IF YOU'RE STRESSED AND YOU KNOW IT...

shit on the floor!

(Come on, sing and clap everyone! You know the tune!)

If you're stressed and you know it
shit on the floor!

If you're stressed and you know it,
and you really want to show it,

If you're stressed and you know it
SHIT ON THE FLOOR!



GUESS WHO IS STRESSED AROUND HERE!!!!

A) STEVE: Beloved husband, worker of thirteen and sixteen hour days for creative types who are pitching a hugemongous company that means the place he's working for will have to set up an entire new business to deal with that account and we will then be financially secure for a few years if he can just keep sucking it up from the creative types, and who is attempting to build us a new front porch and who has to empty the dishwasher for me because of my phobia about squeaky fingers on glass and whose lovely daughter just wrote on the keyboard with a Sharpie?

B) ME: Tired mommy, who is trying to maintain a tidy house and a happy husband and an active toddler, who tries to blog instead of napping and who has had to clean up an inordinate amount of messes this past weekend?

C) JOSEPHINE: Rapidly growing toddler who has been sprouting teeth seemingly continuously since she was three months old, who has begun learning boundaries and not liking them one bit, and who has developed a fear and dislike of having anyone not related to us in our house?

D) BEAUTY: Dog with the work ethic of Beetle Bailey, whose busy schedule consists of waking up, eating, napping, eating, going for walks, eating, napping, and then sleeping?

"Stress????!!!" I said with the incredulity and horror that Maynard G. Krebs would shriek "Work?"

I almost, and I mean ALMOST feel bad that last week I thought that out of spite Beauty vented her dismay at being left home from our friends' barbecue on the bathroom floor. Because, as it turns out, she felt worse and worse as the week went on, and by Wednesday I had to take her to the vet when she refused a piece of chicken cutlet. That's when I knew she must really be feeling awful - when she showed affection without the requisite bribe of meat in some form.

After gathering up a sample (there are still a few available for anyone who'd like one - $29.99 with shipping included), and breaking my rule about leaving Josephine alone with my mother (because my Aunt L was there with her, and even though she once fed her child maggot infested baby food, that counted for some additional supervision - even though I came home to find Josephine and my Mom sitting on the porch, and Josie was not wearing any pants - don't get me started.), I got Beauty to the vet just before they closed, along with the most unpleasant stuff I've ever had to scrape into some Tupperware.

I genuinely felt bad, and was terribly worried for her and um, our finances. Imagining Dr. Murphyslaw handing me a bill for about $800, exactly what the new porch would cost the coming weekend, I kept muttering to Beauty, "If it's more than $200 we're putting you down."(Hahaha, we wouldn't really.) But I said it in the same loving voice I use for Josephine when she's clutching my legs and whining and I inform her that I could simply reach down and pop her head off like a dandelion top if that continues.

Actually, I think the anal probing and the kind doctor who humoured me by showing Beauty a few sharp surgical implements convinced Beauty's illness to manifest itself into simple Colitis, which required a shot and some pills. Basically, it was a $66 tummy-ache.

Colitis, you say? Dogs can get that? Really? How? Why? Why, I asked the same question myself. Considering our house is baby-proofed and quickly becoming toddler-proofed as well; and that our usual four-alarm spices and exotic meals have been toned down to accommodate Josephine's palate - what could have caused this? Please, help me understand how her bowel could have become irritated, causing it to expel foul smelling mucuousy liquid all over my bathroom and dressing room floors during barefoot season? And the deck? And my thyme in the flower beds?

Well, stress. Stress could have caused this.

Oh. MY. Did the sofa get up and try to fly away? Was there a day when she only had one walk, not three? Did she miss a Cheerio or two on the floor?

And so, I use up the last of this month's Flickr bandwidth to provide you with a gallery of images, titled "LOOK! BEAUTY IS SO STRESSED! MIND YOUR SHOES!"


Here, she is stressed because her nap was only forty-five minutes long, not the usual three hours:



Here, she is stressed, maybe because I left two pieces of lint on her floor - otherwise I can't see any reason:



Here, she is stressed because I disturbed her by breathing too loudly near her when she was trying to nap:



Okay, here, she is not stressed, but I admit she may have been stressed later on when shortly after taking this picture we had to get rid of this smelly decrepit sofa and the stinky bedding when both my olfactory and my aesthetic senses couldn't take their assault any longer:



Okay, here she may be stressed because being around a happy family at Christmas time ruins her perfectly crafted aura of finely tuned depression in general:



Here, she is stressed because I took a moment to snap a picture that I would use to explain to Steve why we were having scrambled eggs for dinner, before cutting up the steaks she stole off the counter into little pieces so she didn't choke on our dinner:



Here she is, stressed again, because I am spending time on the computer instead of perhaps fluffing her pillows (except for occasionally raising her head to cast me a baleful look, this is how she looks right now - even though I took this picture months ago. I could take this exact picture every day.):



And here is an image of her being stressed because she was too lazy to move into a more comfortable position:



I'd show you the next image of her asleep in the above position, but I've used all of my bandwidth for this month - and have realized that out of the 2,068 images we have stored in the IPhoto library, a huge percentage of them are either of Beauty being lazy/stressed - or are of Josephine with a glimpse of a furry black and brown ass taking up floor space just visible in the edge of the frame. It's time for her $66 medicine now, which I administer with a chaser of Snausages. Because having to take medicine for her stressed out condition causes her stress.

I will be taking some chocolate and coffee for my condition, which is best described as incredulous.

And stressed. Forgive me if I indulge myself by shitting on my own floor. Mind your shoes.

OMYGAWD I'VE BEEN TAGGED!

I've been tagged! I'm one of THREE ITS!

Oh, my goodness! This is exciting! It's like high school gym class - I'm excited that I've been picked, and I like who's on my team. And, I'm not first pick, but definitely not last. But I can't tell if I've been chosen because in some sort of way someone kind of likes me, or if it's a default setting, as in, "I'd rather have the pizzaface than the nose-picker".

Here's how the game works. Below are a series of statements. I choose five and complete them, then "tag" three more people to do the same.
The statements are:
If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an inn-keeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer
If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be an astronaut
If I could be a world famous blogger
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world
If I could be married to any current famous political figure

Here are my answers - for the record, no one told me to keep it brief!:

CUE CHARIOTS OF FIRE THEME:

If I could be a librarian: I'd be the librarian of your dreams - or nightmares.

First, I'd have THE BEST librarian outfit EVER. I'd wear a fitted suit that was severe, yet sultry (made of space-age breathable, stain-proof, stretch fabric that was indiscernible from a fine wool crepe), proper hose with seams and garters, and ankle-strap stiletto heeled shoes. I already wear harsh black glasses sometimes - but I'd wear false eyelashes behind them, and MAC Dubonnet lipstick. Think notsomuch of Miss Sakamoto from the Thomas Dolby "She Blinded Me With Science" video - think Lauren Bacall in the Big Sleep - BUT A LIBRARIAN!

But...in a Twilight Zone kind of twist, I'd appear as a different image to each person in my library, and as it would be in tune with their private librarian needs - perhaps a kindly elderly lady with recipe book suggestions for a tired mom, a sparkly pony helping to choose books for an eight year old girl, Fabio helping to choose romance novels etc. (Um, make that Fabio helping to choose recipes!)

And, I'd be the librarian on a cruise ship - but it would be like the cruise ship across the river Lethe. Ah, blessed forgetfulness.

And then, what would happen, is that you could choose your own books all right - but you'd have to take my suggested books (or sarcastic comments and raised eyebrow) along with them.

Fourteen year old girl choosing science books? Put those away. You get Forever - and don't forget to to tell me what happens when your mom finds out you're reading that.(By the way, DO click on that link. I wish my mom had read what Judy Blume has to say about that book.) And here's a little something for Mom.

Pregnant? Try this. (If I don't recommend that one, I'll never win another prize.)

Sexist Pig? Here. And wear this thong.

Got a Toddler? Here. (And would you like your bourbon straight up or with a splash of branch water, dear?)


As a service, I would read to you, but in the tone and manner of my choosing. For example, as often happens around here, We're going on a Bear Hunt is often read in the voice of that fat stupid dog from the Bugs Bunny cartoon (try NOT to read it that way now). Or I'll read things in a smarmy, smirky, sarcastic voice that makes no sense in relation to the articles (like, for recipes - "Oh, a pinch of salt. Really. Hmmm.". Perhaps I'll read children's books in a voice dripping with sexual innuendo - or in a snide, sniggering, confidential manner, like "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back".

You'd also get my opinion, whether I've read the book or not. As in "I hate the cover illustration, so I won't read that." "It doesn't fit on my nightstand, so that one's out of contention." "That's a good one, and by the way, Christopher Robin does outgrow Winnie the Pooh you know. Hey! Why are you crying? Stupid six year old crybaby."

All of the books would either be bound in fine, supple bendable leathery-type environmentally friendly material or would have the original paperback covers as I remember them from my youth. The pages shall smell and feel good and they are chocolate smear-proof. Here's my million dollar idea - the pages are made of a flexible paper-type material, and each corner is perforated in a non-tearing way, so that you can dog-ear it without permanently damaging the book - like a hinge kind of...and flip it back up and move on. The illustrations are invisible unless you choose to see them, so that your perception of the characters isn't tainted. You can turn on some audio, like closed-captioning, if you want sound effects. The books have a pop up dictionary too, and an encyclopedia option too.

And in my library, you'd get your beverage of choice, a comfy chair, a foot rub and your reading lamp at just the right brightness and angle. And best of all, you'll be so happy and comfortable, you'll fall asleep and have a nap and then you won't wreck my books or bother me. Being your fantasy librarian is hard work, you know. Now go watch some TV.

By the way - this is how I did all of my tests when I was in school. I'd begin with a tremendous burst of initiative, plot an elaborate response, plow into it, tire of it quickly yet still make an effort to complete it, wrap it up like a sixty nine cent taco and then move on - to the second question with ten minutes left in the period.

If I could be a llama-rider I'd be up there yelling "LOOK OUT! THEY SPIT AND IT'S REALLY GROSS!".

If I could be a bonnie pirate I'd be the filling in THIS sandwich, or THIS sandwich, but not THIS one. And I might, just might, be the Bonnie Pirate Librarian! (If someone hadn't beaten me to it! AAARGH!)

If I could be a professor, I'd be the filling in THIS sandwich. (oh, I thought you said THE Professor.)
(hmmm...Ginger looks kind of like a Librarian...)

If I could be a psychologist I'd look into my librarian fixation. Which I didn't know I had until now.

Thanks, Dani. This was fun. Well, it was for me. You should know better.

*drumming fingers and thinking*

I tag: Ann D.(gasp! the boldness of me!) (before anyone else does and because she isn't very busy these days and needs an excuse to use her shiny new laptop anyway hahahahaevilsnickershahahaha),
Andrea(because I'd like to see whether she takes a traditional approach to this or takes off and runs with it),
and SilverCreek Mom (because I think she'd like to be tagged).

*HANDING THE MOUSE OVER AND SPANKING YOU ON THE BUM AS YOU TAKE OFF*

We're Getting Busy Around Here...

And not in a Mr. Roper's eavesdropping on us and thinks we're doing something naughty kind of way.

This past weekend - a blur.
The next few weeks - foreseeably a blur.

I feel like the commitments and the obligations we have to look forward to are less than enjoyable to anticipate because we are now the parents of a toddler.

For example, last night I had to leave a friend's barbecue, because although we arrived before five, the stuff was just hitting the grill at seven-thirty. There are only so many bread slices and raw vegetable appetizers (the olive tapenade and the tzatziki were not a hit with Josephine) that one can stuff into a fifteen-month old over two and a half hours. There are only so many times you can fall back on the diaper bag's supply of Mum Mums and Cheerios. There are only so many times you can keep her from falling into the Zen pond in the back yard. There are only so many times you can force her to open her mouth and spit out the Zen pea gravel for raking that she's eaten. There are only so many times you can help her up and down the steps of the multi-level deck, up and down the open stairway in the house, keep her out of the cat food bowl, keep her out of the pretty white crystal litter, keep her out from under the three giggly and energetic ten year old girls' feet and away from the totally rambunctious and possibly insanely hyperactive pair of eight year old boys and their scooters, their gravel and shoe throwing and balancing on a thin board over the pond contests. And keep her from eating the scented erasers she found, keep her from getting in the kitchen sink poison products cabinet, and keep her away from the hot barbecue. And only so many times you can keep her from crying in fear because the nice French chef and his fashion designer wife, their jewellery designer friend and two other women who wore great shoes to a backyard barbecue and who were all chosen by the host because we'd all get along fabulously want to pick her up and cuddle her and give her mommy a break if only she'd let them. And there are only so many times you can use that tone that you only use at parties with the husband and child in attendance, which is basically a third-person-authoritative-narrative that goes like "Now Josephine, Daddy will put down his beer and take you to look at the fish while Mommy tries to discuss the aesthetics of using noble metals in ways normally reserved for textiles with the nice lady; or perhaps Mommy will use the opportunity of having two hands free to stuff fistfuls of cashews in her mouth because we can't afford nice nuts now that we have you." And there are only so many times you can keep her from running out the open gate to the street and keep her from pulling out every one of the copious amounts of books on the shelves and keep her from spilling your bourbon sour that you've had only one sip of before you just tell the hostess: "I am leaving because we both really need to go home and have a bowl of noodles, a bath and then bedtime."

And so we left. We came home to find out in the worst way possible (yes, SQUISHPITTERPATTERSKIDTHUMPWAAAAAH!) that Beauty had diarrhea, and had peed, on the bathroom floor. Possibly out of spite, possibly due to need. Same results either way, so I'm not going to waste time questioning her motivation. And so, to add to a resentful, tired, hungry, cranky and frustrated injury - we add the insult of a mess requiring Q-tips to clean because the cracks between the boards of the dressing-room's floor are quite wide. Now we have learned, that just in case this ever happens again, that when we come upstairs and take that extra twenty seconds to turn around and shut the gate at the top of the stairs, that it is enough time for Josephine to run into the bathroom, step in poo, track it into two other rooms and then back into the bathroom and then slip and fall in the pee. Oh! And the one corn muffin I didn't eat for lunch had somehow fled the kitchen counter and made it up to the spare bed where it crumbled into a million pieces under the wadded up sheet, and had left a trail of crumbs that stuck to the poo prints on the floor. Think tarred and feathered, but in Smell-O-Rama.

So, in order of events - we had to strip the clothes off and wash Josephine's poo covered feet in the tub, take her out and put her in the crib to scream while I cleaned my feet and then the tub and tried to do a quick clean up of the poo - involving the loss of four fingertip towels I never liked anyway because the trip back downstairs for paper towels seemed like simply too much - put her back in the tub for a proper bath, get her into the last pair of clean pajamas she has, and then get her downstairs to nurse to sleep on the couch because it's now after nine and the upstairs smells like poo still and I can't leave my precious baby alone up there with that stench. It only seemed right that I should call Steve home from the barbecue, which was just a few blocks away, to deal with the remains. It was perfect that his cel should ring just at just the second his fork was about to make contact with the food on his plate.

Now, although Beauty's bowel movement and the resulting tableau was unusual, the rest of the scenario has been playing itself out in various ways for the last little while. The parents spell each other off as toddler wranglers, and the other never gets to relax fully and everyone gets overtired and cranky and frustrated because nothing is simple any more. Josephine is just very active and adventurous and likes her routine and keeps us busy every chance she gets. We (meaning all three of us) are up early. So. Very. Early. We (meaning Josephine in the Royal sense) only have one nap a day lately. We will not eat food that our index finger deems unpalatable. We have no depth perception. We have no impulse control or retention. We think it's funny to watch what mommy does when we put things in our mouth we shouldn't. We love, love, LOVE to cover our eyes with a towel, our shirt, or our hands and run until we hit something, fall down and cry. We do not like to stay still for diaper changes. We do not like to fall asleep in the stroller any more. We do not like the sound of the word NO, and its potential implications. And so WE are no longer fun to take places which require adult interaction - parks and play dates in childproof zones, oui. Backyard barbecues and cottage weddings, non. And we (back to meaning all of us) are no longer the fun guests we used to be. We (meanng me) apologize in advance.

Until early July, we are booked for every weekend with something to do that now requires amazing tactical prowess, impossible toddler manipulation, and potentially gross energy expenditures. I'm dreading it all.

I have no joy for Steve's cousin's wedding in June. She is getting married at her fiancée's cottage near Fenelon Falls. So far, the best part about it has been the laugh her wedding registry gave me. An eighty dollar shower curtain. Hahahahaha. But the minimum two-hour drive each way (potentially MUCH longer with traffic) meant that we thought it best to get a place to stay there, even if it was just to shower and dress and nap before the four o'clock ceremony. We found a CHARMING Bed and Breakfast owned by my friend's uncle right close by on the same lake - but no dogs are allowed and they require a two-night stay. Since every other potential place either didn't welcome children, was a potential candidate for winning Ann's contest, took dogs but we couldn't leave Beauty while we were at the wedding, was hundreds of dollars a night or too far away for convenience - we booked it for two nights even if it means we won't be staying there on the Friday. Finding a sitter for Beauty is harder than finding a sitter for Josephine. Beauty's only ever stayed with family or been walked by friends - I've never kenneled her or left her overnight alone. She's a big suck, and I care that she'll be sad. I am finding the stress of finding something to wear that's appropriate for a cottage wedding that I can breastfeed in, something comfortable and cute for Josephine (and a lifejacket) to wear not knowing what the weather will be, gifts for the shower next weekend and for the wedding, and road maps and dog care and car servicing and thinking about how we'll feed her and take care of her through all the hoopla such a big drag that I've already offered just to send Steve along with his parents and stay home. We won't be good guests, and even though Steve is most awesome at doing his share with Josephine - she still wants me most, especially when she's feeling shy and I shouldn't have to feel like I'm dragging my feet in anticipation of having to simply care for my daughter.

So I wonder why we keep putting ourselves through all this. It's easier and more fun to stay home where we're comfortable and well fed and childproofed and dog friendly. There are parks nearby for socializing and playing. Friends can drop by, and it doesn't cost anything or take two hours to plan to be somewhere for half an hour. And I'm feeling lazy and self-protective and stubborn and I don't want to go to lunch at a restaurant with my mother and aunt on Wednesday and I don't want to go to a birthday party this weekend and I don't want to go to a shower the weekend after and I don't want to go to the wedding or on any weekend trips right now. Everything is harder, and it's not that I want my old life back -- it's that I want don't want my new life to be unnecessarily difficult.

For once in my life, I am happy with less.

I should mention that Steve, his Dad, and two of his friends think they can build a new front porch for us next weekend. I will be hosting my old play group on Saturday morning. Perhaps I should set up seats at the park across the street and charge admission.

Watch out for that post.

OF COURSE I HAVE MOTEL STORIES!

Ann D.. forgot that I read her blog many, many times a day in an attempt to win prizes. So when she threw out the question "Have you got any hotel-from-hell stories you want to share -- stories about the four-star hotel that wasn't, or that "quaint" holiday rental property that was so quaint that it didn't have working plumbing?", I had to decide WHICH story to tell, even though the only prize is more attention paid to me!

(Edited to say that it became a contest due to my relentless badgering.)

Steve and I make it a practice to stay in the cheesiest motels we can find. A few years ago we drove to Texas, and only stayed at places that looked like they were built pre-Kennedy era. We tried to stay in Wigwam Village in Kentucky, but they were all booked up on our way down, and on the way back it was too early in the day to stop. But we had a look inside them, and that visit is definitely on the agenda. We made up a rhyme in anticipation: "Went to Kentucky, Trying to get lucky, Stayed in a Wigwam and went F#$%y F#$%y.", but were disappointed. When next we go, it will probably mean dragging an eight year old Josephine kicking and screaming through the Bourbon distillery tours and caves - and no F#$%y F#$%y - and she'll be begging us to take her to a water park and to stay in a Hyatt and we'll be like, "But you'll be missing AMERICA!".

Mostly the rooms were clean and nice enough, with that retro charm we all love and front desk clerks that called us "Hon" or "Sug". Sometimes though, it meant fighting off mosquitoes in the bathroom that were so big they had to register a flight path. Once or twice that meant not unpacking anything, so that nobody could hitchhike along with us. We never stayed in a proper hotel with floors, except for when we got to Nashville, where unlike Sharbean, we stayed in the nice hotel with the guitar shaped pool and bad country Karaoke in the lounge - but that was because it was the first one we came to and I had four days of road stomach to take care of. That was, of course, because we only ate off the beaten track too. In anything that resembled a diner, we had to stop and have a cup of coffee and try whatever their specialty pie was. Even if that was the Kuntry Diner in Arkansas, and the pie was Muskrat Pie (which also solved the mystery of what was all that little black furry road kill we'd been seeing and couldn't identify).

We love little motels, even though I am fully aware of the dangers of staying in them. It's like how my friend who once worked at a Swiss Chalet won't eat at one now.

I was once a maid at a cheesy motel.

It was on Niagara Falls Boulevard, near the Boulevard Mall in Amherst. My friend Martha got me the job, which was perfect for that summer when I was seventeen. We didn't wear maid uniforms, which I would have liked. We didn't have to start work until ten, and our first job was to clean the bar. We'd sort the empty beer bottles, mop up and wipe down the bar and chairs and find money on the floor everywhere. Check out was at eleven. Then, we'd start on the rooms, of which there were only about twenty. They had to be done by two. Not many people actually slept there, if you know what I mean. Those that did, we'd get to bounce by pestering. For these rooms, we wore elbow length rubber gloves and I bought tongs for picking the pooners of the floor. And ceiling. We had to Windex the chairs (very necessary). Pick the cigarette butts out of the shower. Check under the bed for leftover drugs or needles, or condom wrappers. Vacuum, dust and done. Sheets changed every day. Bedspreads and bedspreads not. (This is my most valuable tip - when you go to ANY motel or hotel room, the bedspreads and blankets are not changed daily. Even in nice hotels - just look at the maids' carts. Only sheets and towels, right? Most amorous couples don't wait to climb between the sheets. Remove the bedspread and blanket gingerly and immediately, and use the extra blanket which is the clean one. Wear a sweater and socks if you want to be warmer when you sleep.)(Oh yeah - and even though the floors are vacuumed and bathroom floors mopped - just keep your feet covered. Just do it.) We were generally done by five, because after the rooms were cleaned we just had to do the laundry. So we'd order pizza, drink beer and watch Perry Mason re-runs while we folded and readied the cart for the next day. It didn't pay much, but it suited our lifestyle. We were sneaking into bars and hanging with our friends' bands and having a blast. Martha had inherited some money, and used it to help the Goo Goo Dolls pay for their album Jed. We got our first tattoos. We had fun, blasting Appetite for Destruction and occasionally using the heated waterbeds with ripple action (in the premium rooms) to lay on while we ate our lunches.

Two or three rooms were rented on a long-term basis by some pretty strange people. We didn't have to spend time in them, but we'd have to change their towels and hand them new sheets and take the old. One room was used by a father-son combo. It stunk of feet and ass and hair pomade. Their tap leaked hot water, so it was all saturated and humid in there, which made it totally unbearable. We'd play rock, scissors, paper to see who'd run in for the switch, and then have to hold our breath the whole time and hope one of the guys didn't want to chat.

Another room was used regularly for a certain couple who trysted on Tuesdays, leaving us their extra beer and cigars; and who had a ferret who made the room smell and who drank out of the ashtrays. We dubbed it the Richard Gere room.

For a few weeks, one room was rented to a creepy young guy who would sit on his chair while we got the towels from his bathroom and changed his sheets. He wore the shortest bathrobe ever. And sat with his legs open. So we asked him to leave the room, and he'd stand in his really short bathrobe pressed up against the storm door. That was worse. When he left, we found an incredible stash of porn the likes I'd never seen before (and I'm a bit coarse sometimes, but Fat Folds You Can F^@* and some of the Geriatric Stuff was really creepy, whereas the regular shaved beaver stuff was stuff we'd found before). And we found his discharge papers from the macadamia ranch. When we went to the TGIFridays across the street after he left, one of the waitresses we knew told us he'd been in there telling stories about what he'd been doing with the maids over at the Colonial. Don't worry, it didn't hurt my reputation, since he was the kind of crazy guy who would also occasionally try to bite his own face so people kinda knew what was up.

I quit sometime during the fall. The final straw was cleaning up after a party that had been held in one of the rooms. Lamps broken, booze spilled everywhere, and the type of vomit that tells you more than one person was sick and that people really should chew their food more. I didn't want to stick around for New Year's Day, because I heard the vomit on that occasion is really spectacular.

And so, while that experience didn't turn me off staying in cheesy motels, it did prepare me to stay in them. I travel with Lysol and my own blanket, pillow, coffee pot and flip-flops. And you should too.

What a Difference Two Years Makes...

My oh-so fabulous prizes from THIS contest are truly the gifts that keep on giving.

For example, I received the gift of laughter when I put these images together:

Romantic Getaway May 2003 (Also known as BEFORE)



Romantic Getaway April 2005 (Also known as AFTER)



This is either an ad campaign for the Mother of All Toddler Books, or for birth control.

Along with the book came the gift of humility. The gift of tact must be in the mail.

I really know nothing about toddlers - especially boys, and the raising of them, despite reading the above book at every opportunity. I'm now aware of how much I don't know - having a baby was EASY - all about meeting her physical needs. Now the minefield of emotional needs, personal development and parental etiquette is before me. I'm not sure if I want to research what I'm going to write about next, because I hope it never happens again in my presence. I had to work really hard not to approach this mom and question her, as is my nature. Since blogging has consumed me, I'm now aware of drive-bys and judgments how some people find certain things humorous and offensive or just offensive.

At a nearby park yesterday - and not our favourite one (especially now), Josephine was playing in the sand near the rocking elephant thingy, and I was watching a dad playing with a smallish girl and an older b0y on the slide right next to us, while the mom sat on a nearby bench. If I had to guess, I'd say the little girl was around a year old, and the little b@y could have been anywhere between three and five - but not younger. Suddenly, the mom called the little boy over, and started yelling "P** on the Tree! P** on the Tree!", pulled his lower extremity covering clothing down, and helped him "make" on the tree. The tree was right next to the bench, at the edge of the grass next to the sidewalk that borders the play area. She zipped him up, and sent him back to play with his dad, with lots of excited praise. She proudly told his father, "No accidents today!", and they continued to discuss how he has a certain facial expression that indicates he's got the urge. Dad high-fived him, and they continued as they were.

I left, with a series of questions in my head. You see, I don't think that was a success.

I don't think it's right to let little future men tinkle on 3ees in the play area of a park, at least not as I observed.

Because my daughter and I might sit under that tree. Or she might pick up a leaf or a pebble or a stick from there.


But I don't want to digress.

The mother didn't wash his hands or hers, or wipe them off even. She didn't pour some water over the spot to rinse it a bit. She didn't tell him that watering trees with your willy was an emergency thing.

I'm new at this, and I'm still fussy although I've let go of more than a few strictures. I'm an only child, and never had much experience around b()ys and their parts until high school, and then I was batting in a different ballcage. And I've heard about how hard the whole potty training thing is, and I hear from Steve how little joys are.

Steve regales me with stories that make me glad Josephine is a girl. I have to hold my sides because they hurt from giggling when he tells me about fartberry bushes, p&eing fires out, stopping elevators so he and his friends could pe* down the shaft, eating all the chives from his mom's garden so his farts in school would be extra stinky and he'd get sent home, selling tickets to a public shitting, and just this weekend, how to make a stink bomb out of a ten-cent pen and two different ways to get paper towels to stick to a lavoratory ceiling. He looks at me as if I might be a conspirator in these childhood memories, and is always amazed when I tell him that girls are different - and that we might know how to spin library paste into giant glue balls on the ends of pencils, but it isn't the first thing we think to do with those two items. Girls build doll furniture out of popsicle sticks - we don't sharpen them against the curb and pretend we're carrying shivs. His stories are funny, because they seem like a retro movie much like "A Christmas Story".

I tried to picture what I would do in that mother's situation, because I want to be all caring and sensitive right? I thought about striking up a conversation, but couldn't trust myself not to snark. And so I said nothing, and thought about it all the way home. Well, I'm pretty resourceful. If this sort of training thing were ongoing, I imagine I'd be doing this:

I'd bring one of those nylon collapsible dog water bowls along, and keep it in a zip lock bag with wipes. Then I'd get him to make yellow water in it (maybe with a cheerio to aim at or the core of a diaper in it to absorb the leakage) in a private area, empty it and store it in the plastic baggie to be washed later; and clean both our hands and then tell him that's good in an emergency, but that bathroom functions are private and that we understand emergencies but we still have to keep clean. Am I insane? Can this happen?

I know the little heathens celebrate their ability outside. There have been times in our past when after a late night binges of beer drinking I've hogged the bathroom and since our second bathroom in the basement has been dismantled, Steve's used the laundry washtubs because it was THAT necessary. My imaginary boy child can certainly discover that it's fun and possible to sprinkle the outside liberally with his friends or dad occasionally as an illicit and manly bonding thing to do. But it shouldn't be something that's okay just because I, as a parent responsible for helping him to sort out the potty training thing, was a little late in catching him. And then, afterward, was so proud of not having to add wet pants to the list of things to manage that I didn't take time to explain certain niceties post-emergency bladder relief.

So, the judgmental part of me says that it was her success not his. And I have no idea what I would do until it actually happened to me, which it's not going to, so I'll never find out. I trained my dog more by training myself, by using prevention and anticipation and by teaching her to ask out - and so I think I can train a kid, and I'm probably wrong. Check back in a year or so.

But when I bring Josephine out into the world to play in a park with kids, I just can't bear to think it's a pee-soaked park with unwashed kids. That sort of thing doesn't seem to appear in any books.

Has anyone written an etiquette book for new parents? One where you can say, "Well, THIS parenting AUTHOR suggests that next time you encourage your son to empty his bl@dder on a tree in the park, you find one not facing the main street and not where nice little girls might end up touching his urine afterwards. And then wipe his hands so that other people aren't discouraged to use the slide, okay?".

Because I think I lack the friendly and tactful touch needed to write one myself. Anyone?

Yesterday's sentimentality was brought on by sleeplessness, in combination with PMS. Today's bitchiness is brought to you by PMS and the introduction of another upper molar and more of those thoughts that I can't seem to let go of regarding not connecting with other parents .

(we'll be playing at a different park today.)

Vignette: Papillon

STILL re-hashing that trip to Buffalo. You've been warned.



This was a funny part of the trip.

Josephine had fallen asleep in the car, and so we continued driving to various estate sales, taking turns going in and shopping. Of course it's better to look together, but this is still fun for us, because we get to compare notes - "Did you see the awesome handles on the kitchen cabinets?", "The PINKEST bathroom EVER, right?", "Why three raised potty/shower seats and only one bathroom? Will we care about the differences in potty chairs should we ever need one? Does one get a test drive - they're not really returnable, and not something you'd want to use second-hand, right?". For the record, that last one leads to the (SHUDDER) conversation about when the potty seat showed up at my parent's house after my Dad's last accident.

In a case of information you never, ever, ever, ever, EVER (there aren't enough letters in the word EVER to spell how you don't want EVER to hear this) want to hear about your parents (and this is worse than the one when after my Dad's first set of heart attacks when I was seventeen, my Mom assured me they still managed to have a sex life - that it was just...different)(hurl) I was told that my Mom put the seat in the shower for my Dad. Because he couldn't stand for very long, and it had the hole where she could help him...deep breath and say it real fast...washhisdanglybits.

Now THAT conversation between Steve and I, held later, was a doozy. It was like when my parents started getting comfortable around Steve, and my mom felt free to change into her slinky nightgowns a little earlier than she used to, and my dad resumed his habit of shedding his pants for his nightly TV watching before bed. I had to explain to Steve that this means that he has the misfortune to be considered "family". He had to earn it, the evenings of my Mother in her either slinky or worn cotton nighties with the seams cut under the arms for more um...breathing room, by a year or so of regular visits. And he had to earn the peek through the baggy boxer fly with repeated visits too, although not as many visits were required. Unfortunately, we have all, as a family, seen my Dad's dangly bits by now, mainly due to his gaping underwear. Josephine got her first full-on view that weekend. She didn't have to wait long, but not because she is automatically family by birth. That girl just can't abide a closed door. Or, in this case, a partially closed door. Because, in my parents' tiny, tiny apartment, the only privacy to be had is if you shut the door to the smallest room in the house. Which my father doesn't do. I had to explain to Steve on this trip, that since his health took a turn for the worse, my Dad doesn't close the door while he (hurl) attends to some private business, because he's afraid he'll pass out Elvis-style, and the way the door shuts in their bathroom means he'll probably be wedged up against it and we won't be able to open it to get in and rescue him. And since this did happen once, we understand this and just stay away from the vicinity - as far as you can in a one bedroom apartment.

And so Josephine walked in on him as he was getting into the shower (I hope that's what it was), before we could stop her. This is the point where, much like wishing for Tinkerbell to live, you must help me hope and hope and hope that this is not something she will remember. It's important to me that the next time she gazes upon the...(hurl and think of a word)...chicken skin... that she's old enough for us to explain that Grandpa and Grandma are living examples of why modesty is a virtue.

Every time we go to an estate sale and see the evidence of aging, we make repeated promises of how we will love and take care of each other when we're old. A trip to Buffalo always reminds me to reassure Steve that I will wash his dangly bits for him should he ever require that assistance. And I suppose, in a discomforting way, this assurance of my parents' love for each other is touching, because to have to be washer or washee, or having to fear dying in a most compromising scenario is also something to be overcome.

But I digress.

While Steve was exploring a cute little bungalow in Kenmore, and I was sitting in the car with the sleeping Josephine, I watched the above pictured drama unfold through the rearview mirror.

The little dog had been running like mad all up and down the street, and the lady sitting on the lawn had been lurching and lunging and whining at it for quite some time. She was, to put it nicely, unused to exerting herself in this manner. Neighbours came out of their houses to watch or help, waving hot dogs and clapping their hands and trying to "herd" the darting and dashing little feller. With his wiggly glee, he evaded them all easily - but only after letting them think that they just might catch him. And finally, the SPCA truck came, and with it the guy with the BUTTERFLY NET (I thought they only used them in cartoons!), who also tried in vain to catch the little bugger. I gathered from her wheezing explanations to anyone that would listen that the woman was the housekeeper for an old guy living on his own, and that the dog rarely left his own fenced-in back yard but had managed to get out the front door as she entered. I cannot tell you how surreal this comedy/tragedy/farce seemed. It played out for as long as we were there - over half an hour! But oh, the expression in the dog's movement! His disdain for his pursuers, his taunting postures, and his laughing expression - he was having the best time EVER. Guess who I was rooting for?

We left before the resolution. I prefer to think of the little dog as ultimately victorious - that he ran and ran and ran and found a life, however terrifying for a bitty dog, outside of a bungalow and a fenced-in back yard. But then, the old guy who lived on his own and who required a housekeeper and who might have needed help with his dangly bits probably needed that dog more than the dog knew. He was probably a happy little dog in his home, but the experience of the whole damn street laid out at his feet was just too tempting. And the bozo humans and their comedic attempts to capture him - why oh why can't dogs laugh out loud? I'm sure in time to come, when he does that asleep and whimpering jerky leg thing, he'll be dreaming that he's the Steve McQueen of the knee-high fuzzy buddy set.

Some day we may end up at that old guy's estate sale, and find a potty chair and a small dog bowl for sale, and Steve and I will once again look upon each other and promised that we will love each other through potty seats and open bathroom doors, and our daughter in the back seat will plug her ears and go "LALALALALALALALALALA". But it was at this moment, viewing this vignette comprised of escape artist and my imagination, that I thought about the fact that some day Josephine must escape from our family in the way the dog has from his bungalow, or the way I have from a life in that environment. We all start out as Josephines; but someday become the dogcatcher, the housekeeper, old guy, the danglybitwasher or the danglybitwashee - or the observers that Steve and I were and are. It all has yet to unfold before us, and it seems surreal and like it will happen to someone else - much like that little scene I captured in the rear-view mirror.

Somewhere in there will be, I hope, someone for Josephine to love as I love Steve. Even if it means that HER daughter will have to be grossed out about her parents some day.

(Blubbers, and leaves to kiss the napping baby. The husband is doing secret guitar and other boy things in the basement, and would rather be left to that than interrupted.)

It Was Happy.

Josephine on Mother's Day. I don't need to say anything, for once.

Close To Home.

One of the best things about being a mother is getting to read, out loud, lots. I'm so happy to be boring Josephine to sleep every night with Beezus and Ramona and Frances and occasionally, Christopher Hitchens or Dominick Dunne. On our last trip to Buffalo, I picked up a copy of The Wind in the Willows at Barnes & Noble - just a cheapy copy from their Children's Classics series. I've never read it, or had it read to me, but hey, it's a classic, and part of the vernacular. It must be done. Some day I'll find a nice old copy with Shepard or Rackham's illustrations, but for now I'm just glad to have the $5.98 version.

So far, the best part of it has been this line in the introduction, written by Leonard S. Marcus:


"Having a home,...isn't happiness, but it is the beginning of all happiness, the secure base from which free spirits may grow and venture forth."


He's right.

We are happy here, in a house that is well-used, eclectically decorated, and full of music and books and food and laughs. We love our "things", but they are not us although they do speak of us and to us. (But not like, out loud in our heads - I mean they strike an emotional chord).

As previously mentioned, one of our mutually agreed upon favourite hobbies is to go to estate sales when we visit my parents in Buffalo. Strangely, we do not go to sales here in Toronto, because the Buffalo sales are more special. To paint the town with a broad stroke, in an area like Buffalo, people grow old and die in their houses with all of their stuff. And a lot of their stuff is old and cool, and not as appreciated by the locals as it is by us. Not for the same reasons anyway. There isn't the same trend toward condominium living and downsizing and renovating. People use their stuff forever. People redecorate in 1974 and leave it that way until they die. If they re-redecorate in 1985, all of the old stuff goes into GIANT basements and attics.

The typically Polish and Italian makeup of the city means that there are often second kitchens in the basement for holiday cooking or cooking in hot weather, and this is where the enamel topped tables, old cookbooks, neat-o canisters and obsolete utensils are to be found. It also means that the stuff was the height of style at the time it was purchased - back when plastics were new and wonderful and yet you still used the giant enamel stockpot that your mother bought you when you were married. I personally get a kick out of seeing old wooden or metal stirring spoons that are half worn away from always stirring at the same angle in the same directions. I've got dibs on my own Grandma's. My cousins can fight over the jewellery, I want the bowl my Grandfather drank his coffee out of every day and the spoon my Gran always stirs her sauce with. Those sorts of items are finite in quantity, as the world is encouraged to embrace disposable items.

Sometimes there is a bar in the garage or basement - several of my own family members had them. Completely stocked with liqueurs slowly crystallizing and glasses hung upside down and lit by figural lights of drunken bums leaning on stoplights. Or a rec room for the kids, with a bouncy horse and bookshelves and old twister games. There's usually a console record player, and you don't have to go too far back in the record stacks before you hit some Mantovani and some crazy stereo sound effects records. That's when we score old comedy records like Redd Foxx and Rusty Warren and Bob Newhart. And great singers like Julie London, or one of my favourite areas to collect: cheesy Christmas records, like from Liberace and Mitch Miller and Hawaiian Christmas. We're nutty that way.

In fact, we are often in danger of having our house look like a couple of seventy-two year olds live here.

We also edit our collections from time to time, and we are now not so eager to bring home every bar tool, kitchen implement or kitschy record we can get our hands on (although I really, really need to find a vintage freezer ice scraper soon - Anyone? Anyone?)

The way we search out sales is to check the newspaper, and there I use my familiarity with the old neighbourhoods to determine our route. Knowing how old the community is, they type of houses and their storage capacities, and especially morbidly, looking for mention of medical equipment like potty chairs and those motorized vehicles (that always have spry and sprightly names like "the Lark, the Getabout, or the Sprint that make their owners with compromised mobility feel more sporty or something). We like seeing a Full Attic! or Full Basement! mentioned. Some sales are disappointing as far as finding little treasures or great trash - but we always like having a look at the houses and getting glimpses into the lives of the people who lived there. It scratches a nosey itch.

Of course, we try to be respectful whenever possible, but really, who could resist the odd "It's a shame the Brady Bunch doesn't live here any more!" Or, when we found the house with a basement bar that far exceeded the normal requirements of any household and the wife's correspondingly ginormous collection of holiday decorations stored there as well - well, all we could do was think that we might have caught a glimpse of the real Santa's Workshop. In that same house, there was a room upstairs set up as an office - an office for a State Farm Insurance agent in 1953. The industrial desk, with the period stapler, staples in the original boxes, number two pencils in boxes, coat rack, swivel chair, paper clips, etc. That was right up Steve's alley, and a lot of that followed us home - along with, surprisingly, a high-quality vintage Stetson straw cowboy hat in its original box that drew compliments from actual Texans. It was funny that it was there.

So, as collectors of graphically pleasing, interestingly and charmingly designed or useful vintage items, we also become students studying human nature. My past employment also allowed me into people's homes, but usually with conversations that offer some explanations of the items. When left to stand on their own, the items tell their own story.

Which is why this house from our last trip really left us gasping. It's hard to describe How. Much. Stuff. It smelled like body odour, parts of it were menacing and whoever lived there was fucked up. This was not a dealer, I asked. This was how someone lived. The basement had a room that had a barber chair and mirror, and a fully stocked shop - but all mildewy and decaying and in piles. The Christmas trees were fully decorated and wrapped in plastic like mummies, and were stuffed in corners with the tops bent over in a threatening fashion. The yard, which managed to look charming in the photos, was really abandoned and decrepit. The windows were wall-papered over inside, and festooned outside. Eccentricity my ass, this was a thorough and complete nutjob. Here - see?











But worse were things like these, piled EVERYWHERE:


(What're you doing there, Raggedy Andy?)







AAAAAAAAAAAAAASCARYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

One of the trades offs from not being depressed and reluctant to leave the house these days means I miss Oprah (I know, I'm sure she feels the loss). There was a show on recently about hoarders that I would love to have seen. And I would have recorded it, and then I would show it to my Father, because he is has been collecting bags and bags of "collectibles" and stashing them in their basement lock-up over the past few years since his last accident. If not for their tiny apartment and my mother's influence, his living conditions would look like this. I cannot convince him to just let it all go - I don't want to be the person to have to deal with it all when the time comes. But that's a worry I can put aside until the time does come.

But the point, and there is one here, is that sometimes the crazy is on the inside and it shows on the outside; and sometimes it's on the inside in a deeper and more terrifying way and it never shows. You just don't know it until it hits you where you live.

I thought I'd received the worst sort of news when I found out about the ghastly way someone I'm acquainted with and like very much attempted suicide recently. It was awful to think of the sort of pain someone must be living with to choose such a frightening and thorough and horrific means. And that no one would see it coming. I hurt for this person, but can never, never imagine what this person's life must be like and would NEVER presume.

And then, yesterday, I received news of something worse. And I didn't see it coming. I found out someone close to us could hurt us like no other. In a letter, a four page densely typed letter, I received a litany, a diatribe, a manifest filled with vitriol, from an old friend I recently rekindled a relationship with - every word of it an assault against what I hold most dear. My family - particularly Steve.

In all I wrote to her over a few months, much of it similar to what appears here; and from one visit to our house, she only saw the bitter - not the sweet. I had no idea that the damage she sustained from her previous relationships, the effect of alcoholism on her upbringing, and her current religious fervor would colour the lens she saw us through to the extent that it would seem to her that I am now a victim desperately struggling to maintain a veneer of normalcy.

It took a day to get over the thought that somehow I perhaps did indeed convey to her that I am in a loveless marriage to an under-employed arrogant alcoholic. But I got over that. Perhaps someone should include in a parenting manual that the stupefying sleeplessness, and bleary-eyed torpor one lives in from working eleven hours a day while helping to raise a baby resembles a condition requiring a twelve-step program. Someone is delusional, and it is not me. Her accusations, under the guise of honesty, are so far from the truth, so transmorgified, that before I could compose a refute to her letter and dismiss our friendship - I vomited. We have been breached here, and we are closing ranks. What I choose to share, here or with anyone privately, is only a piece of the picture. It is by no means the owner's manual and schematics. It is mine to share, and I take the risk that it might compromise my family's privacy. But I do not give anyone permission to offer cruel and insulting assumptions.

I get sad sometimes. I kvetch. A few months ago I was scared we'd lose the life we'd built. I shared this. But ultimately, life is good for us. We've turned a corner. We have baggage, but quite honestly, the worst part of my life these days is that my mother is a pain in my ass. My husband is the best person I know, as I state in my profile, and I mean it even more after this.

We ARE a little loopy - I mean, I bought this basket of buttons from the estate sale for the pleasure of sorting them and maybe making things with them and because I fondly remember my Grandma's button box.



And I love silly cookbooks and funky thingies, like the ones I purchased here:



34 Kraut Recipes! Magic With Leftovers! A recipe book with nothing but casseroles! Hahahaha! Any wonder we have so few dinner guests?

And I love it when they have illustrations like this:




But we're a nice kind of crazy around here. Not a scare away people kind of crazy, not a hurt ourselves crazy, and not a hurt others crazy.

If your house and your collections post mortem give us the wrong impression of you, well, that's our bad and really, we're just a couple of slightly irreverent tourists who couldn't know.

And if you have a secret pain that we could never learn of until we hear the worst, well, we couldn't know.

And there is no one, no one - outside of the three people and one dog in this house that could know the length and breadth and depth of our lives. In my case, I'll write volumes about it - and you might get me. Or, not. If not, buzz off. If so, welcome and come over for some Pocky sometime, Okay?

And we are happy, and we are all fine, and now we are secure. And if anyone ever gets the wrong idea, please keep your crazy to yourself. We're better off without you. When we want lunacy, we'll go looking for it. We are experts at finding it, it seems.

Wanna Hear a Dirty Story?

Inquiring minds want to know (Ann-onymous ones, probably): A certain little brown companion has been seen in the company of a pink lady. No news on whether or not they've been secretly hitched and are expecting a baby, or whether he's promoting the wholesome child-loving architect side of his personality while she's off being an ambassador and tempting him with her mothering capabilities and playing innocent to the press, or whether he's as gay as a three dollar bill and dating her because she's twenty-six and hot and their careers need a boost...but here is incontrovertible proof that Dougie and Pinky have been seen in each other's presence.



and...



Then, they were both dropped out of the stroller into some mud from all of the construction around here, and got really, really dirty. So they're having a bath together tonight, and may...gasp...tumble dry.

We're off to have some fun on this lovely day. There is at least one and perhaps there are two, giant posts percolating inside me. But once again, life is happening and we've been given the gift of a beautiful day. That and there's no water in the house today due to construction, and so really we need to go some place where the toilets flush.

Found.

As a jeweller, I quickly grew to hate the manufactured holidays. Engagements and weddings are just as bad. Having worked with estate jewellery and other items, I've seen that really, objects are just objects - and ones that are linked to holidays through media created sentimentalism are simply emotional burdens, and then sometimes physical ones. It was so awful, helping people to choose such personal items for others, catching glimpses into their stress, and ulterior motives and then - the heartbreaking returns and exchanges and other forms of commerce that grew from the simple idea of symbolizing emotion with adornment.

I am attached to few things, although I am surrounded by many. Steve has always chosen beautiful jewellery for me, and I appreciate it; and yet nothing is like our wedding bands. When putting away the back yard furniture last fall, Steve lost his wedding ring - it was the final straw. He'd been working sporadically after having freelanced at one place for sixteen months and then unceremoniously dumped. We were beyond broke, and morale around here was at an all-time low. That was one of the most awful things that could happen to us. We had one small consolation, and that was that we knew the wedding band was in the back yard. A metal detector was hired, but there were too many nails that kept setting it off. Plus all of our furniture is metal. Nice try, though. It was terribly sad, and we mourned for it throughout the winter.

Because I am a jeweller with connections, we have stupendously stunning wedding bands. They are marvels of manufacture, material and meaning. We weren't married with them, though. Although we searched pawn shops and antique shops and stores in Austin the few days before we got married, we couldn't bring ourselves to do the tacky thing and choose what seemed to be the prevailing stock item - yellow gold and diamond horseshoe rings. So we went to a gift store and bought two dollar mood rings - simple band style ones, on the morning of our wedding. Steve's turned black immediately, mine a happy blue. We wore them until we found our permanent rings. We still have the mood rings and love them, but they're not durable or else we'd still have them on, green fingers and all. The irony of being the head of the jewellery department of a major auction house here in Toronto with a toy wedding ring was not lost on anyone, I made sure of that (but it may have been ironic in the Alanis Morrisette way, not real irony. I haven't checked.).

One day at the auction I bought a beautiful antique gold ring, and we decided to have a version of it crafted in platinum. And so with this as the inspiration, Steve's was made, and then mine from his. Each panel was hand-filed on a comfort fit band, and then each was hand engraved by an old Asian gentleman by hand; etched with orange blossoms (meaning fidelity and fertility, and who knew it would foreshadow a different sort of Blossom later) and white feathers. They are each unique, yet a part of each other. The company that made them uses a special platinum composition, the engraver was thrilled to do them because he has not had such intricate work with which to show his skill in years, and thus they are irreplaceable. Since I have my "in", they did not cost what they might have retail - another reason we are lucky to have them. But that is the only reason why we have the equivalent of a minor house renovation on our fingers. Their value though, is mainly in their purpose - they remind us of our promise on that beautiful Texas evening. Their symbolism has appeared time and time again - we've since found that other things we owned have similar engravings - and the rings manage to look "Western" and antique, but modern and strong too.

We were hopeful but sad all these months. To have something lost, but not forever, is a curious feeling. Steve's tendency toward dourness and pessimism threatened to take over sometimes; but I always hoped, and would often plot how I would crawl on my belly one spring day, looking through the cracks in the deck and picking through the dead leaves with my fingers.

On Friday night, after dinner, Steve asked me what I'd like for Mother's Day - suggesting a sleep-in, bacon, a latte and flowers. After wishing aloud for us to find the ring, I then said I'd really like to get the back yard ready to enjoy this summer, since most of our nights would be spent close to home. A turtle sand box for Josie, an umbrella now that the neighbour's cherry tree has been cut down, and hanging flower baskets and thyme covering the beds so that it was a safe and fun place for us to spend time in.

While Josie and I napped yesterday afternoon, Steve took the furniture from under the crawl space, and then had himself a big Cuban cigar and a martini, and read for a bit. He was a bit down, because he thought the ring might have been with the chairs and glider under the house and he hadn't found it. When Josephine and I came downstairs after one of those awesome warm fuzzy naps that can only be had on a sunny afternoon after a huge brunch, I immediately disrupted his reverie and his tidy arrangement and began to rake the dead leaves out of the beds.

The tine of the rake caught on something heavy and shiny, and the ring flipped out from the base of a slowly unfurling fern.

Platinum is a noble metal. It is denser and heavier than most metals, and is close to pure when used in jewellery. It is naturally white - it won't go yellowish like white gold (contact me for a full explanation of why this happens if you'd like). It fires at a hotter temperature, and takes a crisper degree of detail. Because it is so dense, it doesn't get worn down as quickly - it gets a finer network of scratches and develops a beautiful patina. And this is one of the reasons that Steve's ring survived its hibernation perfectly, and was found so easily - on the opposite side of the yard from where we thought it was lost.

And so my wish came true.

And still, I got to sleep in until NINE this morning (Is it possible that I ever used to sleep in until Noon? It seems like that was another person!); although those fall back to sleep dreams were punctuated with the sound of "Wha dat? Dat? Dat?" heard through the open window and growing fainter as Steve took Josie to the park at seven-thirty. I woke to a custom-made card, a lovely bunch of smelly purple hyacinths, a great latte and two newspapers to read, leftover quiche, bacon and bagels for brunch and strawberries; and we're going to take a walk to get stuff for the garden as soon as I stop typing this. It is the Mother's day I wanted to have last year.

For my first Mother's Day last year, I was wretchedly sick with some sort of flu. My mom had insisted on being present, and I was stewing over the type of thing that may seem small, but is a symptom of a larger problem. She had purchased a dollar store card, signed Josephine's name to it, and gave it to me - while telling Steve that he needed to remember to do that from now on. She also bought me a pot of my least favourite flowers from the convenience store at the last minute - also on my pet peeve list. It was further proof that she doesn't know me. She can have her nightgowns and cheap flowers and Hallmark cards. They are proof enough for her that she is a mother. But for me, only the best will do. She doesn't know that Steve "gets" me, and that he had already surpassed her dimestore attempt to attribute sentiment.

Steve had already given me a beautifully hand-made, thoughtfully designed (it IS his job you know) card, and although I was too sick to go and get it that day, promised me my tattoo, and took care of me and a tiny baby all day. My mom left in time to get to the track.

The tattoo says "Hello Josephine" - the first words I said to Josephine after she was born. The design is of a kewpie doll (how we used to envision the baby inside me) riding a swallow (a potent symbol, meaning a promise to always return home, or a journey half-way around the world). He has a matching one on his arm, that says "My Girl Josephine" - his first Father's Day present. And he understood that even though I hate being manipulated by the media to commemorate motherhood in a certain way, that it was important to somehow recognize the occasion in some fashion, even if it's not in your standard, traditional way.

And so, I still hate manufactured holidays. I don't want things for the sake of having things. But when my wish came true this year, it seemed to me that fate helped me celebrate Mother's day in an unorthodox way once again. My gift is to know that Mother's Day would not be the same for me if I were not Steve's wife as well. I am doubly blessed.

Crappy Diem.

Today is beautiful. I am going to ignore the two long posts that are wiggling around inside me, use Josephine's nap to tackle some projects that will make the house feel more Springy, and we are all going to get out for a giant walk. I will buy fresh fruits and vegetables for snacking on during the weekend and maybe some fresh flowers, Josephine will keep throwing Dougie out of the stroller and maybe toddle around the park for a bit, and Beauty will get to sniff lots of bums and pee on every third lawn. Sounds like HEAVEN!

We took this picture a few weeks ago at the park down the street. A minute later, Beauty had a giant dump, but I was busy chasing Josephine away from some tufts of hair left over from someone who had groomed their llama at the park, and couldn't get the shot. Well, perhaps it's better in the imagination than visualized here - but wouldn't that have been one of those great semi-funny greeting cards?

Anyway, Spring is here. Seize the day!

We See Me.

When looking at the photos from this past weekend, Steve saw this one of Josephine hunkered down over something fascinating (like some gravel and sticks) - and was transported back to our first ever romantic getaway, a visit to Atlantic City almost nine years ago. There I am, collecting stinky little seashells - foreshadowing someone who wasn't even a twinkle in her daddy's eye way back then. I love how he sees us, and captures us like no one else could.

To Pot, From Kettle.

The long weekend was not as restful, enjoyable or interesting as I thought it would be in many ways. In others, it far exceeded my expectations. So far, one of the best things about it was getting some new underwear and jeans on my mom's tab. The worst thing was being apprised of why she chose to give me such a treat - after the generous offer was accepted.

Because, in her words, "Now that you have a baby, you can't let yourself go. Men do stray." Geez. Now, was that my greatest fear or hers? The reason my first husband chose to "stray" and impregnate a nineteen year old hosey mall chick groupie is because he was a dink, not because I "let myself go". Now that I've snagged me a good'un, I plan keep Steve too poor and tired to have the time, energy and finances needed to commit adultery - I find that it works even better than my "Feelin' Lucky" underwear.

This advice coming from a certifiably obese woman with an addiction to horse racing, a hobby of holding grudges, professionally abused orange pot-scrubber hair, a fear of doctors that enables her to maintain debilitating physical ailments, and a penchant for neglecting her aging mother - and who wants me to find her a nightgown in a slinky fabric for her Mother's Day present, because the cotton knit ones they make these days don't allow her to turn over in bed. That's right, it's not that she needs to keep my father from "straying" - but because she needs more slippage and less traction.

But that's all I'm going to say about it. I am so tired of disliking my mother. I really did work hard to find something to admire about her and enjoy during this trip. But when she chose to go to the race track rather than come home to spend time with her granddaughter whom she professes to love so much, she hurt me to the quick. She didn't even want to leave the races early to come and kiss Josephine goodbye, which she says she's missing today. I look ahead to my daughter living with a lifetime of lip service like I did, and think about how it's been hard enough having my own conflicted feelings about my mother. I'm only just realizing that I must bear them for my child until she's old enough to have her own. It's very important to let Josephine grow up with her grandparents' love. We must be careful not to taint it, and that's a huge responsibility.

As I put it to Steve: "I want her to dislike them for her own reasons - not ours."