Watching the Paint Dry is More Fun!

I agree. I have been strangely silent for about a week! Whycome?

Because there are things I should be doing:



The garden needs some taming.

There is always, always vacuuming to do. I wonder why?



Oh! And it's because SOMEONE will NOT sit in her highchair any longer. Or on a regular chair for long. And I broke the "Cous Cous is an Outdoor Food" rule because I was low on groceries and she's been on a vegetable strike.




Which of course leads to more cleaning and LAUNDRY GALORE!



(and obviously not harvesting my lettuce often enough)

But, I really have been busy with myself because she's been such a good little girl. Why, on Saturday, she napped well, Steve watched her some, and I was able to get stuff done! Stuff that had been hanging around making me feel guilty for weeks and months! I'd purchased this little table and chairs at the Swedish place, in the As If section for $30 - assembled, painted a hideous orange, and with a tag saying "discontinued". I'd originally wanted to get it for her anyway, and here it was priced close to half off. Score! And ASSEMBLED, which, knowing my husband's dislike for evenings spent twisting a screwdriver, was worth the price of admission (when he assembled the cradle I insisted upon getting from there a week before she was due, he handed me four screws after it was complete and asked his wife, the nervous pregnant lady, if we "really needed them").



You see, of course, why the orange could not stay. Not with the "Palm Green My Ass" colour the living room ended up being after a hormonal binge of choosing paint and insisting that my husband and his four drunk friends paint it one weekend when I was out of town.

And so, "Miami Sand" is the colour! And wow! I love it! Pratt & Lambert you know - expensive, real grown up paint - and the paint, tools and stuff cost me another thirty bucks. Some savings, but, I LOVE IT! Josie helped me paint the last chair on Sunday.



So, that kept us busy.

And dishes. So. Many. Many. Dishes. When we're home, everything is messier.



The dishes pose an even bigger challenge these days, due to the toddler having found out that her step stool is portable! So she can come and perform her other trick - Tippy Toes - to help with the dishes. She uses it to stand there and touch the water and say "Hot" and then "Wet" and then "No", because she's not supposed to do that (be that smart at seventeen months, I mean.) And, she helps by taking the pitcher and using it to scoop soapy bacon water out of the pan and drink it! And then say "Num! No!" and spit it out.

(For those of you with Child Protective Services on the speed dial and itchy trigger fingers, you should know that I was closely supervising this behaviour/photo op in order to prove to her father that I do not sit on the glider and drink beer all day all the time, the stool has a non-slip grip, and that the water temperature is within an appropriate level, that it was bacon with 50% less salt and I ate it all and that yes, the paint on our kitchen table is probably old and leaded because it's from the forties and that we really do try to keep knives out of reach.)



It got easier when she got out some books, and sat in the corner near the dog's shredded rat toy and the diaper disposal like a pathetic waif, listlessly turning pages and looking at me with the velvet painting eyes. Whereupon I felt bad that I was letting the mundane overwhelm me, and so we had a cuddle instead.



And then we went to go and draw some of her favourite things at the nicely painted table and chairs - something that I'd dreamed about when I knew I'd have a baby. How nice when dreams come true.





It was busy because once again, Steve and his dad worked on incrementally de-uglifying the porch. What was supposed to have been one long weekend and $500 has become eight weekends and $1200 and counting. Sunday, it was remove the gruesome blue chipboard covering the ceiling day! Oy.



While he and his dad worked, I got to change my light fixture from "Rusty on Purpose" colour to "Dimply Silvery" colour, to match the new door and hardware and our numbers and stuff. Hammered finish spray paint is SO MUCH FUN. Many many things in our house are in danger of being swirly looking silvery colour soon. And, I get to make "hammered" jokes.



Because it happens. It's true. I get hooked on a colour, and it spreads. The coffee table succumbed to Miami Sand in no time. Well, to be honest, it needed it.

First Josie and I had to de-upholster it. Fun Fun Fun! If you ever want to amuse my toddler for a good twenty minutes, turn the coffee table upside down, and give her something to stick in the holes. This kept her busy while I repeatedly perforated my fingers on staples and the dog looked disturbed, because SOMETHING WAS CHANGING AGAIN AND MY GOD THE CHANGES ALL THE TIME.

The table needed to be refreshed. I'd padded it when Josephine started pulling up on it, and quite honestly, with a toddler, one needs something less... absorbent. And with me as a vacuumer, it needed a distressed painted look, rather than a scarred wood look.



But soon, I would have the table outside on a lovely day to paint it:



And maybe have a beer on the glider, as Steve suspects I do when he's not home.





...while Josephine played with a water bottle, in a normal diaper. Which expanded and oozed out the leg of her outfit at such an astounding rate that she became alarmed and cried - prompting a change, and a MUCH needed nap. Where, I swear, she grew some more.



And that's the real truth. Something else happened last week. Josephine grew. When I put her first pigtails in on Sunday, all of a sudden she looked like she was six.



And at one point, when she was zoned out in front of the TV watching Nanalan', she looked like a teenager to me.



(And we love Nanalan' around here - for us, Mona is Elmo, but without the product enticement and with adventures and experiences that relate to Josephine's current wonders about the world - and whoah, what cool puppet shows!)



So, while this blog has been so great at keeping me connected with the outside world, I need to be more in tune with my world for a little bit.

I'll get to the memes, I'll post a little less often, I'll be around. Perhaps I'll try frequent short posts instead of giant behemoth epic posts. But, as a present to myself, I'm going to change a few things in my life. It felt amazing to accomplish a few tasks, to enjoy Josephine, to have a good work week and to not feel the need to put something out there - because truly, I felt no pressure last week.

I often say if I didn't blog I'd burst - but Josephine's last growth spurt let a little steam out of the valves, and I feel better lately. She's communicating with me more, and I want to be there and be rested and ready - not with my mind somewhere else. I caught up on reading 39 blogs last week and enjoyed it thoroughly. I like reading better than writing these days. I like being outside, and I like napping, and having dinner with friends and getting things done. I have events to look forward to, not to be dreaded. It's like, I'll call you, okay?

And so for now - buzz off! It's summer! There are SO many things to do that are better than to listen to me! But feel free to come over for a beer on the glider. It's so nice!

Edited later to fix some typos and say that we spent forty minutes today jumping in puddles at the empty hockey rink around the corner. Josephine learned to squawk like a shi...seagull on her own - her first animal noise that wasn't taught. Now that's what I'm talking about. Quality time.

Weak Sister.

I am a sad case.

I realize there are things that I'll never be, and don't care about. A jockey. A chef. Martha Stewart. A piano player. An alcoholic. Then, there are things I'll never be and will remain perpetually disappointed about. A supermodel. An evil scientist. A member of the paparazzi.

What I am these days, is a weak sister.

On Saturday, we went to my friend's wedding, where I'm afraid that despite my profession to those involved that "I'm blogging this!", today's post about the event is a poor showing.

First, after all the vain and incessant appearance related posting (hours and HOURS of posting), this is the best image you'll have of me in my dress:



Because, immediately upon arriving, I was handed a glass of champagne. And that, because I haven't really had more than one drink at a time for the past two and a half years, was really quite enough.

But, because we'd made plans to cab it, and because Josephine has been weaning, I thought I could have another. So I did.

Whereupon I began happily documenting the wedding through a veil of golden bubbles.

The bride's daughter, who is nineteen and stunning, looked so gorgeous my eyes hurt. Her boyfriend thought so too. He couldn't take his eyes off them. I mean her.



After this, the photos get a little, um, different. That was the first and last nice image taken of the evening. Sad, sad, sad. Because there was so much to see!

I ask, how many of you go to a wedding where there is someone wearing a Gautier man skirt?



And how many of you spend the period after dinner staring at the guy's crotch in it?



And how many of you have the nerve to take unflattering pictures of your hairstylist (um, your famous, nationally known hairstylist) and another locally famous makeup artist? Especially when he's asked you to come and see him in two weeks so that his new assistant can practice on your hair?



For the record, because this was a very stylish wedding, and there were a lot of people from the salon there, it was interesting that I say more man nipples than lady nipples that night. More than I ever saw in four years of high school, and two of those years were circa 1980's duing that fashionable sexual experimentation and avant guard style period. And two of THOSE belonged to Grace Jones. Sheer is "in" guys? And okay at weddings? Okay. I am so out of it these days!

But the shoes! The SHOES! Pretty, pretty shoes everywhere! Even my little snub-toed ones got compliments! From guys who were showing their nipples!



The bride and groom were lovely, and you'll have to take my word for that. Because these are what most my pictures of the ceremony look like.



They got married under that beautiful gazebo hanging over the ravine. That, in my tipsy reasoning, was such a wonderful metaphor. In fact, just about everyone there got to hear me expound on that. The greenery = rebirth and life! The abyss = the unknown! The thunder and rain = the Heaven's happy tears of joy! Oh, who knows what I was blathering. I'd had TWO glasses of champagne.

But at that time, I couldn't have known that I will never be a paparazzi. I was having too much fun to check my pictures of the ceremony. All twenty of them, that look like this, so really I lied when I said that the above photo was what most of my pictures looked like. They were really like this:

00.

This was a fun moment during the toasts:



Wait - that was the fun moment when I became fascinated by shadows on the canopy.



THIS was the fun moment during the toasts. We were "all hail"-ing someone or something. Dang, I wish I remembered because it was fun. But, because they served me wine with dinner, I don't remember.

I DO remember a nice part during the ceremony when the officiate asked the friends and family if they also vowed to honour and support the marriage, and we all said a big sloppy "yes" - except for me, who said a loud "WE DO", because I was all hung up on them saying the "I DO" parts still. But the picture of that part looks like a close-up of the previously shown branches. Just closer, because there were some reddish leave that I thought added a lovey rosey glow to the image. But I refuse to waste any more Flickr bandwidth on photos like that.

So, everyone, including me, looked fabulous. The food, STUNNING. Salad with lobster served vertically in tall glasses! Asparagus and carrots bundled together with green stuff! Salmon, and steak with a cranberry peppercorn sauce, and I forget what else but it was all good.

Then, the bar was open, and they were serving my favourite bourbon Oy.

So, I tottered around, glass in hand, and admired shoes some more:



And then I met my friend's new assistant at the Salon, and it was sweet.

When the others asked her what her new assistant was like, she told them "She's Marla, if Marla did colour."

And she is, if Marla didn't have a toddler and a house and a husband. Or a new lower tolerance for alcohol. She drinks Bourbon. She lives near and hangs at our friend's bar (Steve designed the neon sign for it, by the way and does the posters for a lot of the shows. If you watch the slide show, you'll catch glimpses of us!) She likes the same kind of music I do. She looks a LOT like me. We clicked. She's lived in some of my favourite cities, and New Jersey. Just as I was getting her phone number, Steve realized I was basically picking up a chick at my friend's wedding, and decided we really should head home. I don't remember her name, but I hope she's still as wonderful when I see her at my next appointment.

And so we called a cab, and waited out front where I remembered I was wearing a crotchless girdle and made lascivious suggestions and took my shoes off and giggled a lot. Thankfully, the cab came before I could make an ass out of myself on the front lawn of a very interesting and important personage (my friend's brother-in-law is a really cool guy, who is some head honcho in charge of concert promotions, including the olling-Ray ones-Stay!), and also thankfully, Steve realized that it was a rather empty promise anyway.

We got home before eleven (I KNOW - weak! My big fun night out and I'm such a patsy!) and relieved Steve's parents. Nothing like reeking of booze and staggering around in front of the in-laws, eh? Sadly, though, I don't really deserve the title "Boozer". I'd only had four-ish drinks. And the ISH, means a little less than four. Two champagnes. Less than a full glass of wine with dinner. Three sips of bourbon. Drinking is not a game or a challenge or something to accomplish. But there was a time when I could have maybe a little more, and not suffer so much.

Because I suffered. I was coherent enough to realize if Josephine wanted to feed in the morning, I'd have to get rid of the breastmilk. She's really down to just morning, naptime and bedtime, but sometimes she's a little needy and wants a comfort nursing session. She'd missed her bedtime feeding, so I was quite full when I woke up around one-thirty all thirsty. But I was also quite tired, and still a little tipsy. So I grabbed a little towel I keep by for toddler/breastmilk/spilled tea emergencies and I LAY THERE AND MILKED MYSELF. (Big letters so you don't have to read it twice and can see it real good through your tears of laughter) Yes, yes, I did. Then I woke up again later, had a shower and milked myself again.

This is what has become of me. (My teenage self just ran away screaming "I don't KNOW you, dude!")

For all of Sunday, and part of yesterday, a certain fatigue reigned over me. One whose name I'd forgotten. One whose name used to be said with a certain amount of prideful regret. A fatigue that used to follow nights in smoky clubs, hanging with musicians and easily chased away by a greasy breakfast and a few painkillers. A fatigue earned with shot glasses lined up on the bar like notches on a belt. A fatigue accompanied by vague memories of antics such as giving strippers tips with my teeth at the company Christmas party that ended up at the Silver Rail.

One cannot have this kind of fatigue and have a toddler too. Thankfully, one can have it and an excellent and compassionate and helpful husband and said toddler, but really, one should not be stealing arrowroot cookies from one's daughter because she is suffering from excess saliva.

Because, while it's nice to have attended a fabulous wedding with Lola and her gorgeous shoes and bag,



it's not nice if you have twelve pictures of those (from behind even) and two of the bride.

That may have been my last hangover, and I didn't even earn it.

I think the next time I get this tipsy, it'll be at my daughter's wedding. But I'll make sure I get a professional photographer, okay?

Curiosity...

Please leave a one-word comment that you think best describes me. It can only be one word. No more. Then copy & paste this in your blog so that I may leave a word about you.

From Beanie Baby who got it from From Running2Ks and so on and so on.

I'm On Jerk Quality Control In This One.

In the comments section of a previous post, I snarked about my Mom's weight problem, and think that I should clarify something so as not to seem like a bigger jerk than I already am.

I should mention that my problem with my Mom's obesity (we're talking gross obesity here - she's pushing 300 on a 5'2" frame, and it's to the point where walking has become difficult), which rears its ugly head from time to time (like in my comments on one of my recent posts), stems from a horrible resentment that began with her asking me to help her powder under her folds as a kid (she'd get skin infections), and has grown with her refusal to seek help for a "bad" knee she's been suffering from for years, because the first thing a doctor will tell her is to lose weight.

Steve noticed that her toes have become permanantly curled from her awkward way of manoeuvering with her bad knee. She doesn't grocery shop any more. She can only walk from the house to the car. When she does laundry, she spends the day sitting by her washing machine so she doesn't have to go up and down the stairs. She no longer does my Grandma's laundry for the same reason. She cannot raise her arms above her head. We cannot see her elbows any more. She has had to cut seams of her clothing open wider to fit in them. Josephine cannot sit on her lap, because her bosoms take up all the room, and she cannot extend her arms past them to hold her on her knees for long.

It's that bad. She wants desperately to babysit Josie, but I don't think she's physically capable, and that's sad.

She is a nice woman, but she is making me crazy with her denial. Every once in a while, it pops out of me, and I feel a pang and then I get over it. I don't dislike obese people. I don't have a problem with people who are overweight. I have a problem with my extra twenty pounds because it keeps me from feeling like myself, and it triggers other fears, which I'll get to. I have a specific, detailed and carefully nurtured hatred for my mom's weight problem.

She asked on our last visit if she could come and stay for a week. I told her no, and when she asked why, I said "because both fish and guests stink after three days".

I elaborated on that by saying that when she comes for a day or two, we modify our schedule to accommodate her and so she has no idea of what our lives are really like. We run around town, doing errands and visiting neat places. We walk around the neighbourhood, blocks and blocks and hours and hours of exploring. Two days of sitting in the living room or in the back yard makes us crazy. She can't keep up with us. It's fine and nice for a day or two, but not fair to Josie to do that to her for a week. And for me, the thought of my mother sitting on our sofa watching soaps or the cooking network six or eight hours a day while we're out living and growing and changing and having fun without her - well, it makes me crazy.

She's only sixty-seven. She has, with her family's longevity genes, possibly thirty or more years left to live as she is now, or worsening. I am an only child, and am expected to care for her in her old age.

Her denial, her refusal to make changes for herself, let alone for her daughter or grandaughter, incense me and trigger my fears that I too will get to a point beyond which I can't easily bring myself to be the person I want to be.

She's coming for a visit next Monday, and we won't be able to show her the splash pad Josie plays at, the store we work at, the way the neighbourhood is changing or anything, and I'm already sad and frustrated. She loves my daughter just as much in the living room, but how can she know how wonderful she really is unless she sees her in the world?

I Do This To Myself.

And I'd deserve anything I'd get.

In light of yesterday's post (STILL not over myself), I stopped by a table at a nearby mall where I was shopping yesterday (for haircolour and a toddler wrist leash thingy - I'll explain that some day) where they were casting a makeover show for the W network.

Am I crazy in the head after the Ymy Mmy experience?

Am I that desperate? Not in a panting, gimmegimmegimme, my life will end if I don't get this kind of way. But in an "I'm game" and "Let's see how this works" kind of way...

Yes. I would do it for the veneers, laser eye surgery and minor cosmetic procedures (hopefully that new ultraviolet light treatment for acne that's about $1800 and is supposed to really work) that I would never spend our family's meager amounts of money on. I don't care about the wardrobe or anything else - but to finally put an end to my kvetching about the things I dislike about my appearance? Oh yes.

Preventative Measures.

A long time ago, when I first began selling quality antique jewellery, I met a client whose words I've always remembered. If I'd heeded them, I'd have felt a little better about myself at the wedding. (By the way, this post is about still not being over myself. That lumpy, frumpy, bedraggled day at the wedding has really done a number on my psyche. I can't look at myself the same way after that experience.)

She was a Russian woman. A doctor, of let's say mid-middle age. She was dressed up, but not in dressy clothes. She was definitely wearing an "outfit", but it wasn't necessarily classic or even stylish - it was obviously carefully chosen though. Her hair was "done", she had professionally manicured nails of the a little longer and more colourful type, and full face makeup. Fancier glasses than most people would choose. How else can I describe her, but to say that she was obviously feminine, but due to her age and obvious authority, more handsome than pretty. Think of contemporary Sophia Loren or Anne Margaret on the Jay Leno show - but in broad daylight at eleven in the morning in Toronto on a Tuesday. How's that?

She was shopping for diamond rings, and I understood that twenty thousand dollars was not out of her range. When she had settled on a beautiful cluster-style ring, I brought in the owner to close the sale. Although I'd been helping her thoroughly, and had more than enough knowledge and some experience with the high end jewellery, certain clients would like to complete the transaction with the owner or manager as a matter of privilege. I understood that, and stepped aside. Believe it or not, in that employment my best experiences came when I STOPPED talking and listened. The owner, used to meeting customers on their own level, breezed in and began chatting cheerily. A misstep was made when she mentioned how good it would make the owner feel to have a ring like that. There she was wrong, and it's the correction that rings in my ears to this day.

In essence, we were told that North American women spend money on clothes and jewellery to make themselves feel better. That putting on an outfit is supposed to help them present themselves on an occasion, or wearing jewellery was supposed to make them happy. She continued, saying that Russian women spend money on themselves first - that if they looked and felt beautiful, anything they wore would look well on them.

When I was growing up, I was never taught the mysteries of personal grooming. My mother often had her hair streaked and permed into an untouchable sprayed and sculpted helmet, meant to last a week. When it wasn't "done", it was in pink foam and plastic curlers, in case she had to go somewhere later. A touch of lipstick and freshly drawn eyebrows, and she was out the door. Sometimes these days, the time spent getting ready to go out has expanded to include a rogue hair check. You know, the long black chin hairs that grow in an hour? So I had to figure out makeup and stuff for myself, and of course it went badly. My first dry shave led to razor burn I'm still getting over. My cuticles are raggedy, I've got peach fuzz everywhere, I go too long between haircuts and colours and I'm still fighting acne. Bad teeth too, but that's a whole 'nother story.

A character in a book I'm reading (as fast as possible to up the smart quotient when I do my book meme) is fastidious in her grooming, which define her character as much as her smoking habit does. She describes to her daughter the rules of making up and getting dressed circa 1962, and I am there in the room with them soaking it up like a nine year old too.

When I was younger, I used to collect teenage advice books. I loved "For Every Young Heart" by Connie Frances and other ones by Dick Clark and Pat Boone. I had a collection of personal grooming books from a finishing school with the motto "Dainty at all times", and read them over and over. I tried, I really did, but in the 1950's and 1960's, it seems that girls had a lot more time devoted to getting themselves together. I am way too busy or lazy to even moisturize properly most days, let alone spend one night each week pressing my blouses; or to spend Thursday nights washing and setting my hair so it would be extra special for my weekend dates with suitors. But being clean and fresh and pretty and conversational was stressed so much more, as if that were a job to go to. And I don't hate that.

For the years I spent selling jewellery in retail, I'd get a weekly manicure as part of the uniform of the job. It was as important as my suit, my fresh breath or my knowledge. Pretty hands were important, because I was showing jewellery to men and my hands had to enhance the jewellery.

I used some of the knowledge accrued from the Russian lady to sell jewellery to young ladies and men too. I reminded twenty year old girls that your hands will age faster than the rest of you if you don't take care of them; to choose a ring that will suit you in ten, twenty or thirty years unless you want to re-style it later on. Small differences in quality like choosing platinum over white gold, or colour and cut over clarity in a diamond would make a large difference in appearance during the life of the jewellery. A clean old ring is prettier than a dirty new one.

And I garnered knowledge from other sources. My old roommate, a colour technician and makeup stylist who owns a fabulous salon, and whose wedding we're attending this coming Saturday, is the person that once said in an interview "hair colour and make up are the fastest and least permanent way to change how a person feels about themselves."

One year at Jewellery Camp, I heard a lecture by John Loring and was utterly overcome by his wonderful revelations about growing up with Paloma Picasso. What stayed with me was this line about her love of colour: "When I wear a red coat on a rainy day, I give a gift to all who look at me."

Yet, I've continued frumping along with all of these voices buzzing around my head. When I was working at Birks and then the auction house, I dressed formally in suits and sometimes office casual - I spent time and care on presenting myself at a certain level. Although I had a rockin', tattooed, Texas-lovin' alternate lifestyle, I still pulled myself together for my job. In my off hours, I was dressed casually, but I still tried to put myself together.

Then my job became motherhood, and I didn't have the wardrobe for it. Black band t-shirts show lots of spit up and cracker crumbs. Plus I felt like a gloomy smudge next to my bright and beautiful daughter and I longed for colour. Pants were depressing, and skirts unnecessary. These days, I'm a little better dressed, but I'm not striking by any means. I'm clothed adequately at best some days - and easily mistaken for a drudge on others. I haven't felt pretty in a long time.

And so I think about what I need to teach my daughter about how I feel about myself.

And I need to do a better job with the old chassis. Not for vain, superficial reasons, but because my care of her and my husband's happy wedding experience was compromised by my frustration. Aside from health reasons, good grooming is important because it shows you care about yourself. Once that structure is in place, everything should hang off it beautifully.

Or so I hope.

On the agenda is to get a better haircut (especially after the last fiasco). Spend some of my new fun-money from work on some of that Pro-Activeating Fancy Acne stuff on TV. I wasn't sold on it until I saw P-Diddy flogging it, you know. Take that few minutes to push my cuticles back in the shower and moisturize afterward (it helps that I found this stuff. I tell you, I smell SO. GOOD. Like cocoa-y chocolatey nummy business everywhere.) Also, I should take that few minutes to file my nails instead of just hacking them off in anger when I accidentally scratch myself. Blow twenty five bucks on a pedicure to just plain feel good. Use the damn Crest white strips. Spend Sunday mornings doing an all-over shape up and weird hair check with the tweezers. Maybe use those free weights for toning up the flabby upper arms (apparently they don't work by osmosis and these days I wouldn't be out of place furiously dabbing at ten boards and flapping my arms in the air yelling BINGO at the Legion Hall. Why did my upper arms retain baby weight? Why do I have the upper arms of a sixty five year old retiree?) Stuff like that. My goal this week is to get my shin tone more in line with the colour of my forearms. (Shin tone, not skin tone. You heard right. It's sad - my shins are as pale and flabby as that three dollar two day old piece of Sole I baked for dinner last night, and my forearms are as brown and firm as any farmer's.) Having pasty shins makes my bad shaving jobs stand out - even when there's no stubble you can see the little dotdotdots where the follicles are, and all the bruises from chasing Josephine. I hate that.

And so, with all that I hope to feel not better about myself, because I do like myself pretty well - but more on top of things. Like the way I feel when the house is clean and the garden is tended. Steve always says in regards to our relationship that it's like there has to be a flower and a gardener. One tends the other and the reward is there; but here is a case where I have to be my own gardener.

In light of this new resolve, Steve continued his streak of doing an awesome job of caring for Josephine a lot lately and I got to shop for over an hour at Winners (the Canadian T.J. Maxx) yesterday. I decided I'd try to find a dress for the wedding that's coming up on Saturday, because it will be very fashiony and there will be some really really good looking people there and I don't need to feel any worse about my style's decline.

A dress always makes me feel more pulled together than a skirt or suit. I just didn't want to find a Winners dress. You know, those ones that are always $24.95, have an unrecognizable label and are always some kind of flowery sheer chiffon over a crepey slip that manages to cling to all the wrong spots? I'd been haunting one store in particular and having no luck for months. Then, I thought about the Leaside location, and scooted over there.

Luck! Oh, blessed, thrilling and lovely LUCK! I found an armload of clothes to try on. Stuff I liked. Stuff that looked like me. Stuff that I would have worn even before I was pregnant. Too much stuff. Because every damn woman in the store had the exact same items draped over their arms. Hey, I've been wearing the lady-like look and the printed circle skirt outfits for years, even though they're only now in fashion. I am both ahead of and behind the times, at the same time. Then I remembered that I had the luxury of time. One hour without a toddler is like three hours with one. Or two hours in pre-toddler days.

An hour is a lot of time to a person without a toddler. And I remembered that some of the bitches who shop in these stores move things around so that other people can't find them and have them. They're like that. And I stopped looking at size labels, and just tried to look at shape and colour and the image I held of myself at the wedding. The only criteria was the sleeves - aside from the ham hocks I've grown above my elbows, I have a tattoo on my upper arm that I don't like to show in nice company. And I wanted there to be some element of black, so that I wouldn't have to buy shoes or a purse. Do you think I could find anything that I wouldn't swelter in during this record heat wave? I could! I did.

I found two. TWO. T-W-O. (Two sung in an operatic voice). Twooooooo! One dress and one dress makes two dresses!

One was by a manufacturer I never heard of because I'm square now and the best designers I've worn lately are American Apparel and Old Navy. It must be a nice enough dress maker, because the suggested retail was $119 (okay - I just checked the J.Jill website and think it's like Talbot's. Great. My retired aunt and boring professional cousin shop at stores like that. Oh well, so much for finding a secret wonderful designer known only to fashionistas!). It was then marked down, and marked down, and marked down to $29. That's right! Do the math! I saved like, $90! But that's not why I bought the dress. I bought it because THE SIZE SIX PETITE FITS ME. I'll say it again. THE SIZE SIX PETITE FITS ME. I have been bemoaning my double digit status for months, and am jubilant if I find something that's a medium or even the elusive size 9 that almost fits me. I would have bought this dress if it had pictures of naked old people and rotting food on it and would wear it with the tag hanging out just to say THE SIZE SIX PETITE FITS ME. But thankfully, it's nice. I refuse to admit that the label might have been wrongly applied, and that it was there and marked down because a whole bunch of real size six petite women rejected it. Don't harsh my upswing, okay?

And the other dress is nice too, and I don't care what size it says and I don't know the manufacturer and I don't care that it looks like a Rorscarch Test. It has a retro look and it suits a curvy figure and in it I feel saucy. And it too was $29, although it was meant to be sold at that amount. There is difference, you know, between items that are manufactured for a price point and ones that are marked down from almost four times that amount. But I don't care. It has been over sixteen months since I walked into a store and felt okay about what I bought. In a badly lit dressing room with other women present after a day spent in the back yard hosing sand out of toddler's butt crack - it felt great. You see, I didn’t even get gussied up to go shopping - I grabbed my wallet and got out the door as soon as Steve finished working on the porch and didn't even put lipstick on or comb my hair. And yet I could deal with what I saw when I put those dresses on. And I'm bloated and PMSing! Wow! What made the difference?

Well, that would be something else I learned along the way. When I (ironically) was running the Couture Department of the auction house, and old friend from Buffalo who now owns a costume warehouse for film here in Toronto told me a secret. When you see an upper class and a lower class woman portrayed in film, the one with the money will be wearing better undergarments. Her lines will be smooth and firm, and her clothes will be tailored to her body, and the clothes will hang properly off the foundation garments. The lowbrow will have rundown heels, and sloppy underthings (See why VPL automatically makes me think trashy?!). I can see why women like me living mid-century were termed "loose" not just because of their morals, but because of their having given up their girdles!

And so I present the Beast:

I tried the dresses on without it, but I grabbed it on the way out the door because I figured it can only make things better. It's true, it performs. I'll be a little bit hotter, but I can at least be sure that nothing's going anywhere. Except I've got to say this: it's got a slit at the c-rotch. I know I don’t want to be undoing everything when it's time to um, powder (seriously - I'd have to do a George Costanza and take the dress and body slimmer off just to tinkle!). But I WAS planning on wearing underwear, and the open seam yonder just doesn't make sense. Snaps or velcro all around the inseam would have, but a peephole? Wha? Well, I'll either have to be creative or careful.



Okay, the dresses look like sacks here. But they look nice ON ME. And my, don't we have a lot of knotty pine in the dressing room. And the mirror is antique and clouded not dirty. Wait, I just went and checked. It was smudgy. Sorry.

The best part? Because I saved so much money on the dresses (I spent half of what I was willing to spend on the two put together!) I found a darling bag and shoes. They're by different designers, and the ribbons on the shoes need to be dyed to match the ribbon on the bag. But I Will Be So DAMN Cute. Get me!

As much as I'd like to think I can get by on my hearty wit and girlish charm, apparently those factors are dependent on not being blinded by my glowing shins, depressed by loser shoes and despairing over a wrinkly skirt. And I will have these outfits for weddings and funerals for years to come, and I will feel fine knowing I can pull them out on a minute's notice and look nice.

And with that, I will be giving a gift to my family, who will be with the best me I can be.

I forgot how Paul Williams was going to be mentioned in all this. Oh well.

(The sound you heard was the click of the power bar.) (Then a wail.)

An awesome post, if I do say so myself - an hour in the making, with brilliant quotes and references and illustrations and loads of lyrical postulating and self-deprecating comments, all gone with the click of a toddler's finger on the power bar.

I know amputation is a bit harsh, and that it's entirely my fault, and that we should buy that seven dollar power bar casing that would have prevented that. Today. I swear I will.

I didn't want to spank HER - just that little evil and quick moving index finger. That two inch long mischief purveying digit. I didn't, of course, just a big frowny face and a NO - but toddlers don't register anguish and I still feel so helpless! There is not enough No-ness in the word NO to let her know how she must not wipe out Mommy's pathetic ramblings and delusions of grandeur with the flick of a switch.

And, you see - she asked to come upstairs and nurse. She did. So I settled in, and then she all of a sudden woke up, hopped off my lap, dove for the flashing red button and - "snick" - everything went black.

But you don't understand - this was an auxilliary power bar that I didn't know had that ability. She found it. She understands NO in regards to the other one. I need to broaden my "No"!, because apparantly "No" applied to only one specific componant?

And then she took my face in her hands and kissed me, and then ran off cackling before even checking to see if I fell for it.

From now on, I compose in Word or even Entourage with the auto save on, and then paste it to Blogger. That's right - it's Blogger's fault that it disappeared. Stupid Blogger.

Um, how many other mommies have been smarter than me about this, or did y'all learn the hard way too?

Famewhore.

Y-UMMY M-UMMY. On the L-ife network and D-iscovery Health.

(Edited later to remove press release - too many visits registered on the stat counter for the wrong reasons)

My version of our appearance on this show is forthcoming.

Yes. Yes, you heard right.

Last summer I nominated Steve for a makeover, and soon our family in all its glory and shame will be displayed for your viewing enjoyment... and feelings of superiority. Have you never wondered why I'm not so shy about sharing? It is because the worst has already happened! And yet, my husband still loves me!

I don't know when our episode will be airing. I don't care to see it myself, except for a slight curiousity as to how it was edited. I know it was in final editing about three weeks ago, because an old friend of Steve's glimpsed it and emailed him with a snarky remark, after not having talked to him since high school.

If I find out when it's on exactly, you can believe it will be posted. Perhaps some kind words afterward will help me feel better about the damage I wreaked on Steve.

For the record, just in case it's edited out - the moral of the story is beware of giving gifts that people don't want to receive.

Well, duh.

"If, as you live your life, you find yourself mentally composing blog entries about it, post this exact same sentence in your weblog."

What do you think I was doing at the wedding?

A Wedding Story.

Of course we were late. We have a toddler...the best excuse in the world. You cannot say to a bride, "I missed your vows because I was upset about my bangs and smudgy toenail polish." (can you?)

We missed the ceremony. Apparently, when the invitation said four, they meant it. Like, the "I do and he does too" part AT four. Not, arrive at ten after four, mingle, have a cocktail, gather around the flowered arch for the wordy parts when everyone's there and then eat dinner. I double checked, and it did not say, "The officiate will clear his throat at three fifty-nine, and say the you may now kiss the bride part by four oh-eight". Thankfully I found a few mistakes in the directions that were sent with the invite so that I could make it the bride's fault we were late. As in, "Hey, when the map said "Somerset PARK", we didn't know you meant "Somerset Cottages". You should be more clear, you know, because your wedding was important to us."

The tables were lovely:



The guests were lovely:



The bride was lovely:



The Johnny on the Spots were lovely:



No, really. They were. They smelled nice, had fresh and silk flowers in them and they hadn't been previously used by construction workers. Cute confetti. I put some in my underpants so Steve could go treasure hunting later. (Of course that didn't happen. Haven't you been reading my blog?)

I also caught the head chef and servers going to smoke a doobie behind them:



(and yes, I know there is still some sumblock on the lens. I'm working on it.)

There was this amazing, wonderful, beautiful...



TABLE OF BAR SNACKS. OH. MY. GOODNESS. You know, if I did that in my house, I'd be called a slob. But here, here it's a fun and kitschy way to serve your guests. Go figure.

The food was great - the hors d'oevres were all kinds of fancy fajitas, cooked up on the spot and served in hot little triangles. The meal was good, salads and barbecued chicken and steak and stuff. But dessert:



I put the strawberry there for some perspective. Otherwise, you're right. The chocolate mousse looks like a great big bowl of cow plop.

Actually, it was better than that. There were baskets and bowls of fresh local strawberries, with the mousse on the side - as well as a crème anglaise and bourbon caramel sauce for dipping.

Josephine was quite enamoured of the dessert table. She stood in front of the bowl of strawberries with a rapt yet studious expression. She proceeded to take one at time, take one bite out of it, and then throw it under the table.



We let her, because it was very, very cute. And because I was pissed that they had removed my dinner plate before I was finished.

I was busy throughout most of the meal extracting Josephine from the balloons she was enjoying so thoroughly.



I thought latex balloons were a danger because they were a choking hazard. I didn't think it was because they conspire to attack small children and frustrate parents by entangling them until they cry.



I was also busy observing the behaviour of other guests. Especially this one. He's Steve's sister's boyfriend's son, and he was so trying to hit on who might be his future stepsister - she's quite a hottie.



But then, he kind of lapsed into this teenage boy state of complete absorption in something with an attached unselfconsciousness, and wasn't even remotely aware that certain behaviours are really, really unattractive:



And Steve and I were saying to each other, "No, Dude, no! You're forgetting yourself! Holding a glass over your mouth with only the force of your own suction powers is totally NOT sexy!" (At least, not for guys!)

And it was fun for a while, although most of the wedding was spent chasing Josephine around. She spent a lot of time in the flowerbeds, first digging in them with bread sticks, and then she became fascinated by this plastic hummingbird whirlygig lawn thingy:



And um, we really should buy them a new one:



She had fun wearing a dress, and most of the guests got to see her gotchies:



In general, I guess it was a lovely place to have a wedding. If you don't have a toddler.

You could sit on the dock and dangle your feet leisurely if you didn't have a toddler:



You could admire or go for a ride on the giant phallic symbol...I mean obnoxiously overpowered...I mean their boat that they like and are really proud of:



Or you could spend even more time checking out what the other guests were wearing, and wishing you didn't feel so frumpy.

If you were me, you wished you had worn something more like this:



And then you would have spent time thinking about how much better you'd look in this outfit, mainly due to your familiarity with a pumice stone. Really folks - make one your friend this summer. There was a woman ahead of me on the UP escalator in Gerrard Square last Tuesday who would have left a drift of scaly foot flakes right there if I had only just exhaled a little harder. I still want to hurl when I think of her nasty heels. I almost bought her some vaseline and a pair of socks at the dollar store as a service to humanity.

And there came a time, when we had been at the wedding nearly five hours. Josephine was getting restless, and had only napped on the way over in the car. It had been a long hot day, with a lot of stress and I was done with it all. What with breasfeeding still and being the designated driver, I hadn't had more than a glass of wine to toast the perpetrators of this event. You know, other people are so much more interesting and fun when I'm drinking. Josie was getting restless. I was holding her on my hip, and thinking about trying to get away.

And then, Josephine started biting on her ring. I'd purchased a tiny sterling toe ring in a little store on the main street for her to wear for the day, because she loves my wedding ring and kisses it all the time and points to her finger. She's very good with wearing the little rubber bands I bought to make pony tails with (before finding out that our daughter would have the hair of a fuzzy googly eyed pencil topper!) as rings for short periods, and I planned to supervise her wearing of it carefully. She wore it the whole day, and was proud of it and showed it to everyone. She has never been one for putting things other than food in her mouth - or so I thought. In her extreme tiredness, she started biting at the little flower on the top of it.

I pulled her hand out of her mouth, and did not see the ring. A quick scan of the grass didn't reveal it. The panicky feeling that we were in Nowheresville, without any preparation or idea of how to handle a trip to emergency if needed came over me and my stomach did flip flops. There was nothing in her mouth, she wasn't coughing or choking, and as a jeweller, I know sterling isn't a highly toxic metal, nor is whatever it's usually alloyed with. All of the other mommies there, with children ranging in age from twelve to fifty, assured me that she'd be fine. They said she probably didn't swallow it and that if she did it would pass, and out came the stories about what various offspring had consumed over the years. But I just wanted to be away from the whole thing - to have the space to deal with whatever might come up next. I knew we were not far from an overtired hysterical toddler meltdown. "We should leave" was going through my mind.

So I found Steve, explained what happened and told him to say goodbye to the happy couple and his parents, and then ask his folks to say the other goodbyes for us and make the excuse that we had to go because Josie was tired. And then he disappeared to do that.

And it was some time before I saw him again - sitting down, chatting to his sister. And I rustled him out of there. Then he went to say goodbye to another group. A leisurely goodbye, at least in my eyes. Those are the goodbyes accompanied by a glass in hand, right? And I snapped.

This was not the time for a "we'll go after I finish this drink" goodbye, or a say goodbye to everyone goodbye, or a goodbye that included more words than "good" and "bye". It was grab the high chair without wiping the tray and tell your folks we have to go NOW time. We can always whip out the toddler excuse later.

I was a thorough and complete bitch about it, and he was justifiably crabby in response to my tone. I just wanted to get Josephine back to our room and to bed before she started whining and crying and debilitating me with her neediness; I was suffering a combination of soberness and tiredness, and didn't have the energy to deal with it. Mommies can forecast these kind of things, and Daddies seem to be blindsided by them, right? I can look at Josephine, catch an eye rub and a glassy stare and know that one old tipsy person pinching her cheek or tickling her could set of a series of screams that would make animals in the vicinity take flight ahead of the flames like the forest creatures in Bambi. Steve would then wander up in the midst of the shrieking and go, "I guess she's pretty tired, huh? We'll leave after I finish my drink."

And so we got her in the car, and I jiggled her foot to keep her awake on the ten minute drive back to the B&B. If she had fallen asleep in the car, I'd never have been able to get her strawberry stained, sticky, hot little self to bed if we accidentally woke her up. And if we did get her right into bed as she was, she'd wake up at three all uncomfortable and not go back to sleep. My special mommy foresight told me it was essential that we get her into the bath, into pajamas and soothed down properly in order for US ALL to have a good night's sleep.

This was accomplished, somewhat. I found a Dumbo video in the drawer under the TV (which was twice as big as it appears on the website!), and popped it in. Steve's comments about what a sad, horrible movie it is only served to make seethe silently. At this age, Josie just sees elephants. I just wanted to get to the Baby Mine part, because that was how I was feeling. I was identifying with Mrs. Jumbo, who fought so gloriously for her baby's well-being, and was punished for it.


Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part, baby of mine

Little one when you play
Don't you mind what you say
Let those eyes sparkle and shine
Never a tear, baby of mine

If they knew sweet little you
They'd end up loving you too
All those same people who scold you
What they'd give just for
The right to hold you

From your head to your toes
You're not much, goodness knows
But you're so precious to me
Cute as can be, baby of mine

Okay, Josie was not being ridiculed and I'm occasionally known to have a flair for the melodramatic. I just needed something from it after the day we'd had.

I fought to go to sleep, turning off the video after "Baby Mine", with hot, angry and frustrated tears seeping through my tightly clenched lids. Josie had cried terribly all through the song I soneeded to hear, because she was just too wound up - just like I'd forecasted. She fell asleep with little sobs shaking her chest, and I tried hard not to as well.

How is it that a cottage wedding can just be an open bar and a chance to see family members for a guy - and a carefully orchestrated, emotionally overloaded, physically exhausting, mentally overwhelming event for the other half of that couple?