Scattered is an Understatement

Posted on 1/23/2009 by cheesefairy

Potato News

Last week I saw a bag of pre-peeled, chopped-into-cubes potatoes, for sale at Safeway. They were called “Today’s Potatoes.” (discarded marketing slogan: Because Potatoes are HARD WORK) When I got home I went to the Today’s Potatoes website and there I learned that the International Year of the Potato (and to close the year, a MONTH LONG CELEBRATION of the potato!) has just passed! Bummer! But do go to the website and check out the bizarre photo of the shirtless man and the glowing potatoes.

Some Days I Laugh, Some Days I Cry

At breakfast yesterday…

Trombone: Ahhh, good milk.
Me: Glad you’re enjoying it
Trombone: No, Mommy, you say, Ahhh, good coffee
Me: Ahhhh..
Trombone, NO, AHHHHHHHHH
Me: AHHHHHHHHH
Trombone: Mommy, no, AcccHHHHHHHHH
Me: …AcccHHHHHHHHH?
Trombone: Now you say, good coffee!
Me: …good coffee!
Trombone: Very good.
Me: (inside voice) Thank you Mr. Spielberg

Horoscope!

Are you a horoscope addict like me? (I mean to the ones that are believable and give you hope instead of being so generic as to apply to your whole family including the cat? I don’t want to laugh at my horoscope. I need hope from you, horoscope.) Check out Astrobarry. He helpfully informed me that Mercury went into retrograde on January 11th (the day my parents left town; coincidence?) This explains a lot and nothing at the same time, which is just how I like my life. Half explained so I can fill in the blanks myself.

My Computer

So when my computer died months ago we had to re-install the operating system and ended up upgrading to Mac OSX.the.latest-version but didn’t buy the new iLife to go with it (iPhoto had been included in the package when I bought the laptop 20billionyearsago and I was all “hell no I won’t pay for iPhoto”) so I had all my old photos in back up and all my new photos just kind of floating around in a disorganized filing system that could be called neither filing nor a system so last week SA agreed to buy me iLife for my birthday which is still two weeks away and now I have all 20,000 (not an exaggeration) photos back on my computer in an organized album format, which is great but also a huge time suck and also a little melancholy because this hasn’t been the best couple of weeks ever, so looking at pictures of me and SA vacationing in Mexico in 2005 is really not helping.

See? Those well rested people were so well rested they decided to take a VACATION. FFS.

But then there are all the shots of my children and stuff and that is good to see. My pregnant belly in all its stages. Squalling infants that are now squalling baby and argumentative toddler. Pictures of our neighbourhood covered in snow three years running (these are going in a file called “to be shown to anyone who has the gumption to suggest that it doesn’t snow enough in the lower mainland to justify a comprehensive snow removal program, I am looking at you Burnaby Mayor, Derek Corrigan (Your Worship)”)

Trombone at the age Fresco is now:

and Trombone last week:

Yikes, right?

And there was also this photo, which I don’t remember the source for so if you happen to be the person who took the photo, go ahead and claim credit and if not, enjoy the soft serve from our dear Prime Minister (but for how much longer?) Stephen…Joseph…HARPER!!!!!! WOOOOOOOHHHHHH!!!! (yay!)


(that one’s going straight out to you, my dear mother woman.)

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What Else Can I Say?

Posted on 1/20/2009 by cheesefairy

Dear Fresco,

You are nine months old today. Thank you for choosing to celebrate by finally napping for longer than 30 minutes. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

love,
yr. mother
(sound of weeping)

ps: that thing where you shout YAY whenever you hear cheering? Is awesome. I think Obama heard you all the way from his armoured car in Washington!

Remember last week, that dramatic outpouring of confession, love, etc. Sure you do, it’s the post right below this one. Part of me was thinking, when I typed it, well, here it is, rock bottom. Now things will get better, because I posted a big confessional, dramatic etc. on the Internet. I am no fool, I did not say it out loud, but I thought it.

I did not know rock bottom.

I did not expect the flu, people. (nobody expects the flu…) The damn flu. Q: How does it get worse when the baby doesn’t sleep? A: If the baby gets the flu and only sleeps if you hold him because he has a fever and he moans and makes your heart break and then the minute he feels a little bit better, refuses to nap all over again and crawls around all over the place for hours at a time, eating dust off the floor, his skin all pale, his eyes all baggy and dark, catching up on all that cat food he didn’t spill because he was too sick to care.

I should have expected it; Trombone had it last week. Classic flu; fatigue, fever, aching. Got over it in a few days. Fresco, too, has only been down a couple of days but they were on my precious WEEKEND days and I just think that is mean. Getting-your-period-on-your-week-long-vacation-in-Hawaii mean.

Anyway, today he is better, Obama’s in and the sun is out, Saint Aardvark finishes his one job today and starts a new one tomorrow and I just remembered my Christmas Toblerone bar. Let the upswing commence!

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Keeling

Posted on 1/16/2009 by cheesefairy

I have always thought of myself as someone who maintains an even keel. Calm to the point of maddening the excitables around me. Relaxed so that I might sleep through a rock concert. The flip side is that I have often wondered where my passion is. If I buried it, lost it or simply never had any.

As I continue to parent my two children every day the best I can, I am realizing that I must have buried my passionate, angry, Italian side. It is all coming out now. What exists of my former well-buffered self is a damp popsicle stick, licked too long to get the last of the orange flavour out of the wood, just about to splinter. Down to my brass tacks I am sharp, nasty, short tempered and ill-humoured. More so than usual.

I spoke before, I think, maybe? about 30 minutes of sleep being the only thing keeping me from complete meltdown. We finally found a system that worked; Fresco wakes up at 5:30, SA plays with him until 6:20, I get up and take over – and then Fresco started waking up at 5. Neither me nor SA wants to get up at 5 am. That 30 minutes is crucial. It’s the difference between a good and an awful day. We have no resources left to say “Oh it’s just one day; let’s make the best of it and eat cookies and watch too much TV.” No, we crossed that bridge three months ago and now it’s collapsed into the river and we are on the other side with a cup of bad coffee between us, up to our eyeballs in grudge.

Insult and injury had a terrible collision this morning when Fresco decided 5 am wasn’t early enough and woke up at FOUR FUCKING THIRTY. That, my friends, is not even morning. 4:30 am is not a time of day when anyone should be awake. When I answered the phones all night at the crisis centre, 4:30 am was when they finally quieted down, all the mentally ill and the addicts and the lonely in the city had finally gone to sleep. I guess it’s a good thing babies can’t use telephones.

Anyway, at 4:30 in the morning and then at 5 when I am rocking the baby still rocking the baby still rocking the baby who is almost tantalizingly asleep but not quite just a few more minutes and then a few more minutes and then at 5:20 when I finally put him down and he wakes INSTANTLY well actually I don’t know what time it is because I am in the dark but it feels like I’ve been in there a long time and it feels like I might never leave there and it feels desperate and horrible and endless and stupid, I suddenly realize that my anger and frustration and bury-able feelings are suddenly free of the weight that has been holding them down for 30 years and they are happy to come to the surface, to my mouth and my eyes and the back of my head that I can feel start to tingle and I guess that it is a good thing, to have anger out in the world where you can see it, shake its hand, give it a cookie, but it doesn’t feel good, it feels horrible to go from loving this baby so much to hating him in a split second and I won’t hurt him, don’t worry, and I won’t hurt myself, except from the pillow I use to choke my screams back because I wouldn’t want to wake Trombone too and in the clear light of day I can’t remember the feelings very clearly, I can’t imagine why I would need to be such a drama queen about it but in the moment, that anger will not be denied.

This was going to be about this child, Fresco, and how he is different from my other. He inspires rage and adoration in a heartbeat. He has a chortle. It sounds like he is choking on a cigar. Not just the smoke; the whole thing. Whenever I hear it I think he is choking on something but then I see he is just laughing. It is his surprised-to-be-delighted laugh. He does it when you pop up from behind something or when Trombone tickles him or when he sees a baby his size who makes the same noise. He was playing a game with me today, a real game, where he would make a move for the wall outlet to unplug my computer and I would go after him and say no. After the third time, he paused right before getting to the wall, looked right at me and made his chortle noise.

How can you not absolutely adore that? A 9 month old with a sense of humour, who lays his head on my shoulder when he is tired and claps his hands and says “yay” when other people do. A bright-eyed, beautiful boy. He is breaking me. They are breaking me. But I think it is mostly in a good way. I think that when I am done being broken, my pieces will go back together in a pleasing configuration.

And maybe some day he will be a hot shot CIA agent and save the world from terrorism using his patented “I am very cute / I am keeping you awake / I am pinching your windpipe” technique. I guess that would be the bright side?

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A Round for All My Friends

Posted on 1/15/2009 by cheesefairy

Dudes. I need to know EVERY SINGLE BIRTHDAY for EVERY SINGLE ONE of you. Female readers only, plz. Penises need not apply. Because I am going to buy up the entire stock of “It’s Not the Age, It’s the Attitude!” Dolly Mama’s (sic) and give them away to you. Just like Oprah! Cheesefairy’s year of giving starts NOW!

OK, you’re right. I am being sarcastic.

But look: Celebrate your carefree spirit with this zany new Dolly Mama’s figurine, “It’s Not the Age, It’s the Attitude!” Every humourous detail will leave you laughing, from this sassy sister’s stylish hat and oversized martini, to her whimsical sign that says it all. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to be left laughing by an oversized martini? Zany chicks.

Actually, martinis. (or is it “Martini’s”? NO IT IS NOT) Hm. No, nevermind.

What I don’t understand, because dollymama.com is currently experiencing an SQL problem, is why there is a possessive apostrophe involved in this trainwreck of a mantle ornament. Calling a line of strange, sassy, purple and red female figurines (the) Dolly Mamas is bad enough (really. Bad. Enough.) but why you gotta punctuate like that?

Or is there a grammatical thingeemadoo that I am unfamiliar with? I am pretty slaphazard when it comes to grammar. I vaguely recall something about words ending in a vowel having different pluralization rules than everyone else. Like the “if you think people might get confused by this then you can break the rules of grammar for the sake of clarity.” Bah.

All of this reminds me that years ago I had an idea for a toy: Pocket Prophets. They would be little prophet figurines about GI Joe size and they would each come with a little scroll with an appropriate quotation from the Bible. Religious Action Figures! Collect them all! Years ago I thought this was crazy but now I am starting to wonder if perhaps it is not and I should go make a million dollars.

(A cursory google has revealed no such pre-existing toy. There is, however, a Christian metal band called Back Pocket Prophet. They’re not so bad. Y’know. For metal.)

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Revolution

Posted on 1/12/2009 by cheesefairy

My mother asked me on Saturday if I had made any resolutions for the new year. I thought about it, the way I have to think if someone asks me how old my baby is. Which baby? Oh, that one. I don’t k – wait, I know this one! 8.5 months! Anyway, I said no. No, I did not make any resolutions for the new year. I almost never do. I am constantly making resolutions, changes to my outlook, haphazard decisions. I love to start lists, then I lose track of them, then I buy new notebooks and pens to take better lists down in. I have some follow-through issues, mostly related to fear. No problem making the commitments, just difficulty completing the task. Except in my marriage and childbearing. The former because it is not scary to me and the latter because the completion of the task was not optional. After a certain point, anyway.

However, this morning I remembered that I did make a resolution. Maybe I will tell her about it in two weeks when she comes back from Mexico. I am guessing she can’t be bothered to check my blog when there are toes to be burrowed in warm sand, fresh salsa to eat, Tequila Sunrises to drink and an ocean to swim in.

To be me. That is my resolution. To be me.

I agree, it sounds pretty encompassing. Vague, even. The kind of resolution that has no accountability attached to it; after all, who can say who ME is and who can hold me to BEING HER. Only I can. It’s cheating, right? Oh, I totally fulfilled my new year’s resolution this year. I was me ALL YEAR LONG!

I guess what I mean by it is this: I am resolving to be authentic. To stop my internal censor before she starts, not just in writing but in everything.

Here is an example of the me I am, usually. I was walking to the grocery store a few days after Christmas, early evening. I was alone, no kids, no buggy. There was snow everywhere. There was slush and ice everywhere. There was a woman out at the intersection, shoveling the curb so that the sidewalk would be accessible to those of us on or with wheels. I waited for the light to change, staring at her, thinking, I should buy that woman a coffee. She is awesome. What a great thing to do. And right up until I was at the checkout at Safeway I was intending to buy a Starbucks card and give it to her on my way home. And then I talked myself out of it. Maybe she won’t be there, and then I’ll be stuck with a Starbucks card.(I know I am ridiculous.) She probably doesn’t even drink coffee. The lineup is really long. I don’t even really like Starbucks. Do I want to support Starbucks? On my way home, she was still there, still shoveling, still being a goddamn hero and I just carried on home and felt bad that I didn’t even cross the street to say thank you.

I can talk myself into or out of just about anything if my motivation is strong enough. New boots? Sign me up. Random act of civility? No thanks. I don’t like drawing attention to myself. Don’t look at me. Don’t be grateful to me. Don’t make awkward conversation with me. How will I get out of it? How do I leave, now? What if I offend you? Say something wrong. Do something wrong. Better if you just don’t pay attention to me. Look at my boots. Look at my kids. I don’t care. But me? Nah. You don’t want to talk to me.

Sure, you say. So you are writing this for a (possible) million people on the Internet to read and you expect us to believe you are an attention-phobe?

Ah but I am back here, behind the keys. Still hidden. Still editing as I write. Still discarding 14 topics before I settle on this one. Ordinarily I would discard this one too but, see, the resolution I Will Be Me also means: I Will Stop Being Safe. I Will Not Hide. I Will Act First, Think Later. (in most things)

Yesterday I got my hair cut. I just wandered into the emptiest salon on 6th Street and this woman named Janet cut the hell out of my hair. It looks like Lawnmower Man hit it but I love it. It’s what I wanted. It says who I am right now.

I feel like I’ve written all this before but I’m too lazy to search my own archives. Maybe if I write it enough I will believe it. I think this is the year I will believe it. I have very fond feelings for the number 9.

My other resolution, which I remembered while I was nursing Fresco this afternoon and which prompted this post, is to make more shortbread. Why do we only eat shortbread at Christmas? How ridiculous! I am making shortbread once a month. Today’s batch is very tasty.

(Saint Aardvark says I remind him of Flashdance, but in a good way. I think I look like an over-coked stand-up comedian. Discuss.)

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