What's mine is mine and what's his is...mine.

Just kidding. We got our house. Our beautiful bungalow is going to be ready in February and although it's not that far from where we are now, it's far enough from the dump we live in now!

Gerry lives...like a guy. Who's not Felix Unger. He leaves clothes on his floor. He uses towels until way past the point where they smell of mildew. Let's not even get started about the shaving hairs in the sink and the fruit flies circling above his kitchen sink. I told him today that in a couple of months, he'll no longer have to worry about this, even if it kills me.

Someone sent this to me today:




The caption read, "If light stays on for more than four hours, call your electrician."

Just WHO is running OUR Country?

I don't think I'm getting the bang for my buck at the kid's school, and they've sucked about two hundred dollars out of me since school began.

My nine year old daughter came up to me the other day and told me that if she'd been able to vote, she would've voted for Jack Layton of the NDP 'cause he's nice. The disturbing thing is that she also thought Barack Obama was also one of the candidates for "President of Canada".

A harmless misunderstanding, kind of cute, and even kind of ironic, when you think about it.

The thing is, when I was her age, I already understood that as Canadians, we had a prime minister running our country, not a president. Although I knew who Ronald Reagan was, I knew at that age that he wasn't the one running Canada. Or so I thought, anyway.

So my daughter and I had a little chat about the whole setup, and who runs where and so on. Too bad her teachers are probably running around screaming "Go Obama" and the students don't know a whit about Canadian politics.

A few weeks ago, at our Canadian elections, the one that decided who our next prime minister was going to be, only 46% of potential voters turned out. Most of the non voters cited they were too busy, or too disheartened to even consider voting for the candidates we had. And now I'm ashamed to admit that I was one of the disheartened. For me, there was no 'lesser of the two evils' to choose between, I just thought all the choices were just plain bad.

And yet, I'm willing to bet that 99% of Canadians had at least one ear tuned to the results of the U.S. election, and would have voted if they could.

And now Obama is president. Good luck to him, and I hope he does a good job, because it seems to me that Canadians are just as desperate for a good leader as Americans are.

This neighborhood sucks, seriously

Ok, so this is a bit of a rant. First off, today Gerry informs me that we are NOT getting the lovely house I've been salivating over for the last month. I was tasting freedom from this one horse fucking town I live in and now it seems I have to wait longer. Sucks.

Last week I put together a 9th birthday party for my oldest daughter. I rented the party room in our complex, made all the food, decorated, and all in all spent a small fortune on loot bags and prizes for about 25 kids. I sent out invitations to all the kids in Scarlett's class. Call me crazy for doing that, but when we sat around and tried to decide who to invite, we discovered that one kid would be left out if we invited another kid and so on. So anyway, I was waiting for parents to RSVP, and only about 8 did. Out of those eight, four of those calls were actually from the kids themselves, saying that they could come. The parents actually refused to come to the phone and have the fucking courtesy to speak to another parent. How fucking rude.

One of the kids invited was a neighbor whose mother refused to say whether her daughter could come or not, even when we asked again the day before the party. Sure enough, the day of the party, her kid shows up, and says, "My mother says I can come to the party if you'll let me." Of course I let the kid in, but the nerve of the mother. No class.

To make a long story short, with the exception of my kids and Gerry's kids and like, two kids from Scarlett's class, the rest of them were rude brats. Demanding, yelling, screaming, throwing things rude brats. My kids can be brats sometimes, definitely. But the difference is, when they attend a party, they know they'd better behave and display their best manners..I don't know where Scarlett's classmates learned their manners, but I have a distinct feeling that the rude parents who couldn't even be bothered to speak to me about the party are somewhat to blame. Not only did these kids trash the party room, they also completely messed up the park right outside the room, and despite the fact I told them several times not to do it, they insisted on throwing juice boxes and candy wrappers right on the ground. Little pigs. I knew the party wasn't going to go perfectly smooth, they are kids after all, but God, I've never seen such mouthy, greedy little ingrates.

I was cleaning up near the end of this debacle, praying for the parents to show up and pick up their little deviants, when the Drunken Lush of the Complex shows up. She's one of the neighbors I don't care to really talk to, the one who starts drinking at 7 in the morning, has four kids to take care of and spends most of her time wandering around the complex bothering the other neighbors. Believe it or not,she walks right into Scarlett's party and asks if her kids can come in and have cake, and a loot bag. Practically speechless, I agreed, and then this woman actually proceeds to start cleaning up and washing dishes and packing away food and tearing down the party, I shit you not.

Being a former bartender, I know that you can't always predict the actions or moods of someone who's under the influence, so I sucked it up and let her stay for a bit -- she seemed calm and I didn't want her to snap or something in the middle of a party filled with kids.

God, I hate this freaking neighborhood.

Oh, yeah. I'm at work today, and we're doing a house that's undergoing a complete reno. It's about eighty years old and totally gutted inside, save for the new framing and ductwork. I'm up on a ladder when this woman appears behind me. "Hi, do you live here?" So I told her, no, I'm working here. Then she starts asking all the other trades if they live in this house. From the bemused looks on their faces I could tell they were thinking the same thing I was. The house is completely gutted, there's no walls inside, holes in the floors everywhere. Why she would think the house was fit for habitation was beyond me. I couldn't resist. "Yes, I LIVE here." She kind of got it after that and gave me a dirty look. Turns out she was canvassing the neighborhood, campaigning for the Liberals. "I'm here on behalf of Marilyn Churley, and she'll work really hard for you, and I hope we can count on your vote."

Obviously she must really believe in Liberal propaganda, because she had to climb on up to a front porch that has no stairs to tell us that. One of the guys tells her that no, none of us live there, at all. "Well, are the homeowners here?" Um, is this thing on, did we not just tell you that nobody lives here?

Parasites.

I know it's my responsibility to vote and all, but I gotta tell you, I don't even want to. I don't like any of the candidates for Prime Minister. I've got the choice of Jack Layton, king of the NDP who doesn't have a chance in hell of winning, ever, then there's Stephen Dion, who takes every chance he can to trumpet about his bullshit policies in broken English, thankyou very much, and then there's Steven Harper, the cardigan clad asshole, and any Canadian knows how that turned out already. I'd rather stuff all my money under a mattress then put it anywhere the government can get their hands on it. Worse than cockroaches.

The stupid woman finally goes away, and later when we're sitting outside taking a break, we see her packing herself and her fellow canvassers away in a car. "Oh hi." she trilled at us, from across the street.

I still ain't voting for you.

Who, me? Meh.

My son, at three and not quite three quarters, is still toilet training. Well, rather, he has people trying to toilet train him. Brody has a rather cavalier attitude toward potty training. He can take it or leave it. We've tried: Bribing (a treat for using the potty). We've also tried reinforcing the idea with books. He loves hearing the book about Henry using the potty. Little man has about 42 pairs of new underwear and is proud to say he has peed in most of them.

It's not that he can't do it. He knows how. He'll walk up to me and announce he's just done his business in the toilet, and then ten minutes after I've finished praising him to the skies he'll take a slash in a corner somewhere. This is the kind of stuff that worries me even more than when his sisters are playing house with him and hand him a purse to carry. I'm getting lots of nosy questions lately about whether I've 'tried' to train Brody, and all I can say is that it's a work in progress, and if they don't like it they can 'piss' off. I just hate it when people offer unsolicited advice about my kids and look at me like I'm a Bad Mom.

A couple of weeks ago, Brody comes over to me and wrinkles his nose. "Something smells bad." I guess this was his way of dropping me a broad hint, or he honestly doesn't know he's the one responsible for creating the stench, or doesn't care. You see what I'm up against?

Other news. Gerry's parents are moving into their new house, are having a hard time selling their old house, and are contemplating renting it out for a while. I love that house. I WANT THAT HOUSE.

Poor Gerry. The man has been having a painful kidney stone attack all day. He thinks it's because he's dehydrated. He seems to think having a couple of beers with the neighbor down the street will help. Whatever works, baby.

A couple of pictures of my little man:
At a few months old

With his sister

Wearing my work boots

I'll take three kids...and a side of guilt, please!

I just served up cans of Alphaghetti to my kids. I couldn't even be bothered to put it in a pot, I just nuked it.

When I found out I was going to be a parent for the first time, I made all kinds of promises to my unborn daughter. Her baby nursery would be perfect. (True, I did most of the work myself and obsessed over the tiniest details, eschewing any advice anyone else had to offer, least of all her father.)

She would always look impeccable and so would I. I saw no reason, pre-delivery, why I shouldn't always look my normal makeupped, curled and styled self.

A few months later, as I was wandering around the house in sweatpants and a puke-stained oversized t-shirt, I came to the conclusion that I had made promises to my kid that even Mother Teresa wouldn't keep. My daughter didn't look much better. Instead of the pink-clad, hair-bowed infant I imagined, my daughter was sprouting cradle cap, yellow as a canary from mild jaundice, and permanently dressed in sleepers that I had to keep changing every five minutes. She was also slightly drunk from all the gripe water for her constant gas. (Actually, I bought the alchohol free kind. If there had been any alchohol in it, there might have been none left for her.)

The first time I gave her a bath was a nightmare. I handled her so carefully and delicately, and when she hit the bathwater for the first time, she went as red as a tomato and screamed until she lost her breath. I started bawling then and my mother had to come to the rescue.

Her baby book had to be maintained, constantly. True. But when I had my second and third kids, the baby books kinda fell to the wayside, and whenever I fell behind in the subsequent books by a few months, I had to resort to cheating by looking in the first one.

Same with the pictures. Rolls and rolls upon rolls of film were used on the oldest kid. Come the advent of the digital camera, however, and all the pictures are now being stored on the computer, and the photo albums are collecting dust.

Everything had to be super sterile. Boiled baby bottles, nipples, pacifiers. If my third kid dropped his soother, I just rinsed it, even if the dog had just licked it.
The 'five second rule' was used regularly.

Everything my kid ate was going to be homemade, nutritious and ultra-healthy. Three kids later, I see no problem letting them have Froot Loops for breakfast.

All toys were going to be the type that were durable, sent a positive message, and called back to simpler times, like when many toys were hand crafted out of wood. These days I'll fight another parent to the death for some popular toy the kids are really hankering for at Christmas, and I don't even blink an eye when my three year old boy holds crash derbys with his toy cars in the living room.

So I deal by occasionally giving my kids canned food or a McMeal. I'll lock myself in my room so I can use the phone for five minutes without some kind of interruption. I'll put on a movie with no positive message just to keep the kiddies occupied for a while so I don't have a complete meltdown. I hoard small amounts of chocolate around the house and I don't share with the kids.

Don't get me wrong. I adore my kids. It's just so..busy. My mother looks after the kids till I get home from work, and when I get home she generally resorts to giving me a laundry list of their activities during the day. "We're out of milk, Scarlett has math, Juliet has a new project to do, Brody squirted toothpaste all over the wall, and DO YOU KNOW what those kids did today?" Kinda makes me glad I 'played' at work all day.

A few questions

Occasionally, I get a little time to just sit back and think. I'll reflect on the day that's just ended. Or I'll sit there and think about stupid stuff, which distracts me from the endless list making that's been going on in my head lately. I, like anyone else, try to see the forest before the trees, but the stupid stuff seems to be taking up a lot of my time and energy and it makes me shake my head in wonder.

For example:

Why is it, when there are children living in the house, seemingly innocuous items like a toilet paper holder (the rolly thing) just up and disappear? And disappear again, after I've replaced it (twice)?

Why, after telling the dog to get off the couch, she has the unmitigated nerve to bark at me like it's all my fault and then rolls over and goes to sleep?

Why do only the most unbelievably stupid songs get stuck in my head? (Bella, Bella, Bella Dancerella..)

And while I'm at it, why don't I just smash the Power Puff Girls DVD into little bitty pieces and tell the kids that I have no idea where it is?

Here's one. Why, when I'm thinking about something really serious, Gerry will voice my thoughts like he's just developed telepathy, but when I try to talk to him about something serious, he gets a blank look and makes like he has no idea what I'm talking about? (Must be a guy defense mechanism)

Maybe a reader or two can help me out.

PMS...the ultimate stealth bomb

I like to think I'm pretty enlightened. I like to believe that in a relationship, the men and the women are equally capable of causing conflict, or being a shit-disturber.

I also admit that I get raging PMS, mood swings especially, for one week a month, and although I try to keep track of it and control what comes out of my mouth that week, my loved ones suffer.

Yesterday, on our drive to work, we stopped at the store, and being how it was nearly payday, I was close to broke. I had a lot of expenses this week, namely the kids' registration fees because of those bastards at their school, and my new external hardrive, my birthday treat to myself.

I was a few dollars short for my purchase, and I turned to Gerry and asked if he wouldn't mind spotting me. No problem. We're back in the truck and Gerry remarks, "Is everything okay financially?" I looked back at him and said, "Yeah, I had a few things to pay for this week..you know that. How far do you expect me to stretch it?" He thinks for a minute. "Well, with all the talk of us moving in together lately, it concerns me. Are we going to able to get something that accomodates everybody?" (Eight people)

I start thinking about this. And start getting mad. Yes, I am close to broke. Yes, it's payday and no one's going to starve. But I'm also a single mom who's paying for and handling everything on her own! What does he think, that because he's the one who gives me the paycheck, he has the right to know everything I spend it on? I stewed on and on, and when we arrived at our construction site, I stalked off away from him without a backward glance.

Three hours later of the silent treatment from me and he noticed that something was up. "What's wrong, I know something's wrong." and so on and so on. I looked at him and glared the best way I know how, and I swear the man backed away. "Do I ask you what you spend your paychecks on? Do I EVER question you about what you do with your money? Do you think that because you're the one who writes out my paycheck, you have the RIGHT to tell me what to do with it? WE DON'T LIVE TOGETHER YET." On and on I prattled until I thought he was going to kill me. "You're right, You're absolutely right, I won't ask again. I don't care anyway.." He yelled, then stomped off.

I continued working, then regret starts to tear at me. I spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between fighting off tears and trying to make nice with Gerry, who by this time was probably questioning my sanity. "I just asked, Tobi, I wasn't trying to belittle you. You're right, it's none of my business. But if we're going to move in together we have to think of how we're going to budget and make this work." We talked a little more and reached a truce, and then everything was okay again, but I could still see him eyeing me warily. Later on I was checking our worklist in the planner and it occurred to me; this is the week before I'm due. Thank god he didn't ask me that annoying guy question "What's the matter, you on your period or something?" or I might have hurt him. Unlike me, he knows how to control what's coming out of his mouth. And give me a raise. Smart man. I'm off to take my meds now!