Things Yelled Out in Public

Eating Over The Sink

2011-08-12T07:41:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-25T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-05-05T07:25:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-04-29T13:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-04-13T20:16:00.000-07:00

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 1/2 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.

McClaren sums up by stating:

"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"

She suggests 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 hemorrhoids. I could read an entire magazine with a roll of terry cloth in my mouth. No problem. A chore which 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.

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 a-line skirts and peach aprons?

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

As I said - I'm way late on this. WAY. Sue me. I've got 2 kids, a busy career and a lot of jokes to write. But I just wanted to 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 a stupid article perpetuating the ongoing conversation that women aren't as funny as men. 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...

2011-03-31T08:17:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-14T13:55:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-06T18:04:00.000-08:00

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)

The Pain of Free Time

2010-12-22T17:06:00.000-08:00

I fully admit that I'm someone who can not fully grasp the joy of "free time". I'm goal orientated even if I don't have a goal in mind. (And yes, I find this as annoying as you). If I'm pushing my stroller then I'm going somewhere. If you find me sitting in the park on a beautiful sunny day then I'm waiting for someone. I truly admire those individuals who think to themselves, "Hey I've got a free morning why don't I grab Tolstoy and head to the cafe for crepes and lattes". Alright, "admire" might be stretching it. What I'm really thinking is "unemployed". But here's the thing - I'm wrong! I know some of these people and they really are simply embracing their free time by looking like a snapshot from a Paris postcard (sans enfant).

I hate them.

It's my own fault really. I could just head to the corner and have a coffee. Only problem is I know I'd be thinking...why am I here? I have an HOUR. I should be getting a massage, or my nails done or some other service that causes me great pain with the hope of after glow.

I had such a thought today while Christmas shopping. I stopped for a pedicure. This was indeed a luxury since no one is seeing my feet anytime soon. It's so cold right now that I wear socks to bed. I just thought - hell yes! Bring on the foot scrub! My feet now feel like the inner part of my arm that is never exposed to the sun. Why? Because she basically blow torched my feet with hot coals. She was smiling the entire time which, well, kind of weirded me out.

I was immediately reminded of a time (way back when after the first kid) that I decided to go to this Nordic Spa and get a "treatment". It was called a "deluxe sweet ginger body glow". It was a birthday present and I was thrilled. That is, until I was led into a room with a steel table that was illuminated by a bare bulb. And attached to the wall was a garden hose. I kid you not. A garden hose with a nozzle. You know those nozzles with various settings that allow you to water your garden depending on your mood? And trust me, the lady who was giving me my service did not look happy. I started to feel like I was in an episode of Dexter. But at least Dexter sticks a needle in the neck of his victims before he gets going. All this lady did was throw me a paper thong and tell me to get on the table. You know you're really not having a great time when you start thinking about the Holocaust during a treatment that costs a bundle. By the time the garden hose came out I really started to feel like this woman's car. Not a luxury automobile either. Just some crappy old Ford Taurus from the 80's with a thick layer of mud on it. Truly, I'm surprised she didn't light up a cigarette while she upped the intensity on the nozzle and aimed it at my mid-section. But as usual...as I limped out of there...and I thanked her profusely for her time. Why? Because my skin looked UNBELIEVABLE. I was basically glowing. Imagine that! And all it took was being shamed on a steel table with a garden hose!

I will never return.

Next time I'll use my free time to do something much less painful yet equally satisfying...like doing the laundry: take a towel out of the dryer half way through the cycle and it really provides a nice face steam.

So sad, yet so true.

Sometimes Yelling Does Make It ALL Go Away....

2010-08-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it but I've hit that certain age: I've become "particular". I like half a teaspoon of sugar in my tea (just half, no more, no less), I will most likely be standing on your left for all photographs (the right side of my face is someone I don't know...seriously...who is that person?) and I'm, FINALLY, publicly admitting that I prefer French's mustard to Dijon (Yes, the fluorescent yellow kind. Sorry Dijon. At least it's not pretending to be French or anything...hey...wait a minute.)

And the one other thing that I REFUSE to budge on is that I like my estheticians a little crazy. I do. I can't help myself. If I'm going to have someone pull out my pubic hair then they have to be a little psychotic. I've somehow convinced myself if my wax lady is nuts then she can't possibly be judging me. In fact I'd actually prefer her to wear a bag over her head but that would probably be asking too much. I'm also particular to my wax lady talking incessantly because if she doesn't then I will. There is nothing worse than a quiet wax. I need it loud and distracting enough that there is NO possible chance for either of us to have eye contact and come to the realization of what is actually happening. That would be deadly, or worse, unproductive.

So this brings me to my current lady: Let's call her..."Caroline". Why? Because that's her real name and there is no way in hell she'll ever read this blog. Caroline is great at what she does. Amazing in fact. For me, that is. She talks non-stop, never looks me in the eye, and yells the entire time. She gives that hair hell. She insults, criticizes and swears at every hair she is removing:

"Get out of there...YOU!"

"I hate you, you damn hair"

"Go to hell you!"

"Oh look at YOU just hiding there. I'm going to get you damn hair!"

This goes on for a good 20 minutes. I don't have to say a word. No need for me to talk about the weather or any vacation possibilities that she might have coming up. No need to to bring an extra shirt because I've sweated through my first one trying to come up with things to talk about to distract from the horrifying task at hand.

To be honest? It's like I was barely there. I was simply witnessing a middle aged Chinese woman be verbally abusive to body hair. It's like every customer is her Cassius Clay knocking out George Foreman** moment. It's a battle and she's won. I imagine her attaching a heavy weight belt around her waist or hanging a gold medal over her head when she's done for the day.

(**Do you know that every one of George Foreman's 5 sons are called George Foreman? Now what's the name of his grill again?)

Perhaps I'm mistaking passion for insanity. Regardless, she gets the job done and if we ever see each other outside of that esthetician room I hope she ignores me completely. Who wants to see Muhammad Ali outside the ring? No Thank You! That'd be like forcing me to drink tea with no sugar or eat a sandwich made purely of Dijon mustard.

Absolute. Disaster.

May I Have Fries With That?: A Birth Story

2010-05-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

I have recently come to the conclusion that the most momentous occasions in my life have been crowned with some of the most disgusting (read: delicious) food experiences. I don't know what it is about success that makes me want to eat a pound of bacon - but it just does. It all started around my first communion when my parents decided to let me choose what I'd like to eat on this most Holy of occasions. I mean, really, how poorly could I choose? I had been brought up in a house that contained shelves of powder that would magically turn into food after only 6 or 7 hours of hard mother labour. A mother who could also make 10 meals out of 1 potato and 4 carrots. So when given the choice at the age of 7 as to whether I'd prefer to have a meal made completely out of root vegetables by my slave mom or...something else...I chose Harvey's. In a matter of one hour I ingested both the Body of Christ and a greasy Hamburger with cheese. It was pure perfection.

This greasy ritual of mine continued throughout the years with descriptions of my most memorable moments sounding like this, "It was such a beautiful day, I've never felt or looked better. Then I got the most insane urge to eat poutine and I had indigestion for the rest of the night." Even the day after my wedding my husband woke up to his new wife and a plate of bacon. No eggs. No hash browns or sliced fruit. Just about 25 pieces of steaming country bacon and a glob of ketchup that I had dug up in the hotel kitchen. After I witnessed the smile spread across his face I knew this was a marriage built on the solid foundation of a love for smoked pig. What more could we need?!

So it only makes sense that after the birth of my second child at 6:20am on Easter Sunday that I would find myself in the drive thru of a MacDonald's at 8:15am.

(By this point in my post you will be most surprised to learn that I in fact do not weigh 400 pounds.)

I'm not sure how well versed you are in mathematics and time but you've probably noticed that the time between giving birth and ordering my McBreakfast was pretty short. My midwife had an Easter egg hunt to get to and wanted to know if I just wanted to skidaddle once she confirmed that I wasn't bleeding to death. Hey that's cool! Maybe we could just get everyone to beat my legs as hard as they could to get the epidural to wear off? I mean why stay in this shitty hospital when I can suck in some car exhaust while waiting for my ceremonial grease at the closest drive thru? Plus I wouldn't want you to miss your fucking Easter Egg hunt on account of me creating life and all. (Just kidding - I really liked this midwife and if it wasn't for her I probably would have eaten jello instead of my awesome McWickedMuffin)

So once they discovered that my left leg was still fully compromised by the anesthetic they offered to roll my body off the bed and into a wheel chair so they could catapult me into my car. (I'm exaggerating, it was more like a drag and throw). How could I complain? My child was awesome and healthy, Jesus Christ had risen from the dead and there was a MacDonald's on the way home. Someone just kick my stray limb into the car and we'll be on our way!

So I am now the mother of 2 girls. Two wonderful girls. I can't wait for all the things they will accomplish in life. God help me if one of them makes it to the Olympics or Broadway...

Just thinking it makes me want to barbeque a hamburger and sprinkle it with a large dose of bacon. Dang!

I AM IN LABOUR.

2010-04-03T15:16:00.000-07:00

do do do....la de da...mmmm......bored bored bored....mmmm.....french fries? No...poutine. mmmmm....poutine. And a coke. Oh yeah...maybe I should - one second - ...hold the phone -

Okay...there we are...huuuummmm, whoooooo, ahhhhhh.....ehhhhhh.....ahhhhhh......yowsa...

A coke. With ice. Movie? Let's go get a movie. I can walk. I can walk with chocolate. Lets eat the Easter chocolate! Where did I hide it - oh yeah - in the....hold the phone - okay - one second.

hummmmmm......ahhhhhhhh....oooohhhhhh......ahhhhhhh.....lalalalalalalalalalalalalala......

I'm not hungry. No I don't want to eat. What should we do? I wish I lived in Costa Rica. If I lived in Costa Rica I'd probably be on a beach listening to the waves and...Oh here we are...there's the ticket. The ticket....ticket...ticket....

siabungaaaaaaa......sooooooooo......ahhhhhhhhh.....faalalalalalal......bedo....ticky tocky tack.....

Why do they call this EARLY labour is it has been going on for 12 hours? This no feel early. This feel like someone is showing up late. When does the hallucinating begin? - that part at least has fringe benefits.

This Might Be Getting Awkward

2010-04-01T14:01:00.001-07:00

"He (she) isn't ready to come out" , "Give him time, just relax!", "Don't worry...she'll come out soon enough", "Just know how much work it's going to be once he's out of there!"

I'm 5 days overdue to give birth (sex unknown) and these are but a few of the words of wisdom I'm hearing from friends and family. And although I somewhat agree...I can't help but feel I've heard all this before. Oh yeah. I have:

That time I had a party and some drunk dude locked himself in the bathroom overnight.

He just wasn't ready to come out. We begged him. Pleaded. And yes, when he eventually did come out it was a lot of work getting my bathroom back to its original state. Sometimes when I close my eyes late at night I can still see that thing left on the wall. Whatever that was. It was my own fault, really, I created a bathroom that somehow said: "Lock the door and just move in. You never have to leave. There's a cozy bath mat, a towel for sleeping, water, a toilet and 4 walls for smearing things on. It's like prison, only cozier. Stay FOREVER!"

Clearly my uterus is sending out a similar message and this child has no interest in unlocking the door. I honestly feel every morning the baby wakes up in my belly, has a big stretch and asks, "So what do you want to do today? Go for a walk? listen to music? How about we get a club sandwich to share? Because I'm never leaving. You know that, right?"

GET OUT! Sorry.

I want to be a good host. I do. And I'm trying. I eat well, I keep hydrated, I do everything I'm supposed to. I'm keeping up with my end of the bargain. But the deal was that my "tenant" was supposed to vacate on March 27th. Even the drunk dude left after 8 hours or so...

Being late gets other people excited. They can't take it. It makes them anxious and desperate to dig up a story worse than mine in an attempt to somehow make me feel better. Here's a selection of what I've been told:

"Oh you're late? Yeah, my sister was late by over 2 weeks. The baby kept climbing back up. I swear to you they thought she was going to give birth through her throat! Isn't that hilarious?"

"My friend was so late they thought she gave birth to a small man. Seriously. It looked like an accountant or something. A naked accountant. They called him Gary. But still."

"5 days? That's not so bad. Although, you know the baby keeps growing right? Especially if you're overdue. 2-3 pounds a day. 5 pounds a day, maybe more, depending on the position of the moon and in what city you conceived. You could have a 25 pounder on your hands at this rate."

(Okay. This last comment is something I dreamed up. It's completely fabricated. Yet still, I somehow believe it is possible. But for the record I'd prefer giving birth to a big baby as opposed to small naked accountant)

At least I love this kid. That counts for something. I didn't even know the drunk dude and I'm pretty sure he used one of my lipsticks.

Love is Laboured. Indeed.

2010-03-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

I have a perfectly logical question to ask. When a woman gives birth to a baby why isn't there more fan fare? And I'm not referring to an over-priced bouquet from the hospital gift store or a congratulatory casserole. I mean, why isn't there a spot light that bursts from the hospital roof that reads - "Holy Lord Almighty A Human Just Came Out Of That Woman's Body?!!" or a release of 10,000 balloons from the CN Tower? These thoughts plagued me after the 36 hours of labour I endured from my first child. I know, I know...so what do I want a medal?

Um, yeah, kind of.

I decided to go for a home birth the first time around. The combination of my midwives, pre-natal yoga and hypno-birthing classes convinced me that I had a Giant Vagina. Not really. I just liked telling people that - it made me laugh and them feel really uncomfortable. I don't have a Giant Vagina. If I did I would've given birth like in that scene from Big Fish where the baby is catapulted down the hall in a matter of seconds instead of working it for a day and half. But I was sure I could have a baby at home. Why not? The pioneers did it! Why not me? And I'm sure if the pioneers lived as close to every single hospital in the city as I did they would still choose a home birth. Yeah, right. Besides, I had already toured the hospital and didn't want to give "magical" birth to my new child while listening to some woman wailing in the next room. (little did I know)

But a little about hypno-birthing: If you've never heard of hypno-birthing it's basically a way to put yourself in a trance. This being an alternative to any type of drug. My husband and I were the worst students ever. We made fun of each other the entire time. We basically paid $350 to quote "Little Britain" (Look into my eyes, not around my eyes, but directly in my eyes...one, two, three...you're under...now you will go directly to Baskin Robbins and by me a large milkshake). What was interesting, though, was when it came time to use it for labour we were champs. It worked. It was like a Mike Mandel miracle. I slept through early labour - I imagined myself lying on a beach in Tulum and drinking cocktails. Then active labour hit...for 16 additional hours - and I suddenly found myself on my hands and knees listening to a midwife chopping ice in the kitchen - and believe me - those cubes weren't for a gin and tonic. You can only imagine.

Midwives are angels of birth. They have so much respect for women and labour that I am astounded by their patience. By the time they slowly broke it to me that we had to go to the hospital I was already dressed and wailing on the front lawn. I would have driven myself if I could've found the keys. This was not in my "birth plan". Neither were drugs. So when the anesthetist warned me that the epidural may "sting a bit" I think they were all a bit shocked when I told him he could use a rusty switchblade covered with heroine and jam it in my back if that's what would work. Fortunately he did not follow my advice. Apparently they do not teach this technique in medical school.

Giving birth was insane - And not just because the front desk called through to ask us if we wanted to take a call from my mother-in-law at the exact same moment (a moment lasting 2 hours) of pushing out the baby - but because a human was coming out of my body. Plus, how could I possibly take a phone call with all that wailing I had to do? And I wasn't the only one. The floor was lousy with birthing ladies. Humans everywhere! 5 pound humans, 6 pound humans, 7 pound humans and more! Mine was a little girl tipping the scales at an almost 10 pounds. And she was fantastic. I was fantastic. Isn't everyone fantastic?!

So I suppose the reward is more of a personal party. No fan-fare. Just the two of you looking at each other: Once we were one and now we are two. And of course the power that comes from looking at another woman who has gone through this and knowing she deserves to have 10.000 balloons released from the CN in her name. That, I know for sure. Every mother does. Have I mentioned how much I love women?

But just as a foot note - I'm generally pretty hungry. So I'll take the casserole. Always. If you're offering.

How Not To Set A House On Fire (hint: use your arms)

2010-03-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago I indulged in a shiatsu session with my favourite therapist Ron - only to discover his name is actually RONG. I've called him Ron for 4 years so I'm hoping he thinks I've just given him a nick name. Although now I understand why his wife, who answers the phone, always asks "Who?" I repeat myself "Ron, Ron, Ron" and think, "duh...he's your husband!" Her name is Julie, so I believe I've remedied the situation by calling her "Missy J". And I'm sure, like any good Eastern Medicine Practitioner, they've created a sense of balance by nicknaming me "The Tall Pale Asshole"...

But I digress...

This session REALLY hurt. So I asked Ron what the hell is that?! What could possibly make it hurt that much? With a straight face he pointed at my belly and said "uh. that." Oh right...

I don't forget I'm pregnant but like most Irish descendants I prefer to credit my pain to something I feel guilty about - like not working out enough. It couldn't possibly be the 25 pounds I'm dragging around on the front of my body. Sometimes it takes something drastic for me to see the light: Like almost burning my house down.

I was at home doing my taxes cross-legged on the floor when the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen. I suddenly realized that I had left the kettle on the stove for 45 minutes. I reacted quickly only to discover that both my legs were completely asleep. The weight of my 9 month pregnant belly had cut off all circulation to my legs. No big deal right? Just give them a little shake? Not so much. I started to beat my limbs with my hands and nothing was happening. It was like my legs were in a coma. I pinched myself. Stabbed myself with the calculator. Nothing. I yelled at my legs. No response. I wasn't even getting those painful pins and needles - they were just like two heavy logs. I have never given my legs enough credit until this point. It's like they were sending me a message: "Appreciate us more! We have to carry you and your big self around". But then, by some miracle, my arms stepped it up a notch. They jumped into action and I found myself dragging my body to the kitchen like an injured army vet. Of course this was all escalated by the fact that my phone kept ringing - clearly my 91 year old next door neighbour. When I reached the kitchen my kettle was literally melting and I couldn't reach it from my current position on the floor.

I was immediately reminded of a few years prior when I thought it was a brilliant idea to BBQ a whole chicken. The entire thing caught on fire - something to do with a combination of too much juice and fire. So I acted swiftly, like they do on TV, and dumped a bowl of water on the burning poultry (the poultry that was still on the BBQ). It exploded. Have you ever been witness to an exploding chicken? It's disgusting. I quickly stabbed what was left of the flaming chicken with a set of prongs and held it up over my head like the Olympic torch. I was in a bit of a pickle. I had two options: bring the chicken into the house without setting anything on fire or whip it over the balcony into the parking lot. In a moment of panic I looked at the sea of cars trying to decide how I would aim the chicken to make it safely onto the ground and not onto the hood of someone's car. At this point, I wasn't fully trusting my instincts so I propped the (still flaming) chicken on to the grill of the BBQ (which was still on. sigh) and filled a bucket of water in which to submerge the burnt carcass. Success! But what happened next still makes me think that I should never ever (ever) consider being a chef: I tried to save the blackened half exploded chicken by peeling off the burnt pieces. Torched, water logged and to me...still edible? I learned a lot from that experience. Almost comparable to the time I put my Granny's electric kettle on her gas stove (you can guess what happened) only to discover that my dear old paternal grandmother from the quaint Irish village of Moville swears like a gang member. But back to me, on the floor, coma legs, present day:

In what I thought was a stroke of genius I was able to locate a large wooden spoon from out of the dishwasher and use it to push the kettle off the range. The kettle had melted a ring of black yuck around the edges which I still find baffling. I then used the wooden spoon to beat my legs. With danger fully behind me my limbs started to regain consciousness and I was able to phone next door and lie to my 91 year old neighbour that the smoke detector was simply on the "fritz". This didn't seem to suffice which I find curious since she chain smokes in her bed at night.

So all in all? I learned a very important lesson from this experience: Do not do your taxes 7 days before you're due to give birth. Phone Ron. Or, sorry, Rong....and ask his wife "Missy J" to fit you in for a daily shiatsu appointment. Appointments that I can write off....on my taxes....next year.

Damn You Rubber Invalid Ring.

2010-03-15T18:48:00.000-07:00

The ladies are sharing too much now-a-days and I think I'm part of the problem. But my bigger problem is I don't know how to stop. It's like an addiction. It all started a few years ago after the birth of my first daughter when I blissfully returned home from the hospital only to discover that she really did come out of my vagina. IT WASN'T A DREAM. It happened. And it wasn't pretty. I distinctly remember seeing my mom for the first time and thinking:

"I did this to YOU? Why do you even still talk to me?"

And then I came home only to discover that the pain doesn't stop there. I was constantly in a state of WTF?! What is THAT? The best was when friends would say to me:

"Oh yeah, that happened to me too...it was AWFUL!"

And so I'd ask: "Ummm...so, friend in quotations, how come you didn't share that super important information with me before this carnage began?"

The answer was always the same: "I dunno. I forgot. I guess".

You FORGOT? How could you forget this? THIS?! I could NEVER forget this. NEVER NEVER NEVER. EVER NEVER NEVER EVER! NEVER. You get the point.

But I did.

Up until about 2 weeks ago I was in a state of total denial. Denial that lead me to believe the only thing I needed to worry about was whether or not I had washed the onesies.

I was walking through Shoppers Drug Mart looking for things I don't need but needed to get only because I was in a drugstore when I suddenly noticed it: The Rubber Invalid Ring. Just hanging out there next to the tensor bandages looking all innocent and all "What? I'm just a rubber invalid ring. What's the big deal?"

Damn you Rubber Invalid Ring. You purgatory of full ass recovery.

And then suddenly I was overcome with it all: Perineum sitz bath! Gigantic maxi pads that need to be frozen in witch hazel! laxatives! Metamucil! Espom Salts! Oh Good Lord Almighty - we've got another vagina buster on our hands.

I immediately spent $350.00 and bought three of everything. I bundled packages together and gave them as shower presents. And btw There's nothing you can do to jazz up a package of Large Lady pads but these new mom's don't yet know what's in store for them. Why not interrupt their maternal bliss with a little dose of reality?: Your ass is going to turn inside out. Have FUN!

And now that the sun has come out and all those hibernating Winter birthers are coming out of their houses with their translucent skin and blood shot eyes I can't help noticing that a large percentage of them are walking funny. And although I have this intense desire to shove packages of fiber into their diaper bags - I don't. They need to go through this...only to discover how smart they will be the second time around.

Because it will be different this time right? RIGHT?

There's Nothing Logical about it..and yes, I was unaware that my pants had split up the back.

2010-03-12T06:59:00.000-08:00

I'm discovering being pregnant elicits one of two responses. The first being, "Congrats!" the second being "I just don't know if I'm ready!". I can always tell which response I'm going to get when the person approaching me is about 5 meters away. The first is usually coupled with waving arms, big smiles and happy eyes. The second? Usually a sweaty brow, a confused smile and psycho eyes (that read..."oh God, Oh God, now I'm going to have to have the talk about whether or not I'm going to have a baby, am I ready to have this conversation? And does she know she has food on her forehead?!)

So let's get the most important question out of the way: If I have a piece of toast attached to my face there's a good chance I don't know it's there. I admit, I'm hungry, but not so hungry that I think it's wise to use my face as a pocket. I actually went through an entire lunch meeting only to discover afterwards that there was a crescent shaped strawberry smoothie moon on my forehead the entire time. As surprising as this sounds, I wasn't saving it for later.

And as for the first question, and I believe I can speak for most 9 month pregnant ladies: "Don't sweat it!" My eye lids are bloated, my vagina is numb and I have to sway back and forth to get my stubby feet to move in a forward direction, I'm honestly not thinking "Oh here comes so and so...When is she having a baby! Why doesn't she have a baby! Have a baby! HAVE A BABY! BABY BABY BABY! " If anything, I'm thinking, "You thin waisted bitch I want to bite you." Unless of course you have food on you...then I'm thinking "Give it to me! Give IT TO ME!"

That being said I am sympathetic to the panic. Deciding whether or not to have children is huge. It's probably the biggest decision you'll ever make in your life. So here's my advice - just do it**. Why? Because there is nothing logical about it. It doesn't make sense until you look your new turkey in the eye and think..."Oh....yeah, you, you were meant to be here." Up until that point it's just crazy talk. Who wants to lose sleep, time, money and romance on purpose? And you can't look at other people's children and make any logical decision either because your children will always be better then theirs. You have to think this...or parents would have made it legal to eat their offspring centuries ago. It's biological. It's actually a miracle.

This is not to say you won't have moments of yearning for those times when you could walk to the corner alone (don't worry eventually you will be able to) or wear skinny jeans (this too may again be a possibility with the help of either Spanx or Gall Bladder disease - see my post from last September - or even better - someone decides that skinny jeans look stupid) but somehow, someway, and by some strange genetic miracle, this small turkey who grows up to talk and think makes life a whole lot more interesting...even if it took you carrying food on your face, walking around with your pants split up the back (yes - I did - for an entire day) and turning your life way upside down to make it all happen.

**Just Do it: This should include (in my opinion) those individuals who are over the age of 30. If you are younger please, for the love of God, just go out and party. Have a beer on me...in fact I'll pay for it as long as you promise to not think about this again until your body starts screaming for it. Oh, and if your reading this and pregnant already? - you have food on your face.

Advantages of being 9 months pregnant

2010-03-07T08:35:00.000-08:00

Here is a list of the top 5 things people say to me at my current stage of 37 weeks pregnant:

1. Wow! You look great (they are lying)

2. Man, you must being dying to get that thing out. (they are unclear of how "that thing" comes out)

3. So what are you up to now-a-days? (This?...this one I love)

4. Your face doesn't look fat at all! (Clearly the first time I did this I had a gigantic face that no one mentioned to me)

5. Are you super excited?! (ummmm....define "super" excited?)

So in the spirit of staying sane I've been coming up with this running list of advantages to being 9 months pregnant. Here they are:

1. I have created a natural ledge to catch food. My couch has never been so clean and this is the second time in the my life (the first being my other pregnancy) that I've been able to eat an entire muffin without having to vacuum it off the floor. FYI: Those little bits that we all usually lose are in in fact the tastiest and somehow are even tastier when you are eating them off your shirt.

2. I haven't been hungover in a good 9 months. Let me clarify here that I'm not a massive boozer but I am Irish so not drinking a pint or two is like an Italian giving up pasta or a Ukrainian pretending like Perogi's don't exist.

3. I can rent movies like "Sleepless in Seattle" and not feel like a loser. I am a huge fan of Nora Ephron. I love the woman. But I love her even more when I'm pregnant because she writes movies that make me feel like I'm wrapped in cashmere and someone is rubbing my feet. When I'm not pregnant I feel pressured to rent movies that make me sound cooler in conversation. I switched it up last night and watched "Precious" and I didn't sleep a wink. If I had gone with an old faithful like "When Harry Met Sally" I would've spent the morning laughing at the line "baby fish mouth!" instead of crucifying myself for those few times I've said the "F" word in front of my three year old. After watching that movie I swear to never swear again. (Not an easy feat for an Irish descendant)

4. I walk by knitting stores with signs that read "Learn to Felt!" and I think....should I? In any other circumstance I would NEVER consider this. But being 9 months pregnant some sort of ancestral urge takes over my body where I start thinking about making my own baby clothes and learning how to knit skull caps. Don't worry...when this happens I take my butt to the nearest Starbucks and read the newspaper like any other sane urbanite.

5. I get to sleep alone. Remember those days when you lived with your parents and had your OWN room that you could decorate with stickers and hot pages from Teen Beat? Or better yet when you lived in your OWN apartment....your little oasis from the world where you could sleep by yourself and watch romantic comedies without anyone thinking you're a loser? Well all that is lost once you get married....but the magical thing about being 9 months pregnant is that no one wants to sleep with you! AWESOME! You're the most annoying person on the planet with your lack of breath and peeing and flipping back and forth and getting up in the middle of the night to make yourself a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Sleeping alone means spreading yourself across the bed, turning on the light to read a magazine and doing whatever you want without bugging anyone! I swear one of these nights I'm going to claim one of my perfectly white bedroom walls and cover it with stickers and pictures of George Clooney.

I blame my Gall Bladder

2009-09-21T09:20:00.001-07:00

What happens to organs once they are removed from your body? I know the surgeons don't let you keep them anymore otherwise I would've had a cocktail party where you could win a prize by guessing how many stones were in my gallbladder (it would've been in a jar, not on the cheese plate - just so you know). When I asked to keep my gall bladder after I had it removed in June they looked at me like I was insane. Somewhat similar to the look I received after I asked to keep my placenta, as in "WHY"? Well, why not? It's mine isn't it? I had to do the hard work of growing it. Have you ever had to grow an organ in your 30's? It's hard work! I had to nap daily and eat pounds of cheese while growing that thing (well the cheese was a personal choice), but the hell if I'm going to leave it behind me! Truthfully I wanted it because a very good, and successful (if not famous), friend of mine had hers dehydrated, then crushed and made into capsules that she would take once a day to get super shiny hair. Yes, after giving birth I wanted at least one thing on me to look pretty. Apparently Chinese doctors will do this for you in the States but in Canada?...not so much. So we tried to dry it out in the oven for 48 hours. The "we" being me and my husband who fully supported me eating my own placenta. God, that sounds disgusting. But animals do it! Have you ever seen the coat of a cougar? It's shiny and thick, and you know why? It ate its own placenta! So in my quest for shiny hair and a host of other "healthy" benefits I dehydrated my own placenta in my oven. What I learned from this was two things: Do not try and dehydrate your own placenta in an Eaton's Viking oven from the 70's and secondly, just don't try and do this at all: It's repulsive and akin to slaughtering your own cow to enjoy a delicious steak. Go to a professional if you so desire to ingest dehydrated capsulized organs or T-bones. Enough said.

But my Gall Bladder! I was told this was an organ I don't need which made me immediately suspicious: Aren't they going to say the same thing about our legs in 100 years when when they turn sidewalks into escalators? But the Gall Bladder is a throw back from the days when people used to ingest an entire Ox and then starve themselves for 5 days, it stores extra bile to break down fats. Uhhh...aren't I going to need that again if I ever grow another placenta and have to eat pounds of cheese???? But in the end they were right. My Gall Bladder was a total asshole. It gave my a lot of pain and forced me to eat fat free foods for months (kind of like being in a bad relationship) I'm glad to see it gone...never needed it anyway. And frankly, it was so stupidly small it would obviously make for a very disappointing meal. Just kidding...who wants to eat something with ROCKS in it? Seriously though...I wonder what they did with it?

If you wait long enough...some things in life are FREE.

2009-06-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

There is nothing more "Public" than a garage sale. I thought I was used to putting myself out there but clearly that doesn't hold a candle to putting all my old crap on the front lawn for single men to dig through (I'm assuming they were single because they were middle aged and riding bikes with radios strapped to the handle bars). They weren't all single men...they just stood out because they bought the most (Note to self: Do not judge single men who ride BMX's with radio's strapped to the handle bars. They often have more money than you think and cold cans of beer in their pockets to give to you). All that was left was an Ann Coulter book that I couldn't even give it away for free: although I think in the middle of the night someone in my neighbourhood inserted a postcard into the pages that read "You great big beautiful Lesbian you". It was clearly the dudes on the bikes.

Why Do I Try To Brush My Teeth and Remove Nail Polish At The Same Time?

2009-05-25T05:03:00.000-07:00

It doesn't work. You know what else doesn't work? Toys that claim to increase 600% in size when placed in water for 72 hours. I just threw out a mangled moose that was floating around in brown water for 6 days. What was I expecting? That I'd wake up in the morning and a life size moose would be standing in my kitchen? Or a moose the size of a small dog? Okay, listen, I'd have been happy with a large rat. But no. It kind of just got foamy and puffy, like it had a gastrointestinal disease. So it's gone...and I still find myself muttering, "I should've got the princess!" I'm a woman who doesn't give up.

I'm also a woman who, although I've failed at it a thousand times over, still clings to the notion that multi-tasking works. It doesn't. If you brush your teeth while trying to remove nail polish you will fail at both jobs, especially if you're trying to read a magazine at the same time. So there's my excuse why I didn't blog while I was in Calgary workshopping my new play.

What was I thinking?!

Did I forget about the all-night writing sessions? The loss of sleep over punctuation? The agonizing over word choice? Did I mention I'm an A-type? Why would I want to write MORE when taking a break from writing? Sorry, but I'd rather have a hot tub and drink a glass of wine. So here's my update: I got a play out of the deal. The "deal" being my 5 day workshop of my new play "The Boiler Room" at The Lunchbox Theatre in Calgary. On day 5 it was like birthing it out of my eye socket but they laughed, they cried (not really) and stuck around afterwards to ask a tonne of really great questions.

This (a play) didn't come without it's complications....but it wouldn't be my life if it wasn't combined with some sort of uncomfortable challenge. Oddly enough, the audience members who were invited to blog and tweet during the reading were not one of those complications (see previous posts). In fact, I barely noticed they were there. They weren't nearly as distracting as the woman with the 45 bracelets on each arm. I'm not suggesting that I now openly embrace phones and lap tops in the theatre, I just think you should leave your jewelry at home.

We all need to find moments in our life where we don't have to multi-task. Where we can just be present and absorb what's in front of us. For someone like me that place is in the theatre or staring at the mountains. Where I don't even think of brushing my teeth or removing my nail polish: I just stare and think I must be blessed to be Canadian.

Should I really care what you think?!

2009-05-09T05:36:00.000-07:00

Yes. Yes, I do. Fortunately as I gracefully age I learn to not care as much as I used to. In theatre school I found it extremely challenging to "not pay attention to the audience and just be present in the scene". I admit now that I didn't really understand what this meant. Am I just supposed to ignore the 200/400/800 people staring at me? I recommend all young actors to get on a comedy stage if they suffer from this affliction, there's nothing like someone yelling at you from the audience to help you focus on the task at hand. I also suggest outdoor Shakespeare: If you can remain present and connected during a performance when an audience member is reading the text a long with you then you've chosen the right career. If all that fails, give birth to a human. It's incredibly painful but it works.

I digress...

Many workshops for theatre work in such a way that an audience is invited to listen to a reading and then comment on the play. What did they like? What didn't they understand? I've even seen it phrased in such a way as "Help us to improve the play". Let me say this first: I'm not precious. I understand the work I create is for an audience. The life I've chosen is a series of "Things Yelled Out in Public", even my daughter stopped me in the grocery store recently and yelled "Momma, no poo poo in your underwear!" She's got a point. But I have to wonder, do visual artists invite groups of strangers into their studios and ask them if their work needs more red? Do composers ask those with an untrained ear if the second last note is too high? Our work is for the public but where do you draw the line? Is the feedback session for the playwright or for the theatre deciding whether or not they should produce the work? (Please produce my work. Thank you)

Here's what I love about workshops: First, I get to go do what I love. Secondly, I get to work with a group of artists who are working for very little to let me hear the work I've been creating alone at my desk. And finally, it allows me a sneak peak at hearing an audience reaction. Are you laughing? Crying? ummm....listening? Or, if we are referring to the audience in my first post - Are you checking your email?

So yes, I care what you think. Just don't make me shove your phone down my pants (again, refer to first post) and please PLEASE don't poo in your underwear. That's just down right embarrassing.

To Blog or Not to Blog...that is the question.

2009-05-07T06:23:00.000-07:00

Well, it's the question today anyway. Seems appropriate that my first entry here on "Things Yelled Out in Public" is about Blogging. I'm being interviewed this morning on the CBC Radio morning show in Calgary regarding a pilot project by Lunchbox Theatre where patrons will be allowed, and encouraged, to "live" Blog or Tweet (this phrase is harder to get used to) during a workshop reading of my new play "The Boiler Room". As in, open lap tops/glowing phones, beeps, click click DURING the reading. As most of you know this a big no no in the performance world. I was recently at a David Sedaris reading at Massey Hall where the woman in front of me was desperately trying to figure out her new iPhone so she could take pictures of Mr. Sedaris when he walked on the stage. As she did this, I was desperately trying to figure out how to not shove her new iPhone down my pants. She wasn't even considering how distracting that would be for the rest of us sitting behind her (an iPhone screen is obnoxiously large if you don't know).

So what's it going to be like during a reading of something that I personally have been working on for...well, quite a long time. I think Lunchbox might have to make me sign a waver to not attempt to shove all the Bloggers computers and phones down my pants.

But hey, it's new and I'm willing to give it a try. So here's what I'm going to do. I will blog here for the week of the workshop and then give you an update (an honest update) on how it went during the Saturday theatre Blogathon. (As I write this my phone and my cell are ringing...are we trying to communicate TOO much?) So stay tuned. And go check out the rest of my website at allanaharkin.com. See ya!