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