Happy Tax Day!

Wouldn’t it be keen if ‘Happy’ and ‘Tax’ could go together?

In our household we call it, “OHCRAPIMGOINGTOJAILIFIDONTFILE” day.

We’re a full two months (and two years) late already. At the beginning of May we put out hands over our ears, close our eyes and say “LALALALALA” out loud until they shuffle through the keener returns, figure out the naughty list, send out an OFFICIAL NOTICE and threaten us with things only the government can get away with.

There is much smell excrementally speaking and the tension is tighter than a CA married to a librarian’s sphincter in these here parts.

I took Monday off and spent the day sorting through receipts, separating taxes on each receipt and documenting totals. Which means I cleaned the house, did laundry, sorted the ten year olds clothes, alphabetized every recipe I had loosely packed in old cook books and calculated my June mileage which involves ten thousands column addition.

Procrastination is why we’re frantically trying to get to our 2007 taxes. I say ‘we’ but I really mean the husband. I’ve called Canada Revenue several years in a row now offering him up for a jail term for not filing on time and they just won’t take him. I’ve pled ignorance, negligence and ‘we renovated-gence’ and every time I’ve been given a reprieve from a sympathetic ear. This year they’re practicing tough tax love.

I wasn’t even permitted to read the OFFICIAL NOTICE.

So I guess it was an ‘alleged’ official notice but it worked.

The husband did his taxes today which means he did four loads of laundry, cleaned out, washed and sanitized the garbage bins (the city is on strike -it’s getting stinky). I got a phone call mid-day to ask a question about where my receipts were and then he totally ignored the answer. He also vacuumed but I did that on the weekend and it’s only Wednesday so that gets cancelled out automatically due to the ‘late at the gate’ clause.
When I got home he was tired and crabby. I tried to smile sincerely when I offered him a glass of my favourite Pinot Grigio. I think it looked like a wince.

It’s 8pm now and he marinated, cooked and served bar-b-qued steaks, red pepper and mushrooms and he is now watching 30 Rock reruns so I guess the taxes aren’t filed and delivered.

Just a guess.

At least the house is clean and we have leftovers for tomorrow!

Twenty-one…

Happy birthday baby girl!

You are 252 months old today!

(Sorry Dooce)

I’m proud that you’re out there in the world exploring and learning and meeting interesting people. I’m proud that you walk to your own drummer. I’m proud that you always have an interesting way of expressing your feelings in words, borrowed lyrics and monosyllabic grunting (ok that was a few years ago).

I’m proud you made it through those lovely teen years to become the ADULT you are.

We were a great team in the early years, I remember we had our own patter, our own little sayings and one day out in public I looked down at your four year old self and said, “Wow, you’re SO blonde!” The people we were with thought I was a terrible mom for ruining your self esteem. Interesting that they didn’t notice us talking to each other in Valley girl speak, all they heard was my line to you. Later, in the car you looked at me and said, “Oh Muffy, look at the nice MERCEDES” in your little Valley girl voice. Of course no one heard you except me. But it was a great moment. I had been teaching you that line for weeks!

If I could change anything I wouldn’t. Life as we’ve experienced was meant to be.

I wrapped my arms around you during cadence last summer and I knew it was an important moment for me. I knew I was letting you go but needed that moment to hold you and just love you being close to me. I will always want to snuggle with you and talk. In my heart nothing’s changed. You’re still my baby girl, ‘cheeks’, and I love you 252 times more now than the day you were born -not actually a quantifiable amount considering how great I loved you from the start.

Welcome to adulthood, trust me when I say the learning and growing never stops it’s all part of the process.
Enjoy!

Boxers, Fedoras…

The nine year old was determined to get boxer shorts. He was equally determined to get a fedora. The husband and I have no idea where his stylin’ sense comes from but clearly it ain’t us! He did his happy freedom dance when he got the boxers. Well his joy was super-sized by finding the perfect hat.

He was determined to get a fedora. Asked me repeatedly if he could have one… now! I’m not sure where the idea came from but he HAD to have it. We spent a couple of hours looking in the lower priced stores hoping for a cool knock off. Nothing. Ball caps. Boys wear ball caps not fedoras. Our last stop was a real winner. It’s a place you have to dig around for the goods and I had determined in advance it was our last stop. I warned him not to be disappointed if we couldn’t find the right hat. We searched the men’s, boy’s and children’s departments. Nothing. We moved to the socks and underwear rack and low and behold there it was. The perfect, funky, kid’s sized fedora. I warned him it may not fit as I placed it on his head. Magically, the hat fit. The boy was elated. He was almost dancing in the aisles he was so happy. It was also incredibly low-priced so I practically danced too.

We got home and he put it on to show his dad, who was amused at the styling boy. After he wore it around the house for 30 seconds he ran out the door to play hockey with the kids on the street -still wearing it. I worried he would try to wear it to bed but he carefully placed it on his desk for the night. He wore it to school the next day, establishing his new attention-seeking look for all to see. A girl swiped it and ripped the ribbon trim, but it isn’t noticeable. At least that’s what I told him when he asked me to sew it back together.

The hat is always within his reach. It goes where he goes -except to church and into the classroom. We had to put some rules in place and hats indoors especially at the dinner table are strictly forbidden. But I think he enjoys the attention it brings. People comment on it constantly, mostly moms. You’d think he wouldn’t want any attention on him, being a boy and all but man is he like his dad. Loves the attention!

First it was an argyle sweater then it was the boxers, now the hat. I’m almost afraid to ask ‘what’s next?’

It nice to see the child start to think and behave independently from other kids his age. It’s a delight to watch and as I told my TWENTY-ONE year old the other day, “I can’t wait to see the person you will become over the next decade”.

I’m glad I’m allowed to be their mom.

The Final Analysis (Do it anyway!) - By Mother Teresa

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.
Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.
Be honest and sincere anyway.
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.
Create anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, will often be forgotten.
Do good anyway.
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.
Give your best anyway.
In the final analysis, it is between you and God.
It was never between you and them anyway.

Anybody Can Do It…

Invent TV programming, that is.

Just watch TLC in the US and you’ll see a parade of freaks. It seems anything just slightly off ‘usual’ is worth documenting these days.

Little people, large families, parents who train their children to be child-porn centerfolds with tiaras. There doesn’t seem to be a limit how low this channel will go.

Somebody once explained the difference between comedy and black comedy to me. When it’s overt comedy your body goes forward, embracing the moment. It’s the opposite with black humour, your body throws back even though you are laughing. It’s an automatic response to horror or fear. I know that I’m married to someone who laughs at other’s calamities. What’s funny to him makes me embarrassed at times, especially if he’s laughing at someone else’s misfortune. Shameless. I recall long tortured moments of being teased so my empathy level is somewhat higher.

But who is watching toddlers get crowns for winking and flirting with judges? The spray tans, make up and hair pieces are gaudy and burlesque-like. The costumes include miniature versions of prom dresses -reflective of the glitzy competition. What parent has such low self esteem to allow their child to be put on display like a freak. They need to prove something and live vicariously through their children. Who are the people who hold these contests where EVERYBODY wins a prize because of they need to give them something for the hundreds of dollars spent to enter the freak show? Never mind the child’s sense of worth. They’re learning to acquire acceptance with applause based on being a trained monkey. There are people making $50 an hour to train them to be flirtatious robots. I’m completely outraged that this is a SERIES on TV. Calling all pedophiles! The former ‘learning channel’ has an hour of porn for you.

Multiple births are raised beyond a freak of nature to fodder for the freak station’s mill. Children and families are scrutinized down to the minutiae of their breakfast flakes. Who are the freaks? The family for allowing the cameras in (somehow Kate seems to get that there is something to be gained by people’s curiosity as did the Dionne family way back when in Quintupleville or whatever it was called). there is money to be made from being a freak. The difference is those who get it and those who don’t. People are unwittingly leaving themselves open for ridicule and that brings joy to people like the husband. I’m more inclined to switch the channel. With one exception. The nine year old watches Jon and Kate Plus 8 constantly because it’s always on. We can tell you the names of the kids and one day there will be a drinking game over Madies’ meltdowns. But it feels wrong and voyeuristic. Kate’s unblinking explanations in her segments with Jon show she gets it. “You want to know about Joel’s constipation? Well you’re the freak not me”, “You want us to appear on Oprah and get a bunch of free stuff for it? Sure, these kids are going to be expensive when college hits”. We’re being played because we’re told this is different, unusual. In fact, it’s monotonous and boring but it’s different so we can watch it. The programmers think it’s special so I guess we should too.

Grrr. We’re such a gullible lot. We have the power to turn the circus off. We should exercise the option. It’s all just gossip, smut and plays into our lowest form of entertainment.

I watched the baby pageant show. I needed to see how bad it was. I noticed how I was sitting after just a few minutes into the show. My arms were crossed, feet tucked in tight, my left hand was covering my mouth and my shoulders were hunched forward. I felt like I was watching a horror movie, waiting for the scary parts to be over but this horror show just kept getting worse and worse with no relief. From child to parent to blubbering grandparent it became more and more shocking. I had to keep turning away when this extremely freaky looking child who was trained to make her smile as big as her entire mouth would grit her teeth at the cameras. Her head looked huge compared to her tiny frame. Her brows were trimmed and drawn to an uncharacteristic length giving her an expression of surprised fear. Freaky. Her mother was whining about how she should have won the Grand Slam prize because she was clearly the most poised. But all I saw was a trained robot with a freaky frightened glazed look who seemed to be going through the motions for adult approval.

I felt like crying for those little souls. The death of one has not mattered in this pageant world. They can justify their existence now even more by citing ratings and viewer numbers. See? People love this stuff.
We have not evolved. There is no evolution if we are still drawn to car wrecks and pageants. We have not grown at all.

Fifty-three hours in…

It started at 3:31PM on Friday.

March Break. It began with a ringing bell, squealing children and several requests for a sleep over.

He dropped off his school backpack in the (now ample) front foyer at 3:36PM.
“I’mgoingovertoChris’sBYEEEEE!” he called out slamming the door behind him.

(Well. This is starting well, I thought to myself).

At 3:39PM He ran back in a moment later to get hockey gloves, his stick and a hat.

“I’mgoingtoplayhockeyuntilitgetsdarkontheroadwithcarspassingbyatgreatspeed” he called out again before the door cut off his run on sentence.

(So many empty days ahead to be filled, I thought)

But already time was Marching by at Breakneck speed.

He came in at 4:39PM “CanChristophersleepovertonight?”

At 4:39:10PM No. Maybe tomorrow. Why cram all the excitement into the first night?

He could do the sleep over Saturday night, be crabby all day Sunday, his aunt will pick him up Monday and bring him back late Tuesday, he’ll spend Wednesday with his grandmother, and complain all day Thursday about how bored he is just in time for a medieval feast on Friday followed by a weekend with his fake cousins.

He turned on Rock Band and banged away on the pseudo drums until 5:49PM

“I’m bored” he said flatly.

That didn’t take long.

After dinner he bounced from the DS to the PS to the Wii to the TV to a movie.

He looked up at the clock. It was 9:00PM.

“sinceitsaholidayI’mgoingtostayupreallateadnsleepin” he announced.

No, no you’re not. Get out of here NOW. He fell asleep at 10PM just in spite.

I left the house early Saturday and returned to an empty house at 2:30PM

He came running into the house after his hockey game (phew dodged another one. score!)

“CanChrissleepovertonightrememberyoupromisedhecouldandIreallyreallyreallywanthimto”

(Crap) Sure.

5:15PM with my very best loser mom tone I asked chris’ Dad if he could stay over, explaining that I ju-

“YES! YES! HE CAN STAY OVER!”

Are you dancing?

“No. We’ll feed them and water them and you can put them to bed.” He sounded way too giddy.

They entered the house at 8:10PM.

They banged on the drums until 10PM

They woke me up from a sound sleep at 1AM when they were milling about the house NOT SLEEPING.

They woke me again at 3:25AM. I told them this was their last warning. I don’t know what I thought I would do at that hour to punish them. I was delirious it was 3:25AM.

The husband got up to ‘tune them in’ at 4:15AM.
I woke up for the day at 5:54AM. Made tea very loudly. Looked over to see they were fast asleep.

At 9:30AM they were quietly playing a video game. Well, one was playing with the Tv the other was on the DS but they were talking incessantly.

Aren’t you guys exhausted? What time did you fall asleep?

“FiveAMbutweweren’ttiredI’mstillnottiredI’mwideawake” the nine year old said through half closed eyes. The ten year old neighbor said, “mmmphgl”.

At 12:30PM Chris the neighbor kid asked to be released from our clutches. I let him go but not before noticing a small bowl of white powder beside his side of the pull out sofa.

WHATTHEHECKISTHAT? I asked in a slightly raised tone.

Sugar the neighbor boy mumbled.

“Yeah! We’vebeeneatingitallnighttokeepusawake!”

Sugar high over, the nine year old is desperately trying to keep awake. It’s 8:45PM.

How many sleeps ‘til school goes back?

“So’s Your Face!”

That’s a shout out to the 20 year old across the pond. Yes, it’s an inside joke. It’s so inside I have no clue about the context but I say it loud in a nyah nyah kind of way so as to look hep and wi-it. Oh yes I di-id. I went there.

Life is just as disorderly and unmanageable as always. One day life is going to say, “G’head, do it, run with it, your way. Go.” I’ll be the boss of life and nothing will happen unless I say so. Nothing. But life has it’s own agenda of a secret kind and we’re in it for the ride. The carrying a big, heavy box while your pants slowly start to slide down kind of ride. Embarrassing and unpredictable.

I’ve been drama-free for a year. (No, the 20 year old I’m not talking about you). I get it. Every week real life slaps me upside the head and says, ‘This. THIS is real life. It’s painful, it’s a struggle, deal with it.’ And I am. With joy, tenacity, idealistic thinking and dedication. I’ve worked at the Food Bank for one year. A year of attitude adjustments, becoming grounded, selfless and practicing the mantra “BE THE CHANGE”. Nothing minimizes petty thoughts and actions quicker than being exposed to critical, life-changing situations. Every week I’m reminded it’s a blessing knowing this.

I embark on a brand new contract in two sleeps. I’m the new producer of an existing TV lifestyle show, the new kid as everyone has already worked together for several seasons . But I’m so excited I can’t stand myself! I love the six month euphoria -I’ve already warned people not to burst my six month bubble yet. Many colleagues are on a forced hiatus due to the economy and there are no guarantees work will continue even in the TV industry. So 26 episodes = almost a full year of employment. Yes I’m relieved and thrilled. It’s also weekdays so I can still boss people around at the food bank (at least that’s what the husband thinks I do).

The 20 year old is in nglnd where vowels have been banned. She gets to find herself while romping in the countryside with a big black Labradoodle and two adorable children. I envy her the time to think thoughts and just be in a place in time unfettered. Fettering will hit her hard eventually but for now her worst fears are all part of imagining. Remember 20? I was so convinced I would be dead before my 20th birthday. Surviving it was shocking, frightening, too much world out there for me to comprehend and what’s this thing about the world not revolving around me? I would try to control everything, knowing I wasn’t in control of anything. She has faith, a relationship she can work on and grow. It’s quite beautiful.

In the meantime I attended a couples dinner with the husband. It was funny for all the wrong reasons and there was a lot of earnest surveys, questionnaires, etc about your spouse. We had to answer a question like, “what about your partner’s personality do you admire?” I truthfully answered, “The husband’s ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime.” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the response they were hoping for but it was a perfect answer to me. We laughed a lot and when the guest speaker made a comment about how women should serve their husbands my the husband yelled out “Amen!” I quickly followed by me with “he’s single!”
We cracked each other up which I guess is one of the reasons we’re still a couple. He then went through the list of adjectives to describe your partner and came up with ‘loyal’. Grrrr. I called him ‘creative’ which could also mean ‘nuts’. Touche.

So I guess we’ll continue to be a couple albeit a sarcastic couple but a couple. The 20 year old will grow in her faith and enjoy the life ride she’s on while I get back on the good old on-location roller coaster ride.

L’chaim!

Vertigo: Sober Spins

Gross.

Along with my list of wacky explanations for why things happen I’m adding the Theory of Vertigo.

Vertigo may occur when you experience extreme temperatures concurrently. Wind can speed the process.

I went for a late afternoon walk without a hat in the freezing cold. I had a hood on my jacket which I pulled up when we walked into the strong winds but for the most part it was off. When I entered the warm house I was fine but the next morning I could barely walk. That was yesterday.

It must have looked real purty, reeling, stumbling, hanging on to walls trying to focus forward to make it stop, it was just like the moment you realize you’ve had too much to drink and should go to sleep. But it didn’t go away. The three hour morning nap helped a bit, but the ship was still rocking.

By dinner time the husband provided the solution.

“Go to the neighbors and have a drink” he suggested.

Crazy man.

But I did go have a glass of wine and some guacamole and chips and came home believing I was cured.

Until this morning.

“Ahoy me Matey’s, arrggghhh!” It’s feel like a pirate day. Again.

Broxifers…

The nine year old wants boxers.

He’s had enough of the hybrid leg hugging briefs.

“Can we get them tomorrow?” he asked.

“What’s your rush?”

“I REALLY. WANT. THEM” he overstated.

Turns out a popular skateboard company has a brand of boxers that ALL the boys have. Well, just Chris the neighbor but that’s enough to convince the boy to start hanging free.

“Do you know what a recession is?” I asked.

“No” he said, flatly.

“Everybody has to stop spending money on things they don’t need or we’re going to all run out of money” I explained.

“But I really want them-

“That’s too bad. We can’t always get what we want. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you’re going to get it.”

I waited three beats then said as evenly as possible.

“We don’t have money for that”

“When will we have money again?” he asked rolling his eyes.

“When the recession is over” I was starting to get louder.

“When will that-

“Ask your father!” I yelled.

He ran away muttering under his breath, something about me being mean.

If he argues about new underwear again I’m going to hand him a pair of scissors so he can cut the crotch out of his gotch and free his boys.

Just doing my part to help the economy.

Between Gigs…

The husband can walk again, without crutches. He’s less crabby and actually getting progressively happier as Super Bowl hour approaches he’s probably also relieved that …

the 20 year old has received her Visa and will be leaving the country on Wednesday evening on a no frills red-eye flight. She’ll travel through England by train all morning when she arrives to get to her destination with a minster or fordshire at the end of it. She’ll be living and working with a pretty cool sounding family, so cool I’d like to go with her but I’m the mom and it’s her turn for an adventure…

My last working adventure (contract) was completed successfully (so far). It was great to be in a normal job for a little while. I became a commuter and got into a constant rhythm of a routine. It was kind of strange for me to work at a steady pace, in a completely predictable environment. I got used to it. But alas, the next adventure (contract) awaits and by March I will be working full time…

Full time homemaker is not something I can put on a resume. I’d never get a reference from this bunch. I had to MacGyver a meal together and it wasn’t pretty. It was dinner time, the fridge was running on fumes, the cupboards were almost bare except for some Bisquick and the freezer coughed up a bag of frozen vegetables that weren’t part of the husband’s healing process. I grabbed some left over chicken and a can of cream of chicken soup and made a chicken pot pie. I was very proud of my inventiveness until I served it. It tasted fine if you didn’t have to look at it. The husband scraped his pile of goo back onto the pie plate, went back into the fridge, pulled out a leftover burger and hoovered it quickly…

He’ll be leaving quickly for his annual Super Bowl game with his friends today. The host is an amazing cook who uses this opportunity to cook up a storm. He’s fried turkeys, built spectacular sandwiches, sizzled steaks all in the name of eating well…

The nine year old will beg to order Chinese food, the 20 year old will disappear before dinner waving off my offer to cook and I think the meal will be the usual Super Bowl Sunday dinner. Frosted flakes or Fruit Loops. With milk.

What are you having? And what time should we be there?