Listen to Lena

Perfecting the Art of Conversuasion

random rant

Cluck You, Mila Kunis

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EDIT: As predicted, the lawsuit is indeed frivolous, and Mila’s response is cluckin’ awesome.

In the wee hours of morning, I read an article on TMZ which had me scratching my head, wondering if I was indeed still asleep.

Mila Kunis Sued – You Stole My Chicken, So Cluck You.

Instantly, I (incorrectly) assumed that this had something to do with an errant package of organic chicken breasts at Whole Foods Market, or a similar misunderstanding of LA-style proportions.

So, you could have knocked me over with a feather (pun totally intended) when I learned that Mila is actually being sued by a former childhood friend – I’m talking about a friend from 25 years ago, making Mila just 6 years old – who claims that Mila stole her beloved pet chicken. What ensued was years of pain, suffering and anguish, and eventually, therapy, which Kristina Karo (the quack in question – again, totally punny) now claims Mila is responsible for.
0421-mila-kunis-kristina-doggie-karo-getty-instagram-4(^^ That’s a TMZ photo. In case you’re wondering, the chicken’s name was “Doggie”.)

You can read the full article here, which includes quotes like “Kristina says Mila’s conduct has prevented her from pursuing the American dream,” and “Kristina now needs shrink money, and a little extra for all the emotional distress … in all, $5k.”

Now whether I believe this is a frivolous lawsuit is besides the point, because all I want to do is discuss the issue of sh*t little girls do. Little girls make you feel bad about wearing pink when everyone else is wearing purple. Little girls take their skipping rope away just as it becomes your turn at Double Dutch. And sometimes, little girls steal your chickens.

Grow up. Move on. Buy another chicken to show you’ve grown up and moved on. …

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Their Not Interchangeable and Never Will Be

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If you caught the grammatical error in my post title, Hallelujah! We can be friends.

I found this post from August 2010 – almost four years ago to the day!

“Lately, I’m finding more and more people simply don’t take the time to use the words there, their and they’re in their proper context. Frankly, unless you’re in second grade and have yet to learn the subtleties of grammar and pronunciation, you really have no excuse. There, I said it. It all comes down to this silly notion that intelligence is constantly conveyed in everything that we do.”

Okay, I was pretty self-righteous, no?? But you know what? I’m not going to apologize for it. I am a proud grammar cop! And in the last four years, I can only say I’ve become worse – kind of like a crotchety old man on a park bench. Back to my post –

“I wouldn’t dare insult you by posting the different uses of the three words; I’m under the assumption that we all know what they mean and how to correctly insert them into a sentence. What I am going to say, especially to the violators, is please, take a moment to proofread your work. Anal-retentive perfectionists such as myself (who clearly have a lot of time on their hands) take offense to those who don’t show respect for the English language. Some actually exhibit a marked rise in blood pressure when confronted with this popular grammatical error. Trust me, they’re out there.”

I went on to bash people like only a blogger with mildly inflated readership can do, but over the years, I’ve learned to bite my tongue and reserve judgement for whale poachers and fashion criminals.

As such, I had put the post out of my mind almost completely – until recently, when Weird Al Yankovic validated every. freaking. word with his new single and video, Word Crimes. It’s like he wrote it for me, and other grammar snobs (we tend to stick together, since few people can stand us).

Do you have any grammatical pet peeves?

You Say Tomato, I Say Tomahto

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If you don’t know, I’m hosting a Twitter Party tonight for #RoyaleTigerTowel Paper Towels. And in chatting with an old friend, she casually asked,

“So, does Ryder still call paper towels f**k?”

WHAT?? Oh Lord. Memories immediately came flooding back. It’s true! Ryder used to call paper towels f*ck. Here’s a post I wrote in 2010 – when Ryder, as an impressionable toddler, picked up on my potty mouth and in a nanosecond, completely erased any mommy cred I had. Sigh.

August 20, 2010

I say paper towels, Ryder says f**k.

WHAT??

Okay, it’s all my fault. I broke the cardinal rule of parenting – Whatever You Do, Do Not Swear in Front of Your Child. And not only did I break it, but my infraction took place at a time when Ryder only needs to hear a word once to add it to his vocabulary. Sheesh.

It was three weeks ago, and I was lining my eyes with a soft black eyeliner in the bathroom. Ryder came in to observe (he likes watching mommy play with all the pretty pots) and I basically ignored him, going about my business as usual. Just as I was admiring my handiwork, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Ryder had completely unrolled the toilet paper – leaving it in tufts on the floor.

“F**K!” I yelled.

He looked at me with wide eyes, pointed at the toilet paper, and said “F**k.”

“No, no, no,” I corrected. “That’s toilet paper. TOI-LET PA-PER. Say it, Ryder – Toilet Paper.”

He stared at me blankly. Whatever, we’re cool. No harm done. I calmly re-rolled the toilet paper to the best of my abilities and took him downstairs for breakfast.

Did you ever notice how paper towel rolls look like giant toilet paper rolls? Ryder did. And he then pointed to the paper towel roll on the counter top and declared, “F**k.”

Lord Jesus, what have I done.

I corrected him once again. And the next day. And the next day. I tried diversion: “Did you mean truck, Ryder? Because that’s not a truck, that’s a paper towel roll.” I tried correcting him: “Oooh, that is a bad word, sweetheart, you shouldn’t say it.” And I even tried begging: “Please, please, please, say PA-PER TO-WEL, come on, say it for mommy.”

Nothing doin’.

Now like most toddler phases, I was prepared to wait it out, reasoning that sooner or later he would forget the baddie and accept that “paper towels” is in fact the preferred term for tiny towels made of paper. But you know what really blows? The fact that he finds it necessary to point out the f**k to everyone who visits my home. Grandma has seen the f**k. My girlfriend was passed a f**k. Even Ryder’s great aunt was offered a f**k. And then I invariably turn beet red as I try to explain why my baby boy is cussing out the paper goods.

Oh well. Walmart’s got a good price on paper towels this week. Time to stock the f**k up.

Whiners and Weather Woes, Why Of Course.

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A few weeks ago, I whined about the weather. Today, I pledge to shut my mouth for good.

If you live anywhere in the country except Ontario, you’ve likely been subjected to the worst whining you’ve heard since – well, the last time Ontarians received any sort of accumulation of snow. Cue the weather woes!

“OMG it snowed overnight!” “This is BS Mother Nature!” “I thought it was Spring?” “NOOOOO!”
 Only in Canada can one province get #SnowinApril trending across Canada. And so, I’m here today to apologize for our collective temper tantrum. I see you Saskatchewan, and know you’ve had to deal with snow this whole damn time without so much a peep of protest. And yes, Quebec, I’ve heard you’ve had quite the unwelcome blanket of the white stuff this month too. And Nunavut? Well, don’t even get me started. The way you accept record amounts of snowfall is akin to Jesus turning the other cheek.

But Ontario? Can’t. Even. Deal.

Hence, I’m shutting down Facebook today. I realize that every one of my fellow Ontarians thinks it’s their God-given duty to post a picture of their front yard or patio today (complete with clever anti-weather caption), but it was only funny the 12th or 13th time I saw it.

(As I confessed, I whined about the crappy weather myself over March Break, but at least I compensated by posting a picture of a cute kid and a recipe for cookies. See? I can whine and be useful at the same time.)

Yes, it’s snowing after the end of the winter season. No, it isn’t the first time it’s happened, I promise. Temperatures plunged to a chilling -2.7°C in Calgary, Alberta on July 15, 1999, and residents braved snow flurries and winds gusting to 69 kilometres per hour. Yeah, THAT.

It’s Good to be a Loser… In Hollywood

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File this one under… “We can solve world hunger one Hollywood swag bag at a time.”

This morning, I came across an article on US Magazine online that I simply had to share. Entitled “Oscars 2014 Celebrity Gift Bags: Losing Nominees Will Receive $80,000 Worth of Products”, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. NOT because I think celebrities don’t deserve a goody bag – or because I have a pseudo-political agenda that urges the rich to distribute their wealth. The truth is, I love actors, I love movies, and I love the Academy Awards… and what they choose to gift to their nominated attendees is their prerogative.

So why the eye roll? The contents, dude, the contents of the gift bag.

“While a select group will take home those coveted gold statues at the Oscars on Sunday, March 2, some of the losers will at least have their $80,000 ‘Everyone Wins at the Oscars’ gift bags. For the 15th year, L.A.-based marketing firm Distinctive Assets will give the gift bags to the losing nominees in the Best Actor/Actress, Supporting Actor/Actress, and Director categories.

Us Weekly takes a sneak peek inside each parcel – and highlights the most outrageous products.” And…. here are my personal faves:

Weird Procedures, $18,070

Uh O! Celebs will receive the O-Shot procedure, which supposedly “rejuvenates and enhances the genital tissue of a woman.” The $2,700 procedure is said to enhance sexual response and slow urinary incontinence. For the gents (and some ladies): hair restoration surgery using ARTAS Robotic Hair Transplant system ($16,000) is also offered.

Er…. I’m not sure how to respond. Do I picture Cate Blanchett sitting in the waiting room of a local clinic, reading the 16-page disclaimer agreement pertaining to her orgasm shot? No. Would she gift it to her assistant? Maybe.

A Walk through Japan and the Best of Vegas, $24,000

Explorers will have the chance to tour and discover the authentic, non-touristy side of Japan by foot from Walk Japan ($15,000). Celebs will also have the chance to live it up through the Best of Las Vegas offering ($9,000), which includes a face-to-face meeting with Boyz II Men.

While the Japan walking tour is cool – if a celebrity actually thought it safe to walk through a 127.6 million-populated country without being recognized – I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that if Leonardo DiCaprio wanted to have a face-to-face meeting with Boyz II Men, he’d just… you know, call them up. No need to wait for the coupon included in the swag bag!

Maple Syrup — and a Maple Tree!

Celebs will receive $280 worth of pure organic maple syrup, salad dressings, jellies, mustard, and an apron. But that’s not all! Each star will receive an adoption certificate of a maple tree in Notre-Dame-Des-Bois. Cost? Invaluable.

WTH? Invaluable? I actually checked out the cost, and it’s $138. Why a multimillionaire celebrity needs to adopt a maple tree in Quebec, I do not know. But, if you want to feel like a multimillionaire celebrity, good news! It’ll only set you back a bill and change.

Okay I’m done. I can’t even continue because my eyes have rolled upward for so long I’m afraid they’ll stay like that permanently. Click here to see the entire list of highlights, including a horse shampoo for humans ($95), his and hers Mace pepper spray guns ($120), and a narrative clip that gives its users a shareable photographic memory ($279).

Tales of Embarrassment: The Ex-Files

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I’m a woman. I’m a woman who has dated men before meeting the love of my life. I’m a woman who has not moved from the town I was born and raised in, and therefore, I allow myself the opportunity to have inopportune run-ins with ex-boyfriends. So really, I shouldn’t have been surprised that eventually, I’d cross paths with a former flame.

Except, my former flames sure know how to stay hidden. I’ve had two long-term relationships before meeting my husband, and both men still live in the city. Yet, neither of them are on Facebook, Twitter or any other social media sites that would allow for mild cyber-stalking, which is of course completely acceptable and arguably a right as an ex-girlfriend. Of course, you’ve probably guessed by now that we do not stay in touch, which on some days is a shame, as it would relieve me from my online-creepfests and the disappointing results.

So I guess you can say that even though I have ex-boyfriends, they are somewhere in the city – doing their thing, living their life – just as I am. And as such, they are normally the furthest thing from my mind, and I’ve learned that the odds of a chance encounter are very low. Low, but not zero.

Cue the embarrassment.

It happened last week. I was rushing around, trying to juggle a thousand things like I always do. And, I was particularly stretched thin as I had been sick the week before – hence, I was in catch-up mode for everything from blogging to grocery shopping to getting my hair done. Last Wednesday, I was scheduled to host a private shopping event with AIR MILES for Toronto’s top influencers, and I sorely needed to have my roots touched up. So, I did something I don’t normally do; I scheduled a hair colour appointment for the very same day as the event….

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Excuse Me Miss…

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This past weekend, while out and about running my errands, I met a very pleasant fellow mom as we waited in an endless grocery store express checkout.

(Truthfully, I noticed that she was totally breaking the “10 items or Less” rule, but I decided to turn a blind eye.)

However, in turning a blind eye to her grocery offense, I zoomed in on another offensive predator. YES, I am calling it a predator because I swear this thing had stalking abilities. And even though I inwardly cringed and outwardly took a small step back, I didn’t have the guts to say a word.

Wondering what the heck I’m referring to? Allow me to acquaint y’all with a post I wrote back in September 2009. I’ve decided to republish it because my attitude on the matter clearly hasn’t changed a bit. And, brownie points if you remember reading the post the first time around. Congratulations, we’re both 4 years older. Ugh. Read on…

It happens to everyone.

You’re speaking to a colleague, acquaintance, or someone you’ve just met. The conversation may begin with a simple “Hello!” or “Did you catch MasterChef last night?” – or perhaps you’re already deeply invested in a comfortable, amicable chat. And that’s when IT happens.

You notice an astronomically gigantic booger hang gliding from the person’s nostril.

ZOMG.

Now I’ll be the first one to tell people “Let me know! Don’t leave me looking like an idiot… it’s MORE embarrassing if you let me walk around with a mucous bomb on display!”

And you know what? That’s truly the way I feel. I WANT to know if I’ve got unruly hair, broccoli in my teeth, snot on my face, runaway eyeliner, a shiny nose… in essence, if I in any way fall short of perfection, you’d better speak now and for-NEVER hold your peace.

Don’t you agree? Yes? Yeeesss? Sure you do.

Then why do I stop and stare like a deer in headlights when I am confronted by a rebel booger? I immediately tune out of the conversation, mesmerized by this new discovery. I begin to strategize exactly how I will tell the person of their unwanted foe. Should I say, “Excuse me miss, you’ve got a little situation in your nose?” Do I discreetly hand over a tissue? Or do I point to my own nose, make a small wiping motion, and nod curtly while my eyes silently communicate “WIPE THAT GREEN SHIZ OUT OF THERE!”

Of course, the most simple solution would be to lean over and whisper “You may want to give your nose a little wipe” and then, if available, offer a tissue. Simple… yet ridiculously difficult for me to execute. I’m a hypocrite….

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A Mom by Any Other Name…

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*EDIT – JULY 1st, 2013*

Sometimes, I’ll look back on an old post that I published years ago, and chuckle to myself – thinking about the “problems” I once faced. In this instance, I was going through a phase (a terribly long one, mind you) where Ryder referred to me by my first name. Yes, it bothered me. Enough to write a blog post! He called me “Lena” for much longer than was tolerable, and at one point, it really, really hurt me.

But just like that, he grew out of it… and has called me “Mommy” ever since. Often hundreds of times per day – in a raspy, whiny voice that from time to time, grates at my nerves. “Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY!”

(However, I won’t complain. I’ve earned my title, and I cherish every single “Mommy” that leaves his sweet mouth.)

And so, won’t you take a trip down memory lane with with me? This blog post was originally published on September 6, 2011 – so Ryder would have been just about 3.5 years old; his little brother, 1.5 years old. Is it strange that I have a hard time remembering this phase? I fear that life is speeding by way too quickly. Sigh.

Readers, I have a problem.

Now I suppose I should toss out a quick disclaimer: I have my health, my kids are well fed, and for the moment, we do have a roof over our heads. So in the grand scheme of things, perhaps it isn’t a biggie.

An inconvenience? A concern? Regardless.

Ryder calls me “Lena”. And I can’t get him to stop.

I know, I know, I know it shouldn’t bother me. Not much, anyways. Many friends and family members actually think it’s kind of cute. And for a while, even I thought it was rather enduring: Ha ha, my son calls me by my first name.

Now, it drives me crazy.

I’m not exactly sure why he prefers addressing me as “Lena” – after all, it hardly has an interesting ring to it, right? Let’s be real, it’s not “Desirée” or “Katerina” and furthermore, I spend the equivalent of 6 hours per day rambling off phrases such as “Give it to Mommy,” “Mommy said NO!” and “Come hold Mommy’s hand”… so… what the hell? And I AM his Mommy, right? I pick out his clothes, kiss his boo boos, cut his grapes in half and jump on Google for every symptom he’s ever had (or I’ve thought he’s had, which includes, but is not limited to, shingles, bee stings and leprosy).

So… what the hell?

It’s been getting worse, friends. Last week, while taking a Popsicle out of the freezer for him, he looked at me pointedly and said, “Don’t lick it, Lena. That’s MY Popsicle.” Sure, I can deal.

Later that day, I accidentally spilled milk all over the counter due to a milk bag malfunction.

“What the hell, Lena?” he observed. (Yes, it’s indeed horrible that those exact words came out his mouth, but I will be the first to admit that I burst out laughing when he said it. I think this Mommy needs to watch her own potty mouth.)

But my absolute breaking point was while we were in Gymboree last week. Sorting through some of their cute fall merchandise, a salesperson sidled up to me.

“He’s so cute!” she gushed.
“Thank you,” I crooned. “Do you like this top, Ryder?”
“I don’t like it Lena!” he screamed. “Let’s go home Lena. Want to play cars.”
“Oh!” the salesperson gushed. “Are you his nanny? Or an aunt?”

Great.

No, I’m his mother,” I retorted tersely.
“Ah, a stepmom. I thought so… I didn’t want to say, but I was trying to find the resemblance.”

B*tch….

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My Brush with Fame. Without a Makeup Brush.

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I suppose I can laugh at it all now. But let me tell you – 48 hours ago, I was highly stressed out.

It all started with my recent press trip to Visit Orlando. In exchange for a family vacation, my obligation was twofold: blog coverage on my site (a given), and media appearances to chat about our amazing adventure (a bonus).

Now you’re probably familiar with my blog coverage, as I’ve been churning out reviews of the places we visited and the wonderful things we did. But, you may not be familiar with some of my media appearances. I’ve chatted about Orlando and family travel on outlets such as Daytime Live, CH Morning Live, and this past Friday – CP24 Live at Noon.

And while all media appearances give me the opportunity to go LIVE in front of the camera (which I actually adore! Yes, I’m an attention-you-know-what) I was particularly excited for my CP24 appearance on Friday afternoon. After all, if you live in the Greater Toronto Area, who hasn’t tuned in to the all-news station? It’s like media royalty, if you will.

So, Friday arrived and I was super pumped. Because not only was I appearing on Live at Noon, but then I’d literally be walking over to the Canadian Council of Public Relations Firms PR Agency Boot Camp, where I was a speaker on the Social Media Blogger Panel. And so, I gushed accordingly –

I checked over the instructions once more. Chatting with Stephen Ledrew, segment to air live at 12:45pm. Check. Arrive at 12:00pm, as one of CP24’s professional makeup artists will get me camera-ready. Check. Need to get to the infamous 299 Queen Street West, where there is ample parking within a few blocks. Check.

Okay, I was ready….

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It Cleans My Hands… and Cleans Out My Wallet

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Is there a product you use every day… multiple times per day… and have ever stopped to ask yourself, why??

Such is the case with Bath & Body Works Antibacterial Hand Soap. Before B&BW made their way north of the border, it was considered a luxury to own their sweetly-scented soaps. In fact, a trip to Niagara Falls, NY just wasn’t complete without stocking up on Kitchen Lemon, Sea Island Cotton and Sweet Pea Antibacterial Hand Soaps. At $3.75 per bottle, they were slightly more than the SoftSoap varieties found at Wal-Mart (okay, a lot more – often, SoftSoap could be purchased for $2.29) but I reckoned that my home was somehow homier with the addition of designer hand soap. Plus, B&BW frequently offered promotions, such as 5 soaps for $15, making it even more bang for my cross-border buck.

That was before Bath & Body Works expanded into Canada. And began charging $5.50 per soap. Huh.

The size hadn’t changed – still 236 ml – not even a cupful.

The quality of the product was still the same.

Even the scents were mostly carbon copies of one another – Sea Island Cotton was reinvented into Aqua Blossom which smelled curiously like Dancing Waters but was actually just a fabric softener-type scent repurposed into hand soap.

And those frequently offered promotions? Now we were offered a whopping 4 soaps for $20… increasing the cost per unit by $2 over the “5 soaps for $15” deals of yesteryear.

Why the HELL am I paying so much for soap?

First of all, kudos to Bath & Body Works who coined the term “Antibacterial Hand Soap”. The word antibacterial preys on North American’s fear of germs and bacteria, hence, anything antibacterial is preferable over a product that is not, correct? The fact is, ALL soaps are antibacterial, even when the manufacturer chooses not to include the catchword in their product name. The very definition of soap is a product used to remove dirt and bacteria, so adding “Antibacterial” before your name is akin to creating new and improved “Snot Catching Tissues”, “Ink Dispersing Pens” or “Hydrating Water”….

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Now THAT Would be Super.

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It’s just been one of those weeks.

A thousand balls in the air, a million things to do. Wiping the boys’ runny noses while hacking up a storm thanks to a dry cough that has lingered on way too long.

Thinking about the holidays, houses (still on the lookout for my dream kitchen) and how the heck I’ll balance it all. Wondering if there is indeed a rewind button for life: can I skip back to 10 years ago, when I still lived at home and my biggest worry was if I could pull off a chain belt?

(Us hippy girls try not to draw attention to the general hip area…)

And to top it all off, my insomnia is back. Is there an “Off” button for one’s brain? Because at precisely 1:00am I generally awake from a restless slumber, thousands of thoughts going through my head.

Work. Kids. Family. School. Home. Meals. Commitments. Money. Ideas. Christmas. Sleep.

Okay, so that’s only 11 thoughts, but it feels like thousands in the middle of the night. While co-sleeping with two horizontal toddlers. With a head cold. And a dry, hacking cough.

Yes, I will have some cheese with my whine, thank you very much.

Two nights ago, I did the one thing insomniacs shouldn’t do – I turned on the television. Fantastic Four just happened to be airing at the fantastic time slot of 1:00am, so I got sucked into watching the better part of two hours. And it got me thinking.

Remember that game you used to play when you were young (or two nights ago… don’t judge) – where you asked yourself, “If I could have ONE super power, what would it be?”

Would you have superhuman strength? Read minds à la Edward Cullen? Maybe you’d be like Susan Storm from the movie, with the ability to bend and manipulate light to render yourself invisible. What is the coolest super power to have?

I gave it much thought (which is another no-no for insomniacs at 2:56am) and just before drifting off to sleep, settled on the best super power ever.

Just call me The Great Metabolisma! I can eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce!

You knew this was coming… what would your super power be? 

Up For a Road Trip? Cause We’re Going to Mordor

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The problem with writing posts when you’re angry is the risk you’ll sound like a ranting lunatic.

Disclosure: Please do not continue reading if you have an aversion to ranting lunatics.

For those who’ll allow me a few moments to let off steam, here’s my story.

Since Ryder first started talking, he – like practically every child – somehow came up with quirky approximations that loosely resembled the word he was trying to say. For example, “Eleven” was “E-leggy” and the “remote” was the “o-mote”.

It’s cute! Trying to decode Ryder, and now Reid, is one of my favourite pass times. I take pleasure in knowing that I am one of the few people who understands their secret toddler language, and realize that all too soon, they’ll be speaking like little English professors. Well, maybe not quite as eloquently, but certainly you see my point.

In fact, Ryder has pretty much grasped the correct pronunciation for almost every word now, save a few he still has trouble with. But you know what? Don’t care. Every time he pronounces a word incorrectly, I do my best to repeat the word back to him slowly – with emphasis on the correct way to say it. So, if he says: “Mommy, can I have some See-yal?” I’ll respond with, “Yes, you can have some CE-RE-AL.”

And I leave it at that. No linguistic exercises, no penalties for poor language, no bug fuss.

Sounds reasonable?

I admit I’m being a little nostalgic, because both boys have lost so many of the funny words they once said, and I know that they’re minutes away from growing up too fast. So, if Reid wants to say “Frawberries” for a few more weeks, or a few more months, it’s all good.

Begin rant. …

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Buh-Bye Platform Pumps! Hello Pointy Toes!

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Rarely do I get SO excited over a comeback. 

For the last few years, I’ve watched platform pumps get higher, chunkier, and uglier. Much to my chagrin; models, actresses, celebrities and average women everywhere seemed to lap up the trend, taking their legs to new heights (5.25″ and higher, to be exact). While I dabbled in the style-du-jour only slightly – a pair of peep toe pumps here, a pair of platform wedges there – I inwardly cringed every time I clonked around in them. To me, platform pumps are the antithesis of elegance; a boorish style that very few women can pull off with refinement and grace.

(Have you ever seen Kate Middleton galloping around in sky-high platforms? No, neither have I. #restmycase)

And so I’ve been waiting patiently… very patiently… for the return of my all-time favourite look: Pointy Toe Pumps.

Oh, how I’ve missed you! Nothing elongates the leg with sophistication and style more than a perfectly sculpted 4″ pump. They suit every height, frame and age. They dress up jeans and effortlessly go from boardroom to bar. They lend a sexy silhouette to practically every outfit imaginable.

And, they’re making a comeback. …

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I’ve Decided to Re-Name My Son “Don’t”

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So it occurred to me this morning that actually say “Don’t” to Ryder more often than I actually say his name.

Don’t jump.
Don’t touch that.
Don’t hit your brother.
Don’t eat that.
Don’t crawl behind there.
Don’t pull on that.
Don’t kick the back of my seat.
Don’t you dare give me that look.
Don’t say that.
Don’t scream like that.
Don’t stand there.
Don’t make a mess.
Don’t make that face.

Don’t DO that. (10x per hour, at least.)

Hence, I’ve decided to cease calling him Ryder, because he obviously responds more effectively to Don’t.

(Or maybe he doesn’t. But do I care at this moment? DON’ T think so!)

Friends, let’s all bow our heads and pray that I don’t decide to sell him for two Bon Jovi concert tickets.

Surviving a Break-Up.

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(It’s not what you think. I’m still deliriously happy with my husband.)

But, I have been dumped. And sometimes, being tossed aside by a friend is just as hard to survive as a romantic break up. Often, it’s worse – because friendships can run the course of 10, 15, over 20 years… and the emotional investment is often just as deep.

Have you ever broken up with a friend? Has a friend ever turned his/back on you?

My former girlfriend and I were chums since high school. Although we ran in different circles, we were always kind and friendly to one another – recognizing that we had a lot in common, and our brief conversations were easy and lively. Our friendship strengthened when we attended university together – since we had many classes together and commuted in on the same GO Train, it’s no wonder we became closer; two people brought together by circumstance and proximity.

As the years passed, our friendship evolved – first, we continued to touch each other’s lives peripherally, with coffee dates, casual phone calls and a trip to the mall or two. Later, when I was married and had my children, she became a fixture in my life, serving not only as a confidant and supporter, but also a ticket to the “other side” – still single, I reveled in her carefree lifestyle.

But then, she met her husband-to-be. And that marked the beginning of the end of our friendship.

Now I’m totally cool with the fact that she met the man of her dreams – I fully endorse jumping into love recklessly and with your heart on your sleeve. In fact, I’d be worried if she didn’t cancel our plans in the beginning – complete and utter infatuation requires snubbing your friends at regular intervals :)

The thing is, the snubbing carried on, well after I felt comfortable turning a blind eye.

Phone calls not returned. Birthday parties missed. Special occasions forgotten. And when we did chat, she was constantly busy with her new love, her new life. In fact, I was quite concerned that her husband was controlling her social calendar. Or, maybe she is just one of those girls who completely loses her identity when she is in a relationship.

Either way, after a while, she just stopped calling – and stopped caring.

The truth is, I didn’t “fit” into her new life. I wasn’t part of her family soirees, I had no involvement in her community, and although I did my part to keep the lines of communication open, it’s hard to make someone work at a friendship. Plus, I like to say what’s on my mind, and if a friend does something to hurt me, yes I am comfortable enough to be honest with her.

So I did just that. And, she responded by breaking up with me.

And it hurt, it hurt a hell of a lot.

I spent the next few months wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut – taken the friendship on her terms. I don’t have a lot of close friends, so why throw away years of closeness over a silly thing like love and respect?

Oh yeah, that’s why we’re not friends anymore. Because I do believe friends need to love each other enough to make time to keep the friendship strong, and respect one another’s needs – even if that means admitting you’ve been a bad friend.

So, I’ve been dumped. I’m one less friend.

But, I do have good friends. Friends who always have my back; friends who I can turn to when nursing a broken heart – even when it’s over another girl. And to those friends, I thank you.

Paperwork (Tuesday) Makes Lena Sad

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Happy Monday! Tuesday!

For all my TO-based readers, chances are you’re coming off a splendid weekend spent outdoors. 17 degrees Celsius – Holy Hannah!

And while I had every intention of answering the backlog of about 147 e-mails I have rudely accrued, alas, the sun and warmer temps called… and my inbox remained ignored.

Hence, I’ve declared today Paperwork Monday Tuesday and will aim to tirelessly pare down my messages from 969 to about 600. Surely that’s a start, no?

(I’m not really that popular – I just have e-mails from October 2011 that I still have to action in some way. I hate myself.)

In the meantime, I’ve been listening to an adult contemporary station and was instantly taken down memory lane with this beautiful, haunting duet from Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey: Where You Are.

Sorry Chris Brown and Rihanna – you can keep your tacky, foul-mouthed collaboration to yourself. Sigh, my heart belongs to this song circa 1999.

Imperfect.

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Definition of Imperfect: Not Perfect.

{Also see: Defective}

I am an imperfect mom.

At least twice per week, I wonder if I can get away with feeding the boys strawberries for breakfast and popcorn for lunch. It’s all they’ll eat and dammit, I am TIRED of trying to force feed them the perfectly crimped sandwiches, heart-shaped cheese slices and stategically portioned celery stalks (complete with dipping sauce) that we’re told perfect moms put in their child’s lunchbox. In my house, sometimes lunch comes from a cracker box that may or may not contain my sons’ entire recommended daily intake of sodium.

I can never remember to brush the boys’ teeth. Yeah okay, I do pretty well in the morning, but before bed? Fail. Their toothbrushes are on the vanity right beside the bathtub, and all I have to do is reach over and brush them while they’re bathing. Problem is, when they’re in the bath I’m usually sitting on the toilet (seat down) drinking a glass of wine and staring into space.

I scream at my kids – often louder, and nastier, than I’ve screamed at anyone in my life. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my voice; it’s a mix of anger, disgust, and most of all, desperation. A deep desperation that is etched in every syllable because I am rendered insignificant and helpless with every cup of spilled milk, every overturned laundry basket, every crayon scribbled across the wall. They just don’t care – and don’t seem to get that I do. When it’s really bad, screaming turns into sobbing.

I spank/hit/smack my kids – in appropriate places and with appropriate force – as a form of discipline. You don’t have to agree with me – I really don’t care if you do, because I’m not here to judge your parenting methods. But I’ll tell you this: last year, Ryder reached for a pot of boiling water in jest. Me shouting (sorry – calmly instructing him) “Go stand in the corner” would not have saved him from 2nd degree burns. I swiped at his arm so hard it knocked him over – and prevented him from knocking over the pot. So maybe I am barbaric. But I love my children and when safety is involved, I do not worry about hurt feelings or egos.

I have no idea how to engage with other children. I don’t know how to kneel down and sip tea from a tea set or feign interest in some silly zombie video game. I work hard at relating to my own kids, and that’s where I draw the line. At this very moment, I can talk about Cars 2 and Thomas and Friends and Courdoroy the Bear and Toopee and Binoo and Hot Wheels and Iggle Piggle and Lego Duplo. And that’s it. And when my kids move on to something else, that’s what I’ll be interested in. I may like your kids, and I may love your company, but please don’t ask me to like the company of your kids. You go ahead and amuse them, please. (Somehow I don’t think I’ll be volunteering on class field trips.)

At least once per day, I wonder what a perfect mom would do. What a perfect mom would say. How a perfect mom would handle a situation. And then I do what my instincts tell me, perfection be damned. Sometimes, that involves letting Reid have a sip of pop at a party (I breastfed him for 20 months, so spare me the bugged eyes and death stare – true story), keeping the boys in pjs all day, or letting Ryder stay up way past his bedtime. Sometimes, I pull marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box, and divvy them up – one for Ryder, one for Reid, one for mommy. They never keep a close count, so sometimes it’s two for mommy.

I don’t spend a lot of time trying to be perfect. I’m a pretty girl, a good cook, a doting wife and regardless of my prior confessions, I think I’m a great mom. My kids are well fed and well loved. They have average intelligence and above average contentment (though that could be the sugar, which yes, they do receive as a treat).

I’m not quite certain what motivated me to write this post. Perhaps it’s this February blahs thing, festering until the last possible moment. Or maybe I’m just outing myself – behind the shiny pictures, must-try recipes and brand spanking new products (which I’m not gonna lie, arrive by the truckload every day) life goes on and life is hard. Parenting is hard.

I also won’t go on record saying I’m a “real” mom. WTH? Every mom is a real mom, regardless if they fit your definition or drink your brand of Kool Aid. There is no such thing as an “unreal” mom, unless you count those chicks on soap operas who fake a pregnancy and then steal someone’s baby by performing a c-section in a living room/dive bar/side of the road. They’re fake moms.

I’m an imperfect mom. And I’m okay with it. And when I’m not, there’s wine.

Apparently Shopping Makes Me Cry

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I’m not usually driven to tears when I hit the shops. I must be getting old/sentimental/foolish.

It started out as a normal Saturday morning – there were things to buy, chores to split up, sticky handprints to erase. Except this morning, I had the pleasure of running a few errands ALL BY MYSELF. For a mom, running errands by yourself is akin to finding a $20 bill in an old pocket. Oh yeah, the good life.

My excellent adventure had only a few stops; the gas station, the bank, and Toys R Us. In that order. Since you don’t read my blog to hear about me pumping gas or handling my finances, I’ll skip forward to Toys R Us.

Although this (obviously) needs no disclaimer, shopping at TRU without your whiny, obnoxious kids totally freakin’ rocks. It’s actually a well known fact that even if you’ve raised the most well behaved children on the planet, they will turn into whiny, obnoxious, toy-grabbing-face-smacking mutants the second you cross the store’s threshold. Trust me, it’s science. And it is a truly euphoric feeling to acknowledge the background screams and caterwauling belongs to someone else’s offspring. Ha ha!

And just what was I doing at Toys R Us on a Saturday morning? I’d rather not say. (Okay, twist my arm.) Sigh… I was picking up two plush, talking Iggle Piggles. Yes, THE Iggle Piggle from the seizure-inducing, suicide-pondering, freakishly cultish “In the Night Garden”. My boys LOVE the show. Conveniently on at 8:00pm (just before the boy’s bedtime), we’ve been allowing them to cuddle up on our bed to watch the nightly episodes. Often, by the time the credits roll, they’re both sweetly sound asleep. So for Christmas, I reckoned I’d surprise them both with a soft sleeping buddy.

I should have grabbed the damn dolls and left.

Instead, I decided to plod around, enjoying my child-free excursion (frankly, reveling in it). And as I passed the opening to TRU’s sister store, Babies R Us, I paused for a moment before wandering in. After all, I didn’t actually need anything – with Reid being over 18 months old, my BRU days are likely behind me – but I decided to pop in for old time’s sake. And then it happened.

The SMELL of the store. The familiar COLOURS. The wall of BOTTLES and PACIFIERS. The exquisitely beautiful PREGNANT customers, joy and bewilderment etched plainly on their faces.

It was like a punch to the gut – or perhaps, a punch to the ovaries. It was a trip down memory lane that I was not prepared to take. It was a funeral – saying goodbye to the thrill of expecting, anticipating, organizing, expanding. It was the stark realization that my baby is actually a toddler, and my toddler is now a little boy… and I had no damn business loitering in Babies R Us.

So, I cried.

There was no rationale or reason for it; I know that my family is complete and we have no plans to have more children. I know that I have two beautiful boys whom I adore wholly and unconditionally. I know that I can finally, finally enjoy moments of freedom – the very reason I laugh off suggestions to expand our brood. And yet, there I stood, cowering behind the high chairs, wiping my tear-stained face with the back of my hand.

(On a related note, high chairs today are so ridiculously stylish. Like black leather and contemporary patterns. Seriously? The kid is going to dump pureed crap all over the thing. Just stick to animals and neon bubbles and get over yourselves.)

Hours later, I still can’t pinpoint exactly what drove me over the edge. Perhaps I’ll never know; perhaps every time I venture into Babies R Us I’ll turn into a nostalgic, blubbering fool.

Note to self: apparently shopping makes me cry. bring tissues.

I’m Not Deaf; I’m Just Ignoring You.

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Before having children, I often took offense at the way mothers handled their whiny, annoying kids in public.

For Christ’s sake, shut them up! I’d silently pray. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

I often theorized that if I had a kid, there was no way in HELL I’d let him carry on like that, caterwauling like a demented lunatic. My offspring would be polite, well-mannered and conscious of their environment and those around them.

I believe the term is to “eat crow?”

The thing is… I get it now. I really do. As moms, it’s not that we think it’s reasonable to let our children go off on a tangent, audibly torturing everyone within a four-block radius. The simple truth is, we just don’t hear them anymore. Seriously, we are immune.

I call it the fuss filter.

And it comes from long hours of being subjected to whining, temper tantrums, crying fits, hissy fits, outbursts, “he touched me!”, shrieking, ranting, biting, repetitive insanity and the like. After a while, it takes us progressively longer to realize that someone is speaking, let alone screaming his head off. Fuss filter in full effect.

Last Saturday, I was at Wal-Mart with the kiddos.

Let’s see, I’ve gotta grab lotion, toothpaste, check for that silly DVD, get a surge protector, I think we’re out of paper towels, are Pampers on sale this week? Hmm… no, I hate paying full price (Want red car.) but I don’t want to put the little guy in the cheap diapers either, maybe I’ll check Loblaws and come back tomorrow if I need to… (Want red car.) … even though I rather not, should I just buy now?… (WANT RED CAR!) … I can’t believe there’s no freaking Tide Free laundry detergent. Does everyone use it or do they just refuse to keep it in stock? (WANT RED CARRR!!!!) And why do they have 12 different Febreze-scented… (WANT RED CARRR!!!! WANT RED CARRR!!!!! WANT! WANT! WANT!) …thingies. I can’t tell the difference. They all smell the same (WANT RED CAR) but I don’t think I want my house smelling of apples (WANT RED CAR) although…

“Huh? What?”
“WANT RED CAR!”
“Um no, you cannot have a red car. Now pipe down before you make a spectacle of yourself.”

Mmm…. crow.

Just Sayin’…

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To All the Spelling Offenders:

Please spell DEFINITELY like this.

Just sayin’.