Eating Over The Sink

Hey friends who come here to read my musings on life and parenting.

It's with utter delight that I'm here to inform you that as of TODAY you can start reading me regularly on Babble.com along side my writing partner, fellow comedian and good pal Samantha Bee.

Check us out here:

Make Me Laugh Monkey

I would love you forever...

xoxoxAllana

Movie Reviews By My Kid: The Zookeeper

The Zookeeper runs 1hour 44 minutes and is classified as a comedy/romance.

Here's what my four year old had to say:



What was the movie about?
There is animals that talks, a giraffe that talks and a bird that talks, there is monkey that talks.

And that's it?  
No, there is an elephant that talks, there is princesses in it.  They are marrying from their baby.

What does that mean?
It means that the baby pops out.

Oh, they are going to get married and have a baby?  
Yes.  And there is a boy that has a car that saves people.

Is this the Kevin James character?
mmmm....yep.

You know who Kevin James is?
No.

Then how do you know who I am talking about?
I just know these things.  And I know because I saw the movie.

So what does he do in the movie?
He helps animals turn alive because one animal was dead in there.

How does he do that?  
They got a bottle of beer and squeeze it in their mouth and they turn alive.

The animals drink beer?
Yeah.

Was this a kids movie?  
No, it was an adult movie.  It was a lot of fun because it wasn't Kung Fu Panda.  The moose was dead so they needed to squeeze beer in its mouth.

Are you sure it was beer?  
Yes.  Because it was a green bottle.

Do you think Kevin James is a good actor?  
Yeah, because their is a woof (wolf) in there that shows him how to pee on a rock.

How many stars would you give this movie?
I don't know...maybe 20 stars or 60?

Movie Reviews By My Kid: KUNG FU PANDA 2

My four year old is opinionated  (I have no idea where she gets this from).  Here are her thoughts on Dreamworks Annimation's latest feature:

Kung Fu Panda is 1hr and 31min.  It's classified as Action/Adventure/Family.  

Did you like Kung Fu Panda?

No way.

Why not?

Because it was like fire hoya- sing.  I did not like it.

Can you elaborate?

It was like firing balls, shooting to the baby and then like the bear went hoy-a! because he didn’t want to get fired.

What do you mean he didn’t want to get fired?

There was fire balls.  The mean pirates were trying to fire Kung Fu Panda.

Did you like anything about the movie?

No.  I said get out here Dadda.  Get out here!

What would make it better?

If I was brave.

What do you mean?

I don’t know.  I liked the good part.

What’s the good part?

It's...that...(pause) when Kung Fu Panda was in his home family.  

Anything else you want to say?

Nah.

How many stars would you give this movie?

Why?

My Family Vacation Photo

I just lost hours of my life.  I decided to press the "next blog" link at the top of this page and found myself lost in the abyss of Bloggerdom.   I came across one blog with hundreds of travel photos this woman had taken along with captions about how her life was perfect.  As I clicked deeper into her blog and photo journal (yes, I started to feel like a stalker) I found myself searching for at least ONE photo where her and her husband had a hair out of place.  Come on!  Surely one of you got the runs in Mexico?   Or you got a little too drunk at your wedding?  Nothing.  They were indeed the two most perfect looking people I've ever seen in my life.  There is no doubt in my mind that they iron everything.  So this photo is for those of you who might have clicked on "next blog" and found my site.  The below photograph was taken by my husband because I wanted at least one photo of me and my girls in Cuba.  There is nothing staged in this picture.  It's just my life.  Enjoy.  Oh, and don't buy armless sunglasses.  They don't work.

Random Acts of Awesomeness

There are some days that, no matter what happens, you assume are going to be bad.  I recently had one of these days.   I woke up with a golf ball sized pimple nestled right under my nostril.  One of those immensely painful zits that most likely started to form way back in 1986 and has taken this long to see the light of day.  Trust me, I'm not one to talk about pimples, I rarely get them, but when I do you can spot it from a helicopter.   I tend to spend the day being so focused on the new inhabitant on my face that most people assume there is something seriously wrong with me.  I try and keep it to myself out of fear that the person I'm talking to might have cancer and think my zit preoccupation qualifies me for asshole of the year.

For me any sort of break out is usually stress related.  I have often thought how handy it would be to have some sort of hormone detector at my door that I could insert my finger into and know how to proceed with my day, like:

"Red Alert!  Do NOT,  under any circumstance,  press send on ANY emails today that begin with,  "Dear F@#kface..."

But unfortunately I just need to gage my own mood, or possibly take my husband's reactions into account.  I guess.

So that's how my day started.  How my day ENDED was a whole other story.  If you haven't read my previous blog:    http://thingsyelledoutinpublic.blogspot.com/2011/03/fox-broke-my-heart.html you may want to check it out, because what happened next is kind of awesome.   (Okay, here's where I assume you're going to go read the blog and come back to this post.  I will wait for you.  I promise.)

I sent that blog to the artist because if I didn't buy his painting the least I could get from the situation was a good story.  He responded that "he would make it up to me".  I thought this was sweet because really,  he could just assume I'm a psycho who clearly can't let things go.  Fortunately he didn't make this assumption (He has never seen me play cards.  How could he know?).   Instead he sends me a message that he "has something for me".  Let me reiterate - we are complete strangers and I didn't for one second think he was "going to make it up to me".  The only thing he knows about me is that I'm a bit of a cry baby and I LOVED his fox painting on a core level (note - I do not cry when I play cards).  Of course, as fate would have it, we are practically neighbours.  When he arrives at my house he pulls out a framed, signed, print of the Fox.  The print is signed 1/1 so I will be the only person to ever have a print of my delightful fox (yes, Juice-bar man, you heard me).   This is a gift.  Why?  Why you ask?  Why would this artist spend his own money to give me a beautifully framed print?  For one reason, and one reason only:

He's Awesome.  And perhaps he knows that almost on a daily basis I will look at my fox and be very, very, happy.   Chances are, I wouldn't even notice if I had a gigantic painful zit.  I'm sure he noticed mine though (how could he not?) but he said nothing, nor spoke to it directly.

So Richard Ahnert.  You're Random Act of Awesomeness did not go unnoticed.  You completely changed my day (my week!) and reconfirmed my belief that art is more powerful than anyone gives it credit for.  I truly believe you're going to be famous.  Not only because you're are a profoundly gifted artist but because you're just a really great person with a big heart.  Your mother must be proud.  Please send her this post and tell her I'm sorry I used the "f" word.

So check out Richard's website at: http://www.ahnertart.com/gallery.html

Now I must go stare at my most awesome Mr. Fox...

The Full Bum Salute!

I never spent a lot of time thinking about being a parent before I became one (not recommended btw) but I knew there were two things I would never, ever, ever, do.  And they were:

1.  Yell (or more like scream) my husbands name through a crowded area to get his attention, and/or
2.  Bend over to change my child's diaper (on a sun lounger) while wearing a bathing suit.

I assumed people who perpetuated these two acts were also the kind of individuals who'd  remove their teeth with pliers or eat an entire rotisserie chicken while standing.  Oh silly me.

I am disappointed to let you know that I have committed both of these parental crimes.  I'm not proud of it but it was done out of sheer necessity with the ultimate goal of saving time.  Which, as any parent knows, means everything.

Have I also started wearing swimming socks and adult versions of my children's clothing?  No.  But clearly one can never say never.  I distinctly remember when and where I was when I made the fateful decision to yell across the crowded airport and bend over to show my hiney (side note: it didn't happen at the same time).  I was tired, starving, travelling with two young children and my husband is a little bit deaf.  The idea of moving the sleeping infant, the crabby toddler and the suitcases made me start sweating profusely so I just stood up and yelled, "MICHEAL!"  What made matters worse is that most of the planet is called Michael, so I immediately had about 40 people look my way.  Once they realized I wasn't calling for them, instant relief glazed over their faces combined with a judgemental stare that said, "that woman needs to be medicated".

The full bum salute is less forgivable.  I just got too comfortable in my bathing suit.  There is something about the combination of a Pina Coladas and hot Cuban weather that makes one feel invincible.  It's the same reason why senior citizens start bathing topless when vacationing for more than a month.  And don't get me wrong, there's a part of me that LOVES this kind of carefree lifestyle.  But no one needs to get an ass in their face while also being subjected to the changing of a babies dirty diaper.  It's just wrong.

And yes.  I will most likely do both again.

But if you see me wearing swim socks please feel free to throw rocks at me.  I think that's fair.

When...Is...Royal...Wedding?

Just a few days ago I asked my Mother-in-law (MIL), who was visiting for the weekend,  when the royal wedding was and she looked at me with an expression that clearly read, "What is wrong with you?"    It was familiar to me because it was the exact same expression she used when we first met and I revealed that I was a vegetarian - except then, her dumbfounded look was proceeded by her passing me a dinner plate with a giant summer sausage.   I'm pretty sure she also uttered something about vegetarians being losers.

So, with no one looking over my shoulder, I pulled up my trusty google and typed in "when...is...royal...wedding?".  I was a little shocked to learn it was only days away.  So next, I typed in the obvious: "Who..is...getting...married?"  

Just kidding.  I grocery shop, which puts me waaayyy ahead of all the losers out there who don't stand in line for hours, therefore missing the opportunity to read all the juicy headlines from the gossip rags.  Yes, somedays, my life is so fulfilling.  

Which brings me back to Katie and Willy and their wedding day!   Whoohoo!  Good on you.  And although I love weddings I had no interest whatsoever to wake up at 5am on a Friday morning to watch this thing.  I take sleeping very seriously.  I really have no idea who Kate is and I thought William was still 5 years old.  I'm not a royal watcher and the closest thing in my life to the British is my mother's deep obsession with all things Coronation Street.  And why watch the real thing when you can just instant replay all day long?  I might watch it Friday night when I catch the news around 6ish...

Or... I can find myself lying in bed this morning at 6am staring at the ceiling thinking, "I wonder what her dress looks like?" and quickly racing downstairs to eat my breakfast cereal and take in some royal cheer.  I turned on the tele (see how quickly I can turn?) to hear "....pronouce you man and wife."  It took me about 3 and half seconds to start weeping a little  (don't ever invite me to your wedding.  I sob.  It's humiliating for everyone) and all I could think was, "It actually looks like she might have slept."  How is this humanly possible?  Why don't her eye balls look like they are surrounded by life vests?  I slept for 2 hours the night before my wedding and I locked myself out of the bed and breakfast to look for food.  Why I was looking for food outside in a wooded area at 3am is still a mystery.  But Kate looked relaxed.  As if to say, "What cameras?" 

So I find it utterly unfair that on HER wedding day I'M now exhausted.  

But still, because I'm a generally good spirited human, I would like to leave her with one decent piece of advice:  If the Queen offers you a summer sausage, eat it. 

Oh, and don't go looking for food in a wooded area in the middle of the night. 

Hope that helps.  

I Ate The Butter Tart

When I was about 12 years old I did something (of which I have zero recollection) that severely pissed off my mother.  Granted this was not anything new, but whatever I did (this time) was paramount.  Or at least big enough that while passing me in the laundry room (where I was debating whether or not to steal a butter tart from the deep freeze) my mother looked me square in the eye and said, "I love you Allana, but I don't like you very much."  Shibang!  Ouch.  She turned away from me and carried out what I referred to as her motherly laundry duties (Holy cow, was I an asshole or what?!) and I stood frozen.  Frozen, next to the deep freeze.  Because at 12 years of age "like" and "love" meant the same thing to me, which therefore translated as:  My mother hates me.

18 years later (and including an incident last night involving all my expensive makeup and my own four year old daughter) I get it.   Okay, I'm not 30 but we're talking love here people not math, okay?  Firstly, whatever I did, said or didn't do to my mother a bunch of years ago didn't stop me from thinking that this clearly inappropriate time would be the perfect time for me to take a butter tart out of the freezer that I wasn't allowed to have (side note: my mother freezes everything.  In fact I wouldn't be surprised if in her will she stated that she'd like to be buried in a white Frigidaire).  Secondly, I've discovered sometimes it feels like you don't like your children 100% of the time.  Especially when they destroy your things.  And that's okay.

Which brings me to last night where I celebrated my birthday (Oprah feels strongly that I need to tell you how old I am because that is empowering).  So fine.  Last night I celebrated my birthday that ranges somewhere between the ages 28-64,  and I had a few close friends over to help me pretend I was still vacationing in Cuba.   I am okay with denial on various fronts (Sorry Oprah).   Being the "cool" parent I allowed my daughter and her good pal to play upstairs in my bedroom which I knew would involve wearing my high heels and trying on my jewelry.  What I didn't realize is that it would also involve ransacking my makeup drawer and crushing my various overpriced Lancome products all over their faces and whatever white surface they could get their hands on.  Just to clarify:  when I purchased my $30 eyeliner (albeit with my beloved Optimum points from Shoppers Drug Mart where, considering the amount of times I mention this place in my blogs, I spend too much time) I didn't imagine it being used to scrawl my daughters name across the toilet seat.  Call me crazy.  Nor did I envision my lip gloss being eaten.  Regardless of how delicious it tastes it is not meant to be consumed.  It says so right on the package:  DO NOT INGEST.  If they could read, I'm sure they would have eaten it anyway.

So for the first time since giving birth to my daughter four years and four months ago I was seriously pissed.  Like, raging.  Just thinking about it made me leave this post for 2 minutes and shove a huge piece of left over cake in my mouth.  I had a new feeling brewing in me that felt a lot like...betrayal.  And it felt awful.  She knew what she was doing was very very wrong but she did it anyway.  And this wasn't an issue I could pass on to my husband to deal with.  This was MY stuff.  My beloved makeup that I've grown to highly respect in the past decade.  The makeup that says to me every morning, "Don't worry, good friend, I know you think you look like shitbags but I'm going to turn your day around with the stroke of an eyeliner and a generous coating of under-eye concealer."  The makeup that was now EVERYWHERE: The walls, the floor, the toilet (wah!) and my shoes.  My dark grey high heel boots were literally sparkling with Physician's Formula's Shimmer Strips custom eye-enhancing shadow and liner...which now lays empty in the recycling bin.  Fortunately that only cost about ten bucks.

I put Olive in her room and separated her from her pal (who was also in deep do-do from her parents...who moments before were enjoying their pina colada's in our kitchen.  Dare to dream).  I then told her that what she did was mean and hurtful.  And as I walked away I uttered to myself, "Oh Lord, she is going to break my heart."  Why?  Because she is only FOUR!  Four.  What's going to happen in a decade?  Am I really going to be crushed every time she does something hurtful?  If so, I'm pooched.

When I woke up this morning I was still hurt.   I know...get over it.  What's wrong with me?  She's a kid.   Do I really need to spend the morning trying to find situations to help her relate to the experience?  Like asking her how she would feel if my friend and I went to hang out in her room and tore her stuffed animals apart?  And just for the record, I did ask her this question and she looked me square in the eye and said, "Why would you do that, Momma?" and I replied, "Well, I'm not going to.  I'm just trying to create a relatable experience for you so that you can understand how I felt and...oh forget it."

She's off to the museum with her dad this morning so I can stay home, eat cake in my pyjamas and ultimately write this blog.  And here's what I've surmised from the situation:  This is giving me practice.  A way to start to figuring out how I'm going to react to my children when big things happen.  Because they are going to happen.  And because my love for my girls is so deep it's ultimately going to crush a little tiny bit of my heart.  But I won't tell her that.  That would just mean, and I would have to spend the rest of the day explaining that my actual heart is okay (sort of) and that she doesn't have to worry about me dying which is the latest big question in our house.  One issue at a time please... 

And I won't tell her is that I don't like her.  Because I do like her.  And I know my mother liked me, she just felt under appreciated and I get it.  So, sorry mom for whatever I did way back when.  Sorry for being a jerk to you.  You, who ironed my underwear.   And just for full disclosure,  I did end up taking a butter tart after you turned your back and walked away.  I couldn't help myself.  You make really good butter tarts.  

Leah McLaren, Let's Be Pals!

Okay peeps - I wrote this ages ago...and I forgot to post it.  Why?  Well, it could be for the same reason that I walk up the stairs and have no idea what I'm looking for.  I blanked.  But I thought it was worth posting:

I just had about 4 minutes of glorious peace: A latte from White Squirrel (they make a good to-go), an oven-warmed croissant from Clafouti (as I waited for my husband to fry my complimentary egg) and the arts section of my favourite newspaper. It's almost a law in our house that if you are in the midst of eating your weekend breakfast with the newspaper you are permitted to pretend you are sitting at a cafe by yourself. To find time alone in a house with two children under the age of four is not a luxury, it's impossible. So our only hope is to go into an almost deep trance of denial. My husband goes as far to make us believe he has a hearing problem from all those club nights in the 90's but we know he can hear us...and our requests to be served more egg. On this most recent Saturday my location denial was disrupted by an article called:

 "Why women aren't as funny as men: maybe it's our material" :  http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/leah-mclaren/why-women-arent-as-funny-as-men-maybe-its-our-material/article1878772/

I was hesitant to read it because I like the author, Leah McLaren, and I was seriously hoping she'd have a fresh perspective on this (it's starting to get boring) topic. I didn't agree with half the things she said. Yes "Baby Mamma" sucked but it was also written by a man and not by the two brilliant female comedians who starred. Okay yes, the man in question has four children which doesn't make him completely ignorant to the pain of child birth - oh wait a minute, I take that back, yes it does. So scratch that.

I think she looks sad because her friends are boring.

But McClaren sums up by really going for the jugular: 

"Here's my conclusion: Yes, I think, on average, women are less funny than men and I think child-rearing might have something to do with it"

Suggesting that the women she knows talk in hushed tones about cracked nipples while their other half are outside making fart jokes. And you know what I felt?

A bit worried.

Every story I've ever told at a dinner party about my post-pregnancy circled my brain.  The ones I told, loudly.  Like how I  used to roll up a towel and casually gnaw on it to overcome my hemorrhoids: I could read an entire magazine with a roll of terry cloth in my mouth.  No problem.  But this technique led to the creation of my "Save Your Ass" shower gift that I've been giving to people for years: Some people give onesies - I give stool softeners. Is that so wrong?  I only do it because I care about your bum.  I really do.  You know what's not funny? Hemorrhoids.

As a newly minted mother of another daughter should I have by-passed down-loading Atomic Fart on my iPhone (I know this sound so incredibly immature - but don't knock it till you've tried the the drum kit)?  Was I supposed to be whispering about this stuff in hushed tones? Should I have packed up my jeans and shopped for an A-line skirt and peach apron?

Who the hell is Leah McLaren hanging out with?!  They sound awful.

So let me put this out there:

Leah McLaren we can TOTALLY be friends.  I won't speak in hushed tones about cracked nipples.  I promise.  As long as you promise to never write another article perpetuating the ongoing conversation that women aren't as funny as men, or worse, that losing ones sense of humor may have anything to do with raising children. Trust me, when you have kids you'll realize that having a sense of humor is what gets you through the day.

I may even buy you a latte from White Squirrel if you keep your end of the bargain.  They are seriously good.

Now can we all move on and start talking about something else?

Well Hello You...

I recently discovered that there are more than 2 of you reading this blog.  There are thousands and I'm profoundly humbled.  Thank you for your emails demanding more posts.  I hear you!  There is something big brewing and there will be lots more to read, I promise.

I'm also suspecting that a lot of you are coming to this blog because you've found me through the show on Nick Jr. called "Dino Dan" where I play a single mom to two boys.  Thank you for watching!  And thank you for writing to Nick Jr. and telling them how you love me and how they should film a "Dino Dan' movie"...or you know, something like that.  And yes, those cop pants are very high waisted.  But truly, a cop uniform is a amazing.  I begged them to let me take it home on weekends but no luck.

So thanks...and you're awesome.  Click on the comment bar below posts to leave me a message.

xoxoAllana

Retirement Is Wasted On The Old

I've become increasingly jealous of senior citizens.  I'm referring to a specific age group between the ages of 63-75 (It used to be 60-70 until I saw an interview with the very sprightly Jane Fonda).   Let's call them generation: "I am going to milk the shit out of this decade and yes, I'm wearing a good deal of bronzer.  Suck it."

You will rarely see this specific generation with food encrusted on their clothing or a haggard head of hair pulled into an unwashed mass that can barely be called a pony tail.   In fact their clothes look so superbly pressed that you can't help but be convinced that they had just spent the past hour or so ironing their outfit (news flash: they did).   Necks are adorned with large chunky gold jewelery (not infant vomit)) and hair-do's look like $50 blow-outs.   They aren't going to an all inclusive for a one week stay and an all-you -can-eat buffet.  Why?  Because they own a little place down south that they frequent for 6 months year where they've learned to cook authentic Peruvian food made with fresh ingredients that they buy once a day.  And there's no apology for it either.  Why should they?  When someone comments "Must be nice" they aren't back peddling like most 30 somethings I know..."Oh well, we haven't had a vacation in 3 years, and WE ARE TAKING THE CHILDREN and the weather is supposed to be AWFUL this time of year so..."  Retiree's are just like, "That's right.  It's nice alright.  Real Nice."

Retirement is where it's at!

This isn't about not having a job either.  I love my work.  I'm envious of their state of mind.  They've done it, reveled in it, hated it, loved it and they've come out the other end knowing something that I know nothing about and will have to wait 30 years to find out.   Trust me, you won't find me hanging out with my age group at a party if I can chat up a 60 something:  They party more (no kids to wake up to)  They drink more (Liver Schmiver) and they know things.  Lots of things.  But most of all?  They've learned to give themselves one major hell of a break, emotionally and physically, which always seems to lead to a greater sense of their spiritual self.

Why isn't there a TV show called Sixtysomething?  I'd watch it.   Because for all the bliss this older generation seems to be enjoying they don't have a problem conjuring up their own set of dramas.   Recently my father-in-law suggested to my mother-in-law that they should re-do their kitchen because"they maybe only have a good ten years left."  My M.I.L saw right through this in under 10 seconds stating "If you think I'm renovating this kitchen for your second wife then you've got another thing coming!"  This could be great prime-time drama.   Of course my F.I.L laughed it off and jumped on his BMW 1200GS motorcycle which he was never allowed to ride until he hit the tender age of 60. And yes, his pants were perfectly pressed as well.

Why are we all re-inventing the wheel when it comes to how to save, live and raise our kids when there is a whole generation out there sitting pool side with all the answers?  I suddenly feel like a total idiot.

So please, if you're over the age of 60 please feel free to leave great advice on this site.  I will read it and hopefully learn a thing or two.

And before someone thinks or post this:  Yes, I will shut up immediately and enjoy what youth I have left.

p.s. Thanks for all your emails - click the comment bar below to leave a comment. xo

A Fox Broke My Heart

When my four year old was just a baby I strapped her into the baby bjorn and took her to the Art Gallery to see an Emily Carr exhibit. We hung out for a few hours in the gallery staring at art and being followed by a security guard who was clearly convinced my new baby was going to projectile vomit on "Among the Fir, 1931". There was no barfing and I left the gallery feeling renewed by the fact that I had not only exposed my daughter to some great art but that I'd actually left the house wearing an outfit that wasn't made from flannel. It was an art miracle.

I've always had a deep appreciation for art. So much so that when people refer to themselves as "artists" I always assume visual. This may have something to do with the fact that I spent an immense part of my youth at the Art Gallery of Hamilton: staring at butterfly stickers in the gift shop and looking for buttons to press...but still. To me, artists were the real deal. They looked and smelled exotic and invited you to their apartments to eat cow tongue (true story). My parents seemed to have loads of artist friends in the 70's who would send hand painted thank you cards. I now know they were all just too high to leave their apartments to go to Shoppers Drug Mart but at the time it inspired me to make my own cards which I did for years.

But I'm choosey. About art. I have to be hit on a pretty hard visceral level. I've stood in galleries feeling nothing or bawling my eyes out or laughing each and every time I look back...

And this is where the Fox comes into play. It imprinted itself on me. If I was a lady fox...well I'd probably have left my family by now. I'm slowly collecting pieces I can't live without. They are usually the size of my palm and extremely quirky. Not too expensive but original and lovely. Oh that DAMN FOX!

So fast track 4 years from my first art date with Olive to this weekend at an artist exhibit. We walked through aisles and aisles of some great art, some not so great art and finally one piece that took me off my feet. I can't even describe it to you because the pain is too fresh (drama much?) I asked the artist if I could photograph it and email it to my husband. My husband responded immediately that the name of the painting should be "Painted for Allana, 2011". It wasn't an immediate pull the chute situation because it was more than I had originally thought of spending. 100% worth it, but I had to think...

And that's when, let's call him, "other potential buyer" enters the picture. I'm not worried because he doesn't look passionate... he just looks like he wants to stick it in his basement juice bar (me bitter???). So I decide to go for it. The woman selling the painting (not the artist - he's there and great - so who knows what's up) tells me she hasn't talked to the other guy yet. I ask her if she would consider including the tax and she tells me that she'll be right back...

Suddenly I've lost the Fox to Mr. Juice Bar because he's buying two paintings. I'm at a loss... Olive is tugging on my sleeve because we have to leave to get her to swim class and it doesn't look like I could physically take on Juice Bar because he's 8 feet tall, with a giant club foot and really pointy rotting teeth (me bitter???). I decided to get out of there because I started to feel like the pawn who got Mr. Two Paintings rolling plus he's starting to foam at the mouth and turn into a glob of purple jello like in that scene from "Weird Science". Okay, I'm fully lying. I lie when I'm sad.

When we got back in the car and I had an opportunity to shed a little tear...Olive asked me "What's wrong Momma?"

I replied: "Art Olive...art".

Mr. Fox you truly are "the one that got away". I miss you already. I'm dying to know what happened after you jumped over that lazy dog.

I hope no one ever projectile vomits on you.

(Go here for the incredible thing that happened next: Amazing update)