WARNING: This post is all over the place. Kinda like my head these days.

One of my dear neighbour-foxes, Mrs. Jones, loaned me the book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert a couple of years ago. I remember enjoying the story… that there were some absolutely delicious images and ideas swirling around within the pages. I remember that our heroine travelled to Italy, to India, and to Bali. There was heartache and heartbreak. There were some sexy men. There were sexy meals. Meditation. Balance.

I remember that I enjoyed the story.

Early last week, Mrs. Jones and I headed out to watch the flick. I won’t do any spoiling here, but I’ll say I enjoyed the story all over again, and I what I took from is was a) I would really like to re-read that novel, and 2) I really need to enjoy my life more. Really, I do. I don’t know what I’m waiting for…

Waiting for the house to be cleaner so I can entertain more often. Waiting for my children to be bigger so that it becomes easier to manage. Waiting for… I have no idea what. It’s silly. I know. This is how perfection permeates a normal life of simple wishes and turns it into something unattainable and crazy. What the hell? It’s something that happens over time, I think. It’s weird and crippling. I blame magazines.

Oh, and I blame Martha Stewart too.

. . .

Around the time of Martin’s birthday, we had dinner out with Mrs. Jones and her hunky superman-like husband, and we went to a new place called Jane. Man, that was a terrific evening. Our cook-friend Ryan Dixon (please don’t call him chef) is the man behind the scene. I adore him, simply because he’s an affable human with mischievous, twinkly eyes, who always seems happy to see me. He’s got a Ricky Gervais kinda thing going on in his looks, only he’s got facial hair. (And something about his scraggly beard and rusty-reddish hair makes me want to KISS HIM ON THE MOUTH, and he always lets me. What a lovely man.)

So we went to check out his new digs, and I was thrilled for him: the resto is smallish – maybe fifteen tables or so, with room for about six or eight more at the bar. The decor is minimal and homey – exposed red brick on one wall all the way up to the soaring, matte black ceiling, where reddish wood planks clad what I assume are pipes and ducts and things. Any smooth walls are painted the colour of French vanilla ice cream, and the accents, like the doors and trim, are also matte black. It’s both rustic and modern at the same time. Two excellent, massive canvases (painted by someone in-house, I believe) are up on the walls… I understand both pieces were sold within the first days of opening. Commonplace chalkboards have the specials and the wine list scrawled by someone’s hand, but there’s nothing common about the foods, which are both seasonal and delicious, and the wines have been chosen with care. An excellent selection of mouth-gasmy stuff in that place. Yes, indeed.

We dined on quail, and cod, white pizza with bechamel and mushrooms, duck something, steak… chantarelle mushrooms and asparagus are in season, so they were plentiful in the meals, tossed with pancetta and butter. Frickin’ delicious, I tell you. Copious amounts of really good wine. Holy crap! Um… yum. (Thank you so much, Ryan! And YES we will bring ladies night with the foxes to your place sometimes – absolutely!!)

I feel the need to remark on the high level of incestuousness within the food industry – especially within a city as small as Montreal is. Even more especially when you look west to the Anglo side of town. Everyone knows everyone. (Okay, perhaps this phenom exists everywhere) but as we entered this joint, still so new it has no name-sign on the outside, it was a bit amazing to see so many familiar faces: the owner from this place, a chef from that place… THE guy who does oysters for the island… the maitre’d from another favorite haunt (one that Ryan used to work at – everyone worked with everyone else once upon a time, you know?) and his excellent lady-friend sat next to us… all of us under one roof. Again. It’s a bit weird, really. Or maybe it isn’t. But oh, how I love the way the place feels.

I enjoyed a wonderful evening. It had been a while since we’d been out to eat, and I get such joy from eating scrumptious food with even more delicious people around me, with soft lighting and wicked music, giggling over aperitifs and the last of the wine… sharing glossy desserts. Sighing over coffee as we realise we must soon away, back home to the baby sitter anxiously waiting…

There is simple pleasure in things you can touch and taste, like foods and people. (And yes, sometimes in that order.) Sitting across from someone you enjoy and noticing what their hands do when they speak, or what they choose to wear on their bodies or on their feet, the way they smell, the way food is presented, the way dishes are arranged, a bud vase or a votive candle… sandals kicked off. Dangly earrings grazing collar bones. Chest hair in a open shirt neck. Wafts of cigarette smoke that makes it’s way indoors from outside (which doesn’t bother me in the slightest, by the way…) Red Stripe beer. Lick your fingers a little bit, even. It’s all good.

. . .

Coming back to the movie, there was something about our heroine’s friend keeping a box under her bed, wherein she stashed things for a baby, long before she had one. Like a hope chest, of sorts. The main character said that if she had such a box, it would likely be filled with the stuff of places she’d like to go and visit, like pictures and maps, I reckon. It made me wonder what my box of stuff might be…

I think mine would be filled with images of all the kinds of house things – but I mean in an interior design kind of way. A place for all the images I keep tearing out of magazines… but the thing is I already have a whole file system for these things (I know it’s a bit freakish but that’s just how I roll, yo!) and I pull them out sometimes to pour over them. I’m inspired by colour and food. And texture. It’s life-styley. Maybe I’m a lifestylist. If that’s true, then I am failing. I live in one of the best food cities in the country – NAY! IN THE WORLD!! And I hardly ever eat out. I hardly ever leave my neighbourhood! And I hardly ever entertain anymore either. Le sigh. Must rectify this and leave perfection to Martha. Oy.

An anagram of my full name spells “Ace Greater Style” you know. Yeah. I’m thinking that’s not so coincidental – I know how to do style. Totally.

My time in baby jail is still slowly shifting from maximum to minimum security. But still? I need to enjoy my life more. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. After all, there’s no prize for having the tidiest house, right? (And if there is, please don’t tell me about it because I’m crazy enough, thanks – but I would WIN the SHIT out of that motherfucker if there was one, son. For reals.)

Blah, blah, fucking blah… I’m thinking.

G.G.

We were in Toronto a few weekends ago, and while hanging out with my sister one evening, being the asshats that we are, she told me about this youtube clip that’s had us in stitches ever since.

Now please understand me – the premise of this news clip is no laughing matter. Some poor woman was asleep in her bed, cuddled up with her tiny child, when some man came in through a window and tried to attack her. This is horrendous – I’m not making light of these facts at all.

However, her hero-brother’s interview with the news reporter is case-in-point precisely what happens to a generation of uneducated people who are raised on a steady diet of Jerry Springer and Maury Povich, and who are constantly looking to get a proverbial “amen.” It makes me rather sad for the future.

But not today!

Please enjoy.

Oh, Jesus lord, that shit never gets old for me. I could watch this thing ALL DAY LONG.

You can join his Facebook page, if you like. And I believe there’s a rap out in youtube land as well.

So run and tell THAT! Home. Boy.

I can’t help myself. It’s just that delicious. Oh, you’re welcome, internets…

G.G.

I actually went live with this blog one year ago today.

It was Martin who said I should start writing a blog, from the beginning. I had all these snippets of writing floating around… musings, and angry rants, and stories about dumb things… He did all the background stuff, setting up the WordPress software and whatnot. (I’m such a loser when it comes to that part of things, he can never, EVER leave me, because I can hardly make the computer “go” when he’s not here.) There’d be no blog without him.

Oh, how I fretted – perfection is such a problem for me… but as my good friend Rachel pointed out in the beginning, “it’s a process. It will change as you change. Don’t worry about it.” As if a person such as myself wouldn’t worry about it. *shakes head, knowingly*

Still, she’s such a smarty, that Rachel.

I was all anxious and nervous about being able to write something every day. I was worried about having something useful to say. Or something insightful. Or funny. One year later, I realise that I really do worry too much, about many things. This blog is one of them.

I’m recognise that I love writing this thing, when I can steal away the time to do it. I’m trying not to get all hung up about whether or not people comment… I realise now that whether or not people have anything to say about it, there are many who read this thing with enjoyment. I know this because they give me all kinds of hell when I don’t post anything.

The leader of this pack is my sister, Nikola, who is probably my biggest supporter, and who also thinks I should write a book. (What the what?! I have no idea about such things…) But I love her for being a pillar. And for her less-than-gentle prodding.

My FB friend Arlene regularly pimps out my blog in her status updates, which is very cool thing to do… thank you, lady. And I’ve received support through FB and regular email, (from random strangers sometimes!) just to let me know I should keep on keeping on. Unsolicited love and support like that is the coolest kind of love there is. I can dig it.

And so, my family and friends, my peeps, my tweeps… I thank you for all the love this year. To the blogging community that has folded me in so wholely and lovingly? Oh my goodness… I blush. You inspire me in so many ways… how to write better, how to live better, and love better. My new friendships are wicked-amazing, and I can’t wait to pinch you all on your bums when we meet… one day.

Oh, hey!! Another bonus about this blog? It’s allowed me to get past my SHAME about not keeping baby books and other “good mum” logs of the like. I’ve got lots of their antics and shenanigans documented here. Sometimes with photos too. Yay for me.

So here’s a short list of my favorite posts from the last twelve months, in no particular order:

This is about ME in list form (Only, I don’t smoke cigarettes anymore – joy!)

About the time we were complete and total pizza hogs and won prizes for our efforts

About the time I cleaned my neighbour’s crapper with my own toilet brush

Oh, the joys of having babies puke a full stomach’s worth of milk on you in the wee hours

The one about Mrs. Doubtfire and the stupid games I play with my sibling

I’m having a blast, people. Thank you so much for reading… makes me all sniffly and stuff. *sniffs* And more importantly, thanks so much for not chastising me about my very liberal use of the F-word and phrases like “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!” which never ceases to make me giggle my ass off. I hope you’re all rolling on the floor laughing in pools of your own pee too.

Today, I totally rock the hard jam.

G.G.

So, a couple of weeks ago I was engaged in a full-on five-alarm panic that my usually-like-clockwork period was two days late.

Two days. Holy fuckballs.

HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?! I shrieked inside my head, wandering around my house with my arms clamped to the sides of my face, my eyes wide and round.

It was a PED day for Oliver, and Madame had no school that day anyway… it was raining outside, heavily, and as we were indoors, they were already driving me mental. And now I was considering this fate we’d created… Oh. My. God. NO!!

I do not want another baby. No. No thank you.

No. No. No.

I come from a house of science-minded people. My father was a doctor. My mother was a life-sciences major. We watched the Discovery channel at home All. The. Time. There was no getting around knowing about the reproductive systems of practically anything, from a cobra to a kangaroo, least of all about one’s own human body.

In my early teens, as we studied all things fallopian, my mother turned to me and said quite clearly, “So, if you don’t want to have a baby, don’t get pregnant.”

That was the nugget of gold right there. You can’t un-know what you know. And so, where I come from, “falling pregnant” was deemed just a bit careless and/or stupid. (And please – save your for instances for someone else. I’m not being all Judgy McJudge about anyone else’s case – I’m talking about ME, here.)

I’m certain that little pearl kept me quite scared chaste for several years. (That, and the fact that in high school, I was about as sexy as twelve year old boy.) The point is, I was careful. Very careful. Always.

Martin and I agreed that after I got through the exponentially harder part of growing and having the babies, he would make a visit to Dr. Schnippy to ensure that we didn’t have any more of them. Seems fair, no? Yes.

I was on the pill for years and years. I was smoking cigarettes AND getting older – these ingredients make for the ideal recipe for stroking out, in case you didn’t know – and anyway, Martin and I had a deal… so I never went back on them after baby #2. Only that was about two and a half years ago. So.

Everyone knows the rhythm method doesn’t work well. It’s like roulette… it’s only a matter of time until a baby lands on you.

I understand how an I.U.D. works, but at the same time I don’t really see how one can play barrier enough to stop microscopic spermatozoa from getting to the magic egg. Oh people, I’m just kidding!! Of couse I understand it. I do. (Okay, I so totally don’t understand it at all…) So you can see why I’m just not going there.

And condoms are just so… nast. They’re awful. And they smell all weird and stuff. There’s no graceful way to remove of such a thing once it’s done it’s job either. Oh, ew. So often, we’d just abstain from the mid-cycle days altogether, and we’ve been super careful about “spillage” anywhere near the pleasure dome.

So HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?!

Well, I’ll tell you how. As we were busy renovating the apartment all winter, and into much of the spring, everything boudoir had been moved to the back burner. Like way, waaaaaaay back. But now that most of the work is completed, we’ve been making up for lost time. (Heh.)

Also, since I’m completely arrogant about my sieve-like memory, I haven’t been properly keeping track of thing by marking dates in the calendar and whatnot. I kept thinking, “Oh, I’ll write that down… I won’t forget when the last day was… it came the Tuesday after that playdate with those nice people we met at the park, blah, blah, fucking blah…” and just like that, I’d not made a proper note for months.

And though she can be a bitch to host, I’m ever so happy to see Aunt Flo each and every time. Like, Phew! Thank GOD you’re here!! For a minute I thought you weren’t coming… oh my goodness, what would HAPPEN to us if you hadn’t shown UP??!

So in my ultra-panicked state the other day, I can’t even describe my anxiety. I was nuts. I mean, stunned. Terrified. Petrified. I couldn’t even FB or tweet about it to anyone. Not. Funny.

I looked around at my two kids home from school that day who were already killingmeohmygod, and all I could think of was being a Bjorn-bouncing, lactating, sleep-deprived-and-crazy mother to a newborn again, and I almost started crying. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!!

And what would I say to Martin? And the man has practically become VEGETARIAN!! He will lift a drowning fruit fly, gingerly and delicately out of his wine glass and place nestle it onto a basil leaf in our herb window box. Fuck. FUCK! He will have changed his thinking about our arrangement, I just know it… and then what? Oh HOW will I CONVINCE HIM!! Oh lord. Oh God.

AND HOW THE HELL WILL I EXPLAIN THIS TO MY MOTHER!!! I tell you, I sweat bullets for a few hours while I was worked out how soon I could get to a pharmacy for a pee-stick.

And then!

I remembered that I recently wrote a post regarding a nasty bout of gastro, and I had my period during that time… I looked up the post, remembered the timing… counted the days.. and voila!! Oh, it’s due next week. NEXT week. NEXT WEEK!! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, THANK GOD!!

And I proceded to skip around and do the happy dance for about 20 minutes. Ava Scarlett joined in and thought it was just about the best fun she’d had all day (which it totally was, because up until then, I’d been frantically pacing and brooding, and telling everyone around me to SHHHHHHH! and Will you PLEASE just shut your mouth for a few minutes so mummy can THINK?!) Yeah. Sometimes I’m not very nice at all.

Which is yet another reason that I do not want another child. I only have two hands and two eyes. I am already over-extended. I adore them, but I’m all used up, thanks. And with Madame being thisclose to being out of diapers, we’re nearly out of the woods with the “baby” part. It was fun, and babies are gorgeous and delicious and wonderful and all that, but they’re also super bossy and bitchy and unreasonable and immature. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m ready to move on.

And I’m not going back to baby prison.

And though we’d decided in the past that if we fell pregnant again, we wouldn’t have another baby (don’t judge) I’m certain it has to be a much easier thing to say, than to do. I can’t imagine the choice is ever an easy one to make – not in any scenario – but I’m glad I have choice. And so, if you don’t want to have a baby, don’t get pregnant.

But I spent all my mental energy worrying about it. Seriously. It can really impede a lady’s sex life. Because you know what’s not sexy? Worrying about getting pregnant all the time. There’s nothing LESS sexy than lying on your back, touching fingers to thumb one after the other, whispering, “Thurs…day… Fri…day… twelve, thirteen, fourteen… is today Sunday?!” Yeah. That’s not sexy at all.

And with my luck, and at my peri-menopausal stage in the game, not only would I get completely and totally pregnant, but I’d get blessed saddled with triplets or something like that. And they’d all be blind and have hooks for hands. And clocks where their stomachs should be. Oh yes, it would happen to me. I’ll just try not to fuck up stick with the two I have. They are enough treasure for my lifetime.

So I’m happy to report that not only am I not pregnant, but Martin also made his appointment with Dr. Schnippy, and The Vas has been drawn and quartered. No more babies.

But we’re double-bagging it for the next 3 months, just in case.

G.G.

NOTE: C’mon, now. You KNOW I love these freaks, right?

First, let me say that I love television more than I love my own children just about anything in this world. It’s much like a full-time job for me. I try to fit in about forty hours a week, if I can. (Or at least I used to.) Heh.

I love all kinds of programming, ranging from the guilty-pleasure stuff like Hoarders (which is so ohmygodIcannotbelievethesepeople!) to Cousteau-type stuff on the National Geographic channel. I love it all.

A few years ago, we added the Sex TV station to our cable roster which made me so very happy, I can’t even tell you. It’s not porn, incidentally – not unless you count that uber-crappy porn-lite stuff that gets aired after 11 PM for children and old people – nay, it was a really excellent information station, often times airing mini-documentary-style snippets of a range of tidbits under the GIGANTIC and SPLENDID umbrella of Eros.

Straight sex. Gay sex. Everything-in-between sex. It profiled artists of all kinds: photographers specialising in art nudes or Suicide Girls or working girls, painters who depict pop-art images of sex and cannibalism, or old-school hook rug makers who craft super-sized rugs depicting the likes of Brigitte Bardot or Raquel Welsh. Some people knit penis-cozies out of latex. I’m not sure why they do this, but it’s available, I’ve come to understand. Hmmmmm.

It was an entire channel dedicated to all the sessy things. It aired documentaries about the history of whoring in New Orleans. Or of swinging in Berlin. Or of burlesque all over the world. I watched a segment about people who like to dress up like ponies, and the people who ride them… they organised a fox hunt. One burly man with a handlebar moustache got to be the fox. It was very strange. But oh, how they enjoyed themselves! I wonder what such an after-party might be like, though I’m glad I wasn’t invited, thanks. (Besides, if one doesn’t own fetish-gear, what would one WEAR to such a party?!)

I once watched a segment about grown men who enjoy dressing up as babies. (It’s called Infantilism.) I mean with curly, golden wigs atop their heads, and mary-jane shoes on their enormous man-feet. They enjoy wearing diapers and having them changed by the “mummies” they hire for the privilege… there are services for these sorts of things. Some enjoy being breast-fed by lactating women. Um…

Okay, that’s super fucking weird, but whatev.

The best part for me, is coming to understand what people think about a myriad of sexual subjects. How they behave in a society like our own, which is still so heavily puritanical. It is a rather large world out there, but thanks to all-things-cyber, the world seems much, much smaller – it’s easy to gain access to niches, or to find others with a similar “fetish.” It’s interesting to me to see what people like. If you’re not harming anyone (and if children aren’t involved in any way) then people should be free to do pretty much whatever (or whomever) they choose.

The sad thing is, this station is no more. I tried to pull it up several weeks ago and saw Sandra Bullock in pagent costume. Eh? Why are they airing this piece of crap? (Okay, I’ve seen that movie several times – part I AND part II, in fact – but why are they airing this piece of crap HERE?!) The movie to follow was Dying Young with Julia Roberts (yet another film I’ve seen many times, but not exactly what I’d call “sexy”) and immediately following that was Janeane Garofalo’s The Truth About Cats and Dogs.

Wait just a fucking minute.

This was starting to smell very… “woman’s network television” to me. Holy fuckballs.

And what do you know? It actually IS called Woman’s Network Movies or some such crap. I have no issue with such a station existing, but c’mon, man! Where’s the SEX?!

Gone, that’s where. And it took my TV-watching patience with it, I think.

We’ve also had the Biography and the Documentary channels for many years, which are both awesome. I love that at any time of day or night, you can learn about the life and career of Mohammed Ali, or Peter Lawford, or Katherine Hepburn, or Katherine Heigl, or of the Vanderbilts (Hi Anderson Cooper!!), or the Astors, or the Osbournes. You can watch a film about salt milling in India, or coal mining in Virginia, or about euthanasia, or about the youths in Asia. Day or night, there’s some excellent information to be gleaned out there. I love that about TV.

I’ll tune in to one station or another, hoping to see the life and times of Liza Minelli or even Liza with a Z if I’m lucky (because that’s all kinds of awesome, no matter how you spell it) or perhaps to check out an episode of Iconoclasts, where the likes of Dave Chappelle and Maya Angelou sit down together and chat a while. Renee Zelleweger and Christiane Amanpour. Isabella Rossallini and Dean Kamen. One of my favorite pairings was when Eddie Vedder spent the day with Laird Hamilton, wherein the rock-god and the surf-god parlayed about all things music and surfing and art and love and family and the past, present and future… swoon! It was awesome. What a delicious bit of programming that show is…

So imagine my surprise to find Flavor Flav on my screen with a bevy of gangsta-babes all vying for his affection in some sort of “contest.” (Ew.) I suppose it was much like The Bachelor in it’s inception, though I can’t be certain because I never watched that show. And sadly, there are more shows like this cropping up all the time, and they get more and more lowbrow at every incarnation. I believe there are TWO different shows about sad, New Jersey boys living in their parents’ basement, interviewing potential wives. The grammar coming out of the mouths of these people alone makes me want to slap somebody. Whenever I catch a glimpse of such a stinkfest, I grip the sides of my head, in an effort to keep it from exploding.

Are you kidding me? And WHY EXACTLY is this programming on the Documentary channel? Oy.

I don’t care to see washed-up rockstars in rehab either. It’s just embarrassing.

I love Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, at least in theory. I love what it’s about, and I couldn’t have come at a better time… I’m just a little sad that is has to be in crappy reality-tv format. If he’s made a two-hour documentary about his efforts, with a beginning, middle, and end, I would have watched it. I do not need to watch the executive-produced “drama” between Jamie and the surly we ain’t changin’ lunch ladies who are pissed as hell at him for coming onto their turf. For goodness sake. Nor do I need the DUN-DUN-DUN cliff-hanger of the fat preteen, anxiously awaiting the news as to whether or not he has developed diabetes (yet.) Oh my god, people. Get a clue, and stop eating pizza for breakfast. And PS – the term “all you can eat” is not a challenge.

Can’t we just cut to the chase? Are people so easily distracted that if there isn’t some insipid form of drama, the population won’t ingest the information?

Oh, and is Jerry Seinfeld broke or something? What the hell kind of crap is The Marriage Ref? There’s an audience out there that finds it funny and entertaining?! Oh. My. Lord. SAD!! I weep for the future of television.

It scares me.

Sometimes I’ll see a trailer for something, and I have no idea if it’s for a new show, or a comedy series, or for a new soda, or what. I think I’m getting old and curmudgeony.

But seriously, if I never have to see Flavor Flav’s mug on my TV involuntarily again, it will be too soon. (That dude is ugly. Whoa.)

All I can say is thank you baby Jesus for HBO, only it’s Bill Maher who’s here to save us all. He’s my own. Personal. Jesus.

Amen.

G.G.

NOTE: My pregnant-neighbour-fox birthed a girl-pup early yesterday morning after a less-than-three-hour labour. Whoosh! She called me during the last 15 minutes of the Glee season finale, but naturally I took her call… I’m pretty sure I heard To Sir With Love being sung in the background, and although I ADORE that song with a passion, I didn’t lose focus chatting with my babe about her new babe who is the cutest little baby I’ve ever… joy!

I will not complain about the heat. I will not complain about the heat. I will not complain about the heat.

Holy fuckballs, it’s HELLA hot outside, yo! It’s just over 36 degrees celcius today, but the radio people say it feels like 40. Why not 50? Why not a million? I think beyond 35 it’s all academic, no? It’s fucking hot. HOT! (I’ll take it over the snow though. ANY. DAY. So I will not complain.)

But I don’t know why we can’t just have a leisurely spring. I’d love to have mostly sunny weather with a median of 25 degrees for about six weeks… all gradual-like. Is that too much to ask? About four weeks ago, it snowed. We broke out our down jackets again for a couple of days. The the next week it seems to be 12 degrees. Then 22. Then 32. A person can’t get adjusted! It’s not right. No wonder people get sick for no reason at this time of year. Suck. (But I’m not complaining.)

But as I walked down the street (ran, actually) with my shopping bags heavy with a huge-ass jug of laundry detergent, and three bottles dish soap, plus birthday presents for the next three parties coming up, and a denim skirt and a pair of shorts that I had to buy for myself because, dude, it’s fucking HOT outside, I had sweat tricking down between mah bewbs and I just KNOW I had huge wet marks on my shirt beneath said bewbs (which always makes me feel so… ick!) but I passed a huge construction layout in the road, and watched a guy in a heavy jump-suit shovel tar-covered gravel onto the road where it was being repaired. Now THAT guy was SWEATING!! In just breezing past him like I did, I could feel FOR CERTAIN that his surrounding area was at least ten degrees hotter than everywhere else in the city. The poor guy. That’s a job I would not like to have. In the moment, I was very thankful I was not him, and that I was heading home to my chilly air-conditioned house.

Somewhere out there, someone has a harder life, much harder to live than the one you do. Now there’s a mantra.

So I will not complain about the heat.

The evenings are lovely these days though… last night, the children had popsicles on the front steps after dinner. Madame slipped her tutu on over her shorts, which she does now and again. I had to get the camera.

Be safe. Have fun. Happy summer.

G.G.

PS – Did I mention that it’s hot? Oui. Il fait chaud, man. Holy fuck. HAWT!!

I crouch down to her level and say, “Hello, you!”

Her thumb-sucking mouth splits into a huge grin, and she throws her arms around my neck, hugging me close. She breathes, “Mummy.”

She is two. She is still so little.

But I just know that in a blink she will be six, and then she’ll be sixteen, and then she’ll be… gone.

We’ve been so busy renovating for the past several months, I’ve not really noticed her as I should. I need to talk to her more. I need to hug her more. Le sigh.

My baby is growing.

G.G.

So, last Thursday I was moaning on Twitter about needing a day or two off from my completely suckadocious life, because I’ve been a reno-widow since before the holidays and the kids are totally tired of me, and I am completely fed up with them too, and I miss my life of eating dinner during hours that begin with the number eight or nine, my house is a dust-bowl where the children cough at night, which is also the only kind of gasping to be heard during the wee hours because there ain’t anything waywurd going on in here either. For ages now. And I’m all crabby and stabby and foul as shit.

One of my tweeps @thesearedays answered with this:

@GrumbleGirl Okay honey, gimme a question for the Eight Ball. We’ll cheer you right up.

I retorted charmingly with:

@thesearedays okay: will I ever get a day off from this cocksucking, motherfucking job? (Do you think that was too rude? *snickers*)

She replied:

@GrumbleGirl Signs point to Fuck Yes You Will, You Deserve Better (Eight Ball answer may be slightly exaggerated for comic effect).

See? Life was to be perfect in the near future. The magic Eight Ball said it was to be so. What the fuck happened exactly? This is where the baby Jesus and I part as friends. Again.

I made Martin and I a particularly gorgeous caesar salad for dinner that night, with roasted chicken in it, pancetta bits, pan-toasted croutons, and dressing that I made from scratch (with mayo, by the way, not egg yolk… I’ve got issues with eggs that I’ll get into another time, and raw egg is especially ick, so) when we sat down to eat at 10:30 PM, I was already starving.

Salad is light on an already near-empty stomach, but you can’t have a steak at 10:30 PM. Well, not if you plan on sleeping too. So as we discussed how he would basically be MIA for the entire weekend again (our second last before the new tenants arrive – we have to make EVERY hour effective now) we munched on our romaine lettuce happily, and I made plans to have a mess of bacon and eggs for breakfast the next day. I’d need to get fortified for a full weekend of having the kids all to myself. Again. Some more. Lordhavemercy. It’s almost over…

We retired just before 1 AM. This has been usual lately.

Only I didn’t sleep. And my stomach wouldn’t settle.

At all.

And somewhere around 3 AM I finally got up and made myself sick (which I only had to think about, really… I was ready) and went back to bed, hoping sleep would find me quickly, and that I’d be right by morning.

But it didn’t. And I wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

When Martin got up for work at 6 AM, I had to tell him I was in bad shape. He said he’d get the kids to school and stuff and not to worry about anything. To go back to bed. I wish I could have stayed there, but I had my head in a bucket for the rest of the morning instead.

He took the afternoon off and picked the baby up from preschool. I heaved all day long.

And all night.

I whimpered and writhed in discomfort. That tres urgent feeling of oh my god I’m gonna be sick right now never, ever left me. I couldn’t lie still. I couldn’t seem to remember how to sleep either, which only came intermittently, wherein I could escape my malaise. I was hot, and then cold. I had tremors. It was awful.

I would close my eyes and recall the High Fidelity soundtrack in my head over and over again (which is an excellent album by the way – I highly recommend it) and tried to cheer myself with the boppier tunes like Everybody’s Gonna Be Happy by the Kinks, and consoled myself with the mellower tunes like Dry the Rain by The Beta Band. It helped more than you might think. Plus, I love John Cusack. Thinking of him at any given time makes me pretty happy. So.

I had imaginary conversations inside my head with tweeps I haven’t met yet, like @smacksy… we talked about the merits of extra-high eyebrows (both sexy AND serious!) and about stealing cars. I had more in-my-head talks with FB peeps I-love-but-have-yet-to-meet-in-person like my soul-sistah Arlene… her gravelly voice and quit-fucking-around attitude made me want to get up. Inside my head, she made me giggle. And yet, the bile kept on coming.

From egg-yellow to dark-yellow to greenish-yuck to devil-brown…

I sipped water and Gatorade and flat gingerale and ate next to nothing. And laid in bed and moaned and trembled. Or wandered weakly to the bathroom barfing into a wastepaper basket. (The echo of the retching sounds are particularly ominous when one’s head is deep, deep inside one. Great acoustics. Scary. And gross.)

And Martin took care of everything. I heard snippets of conversation here and there… I heard a very tired and frustrated daddy try in vain to shush the children so sick mummy could sleep… He took them to the park. And then to lunch. And then to Home Depot (his home away from home.) And as he’d settle baby for a nap, and prop up our six-year-old with totally righteous video games for an hour or so, he’d run downstairs and finish trying to get the kitchen cabinets fitted into place because the counters absolutely MUST get on by Sunday, and OH FUCK is that a crack in this run of countertop? Can I call someone – my sister, maybe – to get a replacement for me from Ikea today? Because the sinkhole needs to be cut, so the plumbing can be done on Monday, because the tiler is coming to do the back-splash on Wednesday, and TABERNAC DE CHALLIS we need more quarter round moulding installed TONIGHT because the painter comes in the afternoon, and the handyman we hired isn’t in tomorrow…

He swears in French A LOT when he’s tired and cranky. He’s spoken more French in the past four months than I’ve heard him speak in years.

All this extra work on top of his 12-hour a day office job AND looking after the children AND the house, dog, groceries, cleaning, cooking bullshit AND doing office work from home AND trying to research how to install kitchen cabinets… well it’s too much for one man. It’s too much for Superman. He’s ready to crack, yo. Or cry. Or die. Or something.

And yet, he’d come and see me, with the most worried eyes you’ve ever seen, red-rimmed and kinda scared looking, and I’d try so hard not to whimper in front of him… we talked about whether or not a trip to the ER would be helpful… we decided it likely wouldn’t be. A full moon was looming (everyone knows that emergency rooms often become overrun with freak accidents, crazies, and pregnant women during the nights of full moons, right?) and we were looking to avoid sitting in that kind of scene in the middle of the night for six hours, only to be told, “You have a gastro – go home.” Anyway, I had to be better in the morning. I just had to. C’mon now.

I was feeling a bit better – or at least, I thought I was. The children were abed for Sunday night, and Martin promised to retire before midnight, though he was taking Monday off work. Likely Tuesday too. He hadn’t advanced by much at all over the weekend, of course, and life at the office was to be super-crazy-mental by mid-week, so the push had to be now. I heard him go to bed on the couch around midnight.

And then I got up to be sick again. And I was shaking like a leaf. And my body hurt everywhere. Was this from dehydration? Was I exploding? Or was that imploding? Enough. Hospital time. I had to wake poor Martin who’d been sleeping like the dead for exactly thirty minutes to say, Okay, let’s go. Let’s call a neighbour and get out of here…

Let me say a few things to the people in charge at hospital emergency rooms:

1. I get that this isn’t YOUR emergency, but sometimes the difference between your “calm” face and your nonchalant “I-don’t-give-a-fuck” face is more slight than you might realise. And this isn’t helpful at all.

2. Nothing makes a person want to vomit more than a visit to your toilet facilities, which by the way, could probably stand to be cleaned more often than once in what appeared to be a three or four day period. The overwhelming stench of urine alone would gag a soldier, and the remnant bits of bloody toilet paper from noses or other orifices left on the floor, strewn amongst crunchy bits of I-don’t-know-what and sticky spots of what-the-fuck are not terribly confidence-inspiring. Consider yourself on notice.

3. Thank you for finally giving me a bed to recline on, as I was writhing in your waiting room, but after being on it for an hour, was it so necessary, Nurse Ratched, to give my husband the heavy-eyeballed Oh, What NOW?! look when he used the call button? It was the FIRST and ONLY time we used it, you see, and he called because I appeared to be having a near-seizure or something. There’s no reason to get all snippy at 3 AM. That shit just ain’t helpful. It’s not nice, and it ain’t right. Bitch.

4. When you ask a person whether or not there’s a possibility that she might be pregnant, and she laughs in your face, it’s a far cry better than the response of SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!! that she was about to say reflexively. It’s just that while suffering through this affliction, she was also having her period the entire time (and if that isn’t just a giant kick in the taco from the baby Jesus then I don’t know what is…) So don’t be hatin’. PS – Thanks for all the IV fluids and for instant pain-relieving meds. Glorious stuff. And thanks for munching on those breath mints ahead of time too.

5. Some of your nurses have really big hair and Easter-eggy colourful makeup and smell like candy. This is not necessarily a bad thing – it’s just an observation. Felt a bit like Nashville. I’m just sayin’.

We returned home around 6 AM, woke our saintly rockstar neighbour up off the couch, and sent him home. I made coffee for Martin, who got the kids up and got them ready for school. Monday. Yeah. I think he slept about 45 minutes in the hospital chair. My man is made of iron. My poor, poor darling.

I finally got out of bed for good on Tuesday. This is not, however, the few days off I was looking for.

You see, you really DO have to be careful what you wish for. I am thankful that this whole sordid affair wasn’t worse than it was. I’m guessing I picked up this bug from a shopping cart or a door knob someplace. It was only mummy down, and not the children too. And it ran it’s course – it’s not terminal. Anyway, I’m all better now. Still fighting off the weakness, and some lethargy, but I’ll get enough sleep when I’m dead. Which may be soon… but not today. It takes a fuck of a lot more to kill the devil inside of me. Heh.

We have an apartment to deliver by the weekend, and there’s no rest for the wicked.

But, when we get a chance to rest and have a date of some kind, it will involve some massage stuff at the Spa St-James (we have gift certificates from Martin’s crazy-generous boss from Christmas still to use) and yummy nibbling at some place gritty-swanky like Joe Beef, whose lobster pasta has my name ALL OVER IT, and a fantastic bottle of wine we’ve been saving (thanks again, lovely boss-lady!) and also something bubbly to drink alongside some oysters on the half-shell. And some time away from the children. And a lot of sleep.

And some condoms.

G.G.

NOTE: Thanks very much, my friends and my loves for any help you provided, and for your well-wishes and your healing vibes… you’re all tremendous. For reals.

I’m not so accustomed to the tantrums.

I know the differences in personality and development between one child and his or her sibling(s) can be as vast in difference as apples and marshmallows. Oliver, my first, wasn’t usually prone to tantrums. I found him fairly reasonable for a child his age, and didn’t usually have to endure a lot of sassy mouth or actions from him. I do remember the six months betwen the ages of 2.5 and three that I could have totally done without – he started pre-school at that time, and just worked mummy pretty hard… pushing the boundaries… it’s part of his job. I hated it, but I was prepared.

I feel as if the minute this second child turned two (which was about 4 weeks ago) her pointed little horns have come back to the surface with full-on purpose and avengence. She’s trying to kill me, I can tell.

Anything she can’t have… anytime I tell her “no”… anytime I look at her sideways… she falls to her knees, face all crumpled, arches her spine and throws her head back… WAAAAAAIIIIIIIL!!! Then she lies down completely and start stamping her little feet on the floor, rolling her head from side to side, hands over her eyes… the tears start rolling… of course, I can’t reason with her, so I step over her and leave the room.

WAAAAAAAIIIIIIIL!!!

I take very deep breaths and pretend that I’m not bothered in the slightest, when in reality, I. AM. SEETHING. Because? Because this is the fourth such tantrum in the space of about three hours, and NO you can’t have chocolate at 8:05 AM, but you can have some after lunch. And NO you can’t jump on the bunk-bed, ever. And NO you can’t play with mummy’s nail polish, but wouldn’t you like a little lip gloss instead?

WAAAAAAIIIIIIIL!!!

She’s not hungry. She’s had enough sleep. She’s got no symptoms of illness. She’s just being TWO, and man, oh man is she ever getting good at it. Holy fuck. Feels like Every. Little. Thing… And the trick is to stay as cheerful as possible, because it’s not really her fault that she’s two years old, and learning to manage her stress. I know this. Whistle while you work. Try not to eat the poisoned apple. And never shake the baby. (Somebody please pass the wine?)

The worst part is, she appears to be this way, largely with me, and me alone. Daddy doesn’t get nearly as much of this kind of behavior. At pre-school she seems to be quite a cute little peach. She saves it for me… because I’m the mum.

Because I’m the mum.

Because I’m the mum.

Fuck, I hate being the mum sometimes. It’s so freaking unfair this fucking unpaid, thankless, no-time-off-EVER cocksucking motherfucking job…

Today, I quit.

And I’ll tell you something else: if I could punch her in the face, I totally would. (No, I really wouldn’t… you know. But, FUCK YEAH I SOOOO FUCKING WOULD!!)

Fuckballs.

G.G.

NOTE: I can barely contain the love I have for this child… I’m just not liking her so very much at the moment. Meh.

When we pulled up the counter tops, (the only thing we were committed to changing in that kitchen this time around, besides the appliances) we saw the cabinets needed changing because a bad plumbing job (by a previous owner) ruined the cabinetry. So as we’re shopping for cheap-but-not-cheap-looking cabinetry, we removed the old, and it seems that the walls behind them have mould, and are crooked beyond belief. The previous builder actually notched out huge amounts of gyp-rock to recess some cabinets to make them appear straighter. Man, I hate shitty work. So out it all goes – likely including the flooring we put in two years ago because it probably can’t be salvaged. Chi-ching. And? Fucking balls, man.

What this means too, it that many of the little things we’ve been wanting to do around our own house will be put off that much longer. And I wonder if this changes things for our plans to go to Vegas for his birthday this summer… and all this when I’m heading for my mid-winter meltdown, when I can’t quite get the chill out of my bones no matter what I try to do, and going outside some days feels like DEATH, so we’re inside a fuck of a lot, and there are days when I cannot Cannot CANNOT take the children’s voices, faces, antics for another fucking second and I want to sleep for ten hours years and my neighbour-friend is taking up a huge amount of my head-space and I think I finally need to give her that letter I’ve been re-writing for the last several years and I have social responsibilities up the wazoo right now and my son’s birthday is in two days and I need to do my nails and mail my citizenship application and my dog stinks to high heaven and he really, really needs to die soon a bath for me to love him more.

Bad weekend. Le sigh.

It won’t be like this forever.

G.G.