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March 24, 2009

Does This Eye Patch Make My Butt Look Big?

Today started, as most days do, with a blinding headache. It starts behind my right eye and radiates up to the top of my skull. It’s a clear sign that you spend too much time in front of a computer screen when your eyeballs feel – literally (that’s not just me mis-using the word “literally,” which I am guilty of doing. I mean it this time – literally) – like they are about to explode right out of your head. As I type this I am on hold with the doctor’s office for an optometrist referral and also Googling “computer eye strain” and “cute eye patches.”

And yes, I do realize that the fact that I continue to Google while suffering from “computer eye strain” means that I have serious internet issues.

On the upside, I put on an old pair of jeans today and not only did they still fit, despite the fact that I’ve been eating my way through a box of Rocky Mountain chocolates for dessert all week, but I found $5 in the back pocket. Nice. That’s going straight into the eye patch fund.

The doctor’s assistant just told me that she doesn’t know who I should go see. So that was helpful. I’m so happy I waited through 12 minutes of elevator music for that insight.

The day has barely begun and already I am dreaming of lying on the couch tonight with a cold pack covering my entire head, but civic duty calls. Turns out that our provincial government has been making secret plans to slot a maximum security prison in about 5 minutes from our house. Across the street from a high school, down the hill from an elementary school, surrounded by daycares and churches and seniors’ homes. Nothing says “community” like a barb wire fence.

So tonight we’re having a neighbourhood meeting of protest and general angst, and I will be there with bells – and in all likelihood an eye patch – on.

March 24, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

March 16, 2009

Family Ties

I had planned to add my .02 today on the news that Dora is the latest victim of a Tween Makeover – seriously, is there a worse word in the urban dictionary than “Tween?” Just the sound of it is nauseating – but I have other things on my mind today so that one will have to wait.

Heart-tree Remember when you were a kid and you did something obnoxious or selfish or just plain mean and your mom would say, “Just wait until you have kids of your own...” I don’t specifically recall my parents telling me that, but I’m sure they did, sometime after I slammed the bedroom door and before I sunk to the floor a sobbing, hormonal, over-dramatic mess. Just as I’m sure I’ll be saying it to Mads one day.

But the thing is, like most things your parents tell you, it’s true. I can admit that now because I am a parent so it basically means that I’m awesome and all-knowing. I knew it!

When I was younger, it was all about me: My parents were my parents and nothing else. They drew breath to cook dinner and read stories and coach soccer teams and offer daily reassurance that freckles = beauty marks. Ditto my grandparents. My brothers existed for the sole purpose of hogging my bathroom and reading my diary. End of story.

But now that I have Mads the blinders are off. I get it. I see now that my parents were once kids who brought home report cards and drank too much at friends’ parties and got married and had kids of their own and maybe even wondered, like me, if they might be screwing it all up. And when my grandparents posted my crappy finger painting on their fridge door they were thinking as much about the fact that the kids they raised were now raising kids of their own as they were about my brilliant artistic future.

Kids become parents, parents become grandparents, grandparents become great grandparents, siblings become aunts and uncles, and on it goes forever. Along the way we may make our own path: Grow up, learn, travel, love, laugh, achieve, fall apart, rebuild. But woven through and around the story I write for myself will always be the story of my family.

I was thinking about this the other day as Mads and I were collaborating on a spectacularly messy finger painting for my grandma, and thinking about how when my mom once told me that through it all and in the end nothing matters more than family, it seems she may have been right after all.

March 16, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

March 05, 2009

And You'll Be LOST...


Saw this on Sweetney and it made my day. I don’t particularly enjoy feeling like an idiot every Thursday morning after yet another mind-boggling episode of Lost, but it helps to know I’m not the only one.

I’m not the type to plaster posters with my home phone number around the city – my intensely private nature limits me to airing every last pathetic insecurity on the internet. But I share this fellow Lost fan’s confusion. Here are a few questions that maybe some of you with a bit more smarts than I can help to answer:

  • What’s up with the black smoke? Every time that thing makes an appearance my head about explodes.
  • Why would anybody ever go back to the island? Seriously ya’all, the place is nuts. I can understand Sun going because Jin is alive (yay!) but the rest of them? Actually, scratch that. Sun’s got a baby now, she shouldn’t go either.
  • Why hasn’t anybody killed Ben? I would’ve knocked that maniac over the head with a coconut ages ago.
  • Who else thought it was the best, most shocking thing ever when in Season 3 (4?) Jack held the gun to Locke’s head and then – gasp! – pulled the trigger? Craziness.
  • Did it creep anyone else out when Daniel saw his girlfriend Charlotte as a 4-year-old on last night’s epi? If they start dating I’m out.
  • Will we ever find out what the numbers - 4 8 15 16 23 42 - mean?
  • Could Jack get any hotter?
  • How and why can Miles hear dead people? How and why can Hurley see dead people? Can anyone smell dead people? That would be the worst superpower ever.
  • What’s the deal with Jack’s dad?
  • How did Amy and her baby survive last night? And who is that baby going to grow up to be? I don’t mean will he be a doctor or a firefighter and will he ever fall in love. I mean: Who the hell is he? Cause you know he’s going to be someone we know.
  • The time turning wheel: I don’t even know what to ask about this. But it’s worth mentioning for its intense WTF-ness.

Who’s got answers? Who’s got more questions? Who wonders why we put ourselves through the torture of it? Who can't wait for the next episode?

March 5, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack

March 02, 2009

Time Keeps Ticking, Ticking...

17830 Well, it is officially the first week of March which means it is officially the month that my baby turns 3. Though she's quick to tell me that she is not a baby, she is a little girl. As if I need reminding.

Yesterday in the car she was yammering on in the backseat about how she would one day soon be not just a little girl, but a big girl. A big girl with big arms and big legs. A big girl with arms so big they can reach all the way to the front seat and grab a snack from the reusable shopping bag that doubles as a diaper bag these days. A big girl with Go Go Gadget arms, apparently. Maybe tomorrow, she said. Time is still a pretty vague concept for her.

It still seems amazing that I can have actual conversations with her now - sure, they are meandering and usually pretty bizarre, but they are conversations nonetheless. And she can tell jokes. Between you and me, they're not funny, not even a little bit. But one day they will be. Unless she takes after F in which case, this might be as good as they get.

She can also draw a picture of a mouse that, if you squint and use your imagination, really looks like a mouse. And she's constantly singing (the kid is hooked on old school musicals. The Music Man is irritating the first time you watch it - but wow, after 80 or so viewings it's enough to make a person homicidal) and loves to breakdance. Which is basically rolling around on the living room floor amidst the tumbleweed of dog hair and abandoned raisins while yelling, "I'm breakdancing!" But still, it's pretty cool.

At each tiny new accomplishment I typically just about bust open with pride: In keeping with all the mom cliches, the Magna Doodle mouse becomes the equivalent of the Cistine Chapel. But then there is that small, frantic urge to strap her back into that idiotic Bumbo, shake a rattle in her face and forcefeed her pureed peaches and squash. Because while I don't miss those baby days, I know that I'm going to miss all of this. I sometimes wish these days wouldn't move past us, that they'd just stretch on like this forever.

I remind myself that it will all be replaced by other equally brilliant discoveries. And in the meantime she's technically still only 2 years old for another 28 days, so I think I'll enjoy it while I can.

March 2, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

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"Having a two-year-old is like having a blender that you don't have the top for." ~Jerry Seinfeld.

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