Stuff my son says

Gleefully, while pointing urgently at the cookie being unwrapped for him:

"KAKA!"

Questionable compliment of the day #3

Background: This one was given to me by my husband's grandfather a lifetime ago at my brother-in-law, Joel's, bar mitzvah (!!!)  Its ambiguity has kept me replaying it over and over again in my mind since then.

"NOW you look good."

here you go, bro.

It's really about time I did this.
Please check out my brother's website.  It's awesome.
http://www.elinsonphoto.com/

Questionable compliment of the day #2

Background: I received this perky compliment moments after a makeup artist completed her final touches on me  in preparation for a wedding I was going to be marching in.  I might add that I was two months pregnant at the time.

"You clean up really nicely."

Questionable compliment of the day #1

Background: I received this compliment at a BBQ last night, straight after a 3-hour drive back to town from Muskoka (and a dip in the hot tub before the commute).

"I love your hair.  I've been staring at it all night.  It's so whimsical."

Never again, The Bay. Never again.

First off, how great is that pic? Wish I could say I took it, but I didn't.

A couple of days ago, I found myself at the Bay in Yorkdale to purchase a gift for a bridal shower that I was going to attend later that day.  Since my days are pretty scheduled now that I'm a mom, I made sure to call in advance, and put the items on hold so that they wouldn't be snatched up by someone else before I got there.  I had everything figured out to minimize the amount of time I would need to spend in the store with my almost-one-year-old, who was having a bad day.  What I failed to take into consideration was the complete and utter ineptitude of each and every single staff member working there.  "Working," is rather an exaggeration, really.  More like "staring vacantly into space while striving to answer my questions using vaguely comprehensible speech".  If that's working, then they were working really, really hard.  My friend pointed out that The Bay seems to be trying to spruce up its image lately, what with "The Room" downtown and the coolification of "the blanket" that everyone can identify, but nobody actually owns... and yet walking through the Yorkdale store is like walking around in "Today's Special".  In fact, Jeff would have definitely been more helpful, and he's a mannequin.  Speaking of mannequins, I could have propped one up at the checkout counter and ventriloquized the entire (absurdly long and slow) interaction, and it might just have worked out.  It would have made it a lot more enjoyable for me, so maybe next time! No.  Never again, the Bay.  Never again.

Your love keeps lifting me

The first (and one of the only) lines in a new Chemical Brothers song that's awoken a musical obsession in me similar to the kind that used to swallow me up in high school.  It's been a while since a simple piece of music (really - it's surprisingly simple) has been able to instantly peel through my layers and end up where important things go.  So refreshing to know that I'm still vulnerable to this kind of bliss.

So long sushi?

Last night, Dave proclaimed that he would never eat fish ever again.  I've heard him say it before, but I think there was something about David Suzuki's somber voice on last night's episode of The Nature of Things that must have really affected him.  I'd be lying if I said it didn't affect me too... I just think my attachment to sushi is far greater than Dave's is, and the idea of completely cutting all fish out of my diet scares the bejesus out of me.  I love my sushi.  I mean, I really LOVE it.  My 9-month pregnancy-induced sushi hiatus was very difficult for me, and I'd rather not put myself through that again.  I will admit, however, that with every mention of the dying ocean and the possibility that 40 years from now not a single fish will be left in the vast, vast sea, and the fact that this would gradually and irreversably destroy pretty much all life on earth, I get one step closer to becoming a seafood-shunning activist.  If you really think about it, maybe it makes perfect sense that human beings ought to keep their fishing nets the hell out of the ocean.  It really is akin to taking our big blind hands and reaching deep into something that we know very little about, only to steal massive fistfuls of delicious things that may or may not disappear forever and change the face of the earth before we've even had our fill.  We're not a part of that ecosystem, so why do we eat from it? On the other hand, are we even a part of our own ecosystem anymore (besides being a menace to it)? It's really starting to seem that vegetarianism might be in the cards for me one day soon...

Princess Diaries

Because I am a contender for the "Worst Housewife in the history of Houses and Wives" award, Dave and I decided that a cleaning lady was probably a good idea.  There a few things in my world that I sit with and ponder on a daily basis (no doubt things that I should probably be doing something about rather than pondering).  One of the issues that resurfaces daily without fail is what I feel is my handicap for cleaning.  I feel very much stuck about it because frankly I'm tired of how much psychological stress it causes me.  For me, it's really boiled down to quite a simple question: would I like to admit that I suck at keeping a clean house and hire someone to help me, or should I just continue to torture myself with berating self-talk about my slothfulness in the hopes that it will eventually motivate me to change?

I was recently over at a friend's (spotless) house and she casually explained that since giving birth to her daughter, she has become anal when it comes to the cleanliness of her floors.  It was the kind of comment that wasn't really the point of whatever she was saying, but I couldn't get past it.  I asked her how I could get anal too.  Make me anal!! I want  clean floors without paying someone else to do it too! More importantly, I want to WANT to make my floors clean! Then my mind decided that I must obviously be a terrible mother for not caring what kind of floor my son crawls on all day.  I mean, I do dustbust the floor everyday to get rid of edible (and more importantly, I guess, inedible) little dangers, but wet-cleaning it? Daily? It's not in me! What would my grandmother say? When my grandmother invites us over, she always makes sure to mention that she cleaned her floor today just for us.  I don't have the heart to tell her that it's ok - she doesn't have to worry about it if it's just for us.  Then I'm racked with double-shame: first for the fact that my 89-year old grandmother washes her own floors more often that I do, and second, for not explaining to her that she can rest up today; no washing is necessary for these visitors.

So, seriously.  Am I a bad person for being bad at cleaning? I never had to do "chores" while growing up - my family had a cleaning lady that took care of all that for us.  Is this where my handicap came from, or was I born without the clean gene? I do like things to be tidy, but I don't seem to notice the progression from clean to dirty until it's too late and the project is an overwhelming mess.  Why can't I be one of those people that gets joy out of tidying up a room and moving on to the next? Better yet, why can't I be one of those people that gets joy out of keeping everything neat and tidy so that the overwhelming mess never happens in the first place? 

I owe this blog an update, so here it is.  I lost steam for a little while - not sure what happened.  I guess I got busy with other things.  What's that you say? Nothing could be more important than this blog? You're absolutely right.  I am henceforth renewing my commitment to Lovey Dov and vow to be more consistent with my posting.  When I have the time.  And the inclination.

Check out my tomatoes!!!

This is very exciting to me.  I can hardly stop myself from picking them right now.  I bother them every day, smother them with my attention.  If they were my children, they would grow up to hate me.

If you think that's all, you're mistaken.  Check out my raspberries (which I was surprised to find were raspberries seeing as they were supposed to be blackberries).  I ate one yesterday, and it was delicious.

 And my cucumber:

notice the little yellow flowers - that means the cukes are on their way...

and finally, my green pepper:

Something has been feasting on my green pepper leaves, and I'm not happy about it.  Still, my little pepper plant is feisty and has recently shot up some flowers.  Looks like I'll have me some peppers for my salad soon!!! I'm so proud of my pepper plant.  I could learn a thing or two from my pepper about not going down without a fight.

Sadly, my melon plant has withered unto itself into a ball of shame.  I don't know what I did wrong, but it makes me sad to look at it.  It asked not to be photographed, so I've respected its wishes.  Maybe it sensed my skepticism about it from the get-go.  It was almost an ironic buy.  I never really believed it would work out - not even a melon should be brought into this world under those circumstances, I guess.

I am also sad to report that my blueberries went on strike.  There were a few scabs here and there, early in the season, but they were quickly taken back by the mob.  No blueberry pancakes for me this year.  I will have to dig them up and replant them somewhere else for next year. 

So far, I'm really pleased with the way my garden is going.  It seems that I've paid all my attention to my garden, though, and let all the good stuff at the front of my house kind of get crazy and out of hand.  I was admonished by my mother-in-law yesterday for all the weeds.  I felt sheepish, considering the time we spent working on it together and my promises to keep it beautiful. 

Stuff my son says

As I lean over into his crib first thing in the morning to say hello to his shiny happy face, I get a resolute "Bye-bye", complete with requisite wave.

Tomorrow, we might retire our practicing of the "bye-bye" and move on to something new.  Like "Hello," perhaps...

Stuff my son says

So, we'll see if I have enough material to make this a regular contribution to my blog, but it's definitely entertaining enough (for me, at least) to mention whenever he gives me the material.  Keep in mind that he's 9 months old and is just learning that he's able to string together various sounds that sometimes resemble the sounds of grown-up conversation (sort of).

Anyway, yesterday I picked him up off the floor to give him some I-love-you-so-much kisses all over his face, and I asked him if he wanted some lunch, to which he seamlessly replied "DEATH MAMA!!!!" in what I can only describe as a deep, horror movie shriek.  It was quite something.  And if it weren't for the adorable look on his face shortly after he got it out of his system, I might have even been a bit spooked, thinking I've got myself a little Stewie Griffin on my hands.

So... that would make Dave Peter Griffin then.  Hehehehe.

Green stuff

Woah - two posts in one day.  But as I sit here and wonder about who is going to water the lawn and garden tonight (it's been something like a week solid without rain here in Toronto), I'm reminded that I haven't documented my herbs, tomatoes or berries yet.  Here they are:

                                                                    My herbs

                                                    Black Krim heirloom tomatoes

                                                    Sweet Million cherry tomatoes

                                      Blackberry, Better Bush tomato, Strawberry

Blueberries

I realize that there's not much to look at yet right now, but it's exciting to watch for the first little signs of what might later be fruit.  I'm particularly excited for my heirloom tomatoes to start showing themselves. Apparently, they're called "Black Krim" because of how deep and dark their flesh is (and because they are originally from the Crimean Peninsula).  So thrilling.

I'm concerned for my blueberries, which had to be planted behind the shed due to a lack of space in the sun.  I originally had them planted in a different location, but uprooted them and replanted them in their current, sunnier spot.  Still, I'm not holding out too much hope for them.  Especially because I have no idea what my soil pH is, and apparently blueberries require an acidic soil to thrive.  Without getting too excited, though, I will say that I definitely am seeing teensy-weensy little blue buds beneath the little white bell flowers on my plants.  Are those my future blueberry pancakes? Only time will tell.

Look but don't touch. And definitely don't eat.

I went crazy today and bought a bunch of hideously overpriced tropical fruits at the grocery store.  I did avoid the dragon fruit, which they dared to peddle at $7.99 EACH, but something about the guavas was calling out to me, seducing me.  Their aroma instantly brought me back to my summer in Costa Rica and Colombia, lolling on the beach, sipping fresh fruit shakes from carts on the street... but now that I have them at home with me, I'm at an impasse.  I sliced one up, took a mouthful, and very nearly damaged every single one of my teeth.  Somehow, I allow this to happen to me every few years.  It's like my memories for tropical fruits last only so long before the slate is wiped clean.  Then, out of the blue one day (that would be today), bubbles pop in my head as I stand in front of the guavas and decide it's a great idea to take some home with me.  Laura, guavas aren't worth the trouble.  They're a TEASE.  Maybe immortalizing this day in your blog will serve to remind you of this in three years when the guavas flirt with you again from their fragrant little display.

A budding gardener.

Today was my inauguration as a gardener.  My Jane-of-all-trades/Mother-in-law was in town today, working on our garden (because the last time I picked up a gardening tool, it was made of plastic and came with a My Little Pony bucket).  I took that opportunity to absorb as much information about gardening as I could before she left.  I cringed as branches from my rose bush (which were dead, I later learned) were brazenly snapped off.  I watched a weeding tool lithely uproot prickly things called Thistles from my lawn, saving Jacob many a tear, I'm sure.  I learned that Rhododendrons are a type of hardy bush, not a geometric shape as previously believed.  I helped to plant basil, sage, rosemary, thyme, and parsley in my herb box, next to my explosion of chives, some of which I had to pull out to keep it under control.  I gave a fistful of chives to my brother because I simply didn't know what I could possibly do with so many chives all at once.  Did you know that chives grow a pretty purple flower which is edible and quite delicious? I read somewhere that if you soak a bunch of chive blossoms in vinegar for a couple of weeks, it infuses the vinegar with amazing taste, and you can use it for dressings, or any time a recipe calls for vinegar.  I was so inspired by today's lessons that I ran out to my local garden centre and bought three different kinds of tomato plants, and four different berry plants.  If it doesn't rain, I'll plant them tomorrow, somewhere sunny.

1000 ways to help the world

My friend Akila just launched her website - www.1000waystohelptheworld.com - and I'm kvelling with excitement right now.  She's been brewing something like this in her mind for probably her whole life, and she's finally done something to get a step closer to her dream of making the world a better place.  As of right now, I think there are only two entries, but I just know it's going to take off and become bigger than big.  Akila, my self-indulgent blog and I heartily salute you.

We had a good run, m&m's.

For reasons you really don't want me to get into,  I've recently put myself on a somewhat strict diet of reduced sugar and other crappy foods.  Considering how important sugar was to my diet prior to this (and by important, I mean mandatory in a non-negotiable sort of way, especially after dinner), it's pretty remarkable that I'm rolling along, barely even thinking about the junk that used to be such an important part of my life.  When sheer willpower won't cut it, go out and get yourself some good ol' IBS.  It may not seem worth the trade-off at first, but it's a great way to stop beating yourself up about how the caramel eggs (or all dressed chips, or Greg's roasted marshmallow ice cream, or all of the above) always seem to win.  Unfortunately, in my case, it's true what they say about eating a little bit of junk food.  It's not actually possible.  One cookie at night leads to two the next night, which then leads to two cookies and a twizzler on night #3.  Eventually, it's unfathomable that I should just not eat something deliciously useless before bed.  Enter digestive disorder.  Lash out with expletives at my shitty luck (pardon the pun), and ultimately... be thankful? I didn't see that one coming, but there it is.  Sometimes you need a kick in the ass (really, I'm sorry) to get in line.  Now the real question is, how long will I be able to stick with my new eating habits once my life gets back to normal?

A mother of a comedy

The other morning (a mere half hour after my husband and I discussed the merits of my returning to work in September), my eight-month old son wrestled me for the remote so that he could change the channel.  Before I could even react, he had grabbed the remote out of my hand and single-mindedly clicked to the movie "Mr. Mom".  It was the scene where Terri Garr is about to get into a limousine that will carry her off to a business meeting, leaving her sad children motherless until her return.  Soooo.... is it just me, or was that an excellent example of the universe smacking me across the face with a cold fish? I keep asking for direction here, for some synchronistic sign to help me decide what to do.  Could it be that my answer arrived in the form of a 1983 John Hughes comedy?

Fall fashion is for fall.

As much as I love to look good, there are several reasons why I've sort of always peered into the world of fashion from the sidelines.  It's fun to explore every so often, but it's not what makes me tick, you know?  Now that the trees are starting to bloom and there are pretty little tulips in my garden, I've been alerted to one of the reasons that I will never be on the cutting edge of fashion.  Here it is.  Spring is just too important to me, and I refuse to skip over it.  In fact, fashion asks me not just to skip over it for summer's sake, but in the name of fall.  That, my fashiony friends, is simply too much to ask.  Every April, just as I am finally waking up for the year, seeing things more clearly, breathing more deeply, admiring nature's pastels, I am bombarded with browns and tweeds and leathers and this year, of all things, FURS.  I understand, maybe, that somewhere in southern California or Hawaii, these things are ok - maybe even exciting - considering the lack of seasonal variation.  As a Canadian, however, I profoundly object.  I might go so far as to say that I am offended.  Maybe even violated.  All winter, I wait patiently while I gradually all but disappear into white walls, growing more bear-like in size as my metabolism hibernates in a cave of occasional SAD.  In the throes of winter, the summer selections on the runways mock me more than comfort me.  "Hahaha," they laugh, "maybe you can wear me if you lose at least 10 pounds and Toronto GETS a summer this year!" (Apparently, expert senior forecaster with AccuWeather.com, Joe *actual name* Bastardi, was right last year when he said that 2009 was shaping up to be "the year without a summer").  All this considered, it's no surprise that fashion just doesn't excite me.  They're already working two seasons ahead of the game; couldn't the fashion designers of the world all just agree to kick it up a notch and focus on creating the looks for one year from now? That way, in April, I'd be seeing what will be hot next April.  And there would be no danger of me cheating and wearing next year's looks this year because nobody but the exclusive designers will have had a chance to make any of those clothes yet.  Plus, I'd be too busy actually enjoying the weather to worry about it.  Who's game?

tersec, screte, creste, streec, ...

There comes a point in everyone's life when it becomes important to identify the little things that you do that no longer serve you and to stop doing those things as quickly as possible.  I've long since passed that point, and am still living with a scrambled up little secret.  I am a compulsive boggle player.  Specifically (to further embarrass myself), the Facebook application of boggle they call Scramble.  There it is!! It feels good to announce that to the world.  In my case, I'm not sure that habit ever actually served me in the first place, but it sure has been fun.  There's just something about the thrill of knowing there are hundreds of little words hidden in that board, waiting for someone eagle-eyed and astute and wordsy to find them all.      It's also a convenient way for me to feel that I'm somehow accomplishing something important, like a hundred times a day.  Unfortunately, as my husband likes to remind me when I'm sitting at the computer at 2:00 a.m., fighting my eye twitch to just win one more round, I'm not really accomplishing anything important at all.  Those not-so-gentle reminders are harsh, but I suppose they're necessary.  I'm not sure anyone other than me cares that I'm the #1 top scramble player out of all my scramble-playing friends.  Or that I often place 1st when I compete against other anonymous shlums in those sad cyber-rooms where all of us boggle dorks get together and flex our word muscles.  Anyway, now that it's out in the open, I'm not entirely sure what will happen.  Is this my first step in moving on to more productive ways to spend whatever free time I now have?  Maybe.  Honestly, though, I am hoping that you will read this and decide that you would immediately like to challenge me to a game of scramble.  Go on, you know you want to.