I'm a loser baby, so why don't you hear me?

Last night was the 2nd annual Blog Out Loud Ottawa, or BOLO for short. It was put together by the lovely and talented Lynn of Turtlehead. She had asked me a few weeks ago if I would like to read at this year's event. I had never been to BOLO before, but it didn't scare me. I mean, I've done public speaking in front of much bigger audiences. Besides, I'm The freaking Maven. What's there to be scared of?

In my mind, I was picturing a quiet evening with a handful of pasty-skinned, blurry-eyed people looking over their laptops at each other. When my turn came, I would simply stand up, read a post, get a few golf claps and sit my sizeable ass back down. The end.

I had so many misconceptions about BOLO and Ottawa bloggers in general that I feel the need to confess what I've learned in a post. So here is the point format version in all its embarrassing glory:

1. First of all, BOLO is not some teeny tiny event that takes place around a table. This is a fairly large gathering of local bloggers. There were many tables, and all of them were full. And what was at the very back of the pub? Was that a... a stage? A fucking stage?! With a microphone and speakers and, and... Oh my wordsmith. I had to get up a stage. I don't believe I got that memo or I would have taken off from the blogosphere at a dead run, leaving several half-finished posts in my wake.

2. There are a lot of really gorgeous bloggers. I don't know what I was expecting, exactly, but it wasn't a large gathering of hotties, that's for sure. How on earth are people who sit in front of computer screens and regularly molest the social networking sites so damn beautiful? Apparently, I can no longer use my geeky hobbies as an excuse for cellulite-laden thighs. Damn you all.

3. I'm not nearly as confident as I thought I was. Once I realized I was firmly out of my element, I let the incredible Nat flutter around like the social butterfly she is and sat nervously at our table right in front of the big scary stage, sipping my Diet Coke and unceremoniously shoving fries into my mouth. I did see some familiar faces, like Pauline and XUP, but overall, I was a total BOLO loser. Thankfully, I had a couple of fabulous friends groupies come hold my hand and stop me from crawling out the back door when no one was looking. It's a good thing I brought some of my popularity with me or I might have started crying right there, at my table, into my drink.

4. There are some incredible local bloggers out there. I was completely blown away by the talent we have right here in Ottawa. As one of the last readers, I started panicking about halfway through the night, wondering how on earth I was ever going to top everything from Facebook as an abusive relationship to the great wasp nest fiasco to some truly fried rice to some epic bra flashing. And there were more, but I would be writing all day. Seriously, how on earth could I follow those up with my mediocre writing? And, more importantly, how was I going to duck the beer bottles being thrown at me with that annoying spotlight in my face? Reading alongside these funny, witty, provocative writers was probably a big mistake. I panicked. What was I thinking? I'm not a good writer! After tonight I'll be hitchhiking down the road of spammy SEO content articles at $2 a pop. This is the day I go down in flames. Better order up another Diet Coke and get my nerve up.

5. Too much Diet Coke can lead to a mild hangover-like state in the morning. Ouch.

6. I can make up the steps of a stage and over to a microphone even when my heart is about to explode out of my chest. And, more importantly, I can read something once I'm up there. And make people laugh. And surprisingly enjoy myself very, very much. And, I believe, connect with my audience. I had no idea I had that in me, and it feels good.

7. Was I the best of the night? Absolutely not. Far from from it, actually. But I did hold my own, and I won't lie: I loved every second up on that stage (after my heart started beating again). I felt like an upper class gal in a Prada store. Oh, sure, I still felt like a lost little girl in the loser corner of the schoolyard when I sat back down (ah, memories!), but that's okay. I had my three minutes of fame and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Long live The Maven's ego!

8. Twitter is way more fun when you've met a bunch of the local people you're now following. I foresee myself getting a wee bit addicted. Somebody break out the methadone.

I had an amazing time last night. What a rush! Thanks to everyone who organized the event, who came out to speak and/or to listen, and to those who came and introduced themselves to me afterwards. You made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Or maybe that was the Diet Coke. Next time, if someone could cut me off after the first glass and steer me toward the pot of decaf, that would be great.

Every Sunday should end with Big Dick

Yesterday, I took some "me" time. I'm not talking a couple of hours, here. I'm talking a full day.

To myself.

With no children.

I love children - especially mine, although I'll tell you I prefer other people's because they don't whine "Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommeeeeee!" at me. But a Maven needs a break every now and then, lest she twitch herself into a coma from the stress of daily child rearing.

Thus, last day's morning, I put down all the tools of gremlin taming: camouflage clothing, spray bottle, army net, chain gloves, and my trusty bottle of chloroform, and went off in search of a place that contains little to no people under the age of majority.

Just as I was about to get a lap dance, Fantasia was kind enough to inform me that there is a happy medium when it comes to the kid-free environment. So I thanked her, stuffed a $5 bill in her g-string, and went out for brunch instead.

The Bitches - what the four lovely ladies and I who brunch every couple of months have jokingly called ourselves - met at The Buzz, a downtown restaurant that serves the most amazing morning food. I'm sure they serve amazing other time foods as well, but I wouldn't know. I was too busy scarfing down eggs florentine to ask to see the evening menu. There was great conversation, lots of laughs and far too much coffee. I also learned that some people say 'eggs over lightly' instead of 'over easy,' and that serving staff in Ottawa have no clue what they're talking about.

After brunching with the Bitches, I headed to the maul to brave Sunday shopping crowds for no other reason than I didn't have my boys with me. Frankly, I can handle just about any crowd when I don't have to play 'recover the missing three-year-old.' I didn't buy a thing, as I don't need anything. Well, unless you count a larger television as a 'need.'

Ask me again once my copy of Avatar comes in next week.

Next, I sat across the table from a beautiful friend and drank the best damn americano I've had in a while. Why was it the best? Because I wasn't drinking it in between breaking up fights, picking up pastries that have fallen on the dirty restaurant floor, dealing with crying about said dropped pastries as I usher a sad gremlin to the counter to buy another one I can't really afford because they're incredibly overpriced, passing my iPhone to the child in question so he can play a game while eating his new pastry, and wiping off the sugar and gunk and crap off the screen after all is said and done, wondering if it will work properly again and cursing myself for ever thinking that was a good idea.

It's not like I don't enjoy my children's company most of the time, although I'm sure it sounds that way from the aforementioned scenario. It's just that there's a lot of stressful kid-related stuff going on in our house right now, and I've been feeling worn right down to the bone. Synonyms for this feeling: completely exhausted, emotionally spent, absolutely drained, and about this close to losing my everlovin' shit.

So it's no surprise to me that Relaxa, the goddess of mothers' time off, would have me lock my keys in the van in the Starbucks parking lot when I never, ever do that normally. And with my husband having just arrived with the gremlins at a museum halfway across the city with the only spare set of keys in his pocket, I would be "forced" to spend more time with my coffee friend, and even meet her dad.

This is where the big dick comes in.

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, already. Big Dick is her dad. Little Dick - or Richard - is her brother. And here you thought I was being a pervert.

Heck, if anyone might be a bit of a pervert, it's Big Dick. He was by far the most hilarious octogenarian I've ever met. From the moment I stepped into his house unannounced while awaiting my spouse, he made me feel welcome. He said he had a great story to tell - sexual in nature, of course, like all the best stories are - and talked about how he wanted to decorate the upcoming 'couples alone time' room in his wife's nursing home with a decor acquired partially from a sex store and partially from a funeral home.

And now I know where my friend gets all her crazy from: Big Dick. Enough said.

Eventually, my gremlins had enough of the museum, I was rescued by Geekster and his spare set of keys, and I came home. But not without a solid seven hours where I was reminded what it was like to be The Maven, and not Mom - just for a little while. A couple of hours off is nice, but the stress of doing this mom thing full-time only starts to melt away before I need to go home and immerse myself into the sea of chaos once again. Having a good chunk of time - something I haven't had in a while - was a sorely needed.

The batteries are recharged (emotional batteries, not sex toy batteries. Your mind and the gutter need to stop meeting like this) and I'm feeling significantly better about my world today. Less anxious, more patient, and ready to pick up that spray bottle again and get back to parenting.

...Excuse me? We're not supposed to use a spray bottle? When did that happen? Next someone is going to say nets are a bad idea, too. What is this world coming to?! I'm off to get my chloroform.

Embracing my Inner Loser

I had a conversation today with my good friend The Guilt Goddess. We were on her front porch and I was getting ready to leave after brightening her day with my presence. It went something like this:

Me: [blah blah blah something or other leading up to]... me being so popular and everything.

Her: You mention your popularity a lot.

Me, shrugging: Probably. I am rather proud of it.

Her: But you don't have to, you know. You can be popular without announcing it all the time.

Me: ... But what's the fun in that? Besides, you're probably more popular than I am, or at least as popular. Maybe. So it's not like I'm bragging.

Her: Sure, but I don't have to tell people.

Me: You just did.

Her, trying hard not to throw something at me.

Me: I'm not that bad. I mean, I kid around, but I'm pretty humble, really.

Her: Oh my God. Did you just say you're --

Me: In fact, I think I'm probably the humblest person I know.

Her, rolling her eyes.

Me, having an epiphany: ... I bet that's what makes me so popular. My incredible humility...

Her, laughing because she can't control how much she adores me: Get out of here!

She loves me, that one.

***

Popularity. I throw the word around a lot, but frankly I've never looked up the definition. Let's see what the dictionary says, shall we?

pop·u·lar·i·ty

n.

The quality or state of being popular, especially the state of being widely admired, accepted, or sought after.

Interesting stuff. Let's break this down and see if I, Humblest Woman Alive, fits the bill and can grab herself a head cheerleader outfit.

Am I widely admired? Tough call. If by "widely" we mean on a global scale, like Ghandi, then no. If, however, "widely" implies the two little gremlins who thought I was Queen of Bosstown because I made them some peppermint-scented playdough this afternoon, then yes. In the wide open space of my kitchen, I am admired. Check.

Accepted. Well, that depends on who you're talking to. There are some people who don't accept me. In fact, they downright don't like me. But I tend not to like them, either, and I learned in math class that two negatives cancel each other out and become a positive. Therefore, they don't count. And, when I eventually take over the world by being really fabulous, I'll probably decree anyone who doesn't think I'm a splendid human being a mutant, and send them to live in the badlands where their opinions won't matter. They can eat raw meat and build huts out of shunned fashion items, like pleather and legwarmers (those should have stayed in the 80's as they have no place in this millennium) Therefore, whether I'm accepted at face value or because I strike potential fear into the heart of naysayers, I think we have this part covered. Check.

Am I sought after? Hell yes I am! People seek after me all the time: they want spare change, or would like me to pay my cellphone bill, or come find me to say that my child is screaming because I accidentally left him in the other aisle at the grocery store and he's terrified... And speaking of children, my (still three, because I haven't lost any at the store yet) gremlins are forever seeking after me so I can make them food and settle arguments and the like.

Very, very check.

I guess that settles that, then.

***

I was never a popular girl, and it only grew worse with every passing grade. For example, I had the opportunity - nay, the privilege - in grade 7 of being the biggest loser in my high school. The year started off with me being gifted the nickname of "Zenji" due to:

A) Having a lot of acne, and
B) Being "dog ugly" like Benji the dog, who was actually pretty cute if you ask me

As you can imagine, walking down the hallways was a very pleasant experience. That may be why I started keeping liquor in my locker. It made going to and from class a little more tolerable. Being slightly buzzed Zenji was better than being un-liquored-Zenji.

At least, until Zenji ended up in rehab a year or so later, but I digress.

That fantastic year ended with having hairspray sprayed upon the back of my sweater, followed by a fun game of "Let's see who's match will light Zenji on fire." Someone won, but forgive me for not remembering which of the two girls it was. I was busy stopping, dropping and rolling. Thankfully there was no scarring, unless you count the emotional kind.

Anyway, the point of that unpleasant walk down memory lane is to provide enough background so as the reader understands my unhealthy lifelong desire for popularity. I always figured that, if I were simply a really cool chick that everyone liked, then life would be good. I would get what I want, I would be instantly happy, and the world would be my oyster.

I never did care much for pearls, though...

***

So, Zenji grew up, and eventually, through a series of important transformations brought on by that icky thing called "maturation," became The Maven. And, as we've established, The Maven is a fantastically popular gal. However, I need to state a few things about life today that are markedly different than what I thought they'd be:

For one, life is not perfect. Apparently, popularity does not stop your children from getting very sick, or prevent unexpected car repairs. It doesn't lower the cost of your satellite package either, which is a real bitch. Oh, and another thing? It doesn't do your laundry. That's probably the worst part. It's hard to be the glamorous woman people expect when I'm all sweaty from hanging out the clothes on the line. Popularity should totally come with a housekeeper.

Another thing: popularity doesn't end insecurity. What on earth is that all about? It was supposed to make me more sure of myself. Isn't that how the in-crowd works? Everyone relies on everyone else to give them that air of superiority, and then we collectively look down on the peons from our high horses, right? Apparently, that's a big, fat lie. I don't even have a high horse on which to look down at people from. It hasn't made me feel grandiose or special. I still get my feelings hurt, I still cry, I still wonder what's wrong with me - especially during PMS week. I find fault with myself regularly, and I have not become a natural blond with a small waistline and great teeth. Someone didn't get the memo.

Also, I haven't let go of the past, and use that annoying empathy thing frequently. My inner Zenji often runs around and checks to make sure that people feel happy and included. Inside this cold, Maven exterior, loyal Zenji has a big heart. Figures, her being an acne-riddled dog and all.

Finally, I've learned that, while knowing a lot of people is not a bad thing, my tried and true method of having a few close friends is by far the most important aspect of my social circle. I love my girls; the ones I can truly be myself with, call when I'm having a really bad day, rant to, cry to, laugh with and relax with. The ones that read my crazy blog posts and yet still respect me in the morning. The ones that have been there through the though times - and there have been a lot of those lately - and celebrate the good times. The ones who know how jam-packed full of mayhem my life is and wait patiently until the dust clears, or show up with coffee in hand during the eye of the storm.

The funniest thing about popularity? When I stopped looking for it - stopped feeling sorry for myself because I was lonely; stopped wondering what was wrong with me; stopped picking at my flaws and instead embraced who I was and showed it boldly to the world like I had nothing to lose - love and acceptance inundated my life. And it only gets better every year.

My authentic self, the one I display regularly on this silly little blog for the world to laugh at with, is the one people like. And to think I spent years trying to be someone else. Someone "better".

I guess Zenji wasn't so bad after all. She just needed a little Maven to spice her up and help her grow a backbone, that's all.

Whipping it Out Everywhere

Know what really pushes my buttons? Uptight people.

Know what pushes my buttons even more? Ignorant uptight people.

The two are generally synonymous, but when it's blatantly obvious that someone is going for the title of Douche of the Universe, it makes my entire wall of buttons get all pushy-like.

Tonight I will discuss a topic that not only pushes my buttons, but twiddles my knobs, too. And I mean that in the least perverse manner possible.

You'd have to be living under a rock - nay, living at the bottom of a chasm in the deepest part of the ocean under a very heavy and unmovable rock - to not know breastfeeding is the golden standard for infant nutrition. It's not even an arguable point, as it has countless studies to back it up. This post isn't about whether or not babies should be nursed. I mean, I'm a postpartum doula with a background rich in breastfeeding courses: it should be apparent where I stand on that issue.

Gone are the days where I try to tell people how they should feed their child. The information is out there and you can decide for yourself, like I did. Heck, I have a few friends who didn't nurse and I still think they're cool chicks. Sometimes, we sit around the fire and sing Kumbaya while holding hands. It's a beautiful thing, our ability to accept each other.

Today, I saw a re-tweet (Twitter talk for a tweet - or post - from a person that is then rebroadcast by others) with a link to a post on born.in.japan. The blog itself is a good read, so I'll be putting it on my blogroll. However, the first picture in this particular post angered me as much as it did the author. You can visit the blog to see it for yourself, but essentially it's an posted ad from the site Chicago Now, which states:

Breastfeeding in public is tacky!
Seriously, how hard is it to find a bathroom, mommies?

Ouch.

Now, later on, the ad is replaced by another, nursing-friendly one. And when I checked out Chicago Now's site, I found this very supportive article about public breastfeeding. The poster was obviously a provocative attempt to incite web visits. I get it, but I don't like it.

***

I'm going to admit something here, not only because I'm trying to make a point, but because I hope it'll help someone else out if they stumble across my lowly little blog:

I used to be a bathroom stall breastfeeder.

There, I said it. It's a hard thing to admit, being the knowledgeable lactivist I am today. But it's because of those awful experiences of sitting on the toilet with my newborn that I'm able to encourage women to proudly nurse their babies wherever they are.

It didn't take me long to figure out that I was going to give breastfeeding an honest try. Even in 1996, the literature spoke loud and clear in favour of breastmilk, and I was so enchanted with my new son that I wanted to give him the very best start in life. At the same time, however, I was a mere twenty years old, was suffering from then-undiagnosed postpartum depression, had very few friends with kids and none who were nursing, and had not grown up with a lot of breastfeeding around me. This left me in a bit of a quandary: I wanted to exclusively nurse, I sucked large at pumping or hand-expressing, and yet I was very insecure and worried about what people would say if I were to let my baby eat in public.

What if someone saw my breast? What if someone was rude to me? What if the few friends we had left didn't want to hang out with us anymore because I made them uncomfortable?

See? I was a very different Maven back then. I was still in the caterpillar stage and not the soaring, glorious bitch of a butterfly I am today. It takes time to mould oneself into such a state of perfection, you know.

So I took it to the stalls. The smelly, disgusting stalls. There were no nursing rooms in Ottawa back then. There were no comfortable chairs just inside the bathrooms, even. So, to avoid mean looks and unwanted comments, I would put down the toilet seat and latch my baby on while I read the graffiti adorning the stall walls.

It didn't take me long to realize that I would rather deal with the douchery of others than subject my child to the bacteria-infested public washrooms. I clearly remember the day I walked into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, got ready to nurse, said 'screw this' and walked back out again.

And then, I nursed everywhere. Everywhere. On the bus, on benches in the middle of Ottawa's largest and busiest malls, at people's houses without asking if I should leave the room, on our front porch, at the park, every-freaking-where. Was I discreet? As much as I wanted to be. If I covered up, it was for Intrepid's comfort or mine, and not for those around us.

And I dared someone to come up and say something to me, or look at me the wrong way. When I breastfed in public, I wouldn't sit with downcast eyes; I would look around at the faces of others to let them know that I wasn't ashamed of what I was doing. I was damn proud of it. And I would smile, and sometimes I would even say 'Hello' - I saved verbal greetings for the people who looked the most shocked/uncomfortable. I felt good about what I was doing: not only was I giving my baby the best, but I was making doing so a normal sight again - like it was two generations ago, or like it is in so many other, less uptight countries. I knew even back then that I was making it easier for the next generation of moms.

But that's me, right? That's full-throttle Maven mode. Unfortunately, I've counseled women much older than I was, who are new moms in a new decade where breastfeeding has once again become the norm, who are still terrified of publicly feeding their babies lest they be judged by others.

It makes me shake my head full of beautiful curls, it does.

So, let's see: We are feeding our babies in the normal, expected way with milk that is scientifically proven to be hugely beneficial to both mother and child - and produces absolutely no waste, I might add - and this is frowned upon? We're asked to cover up, pump into a bottle, or find a "quieter spot"?

And people think this is okay? Like I said: ignorant, uptight people really piss me off.

Sorry. I think I said they push my buttons. I was trying to be nice. Now I'm feeling less nice because I'm all angry-like.

The thing about Chicago Now's "advertisement" is that, while the blog seems to support public breastfeeding (as it should, really), seeing that statement on a sign with no further explanation could potentially cause a nervous mom to make a beeline for the nearest restroom. Worse still, opinions spouted off by ignoramuses, no matter where they are found, could make a pregnant woman decide not to breastfeed at all because she can't handle the comments. That's completely unacceptable to me, so it should be to you, too.

I'm always right, after all.

In short, I just don't want to see someone feel like they have to hide what their body is supposed to do. We're meant to make milk and our babies are meant to drink it. It's as simple as that. Anthropology 101. If you have a problem with a suckling baby, don't look. In fact, if it's really bothering you that much, I can direct you to the nearest bathroom stall. It's nice and private in there.

Rock on, nursing moms. This one was for you.

Dawson's Mom

Dawson is a little boy in Gutsy's class. I don't know him very well, but I do know that Gutsy really likes him. He lives about two blocks from our place, so you would think the boys would get together and play sometimes, but they don't. And it's all my fault.

One day, about a year go, I decided my van had suffered enough neglect and needed a good cleaning. By 'good cleaning' I mean it probably needed to be dunked in a lake of bleach, but a quick tidy would have to do. So, I brought Gutsy and Spawnling outside to play while I tackled the colossal, overdue task.

I admit, I got a little obsessed doing it. I mean, there was a lot to clean up. Some of the old food I found was growing new forms of life on it, while the old toys had been stepped on so much they had broken into fun and exciting new toys. "Hey, kids! It's everybody's favourite hazardous action figure, Pointy Pete! Whoa! What's attached to his arm? Not a hand holding a jackhammer anymore! No way! It's a long, sharp piece of undoubtedly lead-laden plastic! Nobody can stab like Pointy Pete! Awesome!!"

I was busy helping Pointy Pete and his band of eye-gouging superheroes into my shiny green plastic bag, when I heard a sweet voice from the road saying. "Hey, little guy. I don't think your mommy would want you in there."

We have a ditch in our front yard lining he edge of the road. It's fairly deep as far as ditches go - probably about four feet - and is filled with weeds, varying levels of water, and sharp rocks. Guess where Spawnling was? Spawnling, who had never gone into the ditch and has not again since that day, was splashing around merrily in his rubber boots. And what was yours truly doing while this dangerous activity was going on? Why, I had half my body in the van as I reached for an old juice box under one of the bucket seats, with the radio on just loud enough to drown out any sound of my toddler creeping into the ditch to, well, drown.

I looked up when I heard the voice, and saw a mother and her two boys stopped on the road in front of my house. One child stared at Spawnling quizzically from his stroller, while the other one waved and said "Hi, Gutsy."

"Hi, Dawson!" replied Gutsy.

"Oh, shit," replied I under my breath. It's bad enough that another mom had to coax my child out of danger's way. The fact that our boys knew each other was the cherry on my embarrassment sundae. Awesomeness.

I helped Spawnling out of the ditch, sputtering something about how he had never done that before, and how my back had been turned for only a minute, and how I appreciated her noticing, and how it's nice that Gutsy and Dawson are friends, and that hopefully we'd see them again.

She was incredibly nice and warm, leaving insecure me to assume that she was simply quite good at concealing her judgment. I had it set in my mind that she would be going home to Tweet about how the mother down the road might want to actually supervise her children sometimes.

Fall turned to winter, which turned to colder winter, which turned to warmer winter, which eventually turned to a few short weeks of spring, which turned into a summer that felt more like spring, and eventually into fall again. All through the months I would hear about how one of my friends is caring for Dawson before school, and how nice his parents are, and how another friend's child went to Dawson's birthday party, and how lovely his mother is. I would nod and smile politely, all the while feeling shame churning 'round in the pit of my stomach. Gutsy would tell me virtually every day that he wanted Dawson to come over and play. I would smile nervously and wonder just how much his parents would not want him to come over and play at the irresponsible Maven's house.

Today, I met my good friend The Dog Whisperess and her daughter Diva at our neighbourhood park. While Gutsy, Spawnling and Diva were arguing for artistic control over their sand creature frolicking joyously in the warm fall air, a very familiar boy came skipping down the path.

Dawson.

My heart jumped. This was it. In a few moments, his mother would turn the corner, call to memory our unfortunate first meeting, and blast me with the cold stare of judgment. My heart leaped into my throat as I awaited the reality of what was to come.

She turned the corner.

She walked down the path.

She stopped and... smiled? Was she smiling? No, that must be a grimace. She was grimacing at me because I am an awful parent who didn't notice my two-year-old about to be sucked into the Ottawa River through a series of waterways.

"Hi! How are you?" she beamed. And it wasn't one of those polite 'How are yous' - The Maven would know, as I am a social goddess in most circles - this was a genuine, happy greeting.

She stopped and talked to us for a good while as the children played. In that conversation I mentioned my embarrassing first impression in that ha-ha-but-seriously-I'm-not-a-horrible-mother kind of way. She laughed about it and said something really nice and reassuring about how that happens to everyone - and not in that 'I'm just trying to make you feel better, you trashy excuse for a parent' kind of way, either.

I left the park with their phone number and tentative plans to meet at the park again in a few days.

Dawson's mom is very nice and she doesn't hate me. I'm glad it only took me a year of assumptions and avoidance to resolve this little issue. Not bad. I feel much better.

My Name is The Maven and I'm Addicted to Socializing

If my dedication to NaBloPoMo was ever in question, it will not be again. Folks, I just left a girls' night out so I could come home and blog. That is how much I care about all of you and your eager anticipation for the next post. You mean that much to me.

Well, and the fact that I'm tired, my hubby is tired, and we could really use a good night's sleep. The idea of crawling on top of some memory foam sounds rather appealing right now. But that's only secondary to writing a post. I must honour my craft and my promise first.

We found out today that Intrepid does indeed have the H1N1 virus. The swab test they did at the clinic on Monday came back positive. I suddenly feel trendy, like I just bought a Coach bag or some skinny jeans. After all, we just had the virus of 2009 in our very house! And not simply one of those 'suspected' cases. Just like anyone can walk around with a "Timex" watch purchased from a stall in a Beijing market, anyone can get a cough and call it the swine flu. We have a brand name illness here, people. That earns us extra coolness points. I am working very hard on acting nonchalant about it, though. I'm thinking that if I put my hands in my pockets, lean against a wall and shrug a little when I say 'So, anyway, Intrepid had swine flu. Like, a confirmed case, you know? But whatever, right?', that might pass as humble.

I'm obviously kidding. It's a pandemic, right? Pandemics mean a lot of people have already had it. Talk about beating a fashion statement to death. Having it isn't cool anymore; it's about to go the way of acid wash jeans.

There are two actual reasons why I'm happy we had a doctor who offered to test Intrepid.

First, it's good to know what strain we're dealing with so we can make appropriate decisions concerning the vaccine and any potential treatment should one of us asthmatic types in Casa Maven have symptoms crop up.

Second, most people aren't being tested unless they wind up in the hospital, meaning that the majority of confirmed cases are severe if not deadly. This instills panic and leaves people wondering just how bad this strain is. Testing those who aren't on respirators gives us statistical proof that some people do get a much milder case and recover just fine. Intrepid was knocked off his feet for a few days, but he was able to get through it with a bit of Advil, a lot of sleep, some fluids and, of course, incredible parents.

I never miss an opportunity to pat myself on the back.

So, what does this mean in terms of our previous decision to vaccinate? Not much, really. We still plan on getting the vaccine for every family member who doesn't get sick within the next two or three days. If the rest of us stay healthy - and please, please, please let us stay healthy - we'll go get jabbed early this week. Intrepid, who fears needles like I fear a world without chocolate, is thrilled he won't be waiting in line with us. He has some solid immunity now, and that makes me happy. The fact that he only vomited once and managed to make it to the bathroom first makes me happy, too. Nothing like a puking, feverish child to make the idea of a bridge leap significantly more appealing.

I need a break. A nice, long break from illness. No sick people who are dependent on me to nurse them back to health. We've had a full course of gremlin illnesses for 2 1/2 months: Beginning with Kawasaki Disease, slathered with colds, and hopefully ending with swine flu desert.

I'm just glad we moved a couple of years ago. When we bought this house we specifically looked for one that wasn't of the 'open concept' design. Our last home was, and it was hellish when I had to spend a great deal of time in it for several days in a row. It felt like a loud, smelly, dirty shoebox I couldn't escape. One big room is nice when you're not in it for the majority of your waking hours while caring for sick people or being sick yourself. The stinky shoebox nearly drove me insane. It would have finished the job, but thankfully Spawnling was born. Having that third child drove me over the edge instead! Tag team insanity-building. That's nice.

Today, my inner extrovert - is that an oxymoron? - was able to come out and play a little bit. First, the Coffee Fairy fluttered by with an extra large coffee, some donut holes and chocolate milk for the two gremz who were still scuttling about the homestead. I love her terribly, that Coffee Fairy of mine. I am so glad she takes pity on me, even though she and her two little ones are getting over H1N1 themselves. I've brought her coffee once and she's hit me two or three times in a week. Our relationship isn't terribly equal, but I do give her blog props; that has to count for something.

Then, at lunchtime, That (incredibly beautiful, witty, and ego-boosting) Script Chick came by with - you guessed it - another coffee! I made sure to disinfect pretty much everything her and her son might tough so she could feel comfortable staying. Pretty nice of me, right? Definitely. Way to go, Maven. *pat pat*

Finally, I ended this spectacularly social spectacle of a day with an evening out at K-War's house. Her children were asleep, the air in the home smelled of cleaning products, the company was great (I think there were 10-12 of us - I was too busy basking in my social glory to count), and the artery-choking food was to die for.

A good day, overall. Tomorrow we have the Ottawa Blogger's Breakfast. XUP has threatened to give me a table all to myself, even though I do not and have never had the stupid swine flu. Therefore, I have secretly decided to lick her utensils when she's not looking. And I don't mean that in a dirty way, either. I mean actual utensils. Take that, XUP.

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.

Being The Fat Friend

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response to my last post. I would thank each and every one of you individually, but I'm too lazy. It's summer, it's raining, I have my period and I'd rather write something new with what little energy I have on seven hours of very, very broken sleep. I'm sure you understand.

I will say that Gutsy and I are starting to get along significantly better the last few days. I haven't finished reading the book yet, but I have come up with two techniques that really seem to help: keeping my cool even when he's not, and defusing the situation by making him laugh. This creativity is another shining example of what makes me so great.

My awesomeness: it's visible nearly everywhere you look.

Notice I said 'nearly'. That's my lead-in to today's topic (writers like lead-ins).

I've come to the conclusion that I may very well always be The Fat Friend, or some variation thereof. It seems that, no matter what group I'm with, I'm the heaviest of the bunch. I forget that fact sometimes because I like myself so much that it's easy for me to overlook the lack of skinny in my jeans. I only tend to really notice it when pictures of me emerge that are not cropped at the neck. These sometimes make me sad for a few hours. If I were a queen, I would simply order a ban of all such pictures and demand that those in existence be burned in the town square. Then I would do some random flogging, but only because I like the word 'flog' and also enjoy abusing power.

But I digress.

I'm not a self-hater. I'm really not. There are aspects of me I don't enjoy - like my genetics - but I actually think I'm pretty great overall. About the only time I start to question myself is when I'm around a group of women who are significantly smaller than I am and go on and on about how fat they are (and they're not fat - not even close - which is so infuriating). It's apparent that, if they were my size, they would carve the fat off their bodies with a kitchen knife before going out in public. That type of poor body image is contagious, and so I attempt to fill my friend basket at least 75% full of women who care about their health but not necessarily the number on their scales (these friends tend to have the least amount of weight problems - imagine that!) Those women don't see my weight and don't really care too much about theirs; they take notice of how their pants are fitting, try to eat reasonably healthy and get a bit of exercise, but that's where it ends. That's where I want to be: healthy, but not obsessive. I admire that trait and I think I'm nearly there.

Being The Fat Friend is also hard when you happen to surround yourself with very beautiful people, like I do. I don't purposely invite them into my circle, but rather they flock to me like moths to a flame; a chubby little flame that bounces light off their elegant wings.

I know my friends like me because I'm cool and funny and talented and positive and terribly smart. But I also wonder if I'm more approachable because I'm not a threat to anyone's ego. I mean, who's going to look better in a summer dress? There's so little competition. Heck, I don't even own a summer dress. I haven't had one since I was about sixteen. That's over half a lifetime ago.

It's not like I'm feeling sorry for myself or anything. I have been gifted with many great things in my life; addictions and cellulite balance me out nicely. I can't be too perfect or no one would hang out with me, right? That's why I have to keep this jogging thing to a moderate level and not go all crazy with the weight loss. If I hit Skinnyville I've gone too far, and my Facebook event invites will drop dramatically. By maintaining a certain level of pudge on my frame I pretty much ensure my continued success as a popular girl.

As with everything else in life, fat is what you make of it. If I can take enough off that my heart will want to keep beating for another 50 years, yet not take enough off that I get snubbed at the park for having great legs and great hair (there's a fine line between admiration and jealousy, ladies), that would be perfect.

But in all seriousness, I'm likely never going to be a very small person. I just don't care enough about what other people think and I like food too much not to eat it, or to barf it up afterwards. If I hover in the early teens in dress sizes that will be perfectly acceptable. As it is, I've lost a full size in my first few weeks of running, and it feels damn good. I'm still The Fat Friend, but I may put in for a name change so I can be known as the Slightly Less Obese Friend. With any luck I'll be The Borderline Healthy Weight Friend in a few months. I don't care to be much more than that, as I can still enjoy pastry and whole fat lattes without worrying about gaining 8 pounds in a sitting.

And, if I ever have a Fat Friend of my very own, I'm going to take her out shopping for a stunning summer dress so she can feel like she's rockin' the park instead of hiding her blindingly white legs in those capris. Maybe I'll get one of my own little dresses then, too.

The Chaos-Free Weekend (yes, it's true!)

Had I gone somewhere tropical, this weekend couldn't have been better.

Had I painstakingly scripted my idea of a perfect 72 hours, it wouldn't have measured up to this one.

Had I...

... Alright, fine. I'll shut up now.

Spawnling and I make a really fantastic duo - a fact I've all but forgotten during this crazy summer. We're like peas in a pod, coffee and cream, and other things that blend together perfectly. Well, except when he's calling me 'Stupid Mommy', which happens whenever I don't give him what he wants. I keep telling him he needs to be less subtle and just say what's on his mind, you know? Don't hold back, Spawn. Don't hold back.

In his defense, he's an equal opportunity verbal abuser. He calls everyone else stupid, too. Stupid Daddy, Stupid Brother, Stupid Grandma, Stupid Dog, Stupid Cat... Everyone's stupid, and you can be stupid, too! Anyone up for a playdate? Piss The Spawn off enough and he can help dig a deep trench in your young child's vocabulary in which to stick a few choice words that may never come out.

No takers? Really? Your loss, I guess.

I am very, very relaxed. Well, I was very relaxed until my good friend Sprockett came over with an iced latte containing three shots of espresso. Thanks, man. I'll be manic until 3AM, at which time I will fall exhausted onto my bed and sleep the dreamless sleep of people who've had too much caffeine. Have I mentioned he's single, ladies? Never mind that he's smart, funny and attractive. Those things are irrelevant. He usually brings coffee with him. If that's not incentive to go on a date I don't know what is.

Over the last three days I've had all the elements that make up a perfect environment for emotional decompression: I was in my own home with only one child who just happened to sleep through the night without complaints. I went out, but not too much. I stayed in, but not too much. I entertained, but only for people I like and who don't expect a perfectly clean house. That being said, my house is the cleanest it's been since school let out. The only child in my care wanted to do all the same thing I wanted to do, was very social, (mostly) polite, used the words stupid please and shut up thank you, and did not get into anything dangerous or extremely messy. I had a girl's night, a coffee night, a lunch, a brunch, two city bus rides for Spawnling, watched a movie that spewed forth estrogen from the screen, was shown the joys of smart playlists for my iPhone, played a great deal of Wii Fit (yes, I did get one - was there ever any doubt?), drank copious amounts of coffee, ate a great deal of junk food with no guilt whatsoever, and got over my cold just in time to start running again tomorrow.

Go, Team Maven!

Today I took Spawn up to the campsite Geekster and the older gremlins are frequenting. I figured we could go for three or four hours and call it 'camping'. It's the type of camping I like: quick, not-so-dirty, no sleeping in a tent, and out of there well before my cell phone battery dies.

The Maven and 'roughing it' do not mix. It was a rocky relationship from the start; we tried to make it work, but realized we have different priorities. I like to feel very unlike a caveman and celebrate the fact that we've evolved to the point of showering and sleeping on memory foam mattresses. It's a personal choice.

When the boys asked if I missed them, I smiled widely and declared "Of course I missed you! I can't wait for you to come home tomorrow!"

I think it was almost believable.

See, the dirty little secret is that I wasn't quite at the point of missing them that much. Judge me if you will, but I've been a stay-at-home-mom for over twelve years. I've earned this calloused heart. I love those little demons of mine dearly, but loving them from a distance has been rather... nice.

Oh, sure. My soul would eventually ache for the sweet sound of blood-curdling screams emerging from the playroom as one yanks a Rescue Hero away from the other and launches it across the room. My eyes would eventually miss seeing the teasing inflicted on a six-year-old by a very skilled twelve-year-old. My arms would eventually feel the emptiness of not picking up after forts, spaceships and evil robot building projects.

Eventually. Just not quite yet.

Still, I look forward to seeing their tired little faces when they get back around lunch tomorrow. They may be loud, destructive little things, but they're my loud, destructive little things. Since they come from me, that automatically makes them pretty awesome. Awesome people are always welcome around here.

(Awesome people who clean up after themselves get a VIP pass straight into my good books, however. I wonder if they got that memo...)

Off to bed now. This girl needs her strength for what awaits her in the morning.

Welcome back, chaos. You old, familiar friend, you.

(Photo cred: The Sister, of course)