How not to take a self-portrait

Yesterday I was given a picture of Geekster and me which was taken at a wedding in late August. It's a nice picture and one that is now on my fridge for me to smile at as I hurriedly prepare meals at least one family member will loudly decline with a grossed out look on his face (It varies as to who will make said face, which makes it somewhat exciting. Kind of like a lottery, or bingo.)

August 2010

What I immediately noticed - and what shocked me more than anything - is how big I am in the picture. And I'm not a fat-hater - really I'm not. I've been overweight most of my life. In that time, I've been a healthier fatty and an unhealthier fatty. I don't think being skinny necessarily equals health, just as being un-skinny doesn't necessarily mean one's heart is going to explode in a mess of Cheetos. But in this particular picture, I realized just how sick I look; the bad kind of overweight. The bloated, tired, sluggish kind of fat. I was a few weeks away from hitting the proverbial wall and desperately attempting something that would end up changing everything for me. But at that time, I just felt like ass.

Liking this photo - and having it on the fridge for all to see - is a big step for me. Generally speaking, I hate pictures of myself. I loathe, despise, am disturbed by pictures of me. Ironically, this means I take a lot of them (more on that in a bit).  You'd think that years of being tagged in sometimes less-than-perfect poses on social networking sites would make me more accepting of myself. Sadly, not so. I'm a girl, after all, and I have self-esteem issues. They're a lot better than they were ten - or even five - years ago, but there's still that nagging voice in my head that likes to tell me I'm far uglier than you.

The big difference yesterday, however, was not only that I liked a photo of me at one of my heaviest weights, but that it was the first time Geekster and I really saw how far I've come in the last three months of gluten-free eating and, more recently, natural adrenal gland support. The first thing I did, after picking my jaw up off the floor, was drag my hubby over to the camera and snap a current picture of the two of us to compare it to:

January 2011

Not too shabby, right? I should of gazed in amazement, made it my Facebook profile picture and stopped there.

But you know I didn't.

I'm an addict. Most of my addictions haven't been exercised in several years. However, there are a few - like chocolate and caffeine, for example - that I drag out to a dirty motel and make sweet love to whenever the mood strikes. But there is another nasty habit that I simply can't stop doing once I get started. It's so bad that I keep checking for hair on my palms for days afterwards. While less frequent a guest star in my situational sitcom than the aforementioned yummy food, it still likes to come out and play every month or so: taking pictures.

Now, as I mentioned before, I'm not too keen on Maven photos. Self-esteem issues = a fear of flashes and full-length mirrors. When I take pictures of myself, I generally snap a few dozen, then dig through them until I find one that doesn't want to make me want to eat a bucket of ice cream. Sometimes I get one - and furiously edit out everything I possibly can until it looks passable enough to share - and sometimes I dislike every single one and await the little black rain cloud that will follow me for the rest of the day.

But something happened yesterday. I actually liked the pictures I took.

I mean, sort of.

I liked the difference I could see in my eyes, my skin, my shrinking double chin. There was just one problem: the hair. I'm long overdue for a hair cut and the coif wasn't cooperating. Observe:

In this picture, I'm trying to show myself the difference between August and January. But I have a scarf on, and my hair is different, so I figured I should probably let the hair down and get my neck naked. It was all downhill from there.

Alright, not too bad. Angled shots are funky and make me look like I'm not aging from stress far too quickly as a stay-at-home-mom. Smile's good, not too much shine or makeup. But, um... The hair is kind of plain. I should probably try doing something with it, so I attempt to give it a little bit more body with my fingers...

Anyone read Dilbert cartoons? I do because my doppleganger is regularly featured. Alice is one of Dilbert's coworkers. And when I don't get a haircut, I look just like her (this is not a good thing):

Alice and I even think alike

Next, I tried ridding myself of the Alice 'do by holding my hair up, all cute-like:

There is bird watchers' club in my neighbourhood, and I may just invite them over to have a look at whatever just made a home behind my neck.

I was getting desperate. It was tussle time. Let the hair go a little wild and crazy, like a supermodel's. Yes, I could be a supermodel! So that's exactly what I did.

Canada's Next Top Inmate

Dear god. All I need is a pair of fishnets and a sign with numbers and this could be a mugshot. Note to self: supermodel hair is styled to look messy. This looks more like I'm trying to find my missing pipe.

The whole ridiculous attempt at boosting my own ego made me laugh. Did you catch that? It made me laugh instead of cry. How cool is that? I'm thirty-four and I finally find this vain excursion hilarious. That's growth. Growth as I shrink. Ironic, isn't it?

And then, finally, unexpectedly, the picture. I like this picture. It's not edited. It's not posed. It was effortless, and it was what I needed to see after all that (hot) mess:

I'm getting healthy. It looks good. It feels amazing. And I'm going to keep documenting it every so often so I can remind myself of how far I've come.

I deserve that for all the bagels I'm giving up.

I like to Smell Old Food (a gluten-free update)

Can I confess something in the deep, dark recesses of the internet where no one will ever see it?

I really miss wheat.

Wheat, barley and rye, to be exact. Glutenous substances I have banned from my life - most likely forever. Gods, how I miss them! Every day, I remember something else I can't eat. It makes for an often surly Maven.

On Canadian Thanksgiving in mid-October, I bid farewell to my old friend, Gluten. We had a long history together, but it turned bad toward the end and I had to take a break and see if he was the one causing the problems. I wrote about previously, but to put it in a nutshell, I was falling apart in multiple ways.

My dietary equivalent of  a bad boyfriend: Yummy, but no good for me.

Mentally, I was both anxious and depressed (neat trick), unable to to focus, quick to anger, and I forgot words and complete sentence more than I'd like to admit. I had writer's block 95% of the time, which is no good when you're, like, a writer. My brain and I all but stopped speaking to each other. Thankfully, she was kind enough to remind me to breathe and keep my heart beating, but not much else. She didn't do the Facebook equivalent of de-friending me, but she pretty much blocked me from seeing her Facebook wall and new photo albums. Bitch.

The rest of my body was not much better. A painful, itchy rash on my hands; pitted, ridged fingernails with white lines on them; unexplained elevated liver enzymes; acne; borderline anemia; the obvious weight issues; fatigue; digestive problems; and likely many other things I'm forgetting. My body was going into shutdown mode, and we couldn't figure out why. Every month was worse than the last, to the point where I thought I must be dying.

(The inner hypochondriac emerges. She comes out when my brain isn't staying on top of the whole logic thing. Hello, nice to meet you. By the way, you're probably dying.)

So, like I mentioned before, I found out through the wonders of the internet that all these scary/annoying things can be symptoms of celiac disease or, some, to a lesser extent, can be attributed to the less worrisome gluten intolerance fan club. They can also be cancer, liver or kidney failure and a few other scary things that might send my inner hypochondriac running for the nearest bar, but first things first: take out the gluten, and see how I felt. So that's what I did.

It's been about a month-and-a-half, so I thought I should do some updating. Status: I feel a lot better. Like, a lot better. I look a lot better. I have a glow to my skin again. I have more energy. I have less anxiety, and no signs of depression anymore. I have creativity again. My hair has shine to it (I feel like a commercial). My nails are growing in strong and healthy for the first time in years -which is a good indicator that my organs are getting what they need to work efficiently. About half my nail bed is new growth from the last few weeks. There are no pits, no white spots in that part of the nail, and they're not brittle anymore. When I eat, I feel energized instead of tired.

I feel alive. My non-medical opinion through a great deal of talk and research, is that my digestive system is repairing itself enough to absorb the nutrients my body has been lacking for a long time. That's why everything is slowly getting better, and why I suddenly feel ten years younger. How frightening, and yet how very exciting. It's worth a damn parade, I tell you.

But I still miss wheat. Not enough to eat it, but I miss it. Soft bread, freshly made bakery goodies, all those other carb-filled calorie killers that used to kindly stuff fat around my hips and heart to keep me warm in these cold Canadian winters. Any bread I make is either too wet or to dry. Buying it at the store costs twice as much for half the amount, and some of it is puke-bucket-worthy from the first bite (I have yet to actually barf, but come on: forcing someone to eat an entire slice of some of this stuff might be considered torture in some countries). All of it needs to be toasted or warmed, or it tastes like cardboard.

When I make pizza crust, there's no stretching or rolling. I mix it in a bowl and slap it on the pizza tray, smooth it out with a wooden spoon, and put it in the oven to "pre-bake". What on earth is pre-baking? It sounds like pre-drinking, but a lot less fun. I then take the hard, misshapen mishap of a crust out the oven, slap some ingredients on it - lots and lots of ingredients so that I can pretend the crust doesn't exist - and put it back in. If I'm lucky, it wont' fall apart the minute I try to cut it, let alone pick up a slice.

I now eat my pizza with a knife and fork. How dignified. I could practically be royalty. Bitter, gluten-free royalty.

My friend Robyn and I talked about this a couple of weeks ago. As humans - and especially women - we have attachments to certain foods. So, there's something a little sad and unfair about having to say goodbye to foods that have been a part of our lives for, say, about thirty-four years. I'm going to go through a grieving process over Montreal-style bagels and Honey Nut Cheerios, as lame as that makes me.

Believe me, I know this is for the best. The way I feel today is definitely worth getting rid of what ailed me before. And, if my suspicions are correct, this decision will not only prolong my life, but return a quality to it that I've been missing for years. In the end, this not a huge sacrifice for the sake my of my health.

So, when I make something glutenous for my kids (including Gutsy, as the gluten-free thing had no effect on him whatsoever), I now do something so lame, so embarrassing, that I can't believe I'm even writing it:

I smell it.

I can't believe I just typed that out. As if I'm not a big enough loser. But I'm nothing if not honest, so this honest loser admits to smelling the bread, the cake, the bagel, the cereal, the crackers... anything I can't have anymore. I take one giant whiff, and for some reason that seems to be enough. My brain - who is now on speaking terms with me after some couples counselling - then remembers what it tasted like, and it almost feels like I just had a big bite. I'm relatively satisfied, and I go on with my life filled with shitteous substitutes.

As soon as I figure out how to make this work with chocolate, I'll be a very slim woman.

So, here's my dilemma: I can be tested for gluten intolerance and celiac disease. However, I'll have to go back on gluten for up to three months before the testing, and even at that point may not get accurate results. Is it worth doing, since it's obvious I'm at least gluten intolerant if not full-blown celiac based on the changes I'm already seeing? If I test positive, I go on a gluten-free diet as that's the only thing that manages this condition. But then I have to go through feeling like crap all over again just go to back on the diet I'm already on. I'll need to detox all over again, which was no fun the first time (three days of painful aching all over my body. Yuck.)

My alternative is to see my doctor in a few weeks and get an overall blood workup to see if I'm still borderline anemic and if my liver likes me again. If everything looks good, it's sort of a roundabout way of getting the same answer, but less official and possibly less accurate. So what do I do?

Yes, I'm asking. Give me your opinion. You know you wanna.

Anyway, that's my update. I don't really have time to start a gluten-free blog right now, so a post about my boring ol' dietary issues is going to come up every now and then. You've been warned.

On the plus side, Geekster recently challenged me to write a short children's fable with the title "Horny the Unicorn and the Gigantic Sack." You know how I love a challenge. And you know you're at least a little bit excited about how I'm going to pull that off.

Onward, Horny!

17 years later, my husband figures it out

It's a mellow Monday morning. Intrepid and Gutsy are at school. Spawnling slept like ass and is splayed across my queen size bed like he was most of the night. Of course, this means coffee has already been brewed, poured and partially ingested into his tired parents' bodies. It also means I probably won't over-think a blog post and can possibly write something funny. I've been lacking in the creativity department lately. Stress is a cruel mistress.

Not that I don't always have stress. Remember the whole "three boys" part of my life? That's stress in excess right there, my friends. Yesterday, when said three boys invited two more over to play, I tried to sneak out and do groceries. It was then when I heard the very worst sentence come from my spouse's mouth:

"I might like to do groceries today, Maven."

Children were running around wildly, throwing themselves into walls in some kind of faux superhero battle. A foam sword whizzed past my ear. My jaw dropped to the floor along with the bags (grocery bags, not body bags - they weren't being that loud).

Did he... did he just steal my sunshine? Did the man I graciously allowed to spend his life with me just take my highly coveted supermarket time away?

We have a well-established routine in this house: I wait until it gets really loud and I could use a break. Then, I say I have to go to the grocery store to pick up some "things" (I'm never incredibly specific on account of running out of justifiable reasons to go). I follow that up with apologizing for leaving him in chaos in the name of feeding our children. I follow that line up with something about how busy the store is going to be and how stressful running errands is, and how it's just part of my job and I'm glad to do it for my family.

Then, when my van turns the corner, I crank up the cheesiest pop music imaginable, sing at the top of my lungs, whip into the parking lot, grab the bags out of the trunk and waltz into the store like I own the place.

I get some space, a breather, a few minutes to switch gears and get immersed in a different kind of stress; for while there's definitely some crazy involved in aisles blocked by old ladies tut-tutting over the price of tuna, I don't have my gremlins crawling all over the cart, which means I can patiently wait - it makes the trip longer, anyway. And when I hear children howling at the checkout, my empathetic look is quickly hijacked by a grin that says: Psst. Check out my childless cart. Isn't it amazingly quiet?

I come home refreshed and ready to get slapped by the wall of chaos at the front door: The screaming, the tears, the frustrated faces. But it's okay because I had my little break.

Who needs an affair? Way too complicated. I just go fondle produce for an hour.

And then, out of the blue, my husband offers to go tickle the tomatoes instead? What right does he have? Those are my grapes to grope, Geekster. You have your office job with your, well, office, and desk, and lunch breaks, and bosses who don't scream and you and throw things and tip over chairs (we hope). And I have my damn grocery store. That's my lunch break, ok?

But I let him walk out that door holding my bags, strolling to his car, while behind me in the living room the noise grew louder.

After seventeen years, he's figured me out.

Oh, did I mention that we celebrated our seventeenth date-a-versary on Saturday? On May 1st, 1993, I met this cute boy at a party and talked his ear off for three hours. Even after that, he couldn't wait to see me the next day. And now he's been seeing me every day for nearly two decades. Poor sop. No wonder he needs a grocery store outing.

Our amazing friends graciously took all three gremlins on Saturday afternoon and kept them until after dinner. Other than the fact that I think my friend may have attempted to remove her own uterus after six hours with my boys, it was a good day. Geekster and I were able to spend time in our own house without any children around for the first time in years.

Years.

We've gone out, we've even stayed out overnight a handful of times, but there's something really nice about being in your own home together without any responsibilities. I can't tell you what happened in the first hour after we got home whatsoever - a gas leak, crack in the space/time continuum, alien abduction, who knows? - but after that hour was over, we had coffee, stirfry, cake, watched really soothing nature programs on television, and snuggled a lot. It was bliss.

By the time we picked the kids up, Geekster and I were rejuvenated, happy, calm. That feeling stayed for most of yesterday, which is why I didn't try to hit him with a rubber boot as he walked out the door and headed to my favourite getaway. I then redirected the busy boys to the great outdoors, threw some food at them to keep them quiet, then went into the kitchen and made pasta, bagels and cookies from scratch.

Damn, I'm amazing.

And where is my wonderful husband today? At stupid, wonderful work. 'See you at six!' he said this morning, then kissed me sweetly and walked out the door.

I almost knocked him out with a folded umbrella and stole his keys and building pass, but then realized I couldn't write a line of code to save my life. Not to mention I'm anything but bald or skinny or male, so passing as him probably wouldn't work very well.

He can have his coffee breaks and lunches. I'll have bagels and cookies. On this particular rainy Monday morning, I totally win.

Jamie Oliver and Fat Acceptance

Celebrity chef Jamie Oliver has been getting some bad press lately and I honestly don't know why.

First of all, the fact that he's terribly adorable should earn him some points: A foul-mouthed British boy with awesome culinary skills and a love of good food, Jamie has that special something that makes you want to get busy in the kitchen.

You know, cooking. Get your mind out of the gutter!

(Well, I won't lie. I'd play "stuff the turkey" with the guy any day.)

Recently, Jamie used all his charm, influence, and serious wok skills to try and do some good in Huntington, West Virginia, which, according to the CDC, is home to the most unhealthy people in the USA. He attempted to revamp the school lunch menus, increase the use of fresh foods, and teach the town how to cook from scratch.

And what does he get for his efforts? A lot of bitching.

The internet is awash with folk who have something bad to say about the celebrity chef's efforts. There are those who think he sensationalized the town and its health concerns, those who defend the country's lunch programs, those who resent a foreigner coming into their country telling them how to eat, and those who think he's shaming fat people for their fatness.

I gotta tell you, I'm just not seeing it that way.

I've been following the Food Revolution for the last few weeks and am beyond impressed with Mr. Oliver's attempts at creating a healthier generation of people.

First of all, there is no sensationalism needed when it comes to the stats on Huntington, or most of the western world for that matter. We, in the richer countries, have access to the best food, the best medicine, and more money than people in the majority of the world could ever imagine, and yet far less healthy than we should be. Worse still, a good deal of our major killers are directly linked to poor diet and a sedentary lifestyle.

What, exactly, was sensational about Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution? All the talk about how our kids are the first generation in recorded history to likely live shorter lives than their parents? That said lives are being cut short due, in large part, to our bad choices at the grocery store? He may have shown an oversize coffin at a funeral home, but it wasn't a prop to attract ratings. He was simply making a very serious point: It's time to step out of this sea of denial we've all been living in and make some positive changes.

According to reports, some of Jamie's lunches on the new menu don't meet US federal requirements. That's because, as far as I can tell, the federal requirements are laughable. When a government considers french fries to be a vegetable, their program becomes a rather unfunny joke. That's like saying gummies that say 'contain fruit juice' on the box count as a fruit serving. (Sadly, I know that somewhere out there, someone is reading this and thinking 'well, don't they?' and I want to swat that person with something - maybe a cookbook)

Look, processed foods are bad for us. I'm not saying we should never eat them, although that would probably be ideal. I'm no biologist, but from what I understand, the more additives, preservatives and artificial everythings we put into our stomachs in the name of convenience, the more work our liver has to do to process it, the more confusion our body has over how to handle the "food" we just gave it, and the more health problems we can potentially create.

And what is one of the major symptoms of being nutritionally unhealthy? Being overweight. Sorry, but that's the truth.

I roll my eyes at all the declarations of "fat shaming" Jamie and the producers supposedly did during the six part series. I say this as a beautiful, intelligent, proud woman who just happens to be fat. I'm not ashamed of my body, I don't hate myself, I don't cry in front of the mirror. Do I want to lose weight? Only if it comes naturally by making good choices in my life. I no longer diet, I no longer exercise to the point of exhaustion in the name of the almighty calorie burn. I don't feel less than people who are thinner than I am, nor do I chastise myself for eating chocolate or chips or even french fries - now my new favourite vegetable.

But I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry about what this extra weight is doing to my heart, my pancreas, my blood vessels. But instead of hating myself and worrying myself sick, I've spent several years learning to love and accept myself for who I am at this moment, in this, my only body. Funny thing is, the more I love myself, the better I want to take care of myself. And maybe that's why I'm so open to the concept of this series.

I have seen fat shaming. I cringe when I hear a fat joke - and that's quite often, as they're so prominent in today's society. I shudder when I see a fat person who obviously loathes their body. I think it's wrong and hurtful to put someone down for how they look.

However, I do not think it's wrong to point out that obesity often precedes a higher incidence of preventable health problems. We need to cut through the political correctness bullshit and look at the facts. Jamie Oliver isn't against fat people, he's simply against ignorance.

And believe me: thinking it's okay to serve pizza and sugary milk as a school breakfast is ignorant.

From what I've seen, the show aims to educate a population that has lost its way. Because, let's face it, America, when it comes to food, you have definitely lost your way. But you're not alone. Many a wealthy nation has forgotten how to care for itself in the name of time-saving and cost-reduction. We get lazy; we get complacent; we forget how to do basic things for ourselves, like cooking.

When I saw the show, I didn't look down at my fat rolls and cry. I didn't feel like anyone was judging me or the town of Huntington. I didn't want to chain myself to the local Weight Watchers building so someone could teach me how to eat myself skinny.

What I did feel was relieved that someone would have the guts to go into the most powerful country in the world and speak the truth: Your children are getting sick. You need to change the way you eat. You need to cook with wholesome foods so that you can live longer, healthier lives and keep your spot as the nation to watch. Because right now, you're heading down a very dark path. Your people are dying too soon.

Now is the time to step up your game, America.

(And he did the same thing in his own country the year before, so there's no need to feel singled out, Americans. Like I said, you're not the only ones lost down that dark path.)

What I also felt was inspired. An urge rose in me to clear the counter and start whipping up meals made from whole foods again. Like many other families, we've become the victims of an overwhelmed life: packed schedules, fighting children, bills piling up. Sometimes, the last thing on my mind is mustering up enough time and energy to cook a decent meal.

The last few weeks, I've been making cooking more of a priority. Is it pricier to buy whole foods? Yes, it is. Is it more expensive to pay the price for not doing it? Absolutely. Time off work or school, medical and dental bills, the cost of losing out on life due to illness -- all those things are expensive in their own way, too.

Do I think poverty is an issue holding back a full scale food revolution? Definitely. But then again, there are kids in some of the poorest countries eating far more nutrient-rich food than many kids in western societies. They might eat less of it, but then again, we could probably stand to eat less, too. And since the typical household discards about 30% of the food they buy, maybe we could stretch the budget by choosing quality over quantity more often.

Jamie Oliver doesn't have all the answers and neither do I. But at least he's doing something to break people out of an unhealthy reality. There is a different way to eat, to cook, to live. And this fat chick wholeheartedly supports it.

But hey, what do I know? I'm just a Canadian.

I am Not a Good Mom (and other nonsense)

See that picture? That is what I served my children mid-week because I was too tired/lazy/busy watching Dr. Phil to cook them anything wholesome. It's a fried egg inside a grilled cheese sandwich with a handful of chips and topped off with what I like to call 'guilt grapes' - you have to serve everything a fruit or vegetable, you know.

This week I was called a 'good mom' twelve times, give or take. I didn't actually count, obviously. I do have other things to do, like not mopping floors and not putting laundry away. I'm a very busy Maven.

Every single time someone says 'You're such a good mom, Maven!' I laugh. And then they say 'I'm serious! You really are!' and I laugh some more. It's an uncomfortable laugh, like the laugh I give crazies; sort of like if they just told me I'm purple with glorious gold striping.

Some would say I'm a great parent because I've sacrificed a lot in the name of my children. But I don't see it that way. Who needs silly old school or oodles of job seniority anyway? Stability is for suckers and people who plan too much. So what if I've never crossed an ocean? Or been someplace where snow is an impossibility? Do I look like someone who wants to see the eye of a hurricane? I think not. And the debt? Well, that's just a natural part of being on one income, isn't it? We have enough debt right now that it could actually be considered a modest year's anti-salary. Somewhere in the karmic world, a person just managed to get a mortgage because of my decision to stay home for twelve years and herd the gremlins. You're welcome.

Sure, there are things I do which are above and beyond what the typical parent does. There's the extended breastfeeding, for example, which I'm very pleased I did. And other than Gutsy's chronic pneumonia problem and Spawnling's itsy bitsy bout of Kawasaki Disease less than a month after I weaned him, I think that went off without a hitch, don't you? And all that being home with them full-time has really paid off; I only get called 'stupid' by my toddler a handful of times every day: A true sign of the respect he's learned from our days together. And Gutsy waits a whole two weeks into July before letting me know how bored he is and how school is way more fun than I am.

Of course, we also can't forget all those healthy vegetarian meals I cook for them...

...Er, never mind.

Despite my best efforts, I've had to hand in my cape and admit that I am nothing more than a mediocre mom. It's not such a bad thing, really. It's a lot like being a plus-sized girl. You have to get up every morning and say 'Today, I will be the best darn fat chick and/or mediocre parent I can be!' and own it, just like that. Claim the title and strut proudly. Work with what you've got.

However, try as I might, I can't seem to get the general populace to accept my imperfections. They're obviously blinded by my overall greatness as a human being and it's left them confused. I understand it's difficult to view me as anything other than perfect. This is why I posted the incriminating photograph. Now everyone can see for themselves that I am not who they think I am. I mean, just look at that picture.

A super parent would have put way more grapes on that plate.

Yesterday, in the Supermarket

I was in the grocery store aisle, staring at all the school snacks in their enviro-rape packaging. My eyes quickly gravitated toward the Bear Paws. Just then, a very beautiful, very young and very thin woman parked her cart behind mine and came over to make her selections.

How on earth are people so thin? I thought to myself. She probably breathes in the steam from a bag of microwave popcorn and considers it a meal.

'I know, right? What on earth do you pick?' I casually asked. If I were a guy and picking up girls, I would have no problems striking up a conversation. The gift of gab is something I can work with. The spare tire and ridiculous outbursts of laughter would likely not score me a phone number, however.

'I'm thinking Bear Paws because they're on sale,' she contemplated. 'But which ones?'

Bear Paws? I know Bear Paws! My kids eat far too many of those! We've tried every flavour! I'm going to show off my wisdom so the pretty girl will want to be my friend, which make this shopping trip the anti-schoolyard of my life.

'Well,' I began with an air of confidence. 'My kids love the ones with chocolate chips.'

'Oh. Um,' she replied apprehensively. 'I'm trying to keep the kids away from chocolate for the most part.'

Oh, no! Red alert! Abort! Abort! She's one of those people. Act quick, Maven, or she'll make you look really bad!

'Yeah, me too. We're trying to gravitate away from all that stuff, too... I mean, more than usual.'

There! Good one. You just made it look so casual. You're so smooth you practically exhale silk.

She nodded her head. 'Exactly! I mean, they still have Easter chocolate so it's not like they need anything else. Right?'

Do not let your jaw drop. Do not let yourself ask how on earth the pod mother manages to maintain a store of springtime chocolate for her alien tentacle children when it's freaking October. Obviously they're feeding on the brains of innocent victims - likely prostitutes or the homeless because they would go practically unnoticed - and therefore, unlike you, they don't need chocolate to survive. Just let it go and walk away before she sticks her forked tongue through your eye socket.

But I just couldn't let it go. At the risk of losing my cerebellum, I watched her take the molasses flavoured Bear Paws off the store shelf and, just before she could put them in her cart, asked: 'Have you checked the sugar level of those? I think it's quite high.'

She flipped the box over and had a look at the side panel. Throwing me a sideways glance, she then grabbed a couple of other flavours and looked them over, too.

'You may find,' I casually mentioned 'that the "baked apple" variety has the lowest sugar content, but that "chocolate chip" isn't that much worse. In fact, it's better than most.'

'Interesting. Thank you!' she said.

She took the baked apple and not the chocolate chip. But you know what? I'm pretty great.

I then spent the next few minutes burying the junk food purchased from the following aisle underneath the fresh produce and whole grain cereals in my cart. Can't let the skinny otherworldly entity see that I just bought my kids a bag of M&Ms. She could consider me a lost cause and give me a lobotomy in the parking lot.

Can't be too careful.

(This post is dedicated to Liliane, AKA the Guilt Goddess, who is always good at poking a little fun at others with. Yesterday, her and Jason received the news that their dear little Jacob is CANCER-FREE! Congratulations, you guys!)

A Picture Says a Thousand Words, or Whatever

Yesterday was not a good day.

Why was it not a good day? Not because Spawnling isn't doing well, because he is.

Not because the gremlins had their claws out around the nice(r) furniture, because they didn't.

Not because I didn't have help with the three horned ones all afternoon from The Madre, because I did (Thanks again, Madre!)

No. The reason it wasn't a good day is because I am a giant tool and didn't follow my own advice.

When it comes to health, I believe there is a fine line between being informed and having too much information. For example, when doctors were scrambling to figure out what was wrong with Spawnling and the words 'Kawasaki Disease' were thrown into the mix, I quickly grabbed a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria and diligently researched the disease - along with a few others they had brought up as possibilities - on my laptop. I became an informed parent, which is important if you're going to not only make the best decisions for your sick child, but also knock the medical staff's lab coats off with your (newly acquired) vast knowledge of auto-immune disorders. By the time doctors had about reached a diagnosis, I was well aware of what we needed to do to make him better and jumped on the treatment bandwagon with bells on.

And I felt pretty damn proud of myself, I might add, because not only had I taken the time to research everything and make the right decisions, but I also took the time to apply lipstick that day. Mothers who wear lipstick in the hospital appear really put together even when we're nervous wrecks just trying to fake it. Also, I had the cutest little barrettes that did a great job at accentuating the red in my hair...

Sorry, where was I?

Right. Research. Knowledge. Power!

So, Spawnling is on a low dose of aspirin for the next few weeks to help prevent heart complications. Theoretically, when he gets the 'all clear' at his next echo in about five weeks, he'll stop taking it. A few times before he was discharged, and once when I filled the prescription, I was told he needed to stop taking aspirin if he got a viral infection, like the flu or chicken pox. Otherwise, he could potentially develop something called 'Reye's Syndrome'.

That was brought up three or four times, I realized yesterday as I was thinking about things. Hmm. Interesting.

I could have stopped there. I could have been an ignorant-but-still-lipstick-wearing mother who remembered the important thing in all of this: If your child get sick stop giving him aspirin. That's the long and short of it, isn't it? I needn't know more. I needn't ask questions. I knew, in the recesses of my exhausted little mind, that knowing might be bad.

But, in typical Maven fashion, I just had to create a bit of drama just as things are starting to calm down. So I Googled 'Reye's Syndrome'.

Ever Google 'Reye's Syndrome'? Don't do it, man. It's not worth it. You do not want to know what can happen if your child gets it. And it doesn't matter if the chances of contracting the syndrome are minuscule. It doesn't matter if only about two people a year get it in the US because developing it is that exceptional.

None of that matters because, after you read it, you will be frightened. And, if your child has to take aspirin for medical reasons - the one thing they know increases your chances of getting Reye's Syndrome - you will be positively terrified.

And poof! just like that, you're a hyperventilating paranoid freak dashing out of the house to buy hand sanitizer so you can make

every

single

person

who comes into your home use it upon entry so your baby doesn't die after a rare health issue from an even rarer one. Because wouldn't that seriously suck?

(Did Meanie mention Post Traumatic Stress to me the other day? I believe that woman should be a psychiatrist. And, if she wants to incorporate her current career into the new one, she could be a mean psychiatrist.)

Anyway, while I was at the store I, um, picked up a few extra things. It wasn't until I got home and started taking it out of the bag that I realized how easily my day could be summed up in a single shopping trip:


And yes. I did enjoy eating my feelings, and the carrots were, indeed, purchased out of guilt. (I'm nothing if not honest.)

If I'm not careful I'm going to have to start taking aspirin for my heart, too.

... And then we'll both get Reye's Syndrome! Shit.

A Recap of my Debauchery

Thank you for the love, sheeple. Truly, I appreciate all the comments, emails and phone calls of love.

Except for the calls where I pick up and someone is breathing hard. I don't appreciate that kind of love unless I consent to it. Just so we're clear.

I was having a very crap evening and this morning wasn't so great either until my friends showed up with gifts of coffee and chocolate. Being able to slowly brainwash people into thinking I'm so fun to hang out with that they must bribe me with food has proven to be a worthwhile effort. Sure, it's a huge lie, but who cares? In the end I get sweets and bitters. And once they figure out how boring I am I'll have convinced someone else they want to please my stomach.

Baby, don't hate the playah. Hate the game.

Completely coffeed out and with friends gone home, I'm indulging in a glass of water - exciting - and a chocolate-covered cherry - significantly more exciting, I'd say. Intrepid and Gutsy were ushered off to school with a hired marching band following the bus. I ran alongside it with some pompoms and made up cheers about how wonderful it was that March Break was over. It was a subtle sendoff, but I think they got the message.

As of right now, Spawnling and both dogs are asleep in various parts of the house, while one cat is eating and the other is outside like it's Spring or something, but with a foot of snow still on the ground. He's old and senile, so we'll forgive his stupidity. In short, this seems like the perfect time to write about how fantastic my spa weekend was, and maybe even add in a few pictures.

For starters, I attended the Ottawa Blogger Brunch... Or is that Breakfast? I never remember. It was a lot of fun. After this brunch I have deemed Nat and I to be official, bona fide friends and not just geeky internet weirdos having the occasional coffee, as we've spent enough real life time together. I met Laurie and one of her sons who was probably the most personable child I've had the pleasure of hanging out with. In fact, it made me wonder what is wrong with my own gremlins that they don't sit and talk to grownups in quite that way.

(It may have something to do with my referring to them as gremlins, which are little, ugly destructive goblin-type creatures. It could maybe be affecting their self-esteem a little. I don't know.)

I also had the pleasure of finally - finally! - meeting Jobthingy's Raspyberry. Can I just say that I adore that guy? What I don't adore, however, is their constant mushy gushy stab-me-in-the-eye sweetness with each other. It's disgusting! I mean, get over yourselves. Even my sister - who I rebelliously brought to the meal even though she's *gasp* not a blogger - was grossed out. We kept rolling our eyes at each other as we attempted to keep our food down.

I also met Raino, Hannah78 and several others I'll add to my blogroll. They're really cool chicks and so personable! Who new you could use the internet and not be creepy?

These are mine and jobthingy's name tags after the big event:



After brunch we hit the spa. I got my first ever pedicure. Man, that was gross. Who knew you could slice off that much dead skin from a heel? Uber nasty. I really admire people who can work on feet for a living. The aesthetician put pretty coral pink on my toes, which inspired me to buy a pink purse and dark metallic slip-ons with hot pink interiors. I was in heaven, buying stuff just for me! Normally I wouldn't, but I was caught up in the do-something-for-yourself whirlwind and I just couldn't stop. Sort of like binge drinking but with a money hangover.

My hair got cut and straintened at the hair salon. Damn I looked sexy. Well, sexier anyway. Slightly more sexy than usual, which probably isn't saying much. Still, I liked. Here's a pic of my sister and I getting ready for dinner. Note my hotness.


It takes me a good 45 minutes to an hour to straighten my hair. Way too much work with three gremlins to tame on a daily basis. I'm relieved to report that it looks almost as good curly if I put a bunch of frizz-taming and curl-enhancing products in it. It's all about the products, ladies.

We had dinner at an Italian place. As a non-meat-eater I was highly skeptical. Normally when a vegematarian goes to a place where meat is served, the dishes are rather bland and boring without a big slab of seasoned carcass. Not so at this place; I had the most amazing fetuccini of my life. I'm salivating just thinking about it.

Salivating all over my keyboard like an internet pervert. That's freaking gross. Where's the tissue?

Clubbing was fab. I had my first ever energy drink, which is basically some pop with a hell of a lot of caffeine in it. It had zero affect on me for the first twenty minutes. I thought of telling the company that their drink is for sissies. Then it hit me like a herd of elephants and I started yelling song lyrics while dancing profusely anywhere I was. I couldn't sit still.

No more energy drinks for The Maven. She has no tolerance. They are like crack to her. She is banned.

We had poutine at a 24h diner when the clocks changed from 2 to 3am. I felt like a bad girl being out so late. It was a wonderful feeling. I started to get really giddy as the energy drink wore off. We headed back to the hotel around 4am, which was really 3am but whatever.

Around 4:30am we - mostly the drunk sister and her hilarious friend Toupée and I - were being so loud we had the neighbours next door bang on the wall so violently it freaked us all out. Then we were quiet and well-behaved girls. Honest. Not another peep.

The Sister and Toupée made a funny video about the whole ordeal in which they whisper about the mad banger on the banging wall and giggle to themselves. I'll see if they'll let me post it.

Do you know how long it's been since I had a noise complaint? How awesome is that?! I felt like a rocker girl. I contemplated trashing the room but unfortunately I am without the rocker salary. Tragic.

I slept a total of four hours but am happy to report that there was a Fourbucks in the hotel lobby. Bastette bought me a very big latte and that kept me going. Speaking of Bastette, she's my sponsee and she's gorgeous. Check it out:


(She is gorgeous, but really I just wanted to show off my hair again.)

We checked out and I had brunch with The Sister and I came home. Because, honestly, there was nothing left to do. I had pampered, I had partied, I had partaken in shopping and food. What more was there? For just over 24 hours afterwards I was the happiest - and most exhausted - person alive. Then yesterday's dentistry surprises occurred and I felt glum. Refreshed, but glum.

At least I'm refreshed. And I have cute hair, feet and shoes. Not to be confused with "hairy feet in shoes". If you read that you need to go back, read slower and stop watching Lord of the Rings.

Besides, hobbits don't even wear shoes.

Duh.

Menage a Maven

I have a confession to make. It's a doozy, so brace yourselves.

(Mom, you might not to read this, as I don't want to sully your angelic view of me)

Ok, here it goes: I had a threesome.

Phew. There. I said it.

Last night, in my house. And you know what? It was really fun! I had been thinking of experimenting for a little while now. The craving to do something rebellious and exciting had been in the back of my mind.

Yesterday evening I was shopping alone and my thoughts were going wild. I started thinking of a couple of friends I've gotten to well separately over the years. I've developed a great relationship with each of them, but have always held back on taking it further for fear of losing myself in the moment. That can be dangerous and have dire consequences.

But, try as I might, I couldn't get my thoughts off the idea of doing something terribly naughty.

I forced myself to remember what kind of person I am: my values, my beliefs and my goals in life. I had never done anything like this before, although I had fantasized about it many times. Some things are best left to fantasy, Maven, my sensible side said.

The other part of me, the perverse and mischeivious side, spoke more strongly. Why not do it, Maven? It purred lustfully. Why not throw caution to the wind this one time and do something that will satisfy that need you can't seem to shake?

So, while still roaming the store, I nervously made the necessary arrangements with the other two parties.

We got together at my place after all the gremlins were in bed. The lights were dimmed and a movie was on the television. Geekster was around but understood that this was my thing and gave me some space. He said he might like to partake a little, but he knew how important this was to me and loves me enough to let me experiment without any jealousy whatsoever.

With my husband's blessing, I broke the ice slowly by bringing both of them onto the couch with me, one on each side. I was the ringleader, the center of attention. It was all orchestrated by me and for me, with my pleasure in mind.

Then we three came together, and it was everything I imagined it would be: Honest, breathtaking, a little sinful and so very delicious.


Now I know for sure that peanut butter cups and chips really do go that well together.