Why My New Job is Insanely Great (with pictures)

I've come to know that I'm good at a few things.

Well, more than a few things. Let's be honest here, The Maven is a domestic goddess of epic proportions - I mean, unless we're talking about cleaning, budgeting, organizing or parenting. Otherwise, I'm pretty much great at everything home-related.

What I wasn't sure I'd be so good at after all these years? Office work. And then, suddenly, I was doing it twice a week: dressing up, commuting, carrying around a fancy organizer, and using my brain for things other than grocery lists and new discipline strategies. I'd like to smugly admit how wrong I was and say that I totally rock the job world, but I'm not exactly sure just yet. Right now I'm happy with at least being mediocre at it. What I do know is that my boss rocks at being a boss and my job is spiffy cool. This has made the transition far less painful than I had anticipated, and, dare I say, rather fun at times. Even the filing.

Don't believe me? Allow me to demonstrate:

First of all, this is the area I work in. It's a hip and happening part of Ottawa called Westboro. This particular shot isn't so great, but it was taken in a hurry a few days ago as I was on my way into Bridgehead to get a coffee. The neighbourhood is actually way nicer than this, but this will have to do until I have time to take more pictures. Coffee first, artsy pictures second. The Maven has priorities.

I always wanted to live in Westboro, but I would have had to pawn my arms and legs to buy even the smallest house there. It's a trendy little urban hot spot of a place. I live across the river with the less trendy folk, but I get to be uncool in my four-bedroom house on a half-acre property that we can afford, so I think I'll get over it. Now I do the next best thing and work in lovely Westboro - and it's a great place to work, indeed. For, not only do I get to walk around and look at all the adorable little shops and drink fabulous fairly-traded coffee, but I get paid to be there. That's right, folks: I get paid to be there. Sure, I'm going to end up spending all my paycheques on all the pretty shiny things I see during lunchtime, but this is okay as long as nobody tells my husband (I can easily disguise that type of spending as "groceries" - domestic superpowers, remember? Shhh.)

Pretty shiny things that I want to own. (Just have to sell the children first.)

So maybe I can't afford a $700 bicycle just yet (the green one with the peacock designs on it just about made me cry tears of joy and run into the store with my credit card - resistance was nearly futile), but I have been enjoying spending a bit of money on yours truly. It's become apparent that I'm totally worth it - how did I not see this blatant fact before?

Look what I bought when I took the kids clothes shopping this weekend at a secondhand store? (I tell the kids we're "recycling" by hitting the consignment stores before looking at new clothes. Cheap ass budgeting carefully disguised as environmentalism - another one of my superpowers)

"A" is for "Amanda" and for "awesome." And also for "asshole," but we'll overlook that little coincidence.

Best part? I bought the darn thing for $3.99. And sure, monogrammed purses went out of style, like, two years ago, but now I can just say I'm retro and not just a broke mom who had to wait until she found a used one. Saving the earth, one outdated style at a time.

A bit of preface before the next couple of pictures: Boss Lady has an incredible sense of humour and keen observation skills. I'm quite sure she noticed my rapid breathing when we were making a list of stationary supplies. This tech gal loves stationary, and I especially love post-it notes. They almost turn me on. I love them in all colours, all shapes and sizes, all-- there I go, getting aroused again. Post-its are a thing of beauty. You can use them for anything. They have helped tremendously with my filing, note-taking, and with little reminders like "don't forget to turn off the heat before you lock up - and fix your hair, too. This humidity probably makes you look like a harlot."

Anyway, I walked in this morning to find my desk in a state of post-it orgy. They were everywhere, showing themselves to me with - gasp! - to-do lists on them. It doesn't get better than that.

Serious hotness.

I should point out that each and every one of those lovely little things had something important written on it. No trees were unnecessarily slaughtered for my amusement. But I do appreciate that Boss Lady used a medium that would grab my attention. Emails are great, but this got my pulse racing. And wouldn't you know it? I finished every single task listed upon them.

The way to The Maven's productivity is through sticky pieces of paper. Go figure.

But the very best - the absolute best, best, best surprise in the month I've worked in my new job, was what I found on my desk last week.

I'm going to admit something here; In support of my two youngest gremlins who have become obsessed with a certain teen pop sensation as of late, I decided to bite the bullet and give Justin Bieber's music a try.

And, uh, I kind of like it. Quite a lot, actually. He's a talented kid. One could say I adore him - minus any creepy physical attraction to a boy young enough to be my son, of course. I'll leave the dreams of being serenaded and kissed to girls (and a certain percentage of boys) half my age. But I will never say never to his music again. Them's some catchy beats, yo.

Boss Lady loves poking fun at my Bieber Fever. She has absolutely no interest in my oddly preteen musical preferences, but she reminds me of them at every opportunity. This came to light when a much-promised "Bieberizing" of my workspace recently took place. I unlocked the office and walked over to my desk to find a new garbage can filled with stationary (including the highly-coveted post-it notes). If that wasn't enough awesomness for one day, Boss Lady decided to customize my trashcan:

There are no words to express how great this is.

She drew the hearts in herself, and added "Amanda" underneath "Justin Bieber - Favorite Girl." This incredible garbage pail now sits proudly next to my desk.

She is madly in lust with Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. There will be calculated retaliation in this war of idols she started. I will Vedderize her but good. I can't say how just yet, but I will come up with something amazing, being The Maven and all. Stay tuned.

PS: Have I mentioned I love my job?

3 Things that Drive me Crazy

1. THE UNKNOWN

To me, the great unknown is the emotional equivalent to having bamboo shoots hammered up my fingernails. Put another way, sitting in limbo is the poop raining down upon my happy parade, making all the clowns cry and the tuba player wishing the opening of his instrument wasn't quite so basket-like. It's my nemesis, and I've had to spend a lot of time with it the last couple of days. Spawnling's ECG was yesterday morning. We were to sit in the waiting room and the nurse was to come out after speaking with the technician to tell us how the little gremlin's heart is doing. Problem? The nurse was busy, so they sent us home to wait for her phone call. Do you have any idea how long it takes for medical professionals to get around to calling people back? I suspect we may have answers by the time Spawnling starts collecting a pension. And yes, I was one of those moms and called to let them know we were still waiting on answers. Guess what? That was about as effective as Sarah Palin teaching a sex ed class.

2.  THE SIX-DAY WEEKEND

Who do I strangle at the school board for deciding to lump three PD days together and stick them before the already long Thanksgiving weekend? Now I get to listen to the cheery sounds of my children trying to kill each other for the equivalent of three back-to-back weekends. School board genius, I haven't even recovered from summer vacation yet. The twitches have stopped but the nightmares still come in droves. What were you thinking? Do you hate stay-at-home-parents? Do you envy our bonbon-eating, Ellen-watching, pyjama-wearing ways? Why must you do this? The exhaustion is already setting in after only a single day of uncooperative, un-sharing, unbridled chaos. When the turkey's tryptophan kicks in on Monday I'll probably lapse into a coma. How on earth am I supposed to experience an "a-ha moment" with Oprah in a coma?!

3. THE CLUELESS MARKETER

A) Are you serious? This is a different woman altogether.

B) There's this neat program called Photoshop that lets you edit things like skin tone. If you used it, maybe you could convince us that Miss Pasty Whitey Universe 2010 up top is the same person as Fake-Boob SprayTan below.

C) Apparently when you get skinny, you start buying bikinis with flashy stripper tassels. Good to know. I'll start saving up.

D) Oh, and another thing? Ms. Before isn't fat. She's PREGNANT. Did you also know girls have vaginas? That's where the babies come out. I'm concerned that you couldn't recognize an obvious sign of human reproduction. But take heart, my internet marketer virgin: you might still be able to have sex one day if you pay someone.

E) Your Easy Rule for losing weight? I tried it three times and it didn't work. Well, I mean, I lost weight when the baby came out (of my vagina, incidentally) but apparently sitting with your colicky baby and eating a bag of Oreos while sobbing uncontrollably doesn't make you look like a supermodel. Go figure.

Illness: An Illustrated Primer for New Parents

Ah, germs! Back-to-school time is overrun with the little bastards, finding their way into our bodies and taking a baseball bat to the ol' immune system. And even worse, if your very young child is in any sort of activity that involves other young children, you get the best of the best of the best of the germs, sir.

The question on every new, overprotective parent's mind is, how do I know if my child is sick? Well, let me show you!

(And if that's not on your mind, pretend it is so that I know I didn't go through the trouble of writing this primer for nothing, ok? I slaved over this artwork, people. And sure, it looks a lot like the work from my tantrum post, but that's because I saved the egghead shape from that last series of child drawings I made. The rest is custom designed for this post, baby. Don't say I never do anything for you.)

FIGURE 1: THE HEALTHY CHILD

Look! I made a girl child this time. Are you happy? I fully understand that not everyone only makes boy babies like Geekster and I. I'm not bitter, and to prove it I made Little Sally. In this picture, she's quite healthy. Look at that glow! Isn't she adorable? She looks kind of like I did when I was little. Come to think of it, she probably looks a lot like what my girl children would have looked like if my husband hadn't locked the X chromosome sperm up in his Tower of London for all of eternity.

But, uh, anyway. Not bitter, like, at all. Incidentally, Sally has one of those obnoxious bow things on her head that screams "Look at me! I may seem gender-neutral right now, but my mommy gets to dress me in lots and lots of pink! My clothing department is twice the size as the one you get to shop in for your stinky boy babies. Neener!"

FIGURE 2: WARNING SIGNS

Incidentally, the name of this section is also the name of my favourite Coldplay song. Not that you care.

Little Sally isn't looking so hot right now. She's still rocking the bow, but her eyes are a little fatigued.  She's not smiling as much as she usually does, either. Displaying signs of poor behaviour is another symptom of illness. So, if Barbie's head finds its way into your coffee cup while Sally grins evilly from behind the couch, do NOT panic: she may be possessed by a virus (it's like a demon, but smaller). This is the time to keep an eye on things and see how she is in the morning.

FIGURE 3: IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN

If Sally wakes up looking like she just stuffed Jabba the Hutt up into her sinuses, you could be dealing with the common cold. This isn't dangerous for most people, but it is gross. The younger the child is, the more disgusting a cold becomes. Boogers are eaten, sleeves are smeared, spittle shall be gratuitously coughed everywhere and anywhere but mostly into your open mouth.

If you're at home with your kids anyway, giving them a day or two to rest would be nice at this point. But if you need to cling tightly to those work-allotted sick days, now is probably not the time to use them.

FIGURE 4: IT'S GETTING HOT IN HERE

If your child was a planet, then National Geographic would be having a field day right now with all the global warming going on. Little Sally is hot -- and not in that creepy wrong way that lands people in jail. She's actually hot to the touch with fever.  Look: her obnoxious little headband thingy is sizzling away on her head. Tragic!

Sally's immune system is being attacked hardcore and is doing its best to fight it off. This could be nothing but a viral infection making its way through, or it could be a sign of something bacterial in nature. But until you have symptoms, it's wait and see. Keep her at home, throw on some Dora to make her happy. Then, go into the other room and pop some codeine so you can deal with Dora's loud, annoying voice.  It's okay, we'll understand.

FIGURE 5: I SEE SPOTS

Uh oh! Sally's fever is gone, but now she's covered in -- is that your brand new $35 lipstick? -- no, but you shouldn't spend that much money on makeup anyway. It's wasteful. Shame on you. Go sponsor a hungry child or something.

Sally has a rash on her sweet little face. Is it something mild, like roseola? Does it pack more of a punch, like chicken pox? There's no way of knowing right now. There is a very easy way of identifying chicken pox that we'll cover in section 7.

At this point, you couldn't even bring Sally out of the house if you wanted to because she's too easily identifiable as a carrier monkey. Heck, whether or not she's contagious is irrelevant at this point; she looks contagious, and that's all it takes. If you bring her into a grocery store pandemonium will ensue. People will drop their produce and take off at a dead run. Some will smash their way through windows if they have to. Women will fall to their knees in prayer to whatever saint will grant them immunity from the pestilence which has now surely tainted the supermarket.

For your peace of mind and Sally's future therapy bills, I would recommend staying home.

FIGURE 6: SPEWING FORTH THE SIGNS

Puke. Barf. Spew. Vomit. Upchucks. Blowing chunks. Whatever it is, keep it to yourself, Little Sally. Stomach bugs are really contagious and really unpleasant. If you have one, please stay far, far away from everybody else. We don't want it, we don't need it, and it will not help us build immunity toward the next bug.

Did you know that having a stomach virus only gives you partial immunity for about six months until the virus mutates? Did you know that adults are contagious for up to 1 week after they stop showing symptoms, but that kids are contagious for up to 2 weeks after? That knowledge is my gift to you. That being said, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone quarantining their gremlins for 2 weeks after a stomach bug. Heck, I know all about this stuff I don't do it. Do you want me to go absolutely insane? Because it would happen much sooner than 2 weeks in, let me tell you. That's why mommy hand sanitizer in her purse. It's my societal compromise.

FIGURE 7: AND NOW YOU KNOW

Break out the calamine lotion. And maybe some shake n' bake.

I hope this primer was helpful in some way. Please let me know if you have any questions. As I'm sure you can tell, I'm very well-researched and extremely fact-based.

Thank you.

Another Spawnling video (because you know you love them)

I was feeling pretty burned out today. Too burned out to talk about it and certainly too burned out to write about it, as much as I'm sure that would help to some extent. This mom stuff is hard. Sometimes, I think being a stay-at-home-mom for over thirteen years is a lot like crossing a desert - a loud, messy, smelly, overwhelming desert - with no oasis in sight.

And then, one of the gremlins scuttles into the kitchen and starts weaving a marvelous story involving Star Wars, bank robberies and things he did seven years from now, and it reminds a girl how lucky she is to be in this loud, messy, smelly, overwhelming place.

When you realize one of your kids has figured out time travel, it makes this full-time mom stuff so worthwhile. I mean, once he patents whatever he uses to visit the future, my retirement fund will be plentiful and I will build my own oasis in the desert - shirtless pool boys and all.



He's so awesome, isn't he? I mean, when he's not calling people stupid boys. (Everyone is a stupid boy when he gets pissed off, even if they are female and/or reached the age of maturity years ago.)

Anyway, now that I have your attention, anyone want three kids overnight? First come, first serve! Hurry up, because we're likely to get swamped with offers! We've only had three nights off in thirteen years and you don't want me to go so crazy I can't write at all, do you? As an added incentive, I'll bring you a coffee when we get back... unless I drink it first.

I'll probably drink it first.

He Likes Big Butts (and I caught it on video)

It appears my dear Spawnling has taken a liking to large behinds.

He enjoys sizable fannies.

He has a new found appreciation for the pronounced tush. Observe this morning's footage:



I know Sir Mix-A-Lot's song is used in cartoons nowadays, like in Shrek and, as Spawnling mentioned, in Shark Tale. However, there's an important difference: They stop after the first verse because parents would likely not appreciate their young child hearing the rest of the words.

...And that's where big brothers happily come in to fill in the blanks by finding the song online and listening to it with impressionable younger brothers. Thanks, guys.

There's something rather unsettling - and yet damn funny - about hearing your three-year-old say the word 'sprung' -- and not be referring to seasonal changes. Just sayin'. So I had to get it on video, okay? I had to. I couldn't help myself.

Considering that Spawnling sings everywhere - and I mean everywhere - regardless of where we are or who's around, outings are going to be very interesting for a while. Move over Star Wars theme, because papa's got a brand new bag - or butt - to croon about.

We're going to be so popular the park this year, don't you think?

Here's what I want to know: What is the most embarrassing thing your child has ever said or done in public? As I enjoy hearing about other people's impending sense of social doom and not just sharing my own, I beg you to dish.

"Why I can never seem to blog" - a poem

What does it take to write a post?
A lot more than you think,
To give my all -- or at least my most,
Would drive most girls to drink

Blogging is for me a space,
To rant and rage galore,
Getting up in mayhem's face,
Doth take a posting whore

But at-home-moms do not have time,
To do things that they like,
Let alone spend hours online,
Coming up with useless tripe

I often ponder velcro walls,
As a way to find more time,
If done just right the kids won't fall,
And all would be just fine

Perhaps a nanny with a hat,
And petticoat to boot,
Could threaten softly with a bat,
...No, that wouldn't suit

I just want to find more time to write,
Instead of wishing it,
For mommy time I shouldn't fight,
Or need to throw a fit

I tell the boys that blogging,
Helps mommy stay quite calm,
So we can avoid flogging,
And other outlets that are wrong

But of course they never listen,
Being my boys after all,
And my sweat it starts to glisten,
And my head bangs on the wall

And I'm really getting twitchy,
And my eyes go really wide,
And I'm feeling rather bitchy,
And disquieted inside

So instead of velcro walling,
Or considering a flog,
I write this poem I'm calling,
"Why I can never seem to blog"

My little potty mouth

I think, after the last two darker posts, I owe you something funny. So let's talk about penises, because that's always a good time. Right, mom?

Spawnling is now potty trained thanks to my handy dandy scientific formula. It's really simple. Allow me to explain:

In order for diapers to go bye-bye, a child's maturity has to outpace their stubbornness.

And let's face it: this kid is pretty damn stubborn.

See, the minute Spawnling's desire for independence outgrew his desire to say 'no' to me and anything new I might suggest, he ended up going all big boy on me and finally accepted the concept of not voiding wherever it suits. He is now wearing underwear day and night with very few accidents. This means that, after thirteen years...

... drum roll, please! ...

We are quite officially done with diapers forever. FOREVER!!

Well, at least until we get into our 80's. So at least for next 50 years-ish.

Anyway, as a result, the little demon has been taking an interest in his third horn, if you know what I mean. Not being hidden behind a diaper most of the time, it's become a source of some interesting conversations - always while he's on the potty. Like this one from yesterday:

'Mom, how big is your penis?'

'I don't have a penis, honey. I have a vagina.'

Spawnling gives me the most puzzled look.

'Well, okay then. How big is your va... vagi... um, that thing you said... well, actually I have no idea what that is.' Spawnling shrugs, pulls his pants up and leaves the room - a good thing, considering I had no idea how to answer that. I mean, where do you even start?

Then, last week, my favourite conversation about penises ever took place (What? In thirteen years of parenting boys I'm not allowed to have a favourite genitalia discussion?)

Spawnling asked the question pondered by many a man throughout time: 'Mom, why is my penis so small?'

'Well,' I explain, 'it's small because you're small, honey. It'll grow as you grow.' There. I answered his question with just enough information to appease him. Or so I thought.

Just then, Intrepid walked into the kitchen.

'Intrepid, is your penis bigger because you're bigger than me?'

Intrepid, hardly missing a beat despite the awkward question, replies 'Um... Yes, and yours will get bigger as you get older, too.'

Spawnling things for a moment and draws a reasonable conclusion in his mind. 'Wow! Daddy's penis must be HUGE!'

(Yes, Daddy was very pleased to hear this story.)

Ah, the penis. Frankly, they're talked about so much in this household that I'm surprised I haven't sprouted an honourary one myself.

Spawnling Lays Down the Law

I often talk about how much attitude my little Spawnling has. Yesterday, I decided to get it on video.

For the record, I did take away his jellybeans. They're potty training bribery (and it's working - who knew sugar would work?) and he took off at a dead run with them in his hands, cackling the entire time. He wasn't cackling so much when I chased him down and put them back in the cupboard, however. So, he decided to set down the law with me.



Have I mentioned lately how much I love this kid?

Tell it like it is, Spawn.

Spawnling is nothing if not honest.

Unfortunately, at three-and-a-half, he has yet to discover the wonderful world of word filtering. It's a useful tool in all sorts of potentially sticky situations, such as the ones that just occurred at my place of residence this morning. Oh, my.

My good friend Handcuffs - a mom with three crazy hyper chaotic perfect little boys of her own - was over for a visit. The kids were screaming and running around playing ever so quietly with stickers and charm bracelets when some kind of physical incident occurred and Spawnling was hit in the face.

Spawn, my dear little son, did what he now does best in these situations: screamed as loud as he could and let the waterworks flow. You know, I used to loathe when he would hit back, but I almost hate this whole sobbing uncontrollably at the injustice of it all phase even more. Doesn't he see that I'm trying to drink my coffee? There should be a no-wailing rule when mommy has her feet up on the ottoman.

I picked my boy up and asked him what happened. In between gasps for air and sobs, he told me the whole sordid tale: 'Gasp! Riley... he... sob! ... he hit... gasp! snort!.... m-m-meeeeee! ... sob!'

It would have been nice if it had ended there. But no, of course not. He had to keep going about it. '... And I was just ... gasp! ... sitting there and he... sob! ... h-he whacked me just like that, and... sob! ... and he's SUCH A BIG DUMBO!"

Yikes. Nice one, kid. Here's a little trick I've learned over the years: If you're the victim in an altercation and there's some kind of parental intervention, just stay put. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred-dollars. Don't start throwing bad names around; it'll just complicate the situation. Now both of you have to apologize. Do you know how hard it is to make two three-year-olds say sorry to each other without another hit or yell happening in the process? Even seasoned mothers struggle with this.

A little later, when things calmed down again, Spawnling had started drawing a picture. And, like every other picture he draws as of late, it looks like a Mr. Potato Head on hallucinogens: a large (this time yellow) circular body with two circles of different sizes for eyes and four creepy little sticks protruding from its spud-like frame for limbs.

Handcuffs, forgetting who she was talking to, said 'Hey, Spawnling, do you know who that looks like? Sponge-Bob!'

'No. It doesn't.' replied the artistic diva, cooly.

Trying to explain herself, Handcuffs went on: 'See? It has a big yellow body, and little sticks for arms and legs. Just like Sponge-Bob does!'

'No. I don't think so.' I believe he may have rolled his eyes at that point.

'Okay, then,' shrugged Handcuffs, trying to stifle a giggle over Spawn's stubborn refusal to see her point.

He looked over at her and said, so matter-of-factly, 'Ummm, do you know that I don't like you?' And he casually spun around and walked off to do something else.

Just so you know, it is very, very challenging to make your child apologize to a person who is practically falling out of her seat laughing, while you yourself are in stitches, and tears are running down your cheeks.

He may be ballsy, but I really do love that kid.