Crunchy milestones

Actually, that's supposed to be 'crunchy' and 'milestones', not 'crunchy milestones'. This isn't a hippy marathon sponsored by Birkenstock.

The 'crunchy' comes from the fact that I'm eating homemade caramel popcorn right now. I love my Geekster. He's the supplier of all calorie-rich foods.

The 'milestones' are numerous. By 'numerous' I mean two. There were two. Two milestones reached today! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! *thunder* *lightening* *purple muppet with fangs and keen sense of fashion*

First, but not nearly as importantly, I was able to comfortably fit in to yet another pair of jeans. 3 down, 1 to go. So, despite my ravenous hunger and love for all things chock full of saturated fatty goodness, I'm still slimming down. The swelling from the cesarean is lessening every day and the preggo chunk is dissipating, too. I thank breastfeeding and its calorie-burning milk production for the latter. Well, that and carrying Spawnling around a great deal of the time. He's not a big fan of lengthly solo floor time. (To show his disatisfaction, he just puked down the back of my shoulder. Mmmmm, warmth.)

The second and most exciting milestone is that the Spawn has figured out how to roll from his back to his tummy! Well, it's exciting to me, anyway. In fact, all five of us were there when it occured and we clapped and cheered like the world will the next time a Democrat is elected as the US president.

He had the stomach-to-back thing figured out at two weeks old, but did it out of sheer pissedoffedness because he hates tummy time. So he rolled over while screaming. It was hilariously cute but he only repeated it one other time (while angry again). I didn't count them as 'real' rolls because it looked to be a fluke brought on by hatred towards me and the horrible things I make him do. Oh, and because I laugh when he's angry, which probably makes me an unfit parent.

I could see him kicking his legs today during diaper changes, throwing his body to the right, arms a-swingin'. I kept saying 'Oh goodness, sweetpea! You're almost there! You want to roll so bad, don't you, baby? That's my big, strong boy! You can do it! Mommy knows you can!' and other ridiculous things in my most annoying mommy voice.

He then threw me a couple of 'Listen. I know what the hell I'm supposed to do. Ok, mumsy-wumsy? I'd like to see how dadsy-wadsy would react if you babbled to him in babytalk while he's figuring out how to replace a doorknob. Idiot,' looks and kept right on trying.

Tonight, while on the bed, he decided he'd go for the gold and flip over. He was so darn proud of himself for about ten seconds.

Then he realized he'd forgotten how to flip back and that he was now stuck on his tumsy-wumsy. The frustrated yelling commenced and we all went 'Awww!' instead of actually helping him onto his back again. We're a very loving family.

More good news! One of my favourite people and bestest friends is moving back to Ottawa. The news completely threw me for a loop, as they had just relocated to the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) earlier this year. I'm absolutely THRILLED! She has four beautiful kids, a great husband and, because of all that stability, is very able to put up with my crap. That's what a true friendship is made of. Welcome back, Alana! I'll have to come up with a much spiffier name for you when I'm feeling more creative.

Today I took a congested Spawnling and hit the old people maul with my sister. I know, I know. I had enormous guilt over bringing him out while sick. But I figured he'd probably sleep most of the time (which he did) and I really needed the help to carry a lot of bigger items around (which I received).

There are very few people who's company I enjoy more than The Sister's. She's incredibly funny, loves a lot of the same things I do and is intuitively helpful with the kids.

Ever notice that it tends to go one way or the other? I find that a lot of people who haven't spawned their own little demons have no idea how to handle mine. Yet, there are others who naturally posess the gift of knowing exactly what to do even when they haven't done it themselves. My sister is someone who breezes in and takes over when I need it most. When Geekster and I were at the hospital awaiting Spawnling's grand entrance, The Sister took care of the older boys, made a 'Welcome, baby Jackson' sign with them and then cooked and froze a bunch of single portion meals for us. Who the heck thinks of doing stuff like that at 22 years of age when they haven't had babies?

I tell you: The gift. You have no idea how much work I have in store for me when she has her own children. I have a feeling she'll be building me a granny suite or something.

In other news, Gutsy is still fighting this new illness he's acquired. He didn't get feverish again until this evening, though. That's definitely positive. He's going to sleep in our bed tonight and curl up with daddy while Spawnling and I grab the trusty recliner in the livingroom. We were just transitioning to a lying down position when he caught his cold. Two steps forward, two steps back.

(We come together, 'cuz opposites attract! -- I know you were thinking it.)

Well, it's 10pm and somewhere, in at least one timezone, Family Guy is on. That warrants a publishing of this blog entry and scouting out where Geekster stashed the rest of the caramel popcorn. I have a feeling I won't be fitting into demin pair #4 anytime before Christmas. It's beginning to look a lot like blubber.

Ho Ho Ugh.

Gutsy update: He's home and his x-rays show no signs of pneumonia. I've never been happier to be wrong in my life. We don't know why he has a fever, but it seems to be responding well to medication. He's coughing in his sleep, but doing much better than he was earlier.

See? I can be wrong sometimes. It's rare, but it happens. Rejoice in my mistakes. Rejoice.

*~*~*

The Christmas tree is up.

The decorations are hung.

The stockings are unpacked.

The icicle lights are twinkling merrily on the roof.

It's beginning to look a lot like...

Oh, wait.

The baby is congested and miserable.

Gutsy, in all his asthmatic glory, has had a terrible cough.

I know that cough. I knew what was coming.

He took a nap this afternoon (which he never does) and woke up with a fever of 103.

Geekster has him at the hospital as I type this.

Who wants to bet this will be his second pneumonia diagnosis this year?

What? No takers? I should have spiked the eggnog before asking.

I'll update when I know what's going on, of course. I'll be surprised if they don't find scary things growing in his lungs, though. I normally enjoy being right, but I won't this time.

Oh, and to top it all off, Spawnling is in an outfit with pumpkins all over it because I need to do this little thing I call 'putting the baby down for five minutes without him screaming in protest' to do more laundry. We're a holiday behind. That's, like, so last season!

On the plus side, he seems happy that I'm blogging. It's the first time in at least an hour that he's stopped crying without a pacifier in his mouth. I guess all those hours of typing out my pregnancy woes paid off after all.

And Intrepid just came back from Tim Hortons with cookies for me. That's my boy! Now I can eat my holiday blahs away and convince myself all the calories will go to making milk.

They will, you know. I'm a professional. I know these things.

I also have a bridge I'm selling.

*~*~*~*

Edited to add these lovely pictures of Spawnling, taken yesterday by Gutsy. I think they reveal our littlest gremlin's true nature:

Look at him. Innocent as can be.

Oh my. The demon awakes. Vomit and red eyes? This is straight out of The Exorcist.

His true nature revealed, he quickly creates a distraction.

Seymour, I'm hungry!




Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!
Feed me, Seymour
Feed me all night long
That's right, boy
You can do it
Feed me, Seymour
Feed me all night long
'Cause if you feed me, Seymour
I can grow up big and strong


Spawnling, AKA Eatmy McFeelings, AKA Jabba the Butt, is eight weeks old today. He's beautifully chubbalicious, if I do say so myself. Takes after his mommy, he does.

I think I'd look good with a beard...

'Mom, you'd make a really good female dwarf.'

The things you never thought would emerge from your children's lips.

This lovely, er, compliment came after I tried to pull off a pirate accent. Apparently 'Be gone with ye!' makes me sound like a short, medieval thing with a big nose and facial hair. I was sort of going for Johnny Depp, but instead I got this.

Beards are back in though, right?

Today I made my way into a much quieter, happier, Old People Mall. Thank goodness for that. There were places to sit and enjoy my breakfast sandwich, as well as plenty of people to smile at my baby. A good time was had by both Spawnling and myself while Gutsy and Intrepid were getting their learn on at school. Thank goodness for institutionalization. Otherwise I'd never get any shopping done.

You know the Christmas season is upon you when the tension starts to build. There are Christmas parties to attend, gifts to purchase, goodies to bake, houses to clean, family members to argue with, friends to cheer up, and over-sugared children to contend with. 'Tis the season to be stressed, fa la la la la, pass the prozac. The child part of me loves the holidays while the adult part (the much smaller portion of my psyche) dreads them like aunt Mildred's body odour-scented hugs. It's a love-hate relationship not seen since Sonny and Cher.

I think it's because our holiday season keeps getting longer in The Maven household. We have Thanksgiving in mid-October followed by Spawnling's birthday, (had to edit here and add The Madre's birthday. Oops. Three guesses which family member I argued with), Hallowe'en, Gutsy's birthday, Intrepid's birthday, Hefner's (the brother formally known as Michael, who is the world's biggest ladies' man) birthday, then Christmas. One very long spell of celebrations without much of a breather. And I don't drink, so no martinis for mommy when everyone's pinning the tale on the donkey or fighting over the candycanes.

In true gremlin fashion, Spawnling just laughed at me in his sleep. He knows his arrival has thrown us another curveball in an already hectic season. I would expect nothing less from any of my little monsters, even of the freshly emerged variety.

Tonight we played Monopoly and I was the first to get my ass kicked. By a ten year old, even. In all fairness, said ten-year old has a big brain, scored Park Place and Boardwalk right off the bat and put down three homes on each before I could say 'Marvin Gardens'. One landing on Boardwalk cost me 1400 big ones. Game over for me. I think I'll feed him food he hates for the next week. That'll learn him.

His ability to make creative decisions comes by him honestly. My grandmother, AKA The Madre's Madre, was going to head out the night before Intrepid's party to get him a card. Unfortunately, the weather was horrid and she was concerned for her safety, so she decided to find a suitable alternative around the house.

The only thing TMM could find was a 'thank you' card. So instead of admitting defeat, she decided to improvise. The front of the card says 'Thank You'. When you open it, there's a label over the original text that reads:

...for being such a wonderful great-grandson.

Happy birthday.


Naturally we were all crying of laughter when we saw it. TMM is one awesome little Brit. She's so full of sass that she makes me look dull. (That implies that I'm NOT dull, just in case there was any confusion. And this is my blog so I get to be anything I want to be. You can disagree on your own blog.)

On the good news front, it looks like Crunchy Mommas is making a bit of a comeback. That's good, because I need a tight little community like that again. A place for me to judge others and feel superior is always good for the ego.

Hey, this is the internet. You don't fit in if you don't think you're right all the time and have some obsessive need to prove it in places that don't really matter. Everyone has a persona on the internet. Take me, for example: In real life I'm full of faults and am always messing something up. On the internet I'm full of faults and am always messing something up, but I'm able to throw some sarcasm and big words in. In turn, people laugh and suddenly I make pathetic look almost... good. Just one of my many useless talents.

Now go post something on Crunchy Mommas. Preferably in disagreement with something I posted so we can get a flame war going and make ourselves feel better.

God bless the internet.

Chef Maven

I've decided I should start a family recipe book. In it I could put simple dishes we've embraced as traditions in our household, like 'Tax Bill Surprise' and 'Three Child Chaosserole'. I think the book would do well because it speaks to the masses; what family can't relate to 'Spitup Souffle with a dash of Colic'?

The past few days have brought with them several culinary learning opportunities. On Saturday we learned how to whip up 'Eight Hour Birthday Brule', which is a recipe I'd only recommend to the very adventurous. It involves combining two traditional meals: 'Family Party' and 'School Friends Party'. They're layered one on top of the other, with only a small layer of sugary 'Downtime' separating the two.

It's truly exhausting to make, but is a huge hit with ten-year-olds, as seen below:



On Sunday I learned why 'Pre-Christmas Shopping Punch' is more bitter than sweet. It requires a great deal of patience to make, as it takes about three times longer to complete than other seasonal shopping recipes and yields fewer servings. This one is not recommended to make with kids. Trust me on this one.

Finally, on Monday, Mrs. Wailing and I discovered how to make 'Stagnant Senior Citizen Stuffing'. You have to add the following:

1 Monday afternoon
1 surprisingly crowded Old People Mall (more of a 'maul' in this recipe)
70,000 old people
2 socially starving stay-at-home-moms
2 rambunctious preschoolers
2 tired babies
2 bulky strollers
Several places to sit
2 lattes (optional but highly recommended)
In the old people maul, mix in 70,000 old people. Add in the socially starving stay-at-home-moms, rambunctious preschoolers (boys are best, especially if they're overstimulated from all the Christmas hoopla going on), tired babies (best if also hungry and in need of diaper changes) and bulky strollers. Stir well. This may be difficult with all the old people already in the maul.

Put all 70,000 old people in places to sit. Make sure you spread them out so that there is one person per spot, leaving one or two seats open at every table. Have them sit there a very, very long time for no particular reason.

Have stay-at-home-moms with optional-yet-highly-recommended-lattes look for some place to sit. Do not move old people. Do not have old people offer to move, or to share their table with three or four open spots. For added spice, have one elderly woman race ahead of the bulky strollers to grab the one open table.

Babies should now start crying. Preschoolers, in usual preschooler fashion, will have had time to set and will take on a more hyperactive appearance. Some dinosaur-like growling is normal.

Have now desparate SAHMs walk the entire maul looking for a place to sit. For best effect, have youngest baby be in mother's arms, spitting up and making a mess of both of them while mother pushes stroller with other hand. Older baby can be screaming in a tortured-how-dare-you-not-provide-me-breastmilk-immediately way. Preschoolers can run ahead, oblivious to other ingredients.

When benches are finally free, place a grumpy elderly gentleman there to scold preschoolers-turned-dinosaurs-now-turned spies because they put their boots on said bench. Because people have to sit here, you know. Have SAHMs resist throwing something at his head because of the respect your elders thing. But only because of that.

Recipe will yield a nice serving of exhaustion for all to enjoy.

***

I have no idea what happened to my precious Old People Maul. Oh wait. I do.

Christmas happened.

In three weeks all the excess, less-friendly elderly folk will leave, which will provide us stay-at-home-moms with a safe refuge of warmth, expensive coffee and wide open, carpetted spaces yet again. Until then, I'll be sure to tread lightly and not expect anyone to be courteous. What a silly thing to expect at Christmas time. Shame on me.

We did manage to last over two hours, though. Not bad, considering. The boys played trains, checked out very cheesy holiday displays, and Mrs. Wailing pointed out that Santa left a sizeable ass print in his velvet-lined chair. Also, Gutsy suggested that I change his real name to 'Cheesy' because he likes cheese-flavoured popcorn. I just ordered all the paperwork.

And just now, when I told him that his preschool teachers think he and Spawnling look a lot alike, he studied his younger sibling and said 'Yes, we do... But he's wearing different clothes.'

I love that boy.

Slacker moms post videos on their blogs

I haven't had any time to post this weekend, but I have had time to let videos upload to Youtube. So, if you're not thoroughly sick of watching Spawnling movies, you can check out the one here until I can post about our weekend that 'busy' doesn't even begin to describe.

In fact, I think I deserve a damn medal after Saturday. If motherhood was like Girl Guides I would have earned the 'How to throw a party when you can't possibly be more busy than you already are' badge. It would look like a bottle of happy pills, I think.

Without further ado, here is the 1:40 minute video (you may breathe your sigh of relief now). Listen closely at The Madre works her baby talk magic on Spawnling. You can tell she's had a truckload of babies in her time. And no, she's not even on the heavy painkillers here. I find that rather scary. Also, the constant chuckling is my brother, Michael. I need to find a clever name for that boy. Jobthingy met him this weekend so maybe she could help me out there. I'm lacking in the creativity department as of late. It's like I'm a mom to three kids and can't have any caffeine or something.

Inuit (formally known as 'Eskimo) kisses

Eww. Just eww.

Yesterday it was a balmy 15c in the Ottawa area (that's 59f for the Yanks, Brits and others using that horrid system). We're currently sitting at 0c tonight (that would be the freezing point).

Surprisingly, we're all breathing a sigh of relief here in Canada. All the warm weather has been greatly messing with our schedule to create snow tunnels over the sidewalks..

Snow tunnels make a lot of sense up North. We generally get at least two meters (6.2 feet, ya'll) between Hallowe'en and Christmas, which is accumulated over two or three major snow storms. So what to do with all that snow? It costs a lot to clear it, so we figure it makes more sense to cover pedestrian walkways in the downtown area. All the snow plows have to do is push the white stuff up against the side of the road. It's then piled on top of a skeletal construct of dense, sturdy metal. Ice is lightly sprayed over top to hold everything in place, and voila: a windless tunnel about two people wide.

There have been a few minor issues, however. A couple of yahoos on skidoos have whipped through the tunnels at night only to meet up with a drunken college student walking home from a bar. One guy was killed last year in a skidoo-pedestrian accident. Dogs (mostly huskies up here, for obvious reasons) are far more territorial in the tunnels. It's probably the enclosed space. You can sometimes find old dog blood in the snow. It doesn't come out, either, so they bring some snow into the tunnel to cover it up. If you walk on it enough it comes right through, though. Still, I'd take the blood over dog urine any day. They really should ban canines in covered walkways.

...

I once told a similar story to someone in Kentucky who actually believed me. I made it far less believable, too. I told him we had snow tunnels over our highways, but only the ones with four lanes or more. I also said that at some border crossings you could trade in your car for a skidoo. Apparently this all sounded legit. Frightening, isn't it? Something even scarier is that I'm not the first one to tell someone a ridiculous story about Canada and have them believe it. In fact, Canadian comedian Rick Mercer made a one hour special about talking to Americans.

Now don't get all offended, kids. We all know he took only the most ignorant to show in his documentary. I'm sure at least half of all Americans know that Canada has access to the ocean. Maybe even 60%.

My favourite part is when he tells people that, thanks to the research into mapping the genome, it's been discovered that 80% of Canadians fall into the 'mentally retarded' category. He gets several people to tell us - on camera - that we should embrace what makes us special. He also gets the Governor of Iowa to congratulate us on moving from a 20 hour to a 24 hour day. Isn't that thoughtful?

Man, I never get tired of people making idiots of themselves. I think it's because I regularly make a complete ass of myself as well, and laughing at others makes me forget that for a time.

***

I haven't had much of a chance to look like a fool in public today. The weather has been terrible and it's caused me no end of grief. I managed to get Gutsy off to preschool, have some breakfast with The Madre and then make a quick Fourbucks run across the very windy bridge. However, I had big plans to hit up the grocery store for Intrepid's eight hour party tomorrow, as well as get to my 12 step meeting tonight. Apparently Lushgurl picked up her six month sobriety chip tonight and I missed it! I wish I could have made it there, but the thought of sliding off the road due to the lovely freezing rain we had for several hours earlier today was enough to derail me.

Bad pun very much intended.

So, I stayed home, made a nice dinner, cleaned up the house for said party tomorrow (four hours of family party + four hours of school friends party = one absolutely insane Maven for even considering doing something like that, even for her son's 10th birthday). , watched Superman Returns with Geekster and the Gremlins and am now posting in my blog so that I don't get people bugging me because I didn't post in my blog. There are several blog readers making their way here tomorrow and I want no lip.

Intrepid did something really cool today. He revealed that he shares my loathing for double negatives. I love him more every single day.

By contrast, I hate, hate, hate, HATE double negatives. I'd give an example, but I don't got none. I'm thrilled that he despises poor grammar as much as I do. I tend to make several grammatical errors in my sloppy blog entries, but at least I don't have room for no double negatives. I wince and clench my fists every single time I hear one. The mere thought makes me shudder.

Ironically, this comes from a girl who learned to read and write in english with no formal schooling in it for quite some time. I attended a french elementary school that had no formal instrunction in my maternal language until grade 5 (and didn't attend an english school until grade 8). As a result, I wing whatever I write and have a bitch of a time explaining grammar rules to my son, so I'm very glad he's a strong student.

The good news is that I'm quite adept at ordering Happy Meals in Quebec. Incidentally, they're called 'Joyeux Festins' in french. My knowledge is a gift to you.

I should head off to bed. We party at 1pm. The house is still a mess, the food hasn't been shopped for and I'm so not looking forward to scraping off my minivan in the morning. Maybe I can tip my sled dog trainer a little extra to do that for me.

I'm seeing double

I started writing last night... I just couldn't finish my entry.

Spawnling's wake-up cues were a little off yesterday morning.. I tried to write an ode to 4:30am, but I just didn't have it in me. Incidentally, television is better from 5-6am than it is from 4-5am. You can't even get 80's shows with actors who are so bad in their chosen careers that you're thankful they became actors and not doctors. At 4:30am it's all paid programs about everything from hot-hot-girls-want-you-through-this-local- party-number-no-really-they're-hot to I-make-$12000-a-month-sitting-on-my-ass-in-my-mansion-check-out- this-website.

They're the equivalent of email spam, except they cost a lot more to transmit and are far more annoying. They deserve eighth wonder of the world status, because despite their lame spokespeople (usually retired bad actors from the 80's), false claims and horrible time slots, they seem to actually work. People must order from them or they wouldn't exist anymore. Just as people must click on hyperlinks in email spam or there would be no more need for spam folders.

Apparently there's a rash of brain-eating zombies out there, sneaking into people's homes and sucking all but the stupidity lobe out of their skulls.

You don't think there's a stupidity lobe? I beg to differ.

Anyway, a long series of comedic errors later, I found myself with barely any sleep. It's hard to function with no sleep. And no caffeine. Remember that funny part?

I then spent the rest of the day driving. Yep. I drove from the North end to the West end to the South End, back to the North end, back to the South End, back to the West end and back home again. In that time we drove Geekster to work, visited the Wailings, picked Intrepid up from school, went to speech therapy, picked Geekster up from work and drove home. We don't normally drive the Lanky Wonder to work, but I wanted a latte anyway so I figured what the diddly doo. It was the start of a fun, yet busy day.

Anyway, that's all over now.

Know what else is all over? Being a mom to three children with single digit ages.

Today, Intrepid is 10. Double digits. I am officially old and my child is officially a 'big kid'.

Isn't it funny how self-centered parents can really be? While Gutsy, Spawnling and I were out shopping for gifts at the Old People's Maul this morning, we ran into The Madre and The Madre's Madre, who were also out doing the same. My mom said 'Can you believe he's 10? He's so old! And you're 30... and I'm... 50...'

It all comes down to how it affects us, not them. Self-centeredness at its finest. But isn't having children incredibly selfish in the first place? Don't start on the 'I want to better the world by raising good human beings' stuff. That's all very noble, but it's an afterthought, isn't it? The real reason we put our bodies and minds through absolute hell is because we like baby clothes. It's really that simple.

It wasn't the baby clothes, you say? Must have been the all the Playskool commercials. You like the shiny, loud things you can only justify purchasing if you have a drooling, bald person to play them with.

Not the toys, either? Must be the nursery. Admit it. Even people like me who co-sleep with their babies until they're ready to leave home like an excuse to decorate. Pinks, blues, purples, pale yellows and greens... Teddy bear wallpaper, expensive wooden rocking horse in the corner, a baby monitor you'll never use because your baby has the lungs of a heavy metal frontman, ridiculously small catcher's mit on the change table you'll also never use because it'll be full of laundry you don't have time to put away... And when they get older you get to go to Ikea and redecorate all over again. Teehee.

Still shaking your head because none of those scenarios apply? Tell me something, young one... Were you one of those people who was horribly teased at school? Did mommy cry for daddy while daddy was out on the town with his mistress, Guiness? Not much attention paid to you, was there? Poor thing. Some therapy could help, you know. Or maybe you could join a social club of some kind and meet new people. Or, hey... I know! You could have a baby! Yes. A baby will love you. It'll even love unconditionally.

And after that baby's born, and you've taken pictures of him in the cutesy outfits, played with all his new Christmas toys, showed off his nursery to all your friends on the interweb mommy's board, and smiled to yourself when you're the person he cries for when he falls down, you can start thinking about how he's going to lead the UN one day.

Intrepid's arrival wasn't a planned one. We were too poor to buy cute clothes, big toys or any new nursery furniture. We were too young and ignorant to think about whether or not our child would leave a positive mark on the world.

Good thing he has. He means so much to so many people. Especially his mama, who couldn't be more proud to have such a wonderful eldest son. I had no clue what I was getting into at nineteen when I got pregnant. I just knew that our baby would bring us so much joy and love.

Selfish? Hell yes. But he does love me unconditionally, you know. They all do. I have three little men in my life that will find me beautiful even when I'm a nasty, old woman swatting at pigeons with my walker.

Happy birthday, my big guy.

Good golly, 'tis the season to be jolly!

Why? WHY?!

Why are people so terrible to each other during the holidays?

I guess everyone is always treating everyone else like dirt and I just tend to notice it more around this time of year. It gets under my skin like a botox injection in an aging trophy wife. Every year I find it more of a challenge to stay in the spirit of the season.

None of us are innocent when in comes to random acts of jerkness. I know I've had my fair share in years past. However, some are bigger idiots than others. There are the tailgaters who ride someone's bumper like white on rice because they want the car in front of them to pull into the other lane so they can pass. Let's not stop to think about whether it's feasible for that person to get into the right lane. Let's not think about whether or not there are children in that car who could get seriously injured if we were to rear end the car in front of us. No, no. All that matters is that we make it to EB Games before all the other eighteen-year-old, testosterone-driven males get their hands on the entire stock of "Final Fantasy XXXII: Is This Series Ever Going To End?".

Then there are the other mini-jerks: The person who won't hold the door for a pregnant woman at a store because then she might get in line before they do. The person who bumps into a small child in a crowded Walmart, knocking her down and yet doesn't apologize or stop to see if she's ok. The person who has a grudge against someone from ten years ago, sees him walking down the street on Christmas Eve and doesn't smile or wish him happy holidays, even after all that time. The person who says they don't have five dollars to put in the Salvation Army box in the and then beeline into the jewelry store to buy something excessive to wear to that office party on Friday.

It's true: People suck.

So where are all the good people? Do they hide during the holidays? Do they have 'Nice People Only' parties that the rest of us aren't invited to? Do they fade into the background like the wallpaper at grandma's house? I was thinking about it this morning while driving out to get some shopping done for Christmas and Intrepid's birthday. First, I noticed someone tailgating a car with one of those 'Caution, Baby On Board' signs in the back window. Classy. Then I saw another whip in and out of two lanes of traffic, weaving this way and that without any signals, nearly causing an accident for a family in a minivan.

While in Best Buy, I smiled at a mom and child who were checking out digital cameras. The child smiled back and the woman didn't. She just glared. Apparently it's rude to smile at people now. How dare I interrupt her brooding?

While taking a turn with the stroller and attempting to navigate an aisle full of boxes and stands, I came across a man looking at camcorders and an employee explaining them to him. They looked at me, looked at Gutsy, looked at the stroller and then just went back to what they were doing. Nobody moved, even though a half a foot would have been all I needed to make it by. Why move for me? I'm only encumbered with kids and a bulky stroller, right? They're looking at expensive, shiny things. That's much more important than being a curteous human being.

This is part of the reason I'm an at-home mom. It lets me spend my days with little people who haven't yet been corrupted by stress and self-righteousness. It allows me to believe, for the most part, that the world is full of those who think of others and want to better the planet as a whole, not just in their own backyards. I get to control how much I deal with people who aren't very nice.

When I worked outside the home I was forced into small spaces with the Petty Patrol. You know who I'm talking about: the ones who skulk around the office looking for gossip, drama, anything to email Betty in accounts receivable about during the slow time after lunch.

Betty,

Did you see what Sarah's wearing? Oh. My. God. Her legs are way too fat to wear that skirt. Two words, honey: Jenny Craig.

And I think Danny and Jessica are having an affair. He's married, you know. I don't know for sure, but he stopped by her desk a few minutes ago and they were laughing and stuff. What a homewrecking tramp! Can you un-invite her to your Mary Kay party?

Write back and let me know what's going on with Jeff's promotion. Did you send that anonymous letter yet?

Judy.


I met some great people while working, but there were always a few who seemed to earn the bulk of their paycheques making other people miserable. If I become a lactation consultant, psychologist, social worker or whatever, most of my days will be spent with clients who are presumably trying to better themselves.

Yes, it will. Don't tell me otherwise. I enjoy this fallacy very much, thanks.

As sarcastic and rude as I often am, the spiritual component to me obligates me to try and find something positive out of all of this.

(The spiritual component is a pain and doesn't let me mope very long. The big jerk.)

Ok. Here we go: Maven, instead of focusing on other people's issues and yadda, yadda, yakkity-yak, why don't you look inside you and see what you can do to better the world?

Because, spiritual component, that's way more boring than bitching about other people.

But ok. Thanks to you I came home and packed up a bunch of clothes and some non-perishable food for families in need. Are you happy now?

And thanks to you, I took the time to chat with the friendly cashier at Best Buy who, while ringing up my purchases, spoke sweetly to my children and showed me pictures of her week-old grandson with so much pride in her eyes.

Then, I noticed when the guy, who looked rather grumpy at first, got out of his van as I was loading the gremlins into mine and, without any prompting, said hello to me and smiled.

So where are all the good people? They only appear when you're exiting Best Buy, apparently.

Guess where I'm going to do most of my Christmas shopping this year?