12 Reasons to go Back to Work after 12 Years

1. You get offered a near-perfect job. The hours fit, the work suits you, the commute is short, and you still get to sit around in your jammies for three weekdays and a weekend if you so choose (and you so choose). You've been working from home doing contracts for a couple of years, but this will get your foot in the office door once again.

2. The heating company is sending you polite reminders to pay your exorbitant oil bill, and any offers made by you to "work it out in trade" have resulted in the threat of sexual harrassment lawsuits.  Prudes.

3. Going somewhere where the furniture isn't covered in peanut butter stains* is a nice change of pace.

4. Being able to think clearly - and not just in between bouts of intense fighting/screaming/threatening/toy-launching - is a really neat trick that you look forward to.

5. Getting organized down to the minutest detail the night before you drive everyone to school and yourself to work brings out your inner OCD Virgo, and she tingles with glee at the thought. Lunches made, clothes laid out, house clean, bags packed-- oh, there we go, getting all excited again...

6. You just happen to work for the coolest boss lady on the planet, and you're not even exaggerating all that much, even though she reads your blog. (Reading your blog, incidentally, just ups her coolness level, anyway). You've known her for awhile, share a mutual love of caffeine and Doctor Who, and she gets what it's like to be a mom who's trying to balance a job, too. I have struck managerial gold, people. May this mine be bountiful.

7. The Boss Lady says you can use the space during off hours to practice with your Justin Bieber interpretive dance troop. (You did say that was okay, right, Nat? I'm pretty sure you also said you wanted to join)

8. After your first day of work, there's a knock on the door, and a flower shop delivery person hands you a big bouquet of these:

Thank you for being my cheerleader, Lil. It means a lot! xo

9. After over a decade, you get a little giddy saying "I have to go to the office this morning." In fact, any excuse to say it is welcome, and your Facebook statuses are filled with those words to a sickening degree. Thankfully, everyone must sense your excitement, because they're being uber supportive. Thus, when you're CEO of Awesomecorp (I'm a working mom now, folks. It's all about ambition! AMBITION!!) you shall reward them all for their allegiance to your corporate ladder climbing campaign.

10. As a writer, you're going to enjoy coming up with interesting ways to present your administrative assistant tasks during Career Day at your child's school. It takes an enormous amount of talent to make "filing" and "proofreading" sound like "surgical rotation" and "space exploration," but I think I can do it. I look forward to exercising my imagination muscles like most other parents on the planet.

11. Because you finally had an excuse (like you needed an excuse) to buy one of these beautiful things to put in place of worship upon your kitchen counter:

My life is now complete.

12. Your husband hugs you this morning, hands you a coffee, and says "I just want to thank you for everything you do to keep this family running smoothly. You're amazing and beautiful.**" And that small little thing blossoms into a really big thing and makes you get all teary. Dammit. And you realize that all the work you do - both inside and outside the home - is incredibly important to the your little family. That feels so. very. good.

*The jury's still out on whether or not those stains are peanut butter or another brown, organic substance, but I will deny, deny, deny until it can be proven otherwise.

**Okay, maybe he didn't say the "beautiful" part, but that was assumed, even in my nasty pyjama pant getup. It's not a workday, okay? Cut me some slacks.

What I'll do for a Coffee

Yesterday, after the arrival but of not one, but two coffees at my doorstep, I obviously bragged all over Facebook and on my blog. "Look at me!" I declared with only slightly more tact. "I have a coffee! That someone brought me! In a snowstorm!" Followed an hour or so later by, "Neener, neener! Another coffee just for The Maven! It's great to be me!"

Naturally, people asked how this could happen. What do I, The Maven of Mayhem, do to deserve such gifts? And, honestly, I had to give it some thought, too. I'm so grateful to my wonderful friends, but what on earth makes people want to do nice things for me?

Is it because I'm generous? Not exactly.

Kind? Um, I guess. Sometimes. When I feel like it.

Thoughtful? Only when I have time to be because I'm not dealing with kids in crisis - which is, like, never.

Insightful? The only sight I'm full of is the mess in my kitchen. I'm not exactly a wise guru on a mountain (unless that mountain consists of laundry).

I couldn't come up with an obvious answer, which made me realize that others probably can't, either. So, I need to dispel a possible conclusion before it turns into rumours:

I am not a hooker. Let's just get that out of the way, ok? I do not have sex with people for material gain. It's not that I'm anti-escorting per say, it's just that it's not my chosen career path. I'm already plenty busy. I'm a writer and editor and doula, after all. It would be hard to fit another job description on my business card:

The Maven

Writer/Editor/Postpartum Doula/Call Girl

It doesn't flow very well. And besides, if I were going to put out, I would be charging a lot more than coffee. Just sayin'.

So now that we all know I don't have a secret stash of fishnet stockings I'm willing to don in the name of caffeine, there's really only one viable reason people might be so nice to me:

Animal magnetism.

That has to be it. If I'm not particularly generous, kind, thoughtful or insightful, then what else could it be? I must be a sexy beast of epic proportions (well, I'm only a size 18 - not exactly epic, but significant). For whatever reason, people are drawn to my hotness and feel the need to show me by giving me hot things, like a steamy cup of java. They probably don't realize it themselves; it's just something they have to do.

(... What do you mean, I'm wrong? I can't be wrong! There's no other good reason! Well, other than the giant squid. I mean, that fine piece of art could potentially evoke feelings in others they may not know they even have. Regardless, I'm going to ignore you and go with my original theory of sheer hotness.)

Not only have my friends been kind, but Karma herself decided to treat me extra gently the last couple of days. Gutsy, determined to get caught up in school, has been on time two days in a row. He also did 45 minutes of homework and cursive writing practice with me last night. He's definitely struggling with cursive, but I think it's because he's afraid of not doing it perfectly. Nevertheless, he stayed calm and did everything I asked him to do.

I could throw a damn parade, I'm so happy. I very nearly cried tears of joy this morning after I dropped him off at school. It's funny how we can take small things for granted, sometimes; a reminder to celebrate the little things with my gremlins three. Geekster and I have been showering the boy with praise every time he works hard. The glow in his face is a beautiful thing.

And, not to forget the other two horned ones, I should mention that Spawnling is learning to sound out words and read a little bit: cat, hat, mat, fat, sat, lion, truck, plane. He's since called me "fat" and/or "fatty" a few times when angry. I've created a monster. Pleasant. Where's the "undo" option? Maybe I should teach him how to spell R-U-D-E.

Intrepid was one of 12 kids in his school asked to participate in a city-wide week at university in May. The courses he's chosen are all in biotechnology, medicine and psychology. He'll hopefully get one of his top picks, but it depends on availability. You know, I'm just happy to have a fourteen-year-old who isn't expelled and drinking every day, which was what I was doing at his age. The university thing is icing on the cake. We're beyond proud of that big boy of ours. I look back at the naysayers who thought us fools for having him as young and unexpectedly as we did, and I secretly hope they read my blog. And, while I did worry myself sick sometimes wondering if we had doomed him to a life of demographic hardship, he's proven to us that awesome genes do traverse generations. Way to go, Intrepid. We're fiercely proud of you!

And, finally, stay-at-home-mayhem has its own Facebook page! It's about time, right? Since I'm an admitted Facebook addict, I'm on there a lot and will be updating regularly. So have a look, click the "LIKE" button, and join in the fun. It hasn't even been up 24 hours yet and there's a fair bit of fandom going on. I promise not to let it go to my head - much.

Must run. This sexy animal and her spawn need to head out for a coffee date.

Dog Walkers Don't Need Cappucinos

I like Christmastime, I really do. The music, the lights, the warm hearts, family gatherings, and my belly full of seasonal lattes.

I won't lie: the lattes inch further up the list every year. Soon I'll be wishing everyone a merry Gingerbread Spice day.

And I like buying gifts for people. They'll be small this year to match our budget, but thoughtful and wrapped in love, with a pretty little boy of joy.

(I know that was puke-tastic. I wrote it that way on purpose. If Jobthingy can make us gag on her and her boyfriend's love every freaking Saturday, I want to join the party and stamp my blog name on some barf bags. It's good advertising until you get close enough to smell it.)

But something happened this morning that cracked my pretty snow globe and spilled Christmas spirit all over the kitchen floor. I got a flier (I hate fliers, by the way - they make trees cry) from Second Cup, a reputable Canadian coffee house. Excited at first, I opened it up and instantly lost my holly jolly. There were two reasons, and they are:

1. There are no coupons. How dare someone make a flier about coffee and not include a coupon? When I'm Universal President I will demand a law be put into place banning such terrible business practices.

2. There is a list of people one should "remember" to buy gifts for. Surprisingly, this list is my biggest beef; moreso than the lack of coupons. Maybe it's because I'm not a commercial kind of gal. I shudder when, on the morning after Halloween, I find Christmas decorations hanging in the grocery store. I despise hearing Xmas muzac pumped of mall speakers any time before December 1st. So frankly, this list made me want to jingle someone's bells, and I mean that in the least jolly and least perverted sense possible.

There are plenty of occasions to give plenty of people the gift of coffee. Pretty much any time is fine with me (like when the Coffee Fairy did so this morning, which was so good of her). However, there are certain people I do not feel the need to buy caffeine or caffeine-related products for at Christmas time. People like:

Workmates, from the boss to the mailroom boy: Um, seriously? If you're going to bribe your way to the next promotion, at least make it sparkly and diamond shaped like, oh, say, a diamond. And the "mailroom boy"? For reals? I didn't realize we were living in a 1950's comic book.

Personal trainer and yoga instructor: Thank you for showing me how weak and pathetic my body is. Please accept this gift of carb-filled hot chocolate mix, which of course I will not drink because it might make my soul fat.

Nanny and babysitters: Wait. You can have both? At the same time? Why wasn't I aware of this? I don't have either, but if I did I'd be really broke and couldn't afford to get them much anyway. However, speaking from experience as a former daycare provider, if you're going to spoil anyone this year, make it the chick who wipes your kid's butt for (very little) money. She's a gift from the heavens and you should treat her as such.

Hair stylist and esthetician: I tip them every. single. time. Now I have to buy them a Christmas gift, too? I appreciate what they do, but doesn't my monetary gratuity reflect that already? (Incidentally, I don't have a regular hair stylist or esthetician at the moment. But if I did I suppose I'd have the means to buy them gifts)

School bus driver and dog walker: What the hell? Are you lumping the person who walks my canine and the person I trust to get my child safely to and from school in the same category? This is not equal billing. It's like saying "Influential artists, like Beethoven and N*Sync" I don't have a dog walker, but I'm sure they're lovely people. Still, they don't drive a large vehicle full of loud children down busy streets to and from a busy school. That person is a saint and deserves some Christmas cookies. I never forget the bus driver.

Doorman and cleaning people: Aha! Now I'm starting to figure out who this pamphlet is really for. People who live in Manhattan. I've seen enough movies to know that all doormen reside in Manhattan.

Doctor, dentist and veterinarian: Are you kidding me? There have been years when I've indirectly purchased a new game console and half a trip to Maui for my family's medical professionals. They should be buying me Second Cup gifts.

Neighbours and friends: And maybe acquaintances, too? Oh, and that guy who drives past my house in the morning? And the old lady I sometimes see in the produce section of the grocery store on Tuesdays? We are in a recession, people. The money tree I planted hasn't bloomed yet, but as soon as it does I'll start boxing up a little something for all my Twitter followers, too. Promise.

What was supposed to be a handy dandy guilt list checklist has now been picked apart by yours truly. Second Cup, I may have been more forgiving if you had included a $1.00 off coupon or some such. It would have lessened the blow of your blatant faux pas - the one where you insinuate we should buy for absolutely everyone, thus sucking the life out of our bank accounts and destroying the earth simultaneously.

Everyone needs to stop killing Christmas. Besides, I'm sure just knowing me is enough of a gift for most people.

Rant over. Goodnight.

Monday Doesn't Like Me

Ah, Monday. It's the day of peeling one's eyes open as the alarm goes off, only to realize the alarm has been going off for half an hour and you have exactly fifteen minutes to get your sluggish six-year-old onto the bus.

Obviously, you don't get him on the bus. And, with no pomp or circumstance, you throw a waffle at him as he's getting dressed, grab some of his clothes that don't match but you hope are clean, and make your husband drive him to school because he's bald and thus won't have to suffer the embarrassment of frizzy, unwashed hair in the front office.

Monday is snickering at you.

You invite a friend over for coffee, because that's what you do when the day isn't going according to plan. Coffee dates keep you centered. They keep you mellow. Mellow is good for handling unfortunate situations, like when you realize a few minutes after your coffee date arrives that your eldest son forgot his lunch in the front hall and you'll have to bring it to him. That is quite unfortunate, you think to yourself, as the coffee is brewing. Monday likes seeing you waste good coffee. The good news? It's a ten minute drive to the school, leaving plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa.

Take that, Monday.

Packing up your two-year-old and your overly-accommodating friend (thank you, friend!) you put the pedal to the metal and break away for the big, scary junior high school only to find out that they won't page your son out of class because it's against school policy. They won't tell him his lunch is there unless he asks. That's nice of them. Monday must have whispered in the secretary's ear that you were coming. It is obviously harboring an unhealthy resentment toward you. You leave the lunch at the front desk and hope he thinks of looking there before starving all day in the way only a preteen boy can.

You come home and plan on finally chatting with your friend. Coffee makes it all better. But Monday is waiting for you. It informs your toddler that playing independently is for suckers. It shows him the Rescue Heroes bin and points at your friend. Suddenly, you can't have a conversation because the situation is being monopolized by a two-year-old waving Billy Blazes in your friend's face. Nice.

But Monday has made a fatal mistake in choosing this particular friend: She would be more than happy to play Rescue Heroes for a few minutes. In fact, you even find some time to - get this - clean your house. A visitor, mother's helper and coffee date all rolled into one? Monday's powers are weakening.

Oh, sure. There are a few other annoying little things awaiting you today. It's raining and all your toddler wants to do is go to the park so you have to hear about it incessantly, your dog has found a favourite pee spot in the basement (it's a good thing they don't make sausages out of dogs or you might sell him for some pocket money), the children have forgotten how to use their indoor voices, and the dirty laundry pile is large enough that it should be declared its own sovereign nation. You just have to fasten a flag to the top and call the UN to make it official.

Monday is getting its jollies.

Still, the day will end with everyone sleeping and an episode of your very favourite narcissistic doctor; House is on at eight, and there are cookies in the cupboard.

Monday just got kicked square in the junk and is off in a corner whimpering. Another epic win for you, The Maven.

Door #1 or Door #2?

"Boys, can you look at me for a second, please? Thank you. Now, before anyone says anything, I'm not pointing any fingers and therefore do not want to hear 'I didn't do it!' or 'It wasn't me!'. It doesn't matter who did it because I'm directing this at everyone. Listen closely: Mommy does not like sitting in pee, nor does she like wiping up other people's pee from the toilet seat to avoid sitting on it. Therefore, please lift the seat before you go to the bathroom. Also, flushing would be nice. Thank you."

This little lecture was brought to you by a mother who, after giving it, instantly felt as though things were returning to normal - whatever that is. Defining normalcy in the Maven household is a tricky endeavor. I suppose, if I were to take a shot at it, I would say having hiccups of insanity - nothing too crazy - in between trying to pretend we have a schedule and children who listen is our normal. And I never realized how much I would miss it until I was sleeping in a fold-out hospital chair listening to monitors beep.

Things are really starting to feel like they used to around here, minus all the appointments. Spawnling had a follow-up with our family doctor today, meets in a couple of weeks with the ophthalmologist again, and needs his blood drawn sometime in the next few days. However, all of that is blended into a nice, thick chaos smoothie with all the back-to-blissschool stuff we need to do. Even putting class registrations and supply shopping aside, having two hearing impaired gremlins means meeting with the teachers and principals of two different schools (Intrepid is in junior high this year - YIKES!) to make sure everyone understands what they need to make each school year a success.

Today we had a little situation: Gutsy's meeting was at the same time as Spawnling's doctor appointment. Swell. Thankfully, my husband rocks and not only offered to take one of the boys to an appointment, but asked me which one I would like him to do.

... Seriously? Really? I have a choice? Oh, goody! Let me think for a minute.

On one hand, I could take an eager Gutsy to school to meet with his teacher, see his classroom and have a friendly chat about classroom seating and lip reading.

On the other hand, I could drive 40 minutes into the country to sit in a waiting room with a bunch of sick and/or grumpy people with a toddler who can't get sick right now. I can follow him around as he touches things, dosing him with Purell and trying to figure out how I can Barbapapa myself into a bubble around his fragile little body. Then, I could hold him while he kicks, jabs and claws at our very friendly doctor, trying desperately to have an important conversation over his screaming.

Tough call.

Surprisingly, I almost took Door #2. That was my mothering guilt calling. It kept saying 'If you're a good mother you'll go to his doctor's appointment and deal with it, because you know more about his condition than anyone else, and who said this parenting thing was supposed to be easy, and why wouldn't you do that one small thing for your child who's been so sick, and what kind of awful parent would even consider not going in the first place?'

And then I told that guilt where it could be shoved, and took Gutsy to meet his teacher. Why? Because I'm lazy. But that's not a very PC thing to say, so instead I'll say that it's important I not shoulder all the burden of Spawnling's recovery and that I also have other gremlins who need my undying motherly devotion, and stuff.

Gutsy is going into immersion classes this year. And by immersion I mean French and English, just in case you don't know Canada's two official languages. He was in the all-English stream until we discovered his talents went beyond being able to scream louder than a virgin in a horror movie; the boy can easily read Grade 5 and 6 books independently. This is not surprising, being the child of such an intelligent parent.

No. I did not mean Geekster. Why does everyone assume I mean Geekster? Like, you know?

Anyway, this is Grade 1 he's heading into, so my guess is that if we don't give him the challenge of a new language he's likely to do some really bad things with that boredom. Just sayin'.

Tonight I'm heading out for a well-deserved coffee with ThatScriptChick. Tomorrow, I jump back on the running bandwagon, as I've only been once since returning from the hospital. The chocolate to cardio ratio is heavily unbalanced, and my waistline is looking a little more Michelin every day. This eating my feelings thing has been good fun, but I'd rather not have to replace my heart in fifteen years with a new one. This one is rather nice, and it likes people. And people like it. It's a popular heart.

(That being said, I still might treat my heart to some cake tonight. It likes cake.)

In Which The Maven Meets Cooler People Than Her

Now, I don't know if this is a noticeable trait of mine or not, but I apparently have a bit of an ego.

It's obviously a small glitch in my otherwise perfect personality, so it's nothing to get all huffy about. Awesome doesn't mean perfect. In fact, seemingly perfect people are never awesome. They downright suck because they're better than me. My (iddy biddy) ego doesn't like that very much.

Every now and then the universe puts someone in my path to bring me back down to earth. Someone who carries around a giant pin with which to deflate my ego (before I hastily slap some duct tape on it in order to preserve the arrogance required for writing such a self-centered blog).

Today I had the pleasure of meeting four of those people.

You may remember Jacob, the little boy at the gremlins' school battling cancer. If you don't, here's his website and his Facebook group. Jacob is now at home and doing a series of therapies and getting himself ready for the 2009-10 school year. The little guy has been through the ringer since last November, so it's exciting to see his life returning to some kind of normal. Throughout the last few months, I've been reading his mother's updates and, like so many others, cried a great deal - tears of sadness and of joy.

Not to toot my own horn - well, okay, to toot my own horn a little - I am sometimes referred to as a strong individual. I have eighteen years of sobriety under my belt, raise three boys, and have emerged from being a depressed, suicidal loser in my school years to a level of popularity that is practically embarrassing (I secretly like it, but ask me in person and I'll play it down like it's nothing. Popular people shouldn't brag lest they might become less popular.)

Do those things make me a strong person? Maybe. But not in comparison to getting really sick, or watching your child get really sick. And this is what I realized as I read post after post of Jacob's mom's entries on the Facebook group. While I would sit there and sob and eat my feelings, I also walked away from each update with a new understanding and a new appreciation for the situations of others. I had a new level of empathy for Emely, my wonderful friend who is battling cancer while raising three kids of her own. I forged a deeper connection in my heart with my own parents, who have spent the last twenty years raising my most amazing brother with Downs Syndrome, Hefner.

And, overall, I realized that I am pretty much a big wimp. Because, while I may sit lazily in the shade of my own ego as it feeds on the compliments of others, I don't know if I'm cut from the same cloth as Jacob, his parents, my parents, my brother, or my friend. I don't think I'm that kind of strong.

Anyway, like I was going to say before that incredibly long lead-up, today I had the pleasure of meeting Jacob and his family. How did I go about doing it? I stalked them, of course.

No, I mean I really did. I stone cold stalked them. I didn't realize it until afterwards, but the proof is in the pudding. It went a little something like this:

First, I started reading his mom's posts and getting all teary, which made me feel a connection to her in some way: Stalkers often feel they have a connection to their prey.

Second, I volunteered at the bake sale for one of Jacob's fundraisers: Stalkers often try to be where their victims are so they feel as though that connection is strengthening.

Third, I wrote to Jacob's mom, Liliane, (I will have to find a catchy name for her at some point) and told her a story that I hoped would be inspirational: Stalkers often try to relate to their victims so they can weave a false relationship in their minds.

Fourth, I saw Jacob and Liliane at Wal-Mart a couple of weeks ago and was going to go say hi... until I remembered we hadn't actually met yet, so it would probably be weird and creepy: Stalkers often wuss out on meeting their prey for a good while, as they struggle with separating reality from fiction.

Fifth, I saw Jacob's dad at the hardware store and decided to get out of my van and go say hello to him. No, I hadn't met him before, either: Stalkers will often ramp up their efforts as they feel the pretend connection getting stronger and the urge to reach out impossible to resist.

Oh, my. How terribly disturbing.

When you look at all the facts, it's apparent that I'm psycho. The good news is that they seem rather comfortable with psychotic behaviour, because they invited me over to their house this morning. I brought coffee, which softened the blow. I also brought Spawnling so they could focus on him and not on my crazy.

All kidding aside, they are a rockin' family. Jacob stole my heart the minute he said hello, and he even managed to get my toddler terror giggling within a few minutes - no small feat in a new environment. His baby brother is the mushiest marshmallow baby ever, and I almost took off with him until I realized that, as much as I like babies, I'm currently in the celebratory stages of not having any more. As cute as he is, I bet he poops and pukes like normal babies, which would likely cramp my style a bit.

His parents just blew my mind. They are cool and funny and real, exactly like my stalker mind pictured them. The most amazing part - other than the fact that they trusted me to sit in their kitchen - was that the air in their house was thick with love and joy. I left wanting to go home and hug my boys just for being them, and to find the beauty in all the things they do, even if it involves red paint and a beige carpet and some sparkles for added staining.

That scenario and being kicked in the kidney are things I'm still trying to find the beauty in. I'm a work in progress.

So, it's true: people who are more awesome than me actually exist. They may be rare, but when you find them you have to hold on tight and never let go no matter what and make sure you know where they are at all times and what they're doing and who they're with and make them like you damn it!

... Uh, forget I said the last few words.

The Would-be Technowhore

First of all, I want all fourty-three (thanks CBG!) sheeples to send some love out to Geekster's grandma, who took a fall on Monday morning and is now in the hospital with a fractured pelvis. The doctors are optimistic that she'll be walking again in no time, but we worry. She's 89, has Parkinson's and uses a walker. She needs a broken hip like she needs... well, like she needs a broken hip. I mean, come on.

She's about the loveliest person on the planet, so we do want her up and running - or walking, at least - very soon. Please send all the love and adoration normally sent in my direction over to her, alright? Thanks.

Geekster was in Peterborough today while I held down the fort. He's on his way back now and, if not too exhausted from six or so hours of driving, will be very impressed with the state of Casa Maven. But more on that later. If we're going to talk about my various accomplishments and results, let's start at the beginning:

This morning, after showering and getting myself attractive-like with the help of the trusty makeup box (I need an entire box, which unfortunately says a lot about my looks underneath the caked on colouring, but I digress...), I welcomed five parents and nine children my house, for a total of sixteen bodies, Spawnling and myself included. It was rainy this morning so I invited the playgroup posse over to wreck my house. Not only is playgroup officially over, but the space we rent has been rather germy over the last few weeks, so it's been the park or bust. No park, no playgroup.

I wanted playgroup, dammit. I thrive on chaos and gossip; frankly, I'm but a shell of a human being without my weekly dose. With all the rain I knew sacrifices would have to be made so I could acquire my Thursday fix. Scrubbing down the house last night seemed but a small price to pay to feed my inner demon.

The morning went off without a hitch. I suckered everyone into bringing food while I supplied - get this - juice and coffee. Juice and coffee! Not, like, cheese or anything expensive. Oh, no. The Shoe brought a pricey brick of the orange stuff with her, while Pixie walked in with organic crackers. Handcuffs sported a cute bag of bulk raisins and a few kiwis and Thrashmeister (our resident at-home-dad/rock god) rounded out the feast with bananas and grapes.

See what I mean? Juice and coffee are nothing. I totally rule the snack kingdom right now.

My clean house was obviously trashed with the horde of goblins running amuck. Plastic food mixed with foam swords and a few leftover raisins made for an interesting corner of the playroom closet. Thomas the Tank Engine and friends made their way under my grandmother's antique chairs and in between the couch cushions. I also discovered that banana mashed into a beige carpet is nearly invisible until you step on it.

You learn something new every day. Not always something that gross, but I'm a glass is half full kind of girl. That's what carpet cleaners are for, my friends. They keep a smile on my face even when faced with the digusting.

Pixie had a look around before everyone went home and asked if she could stay to deep clean with me.

...Was that a trick question? Was I supposed to say 'no' or something?

Hell yes, she could stay and clean. I'd even give her a diet cola because I'm that generous.

So clean we did. We got rid of three bags of stuff from the once repulsive playroom. I even - get this - got rid of baby toys without feeling sad. Some heavy magic was weaved this afternoon, I tell you. before long most of the house was about as clean as it gets, which is all I can really ask for with two dogs, two cats and three gremlins making their nests in it. And I, with a face full of satisfaction, welcomed my children home like June Cleaver did the Beave. Smiling and asking about school instead of frantically throwing dishes in the sink in hopes of discovering a clean enough surface on which to cook dinner.

Could the day get any better, you ask? I mean, other than a family member in the hospital, which is bad. But I'm looking at the full portion of the glass here. The day did get even better, but not right away. First, I had to send a text message.

Pixie has a boyfriend we'll call Transit Tom. I met him a few weeks ago and I really like the guy. He's funny and witty and stuff. I wanted to not like him because that's what friends are supposed to do, or so I've heard. But he won me over, much to my dismay. Apparently I need to find someone else not to like.

Anyway, Transit Tom and Pixie send each other text messages that are apparently quite raunchy. Every time he sends her one some porn-like music starts playing on her vibrating pink cellphone. She then giggles, writes back and goes back to talking about potty training or time-outs or whatever else the conversation is about.

I was intrigued. To be quite honest, I rarely text anyone. Since I have a regular ol' phone and not one with a fancy keyboard, I find the entire texting process annoying and pointless. I could just call the person, or fire off an email. I could write on their Facebook wall. I could send them a tweet. Why would I want to very slowly type out a shortened message on a phone? Worse still, I dread becoming one of those people. The ones who, while you're sitting having a coffee with them and pouring your heart out, whip out their phone, chuckle at the incoming message, write one back, put it in their pocket, look up, listen to you for another thirty seconds and start the process all over again the next time a beep is heard.

You know: Those people. The Maven doesn't want rumours to circulate like "Oh, she's beautiful and smart and funny and all, but don't try and talk to her for any length of time. She's one of those people."

I'm annoying enough already without pulling my attention away from a face-to-face conversation. Some people can really pull off doing two things at once and hardly seem like they're zoning out to make dinner plans, but I'm not one of them. I can only focus on one thing at a time and I like to keep my friends. So, no, I do not text very much.

Still, today I thought I would try to explore the other side of texting: the dirty messages. Sexting, as they call it. It seems like a good platform to get skanky. It's private but removed, like email but without the formality. Also, if your dirty message is not well received, you can always claim you sent it to the wrong person or something.

Now, with my husband being at a hospital in another city with his injured grandmother, I thought best not to send him 'what are you wearing, you sexy beast?' messages; probably not a good time. I needed another person I knew well enough to flirt with, albeit innocently. And who other to send my first dirty phone text to than the queen of perverted messages herself? She was complimenting my new shirt today - a lot. She's obviously into me, so why not give her a little thank you in thrill form for all her help today?

In between changing a poopy diaper and folding laundry, I grabbed my phone and hastily began punching keys. After only ten minutes I had written the following:

"You looked hot today - especially when you were mopping my floors. Rawr!"

Extremely proud of myself for entering the nasty world of sexting, I put down the phone and got back to my regular duties; homemaker by day, phone slut by night. That would be my new motto. As soon as I received my first naughty message back I would officially be ready to send randy thoughts to my husband in the middle of his next business meeting. All I needed was my cherry popped, and it was bound to happen at any...

... The phone buzzed. So soon? Wow, she was quick. What dirty little diddy was awaiting my eager eyes?

Txt from: Pixie
Msg: X0

... Xo? That's the sexting equivalent of what? First base? I believe she just blew me a kiss. Or blew me off. One of the two.

I am still, quite officially, a sexting virgin. Apparently Pixie didn't like my shirt that much. I bet her meager response was her way of getting me back for that picture I posted of her a few months ago that she doesn't like. Girls hang on to that stuff for a long, long time, you know.

So, if anyone wants to whip off something raunchy, my cell phone number is on my Facebook page. It's not too late to give me something to tell my husband when he gets home, you know. After sixteen years a little spice is nice, if you know what I mean.

(Mom, if you're reading this post I would like you to disregard everything you read from "Transit Tom" to "Spice is nice". Thank you and I love you. You may read on.)

Just when I was feeling defeated, I went to Tim Hortons to buy the gremlins some donut holes.

Okay, okay: I went to buy myself a coffee and bribed the whining out of them with donut holes. Is that better? Honesty works.

I gave the woman behind the counter my order while adding that my children would likely murder me if I didn't walk out with a box of Timbits (those would be the brand name for their donut holes, in case you live in a deep pit somewhere). She then returned with my coffee and a very heavy box of twenty Timbits.

So heavy that I had to count them when I got home: 35. That's 20 + 15, in case you suck at math like Barbie.

Karma, you are awesome. Especially when you are good karma and you give me good things on special days when I'm cleaning my house and failing at being a technowhore.

In short, the day was pretty sweet. My house is very clean, my children are happy and my husband should be home shortly to finish off the bulging box of Timbits with me.

Maybe I should have grabbed the Tim Horton woman's cellphone number? She obviously liked me enough that she didn't want me murdered by children. That's a good sign, right?

In-Between Green

I really feel like I'm getting back to my crunchy roots lately, but without sitting atop the high pedestal looking down on the poor souls who aren't as enlightened as I am. I really used to think I was better than you. Much better than you.

Now I'm only a little better than you. I'm only on a footstool and looking at your gray roots. You should try some henna. That's what the hippies use.

Sure, I use regular hair dye but only because I have to balance out my lifestyle. I can't be crunchy all the time. We're not rich enough for that. Only rich people can afford a completely green home where they sit on locally-made furniture comprised of renewable resources, munching on organic pumpkin seed cereal in cane-sugar-sweetened soy milk before they get into their electric cars and carpool to work.

When I win the lottery that will be me. But for now I'm what I like to call "In-Between Green".

In-Between Green isn't so bad. It's the best of both worlds, really. We get to feel good about bringing our own bags to the grocery store (incidentally they're almost all made in China, which has by far some of the lowest environmental standards in manufacturing. My gift of guilt to all of you who think you're so amazing for buying those bags. You're welcome.) We get to pat ourselves on the back for recycling (which is a process that takes up a lot of non-renewable energy in many cases). We feel proud when we shop regularly at second-hand stores for clothes (made of pesticide-laden cotton and toxic dyes and quite often sewn by children. How cute.). And yet we can still enjoy a cup o' java in a disposable cup because, hey, we can't be perfect all the time.

In-Between Green. It's a wonderful, denial-filled state of being. Try it sometime.

Anyway, my crunchiness was sparked by the wonderful Stay-at-Home-Mayhem reader Amy's idea to see a chiropractor for Spawnling's never-ending ear infections. A chiropractor? For ear infections? Really? Is Amy on crack, I wondered? I had to find out (about the chiropractor; Amy can do whatever she likes as long as she keeps making good suggestions. Thanks, Amy!)

I was also fortunate enough to know a chiropractor. A wonderful one who happens to have a toddler Spawnling's age and who also reads my blog occasionally. Sadly, she doesn't live nearby (a shame, as we could share many chai lattes together). She did, however, suggest some chiropractors in the Ottawa area. I picked one. We went. She's amazing. I'm thrilled!

I've always said that I'm an ignorant person when it comes to most things. I know about children. I know about breastfeeding. I know about addiction. I know that singing along to Justin Timberlake songs while blogging gets on my husband's nerves just enough that he'd like to say something but he doesn't, and that this means he either loves me a great deal or he's afraid of me. Either way it's loads of fun and I'm doing it right now.

I honestly thought chiropractors only helped when your back was sore. Get hit by a car? Chiropractor. Fall off your four-wheeler because you wanted to show off to your drunken hillbilly friends? Chiropractor, ya'll. Fall while trying to kick a soccer ball like the girls in Bend it Like Beckham because you hoped to look as good as Keira Knightley? You're following me now.

I honestly had no idea that back and neck experts could help with ears. My chiropractor friend had to basically draw me a diagram in a Facebook message so I could connect the anatomic dots. When it dawned on me it seemed so... simple. Why hadn't I been told about this wonderful alternative to lengthly rounds of antibiotics sooner? Had I been living under a rock? Nay, I had been living under dirty laundry, backpacks and half-eaten dinners. At-home mothers are not privy to water cooler talk which could contain information such as how the marketing manager's daughter is seeing a chiropractor for her ear infections. We are privy to animal rescues on Go Diego Go and whatever Maury guests have to say about not being the father and just maybe whatever information can be gleamed from 10 seconds on a website that is NOT Nick Jr.

I forgive me. Ignorance has been rather blissful.

Now that the Spawn is getting "adjusted" twice weekly (the nearly frightful term used to describe a very gentle manipulation of his neck vertebrae and muscles) we're also reducing dairy and sugar in his diet and in ours, too. It's supposed to help boost immunity. More importantly, I'm down three pounds. I've all but given up peanut M&Ms. I am, however, madly in love with brownies. Dairy-free brownies. Sadly not sugar-free brownies. But I'm down three pounds. Let's keep our focus on that important fact and not on brownies.

We're all on probiotics. We're all eating more vegetables. I'm drinking mostly organic, fair-traded coffee. Farmers everywhere are celebrating me.

I will continue shave my legs and arm pits, however. In-Between Crunchy allows me certain priviledges. Besides, if I ever meet and begin to make out with JT, I would like him to bypass the cellulite because he's too busy enjoying my smooth legs.

Witness to a Crime

I seem to be posting about once per week these days and have been told off for doing so. Today it was mentioned that I do not blog enough for Jobthingy's liking. I apologize Job with Thingy, and will write more for you more often.

It's hard being so loved.

She would like me to talk about The Great Hose Incident of 2006, but I'm apparently too technically inept to add the picture she sent me to post with it. I will have to wait until my husband the geek can make me feel stupid by uploading it in under 30 seconds. It will happen and I will feel stupid. Then I will eat more brownies and I will feel fat, too. But the important thing is that the picture will be uploaded. Setting my eye on the prize makes any inevitable brownie-downing seem trivial.

I do have a traumatic story to tell, however. A tale of shock and awe.

I went to Tim Hortons this evening to stock up on caffeine for my solo parenting night. Geekster was going out to shred some licks with his bass-playing co-worker. Some guy jamming stuff that I am thrilled is not taking place here. Said co-worker has grown children who are no longer at home, thus nobody to wake up if they decide to crank up the amps. In 20 minutes' time I get to have a quiet house with no gremlins trailing messes behind them or demanding food or drinks or boobies (only one demands boobies, just so we're clear).

Anyway, while I was at the counter waiting for my coffee, a woman came in. A very petite woman. Probably 95lbs at most. She told me she was getting coffee for her and her husband in the form of a complaint. "Take your time. I'm in no rush," she said. "If he wanted coffee that fast he could have gotten in the car himself!"

Of course I know that's a false statement: I send my husband out to get coffee all the time and that does not diminish my want of that coffee. It just means I'm lazy.

She's obviously a regular, because they knew her order before she even said it. "Eight sugars, right?"

... I'm sorry, but I must have heard wrong. There's no way...

"Yes, two coffees each with eight sugars. Thanks."

Oh. My. Freaking. God.

I personally witnessed a sin. I'm not a Christian, but if I was I'd fight for an 11th commandment:

Thou shall not defile thine coffee with enough sugar to put thee into insulin shock.

You shouldn't put sugar in coffee at all. It's wrong and it's disgusting. But I'm still accepting of people who do it. I still allow them to be my friends. I'm open-minded enough to know that not everyone has my good sense and excellent taste. But eight sugars? EIGHT?!

Lady, that's not coffee. That's coffee-flavoured icing. What do you do with it? do you take it home and spread it on cupcakes? How do you get any coffee in that cup? How are you 95 pounds? Is this what you consider to be a fat-free drink? I mean, you're right, but damn.

Damn.

I'm mortified at this abomination of my favourite drink. Mortified.

I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight.