My field trip to the Liquor Mart

Today the boys are at preschool, and while I should be catching up on all the tasks that have been piling up around the house I instead opted to go out and buy booze.

I was excited be out sans kids, so I couldn't resist primping it up a little. Some makeup, new sexy jeans, my avocado-colored long wool coat, and the b*tch boots I picked up on my recent trip to Toronto.

Yes, I've upgraded from the grandpa shoes at last. You can't go swanning around the shops with your shoes making shlupp-shlupp sounds on the floors; my b*tch boots make a satisfying thwock-thwock that draws just the right amount of ingratiating customer service from the clerks.

My b*tch boots (or so I hear they're called) vs. the grandpa shoes. I think we can all agree it was time to switch.

My first stop was the wine store. I don't think of myself as a connoisseur exactly, but I had certain labels in mind. The selection was overwhelming and my original plan to nip in and out was foiled. It was a pleasant diversion though, and aside from my ongoing struggle to avoid making gaffes (i.e. accidentally- on-purpose grabbing 6 bottles of cheap stuff) in front of the staff trolling the aisles, I managed to find a few old favorites. A particular Côtes du Rhône red was high on that list, which I thought would be easy to find only to discover that the name refers to a region.

It was a good thing I was prepared for my own foolishness. It was kind of like the first time I went wine shopping without someone knowledgeable. That time, I pranced up to customer service and asked for "merlot".

Later, I stopped at the ABC store for spirits. Here I was even more out of my league. As much as I consider myself something of a wine snob (which, clearly, I'm more like a wine doofus), I have no business shopping for hard alcohol.

Because I shop by price. So for example, I wanted to buy cognac. I had no idea but being all dressed up like I was, I had to pretend I was a savvy customer with a clue. I stalled for time by the Smirnoff and waited for a clerk to amble by.

"I'm deciding on a quality cognac", I fibbed.

He proceeded to explain the differences between the brands as I nodded intelligently. Not surprisingly, the one he recommended cost $49.99. I may act like a snob but I shop like a miser. There was no way I was going to spend that kind of money, but also no chance I would pick up the $19.99 bottle.

"It's more for my husband anyway, and actually he likes to pick it out himself." Nothing could be farther from the truth, but Husband isn't as big a poser as I am. So I passed that buck.

I walked out with my Smirnoff and Bacardi. My b*tch boots were pinching and it was time to go pick up my boys. I think I made out alright. And if not, I know where another ABC store is.

WebKinz. Need I say more?

A few nights ago Tweenie was surfing Amazon.

"Guess what, Mom? There are 61 WebKinz including the retired ones."

Mama (absently flicking through a Sephora catalog): "um-hmm."

After a while, she pipes up again: "Hey Mom! There are 53 not including the retired ones!"

I saw a nerdy teaching moment and lunged for it. "OK, so let's figure out how many WebKinz are retired!"

"I'll check!" She scrolled excitedly through the list.

M: "Sweetie, I meant let's figure it out with math!"

T: "That's OK, I like counting them online. It'll help with my Christmas list anyway."

M: "Yes, but let's first do the calculation. 61 minus 53 wou--"

T: "The math sounds fine but I'll go count, just to be sure!"

M (getting irritated): "It's ok, you don't need to check!!"

T: "But I like to!"

I rolled my eyes and started unloading the dishwasher. Rascal wandered by. "Kinz!!"

T: "Ya! Now we count the Lil'Kinz together, OK?" Then in a triumphant aside to me: "See Mom? I'm teaching him how to count."

I really need to clear my browser history and bookmarks, it seems.

Happy Turkey Day!

Being Canadian, we're new to this American-style Thanksgiving. Sure we've always celebrated Turkey Day, but without the addition of Pilgrims, cornucopia, and the time-honored tradition of passing out in front of the football game. Must be a Coors Light thing, eh?

Typically, Rascal brought home a variety of themed projects from preschool this week including a pilgrim's hat. I don't know if it was the cockeyed buckle placement or the aforementioned lack of cultural context, but it took me a while to figure out what it was. Rascal, of course, knew exactly what it was: a Dark Bayder mask--duh.

However, Rascal is over his villain phase and wanted to be Luke Skywalker, so Kye happily donned the mask, snatched up Tweenie's sparkle baton, and thus began Star Wars: the Ultimate Conquest.

What made this really hilarious is that Rascal insisted the mask cover Kye's eyes, just like in the movie. And so, our Star Wars proceeded with Kye wandering around blind and giggling, while Luke (dressed in Buzz Lightyear gear naturally) jumped off the couch aiming for Twit.

This was yesterday. Today Rascal is watching the Balboa-thon on TV with Husband. I'm terrified!

Not so much like Mary Poppins

Yesterday the chimney sweep paid us a visit. At least that's what his business card said.

Of course I had spent the half-hour before his arrival cleaning frantically, vacuuming, dusting, Windexing... Tweenie looked at me like I was brain dead.

"Seriously mom, he's a chimney sweep."

Well, mama has her standards and I had to tidy up as close to his arrival time as possible because it only takes 4.2 seconds for my boys to trash a pristine room. They are a little intimidated by the vacuum cleaner, so as long as it's running they sit in paralytic stupor on the couch.

I vacuum often.

Even so, by the time the sweep arrived there were bits of Count Chocula littering the carpet like crunchy little turds. Mr. IQ2000 asks: "So, you have kids?"

I could hear a naughty little someone rustling around in the pantry. I enlisted Tweenie and we both marched a boy over to the playroom, locking the door behind us.

Through the sounds of Dancing Elmo and the Shrek soundtrack we could hear all sorts of interesting noises coming from the living room. At one point I went to check, but all I could see was an enormous Shop Vac obscuring the view to the fireplace. Suddenly a gray isolation suit clad man emerged from the shadowy hearth, complete with a full head and face mask.

Rascal tugged at my pantleg. "Dark Bayder?"

The sweep saw him standing there and waved. But instead of running away to the relative safety of the playroom, he scooted into the kitchen toward the pantry.

I never did want to buy that stupid cereal anyway. Dump away, my son. I'll vacuum it up later.

The living room this morning. It was immaculate before I went to bed, and Tweenie only walked through this area once as she was getting ready for school. How do they do it?? But I shouldn't complain: this is the cleanest it'll be all day.

Bring it on, FaceBook

I have realized that I am often the last to find out about things in my extended family. FaceBook, it turns out, is one of them.

It was during a group Skype call with my sisters and cousins that my out-of-datedness was revealed. The gaggling conversation was almost unintelligible, even more so to me because of mombrain, when suddenly I realized I had misunderstood the context. Some photo or other was the topic of discussion, and when I asked about it someone offered to post it on my wall.

"What wall?" I had visions of a much-handled 4X6 print sticky-tacked next to my cheap Van Gogh posters above Kye's abstract Crayola artwork.

A moment of stunned silence, followed by a cacophony of cackling interrupted only by the jittery playback of my computer struggling to keep up with the DSL feed (must trade in those poor hamsters one of these days...) I signed up right after that.

But now I have to feed the beast. The albums to be posted (sorry girls, I'm backed up all the way to last Easter break), groups to join (and then promptly leave once I realize how useless they are), and personal info to fill in (then delete, then fill back in but restrict to "friends only").

I don't know why everyone says FaceBook is so addictive.

It can be hard not to overshare. The bane of my FB existence is the status updates. Mostly I just put--

Mama is... needing a cappuccino
or
Mama is... sleep deprived
or
Mama is... embarrassed because the neighbor got an eyeful.

What I'd like to put up is more like--

Mama is... going for glass #2
or
Mama is... not sure what that smell is, and right now doesn't really give a crap (pun intended)
or maybe even
Mama is... crazy horny but Husband doesn't get home for another 5 hours and by then I will be anything but.

Just for shock value, totally not because those things ever happen. Totally.

Let's go, FaceBook. I can so take you.

On buck-passing and distraction

Look at how cute he is! Exactly this is my problem.

Kye doesn't say much - "I dat", "no dat", "mamaaaa! (shriek)", "dadad?". He otherwise resorts to grunting and pointing.

I only recently caught onto the fact that my kids are far smarter than they let on. They feign confusion and cluelessness to avoid taking responsibility for certain doofish antics. Once in a great while, though, they slip up and Mama's mental light bulb fires on.

A recent dish-smashing session had me at my wit's end. Up to that point, I would have simply and firmly said "No!" and cleaned up the shards as quickly as possible. This time happened to be the third this week and was at the end of a long day of shenanigans and rough play.

I firmly pulled Kye away from the mess and scolded him thoroughly, then sat him in the corner. As I swept up, I glanced over at him. His lip was quivering, and when he noticed me looking he broke into a full wail. I stood up and rumpled my brow in frustration.

Kye's brain: "Oh, that didn't work. Quick! Plan B."

He pointed at the dustpan, shrugged his shoulders and said "Oops!" I stared at him in surprise, so he took advantage of my momentary paralysis and trotted out of the kitchen into the relative safety of the playroom where Rascal was beating on his Duplo blocks like a wild ape.

I made the fateful error of not going after him to finish our "discussion", instead choosing to pour myself a glass of wine and have a moment of peace. An error, because now he does this every time he's in trouble.

There's something about that lisped "Oops!" that foils me every time.

Separation Anxiety

I've been away.

Away from home, away from my kids.

There were no palm trees, cheap Mai-Tais or hunky snorkeling guides because this was a working vacation. It was, however, the first time I've gone anywhere on my own since Before Children.

In the years B.C., I slept in when convenient, shopped when I could afford to, read a good book during dinner, and lolled in the bathtub for a good hour when the mood struck.

Then the era changed to the years A.D. (After Delivery) - and I call it that only because After Oopsing doesn't sound as good. Now I never sleep in, shop at Target (when I'm lucky), share my measly 5-minute shower with at least 2 wriggling people, and the only reading I'm doing at the table is the Riot Act. You'd do it to, if Tarzan and Jane were swinging on the cord of the venetian blinds singing the "Lonely Goatherd" refrain to the excited clapping and cheering of little brother Kye.

Still, as I stood on the curb unloading my suitcase and preparing to leave, I had the paranoid urge to say goodbye properly. Just in case my plane would crash.

"I love you so much, sweetie! Tell me you'll always remember that?"

"Mommm, stop! You're embarrassing me!"

"Gimme a big kiss and hug."

"Mommmm!"

I discreetly wiped my eyes at the airline counter. I bravely put on a wobbly smile for the security checkpoint guards. I wore my sunglasses at the departure gate and stood facing the window.

And then, on the plane I sobbed. I was so sure that I had seen my family for the very last time.

While I was away, I slept poorly - there was no one to kick me. I lost my appetite - I haven't eaten a full meal in one sitting in years. My book went unread - I couldn't concentrate without the background noise of a full-blown ruckus.

I called every night, and sometimes during the day.

"Do you miss me yet?"

"It's awesome, Mom! Dad took us to McDonald's again, and then to Krispy Kreme after. Then we all watched Spiderman 3 and no one had nightmares! We're rockin' the house!"

"Soooooo, do you miss me yet?"

"Um, Dad thought I did, so he bought me two more WebKinz."

After that I got a little huffy with Husband explaining the "spoiling kids rotten" thing, which made me feel a little better (Riot Act, remember?). I then enjoyed the last few days of my time away properly.

Yodelay-i yodelay-i yodeloo!