A Tale of Comic Books, Zombies and All Around Bad Parenting

This is probably the most amount of effort I have ever put into being an irresponsible parent:

The first Saturday in May is Free Comic Book Day and boy, do my kids love them some free comic books!  Unfortunately the first Saturday in May is also when my in-laws host their annual 4-H Barbecue and Frick, being a 4-H kid has to attend.  Every Free Comic Book Day I go to the comic book store myself to get him some comic books so he doesn't have to miss out.

So this last Saturday I let Frack put on his Spiderman costume and together we walked on down to the comic book store.  There were lots of people there including a puppeteer with Kermit the Frog and some comic book writer/artist I didn't know signing autographs.  Frack got lots of attention for his costume, which he enjoyed.

We went to the table where they had the free comic books on display.  The deal is you figure out which ones you want and then tell the girl at the counter to get them for you.  Frack's books were easy to choose (Superman, Batman and The Smurfs) but I had a harder time choosing for Frick  A lot of the comics on the table were kind of young for him.  He's not as interested in caped heroes anymore.  He's not really into anything lighthearted like Archie or SpongeBob. And a lot of them looked to aimed at teen girls, which is awesome to me but not so much to Frick.

And then I saw this:

Oh man, if I get this for Frick I will score some seriously awesome Mom-points!  He's been bugging me for months to watch The Walking Dead but I told him I needed to preview it to make sure it's okay.  Really I can just ask my husband who'a already a fan of the show if it's okay but the truth is that I'd prefer for us to watch it together and I just don't have time to get into a whole TV show right now.  So this looked like the perfect thing for him.  I had to have it.

Except there I was in a comic book store with lots of witnesses and an adorable little boy in a Spiderman costume giving all of these witnesses the idea that I'm a pretty good Mom (in my head they think it....obviously no one gives a shit) so I have to somehow justify getting this rather questionable comic book for my 12 year old.  Because I need strangers to validate my parenting choices.  My inner dialogue went something like this:

Well it's not very well drawn, first of all.  Also, there is no colour; just black and white.  Frick loves Zombies and he managed to watch a couple of Zombie movies now with no ill effects.  Cartoons of Zombies can't be that bad.  I can always read it first just to make sure.  Also he's twelve!  That's almost a teenager.  By the time I was twelve I'd seen every Nightmare on Elm Street and most of the Friday the 13th.  And I turned out just fine.  Mostly...

Having convinced myself that this was an okay thing to do I worked up the nerve to tell the girl at the counter which comic books we wanted.  When I mentioned The Walking Dead one I even pretended to be responsible by making a joke about being unsure.  "Gosh, I hope I'm not going to regret this," I laughingly tell her.  This was a huge lie because I was totally sure I wanted that comic book for Frick.

When she heard me she went pale with shock.  She looked at me sideways and in a skeptical voice said, "I don't know....."

"Why?"  I ask innocently.  "Is it really that bad?"

The girl bites her lip unsure.  "Weeeelllll.....How old is your son?"

She's looking me right in the eye.  She suspects something.  Lie!  Tell her he's fourteen!  No, don't lie.  That's stupid.  You are a grown-ass adult capable of making decisions for your kid.

"Um, twelve?"  Stupid!  You sound like you're guessing.  Now she thinks you're lying!

"Oh, well I definitely would not recommend this.  Here, look."

She flips through the comic and stops on a page that she finds particularly graphic.

"You see?  That Zombie no longer has his head on."

(No matter what fucking angle I take the picture this is what I get.  Faaaaack!  Just turn your heads, y'all.)

Really, this doesn't look bad to me at all.  I've seen way worse in other comics.  Frick's seen way worse on TV.  But the look on her face says, "You see?  Only a degenerate would allow a sweet innocent twelve year old to look at carnage like that."

And this is what a chickenshit I am.  I pretended to express shock and agree with her and then I picked another fucking comic book.  Because I didn't want some strange girl I may never see again, and who probably doesn't have kids anyway, to think I am an irresponsible parent even though I really am.

And as she went to collect the books I asked for I was silently kicking myself.

Why didn't I just get what I wanted to get?  Why do I care so much what people think of my parenting?  I could have been so bad ass by sticking to my guns and defiantly getting that book but I caved to peer pressure!  I'm such a coward!

I left the store filled with regrets.  I realized that the regret I was feeling was actually worse than any guilt I may have felt about looking like a bad Mom.  I realized I could have relished the look of shock and the inevitable shaking of the head when I did it.  I could have been a  rebel!

So when I got home I made my husband go back to the comic book store to get the comic.  I told him he had to pretend the comic was for him so that the stupid comic book girl wouldn't talk him out of it.  I told him no, he could not bring Frack with him because everyone there already knows him and the comic book girl would be onto us and think we were scamming to get more free comic books than we deserved.   Because Unknown Comic Book Girl's opinions are so important to meeeeee!!!

And even though I am obviously insane and ought to be ignored he totally did it!  He said he was lucky to get it because it was literally the last one.  He had to convince the girl to give him the copy that was taped to the table for display purposes.

This.  This, my friends, is the foundation of a great marriage.  I know I can count on my husband to help me hide a dead body if I needed it.  I know I can count on him to shoot me in the head if I am ever bitten by a Zombie and now I know I can count on him to go out of his way to acquire questionable, Zombie-related reading material for our son when I myself am too weak-willed.  These are the things that matter.

As for Frick, his reaction was totally worth it.  The Walking Dead may be violent and graphic but it got my son excited about reading and in the end, isn't that what Free Comic Book Day is all about?

I Had My First Period With the Ladies of Coffee Talk

I recently discovered this Youtube channel called Crankytown, which (according to their description) is a "transmedia property about menstruation" which is a fancy way of saying "These videos are about periods, yo!".  Many of their videos are just women's stories about their first periods being told  by puppets.  Awesome!  Watching their videos inspired me to share my own period story, so here goes.  (Sorry, no puppets.)

First, a little background.  Between the ages of 12 and 13 I was a straight up asshole.  My poor mother.  I hated her.  Recognizing that there was just no way she could ever win with me she just kept right on being her usual awesome self, probably hoping that someday I'd come around.

Why did I hate her?  Partly because I think this is a rite of passage for most teen girls.  Partly because my mother's usual awesome self often involves a certain amount of public humiliation and I had not yet learned the trick of not giving a fuck what other people thought and just having fun.  Also, hormones.

Anyway one of the things that used to really bug me about Mummy was the fact that she was always making a ridiculous big deal out of all things puberty.  There was the time she bought me my first bra and then told like, the whole world (my aunties at a tea party) about it.  (Mom!!!)  There was the time she found out about my being teased for being flat-chested and so she thoughtfully went out and bought me padded bras (Mooooooom!!!!!).  And of course there was The Talk.  (Mooooooooooooooooooom!!!!!!)

My poor, poor mother.  I realize now she was just giving me the attention she likely wished she had when she was going through puberty.  She was making sure that one way or another I had all the information and womanly accoutrements I needed and that she probably didn't have.  Knowing my Gran the way I do, knowing there was probably no sex-ed in school and knowing that my mother was an "early bloomer" I now understand that puberty must have been a big confusing mess for her.

So Mummy, (I know you're reading this) I owe you a very big apology.  You were the best and I didn't deserve you.

Anyway I was worried about the big deal she was going to make when I finally got my period.  I didn't really want my period and I certainly didn't want anyone making a fuss about it.  So I promised myself that when I got my first period I would keep it secret for a while before telling her.  I felt like all this puberty stuff was out of my control and that if I could just keep this secret, even for a little while, it would be like getting some control back.

It was August of 1989 and my family was getting ready to go on a vacation with these richy-rich friends of my parents.  Apparently they "had a place" up at Manitoulin Island and they invited us to spend a couple of weeks with them there.  As we were packing up I became aware that I wasn't feeling so good.  I started to get worried that I was going to get vacation diarrhea.

When I was 9 years old we took a trip to Disneyland and while my brothers and cousin were off enjoying the happiest place on earth, I was stuck in a hotel room with my Dad because I had diarrhea.  He made it up to me by taking me out for seafood (which he loved and I hated) and then nick-naming me Dolores Diarrhea: Queen of the Bathroom.  A nick name that stuck for years after.  (Dear GOD! Why IS this man SUCH an asshole?)

That not-so-good feeling intensified throughout the day, eventually seeing me on the couch curled up into the fetal position with agonizing cramps.  At one point the cramps drove me into the bathroom where I discovered that I seemed to have had a little accident without even realizing it.  I groaned knowing that I was in for the world's shittiest long car-ride (literally!) and likely having to endure taunts of "Dolores Diarrhea" every time I had to make them stop for a bath room.  I cleaned myself up and went back to the couch.

My mother noticed me not helping to pack the car.  When I told her I was sick she smiled mysteriously and said, "Maybe not.  Maybe you're getting your period."  Ugh.  This woman just never quits with the puberty stuff!  But I didn't want to tell her I already shit my pants so I let her think her thoughts.

A side note that is important to the visualization of this story.  Imagine, if you will, my mother in 1989.  In 1989 my mother and her contemporaries (fashionable and moderately wealthy women) looked remarkably like Linda Richman et al. from SNL's "Coffee Talk".

Oversized sweater adorned with shiny beads and jewels?  Check.  Big-ass shoulder pads and large jewelry?  Check.  Big glasses and teased out hair?  Check.  Long painted fingernails?  Check.  I swear, my mother actually owned the sweater you see Linda wearing in this video.  Even their mannerisms were similar, which I believe is a common side effect of wearing those long fingernails.  This is all very amusing to me now since she's gone back to her hippie roots.  The 80's were a hell of a decade.

We arrive at the Richy-Rich's late at night because they strategically decided to do most of our traveling while the kids were sleeping instead of being driven nuts with the whining, fighting and the incessant questions.  If memory serves the drive to Manitoulin is about 8 hours long.  The first thing I do when we get to the Richy-Rich's is ask where the bathroom is.

When I get in the bathroom I see there is another mess in my pants only something is not quite right.  Yet again I had no sensation of anything happening and, as the fluffy little unicorn said, "Usually when you shit your pants, you know that you've shit your pants."  Also, there was no smell.  I really had no idea what was going on here.

But I knew it wasn't my period.

Because I thought my period was going to be like the shower scene from "Carrie" minus the tampon throwing and chants of "Plug it up!".  I thought I was going to get this trickle of bright red blood down my leg or there would be bright red blood in my underwear.  And this was dark brown.  It didn't look like blood or smell like shit and I didn't have a fucking clue what was happening to me, so I got my Mom.

But I became sure of what was happening to me the instant I saw the look of triumph on her face.  I had started my period and my Mom was the FIRST person who knew.  Literally.  Because she knew it before I did.  Here is the scene that ensued:

She was verklempt.  

Just like Linda, she put her hand on her heart and stifled a happy tear.

Then she hugged me tight and told me how proud she was of me.  Then she suddenly developed the strangest speech impediment that prevented her from saying the last word of all her sentences.  She would start each sentence with whispered excitement and then just mouth the last word silently.

"My baby girl has finally turned into a....(silently mouthing) woman!"  (I think she actually made a "squee" sound after this)

"I'm so...proud of you!"

"My little...girl!"

It gets worse.  Since it was the middle of the night and my mother was not expecting her period for weeks we had no choice but to turn to Mrs. Richy-Rich for help.  Gah!

My mother dragged a thoroughly embarrassed, 13 year old me into the kitchen.

"Baaaarbara (she added the Richman-esque lengthening of the first syllable), do you have any.....(silently mouthing) pads?"

(Not too quick on the uptake) "Yeah sure, why are you - ? " finally noticing the look of elation on my mother's face, "Oh.  Oooooooooh!  Aaaaaah."  Then giving me a significant look while adopting my mother's strange speech impediment.  "Of course!  Let me just go....upstairs."  And off she ran, looking a little verklempt herself.

While she was gone my mother hugged me some more and offered me congratulations and probably some other stuff I wasn't really listening to because I was kicking myself for the blunder I had made while facing this inevitable Festival of Mortification.

I prayed, "Dear God, I'll endure this and so much more if only you could please get her to not tell my Dad."

When Mrs. Richy-Rich returned I went into the bathroom as they giggled and hugged each other holding their hands up in that signature way women with very long fingernails do to avoid skewering each other.  I hid in there for a while trying to make myself feel better by saying "Well, at least it's not diarrhea!"

My mother was awesome through the whole thing.  She told me everything I needed to know.  She got me my own pads and some Midol for the cramps.  And if she told my Dad I never knew it.  She was kind and loving to me and when I finally did get diarrhea (nobody told me to not drink the tap water) she managed to get my Dad to lighten up with the Queen of the Bathroom stuff.

Looking back, I'm so glad I told her.  It meant a lot to her to be there for me when I needed her but didn't fully appreciate that fact.  After that I eased up on her a bit and stopped being such an asshole.  She might embarrass me and all but my Mom is totally awesome.

Uke Can Change Your Life!

If you've been following me on facebook you'll know that I recently acquired a ukulele from Mummy Dearest as an early birthday present.  And OMG, it's the fucking best!  (Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mummy!)

It all started with a casual, "Y'know I'm thinking about getting a ukulele.  How hard could it be?"  And now I'm all, "How did I live without this for so long?"

As much as I love and live for music I could never have anticipated how much joy I am getting from this teeny tiny guitar.  I can easily understand how ukulele enthusiasts make the claim that the ukulele can change the world.  Amanda Palmer speculates about what might have happened if people like Sid Vicious or Lizzie Borden had played the ukulele:

(I found out about this song because of Jo Eberhardt from The Happy Logophile, a terrific blog for aspiring writers.  Go check her out!)

Ms. Palmer is totally right.  Everyone should play the ukulele!  Here's why:

Physical Therapy

The original reason I wanted to get a ukulele is because of my arthritis.  I play bass guitar and I've been trying to play more of it lately before my arthritis gets worse and I can't play it at all.  The problem with my bass is that it's heavy, needs a heavy amplifier to go with it, and is therefore not very portable.  I figured a nice lightweight little uke might be the answer to this problem.

What I didn't anticipate was the therapeutic benefits.  Ever since I started playing this ukulele my fingers feel better.  They are stronger and have more dexterity.  This is amazing for someone who experiences pain just by wringing out a cloth.

Mental Health

Another fun thing about arthritis is that living with chronic pain makes my anxiety worse.  Yay!  I am not medicated for anxiety so I have a list of coping mechanisms that are usually pretty good at getting me through day to day living.

Unfortunately after a whole winter of dealing with the pain my coping mechanisms just aren't working anymore.  I figured I was just stuck living with it until the summer came back and the sun made me feel better.  I say this with no hyperbole whatsoever: with just one strum of the ukulele my anxiety disappeared.

There's just something so light-hearted and euphonic about the ukulele that it is impossible to fear and feel sick.  I would have wept with relief if I hadn't been so damned happy.  This is something that not even my bass playing does for me.  And even if it could, my anxiety is most unbearable at night when the kids are sleeping and I worry about waking them up.  But the ukulele can be nice and soft and quiet.  It doesn't bother anyone.

It's just the happiest little instrument in the world!

Now, every time I start having dark and terrible thoughts I pick up my uke wherever I am and they just vanish.  The benefits to my mental health were so amazing that I looked into it and apparently lots of people play the ukulele for therapy.  This ex-naval officer uses it to treat his PTSD.  There a good number of pediatric hospitals that ask for donations of ukuleles for bedridden children and there was this study that showed how playing the ukulele improved the quality of life for senior citizens by making them feel more positive and in control.

You can get these benefits from playing other instruments, it's true, but the ukulele is so easy to play that you don't have to have much skill or talent to enjoy it.

Mood Regulation

Here's an amazing thing I tried yesterday.  I could see that Frick was close to melting down over a homework project.  He was breathing heavy and trying to calm himself down and his eyes were full of frustrated tears.  I could see I was in for a struggle.  The day before I taught him the chords for "Let It Be" so instead of arguing with him about the homework I handed him the ukulele and told him to play it.

And he did.

It was like magic.  Instead of melting down his frustration just melted away.  We were able to sit there and come up with better strategies for tackling the homework.  Instead of having to issue a series of timeouts for him to get his emotions under control, listening to him hurl abuses at me through a door because I'm so rotten for making him do his homework, he hugged me and thanked me for helping him.  He was happy.

But you know, you don't have to have health issues to enjoy the ukulele.  Get one and you can be the life of the party, local park, city bus, camp fire, or wherever.  You can play anything you want and you don't even have to be good at it.  Did you know that learning an instrument helps improve your memory and reduce stress?  Did you know that kids who learn an instrument have higher IQ's, better math skills and improved coordination?

I can't believe you're still sitting there reading this.  Go out and get a ukulele already!  Go to your music store, buy one second hand from Kijiji, hell you can even make your own from an old cigar box.  What are you waiting for?  

Mommy Rotten's Favourite Shit (Kind of Like Oprah Meets GOOP But Made For Us Poors)

I am a product junkie.  I just love trying new shit out and finding that next great thing.  I mean who doesn't love cool shit? Oprah and Gwyneth know we all love cool shit and have capitalized on that by transforming themselves into cool-shit gurus.  And why not?  Surely influential women like Oprah and Gwyneth would know about the best shit.  And they do.  Their shit is amazing if you're like, a petty millionaire or the ruler of a small nation.

But, if you're the kind of person who hesitates to drop two weeks' worth of milk money on a bar of soap (for real?) you've come to the right place.  I know about good shit.  My shit is also the best shit only I can guarantee that you can get yourself every item on this list for a fraction of the cost of Gwyneth Paltrow's exclusive, cheap ass looking white T-shirt (Seriously?  I can see right through that thing.  Don't you know anything about thread count, Gwynnie?)

Ideal for us revolting peasants.

Patchouli Blood Orange Soap from Blair Elements 

Blair Elements makes all kinds of fancy teas but what caught my attention (since I'm more of a coffee drinker) was their fancy soaps.  Patchouli Blood Orange is their most popular one and my favourite because the scent lasts a long time on your hands.  They have a wide variety of scents like Sandalwood, Pineapple Upside Down Cake and Cedar Vetiver with Pumice and they will only set you back about $6 a bar.

They are so good I can't imagine Oprah's being any better unless hers are made from rendered unicorn fat.  (Which they probably are.  Fucking rich people.)  The bars last a long time and are pretty big so I cut mine into halves or quarters to make them easier to handle.  Also try their bath bombs.  I get myself one every Mother's Day and it's heaven in a bathtub.

Kozlik's Mustard  

If you are a mustard lover then do I have the mustard for you!  Yes, it's expensive but not break-the-bank expensive.  At $6 a jar it is worth every penny.

Kozlik's mustards come in an insane variety like Balsamic Fig & Date, Green Peppercorn and Orange & Honey.  My personal favourites are Amazing Maple and Honey Garlic.  They go great with a lot of foods but most of the time I just eat up the mustard with nothing but a bag of pretzels for dipping.

Wasabi Snacks

For the adventurous snacker!  One day my husband came home with these green goodies and dared me to eat one.  After a few moments of working up the courage I popped one in my mouth.  It starts with a nose-clearing, eye-watering sting followed quickly by the natural sweetness of the rice coating and the peanut inside.

I quickly became hooked.  I buy them at the local farmer's market but for those of you not from Anytown you can get them online at Try My Nuts (love the name!).  If you like the peanuts you will love the wasabi peas which have even more bite.  Don't be afraid to try them.  I've fed them to Frack since he was a toddler and he adores them.  Mind you Frack is very weird in some of his snack choices.  His favourite foods include olives and Keen's Hot Mustard.

They're organic!  (Because I can't afford chemicals)

Cherokee Purple Heirloom Tomatoes

I love growing tomatoes because they are just about impossible to fuck up.  They seem to thrive in poor soil and less than optimal watering which suits my gardening style just dandy.

My favourite to grow are these Cherokee Purple Heirlooms because they are monsters.  I've never seen tomatoes so huge in my life!  Don't even try using those pathetic little wire  tomato cages for these suckers.  I have to tie them directly to my fence and hope like hell they don't pull it down.

Fresh garden tomatoes are the best no matter what variety you grow but with these babies, knowing the grocery store charges $5 a pound for them, they're just so much more satisfying.  Each summer I feel like I've pulled $500 out of my tiny garden and it only cost me some sweat and a $3 packet of seeds.  Cherokee Purples are very big and sweet and juicy and are better for eating raw than cooking but I've managed to make some decent soups and bruschettas from them.

It's also gluten-free!

Burt's Bees

I am addicted to lip balm.  Apparently everyone who wears lip balm is addicted to it.  A friend once told me they put an ingredient in lip balm that actually dries out your lips creating a dependence on the product.  I don't really know how true this is but I noticed when I switched to a more natural product I was needing to use much less of it than Chap Stick or Vaseline.

My mother in-law introduced me to Burt's Bees and that is now my exclusive lip balm-crack.  I refuse to use anything else.  They come in other flavours like pomegranate and pink grapefruit but the best is their original mint lip balm in a tin.  The advantage of buying the tin is that it costs the same as a tube but you get twice as much.  My whole family uses this shit.  Yes, it does cost twice as much as the regular stuff ( $5 a tin) but because it works better, it lasts a lot longer.

From mysterious Walmart.

4 Step Buffing Block

One year I was in a mall trying to do my Christmas shopping when I got stopped by a girl working one of those kiosks you find in the middle of the mall that sell sunglasses and jewelry and shit.  Only hers sold beauty products.  No not beauty products.  Beauty miracles!  From mysterious Israel!  And I knew it was totally legit because the girl was beautiful and from Israel.

She seized my hand and started furiously buffing my thumbnail with her special, magical buffing block that, she whispered, was coated in micro-diamonds found in the mysterious sands of Israel's beaches along the Dead Sea.  Or something like that, I think.  It was hard to pay attention.  All I know is that when she was done I could see my face reflected in my pretty, shiny fingernail and I just had to have that block!  But I couldn't have it because I had to spend all my money on other people (stupid Christmas!).

The worst part was that she liked me so much she was going to give me this special deal that I must NOT tell her boss about because she would get into BIG trouble.  See, they needed to charge at least $60 for the whole manicure kit (complete with mysterious herbal oils to moisturize your nailbeds) just to cover the cost but since we were such besties now she wouldn't dream of taking more than $17.99!  Scandalous!  I had to regretfully decline and she bid me a heartfelt goodbye, squeezing my hand as she urged me to come back and speak only to her for that special secret deal.  It was all very emotional.

About a month after Christmas I found one in the drug store for $4.

It may not be made from the magical sands of the Dead Sea but it works just as well.  I love mine because I like my hands to look pretty but I'm not very good at painting my nails.  They always look like they were painted by a drunken kindergartener.  With this I can have pretty, shiny nails without all the mess and fuss.

I think I could be pretty good at this.  You see, ladies?  Poor people like cool shit, too.  You might do well to remember that while you're hawking $25 socks at us.  "Great Gifts on a Budget" my ass.

A Love Letter to My Husband, After Valentine's Day

To My Dearest Husband,

Remember Valentine's Day?  We had a perfect night, didn't we?  Your mother took the kids from us, you came home with a nice bottle of wine, and I prepared some Korean Barbecue.

Ah , Korean Barbecue.  One of our favourite meals!  You even ran to the Asian grocery for the good Kimchi (IFL Kimchi!).  You are a good man.  You also insisted we use the table-side Korean barbecue we borrowed from our friend Jen.

We should probably get our own.  Only $30.

Remember the barbecue?  The same Korean barbecue we keep neglecting to return because we're assholes and it is somehow always dirty?  The one that was finally clean from the last time we used it but was somehow still in our possession?  You said that it would be much more romantic to cook table-side so as to enjoy the novelty of having hot fat splatter in our faces.

I would have been perfectly happy to just precook the meat in our frying pan.  I could have had all of our mess cleaned up before we even began eating.  It's just that you so gallantly offered-no....promised to clean the barbecue that I confess, I fairly lost my head.  You know how offering to clean just drives me wild....so I agreed.

And aside from a few minor burns, it was a magical evening.

Week 4:  Seriously???

I guess I got a little worried when you ignored the dirty barbecue the next day.  I didn't want to call attention to it after the wonderful night we had.  Doing so might imply that your intentions were less than honourable.  A few days later I had hoped my question asking where I should store the dirty barbecue would serve as a hint for you to clean it.

It did not.

A week after Valentine's Day I briefly considered cleaning it myself, but decided not to.  It would have looked too much like I was accusing you of something.  I'm sure all those times I cleaned your filthy frying pans after waiting a week (because I needed them), you were sincere when you said "Oh honey, I was totally going to wash those!"

I know you would never on purpose leave the dirty dishes for so long that I would get fed up and do them for you.  But I also knew that if I cleaned that damned barbecue after you promised to clean it for me on the sacred day of St. Valentine, I might be tempted to exact revenge.  Which, as you well know after 13 years, I am totally capable of doing.

I don't mean to be impatient.  I know it's only been a month.  And so, rather than subject you to my somewhat immature sense of justice, I have instead decided to store the filthy, crusty barbecue in your man-cave for you to deal with at your leisure.  This is what I believe will be safest for everyone.


                                                                                        Always,                                                                                        
                                                                                           Your Loving Wife

P.S.  We really need to return this barbecue.  We are the worst kind of people.

Mommy Small Talk

You're at a park/playgroup/waiting room and another mother is sitting nearby.  She notices your child playing and says to you, "He's cute.  How old?"

Uh oh.

You are about to engage in Mommy Small Talk.  Everyone hates small talk but recognizes that it performs the valuable social functions of filling the terrifying abyss of uncomfortable silence and facilitating conversations with people you might like to befriend.  But my experience of Mommy Small Talk is that it often hinders friendship and has transformed that uncomfortable silence from terrifying to golden.

It's not that I have a problem talking about being a Mom, but I am only comfortable with it if I feel like I can just be myself and be honest.  I can do that here on my blog because no one is being forced to read my stuff.  If you don't like me you can leave and, unless you leave a comment telling me what a jerk I am, I would never be the wiser.

But with a face-to-face Mom I care about how I present my kids in case they would like to play with her kids.  I care about how I present my parenting because some of my jokes could result in a visit from a Children's Aid Worker.  And I care about how I make her feel because well, I'm a human being.  There's enough pressure that comes from being a Mom and I don't want to be contributing to that if I can possibly help it.

The Oxford Dictionary says that small talk is supposed to be about "unimportant and uncontroversial matters".  But there is nothing unimportant or uncontroversial about Mommy Small Talk.  Seemingly innocent topics like sleeping habits, feeding choices, doctor's visits, even diapering, can be fraught with pitfalls for the unwary conversationalist.  If you are asking the question you run the risk of hitting a very raw nerve and if you are answering the question you are at risk of sounding like an insufferable asshole.

Because here is a valuable truth: when it comes to parenting you can never defend your choices without coming off as a superior shit to someone, somewhere.

Seriously.

Any defense of your parenting choices carries an implied criticism of those who did not make the same choices.  Just the other day I was making Mommy Small Talk with a first-time pregnant acquaintance of mine.  She knows she is having a boy and, even though I didn't ask, she was adamant that her son would be circumcised ASAP (while still in the womb if possible), complete with a small shudder of horror at the alternative.

First time preggers are cute, aren't they?  She had no idea that both my boys are not circumcised.  She had no idea that what I was hearing was "Mothers who do not circumcise their boys are condemning them to a life of ..." whatever it is that made her shudder, I guess.  She has no idea yet what a hot-button issue circumcision is.  You can make light of it and joke around to downplay your choices but you may still come off as an asshole.  Sometimes joking makes it even worse because it can sound patronizing.  

Don't even try talking about developmental milestones.  If your kid is precocious it's hard to not to look like you're bragging.  Plus you run the risk of hitting a sensitive spot by unwittingly calling attention to possible developmental delays you didn't know her kids have.  Recovering from this can be even more disastrous.  As a Mom whose son is in speech therapy I can tell you that hearing jokes like "You're so lucky he isn't talking yet.  I can't get mine to shut up!"  is pretty fucking hilarious.  Like root canal, hilarious.

If the purpose of small talk is to try to make friends it fails pretty miserably.  There are Moms in my neighbourhood that I have known for years and yet after logging in countless hours of pointless conversation I still know almost nothing about them.  They in turn know nothing about me.  I've been hiding it on purpose because I want them to still like me and think I'm nice.  I don't know if they could handle the real me in all my irreverent, F-bomb dropping glory.  And for all I know they are just as sassy and fun but have the same anxieties about who they really are.  We could be laughing our asses off over pitchers of Margarita right now, if only we had met each other without our kids nearby.

Instead, I confess there are times when I see one of these Moms and I pretend not to because I don't have the patience, time, or energy to pretend to be the "nice" Mom and stress myself out trying not to accidentally offend.  I know.  I am a terrible person.  Don't hate me.

It really feels to me like we're not allowed to talk about anything else, doesn't it?  When I am in an unavoidable Mommy Small Talk situation I feel like it would be rude to talk to the other Mom without mentioning that obvious fact we have in common.  So I cringe inwardly as I consider which controversial parenting topic is least likely to cause offense based on the extremely limited information I have of her.  I brace myself for her answer hoping to hold in check any spontaneous reaction I may have if she says something stupid.  I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn't.  At this point it seems rude and awkward to try and steer the conversation around to a safer topic.  I leave the conversation feeling like I just survived some kind of ordeal.

Wouldn't we all be a little better off without Mommy Small Talk?  It is widely acknowledged that religion and politics are too controversial for polite conversation.  So why do we consider it not only okay but mandatory that parents who barely know each other make small talk about something as personal and touchy as parenting?

A Valentine's Compendium of Epic Douche-Baggery

I am a lover of words and there are certain words that have come to have a very special place in my heart.  One of those words is "douche" and all its variations (eg. "douche bag",  "douche nozzle", "douche canoe").

There is no other epithet for male assholery that embodies the magnitude of disdain and contempt I feel quite like the word "douche".   But I am also a feminist and recently another fellow feminist pointed out her discomfort with using a feminine hygiene product as an insult because it could be seen as misogynistic.

Here's my defense:

A douche is a useless product marketed at women by men in a way to make them think the douche is necessary in their lives but ultimately turns out to be harmful for her vagina.

I rest my case.

When I was single I despised the douchebags in my life, but now that I'm with a decent guy I have come to a whole new appreciation of them.  Because they lowered the bar so much that even the smallest act of consideration from my husband is enough to bring a grateful tear to my eye.  And really, isn't the secret to happiness in life an appreciation of the little things?

And so, on Valentine's Day, rather than wax romantic on what a great guy my husband is (because no one wants to hear that), I would like to share with you a Compendium of Epic Douche-Baggery.  There may appear to be a lot of them but that's only due to my low threshold for bullshit (and sometimes being unceremoniously dumped).  The less time they hang around the more opportunities for other douche bags to move in.

One time a guy took me out to the club on a date.  I went to the bathroom and when I came back he told me that he and his friend took ecstasy while I was gone.  I spent my whole evening babysitting them.  Later karma came in the form of a small rodent.   It was very gratifying when, somehow, a mouse ran up Douchebag's pant leg and he started doing the funky chicken for no apparent reason.  When he told me about the mouse I told  him I hoped he liked it because that was all the action he was going to see from this date.

Another guy stood me up.  I never forgive a guy for standing me up.  When I told him this was why I was losing his phone number he offered to come over with his best friend so they could, uh, "make it up" to me.  What a class act.  I laughed my ass off at him before hanging up.

One New Year's Eve I was supposed to meet my date at the party after I was done work.  Turned out he brought someone else.  Buh-bye!

I was dating a guy from out of town.  He invited me to go to a house party in his hometown so I could meet his friends.  When we got there he introduced me to some broad named "Anna" and then promptly abandoned me all night in a house full of strangers while they went off to drop acid. A few days later he dumped me for her.  I guess he thought it was only polite that I be introduced to the chick he was dumping me for.   Not introducing us would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette.

My new boyfriend called me at work and told me to come over after I was done.  When I did he pretended to not be home while he and his friends giggled behind the door.  Probably the most chicken shit way I've ever been dumped in my life and that is really saying something.  Congratulations asshole.  You're a winner!

My first serious relationship lasted three years.  When I finally agreed to move in with him he stopped paying the rent, ran up my phone bill with $500 of phone sex, and pawned my bass guitar, all of which I found out after we split up because he was acting so weird.  Man, you think you know a guy after three years.  Turns out that cocaine is a hell of a drug.

And there you have it.  Some pretty awesome examples of douche-baggery at its finest.  My husband thanks you, Gentlemen, for helping him to so easily shine by comparison.

Do you have any douchebag horror stories to share?  Leave a comment!