Damn you, Internet meme

I never make resolutions.

This is, in part, because I know I am so damn stubborn that I will inevitably wilfully sabotage myself, simply to be contrary. Also because I am pretty clear on the things I  should be doing in my life. Making promises on one night because the calender changes really doesn't appeal to me.

A few weeks ago I saw a post on an old bloggy friends facebook wall ( yeah, yeah I gots the facebook, but not the twitter. never the twitter) that intrigued me.

Grace Davis ( one of the truly most spectacular, kickass, centered and all around lovely human I have ever had the pleasure of not only Knowing, but making her laugh her ass off next to a pool on a Balmy San Jose night...seriously, I want to be Grace when I grow up) posted 30 things to Stop Doing to Yourself

"hmm. I'll nibble at that" thinks I.

So I click on over...and read the first one...

 If someone wants you in their life, they’ll make room for you.  You shouldn’t have to fight for a spot.

Oh.

Well then.


I can give you a thousand examples of this in action in my life and the lives of people I know and love. People fighting for spots in lives, rather than room being made. I am guilty of it myself.

I will no longer fight for spots in the lives of people I know, and I will do my damnedest to not make people fight for spots in mine. 

This year, I work on Balance.

In all Things.

Peace to you, my internet friends.

Baby, it's cold outside

So...we live in Canada now, right. We are New Englanders. We are used to cold weather.


Um. Yeah. Not so much.

Today Emily and I walked down to the bakery. All right. It's about a half a mile. We were bundled. Tra-la-la. We chat about life as we walk down ( wind behind us) to our delicious destination.

We eat, we drink, we are merry.

Jaunty Hat and Scarf Combo

We re-bundle. We head out.

Dear Lord in Heaven. It seems to have dropped about 150 degrees in the brief amount of time we were inside. The wind is right in our faces. The tips of my ears, although covered in scarf and hat, begin to get painfully cold. Our small talk, so merry on the walk to the bakery, drops to nothing.

Emily tries to pretend she can't see and hangs onto my arm. I shake her off, visions of the Donner party in my head. 

MUST.........NOT........STOP......WALKING.....MUST.....NOT......SLOW......DOWN

As we crest the hill which signals one block to our house, Emily spontaneously yells:

"WALK OR DIE, WALK OR DIE!"

I start to laugh, and so does she ( as the little worm huddles behind me, using me as her windbreak)

We round the corner and begin to race walk home.

Emily demonstrates her "I'm Dying" pose 

Smart Mouth Gene

Sigh. I know I have a normal kid. What's more, I know that with a Mom such as myself, my child was fated to be a bit ( hold your comments!) of a smart ass.

I mean, I'm not exactly world renowned for my ability to keep my mouth shut, now am I? I have been "uninvited" from meetings/committees since I tend to speak the stuff in my head...out loud. Is it any surprise that my daughter seems to have inherited this tendency to "say stuff"?

Well, No. But it is dammed annoying when the commentary is directed at ME. Take this past week ( oh yeah, I am in recovery from this week for a LONG time).

Every. Little. Thing. She resisted me.

She would pretend to not hear me, or do what she was asked ( like put away her clothes) and when I found them shoved in the closet, try to tell me that she "misunderstood" what I meant by "putting them away".

Or the answer "No" to her umpteenth million request for "dessert", which ended in her stomping  away and muttering bitterly.

"What was that?", I snapped.

"Nothing", she replied.

"I heard that...", I said.

"what?", Emily responds.

"You said, "I wish I had a nice Mom", you don't know from Mean, honey. I can show you a whole world of mean if you keep pushing it."

 I pause - staring at her.

Every day. Wishes for a nice mom, a different Mom, a mom who is Pleasant and wouldn't make her do these ridiculous chores are muttered sotto voce...and I must challenge every one of them. Oh, and the LOOKS. I had to spank her bum yesterday for the look she shot me when I told her to get into the shower.

And on one hand as I must reign her in, I secretly rejoice on the other. She will not stay quiet. She is my daughter, through and through.



Gimlet Eye 2007

Lo-Fi

She approaches warily. What is this box on her bed?

"How do I open it? Do you have a key?", she yells from the room

 

I tell her she doesn't need a key to open this box.


Her sounds of joy and excitement roll from her bedroom.

"Is this for ME? Where did you get this? Is this mine?"

And my house is filled with the joyful noise of a typewriter clacking.

Wrapping

After a hiatus of Never, Terrance and I attempted to wrap gifts together last night.

I am not sure that we ever discussed why we don't wrap gifts together, but I suspect that in the early years we just never thought about it. Actually this isn't true. I have always wrapped gifts. As he spent the first five years of our relationship buying me "gift sets" from the liquor store on the way home, he felt that since they were boxed that it counted as wrapped.

I recall the argument over this habit of his - both the lazy wrapping AND the not so subtle attempt to turn me into a raving alcoholic by waiting until the drive home before any "event" to purchase the most half assed gift he could find.  And then I drank the bottle of Sambuca.

Last night I figured - What the hell.

I assembled my carefully chosen for the best aesthetic combinations paper, and tape ( the good tape, not the cheap stuff that doesn't hold) and scissors and called my spouse forth. I requested he bring the gifts He has bought for Emily. In point of fact, we don't shop together, so we never know what she has until each adult has unveiled Ye Olde Mountain of Far Too Much Shit that they have been accumulating in the closets and basements of the house.

Terrance has the ability to simultaneously appear shocked and appalled at what I have purchased, all while unveiling more and more gifts HE has squirrelled away. So while he is yelling at me for spending too much money, HE is walking in with MORE AND MORE gifts.

Normally I do what I do with 98% of his conversation....which is to go to my happy place and ignore him.

 I begin to wrap my gifts. Measure gift with paper. Assess if the gift can be wrapped and another gift can be wrapped with left over paper.  Perhaps I even attempt to configure gifts on paper so as to make only one extra cut.

HEY! When you are wrapping a billion gifts, your efficiency of movement can stave off the inevitable carpal tunnel and spousal stabbing which is going to be, frankly, inevitable.

I am merrily on my third gift when I glance over at Terrance.

Oh.           Oh my.

He is handling a Rectangular package. Nothing hard or fancy about this wrapping job. The paper I  have bought even has the grid guidelines so he doesn't cut bizarre shapes that I can't reuse.

He has one side partially wrapped. I say partially because while there is more than enough paper to cover the gift, he has mangled the edge of the paper in what I can only describe as "twisted, burning wreckage."

He is now pawing at the other end of this gift like his hands have swollen to the size of hams.  In fact, this is when I started to giggle, because he looked like Frankenstein being confronted with Fire.  He was making the same noises too.

I finish my gift, chose the tag that matches the paper best and place it in the middle of the bed.

"Wrapping makes me Angry",  he states.

This strikes me as enormously funny. All I can think is "Fire! BAD! Fire, BAD!"

 My slight giggle becomes a chortle.  I now think "Gift wrapping with the Hulk" and envision my husband with Hulk Hands smashing gifts left and right.

He moans louder.

"Oh good god, just give it to me!"

I finally relent, taking the gift from him and attempting to unravel the Gordian knot of tape he has placed on the back. "For such an intelligent man, you'd think that the mystery of wrapping a rectangle might be a bit easier to solve...besides, I know you were just fucking it up so I would take it away from you - the same way I know you bleached the clothes in 1993 so you wouldn't have to do laundry."

He grunts at me. Yes. Grunts. Sullenly.

He announces his new job will be to write the gift tags.  I laugh again and go back to wrapping.

But here is where he slays me.  The pile of gifts is in the middle of the bed, and I am taking them one by one...wrapping and placing them over near him.

He then looks at the gift and says "What's THIS?!" in a simultaneously confused and accusatory way.

I then have to look at him and explain it is a gift HE BOUGHT her. I am just the agent of wrapping.

He does this EVERY TIME. Seriously. Every Fucking Gift.

Finally I blurt out:

 "Is the concept of object permanence lost on you? Are you the Cat? Just because something has been wrapped, doesn't mean the thing inside has been changed. If I hold my hand up to my face, will you be worried I have disappeared?"


I think this statement is Hysterical. I believe I riff for several more minutes on this theme, cracking myself up more with each passing second.

He, of course, does not find this funny at all.

And so endth our one and only attempt at gift wrapping together.

Watch this. I loved it. Terrance does not.

Three Sisters

The first thing she noticed was the silence.

It frightened her.

The second thing of which she became aware was the absence of her sisters. She could not feel them beside her and when she finally opened her eyes, she understood why.

She was alone.




Luna couldn't remember falling asleep. This was not to be the only or most troubling perplexion of her day, however.

The sensation was unfamiliar, in part, because she had never slept before. As she lay still, her eyes closed again and she opened her other senses to the world around her.

She felt the sun. She smelled salty, sooty damp; wood rot and mold. But most of all, the silent sense of neglect and abandonment overwhelmed her.

Her sisters were gone. She reached out in her mind for them; any sign, any trace...but nothing. No smoky dark promise of Drea, no green gold excitement of Chase.

Just Luna. Pale, cold and forsaken. She opened her eyes again






The last thing she remembered was fire. Delicious warmth had turned to biting heat, making her cry out.  She must have fallen asleep after that, she thought, her eyes soft and unfocused.

Sleep was it's own mystery, for since the primal moment of her conciousness she had lived in a never ending flood of cacophony. Lights, music and movement had filled every second of her existence.



With her sisters, she had been a queen of the night.

Each in their kingdom, they had demanded and received endless tribute from eager supplicants. For Drea  it was passion; hasty couplings,  stolen kisses, and all things that happen in the dark between lovers. Chase wanted excitement; she loved the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit, her eyes sparkling like the shikari.


Luna? She wanted only music.


Laying in the sun,  Luna recalled a night when the sisters had joined hands and stood before their courtiers, incandescent.

The lover she chose that night was different. Luna rarely took humans as lovers and each one was unique, like curious bugs.  His reluctance was what drew her. Shyly watching her from the side shadows, she'd caught his eye and smiled. He looked away, for he was no musician and she almost never spoke to ones from whom no music flowed. She decided then to choose him.

Later, in her bed, she had opened to him. Her face becoming, he said, like the promise of summer.  The memory made a corner of her mouth turn up, an almost smile washing across her pale visage.

Luna closed her eyes again.

"Where are my sisters?", she thought

Snow White and Rose Red

I've not shown you updates on the Snow White and Rose Red rug for ages now. I have, of course, been working hard on it, for it soothes me to have the wool in my hands and the colours before me.

If you don't know the story behind this rug, you can find the original Grimm version all over. My affinity for the story is told here and here. I still think about Tender Morsels, you know. Almost every day and my screen saver has never changed...reminding me that my happiness is not paramount, but my presence always is required.

The next rug will be Red Riding Hood and I am starting to dig around about how I feel about it. There is something potently dark and sexual about that story that draws me and it is going to require some more digging around in boxes in closest's that I don't always root through in my psyche.

Exhausted

But not yet defeated.

Three is a Magic Number

I greet each pregnancy announcement from friends with honest joy. These women with whom I share this unique space between and within blogs...I like them. I love them.

I would, however, be dishonest is I did not say that I also feel a wave of jealousy. Envy, deep green and salty, washes over me.

I wish it could be me. I wish it was me that had a new baby growing in my body. I wish that it was me who would be holding that newborn, inhaling that smell. That smell that is so uniquely baby - sweet, sour and powdery.  I smell it sometimes and there is an almost indiscernible lurch in my breasts. I remember the pleasure of nursing my child, and the delicious yumminess of her dimpled flesh and baby soft feet.

I can see it, you know. My invisible baby. She is a girl and she is wrapped next to my body in a sling. I would take such joy in her, this second chance at mothering.

My mind meanders in this fantasy.  It is lovely and my baby is beautiful.

It is at this juncture that Logical Dawn kicks down the door and shakes the ever loving shit out of me. There also may be some swearing and yelling, too. For Logical Dawn knows that I am not built to mother another baby. Not for a physical reason, my pregnancy was easy by all measures, and my labor was less than 3 hours long. And yes, my husband has had a vasectomy. But details, people, details.

Do I fear another post partum episode? Unequivocally.

But it is more than that.

I never expected to feel so divided about being a Mother. I never expected that this transition, the assuming of a new part of my identity, would take so very much out of me. Some may call it being selfish, and I do too, sometimes. There is a part of me, a large part of me, which needs MY attention. When I do not attend to myself, this part becomes petulant and sick. That illness spreads into other areas until I am forced to withdraw and care for this part of my being. While I am doing this, there is no room for anything or anybody else.

The idea of having another baby and dealing with another -inevitable- depression?  Frightens me beyond words. But, abandoning a dream of having another baby in the hopes that it will be easier, sunnier, More?

I sing to myself:

Three is a magic number
Yes, it is
It's a magic number...

Sept 28, 2007 Gimlet Eye

It's Better than Bad, It's Good

So we've established that I get a little "over achieving" when it comes to lots of things, right?

Such as the size of my Christmas Tree?

Well, the stand that Terrance bought leaked...so he had to take the tree down  to return the stand ( one of those super duper swivel self watering things)

Since the tree was down, he decided to "trim" the trunk a bit. You know, make a fresh cut so the water could get in...and lower the tree a bit.

I was in the front of the house, decorating the porch, so I was unaware of his evil machinations in the back.

Until I saw this:






ACK! I believe we have the lead player for "LOG" on the Ren and Stimpy show. Its big, it's heavy, it's wood!

Next came Dawn pleading "Just leave me enough branches  on the bottom...OH MY GOD! STOP CUTTING THE BRANCHES!!! YOU'RE BUTCHERING THE TREE!!!"

And while I am not admiting a thing....This is what the tree now looks like:







Not so bad I guess. And Emily didn't notice a Thing.  The extra branches off the bottom gave me enough greenery to do this:






Ok, yes - I know. A bit much Dawn?  I know - but the neighbor has strung up these multicolored lights over the front door in the shape of a Christmas tree ( see exhibit A) - as if to broadcast to the neighbourhood that the people in this duplex have no taste! LOOK!






So I had to redeem us somehow.

Tonight I plan on shredding the trunk to make homemade wrapping paper...

Kidding.


Maybe.


Gimlet Eye December 2007

Blue Velvet Christmas Tree

Ah yes. The promised second part of the tree story. Of course other things were happening in the field as Terrance dragged the behemoth to the edge of the field.

You see, internet friends, I occasionally attempt to be NICE. You know, give it the old college try for the benefit of my child. I stand with the farmer - Elwood - and listen to his stories of farm hardship. I smile at him and thank him for having such a lovely farm. I express how much we missed cutting down our own tree.

Now I have NO problem with grizzled old farm types. Living in Vermont and New Hampshire has familiarized me with these types of people. I usually stand there and agree that the world is going straight to hell. That farming is a losing proposition. That I recognize that he works too hard for too little money. And that the banks suck ass.

This is the moment that Elwood injects the truly gruesome and macabre into our fun family outing. He tells us of his mauling in October by his tractor. The one coming to pick us up. Emily's eyes grow wide. The other mother standing in the field with us looks horrified. But Elwood? Ignores all signals coming from his captive audience. We hear of his hospital stay. The morphine. The weeping wound. The stitches. And then - in a move I can only describe as oddly poetic, he launches into a story of his neighbor. The neighbor with the three year old daughter. Who had her in his lap as he drove the tractor this summer.

Do you see where this is going?

Cause I seriously didn't. It happened so fast.

Elwood tells two mothers and four collective children about the three year old who fell out the back window of the tractor cab and was mangled by the machinery "Never to be seen again." At which point he adds this festive gem: "And her aunt, who was working in the emergency room when they brought in the pieces - cause they brought the whole machine with them - yeah, she didn't even recognize that it was her niece she was trying to put back together..."

Now let's rejoin Terrance:


When we left the Rouse-(other last name redacted), they were (scratch that, I was) attempting to secure the B.A.T. to the roof of our car. After being assisted by two farm employees, we finally secured (somewhat) the tree. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of the two farm employees shaking their heads in a disapproving manner. I'm sure they were calculating their legal liability.

The first mile of the journey back home was trouble free. This gave me confidence that I could take the highway without fear. However, my confidence was about to be challenged. As we pulled onto the entrance ramp of the highway-Emily announce, "Daddy, I can't see the tree anymore." What! I rolled down the window to discover that the tree had shifted. While still secured, the tree had slid from the left to the right-side of the car. This was going to be a long 30km's.

I would like to say without reservation-that Montreal is a wonderful city with a wealth of natural beauty. However, ask anyone what they dislike about the city and you will hear, the roads and the drivers. Montrealer's are notoriously bad drivers. Courtesies in the forms of signaling before turning and allowing someone to merge into traffic are rarely given. Quebecer's view driving as a competitive sport. They routinely  weave in/out of lanes, tailgate, run lights at 100 mph, while simultaneously smoking, drinking coffee, talking on their cell phone, flipping you the bird and cussing you out in French. Ahh yes, these are the only driver's in the world that make you long for the good old days of driving in Boston. Driving on a Montreal highway at 40 mph with your flashers on give you the feeling of being a three legged dog trying to run across a six lane highway! You might as well paint a target on your trunk and put a sign in your rear window that reads, " Hey, I am from the U.S., your country sucks, that's not really French your speaking, Poutine taste like Ass!

cough-cough. This is actually true. I now drive in Boston like a champ, people. It doesn't even make me blink. Driving in the middle of Boston is relaxing compared to driving here.

By the grace of Xmas-we made it home. This is when the real fun began. Once we got the tree off the car -we decided to drag it into the backyard and allow everyone to eat and rest. Oh, by everyone, I mean me. Upon returning from dinner, it was decided ( again, not by me) that the tree needed to be brought inside and put up. For reference sake, our ceiling is about 15ft high, the stick next to the tree in picture 1 is 15ft high. I'm looking at this tree- it's not going to make it into the living room. After knocking everything over from the back porch to the living room- we finally try to put the tree up. Just as I thought, when we try to stand the tree-it scratches up the ceiling. I take two feet off the top, place the tree in my fancy self-watering, self-centering stand and we get the tree up. We step back to gaze upon our accomplishment and take a collective sigh of relief.


The saga is over. Not! On Sunday, I'm finally able to put the entire tree episode out of my mind. There's something to be said about the peace and serenity that comes with having a pollen infested, asthma inducing, fire hazard in your house. My peace is soon broken as Emily walks into the living room and request that we trim the tree without mommy. What?  "Honey, why would we want to do that?" The crying starts. "Mommy put the decorations up outside without me. I'm going to be in school all week and won't have time to decorate the tree."

I explain to Emily that we can't decorate the tree without her mother-and unless she was now attending a boarding school-she would have plenty of time to decorate the damn tree. A few moments pass and I hear Emily crying again and Dawn ordering her to her room.

What the hell is it now! It appears that Em' had tried to convince her mother to decorate the tree immediately, for fear that her mother and I are so lazy that somehow it wouldn't get done.

I yell into the next room, "I just want to watch the game and eat my pizza in peace, is that to much to ask?" Emily starts to cry louder as she stomps away into her room, Dawn closes our bedroom door, and I head for the kitchen to consume whatever has alcohol in it. I yell at both of them, I drink because of you two!

Terrance has failed to mention the six hours of handmade garland twisting I endured. Because plastic garland is for pussies.


He's such a diva.

A note from the teachers of the world

A Holiday message on behalf of All of your children's Teacher, Caregivers, Child Care Providers, et al.

Please do not give me anything with an apple on it. Please do not give me candy. Please, no mugs and no jewellery.

If you must purchase something ( which honestly, you don't need to) Then how about  a small gift certificate to a book store?  We love books, you know.  Or  a gift card to a coffee or tea place?  Or a small box of stationary with stamps to go with them? Or something for the classroom - new markers, exciting markers with stampers on them?

Or write me a real letter about your child. About how my days with your child are important to you. I'll take a sincere letter over a thousand mugs.

But honestly, you don't have to get me anything. I like my job. I like your child. That's why I do it.

(P.S. - As a Mom, I always tried to get gifts for my daughter's teachers - One year, I collected from all the parents who wanted to give Ms Deb a gift for end of the year. Rather than each of us give her individual gifts, we all chipped in and bought her a day at a lovely local spa. I think she loved it, and it was something she would have never bought for herself.

As a Child Care Director,  I encouraged the teachers to make classroom "wish lists". If parents wanted to give a gift, they could buy something for their child's classroom.  Plus, as we worked with families from all economic situations, we wanted to make sure that it was a way for every family to feel that they could give something - if they wanted to do so. If not, it was no big deal. But it also avoided the "hey, look at what X's Mom got me!" scene.  Holiday's are stressful enough without adding competition in gift giving to teachers in the mix.

But honestly - I didn't teach for the gifts I might get at holidays. I taught because I loved the children in my care. It was enough for me that I got to share in the care and development of each child. I was truly blessed to have a career where I enjoyed going to work every day.)

Sing Me Something Brave

I had a day today, the kind of day that you wish you could stay in bed but you really really can't, but then it just ends up morphing from one thing into another until you wonder:

What next? Martians? Sea Creatures emerging to suck my brains through my nose?

It started late last night when I decided to eat a piece of carrot cake. I don't eat sugar, folks. I can't. Not only does it make my blood sugar wonky and then make my doctor shake her fist at me, threatening dull needles to inject insulin for the rest of my life until my lovely, lovely toes are amputated BUT it disrupts my sleep and then my stomach.

Gah. I am OLD.

Since I had thrown down at the alter of sacrificing my health for the promise of good carrot cake, you can imagine my irritation and overall angst when the cake was not good.  Oh SO disappointing.  The frosting was too sweet and not cream cheesy enough, the cake didn't have enough spice or the bits of walnut and raisins you should find in any self respecting piece of carrot cake.  Therefore, I made the epically poor decision to attempt to redeem the carrot cake with an Apple tart.

I knew as I made this decision that it was a bad one and that I would pay in some manner.  Even so, I had committed to sugar and therefore SUGAR IT WAS!!! After eating the not quite as disappointing apple tart,  I had some peppermint tea and settled in for the night.  You know, because peppermint tea aides the digestion.

I needed sleep because I am now in research mode of ye olde never-ending dissertation. This involves me immersing myself in a classroom of 4.5 year olds as I frantically attempt to keep up with their Tri-lingual ( and sometimes 4 or 5 language) abilities. Since I am still "new" in their classroom, I am the focus of a great deal of attention by them. I am an adult sized living doll who only follows them around with expensive and fascinating recording equipment that they turn off as soon as I turn it on and attempt to capture their conversations.

Seriously.  One boys sole purpose in life is to turn the recorder off as soon as he sees the solid red light indicating that I am attempting to collect data. Another young lady decided that the recorder - like all your bases - belonged to her and hid the recorder behind her skirt.

While I know that in a few days both the recorders and I will become passe, it is hard work just trying to keep up with them.

So, I needed sleep. Which due to my poor food choices was not going to happen. Since my gall bladder  decided to raise an unholy fuss at 2:30 in the morning.  It was rugged. I tried a hot bath, I tried rolling around and moaning. I tried drinking water. I tried weeping and dry heaving. Nope.  The one miracle in all of this was that NO ONE ELSE woke up.  I am, it seems, a wholly silent sufferer.

I finally fell asleep at 6 am, only to get back up at 8, in order to get to the research site for 9.

I erroneously thought that being tired and having a belly ache that resembled some alien entity trying to dig through my stomach muscles would be the sum suckitude of my day. I was wrong.

How so Dawn?, you may think.  Well, let me tell you, says I.

I had a meeting with my supervisor. I thought I was in Year 6 of my PhD.  Apparently I am not. I am in Year 7.  Which means that I have until end of Winter Term to submit my dissertation. My Completed Dissertation.

I go into a meeting, which I think I am going to get praised for doing so much this past year, and to my serious mother fucking shock, awe, horror and mind caving in on itself fear, find that I have under 5 months to produce a finished dissertation. I did mention that I have only just gotten into a research site?  It was at this juncture that I looked - quite seriously - at my supervisor and said ( entirely without guile) "Your words are bouncing off my brain". I believe I also managed to say: "I have a terrible stomach ache" as she and I rode down the elevator together.

After this meeting - in which I seriously developed the urge to 1) vomit and 2) kick over her computer and leap from the window, I exited the building. Via the parking garage. Which I tried to pay with my debit card. which was declined. Because it had been cloned this weekend and used for fraudulent purchases and as such, cancelled. I forgot that it was no longer in service. Perhaps due to the Lovecraftian levels of  fear I was experiencing. Mountains of Madness? HAH!

There I am. Staring that the machine that keeps repeating "This Card is Declined. Please insert your Payment" in a  Stern, Soulless voice which would have terrified Hitler.

My lip trembles. I park (illegally) and run up the stairs to get cash from the ATM. I return to the car to discover that I have now lost the ticket to insert into the machine and so now have to pay 10 extra dollars to get the fuck out of the building of doom before I break down sobbing while bludgeoning the parking meter with a copy of "Dewey Reconfigured".

It seems to me there are a few other things that happened, but at this point I am fairly certain that I am losing sight in my right eye from panic.

Did I mention that I had to clean the rabbits anal glands tonight as well? Because that was an extra special  and unexpected treat. Or the Job interviews that are making me break out in hives?

So forgive me in the coming days and months when you are forced to endure old stories or things culled from Gimlet.  On the up side, I'll be about to become a Doctor of Education after the end of April.

I just can't vouch for the sanity of yours truly by the end

An alternate version of Killer Sapin

I know many of you have oft wondered about the long suffering Terrance.

He, of the "female issues" and general squeamishness about illnesses. He, of the "I can smell cat piss everywhere". I know, internet, that you have been perplexed by his ability to stand silent as his spouse wanders off into the world of true wife confessions and bad penii pictures.

No longer. He wants to share His version of the hunt for the Killer Sapin. Which I will graciously present....with my commentary in italics. I mean, you really didn't expect me to sit here silent and let him tell this story, didja?

***********************************************************************

Dear Family and Friends,

This story recounts our adventures over the past weekend to hunt and capture this years B.A.T. (Big Ass Tree!) While I enjoy Christmas as much as the next person, I don't understand why we have to have such a BAT every year. For my wife and daughter, Christmas is somehow diminished without the addition of a mutant sized tree. In the past, we have actually cut down trees that woodland creatures were still residing in. Birds have left their nest, only to fly back and find a smoldering stomp. Still, they need a tree that can be seen from space.

So far, so good. All of these things are true - as offered in pictorial evidence above. Remember - the man grew up in Detroit and misidentified a star nose mole as a Rat.

Okay, let me set this years scene for you . The tree farm that Dawn found this year was in Ille Perrot, a small town approximately 30km west of Montreal. This means at least an hour in the car to get a damn Christmas Tree. After arriving at La Ferme Quinn, Dawn and Emily decide that the trees that were pre-cut, netted and tied were not up to their B.A.T. standards. So we boarded an open air wagon pulled by two Clydesdale Horses and headed into the woods. While this sounds like a beautiful -postcard picture thing to do, it was -9C outside. It was cold as hell!

In point of fact, Em and I didn't even look at the precut trees. We already knew without talking that these would not be up to our standards. Why drive 23 km to buy a tree that was already cut? And Yes. It WAS cold. But the pretty horses! Look at the pretty horses!!



The "Sapins de Noel" were located in the very back of the woods. The long trip to get to them seemed even longer with little kids all around you coughing in your face. This wagon trip was one big germ incubator. I have never seen so much frozen snot in my life. This combined with the repeated warning to the kids to sit down while the wagon was in motion -least they fall off and be crushed under wheels, made this trip even more enjoyable.

See the germ phobia there? And the paranoia about accidents?

Upon reaching the tree section, the hunt for the perfect B.A.T. began. After searching for a tree for an hour, Dawn and Emily finally settled on one. While they say that they asked for my opinion, it really didn't matter what I wanted, they were going to get their BAT. So, Dawn and Emily pick the biggest tree in the woods. They do this primarily for two reasons; they generally believe that "bigger is better", they also know that I'm the one who has to fell the beast. I must admit that I didn't cut the tree this year. The farm owner felled the tree. I simply dragged it back to the wagon.

In many ways, Terrance has finally embraced his extraneous position in the choosing of the tree saga. He follows Em and I around waiting to agree with the one we decide upon. With the addition of child in my arsenal of persuasion, he simply gave up.

On past occasions Dawn and Emily would generally stand around and offer words of encouragement as I struggle to cut through the tree with a butter knife passing as a saw. That was in the past, now, they simply point at the tree, turn around and head into the warming barn for mulled cider and hot cocoa. After getting the tree back to the barn I was told that it was to large to be netted. This means that I would have to tie the tree to the roof of the car with all of the branches exposed and catching the wind as i roll down the highway at 60 mph! Would we make it! I'll let you know in part two of the Saga.

Although in years past, this MAY have been true, I can assure you that there was no warming barn in the back 40 of this tree farm. My feet had frozen, only to be re-warmed by the walking. However, here is the point in the tale when Terrance (who was guarding the tree lest some nefarious other person swoop in and claim our hard earned prize)  missed something special - spending time with the farmer and his tales of farm land violence - which is what Em and I were graciously doing.


December 2007

Good Advice at any age

I was driving Emily and the neighbour girl to school. They, being 13 year old girls, insist on the local pop station turned up loud at 7:30 in the morning.

This morning it was Usher who was assaulting my ears, with his song "OMG".

After this lyric:

"Honeys got some boobies like Wow, Oh Wow"

I turned the music down and gave this tidbit of motherly/womanly advice:

"Girls, if a man ever says this phrase to you, or uses the word boobies as some kind of pick up line?  You must punch him in the face immediately."

Attack of the Killer Sapin

Now, it is well known that I am not an Uber-Mom. I don't bake stuff, I don't take Mommy and Me Thai dancing classes, and god knows the few times I have visited the park the other Moms stayed FAR away from me.

Christmas, however, seems to bring out something primal in me. There are urges. And these must be listened to - for the good of the whole family.

The main urge? A ridiculously large tree. That - if possible- we must hunt and cut ourselves.

For comparison purpose, I present the tree of 2005:



Please note that we had cathedral ceilings and that this originally 12 footer (ok, maybe closer to 15) had no problem occupying the space once modified to a modest 10.5 feet..

It was a lovely time, back then. We would saunter out to the tree farm in October, choose, tag and pay for our chosen tree. Get a free organic pumpkin. December would arrive and we would drive up the hill to the tree farm to retrieve our temporary member of the family. All for about 30 bucks! For a fresh, just cut balsam!

2006 arrives and we are at a loss. We now live in a city and have no idea how people procure their trees. What to do?

Go down to the florist on the corner and pick this specimen....




Now truth be told, I wasn't THAT satisfied with this tree. It wasn't fresh and the needles dropped everywhere. Plus, we paid 60 bucks for it, which Terrance was having FITS about. The damn thing Barely made it through Christmas with needles intact. Oh, and it too was big. Really big. But it has a nice shape. And it too is Balsam. But the joy of watching Terrance struggle to cut the trunk and then drag it through the snow to our car?

Missing.

So THIS year, I made it my year long task to find a tree farm around Montreal. I mean, good LORD, these people pride themselves on being farmers - there has GOT to be a fresh tree farm somewhere, right?

And I did it. I found a Tree Farm about 25 minutes from our house.

WHOO- HOO!!! I get a fresh tree! My tradition continues!

Except that here, the "idea" of a tree farm is quite different from my American version of the tree farm. In fact, this is a story which will be told in the coming days - but suffice to say for NOW that the feeling of "let them grow free and wild" seems to be the overriding mantra. A live and let live philosophy, if you will

cause this is what we came back with:



I had to mercilessly hack off over two feet from the top to get it to stand up in the house. The thing is a wild beast in our house.

LOOK AT IT! You can't look away, can you? I am waiting for some hoary beast to emerge and eat the cat.

But wait.

Look at the trunk:




Do you see the normal, human sized bookcase in the back? Do you see the massive, monster trunk in the foreground? What you can't see is the 4th tree shooting off the back. Yes. 4 trees in one.

In my defense, it didn't look as big in the field, and it was the nicest tree we found.

And the house smells really, really nice.

Now, let me go give Terrance his pain pills with the shot of bourbon.


December 2008