A deep dark secret, starring me.

Two days ago:

Intrepid is on his way out the door to wait for the bus and gets a big hug from daddy Geekster.

Intrepid: Ouch.

Geekster: Love hurts, Intrepid.

Intrepid: Oh, I know! Me and Aiden know from experience!

It must be all the relationship wisdom gleaned from his long life.

Speaking of long lives, I've recently been dedicating some of my time to reading this blog. This girl is quite hilarious, a great writer, and a self-described hypochondriac. And while I'm not a medical expert, I'd have to say that, uh, yeah, she definitely is. It's not hard to diagnose something like hypochondria. Scared of dying from a highly unlikely medical ailment (or several) for a long period of time? Hypochondria.

I'll send my bill.

I used to laugh at the idea of hypochondriacs. I didn't get it. It sounded like a stupid, self-inflicted waste of time. I mean, if you don't want to think you're dying of some disease all the time, then don't think you're dying of it. Duh. Go see the doctor, get confirmation that you're not dying, go home and be happy again. The end. Heck, if everyone just did what I said the world would be a much better place. People would be happier, more birds would sing... All the good stuff.

Except for one time, in 2001, when things started to go awry in my simplistic and judgmental little world. See, I got pregnant and then I had a miscarriage. There was a sac, but no baby. Not only was it sad, but I had a scary realization: bad things can happen inside my body.

Then I did the #1 bad thing to do when you're a blossoming hypochondriac: I looked stuff up on the internet. Never, ever, EVER should people with health anxiety issues look things up on their own. Even if you think you might, possibly, one day have an unhealthy fear of health-related issues you shouldn't look things up. And I did. I looked it up and I got even more scared. Realization #2: REALLY bad things can happen to my baby inside my body.

A year later I was pregnant again, and scared of another miscarriage. That's not an unhealthy fear, really. Having a pregnancy loss changes you. Couple that with conception problems and it's pretty much a given. But you know, this is me we're talking about. The full-fledged alcoholic at fourteen. I don't do things half-assed. That's for sissies. The Maven takes the ball and runs with it. I didn't just get scared. I got paranoid. I got anxious. I got convinced that I was going to lose this baby, even after all those strong pregnancy symptoms. Even after an ultrasound with a beating heart. Even after a half-way ultrasound showing a very healthy baby. I didn't breathe a sigh of relief after the first trimester. I didn't stop fretting after the baby was technically viable outside the womb. No, I panicked the entire way through, Maven style. I knew that bad things could happen inside my body at any given time.

I'd like to say that delivering baby Gutsy at a health 10lbs 4oz was all it took to shake me sane again. That I took one look at him and said "Oh, Maven! You were so silly! Time to relax and enjoy the baby now."

Sadly, that wasn't the case. At two weeks we discovered a lump on his head. The doctor said "I've never seen this before" and that got the awesome ball rolling again. It turned out to be nothing, but that didn't stop me. This started a long chain of panic attacks that lead us to the local Children's Hospital several times in the first two years. I was convinced he had meningitis on several occasions (because didn't you know that ever fever is meningitis?), a brain tumour (it was actually an inner ear infection that made him dizzy), and several other ridiculous things.

Obviously this isn't technically hypochondria. This was an unhealthy fixation on my child's health and wellbeing, not my own. I'm not sure if it even has a name. I think I might have invented a new mental illness. I'm amazingly creative.

Anyway, I eventually gave up on that one. I decided after about two years that maybe he was actually meant to be here and God wasn't going to take him after five years of infertility. It wasn't a cruel joke after all.

.... But you know what would be kind of funny for a deity? Killing me off. Yeah. That would be so ironic, wouldn't it? So maybe I would get some kind of cancer, or heart disease, or maybe an aneurysm! One second I'm doing dishes, the next I'm lying on the floor dead, missing the next segment on Oprah. Meanwhile, my perfectly healthy children are wondering what just happened to mommy. How could I leave them like that? What kind of sick joke is this?

I spent the next two years convincing myself I had the following:

- Multiple Sclerosis
- Type 2 Diabetes
- Heart disease
- Lupus
- Tuberculosis
- Several cancers: breast, brain, lung, pancreatic, stomach, liver, skin, leukemia, lymphoma, bone, eye, mouth, intestinal, and others I can't remember
- Male pattern baldness

The cancers and lupus were by far the best, because just about any symptom can be either of those. Thanks to the trusty internet I was a pro at finding out what I was dying from. And the male pattern baldness? I think I was just fresh out of new ideas. I needed something different.

Know what I actually had? Anxiety. And two kids. And a lot of stress and feelings of being overwhelmed. And a cyst on my breast at one point that took four doctors and two ultrasounds to convince me I wasn't dying.

Hypochondria is mentally and physically exhausting. It preoccupied all of my time and kept me feeling imprisoned in my thoughts. I knew logically that I wasn't sick. I knew logically that it was highly unlikely I had any of those things.

The problem is that logic doesn't factor in. The logic only works to calm you down for a few minutes or even a couple of days. But it comes back. It always comes back. It's pure torture.

What saved me? Believe it or not, another pregnancy. Spawnling saved me. I found out I was pregnant again and it got me thinking about how I had such little joy throughout Gutsy's pregnancy and infancy. I was always worried, always panicked, always a complete head case.

So I decided not to be. I wouldn't do that to myself again. I wouldn't do that to my baby again. It wasn't logic that saved me. It was love.

I did enjoy that pregnancy, actually. Very much. And I enjoyed take-out sometimes, and caffeine sometimes, and I went to the ultrasound excited instead of scared. And I bought clothes ahead of time and I smiled when the baby was quiet instead of worrying and pushing at my belly so he could wake up and kick me to let me know he was ok.

Oh, and um... I might have rented a fetal doppler so that, in those rare moments when I might get a little scared, I could listen to his heartbeat and breathe a sigh of relief. I might have done that a little. Or a lot. But I'm happy to say he did not have a spare limb, or two heads, or anything else that could potentially happen from overexposure to doppler.

I went for a final ultrasound on that breast lump when he was about nine months old. It was a cyst, of course. And the best thing is that I knew that going in. I also knew that if it wasn't, I would deal with it and I would be okay. And I get therapy now, and I deal with my anxiety, and I look for what's bothering me beneath any health worries that might crop up. I'm doing ok for now.

Is there such a thing as a recovering hypochondriac? Maybe we need a 12 step program. If they serve coffee I am SO there. I'm guessing there would be no wireless internet available at said meetings, eh?

It can get better. It really can. If anyone reading this is dealing with health anxiety issues, you can get better.

I mean, seriously. If The Maven can do it anyone can.

Brokeback Maven

Good morning, world.

I'm on the couch waiting for the baseboard heaters in this room to heat up. In the meantime I'm sporting a 10-year-old bathrobe (it fits, it doesn't fit, it fits, it doesn't, it fits again but now I can't find the belt. I probably took it off and contemplated hanging myself during the last "doesn't fit" phase), a faded pink tank top with a broken spaghetti string (don't worry: I tied it in a bow and it works fine. A little lopsided, though) and some pajama bottoms with sheep gracing every square inch. My feet are on the ottoman and there's a throw to keep them warm. My slippers were massacred in pooch poop incident on the stair landing a couple of days ago. They're in a tied up bag in the bathroom waiting to be saved. I don't know how to save them, but I don't want to let them go, either. It's tragic when good slippers go bad.

I'd buy more slippers but we have a slight problem: we're broke. I don't mean a little broke, lambs. I mean I have a frightening lack of cash to do groceries with (we'll be eating a lot of sandwiches), some bills are going unpaid (well, for a few days anyway, and they won't be considered "late" yet), there's no money to have any coffee outside the home, and I get a half tank of gas to last until March 8th. Even after all that we'll be in the negatives until April.

Where did that bathrobe belt go?

Alright, alright. It's not as bleak as it seems. As a teenager and young adult, I walked the welfare lines and timeshared a kitchen with a very social cockroach family. When I lived at the downtown YM/YWCA, I knew I had reached my floor by the unique bloodstain pattern on the linoleum outside the elevator. My first apartment with Geekster involved sharing a common hallway with a couple of drug-dealers and their very large rottweiler who had a hate-on for sober tenants. Nutritionally speaking there was always the fear- and often the reality - of subsisting on noodles and canned soup for 30 days straight. The food bank? I knew the location of three, and I used them. I still love macaroni and hot dogs, bologna and mustard on white bread and all those other sodium-packed, vitamin-inept staples of the financially challenged. Maybe this month I'll have an excuse to eat some of them.

So, while I say we're broke right now, I don't mean that we're poor. The Maven likes to keep things in perspective. There's food in the house, two cars in the driveway, satellite reception on three televisions, a cellphone in my pocket and plenty of food in the pantry (which, incidentally, has two broken doors on it, but more on that later). This isn't poor. This is... unpleasant.

Have I mentioned Gutsy's new hearing aids are coming in tomorrow? We're taking a trip into the pretty town of St-Line-De-Credit to pick them up. Le sigh.

The good news is that all this money business has propelled me forward in my soon-to-be lucrative career as a freelance writer.

"Wait a minute, Maven," you interject. "How do you know it's going to be lucrative? There's a lot of competition in writing. What makes you so special?"

Sweet little lamb. It's all very simple. Freelance writing is about two things and only those two things:

1. Writing

2. Whoring your writing

Would you be here if I couldn't write? Would I have three children if I couldn't.... Uh, you get the point.

The money is as good as mine.

Whorishly yours,
The Maven

Nod and smile

What a morning. Not a bad one, actually. The Powers That Be decided they should go a little easier on me since I'm feeling blue.

I woke up to a bed crammed full of boys in pajamas (apparently it was a night for bad dreams) yet without the accompanying neck pain I would normally get from jutting toddler elbows.

Intrepid got off to school with very little pre-teen angst to show for it. Gutsy and Spawnling got dressed without a single complaint, had breakfast, listened to me... Let me just say that again because it's such a rare and wondrous event: listened to me (!!) and off we drove to preschool and playgroup.

There was no "I hate school" in Gutsy's vocabulary and a good reason for it, too. The theme at preschool over the next two weeks is 'science', which means experiments, which means my little Jekyll and Hyde is thrilled down to his Spiderman Underoos. Today's experiment involves a balloon filled with flour and some ice. I have no idea what they're doing, but the sheer combination of those three items made my gremlin's eyes light up like a 15-year-old boy meeting a swimsuit model. I see engineering in his future. Or pyromania.

(Preferably engineering.)

Playgroup was lots of fun for the first 90 minutes and slightly less fun in the last 30 when Spawnling decided he was too tired to share toys. Instead he chose his best method of dealing with not getting his way by putting his head down on the floor and crying until I pick him up. I've thought about trying that myself, but I don't think anyone could lift me.

Back to the first 90 minutes: good times. Lots of discussion about kids and crafts and vacations (that I never go on) and houses and... oh yeah, and drinking. Drinking I don't do, but most of the parents there don't know that. I'm an incognito recovering alcoholic at playgroup; I blend into conversations about the drink by nodding and smiling.

Nodding and smiling is a lot easier than saying that I don't drink. That normally turns into assumptions that it's because I'm nursing, which involves me nodding and smiling anyway. Then there are the select few who will ask if I don't drink specifically because I'm nursing. They'll say something like "Oh, when you're nursing? Or all the time?" and that involves either lying, which I don't like to do, or me saying "All the time."

Most people would leave it there, but there are those who like to take it a step further. Push the envelope. They just can't figure out how someone seemingly so normal-like (yes, that would be me) doesn't enjoy even a glass of wine now and then. Eventually this either leads to me saying "I'm allergic to alcohol" which yields a lot of medical questions, or "it's a personal decision I made a long time ago" followed by inquisitive looks and questions about family members with "problems."

Sometimes I go there. Rarely, but I do. I'll say "because I'm an alcoholic." Not my favourite response, mind you. Not because I'm ashamed of my alcoholism, nor am I worried people will frown upon me. I'm The Maven. Very few people frown upon me because I radiate awesomeness... or something. Maybe I just smell good. Anyway, what usually happens after that is the person ends up nodding and smiling in that awkward way. I mean, what do you say to that? "Good for you?" or, "Are you still... um... you know... drinking?" Oh, the uncomfortable responses are endless!

In the end, there is always nodding and smiling. This is why it's easier to blend into a conversation about drinking by doing just that (not drinking, but nodding and smiling, just so we're clear).

Today one of my mom friends was talking about Switzerland and how you can drink in parks there. She said it's not allowed here and I corrected her. I said a person can drink in a park around here as long as they have food with it (of course I would know that). Anyway, she said drinking in a park while watching her children isn't something she could see herself doing, but that there would be an advantage, say, on a Friday afternoon, when one could have a beer or a glass of wine to unwind after a long week.

Then she looked at me like I would totally get it.

Do you know what I "totally got"? How I would behave at a park with my children if one could drink there and I was still a practicing alcoholic. Me on the grass after several shots of whiskey, watching one of my children on the swings in a haze of inebriation. Smiling. Waving at him. Hi, honey! You're going so high!

Oh, wait a minute. That's not my child, that's some other kid. That's not even a boy child, unless he has braids and a dress. I just thought his leg was fat. Mine are standing over me wondering what I'm doing. Just getting some sun, sweethearts. Having a drink and unwinding after a long day. Can you go into the van and get mommy's bottle of wine? The one she keeps under the seat? Thanks. You're such a dear.

And if we were here instead of in Switzerland? I could put a lime on my glass and call it food. Technicalities, right?

What I "totally got" was that drinking at a park isn't necessarily a good idea. And that I am not normal although I do a good impression of it, and it's so funny I don't have 'recovering alcoholic' stamped on my forehead. People just assume I'm like them. I'm good at blending.

What did I say when she looked for my agreement? Nodded and smiled, of course. Then I had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude that I could drink coffee in parks. Thank goodness.

In memory of someone funnier than me

Yesterday, the world lost one of it's finest human beings.

My friend Yves Nantel was 34. He fought a scarily short but valiant battle with melanoma cancer. He was strong, but the disease was stronger.

Yves was full of life and very funny. I'll never forget how he could inject humour into every situation. It was a given that I would be in stitches every time i saw him. The last time we got together was in August of last year at a wedding, shortly after his diagnosis and initial treatment. He was the best man and I was the matron of honour.

When two funny people get together one of two things happens: Either they both try to out-funny each other with jokes, puns or harmless put-downs, or one allows the other to dominate with the funnies. After meeting Yves, I knew I was the submissive comedienne. I had to bow to his joie de vivre and the humour he used to emanate that. At the wedding I put my proverbial tail between my legs and let him dish out the comedy. I laughed and laughed. I never minded being the beta dog around him. I was truly outclassed.

I don't feel much like being funny right now, but I hope that when the grief becomes a little less, I'll make him proud by getting a laugh or two out of others. Pay it forward and all that rot.

I'm sad. Very sad. But I need to keep this in perspective; there are people much sadder than I am. His family and very close friends are mourning in a whole different way. He touched so many lives by always thinking of others. He was always giving of himself. That part of him will live on forever.

(A little secret: even after 16 years of sobriety and faith in a higher power, I'm still finding it hard not to be angry with God for taking someone so special from the world. Why can't He take more dirty politicians? What about those annoying phishing email scammers? People with enormous egos? Why take one of the nicest people?... To make another guardian angel? A guardian angel with a flare for puns?)

Rest in peace, Yves. You did so much good while you were here and you will be missed so much.

(Picture: Yves with baby Gutsy, taken at a friend's housewarming party about four years ago)

C'est L'amour!

Happy heart day, everyone! I'm living this one to the fullest, what with all the death and illness and sadness and stuff going on around me. I'm trying to focus on the positive. And the positive is most visible in the chocolate I am hoping to score tonight from my husband.

In the event that he gets me flowers (which is possible, especially since he knows I'm doing pilates and admiring my flatter - not flat, but flatter - stomach) I bought him a good sized box of Lindors. I'll get at least one or two out of it, I'm sure. I just have to give him my puppy eyes. Or better, my I-won't-put-out-otherwise eyes. Those work best.

In order to sneak a few minutes of blogging into my day, I gave the gremlins their Valentine gifts as they came in from school. Nothing says 'I love you, now leave me alone for a few minutes' like a bag of candy. Jellybeans, chocolates, and hearts with ridiculous sayings on them completed the sugar feast. I highly doubt nutritious dinners will be eaten in their entirety tonight, but I'm willing to accept the consequences of my actions.

As I wrote about my devious Valentines Day plan, Spawnling came to me and demanded to nurse. I'm now balancing a sixteen-month-old (yes, he really is that old now!) precariously on my lap while attempting to type and drink my peppermint tea. It's not going so well.

I have no idea what Geekster has planned for this evening. Are we going to watch a movie? Will we eat a late dinner together after the gremlins crawl into their pods for the night? Will we eat copious amounts of chocolate (pleaseohpleaseohplease)? Whatever the case, I've come to one conclusion: Even if today ends up being like everyone other day, every other day is pretty darn good. I mean, we're cuddly and kissy and all that sickening stuff every day. We say "I love you" every day. We spend time together every day. What more is there?

Chocolate! That's what! Oh, wait, I eat that every day, too...

In which The Maven confesses to being glum

Alright, alright... Time to fess up.

I haven't been posting because I've been a little.... down. A little. Ok, a lot. I think the word I'm looking for here is "depressed". Sucks, eh? Feel a little bad for me? Well, before you start sending the gifts of coffee and chocolate, let me say that I'm beginning to crawl my way out of the pit of despair, inch by inch. It hasn't been easy, but I'm beginning to see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel that is not Robin McGraw's veneers.

What's been doing it for me? My Theramistress has been great, but we've had to scale our appointments back a little. The every week thing gets expensive when Geekster's yearly insurance allowance for emotionally disturbed family members runs out. She lent me a book three weeks ago so I could look it over. I did look it over. In the waiting room today right before our appointment. Then, when she asked me if I had found the book helpful, I went into great detail about the five minutes of glancing I had done, and commented on how 'simple' and 'straightforward' the concept was. I think she bought it, and I am going to Hell.

I've been exercising. Not crazy, buy expensive equipment and scream in pain the following day exercise, but something more gentle: Pilates. It's a wonderful thing. The first few times I did pilates I walked away with a guilty grin on my face. Why? Because I thought I had beat the system; the system of people who exercise. Exercise is supposed to hurt and be difficult. Pilates was neither of those things and was even kind of fun, what with the weighted balls and stuff. Apparently I had been given the wrong DVD for Christmas. I wasn't going to get anything out of it, but I would make me feel better because I could tell people I was exercising every two days and they could think I was really dedicated, if not still quite fat despite it all.

Then, something strange happened. I started to get a little bit... buff. Underneath my awesome liquid jelly rolls I have acquired some abs. Real abdominal muscles that I can flex and use to lift myself off the bed and what have you. And my arms? Well, jiggle they might, but beneath the surface lie beautiful pythons of envious proportions. I can lift a 48 pound Gutsy with a sliver in his foot and carry him upstairs without breaking a sweat. I can pick up a teething Spawnling (four molars in a two week period means a lot of picking up) and make dinner or carry a basket of laundry or walk up the three flights of stairs to playgroup while also balancing a coffee and a purse.

When you're my size, you no longer have "skinny jeans". Skinny jeans are for people who are 15 pounds overweight. Skinny jeans hang in the closet and taunt the nearly-skinny every morning, bringing them to near tears as they contemplate another dreadful week eating cabbage soup.

No, fat people like me don't have skinny jeans. We have less-fat jeans. The ones that used to fit until we got fatter. I have a pair of those, and I was going to throw them out. Then, pilates happened. And yesterday, I squeezed into those less-fat jeans. They zip up now, and that is a big improvement. All because I play on the floor with some blue balls (not Geekster's).

Pilates shouldn't be considered exercise. Nay, it should be a religion. The religion of Pilates. It makes much more sense than Scientology, and that's a religion. It could work, you know.

I've been cleaning my house, like, every day. Not just the dishes, but everything. Laundry? There's only ever one load to do, if that. We're completely caught up and it's folded, not in baskets, but in drawers. Yes, it is possible. We are the living proof.

The Maven is picking herself up off the floor. It hasn't been an easy task and has involved many things (thankfully none of them a forklift - go, less-fat jeans!). With a grandmother and two friends battling cancer (one who is sadly in the last few weeks of his life), two AA friends who may have fallen off the wagon (I hope not, but they're nowhere to be found), and an estranged family member who's decided he doesn't have time for The Maven in his life (seriously! The Maven!), it's been anything but fun around here. But the pity party train has come to its final stop. This less-fat, pilates-loving, pretend-self-help-book-reading, berserker-cleaning Maven is finding her groove again.

And my gremlins? They're enjoying the fact that I yell less and smile more. That will probably mean that their spouses' insurance will not need to pay for quite as many therapy sessions. This is good all around.

Now I must go to bed. I have playgroup in the morning with Spawnling (and I'm actually looking forward to going and, you know, spending time with people in public places). People are still getting sick, are still dying, are still dropping off my radar, but I'm doing better.

However, still feel free to send coffee and/or chocolate.

I'll keep in touch more often. Promise. I hope this post will quell the 'where's your damn blog?' questions. It hurts to be popular.

Hump this.

A little rant to get my morning started.

Intrepid's school bus stops in front of the house, on the opposite side of the road. It's not a busy road, but it's a long stretch and you can clearly see the bus from a good distance away.

This morning, right after Intrepid boarded the bus and just after the flashing lights were turned off, a pickup truck passed the bus right in front of our house. The bus didn't see the pickup truck beside it as it started to pull away (because, you know, most people don't pass school buses full of children that just finished picking someone up) and the guy was forced into a ditch full of snow.

I was snoozing in my bed (after a long night of "sleeping" in Spawnling's bed) when I heard the honking followed closely by the sound of stuck tires. So, everyone asks themselves, what would The Maven do?

Answer: Nothing, other than making coffee and watching the guy try and dig himself out of a ditch.

Sorry, but I have no sympathy for a guy who passes a school bus because he's too impatient to wait ten seconds. Geekster and I stayed inside and tried not to boil over in anger at the guy who just endangered our son and his schoolmates.

Then our wonderful, elderly neighbour came out and started shoveling Truck Guy out. Elderly neighbour has a heart condition. He helps everyone. He even snow-blows our driveway for us on a regular basis out of the kindness of his heart. So Geekster put his boots on and went out to help at that point. We didn't want elderly neighbour guy to hurt himself.

He came in shaking his head. He said the guy was nice enough, but he had a small child in the car and was trying to get him to daycare.

...

Ok, so you dangerously passed a bunch of children on a bus so you could get your child to daycare on time? You know, the place that cares for your child and where you expect to find him safe and sound at the end of each day and not killed by some idiot driver?

I doth thinketh Truck Guy is quite dense.

Anyway...

So my doctor tells me I have low iron. I'm borderline anemic.

Some people would be concerned and want to increase their iron intake. Not so fast, I say. There's a silver lining to every equation. Follow the white rabbit, Neo, and see what I mean...

If I'm dreading the challenging, nay, brutal pilates workout beckoning me with it's purple weighted balls and gentle music and intense abs toning exercises, I can ask myself 'How's my iron today?' If I answer with 'Maven, your iron is fairly low and you may want to consider sitting on your plump fanny drinking coffee to be your workout today' then I can choose to listen.

If my husband comes home and trips over the sea of toys in the livingroom (the livingroom is adjacent to the playroom and I believe the toys have begun using it as a migratory stop), gives me that 'Why are you watching Oprah and Doctor Oz dissect a pancreas when you could be making the room less life-threatening' look, I can say 'Sorry, honey. So tired. Low iron, you know.'

Don't want to go to a school board meeting? Low iron. No energy.

Don't want to eat scary vegetarian meal consisting of eggplant and cabbage? Low iron. Where's the beef?

So perhaps the trick is not to let my iron get any lower, but maybe not let it get much higher, either. Striking a balance could buy me a ticket into permanent slackdom.

Well, if I want to gain another 80 pounds while watching the latest must-have fashions while my children break their limbs on a floor spattered with Transformers and Webkins, anyway.

Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all. Maybe my ass will stop hurting once I do the pilates video every second day as recommended and not every second week, which is Maven-recommended. Maybe I want to ensure the safety of my family by keeping the debris off the carpet. Maybe I'll come to love eggplant, in time.

...Nope. I don't think I'll ever have anything but loathing for eggplant.

Besides, building up my iron might be fun. The doctor would like me to eat one big, iron-rich burger every week. She said if I do that I'll build my stores back up in no time.

So basically I have carte blanche to eat one artery-clogging meal every seven days, as long as it contains iron. Please get a parade ready on Main St, Saturated Fat Land, because here I come!

A lesson in toddler defiance, by Spawnling

My fourteen-month-old Spawnling now walks down the stairs forward, holding onto the railing. It's quite a terrifying sight. I have visions of him plummeting all ten stairs from the top of the landing. He loves to do it though, and won't stop - unless I take out the camera, apparently. In true toddler fashion, he denied me any such pleasure from gloating. Now you'll just have to take my word for it, and my honesty will forever be in question.

His saving grace is that he's squishy and lovable. It almost makes me forget how much he doesn't listen to me lately. Almost.

And to get him back for all of this later, I have a series of naked butt pictures stashed away. "What's that, fifteen-year-old Spawnling who didn't help mom declutter the basement last weekend because you were too busy playing Playstation8? Your girlfriend (or boyfriend - hey, I'm liberal) is coming to dinner tonight? Let me just get a few things... ready.

No, sweety. I'm not cackling. Only people with very evil ideas cackle. Must just be your imagination."

The blue in the hallway is very Cape-Cod-by-the-sea. We are not in Cape Cod or by the sea, but it's a non-offensive colour and really quite pretty most of the time, so we kept it. Painting hallways is not what Mavens do best. Also, there's a lovely deep red on the stairs. You have to look closely to see it. No, no. Not that close. That's dirt. Piles of cat hair because I took this right before Christmas and hadn't swept in, um... let's just say 'a while'. 'A while' sounds like it might just be a week or so. And if my stairs look like that, you can guess what my kitchen look like. But pretend it's really pretty and clean, ok? Please?

Our continuing mission

Captain's log.
Stardate 08.01.06

The yoghurt in the ship's kitchen expires today. Writing the Stardate just jolted my memory. I will have to insist the cook serve it as a snack later on.

Oh, wait. I am the cook. I sometimes forget that I have more than one role upon the ship. I'm also Chief of Security and Manager of Housekeeping Services. For some reason this vessel is not equipped with robots or androids to do some of the most menial tasks. Nor do we have a food replicator. Next time I meet with Captain Picard I'm so going to try and steal one off the Enterprise. Those jerks have everything.

I spent a good part of the night negotiating with an alien species. We've only been in contact with this form for slightly over a year and we call it The Spawn. The specific entity we've been dealing with has been attempting to assimilate us into a sleep cycle the human race simply cannot tolerate for long durations. The alien has been waking us up at 11PM through 1AM, then again from 5 until 6AM. Surely it is trying to wear us down so that we will bend to its whim more easily. If The Spawn win, all will surely be lost. I must come up with a new battle plan and soon.

Lieutenant Intrepid has a visitor on board from a neighbouring planet. He's always here. Every weekend. From shortly after breakfast until shortly before dinner. They play on the holodeck, sometimes with the exclusion of other crew members. In fact, I would say they outright hog the Wii... er.. holodeck and I get to field complaints from the ensigns. Being the captain sucks sometimes.

Geekster, our Chief of Engineering, is shoveling an unknown substance off our ship's hull. It's white and cold and there's a lot of it. We fear damage to the vessel if we don't rid ourselves of it. Besides, our satellite isn't working because it's covered in it and I can't watch any BBC Canada, or, rather, monitor activity in the solar system. Yes. That's what I meant.

Starfleet would not be happy with me if there were lasting damage. Picard and Ryker would probably giggle like little schoolgirls at my reprimand. Laugh on, ladies. You look ridiculous in your spandex suits. We get to wear denim under my command.

Update:

To return to the original task at hand, I am pleased to report that The Spawn seems to now be bending to my whim. The specimen we have on board has fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Of course, we shall see what happens later tonight. Will I need to get up again and leave my quarters to negotiate with a lively alien? Where's my damn night crew? Aren't all starships supposed to have those?

I shall get some rest until tonight. A captain's job is never done. Or cook's. Or Chief of Security's. Or Manager of Housekeeping Services'. Or stupid Night Crew's.

Earl grey, hot.

Captain out.