The Burning Truth

I can recall many reasons why I should not cook...the food poisoning at a dinner party, the stove fires just to name a couple. But friday takes the cake (pardon the cooking reference...) While making mac n' cheese for Q and his lil buddy, I inadvertently poured boiling hot water down the front of me. Normally, I'm pretty good with multitasking, at work and at home. Note to self: Hot water and multtasking do not go hand in hand.

I'm so dedicated to work that the first thing I did was call my boss to let her know I might not be in to work. (Side note: I also did this once when I was in a car accident on my way into work. While waiting for the ambulance to take me to the hospital, I called my job to let them know I might be late...I know, considerate, right? Dedicated, absolutely!!) To which she replied, "Why are you calling me? Go to the hospital!!" Truthfully, this option never even crossed my mind. First of all, as a hypocondriac, I would run to the hospital every other day if I didn't have self restraint. So, as a result, I tend to NOT go when I should. Second, sitting in emerg for 6 hours is definitely not my idea of fun, even if it does get me out of going to work...

I decided to call healthlink. Healthlink is my best friend. I have a registered nurse at my fingertips, and she tells me whether or not I'm being ridiculous (most of the time I am...) Turns out, this time I was being ridiculous....as in, she wanted to call 911 for me. Evidently, 2nd degree burns over 2-5 % of your body are kind of a big deal. I quickly assured her I would get to the hospital asap and she did not have to bother paramedics to get me there. After all, they are on strike...

**Please note - I'm still making the mac n' cheese while making aforementioned phone calls **

So, I knock on my girlfriend's door and ask her to drive me to the hospital. We drop the kids at a neighbours on the way. Get this...2nd degree burns get you on the super fast track at the hospital. Not just the fast track, the super fast track. I was seen by a doctor in less than an hour. LESS THAN A HOUR!! And the waiting room was packed. There was a guy in handcuffs to my right (with 2 police escorts) and a guy in a cowboy hat to my left.

A tetanus shot and a few wrappings later, I was on my way. I was a little disappointed though, no one said "STAT" even once. And my doctor wasn't tall, dark and handsome. She was short, chubby, and well...female. The one lesson I learned was 'always be prepared' and not in the way you would think. If someone's gonna see me naked (even a short, chubby ER doc) I really wish I was well groomed. Dammit if my legs weren't hairy and a bikini wax was definitely in order. I am staying away from the stove for at least the weekend, much to the surprise and gratefulness of Q!

Wednesday Weigh in (week 6)

I just finished reading Julie and Julia and it was fabulous. You know, the book I wasn't going to read. Then strolling one day before work I found a used hard cover copy for $5.00. How could I possibly resist? Hard cover!! I was quickly drawn into the world of french cooking, aka cooking with butter. Lots and lots of butter. Cooking and I go together like oil and water. My mother loves to tell how every time she would try to teach me how to cook, I would smile and say, "Oh silly Mummy, I'm going to marry rich and we're going to have a chef. I don't need to know how to cook!" and then plant a big kiss on her cheek before wandering out of the kitchen in my own little (imaginary) world. As luck would have it, I have avoided a) getting married b) being rich and c) having a chef at my beck and call. Oh, and let's not forget d) still not a fan of cooking... So, needless to say, this book is the antithesis of me. Julie says that food is sexy. Cooking is sexy. Specifically, she thinks calf liver sauteed in butter is sexy. I'm not sure I agree. If some guy I was dating pulled out a calf liver, I'm pretty sure I'd mutter some excuse as I ran for the door, pushing anything that got in my way. I did have a boyfriend once who made me rack of lamb for Valentine's Day. It was delicious. He also took two trips to the ER that day to sew his finger back on when he cut it off not once, but twice as he was preparing the roasted baby potatoes. It was a labour of love that I didn't truly appreciate. He was too needy. If I had married him, I surely would have been knocked up for the greater portion of my child bearing years. And if I had to guess, I would have spent most of my time in the kitchen. On a farm. In the country. But my point is that marrying him for his rack (of lamb) never once crossed my mind. I loved the book because it surpasses food. In the end, it's not simply a journey through a cook book. It's a journey of self discovery. And that, my friends, is universal. Who hasn't found themselves near tears on a subway in the rain (you haven't? Oh...) thinking "What now?" There's got to be more to life than this. Julie's passion became her savior. It became her answer to the life she dreamed of, the life she was destined to live. I can relate to that. I can aspire to that. I might suck shit at cooking. I might cause stove fires more often than your average 31 year old (okay...3, but who's counting...) The thought of cooking my way through Julia Childs "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" actually causes cold sweats and panic attacks, but the thought of finding me is exciting. Seriously, MtAoFC...looks like a string of cuss words to me... And the absolute best thing. Googling Julie/Julia last night I found that Julie Powell still blogs. She blogs! It's devastating to me that when a book ends, so do the characters. I mourn the loss of them, but not my Julie. I can visit her. Daily. Oh how I wanted to write on her blog like a crazy-stalker fan. But I'm not just a fan. I'm a kindred spirit. We're the same. We both blog. We're both Bloggers. We're colleagues. Ya, so that's a little freaky, right? Anyways, it was a great reminder that if you're asking yourself, "Is this all there is?" that it most certainly isn't. Have the courage to do something fabulous. Have the faith to believe you will succeed. And "bollocks" to the naysayers. I believe in you. Oh, and along the lines of food...weight loss: 7lbs (WOOOOHOOOO) current weight: 156 What's that? You didn't see a weigh in for week 5? Hmmmm, that's odd. Alright, fine. Week 5 was birthday week for Q...cake and ice cream and hot dogs, oh my. Self perseverance told me not to even think of getting on the scale.

Have you ever got to an intersection and freaked out because the light is green and you have no idea what to do? No? Me neither... Okay, but really, it's only a split second freak out. Those in cars around you or even IN the car with you don't even know you're freaking. But you look at the light, which is green, and think, "What does this mean??" Do I put my foot on the gas? Do I stop? Why can't I remember? And then suddenly, it hits you - Green Means Go. Phew, crisis averted. I'm putting sugar in the fridge and milk in the cupboard. I can't find my car keys. Anywhere. And then I find them, right there where I put them. Of course, the hypochondriac in me is thinking this is the onset of dementia and that I'm just a skipping stone away from leaving the house with nothing on but my grandmother's pearls and fluffy green slippers. But then again, my mother has consistently been losing her car keys for the past ten years, so maybe it's hereditary. I realize the more logical explanation is that my brain is on information/event overload. Work, finances and Q, oh my! My brain needs a vacation. Unfortunately, it takes said vacation right before an intersection.

Love, love, love it!!

There is just one thing I'm loving this week, and I can't even believe I'm going to say it, but it's - are you sitting down? Church. Church, you know, where you go and sing songs and listen to someone talk for like 30 minutes about...God. It's crazy. Point of fact: Christianity is the only religion that believes people are saved by grace and not by works. This sets Christianity apart from any other 'religion' out there. Translation: It doesn't matter what I do, it matters what I believe. This is huge. This is mind blowing. This is paramount to my sanity. It doesn't matter that I pray this many times, in this direction, at these times. It doesn't matter that I don't eat this, but that I do eat that. It doesn't matter that I cover my body or grow my hair. It's not about the laws, the rituals, the 'religion'. I mean I'm drinking beer as I write this (Bud Light Lime in a bottle, by the way not a can. Something else I'm loving right now!) It's about the relationship I have with God.

Ironically, it is also the single most forgotten fact in Christianity. I've been trying to figure out why this is. Why do all the ladies gather in the back of the church and whisper about what so-and-so was seen doing with so-and-so and how so very wrong they were and how real Christians wouldn't do that or be that? Why have the sermons felt more like damnation's rather than encouragements? Here's my theory, and while it might not be monumental, it is starting to make sense to me. It's uncomfortable. Grace is uncomfortable.

We've become this work your ass off society. We work hard and we're rewarded with a bigger paycheck, a newer house, a nicer car. We earn the respect of those around us - our friends, colleagues, family. We strive, we push, we trudge along like drones because we've become accustomed to this routine, to this process. It's just the way it is. Christianity - God's Grace - throws something different into the mix.

Believe something crazy, near impossible. Believe that thousands of years ago this Almighty Being woke up (errm, don't think He sleeps...but bear with me for a minute) and decided to create us. Then, hundreds of years later sends His Son to die for my sins. Sins I haven't even thought of committing yet, He dies for them all. All I have to do is believe. I am compelled to have faith in someone I can't see, someone I have a hard time feeling, and someone I've never met face to face. Believe in Him, and all the rest will fall into place. Trust Him, and you'll find the strength to get through anything. Love him, and find peace and contentment and joy. But wait, shouldn't I have to do something? Like, say jump through hoops while balancing on one foot while juggling? Because then at least I would feel like I earned it.

I'm so not perfect. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It's been, well...never...since my last confession because I'm not Catholic, but here goes anyway. I have broken every single one of the 10 commandments, minus the whole killing thing (unless you count plants and fish and bugs of any sort...) Some of the things I've done seem so horrible, I have a difficult time forgiving myself. I have a potty mouth that could shock a sailor (which to be honest is one of the reasons why I revel in my potty mouth...) I get distracted when I pray and start thinking about gorgeous mocha men on the skytrain instead. I read one line of a chapter of a verse in the bible, and then read it again, and then again, and then realize that I'm thinking about Mocha man and not paying attention to the words I'm reading, but in my defence, it's a reallllllllllllllllly long book....

None of this matters. What matters is that I believe. And maybe I'm wrong. And if that's the case, then I will have led a life where I tried to be kind to everyone, where I tried my damnest to be non-judgemental and loving and forgiving and understanding. A life where my belief makes me a better mother, and better friend, daughter, girlfriend (God willing...) A life where I believed that my life was guided by a loving hand rather than a big boom and stars aligning. What is so wrong with that? Where do I miss out, if this is the life I choose to live. And if I'm right, then the rewards will be eternal. That my friends, is spectacular. It's awesome in a way no words can describe.

So, back to why I love my new church. It fills me with peace. It fills me with calm. It reminds me every Sunday that I am flawed and I am *gasp* human, and that it's all okay because I am saved by Grace. I sneak in the back and close my eyes because this, this is a relationship between me and Him. I sneak out early, so that I don't have to talk to the people. All the people...the shining, happy people holding hands....okay, I'm exaggerating, but it's all so new to me right now, and I don't want the humans to ruin it. I want it to be my experience, and I want Him all to myself right now. I still feel a little fragile and a little unworthy of this grace. I've not yet taken part in communion, because I don't feel worthy. I feel as though they all might laugh and point and stare and say, 'You can't have communion. You coveted that woman's Manolo's on the train the other day." Of course, they won't. But I feel like an imposter, a poser. Faith is a journey, believing is a journey, and I've only just begun.

The Waiting Game

I am an instant gratification kinda gal. Those of you who know me well, know this to be true. It is most likely my biggest flaw. It's horrible. It's the reason why I rent, and don't own. I do, however, have a fabulous collection of gorgeous shoes. The problem is that there is no equity in shoes, and contrary to the nursery rhyme I cannot live in them. It's the reason I started smoking...middle of a huge delay with 300 passengers yelling at you and 5 minutes reprieve, what can you do with 5 minutes to relieve some stress? You can't go have sex (well, I guess you could, but I never did), you can't down a tub of ice cream, you can however, have a cigarette. Instant gratification. It's the reason I can't save money - Money's always been a means to an end...or a sweater, or a cute dress, or jewelry, or a book, or anything really. My idea of saving money is waiting two weeks for the next paycheck. It is frustrating to me beyond belief that I have to wait for anything. And waiting for my 'mr. rite' is no different. And I've been waiting three years, dammit. Well, I've been waiting my whole life, but it's been three years since I realized that the mr. rite I was with was absolutely not right at all. I'm being taught patience, I'm being taught that anything worth having is worth waiting for, I'm being taught that patience is a virtue. I'm being taught to hurry up and wait. I realized just how silly this all was today. Since seeing this beautiful man on the skytrain the other day, I am convinced that we will be together. I know, this is kind of freaky, right? Okay, maybe not convinced....hopeful might be a better word. I look forward to the skytrain now, I dream about seeing him again. The wonderful thing about an overactive imagination is that this man has become the man of my dreams. He is thoughtful and kind and romantic. In my fantasy, he is going to bring me flowers on the skytrain because that is the thoughtful, romantic type of thing he does. The problem? I haven't seen him since. I see the same weirdo's every single day on the skytrain...like the guy with the doc martins that go up to his knees, or the guy with the super big mole on his cheek, or the bald security guard...I see them every day. I've seen this one guy who has styrofoam attached to the back of his baseball cap (in case he falls, perhaps?) three days in a row, but Mr. Perfect, I haven't seen him. Knowing my luck, I probably won't. This is where I remind myself that an overactive imagination is just about as bad as an overactive bladder. It gets you nowhere - and, um...that's where the similarities end...they can both be unpleasant... I would like to meet, fall in love, and marry the man of my dreams in a week or so. It's not so much that I want to be married (but I do...) it's more that I don't want to go through the agony of waiting. I don't like the dating - oh, the first date agony. I don't like the waiting for the call, the text, the wondering. Does he, doesn't he? Will he, won't he? I would be content to fast forward to the coming home to smelly socks on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink. But, I realize that in instant gratification there is no long term benefit. There is no knowledge that you've worked hard for something, that you've built a relationship (or whatever else it may be) with love and laughs, tears and years. Fast forwarding means I miss out. I miss out on my heart skipping a beat, the wondering, the longing. And so, I'm learning. I'm learning to be patient. I know that when 'he' finally comes along, I will be ready to savour every moment of the journey. And that, in the end, will be so worth the wait.

Arrrgh, Me Matey!

Phew, I can't even tell you how glad I am that birthday parties come only once a year! I am exhausted. I am by no means a Martha Stewart type, nor am I rich enough to hire someone to do the job for me, so I make do. I know that as a single mom, there are a lot of things I cannot offer Q, so when his birthday rolls around, I like to make an absolutely huge deal out of it. I mean, it is the celebration of the day he was born, and it marks the most fabulous day of my life!

For the past month or so, Q and I have gone to every party supply store, dollar store, craft store and Walmart within a 30 mile radius. Our goal = pirate party. Oddly enough, this is not as easy as it sounds. I thought that with Pirates of the Caribbean out, there would be oodles and caboodles of pirate themed paraphanalia, but no. No, nope, nu-unh. I guess if I really wanted to I could have bought the 150 skull balloons online, and I could have spent $30.00 shipping them.

However, this is what we did do...

We made our invitations by taking a tea bag and 'sponging' it on the paper to give it an antique-y look. I tried to burn the edges, just for an added touch, however paper burns. Fast. And I value having a place to live, so thought it wouldn't be a good idea to burn it down in order to make my invitations look 'old.' We rolled them so they looked like scribbles and tied them with ribbon. I found a website with pirate talk, and arrrrg matey we were on our way!!!

For the table cloth, I bought a black one and made a skull stencil (couldn't find one of them anywhere) and stencilled silver skull and cross bones all over the table cloth. Some places bled, but that made it look piratey authentic. How many pirates would take the time to make sure the skull they drew stayed inside the lines? They were too busy pillaging and such.

It's never a party til Q starts disrobing...

Each child was given an eye patch, earring and skull bandanna. Surprisingly, this one was not the huge hit that Q and I thought it would be. One *boy* was afraid the bandanna would mess his hair...seriously, a metro-sexual 5 year old. Who'da thunk it!

The loot bags were filled with gold coin chocolates, candy necklaces, pirate tattoos and stickers, telescopes. And the coolest thing, I found these pencil crayons in a black case that looked like a telescope, and found these silver rub-on skulls - Instant pirate! The bags were clear cellophane so that you could see all the piratey goodness!

Q helped with everything. EVERYTHING. What 5 year old helps build loot bags, sponge table cloths, picking out bandannas, blowing up balloons? This one did. He had input during every stage of the planning, even down to location.

And this is just one of the many reasons why I love my little boy...

Q's friend A was born with a B12 deficiency, which you wouldn't think to be so big of a deal, but it really, really was. His sight was affected among other things. A doesn't like loud noises or kids too close to him. But Q and A have wonderful relationship. Q takes care of A. Given the choice between the 'new park at Bear Creek' or the 'old park in Queens' Q decided that we should have the party at Queen's Park, because A wouldn't be afraid of the slides. He's my wonderful, thoughtful, kind boy and I am proud of him beyond words.

This, my friends, is the sign of a good party!!

Introducing Mr. Perfect

Today I was in my own little world on the skytrain. I was trying to read my new book "Julie and Julia" which - as a side note - I thought I wouldn't like, because it's about cooking and I like cooking just about as much as riding the skytrain. But I found a hardcover edition at a second hand store for $5.00 and just couldn't resist. And I love it, it's written so well. She's funny and I can totally relate. Everyone needs a vessel in which to discover themselves, and for Julie, it's cooking. I'm not going to go out and buy a pot or a pan or anything crazy like that, but I am enjoying the read. But on the skytrain today my reading was being interrupted by people talking about the new skytrain we were riding. They were talking about how 'cool' it was that there was a screen that lit up what station you were at, and thought it was 'stellar' that the end point was flashing red instead of yellow (yay, mass transit for dummies...oooooh, or maybe the complete idiot's guide to riding the skytrain.) And then they start talking about how they're going to go ride the new Canada line today...just for the 'fun' of it (seriously not paraphrasing here....fun...) So, I look up to see who these people are who have nothing better to do than discuss transit with complete strangers and who do I see at the other end of the train car, but Mr. Perfect (for lack of a real name...) You know, I blogged about him last week. I was going to fake a coughing/choking/sneezing fit to attract his attention. There he was standing before me - and I should clarify he was not talking about the skytrain buttons (phew!) My face totally lit up, and then he noticed me! Actually, he noticed me gawking at him with this silly grin on my face. Immediately, I looked down at my book. But I couldn't read anymore. My heart was racing. I looked up quickly and get this....he was still looking at me!!! I can't even begin to tell you how beautiful this man is. He is perfect. There is nothing about him that is physically unattractive. Some men can have beautiful, broad shoulders, but a huge nose that is totally not proportioned to his face. Or a handsome face, but a great big mole on his cheek with hair growing out of it. Or beautiful skin, but horrible hands (my mother always told me you can tell how nice a man is by what his hands look like....I don't really know what that means, but I've always noticed a man's hands first. And if I don't like the hands, I cannot date them. It's a deal breaker.) But no, Mr. Perfect is perfect. If he were mine I would take him with me everywhere I went. Everywhere. People at work would ask who the guy following me was, and I would just say, "oh, he's mine." In fact if I could, I would like to just look at him all the time. I could (and would) sit at home all day and just admire his beauty. This might be a little awkward at first, but I'm sure he'd get used to it after a while. The trouble is once the whole fantasy of having him as my accessory dissipates, I am reminded of all my insecurities. My extra 20lbs, my quirky sense of humour, my cellulite, my less than perky 'gals' (I mean, I am 31...) I'm reminded of the fact that I'm a single mom and that typically scares men away, it doesn't attract them. And I think that while he's definitely a 10, I'm maybe a 5. I don't attract men like Mr. Perfect. I attract the old, married men. I attract the liars and the cheats and the freaks. I don't attract anything like perfect. And while I'm not looking for 'perfect' perfect, I am looking for my perfect. Maybe he was looking at me because I had a huge bug crawling in my hair, or spinach in my teeth, or *horror* maybe my fly was down (nope, I was good!) We played the peek-a-boo game the whole ride which consisted of 40 glorious minutes. It was wonderful. It was fun. If that's all of Mr. Perfect I ever get, it was enough. I was giddy the whole night at work, I was floating on air. I felt like a silly little teenage girl. And I love that feeling. The exciting thought is I could see him again. Oh, I love the skytrain!!

Um, ya...not so much

This week has been the longest week ever. On Wednesday, I thought it was Thursday. By Thursday, I was convinced it was Friday. But now, it's really here. It is Friday night and here's my list of things I am so not coveting right now.

1. Flawless by Secret. I cannot tell you how long I have wished for flawless armpits. Seriously. Some nights I used to lie awake for hours dreaming up a way for my armpits to be flawless. It seemed to me that even if my life was in utter chaos, if my armpits were flawless, everything would be okay. Imagine my sheer joy when I found deodorant that promised just that, and flawless in five different ways. Actually, it was on sale 2 for the price of 1...and I understand why. It does not make my armpits flawless. In fact, I can't even picture what flawless armpits would look (or smell) like. Aren't armpits like the ghetto of the body anyway? Anyhow, it clumps. Nice white clumps on your nice black t-shirt or your LBD...who hasn't wanted that, right? And the fragrance choices are not my cup of tea. I like the good old standard baby powder smell, and evidently baby powder and flawless do not go hand in had. And the number 1 reason why I'm not crazy about it is, well...it doesn't work. Last week when it was crazy hot here and I was working in an non-air conditioned building for 8 hours, I (*gasp*) smelled. I am a girl, I don't sweat. It's Secret's job to make sure that happens. Grade: F...not flawless at all.

2. I'm not a big fan of chap stick or lip balm. It's usually really thick, smells gross and tastes even worse. But in the aforementioned heat, my lips got really dry, which I don't really understand, but whatever. I try to avoid it because I always break out in these zits on my lip line because they're too greasy, and then I look like I have a cold sore, which I absolutely do not. I broke down and bought Blistex Deep Moisture Renewal, which promised to make your lips look younger. Yup, younger. And deep moisture, how you could resist that promise, I just don't know. And it smells nice, it tastes kinda fruity, and it's not too thick. However, it makes my lips drier than they were when I put it on. I think there might be a flaw in the product. Grade: C-, flawless armpits - maybe not. Flawless lips - absolutely essential.

3. Cigarettes. I know, I know, who actually likes them. Well, I guess people who smoke 4 packs a day would say they like them. I quit smoking after 10 years of smoking in January. I made a New Year's Resolution to have smoother skin and ended up quitting smoking instead. Then in June, on my 5 month anniversary of not smoking I had a cigarette. And it was glorious. Truthfully, I got this horrible buzz, felt like I was going to throw up, and coughed up a lung. So, I decided to have another one, just to see if it happened again. And then it all came back to me. The smell, the feel of the smoke in my hand, the taste. I'm so mad at myself. Quitting was the hardest thing I ever, ever had to do. You know, they say it's harder than quitting heroin (and boy, was that hard for me...haha...ha.) And I did it cold turkey. Every time I smoke now, I feel guilt. Guilt for letting myself down, letting my son down, letting my family down. One in two people die from smoke related illnesses. I'm inhaling formaldehyde, for eff's sake. I feel sluggish, my muscles ache, and I feel guilty. Grade: F (for me. I fail.)

4. Food. If I'm not smoking, I'm eating. Guilt, guilt, guilt. I need to create a healthy relationship with food. Chocolate should be a food group, and then I would be set. Grade: A (for food in general), D (for my eating habits)

5. Revolutionary Road. In a word, ugh! Boring. I understand that they had to create a premise for discontentment, but come on - an hour and a half of boring. Even the affairs were boring. But it's one of those movies where you have to keep watching because you think, 'Oh, it just has to get better.' The Usual Suspects was that for me, a little slow throughout and then the last five minutes make it one of the best movies ever. But not Revolutionary Road. No, it gets worse. It goes from boring to downright depressing. The only good thing about it was how it made me realize how lucky I am to love my life. Grade: D (for depressing)

5 is the new 4!

Wow, where does the time go? Five years have gone by so fast. It's so cliche, I know, but it flies by. In some ways it feels as though it were just yesterday that Q was born and in others it feels like a lifetime ago. His birthday is also a reminder that the older he gets, the older I am. But then I remind myself, this isn't about me! I can remember exactly how I felt when I looked at him for the first time. I remember the doctor saying "It's a boy!" and thinking, "well of course he is." See, we didn't know the sex before he was born, but I knew. I knew. One day a friend said she had a feeling I had a boy, and I felt this little flip in my stomach and I just knew. I wanted to call him Owen and when I spoke to him as I rubbed my tummy, I would say "Oh, little O, your Momma loves you!" His father, however, thought that Q would forever be haunted by Danny Devito's character in 'Throw Mama From the Train' who coincidentally was named Owen, and so baby O became Q. (I know you ask what 5 year old has watched this movie 25 years after it came out, as I asked the very question myself. My only answer to this is that there is no explaining dumb.) Other aspects I can't remember at all. I close my eyes and try to remember my baby and his smell and it gets fuzzy. It's almost impossible to me that the 5 year old standing in front of me used to be my baby! I asked him today if he felt any different as a 5 year old and he replied, "Actually," (this is his new word, act-chew-alley) "5 feels the same as 4. I think maybe I need to go to sleep first, and when I wake up tomorrow, then I will feel 5." Of course having the party next week (summer babies...cursed by vacationing friends...) just confuses things even more... "so, I'm 5 but I'm actually still 4?!?!???" Unfortunately, I had to work this evening, but I made sure to call him at 9:51pm and wish him a happy birthday. "Five years ago tonight, you and I had a date my love! Do you want me to sing Happy Birthday to you?" "No," he replied, "Just practice for when I wake up in the morning!" Geez, the pressure is on! If you had asked me five years ago where I would be now, well...'here' would not be my answer. But wow, what an amazing gift my son is. Everyday he opens my eyes to a new and beautiful world. He is a constant reminder of everything that is pure and innocent and wonderful. I love his personality, I love his sense of humour. I love the person he is becoming. I look at him sometimes and my heart swells with such love I cannot even explain it. And if I could I would kiss him all day, every day. I will never tire of his kisses, and I love to be his Mommy. I am blessed beyond words to have him in my life. So, while the last five years may not have been what I expected, I wouldn't trade them for the world.

Happy Birthday, Q. Thank you for being mine.

Q, Mommy, and Uncle Dd

Wednesday Weigh In (week 4)

Is it Wednesday already? Really? Sigh...

Nothing. I've lost nothing (except maybe a bit of dignity...) The thing is, I've found a loophole in the whole "taking the stairs" plan. There is this new invention, I don't know if you've heard of it before, it's called an escalator. Get this, they're moving stairs. So, I can take the stairs without actually moving. If you haven't guessed it yet, my building has these new fanangled moving stairs and I've been using them. Often.

My relationship with food is different from most people. I mean, yes I eat when I'm bored. But most people eat when they're depressed, to fill a void. Not me. I eat when I'm happy. Right now, I'm super content with my life. So I eat yummy food. Like Chocolate. And Ice Cream. And Ice Cream with Chocolate on top. Mmmmm, Chocolate!

And I hate cooking. It seems like such a waste of time for me, so I avoid it as much as possible. Especially if it's just for me. Q is always so impressed when I do cook, "Mommy, this is actually good!!" he says, a little shocked, which - truth be told - I am as well. Eating also seems like a waste of time. The flaw in this plan is that I tend to eat "fast" food (a.k.a fat food). If someone out there could invent a pill for me to take that pops in my stomach into a 3 course meal with all the nutrients that I need to survive, I would take it. Gladly. And, I wouldn't take credit for the idea either. Oh sure, NASA has probably invented this, but if it's not on the shelf at Safeway, it doesn't do me much good, now does it?

Generally, eating never makes me feel good. I always feel bloated or pain or a combination of the two. Of course, the hypochondriac in me thinks I should go to the doctor about this. The realist in me thinks I just need to stop eating so much junk.

Stats:

Height: 5'5

Weight: 158 (ack. I actually gained)

Weight loss to date: oh, nevermind...

The Hubby Express

I'm the third one from the right, in the pink...

Okay, okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating just a little bit. My skytrain experience is nothing like this....but I've often said that life is soooo much more interesting with exaggerations (ooohhh, and sound effects!!) For instance, if I said there was 20 people on the skytrain today, you'd think that was ho-hum boring, I know you would because I'm bored just thinking about it. BUT, if I said there was like 20 million people on the skytrain, you'd be intrigued. You'd know there weren't really that many people on the train, because that would be ridiculous - and impossible - but you let your mind go there anyways. And I get my point across... It's so funny that I think I might meet my future Mr. Hubby on the skytrain. But there are alot of men who use mass transit. And they're stuck there. On the train, sitting in front of me. It seems like the perfect place to hand pick Mr. Hubby. I should probably preface this post by saying that I am a freak magnet. No matter where I go, or whom I with I attract people who are a little...um...nuts. The skytrain is no different. For the most part, I just mind my own business on the train (oh, except for this gorgeous man who got on last week. He was absolutely perfect. I just stared at him. Tall, skin like milk chocolate and absolutely beautiful hands. The whole trip, I drooled. He didn't even acknowledge my existence. I thought about faking a coughing spell...but then something in me decided that me coughing up a lung would not be attractive...next time, I might try a sneezing attack. Sneezing is cute, right??) Oh where was I??? Oh yes, I do mind my own business. I read a book, or I do the crossword and sudoko in the free newspapers. I figure that my future Mr. Hubby will think "Oh, she's smart. Look, she's doing the crossword!" Although, just rereading what I wrote, that could work against me..."My grandma does crosswords, who does crosswords? What, does she knit too?" Hmmm, something to consider... Friday's are the best for entertainment on the train. Everyone has been out, having fun, drinking a few too many, and I'm sober. I've been at work. One night I get in a car with 5 guys who decided to take the party on board. And one starts hitting on me (can you say beer goggles? I'm dressed like a janitor, need I say more?) with this absolutely brilliant line, "Wow, you're too hot to work for a post office!" To which I respond, "Oh, that's not fair. Hot girls need jobs too, you know!" Then I continued on with my crossword. Another time, I sit beside this normal looking woman who begins to tell me that I am a gift from God. I have been sent into this world to save people like her. Wow! That's a whole lotta pressure. I smile and nod and pretend to be really interested in my crossword puzzle. But she continues, "No, I'm serious. God put you here for me. To save me. You're an angel. Because you know there are people out there who will TAKE YOU DOWN." By this time she's shouting "They will F#!* with your mind and they will destroy you. But not you. No, you're an angel." I was still smiling at this time. Maybe more so out of fear...but, then the one thing happened that I will not stand for. At all. She leans over and tries to help me with my crossword!!! Um, no. My crossword is my crossword. Go get your own. Crosswords are sacred. One packed and sweltering afternoon, this guy gets on behind me. And I can hear this clicking sound. Quiet enough, but annoying. Then, out of nowhere, this guy yells, "Geronimo!!" at the top of his lungs, and I think, "Oh shit, I'm going to die on the skytrain." The train goes silent. No one knows what to do. Does he have a gun? What was the clicking noise? Slowly, I turn around and see the guy...and he's got a...pen. Yup, he has a pen in his hand and he's clicking it. And I guess he yelled "Geronimo" just because it seemed like a good idea. He was smiling. He got off at the next stop without incident. I've seen things you should never see in public. I've seen fights. I've seen way too drunk 16 year old girls puke beside me. One guy cried the whole ride. What do you do with that? It's awkward. Do you offer a tissue? I've been asked if I'm the one driving the skytrain. Um, do you see a steering wheel (or a button, maybe? Like a green one for go, and a red one for stop?) Maybe he thought I was the one who announced all the stops, I don't know, but he was serious. I've smelled more armpits, actually body odor in general, than I care to admit. Maybe I should stop looking for Mr. Hubby on the train...

Love, love, love it!!

What a day, what a day! Busy, busy and busy! It was a fabulous day, really, I'm pleased to say! Here's what I'm loving this week (and not necessarily in any order) 1. MAC Make-up (www.maccosmetics.com)

I wear this boring uniform every day, you know, with the dreadful steel toed boots...I think I've mentioned them before (a time or two.) And I like to be a girl, a girly girl, we've established that fact as well. If I can't wear fabulous clothes and gorgeous shoes, well...MAC make up is the next best thing. Their colours are just amazing. 2. My Brother's Dodge Ram I am crazy about this thing. My brother needed my car for the week (road trip with a little Kia Spectra is way more economical) Anyways, I am having a love affair with this truck. Granted, parking is the shits, it takes forever for me to park. And I park far, far away from everything just so I don't hit anything. But twin cab, 1/2 tonne, and get this...dude, it has a hemi! I really have no idea what that means, except it's got power. This truck is me. Tough exterior, powerful and confident, with a car seat in the back. Men dig this too! Cute girl driving a big truck, like a man-magnet. I'm loving it!!! 3. Fuchsia scarves (and fuchsia in general, really)

Isn't it gorgeous? I am loving fuchsia. To tie in #1, I actually have fuchsia pigment eye shadow. But, back to the scarf, fall is coming up and I cannot wait to wear my beautiful scarf. Fall can be kinda drab, but not with this scarf. It's hanging by the door, just waiting to be embraced. 4. Brennan Manning's book "the fierce longings of God"

Trust me, I'm not one to preach. But this book is beautifully written and has a wonderful message. I'm reading it right now. If you have ever thought about God, or a higher power, this would be such a great read for you. He talks about how loved we are by Him. And how can it be a bad thing? To be loved is wonderful. To be defined by His love is beyond words. St. Augustine said "Quia amasti me, fecisti me amabilem" or "In loving me, you made me lovable." I falter all the time, far less than perfect, but I am loved nonetheless. Just read the book. 5. Last but certainly not least, this cute bracelet by Brooklyn Thread http://etsy.com/

I am totally coveting this right now. It's just so cute and simple. I absolutely want one in every colour. Check out the blog too...Lifestyle Bohemia. Hope she doesn't mind the shout out!

Wednesday Weigh In (week 3)

Oooooh, that sounds so much better, don't you think? Way better than Monday weigh in. Totally. I think I'll stick with Wednesday Weigh In from now on. I weigh myself at work. We have these huge industrial scales that are used for weighing mail and they're calibrated all the time, so I figure that have to be accurate. I mean, our business depends on it. Well, that and the fact that I don't own a scale. This is purely for sanity purposes. If I had a scale at home, I would weigh myself all the time...ALL the time. I would be obsessed. Well, that and I'm too cheap to buy a good one. There are downsides to weighing myself at work (I know, go figure, right???) The absolute biggest being that I have to weigh myself in front of everyone. I usually saunter over to the scale, very nonchalant. I look around slowly, first to my right then to the left. If no one is watching, I quickly empty my pockets, step on the scale and quickly jump off. Then I take another peek around to make sure no one saw. Of course, if I've actually lost weight I let out a little squeal, so that always gives me away. And this next one probably goes without saying, but I will say it anyways...I have to weigh myself with clothes on. Obviously. I mean emptying my pockets is one thing. Stripping naked would probably get me fired. And I know I'd get caught fumbling with the eff'ing steel toed boots. Don't get me wrong, the thought has crossed my mind...but as a single mommy I need a pay check to oh I don't know...support my child. Call me crazy. Instead I've thought of a compromise. I take off 2 kilos for clothing, boots, attachments that cannot (or should not) be removed in public. Which brings me to problemo #3...Kilos. The scales are in kilos, so I have to then look around for a calculator to find out how much I really weigh. I mean, who thinks in kilos anyways? Not me, and I was taught in kilos. Pounds make so much more sense to me. To those of you who don't know, 1kg = 2.2lbs. Math was never my strong point, so a calculator is essential. Finally, I work afternoon shift. You're supposed to weigh yourself first thing in the morning. Before you eat (but after you pee!) So, my weight loss recording might not be 'accurate', but it's not like I'm entering my findings into a medical journal, so I think we're okay. My clothes are fitting a little looser, I feel lighter. Here are the stats... Height: 5'5 Weight: 157.3 Loss to Date: 5.5lbs Woooo Hooooo!!!!! At this rate, I will be skinny by December. Just in time to eat Christmas sugar cookies and turkey dinner and pumpkin spice latte's and pumpkin pie with whip cream...Anyways, the goal is this 132-135 by December 1. That's a steady 2 lbs per week, with the option to cheat at least once or twice. Will power is not my strong point, as we all know.

Text Wars

I'm a little embarrassed to admit this, after all I am an adult. Here's the deal...I have been having an argument in my head with Mr. (un) fab all evening. I mean, that in itself isn't so childish...I hope. What makes it super childish is that I'm having a text argument with Mr. (un) fab. Our relationship, due to our schedules (or so he says...) has existed almost solely in texts. So, it's really quite fitting that we would fight in texts as well. It's kinda difficult though, because everything I say is limited to 140 characters. Not so easy, because I have to get the emotion right, the words right, all in 140 letters. It's been going something like this... him: hey babe. how was yr wknd? me: yr kiddin rite? him: why? o yr mad? me: uh ya. wats yr excuse now? me: lemme guess...u were abducted by aliens him: no, but...(and here he'll insert some utterly ridiculous excuse for why he stood me up) me: u no wat. nevamind. pls jus go away Ya, that's all I've got so far. It's a work in progress. However in the end, I've decided that the adult thing to do is to just let it be. Let it be. I'm not going to be mean, I'm not going to be a bitch. Silence. This guy just keeps sucking me back in with his smooth words and I think every time, "ya, he's right. I'm totally overreacting here. It's okay." Bottom line, it's NOT okay. Me making excuses for anyone to anyone is not okay. I've given him opportunity after opportunity to redeem himself, and he still keeps doing stupid things. I deserve more than this. One of my best friends always says, "C, women are not crazy. Men make women that way. Us women need to stick together" I usually roll my eyes and think she's crazy, but maybe she is right. Maybe 10% of women are crazy just by nature, the rest have all become bitter, grumpy, suspicious women because MEN have beat them down til they have no other choice. It's called baggage. I wish we could all just let it go. Coincidentally, I also believe that 10% of men are normal, and the remaining 90% are arses. Do the math, it doesn't bode well for us 'normal' women. If some guy has 5 ex's who hate his guts, it is not because he was wonderfully amazing during their relationship. It's more likely he was an ass. I bet he promised the world, then couldn't deliver. I'm going to give my thumbs a little rest and not text Mr. (un) fab. I'm going to save my wit and charm for someone who a) appreciates it and b) won't stand me up. Why? Because I'm worth it!!

I'm in, Totally in

First and foremost, my single mommies...if you are looking for single daddies THE place to go is a water slide park. Seriously, they are everywhere. Everywhere I looked, there was a dad, with a child with no ring and no woman (which I realize is relative, but I'm just saying it's a good starting point...) It almost made me wish I hadn't guilted my brother and his gf to join us! Okay, okay, I loved that they came with us. It was the perfect day!! But, holy geez lesson learned. Single daddies take their kids to water parks. Now I think I'm onto something - Single dad's take their kids places, right? You know because they don't know how to entertain them at home (after all, that's our job as mommies...right?) So, here's the thing...mini golf, bowling, go-karting, swimming pools, amusement parks. Single men will be here with their children. You're welcome!! Please let me know if you have any luck, and I will do the same!! So, Mr. (un)fab totally stood me up all weekend, which actually was 3 days because it was a long weekend. So, not surprised! Of course, I didn't spend the weekend pining for him and waiting by the phone for his call (I have a cell phone...it allows me to wait by the phone without waiting by the phone...this is a minor technicality.) Tonight a friend of mine arranged for a few of us single mom's to get together at Boston Pizza for dinner. It's totally kid friendly and get this...kids eat free as long as parent eat. It was a nice cheap evening. The four kids entertained each other while us mother's bonded over horror birth stories. This is when it hit me. I'm part of a club. An elite club. The "I gave birth and survived" club. Okay, okay so it's not so elite. Basically, if you have an uterus, you're in. But whatever, it's a club and I belong. Men don't get it, women who've never been in labour don't understand. And it's not something you can explain. Every single event is different from the other. One woman was given medication that the doctor mis-prescribed for her during her 5th month and had a heart attack. The doctor's kept shuffling her between the cardiac ward and the maternity ward because they couldn't figure out what needed their attention more, her unborn child or her failing heart. My girlfriend gave birth (as a single mom) to her daughter with a cleft palate. Of course this was unbeknownst to her, so when they whisked her new born away without a word, she got a little agitated...to say the least. Another one had preeclampsia...so was induced at 33 weeks. She gave birth to a 3lb baby who was immediately taken to the NICU. And you all know my story...I'm kinda vocal about it. That's just four stories. Births are taking place every minute (or maybe even every second) of every day. And we're in a developed, wealthy nation with pretty awesome health care. What's your story? I'm pretty adamant that if I'm ever crazy enough to have another baby, I want to be knocked out for the whole thing. They can wake me up when it's over. But for now, I will take pride in knowing that I'm in - totally in - the (crazy) mom's club.

Pity Party for 1

I don't often feel sorry for myself, but tonight I do. It's another Saturday night watching cartoons with Q and I feel down. Every so often I am reminded it is just him and me against the world. I was reminded of this when we went on our road trip at the beginning of the summer. When we pulled into the gas station, or the McD's, or just about anywhere, there was the the picture of the perfect family. Dad pumping the gas, kids laughing in the back, mom buying the snacks. I know every family has a 'story' and no one is as perfect as they seem. But geez, it would be nice to not be alone.

Tonight were the final fireworks in there competition and I really, really wanted to go. (http://www.celebration-of-light.com/) But I didn't want to go alone. They're always really crowded and loud and I hate people when they're pushing me and yelling in my ear. I don't know - it's a huge peeve of mine. Where have manner's gone? (I'm digressing here, I realize...but when you bump into someone, it's just polite to say sorry. I'm just saying...) At least if I go with someone, they can run defence for me (and ensure I don't do something I may regret later.) Besides, how fun is it to watch fireworks by yourself. Oooohing and Ahhhhing to yourself just isn't the same. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't be completely alone, of course Q would be there however adult company is always welcome. Especially at midnight with a tired kid whom I've been carrying on my shoulders for the past 2 hours. Back up is necessary for sanity with an (almost) 5 year old.

Tomorrow we're going to the water slides. By ourselves. No one else can (or will) come with us. There will be the perfect families. You know, the dad, the mom, the kids all laughing and frolicking like a fricken commercial for happiness. I want the hubby who will go down the slides with the kids while I read my magazine or sun tan. I am coveting family right now. Like really bad. I am trying to create a wonderful cohesive life for Q. One where he will look back on his childhood and smile at the memories. Am I doing that? Do I do enough? Would having a daddy at the waterpark really make that much difference? I guess I won't know for the next 15-20 years. For an instant gratification gal, 15 -20 sounds like a life time (oh, wait...it kinda is...)

I was hoping mr. (un)fab would have popped in the pic some time today and we would have made plans to go together. Or maybe my brother and his girlfriend could fit us in. But looks like it'll just be us. Interesting how mr. (un)fab conveniently disappears when the plans are being made. Anyways, pity party for 1. 'Coz that's just how I'm feelin'...