I recently got mad at a book for giving me a three page prologue, three pages more than I wanted, three pages that were all about setting the scene with lots of tree descriptions (Canadian Lit, natch) and sweeping vistas, as though the author was hoping for a screenplay option as much as a Giller. I grumbled my way through these three pages, skipping most of it, intending to hate the entire novel, well, intending to abandon it at page four because I don’t have time to read things I don’t like, but finding that the first page of chapter one was gripping, far more gripping than I expected. Now I am 3/4 of the way through and loving it, can’t wait to get back up to my bed, where my book is waiting.

If I were a student of literature again, the prologue of this novel would be up for discussion. There would be themes and symbols and we would unearth them from the descriptions of the sky and water. We would see intention where perhaps there had been some, where perhaps there had been none. Does the author try to push us away, the way Our Hero pushes away those he loves? Is there some subtle purpose behind the inclusion of totally unnecessary landscape writing? Compare and contrast with latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy and ridiculous overuse of voice-over in general.

But I am not a student of literature again and all I see is that I almost didn’t keep reading past page three.

There was a period of time, my 20s, when I remembered things. I remembered numbers, faces, peoples’ favourite songs, the shoes they had been wearing the last time I had seen them. These things, these seemingly petty details, lodged themselves in my brain like bullets. I loved my wonderful memory, my attention to detail. I fostered it, exploited it.

Why did I remember these things? Why did I not remember other things? I could not recollect, then or now, for example, my earliest memory. I could not collect it from its depository in my brain. I have no doubt this memory exists. It might even be from infancy. But I can’t retrieve it – and is any information worth anything if it cannot be retrieved? I do remember the stories around pictures I see in my parents’ photo album. I remember them telling me the stories. I remember how many times I have heard the stories. I do not remember independent of the stories.

I remember sitting in the back seat of their car, at age 7, next to the puppy we had just bought for $25 from someone whose dog had had puppies. One of my parents was in the car with me, we were parked at the pet food store, and the other parent had gone in to buy puppy food. I remember being over the moon excited that we finally had a puppy. I had wanted one for the longest time. We named him Philip, after the weatherman on the CBC evening news, because he would have to be outside in all kinds of weather.

That day is my earliest memory. No; that day is my earliest memory that is not a story someone else has told me. I remember things earlier than that, like being on the airplane on our way to Italy when I was four years old, having to stop in Montreal because of engine trouble, staying in a hotel on the airline’s dime, my uncle breaking the key in the lock of the hotel room door. Just after we landed – just before we landed? – the announcement was made that the Pope had died. The plane full of Italians swooned and crossed themselves. Bad things come in threes; what would be the third thing? They all wondered.

But that is a story, not a memory.

Do I really remember walking up the street behind my mother, dragging my heels and begging for her to hold my hand, only to have her refuse because she didn’t want to pull me up the hill? Or did I just hear the story so many times. Do stories erase memories or enhance them. Does it matter.

Since having children I have had to push some of my memory aside to make room for other things. I only have room for a certain amount of knowledge and what I know about early infancy and toddlers takes its share of space. I have also begun to realize lately that I do not always remember things the way others do. My perspective, once so reliable, is only my perspective after all. Other people, with their own perspectives, have very different memories of the same event.

I might have learned this earlier, had I any siblings. I watch my boys sometimes, wonder what they will remember. I heard Trombone today repeating a story I told him about himself as a memory of his own. He is three-and-a-half now, he was two at the time of the memory. It is strange to build a past for someone, even if you built him from scratch and have been there since he was not. It feels somehow dishonest to hand him his memories ready-made, though I know it is my job, for now. What else does he have, except yesterday, this morning, ten minutes ago.

The day we
remember when
oh you must have been about 3 then

already it is fading. Already it is washing over me, watercolour instead of oil.

The older I get, the more I want to remember. I want to re-experience the richness of an experience, not just touching the fragments, the layers, the lessons, that have stayed with me. I know those are the important parts. I know that what lasts, what we learn from an experience, is really important. But to taste, touch, smell those moments again. To catch a glimpse of something not told to death, not analyzed and kept from breathing, a glimpse of something that takes my breath away. I guess it’s what I’m looking for, when I dig into my brain, searching for the beginning. I’m looking for the dance, the velvet, the moment. A breath, gone.

“Monkey?” I said, pointing at the billboard. I have no idea which one he meant – to me, each looks equally like and not like a monkey.
“YEAH!” he said.
“Oh, that’s not a monkey,” I said, pedantically, “that’s a. A. An Olympic Mascot.”

***

“What’s an Olympic Mascot?” said Trombone as Fresco ran like a wild donkey down the other side of the overpass, towards the park.
“It’s a thing, a person dressed as a thing, who tells people about stuff and gives out stickers and things.” stupid stupid stupid
“I like stickers!”
“Yes, I know.”
“Are they going to the Olympics?” Thankfully I didn’t have to explain the Olympics because they are talking about them at preschool. I promise, when it’s sex-ed time I’ll pull my weight but I can’t explain the Olympics worth a damn.
“Yes, they will be around.”
“Are WE going to the Olympics?”
“Nuuuuh, no.”
“Why?”
“Because the tickets are too expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“More expensive than a gumball.”
“Oh.”

***

A few minutes later we are walking along the path to the grocery store, jumping in puddles, enjoying the sun on our shoulders. It feels like March, not early February. Trombone and Fresco have this game where they bend over a drain and then say, “DEEEE!” and laugh at each other. I can’t do it properly, only they can. They are doing that thing I was hoping they’d do, excluding me and I am determined to enjoy the exclusion while I can, until the day I start to miss them and wish they would include me more.

“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“How can we go see the Olympic Mascots?”
“MONKEY!”
“Well, I don’t know. I guess we could go to Queen’s Park…” I was thinking out loud. I can’t seem to remember not to do that.
“Sure, let’s go to Queen’s Park!”
In for a penny… “Yeah, the Olympic Torch is going to be there.”
“What’s the Olympic Torch?”
“A party. There’s going to be a party.” (Preschooler Conversational Tip: Whenever possible, deflect from explanations you aren’t comfortable making by inserting a word that you know will thrill and amuse.)
“I LOVE PARTIES!”
“Yes, I know.”
“Can we go to the party?”
“Well, it’s during school…”
“Oh.”
“But if you wanted, you could miss school that day and we could go to the party.”
“I WOULD LIKE THAT!”
“…all right.”

Watch out Monkey(s). We’re coming.

My twitterfriend Jandi decided she needed to blog every day. We are recent acquaintances so I do not think she was challenging me to a duel but regardless I think I will try it too. Without expecting perfection.

This afternoon in the park, we tossed little rubber “superballs” up the steep path and then tried to catch them on the way down. One ball was lost. The squirrel who finds it will hopefully take some delight in its rainbow colours and perfect sphere. Before trying to eat it.

We passed the Queen’s Park Preschool on our way out of the park and I was startled to see a woman sitting in a lawn chair, wearing a parka, hood up, doing some kind of craft. It was almost 5 pm, well past school pickup time. Was she a security guard? Were the coyotes breaking in to the preschool after hours to steal glue? I suddenly realized: she was camping out for preschool registration, which starts tomorrow at 8 am. She is first in line. I feel sick thinking about it. I mean, I talked to some people last summer who spent the night in line (yes, in New Westminster, BC, Canada, for a PRESCHOOL spot) and said it was an awesome bonding experience but I still think it’s twisted. And even though it is a beautiful school, situated in the park and right across the street from our house, I will be damned if I go anywhere near it, even if someone comes to my house and hands me a preschool spot for Fresco. Yur elitism: we do not want it.

I know, though, and respect, that for some people, the things with which they set up their lives as couples are important. I see the point; after all, you only get to register for fine china once in your life and what the hell, pick a pattern, right? People are going to give you a wedding gift, might as well make it something you would actually like, instead of that dumb waffle iron.

Hey, we got a waffle iron and we have actually used it.

But now I know: it wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in china patterns. It was that I just hadn’t met the right one yet. Kind of like the whole “marrying someone” thing. I wasn’t going to do it and then I met someone and it seemed like not the worst idea in the world.

Yes, I am warming up for Valentine’s Day, could you tell?

The other weekend-day, as is my habit, I went to Value Village for some alone / pillaging time. Oh, the many, many things I saw. Seriously, if you have never been to a Value Village, it is worth an hour of your time, for the purple ski pants with gold chain straps alone.

I found books for the kids because I can’t come back from Value Village without books for the kids. As I wandered back towards the shoe section (there were a lot of people trying on the 10-11s that day and I had to make two passes before I could dig in and find out that no, they were all size 8s, as usual) I spied a bowl. A cereal bowl. The perfect cereal bowl. I had no idea there was such a thing as a perfect cereal bowl but there it was, winking at me. I put down my coat, purse and books and picked up the perfect cereal bowl. “Myott Provence,” it said, “Color safe – acid resistent – detergent proof – made in England.”

It looks like this, but green. The most delightful shade of green. I adore it. I have no idea why.

There was an assortment of plates with this pattern: one cereal bowl, six side plates, eight dinner plates and six saucers but (argh!) no cups. I spent – honestly – 10 minutes standing there deciding which of the pieces I was going to buy. Because, see paragraph #1, we already have plates. Lots of them. And we have less credenza / buffet / space now than when we got married because now we also have children. Children who use plastic because they are dirty jungle animals who enjoy wearing their bowls as much as eating out of them. And yes, they will always be this way, I am convinced of it. They will never use real plates.

Yet, I had to have something. I turned the bowl over in my hand, saw the fissures under the glaze, wondered about the previous owner. Had it belonged to someone who had seen the pattern in a catalogue and fallen in love, as I had. Or had her husband liked it and she hated it; her first marital compromise. Maybe they had just divorced and she had taken boxes of her co-mingled belongings to the drop-off window, spitting, “Take it, take ALL OF IT,” before driving off, free at last. Maybe she had died and her children thought it was hideous. Or couldn’t look at it because it reminded them of all the times she had told them they couldn’t use it because they were dirty jungle animals. Or couldn’t look at it because it reminded them of her and they missed her so terribly.

I talked myself out of all but two side plates and the cereal bowl. I decided those would be our special cake plates and my special cereal bowl. You know, for special cereal? Consumed only on holidays?

This love-at-first-sight feeling with objects doesn’t happen often and I have learned not to question it. I spend a lot of time being sensible, purchasing things that are necessary, on sale or, at the very least, relevant and sometimes, if my Sensible Guard is on a break or talking to a tourist, my heart leaps out of its fenced area and grabs things. Which is why I browse at Value Village and not Holt Renfrew.

It is good to indulge one’s heart.

* post title reference

“Why is that lady staring at the kids? Do I know her? Oh I bet there’s green snot coursing down one of their faces. Ah, there we go.”

- as well as making sure they don’t smear across their faces and touch things and do things that, if they weren’t my children and I saw them in public, would make me feel nauseated. I have high standards, yo. So I stay home and make videos and wait for the day to end.

In other news, corn hates me. The vegetable, corn. You remember the cornmeal fiasco? I never updated that for you because I used the fresh cornmeal to try the bread again and it FAILED AGAIN and then SA offered to try it and I said, yeah, sure, but not right now because I need you to take the children so I can hit my head against this desk in peace. I knew he’d be able to make it work; I didn’t want to be mad about that too. Cornmeal: hates me. The end.

The other night I wanted a snack and I had no chips and I went into the cupboard and dug out the popcorn. I bought this popcorn recently, like, last fall, and I bought it at Costco so it’s Enough Popcorn For The Rest of My Life, which is unfortunate because it is fucking crazy. Yes, it is crazy popcorn, you heard me.

We have an air popper. I have had this air popper forever. Really, I don’t remember ever not having it. I think it was there when I took my first steps back in 1975. Popping happily.

I just realized I have no idea if I can describe the workings of this – or any – popcorn popper in words.

So it’s about a foot tall and it has two parts; the cannister that plugs in to the wall where you put the popcorn and the lid that serves as a chute, that the popcorn goes down and into a bowl. It used to also have a little cup that fits in a hole in the lid and you put butter in it so while the popper is on and all the heat is popping the corn, your butter is melting! Yay! But I lost the little cup so I just use a kid’s cup in that hole, anyway, irrelevant. It used to be – for the past 30 years – I would put a couple of handfuls of corn in the popper, plug it in, wait two minutes while the corn spun around and around in the bottom and an unholy noise filled the house. And then, the kernels would start to pop. Much like in a microwave, they would pop, one, two, three, fourfivesixseveneightninetybazillion POPCORN! The popped corn filled the cannister and when it got to the top, it would gently spill down the chute into the bowl below. Yes, just like the world’s tiniest popcorn waterfall. Then I would unplug the popper and pour on the butter and get on with it.

The other night was my third try making popcorn with the new Costco corn. The first two times I hoped were flukes, but as the exact same thing happened each time, I am going to use my powers of super-intuition and say no. Not flukes. Each time happened exactly as follows:

Put the popcorn in the receptacle. Plug it in. Listen to the corn go around and around and around. Wait. Go slightly deaf. Wonder if perhaps the machine is broken. Butter starts to melt so heat is hot enough. Then suddenly: PIU! An unpopped kernel comes shooting out of the waterfall chute. PIU! PIU! PIU! Those little fuckers! They are a) hot! b) small! c) going fast! One hits me on the arm, another lands on my bare foot. PIU! PIU! PIU!PIU!PIU!PIU! I am dancing like in those war movies where people get their feet shot at. And then, the actual popping starts. But it’s half-assed. Every fifth kernel is popping; the other four are shooting like missiles all over my kitchen. The popped kernels are spitting out all over the place. They are not spilling like a waterfall! Not at all!

It tastes fine, once you stop shaking. But see, I think snacks are supposed to be relaxing as well as tasty. I snack before bed. I do not want to have corn nightmares.

So, does anyone know what I can do with 3.6 kg of Gourmet Popping Corn Of Satan? It expires May 29, 2010. (What the hell was I thinking? Even if it was not of Satan, how could anyone eat that much popcorn in less than a year?) And yes, it has occurred to me that the popper might be pooched but a) the popcorn right before this popcorn worked fine and b) I am afraid to try a different method (ie: in oil on a stove) because then I might have hot oily kernels hitting me in the face and 2010 is not the year I want to go blind. Alternately, is there something I should know about the compatibility of corn with Aquarian Tigers who are about to turn 36? Any feedback appreciated.

Rocking Out? Check. from tortured potato on Vimeo.

- Includes adorable photo of Trombone and Fresco.
- No Wiggles content at all.

Fresco. Different kid.

Last week it was cute. We had a copy of “Wiggles Go Bananas” in the house, on loan from the library. We watched it every day. Half in the morning, half in the evening because that’s how much TV children are supposed to watch. Every day. Trombone was busy learning the dance moves and the song lyrics and Fresco seemed to be not paying much attention at all and then one day he said he was Sam. “What’s your name,” I said. It’s a question I ask him a lot because his answer is always different and never correct. “Sam,” he said. “Sam Wiggle?” I said. “Uh huh!” he said. “Whatcha doing, Sam?” I said. “Cook! Noo noo!” (noodles) he said. OK. Cute! Right?

The next day: “Lello Wiggle Sam!” Yellow Wiggle Sam. OK. Fresco calls everything “lello” but in this case he was right.

Then he found Trombone’s Wiggles shirt, which I had bought at Value Village months ago when Trombone needed pyjamas. The shirt is red with all four Wiggles on it: Original Yellow Wiggle Greg, (precursor to Sam), Murray (red), Anthony (blue) and Jeff (purple, sleeping sickness.) We’re not hard and fast on what clothes the kids wear to bed or during the day because one pair of elastic-waistbanded pants is much like the next, so we asked Trombone if Fresco could borrow his Wiggles shirt for the day. Trombone, who couldn’t care less about what he is wearing or what is on the shirt in question, said sure. Three days later, here’s Fresco, the shirt caked in noodles, butter, yogurt, orange, peanut butter, staring lovingly at his torso. “Wiggles!” he said. “Yes,” I said, “dirty Wiggles.”

(Ha ha.)

Do you think I could get the shirt off him? Those of you with typical toddlers are shaking with laughter because of COURSE not. He has to have it. On his person. Or within sight. We did manage to wash it and he hauled it back out of the laundry basket as soon as it was dry. Nearly had a nervous breakdown when SA suggested a different shirt for bedtime.

Two days ago, the best thing. He points at the shirt. He says, “Honey.” “Honey?” I say. No one in our house uses that word unless it’s going on toast. “Honey,” he says, pointing to Anthony. “Oh, ANTHONY,” I say. “Uh huh! Honey!”

Oh Honey. We love you. And your white, white teeth and your grey, grey hair and your not-even-a-little-bit lifted face.

I need more Wiggles clothing. Stat.

I got it cut in November. And every few weeks I have been guilty of thinking, “wow, that was a great haircut. It has been X weeks and I still don’t feel like I need another haircut.” It has been growing, yes, but it has not been overgrown. It was a great haircut. I had it cut at Vixen Hair Studio in Victoria, in case you are curious. Not in New West. I am too scared to get my hair cut in New West anymore.

Just kidding! New West is chock full of professional haircuttery!

Last Thursday I went swimming instead of going to CORE YOGA, which is a great class, way better than WORKOUT LITE but it starts at 8:30 which means it ends at 9:30. I had gone on Tuesday evening and was awake till 10:30 and then up again at 5:45 AM and that day? I could not function even as well as a battery powered flashlight. I drank cup after cup of coffee and glass after glass of water and nothing happened, I just continued on with my bleary, grumpy day of endlessness. I didn’t think I could handle another CORE YOGA AT 8:30 class that week. Except I did buy the month’s pass so I wanted to use the community centre somehow. Yes, I am mentioning the month’s pass a lot, not to brag about how awesome I am or how much money I have but because the more I remember that I paid for it, the more likely I am to get off my ass and walk a block and use it.

So I called my mother on Thursday afternoon and whined to her about how tired I had been the day before and how old and lame I was, yes, my mother who broke her back last summer because of me and still can’t do all the things she used to be able to do; a child’s whininess has no bounds, apparently – and next time I wonder where my kids get it from I guess I can just check this space for updates – and my mother said why not just go for a swim. That way you can go at whatever time suits you and be home earlier and get to bed by 9. She might have snickered a little when she said that “bed by 9″ part but you know what, she never had two kids, she only had me and I was perfect so she has no idea what real sleep deprivation is. Snicker away.

You should almost always do what your mother says so after I got Fresco to bed I put on my mismatched swimsuit – the top is too-small black Nike and the bottom is just-right blue Joe Clothing – and went rooting around my closet for my swim goggles and cap. I found the cap but not the goggles because I think the last time I pondered these goggles, the rubber was coming apart from the plastic and it had been 3 years since I’d used them and I thought, hey, the rule is: if it’s been in your closet unused for more than a year, toss it (whose rule is this? It sounds like an Oprah rule) so I tossed ‘em. And if I had no goggles, I wasn’t going to take the swim cap and besides, I have short hair, right?

No. I do not have short hair. I have shorter hair than I used to have, sure. But I have hair that hangs off of my head and therefore I do not have short hair. Furthermore, to swim, I must put my head in the water – at least most of my head; I can’t actually put my whole face in the water unless I have the goggles because if I don’t have the goggles I can’t open my eyes and if I can’t open my eyes I can’t breathe. (I know. I have face-in-the-water issues and yet I persist in swimming for recreation.)

I swam for 40 minutes or so and it was good and I came home and had a shower in the comfort of my own bathroom because the shower at the pool was full of ladies indulging in leisurely spa treatments. And when the water from my shower splashed over my hair, my hair did say, “NO.” And I said, “Pardon?” And it said, “No. No. No. It is too late. We are done with you.” So I added shampoo and then conditioner, and then the kids’ orange creamsicle flavoured shampoo conditioner and rinsed and rinsed. The rest of my body was fine, albeit pruney. My hair was hard. It was hard like a criminal, hard like a two-by-four, hard like a civil servant waiting for his pension.

It is like I have put an entire bottle of hair product on it, all the time. Whether it is clean, dirty, wet or dry. It is no longer curly, just kind of wavy, and it sticks out every which way and all of a sudden, it is Too Long. Last week at this time, it was fine. As of Thursday, it is Too Long. It is Unmanageable. It is Disagreeable. It is the crankiest thing in the house.

Second crankiest thing in the house.

The person under the hair: also pretty cranky. But only when I look in the mirror. I had to tell myself today, repeatedly, no one cares what your hair looks like. No one cares. No one. Cares. Jesus, woman, just put a hat on and go outside. You now officially take longer in the bathroom than your 3.5 year old and he had the world goddamn record.

On the weekend, I bought new swim goggles. That way, I can wear the swim cap. It doesn’t have to make sense to you. It just has to make sense to me.

And my interim hairstyle is pigtails. Because if you can’t look good you might as well look loopy.