus 4

Did you know that's what they are calling 36 years old now? 36 is how old I will be this Thursday.

Honesly, turning 40 doesn't scare me. Neither does inching toward it ever so quickly. I have four children and I haven't broken one yet! Nothing scares me.

Besides, at 36 years old, I still:

 

• Have all my teeth and I've never had a cavity.

• I've never broken a bone.
• The boobs? Still firm and, most days, still pointing where they should be.
• I can laugh, cry and be frightened while maintaing decent bladder control.
• I can still go drink for drink with John. He'll even pass out way before I do!
• On occasion, I still get carded at the LCBO and Beer Store.
• I have been places with my fourteen year old daughter and been asked if we are sisters.

 

Having said all that, and in the defence of time and age, I have found myself saying the following in recent months:

•   "What are those kids doing out at midnight?What are they doing on the street at 12:00am that they could be doing at 8:00pm?"
• "Those hoodlums!"
• "It's 9:30, I'm turning in. Goodnight."
• "Pass me the Tiger Balm?"
• "It's going to storm today, I can feel it in my knee."
• "God, the music in here is loud! I mean, we can dance, but what if we just want to talk?"
• "Oh here, I have gum and kleenex in my purse."

If anything, I take all of the above statements and consider them like this: I will always be well rested, I will never get mugged on the street at 12:00am and if you have to sneeze, I'm your clean-up girl. All that aside, I promise to never, ever,
use my spit and thumb to clean off any of your faces.

 

Glee - Part Two - In A Less Endearing City

Last year, we set out for New York City to see Glee at Radio City Music Hall. Remember that?

Almost exactly one year to they day, we made our way to Toronto to see Glee again. This time at the Air Canada Centre. To be honest, Toronto is a dank cesspool of rude people and horrible drivers, so you won't
get a gushing review of the food or the atmosphere from me this time.

What I can give you is a tale of a six foot tall brunette and her big haired bestie getting caught on You Tube pushing aside an elderly woman to put her hands on the sexy bad boy of the Glee Cast. With new
quotes!

Actually, that pretty much sums up my weekend right there, no? Lucky for you, I don't know when to shut up.

We hit the road at the buttcrack of dawn and once again, wet our whistles with kazoos. I promise, this is what Christina told her daughter we were playing, when what we were really doing what downing airplane
sized bottles of Bailey's.

Witness:

Cheers!



And Chug!



The ride to Toronto was filled with an awful lot of horribly politically incorrect comments, one so bad that the vehicle went silent and someone uttered "Shit just got real in here, yo!". Know what it was not
filled with? Unscheduled pee breaks. My bladder was not happy, but Lianne didn't have a potty like Christina did and we made good time, so it all balanced out in the end.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Christina unapologetically picked up on the 401. She absolutely did. She managed to spur on a preppy soccer dad driving a white Acura, with his kids in the car! Not only did
he notice us, he actually came up with poses every time we passed him. Poses I like to call "The Pensive Douchebag" and "Stretching So You Can See My Man Boobs Asshat".



Take that, perv!                              

 

We arrived at our hotel and know what we didn't do? Eat.

 

Know what we did do? Drink. And shop.

 

So we were dizzy and broke by the time we got back to the hotel room, which is probably why I lost my bank card in downtown Toronto on a Saturday afternoon, but worry not, I had just replaced the other bank card
I lost the day before. I was covered! Let's never speak of this again, and if you tell John, I might cut you.

 

Let's fast forward through the booze shakes and hairspray as we got dressed for the show and get to the part where we hijacked a limo. And when I say hijacked, I mean, we walked out of our hotel and jumped into a
limo as fourteen Boston Red Sox fans argued over the best way to get into said limo. See ya suckers! But not before we also take the totally endearing Kevin with us.

 

This is Kevin.

 



Kevin was just a baby. Kevin also asked us "So do you girls go to Ottawa University?".

 

And what did we say? Not "Oh, can I have your number you naughty little piece of man-flesh?"

 

No No. We old ladies just sighed and said "Awwwwwww!"

 

Blame the booze and lack of food.

 

Back to our story. The kind of scary, but very lovely limo driver dropped us off at the ACC so that we could pick up our tickets at Will Call. We knew that there would be some sort of goody bag involved, but imagine
our, well, GLEE, when we were handed programs and FANFUCKINGSTASTIC WARBLER TIES!! We were also given our tickets and it turned out, we were being separated into a trio of three and a duo of two, nowehere near each other. We decided to pick tickets out of a
hat at random. This is where I am convinced that the grace of God was with me. I not only had an angel on my shoulder, but said angel was humping a leprauchaun while using unicorn wings to floss her teeth. It was that divine intervention that put me in the
seat I was. Keep that in mind as you read on.

 

On to the show!

 

I reluctantly paid $40 for three beers and decided I was too poor to drink in Toronto, so that's where my boozing ended. Didn't matter, the show was about to start!

 

And what a show it was. For two hours we were entertained with a show that didn't quite kick the intimacy of the Radio City Music Hall show, but it did provide more feast for the eyes and ears. The Warblers absolutely
killed "Teenage Dream" and "Raise Your Glass" - to the point where I'm sure I got whiplash from jumping up and down.

 

Highlight of the show though? Fondling Puck (aka Mark Salling).

 

He began Fat Bottomed Girls from a makeshift stage in the middle of the floor, a few rows back from our fourteenth row seats. I was seated two seats from the aisle and happened to notice that as he stepped off said
stage, he was making his way toward my side of the aisle. I think I actually said to Christina (who was seated next to me) "Where is he going!? Is he on his way here!"

 

And he was.

 

The math was quick and calculated. The speed with which he travelled when applied directly to the ratio of people between me and him forced me to quickly surmise that I was going to have to perform a heinous smackdown
to get my hands on him.

 

To the poor lady who got shoved aside, the lady who tolerated my many bathroom breaks and embarssing Woo-Girl episodes, I apologize. I am sorry that I pushed you aside, climbed on your chair and possibly gave you
a concussion with my elbow. I would do it again in heartbeat, but I am deeply sorry.

 

Then it happened. I reached out and (not-so) gently placed my hand upon his sweaty arm. Like a fool, I just stood there, staring at my hand in wonder when Christina and Lianne yelled out "Look! He's serenading Zizes
RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!"

 

So I climbed back up on my chair, threw my hands in the air and screamed like a girl who has just been given a time machine back to the Beatles appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show.

 

The rest of the night and most of the next day was a bit of a blur, the highlights include almost cutting a bitch who cut in line at Cora's when all I wanted on this earth was a cup of coffee and some pancakes, shopping
my ass off at H&M and pretty much losing my shit (in a very bad way) when we ran into some clowns who were there supporting a downtown Toronto marathon. Thank God I wasn't running - cause it would be uncomfortable and embarssing to run with poopy pants, know
what I mean?

 

 

 

 

 

You're Not Cool Enough For This Ride

 

Carpool driving is some funny shit.

 

I don't know what I thought carpooling would be like. I suppose the only thought I ever gave to carpooling was the McDonald's commercial (or was it Subway?) where they are offering some sort of special early morning deal and the driver is
whispering into the little voicebox so as to not wake his passengers. I never got that part. Why doesn't he want to wake them? Is it so he can avoid buying them all coffee? Can he not afford the $4.00 it's going to cost him? If that's the case I daresay all
of his carpoolmates are not sleeping, they're pretending to sleep to pass the time until they can all convene around the water cooler and come up with ways to kick the cheap bastard out of carpool altogether. You know they're all going to end up driving
in the soccer mom's filthy, dog smelly minivan, but they don't care. Coffee for all!

 

Point being, besides craving a Sausage McMuffin, that commercial did little to foster me any sort of concrete ideas about what it would be like to share such a small space with two other people for two hours a day. 

 

I have to say, eight months in, carpool is comic gold.

 

I suppose the best recipe is to find people with whom you share a sense of humour. I can't imagine how the couple I drive with would fare with a stone-faced, perfectly serious A-Type personality. Thankfully for all involved, they ended up
with a potty-mouthed, way too cheerful for 6:30am, A-Type-when-it-suits hooligan. I say thankfully because they are exactly the same as me. Well, I wouldn't call the male third of our little trio "cheerful" so much as "tolerable, with a side of hilarious snark".

 

That and they handle the constant dinging and keyboard clicking from my Blackberry with grace and style.

 

One of the highlights of our morning includes the running commentary of the folks we encounter on the road. I never realized just how freaking weird people can be, and dude, I worked at a rural post office! It astounds me to no end what
people will do when they think no one is looking. So, it is the responsibility of whoever is not driving (and I never drive so I always get to play!) to provide commentary of who we see, where and what they are doing.

 

It's not unusal to hear something along the lines of:

 

"Check out the green Honda in the centre lane, license plate AWRL 926. Girl has on a sailor hat and is picking her nose with a fork!"

 

Or

 

"The man in the grey Hyundai is talking on the phone. I'd say, because it's illegal, we should tell the cop in front of him, but it's a Fisher Price phone, so I think it's safe to say he's got more to worry about than being distracted as
he drives."

 

Or

 

"Is that girl in the read minivan wearing a tinfoil hat?"

 

Or (and my personal favourite)

 

"Chantal, that guy in the truck is checking you out again, switch seats and clothes with Darryl and let's really mess him up!" It's like a Chinese Fire Drill, only no one exits the vehicle and way more people are inappropriately naked on
the highway. Mark my words, if things don't work out with John, I won't end up online dating, I'm going to meet my soulmate on the 417. He'll be wearing suspenders and carry a plastic pig with him wherever he goes, but at least he won't be lonely while I'm
at work, right?

 

This long-winded post is all to say that for a small fee every week, my morning and afternoon is filled with a good deal of hilarity, and I'm sure something I can focus on as I set out to write at least every work day. It shouldn't be hard.
I haven't even touched on the conversations they have while they think I am napping. Or the fact that little people make Kim so giddy we actually have to avoid a spot where we know one waits for the bus because she can't get through her day otherwise!

 

 

Bullety, Edition 50; Dive In

I figure there really is no way to explain a five month absense from blogging, so I won't even try. I'll just dive right back in like nothing happened and we will all be okay with that. Okay? Okay!

 

I will write about the kids first, and really, they are a big reason why I've lacked blogging inspiration. It's not that they don't give me plenty of fodder, they're just a bit more crabby about me sharing said fodder with the fourteen people who read
this blog and all of Facebook.

 

At the moment I hit publish the four children I spawned will now be, in years, 14, 12, 9 and 8. I swear, one day I was scraping baby poop out of diapers I blinked and my youngest was 8. It seems like just last week I was crying because Kristyn was off to
nursery school. Now, we're looking at cars and considering the fact that in a matter of months, one of our children will be driving what we choose.

 

 

In September, we made the collective decision to hold off on having Kristyn in after-school activities. We wanted to see how she would adapt to the challenges of high school before we once again enrolled her in drama or indoor sports. Big mistake. Ms Smarty
Pants completely rocks at high school and her ninth grade workload. In fact, I get more calls at work telling me how bored she is when she gets home from school than I do calls from Alex calling and asking me where his other blue sock is. (That's A LOT.)

 

 

Erin has become my fashion guru. She has taken to joining me in my closet on an almost nightly basis to plan my outfit for the next day. On the days where she hasn't helped out, she is the first at the door to see what I've put together. The kid has some
style and a keen sense of what is work appropriate while being a bit edgy. She has pulled out things that have had me gasping "Oh no, Erin. I bought that four years ago in Florida and I think I may have had sunstroke when I did!". Ten times out of ten, the
kid is bang on. I look cute as hell if I do say so myself!

 

 

Meg is still at it with the piano. I have to beg her to stop practicing. Those parents with children in piano lessons will know what an amazing thing this. I can't pull the kid off the damn thing! She amazes me. She even writes music. Trust me, this is
not a talent she learned from either parent. I can string together paragraphs of words, but I would rather hear the finished product of someone else's lyrical talent than attempt my own. As for her father, unless you call taking already famous songs and inserting
the word "poop" or "fart" where the words "love" or "groove" should be, he's not exactly a lyrical genius either.

 

 

And Alex … That boy. There is no one like this boy. He's a boy who would rather lay on his bed all day that take the five minute effort to clean his room. He's a boy who is notorious for suddenly having a massive case of the bubble guts just as it's time
to clear the table. This boy though, will risk his lungs and own well being to play hockey. He eats, breathes and sleeps for the sport. He works hard at it, practices hard and talks hard about the game. I love to watch him play, and that has little to do with
the fact that his team had an awesome 18-1-1 season this year. I just love watching him try so hard at a sport her adores. That, and, have you seen 7 and 8 year olds play hockey? Nothing is cuter. Sorry. Nothing.

 

That's where my kidlets stand as of now. We've had a great year of fantastic reports cards, glowing comments from teachers and more days of me coming home to a spontaneously cleaned house than anyone ever expects from their own kids. We've also had some
days of complete frustration, family meetings about expected behaviors and crazy freaking out Mommy, but we're not going there today.

 

 

I'm just trying to keep the fashion police away

Up until the beginning of this summer, my  wardrobe staples were as follows:

• My work uniform. Which, I have to say, was the very defintion of flattering.
• My pajamas.
• My jeans and t-shirts.
• My workout and soccer clothing.
• Two or three shirts, all black, that made me look thin enough but also allowed me to blend into a crowd should we go out.

Basically, not a lot of people were coming to me for advice on how to look stylish, know what I mean?

I turned thirty-five this summer and made it my goal to start <gasp> acting my age! This included dressing up a bit more, wearing more dresses and skirts and to stop being afraid of colour. (Still no patterns though, you can't change me that much!).

We've covered my fetish for shoes. Did I tell you about the new grey patent leather pumps? Heavenly. In any case, I'm pretty good at putting together a flattering outfit and I was blessed with a smart friend who took me out to buy eleventy hundred items that all match. It's foolproof.

Except. I have a few lingering concerns. Want to help?

• Where did the fashion world land on black and brown being mixed together?
• What about white after labour day? Is this still taboo? I have this great pair of white pants, but I'm thinking it's time to put them away, no?

The Last Few Minutes Of Summer

I tucked them in separately last night. In two separate beds. Two girls, twelve and thirteen years old. Nervous, excited and an exhausting mixture of sleepy and wide awake.

At 6:00am I knocked lightly on their door and opened it slightly. I found those same two girls in the same bed, arm in arm, cuddled together and wide awake.

"Kristyn woke me up at 5:47am, Mommy!" Erin called out to me.

When I asked Kristyn why she would do that she said "I wanted Erin to be awake to see the last few minutes of summer tick by."

School started this morning. Two girls who went to sleep as children woke up as young adults. One is starting her high school years. One is transitioning to being the oldest sibling at her school, without the safety net of her best friend and older sister.

So much is changing for them.

Except for one thing. At some point in the night, one found her way into the others' bed, like they have done most nights since they were toddlers.

My poor feet

I got a new job. Did I mention that?

I won't tell you where it is, but I will tell you that I am now employed by our nation's largest employer and I have to drive into La Belle Province every day. Is that enough information for you? If not and you still need help, I can't help you there, dummy.

The best part about the new job isn't the increase in pay, the full benefits or getting to sit my butt down in the World's Most Comfortable Chair all day - it's getting to wear my own clothes. My old job had me wear a uniform and as sexy as it was, it's nice to be able to fancy it up a bit. I clean up pretty well. I even coloured my hair all dark to mark this milestone!

The other best part. Shoes. I love shoes. I could buy seventeen new pairs in fifteen minutes if you let me.  (Which is the opposite of when I am trying on pants. It will take me four hours to pick out one pair!) And I have bought a bunch of new pairs of shoes. High heels, flats, wedges, sandals, pumps! Black, white, grey patent leather and even, yes, red.

The downside to this other best part? My feet. My feet are killing me! Between breaking in new pumps, stretching out new flats with my big clown feet and playing soccer against women determined to take out my toes, my poor feet are tired - and godawful ugly!

My girl Truvy said it best in 1989: "In a good shoe, I wear a size six, but a seven feels so good, I buy a size eight."

I need to heed her advice!