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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope that helps.  

I Ate The Butter Tart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leah McLaren, Let's Be Pals!

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

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

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

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

I think she looks sad because her friends are boring.

But McClaren sums up by really going for the jugular: 

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

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

A bit worried.

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

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

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

So let me put this out there:

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

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

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

Well Hello You...

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

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

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

xoxoAllana

Retirement Is Wasted On The Old

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

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

Retirement is where it's at!

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fox Broke My Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope no one ever projectile vomits on you.

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

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.