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)

The Pain of Free Time

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....

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

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!