The Kitchen Incident

A couple of days ago, I was making dinner and Gutsy was "helping", which basically means he kept jumping the gun on cracking the (free range) eggs into the bowl. He was tired after a long day of school, but apparently not as much as older brother, Intrepid.

Intrepid was moody. A moody slacker. He is his mother, through and through. I put everything off until the last minute. I wait until 4:30 to unload the dishwasher, load the heaps of nasty plates and cups into said dishwasher by about 4:55, and start dinner by 5 if I'm very, very lucky. Technically I have all day to do this, but I'm far too busy drinking coffee and socializing to even contemplate doing any housework until then.

Intrepid, AKA Mini-me, is so similar it's scary. He has a week to complete his homework and will do it on Thursday night. He only cleans his room when I remind him (firmly), and only takes the recycling out to the garage when it's stained in blood from someone tripping over it as it overflows from the bin.

An eleven-year-old genius with the vocabulary of someone twice his age he might be, but I still have to remind him to change his underwear. Sigh.

(I feel the need to mention here that I do change my underwear every day. We're not that similar. I only take genetic ownership of the slacker/genius part.)

Gutsy is quite the opposite in many ways. He thrives on routine, likes to wear clean clothes and even remembers most of his chores. He can be louder and more obnoxious than a drunken parrot, but we all have our flaws. I love Gutsy's willingness to organize, to invent, and to "help".

"Helping" is what Gutsy does best. Once he "helped" take apart his new scooter in hopes of inventing another one, but had to stop when it was time for dinner. Later that night, I tripped over it in the dark garage while taking out the recyling Intrepid forgot about.

Irony, you and I are special friends.

Another time, Gutsy took apart his new drum kit and reassembled it in such a "unique" way that I've been unable to put it back into its normal state. Now the drums sit mangled and unused for the most part, but I can't say that bothers me very much.

Back to the kitchen scene mentioned above: Gutsy is "helping" and Intrepid is playing computer games. Spawnling is around as well, but I have no idea what he was doing. Probably pulling apart a plant in the livingroom, which is his new passion. A serial botanical murderer in the making, Spawnling is. Soon he'll be placing them in a pit in the back yard and sending down buckets of lotion, so he can make pretty slippers out of their supple leaves.

I pry Intrepid away from the computer and ask him about his bottle drive and charity walk pledge sheet, both due back at school within the next few days. He'll do it tomorrow, he says. It's always tomorrow, I remind him, and I'd like him to do it today instead. He's just too tired, he says. He needs a break, he says.

This is the time when I not so politely and very firmly explained to my son in my Worst Mom In The World way, that he needs to take some responsibility and that he's been putting this off for too long. This, of course, turned me into his least favourite mother of all time, as he whine and cried, talked over me, and, in typical pre-teen fashion stomped upstairs to his room. All the way up he was muttering - loudly - about how unfair I am.

As this was going on and I wasn't paying attention, Gutsy cracked more eggs than we needed into the bowl. Then, once Intrepid's door was unceremoniously slammed, my five-year-old turned to me and said in the sweetest voice:

"Mom, I really wish Intrepid would just shut his pie hole."

I nearly spat laughter into the bowl of too-many eggs. Quickly collecting myself, I replied with "Gutsy, please don't say rude things like that."

Then I excused myself, went into the livingroom and fell into a chair laughing.

Have I mentioned how much I love my life?

Lesson for Week 1: Creation

This week's lesson needed some prep, which is what took so long. I had to conduct some scientific experiments and do extensive research. I wouldn't want to provide innacurate information to the masses, as that would ruin my credibility.

The Maven is all about cred. Bitchin' street cred. And credit card cred (especially with low interest rates.)

Today we're going to examine the genetic origins of the male species. In order to understand how boys work, we must first comprehend where they come from.

Males are made when sperm meets egg. But not just any old egg and certainly not just any old sperm. Just the right combination needs to happen in order to make it work.

When a couple conceives a girl, it's generally during or just after a chick flick. In fact, one German study showed that 76% of women fell pregnant with daughters within minutes of Tom Cruise letting Rene Zellweger know that she completes him. Flowers, scented candles or complimenting a woman's designer handbag are also great ways to increase your chances of a female heir.

So what, then, creates a boy? Couples are more likely to conceive a male child if intercourse is had in the following ways:

1. During or after a rugby game
2. In or near a sports car, monster truck or any sort of farm equipment
3. At the tail end of a drunken night of debauchery
4. After watching at least 50% of any Jackass movie
5. When any of the following words are used (preferably in conjunction): Boobies, bum, hockey, fart, or roadkill

When these scientifically proven male-producing situations occur, sperm wearing trojan helmets and wielding samurai swords (or, less often, spiked maces) are released. After marking their little spermy faces with war paint, the army races through the birth canal in search of their prize. Scientists have discovered small, stick-like buildings while performing routine ultrasounds. This has lead to the theory that these sperm armies will stop and build tree forts in the uterus on their way to the fallopian tubes.

The mother-to-be's eggs are all individual, but have one common genetic defect: they feel the best way to meet a man is at a bar. Sperm armies are attracted to any egg who happens to be shaped like an hourglass, although blonde ones are usually preferred. If a blonde, hourglass-shaped egg is strolling down the fallopian tube on a Saturday night and happens upon a hiphop club, the leader of the trojan army will send over a martini from the bar. "This is from the sperm in the front," the waitress will say. The egg will giggle shyly and wink.

Once she's had a few more beverages and is practically falling over, a bar fight will erupt between all the sperm. Tails flail and insults fly. Sperm from the west teste will mock those from the east. They may battle it out in an epic rap tournament, dissing each other with some phat beats bumping in the background. Whoever wins gets to take the inebriated blonde egg back to the intrauterine tree fort/love shack. The rest drink themselves to death while singing Tubthumpin'. With this in mind, it's not surprising that female sperm live longer than male sperm.

And that, my friends, is how boys are created.

I hope I didn't overwhelm anyone with scientific terminology. I tried to dumb it down but conception isn't for simpletons. So, if you're trying to have a boy, I suggest a night of demolition derby after swallowing a Jock Jams CD. You'll be buying blue in no time!

Boys in the 'hood

My wonderful friend Sky, who's blog I stalked with Jobthingy for months before we realized she lived on the other side of the city, is expecting a boy baby! Go on over and congratulate her!

Then, come back here and let's talk about what she's really in for. Heh heh.

As proud leader of the 3rd Ranger Boyttalion, I feel I know a little bit about the smellier sex. And yes, they are smellier. They are also louder, busier, and raising them makes you grow hair on your chest.

Oh, don't let the politically correct bumsticks negate my teachings; there are fundamental differences between boys and girls. I know this. I am a girl and I am in awe of how alien my male children are. I'd be doing them a disservice if I tried to fit them into a gender-neutral box. And then I wouldn't understand the chest hair or the desire for weekend vacations at Hotel Hopitale Mentale, now would I?

I feel the need to share my knowledge with Sky and other friends who have not yet experienced raising males. Therefore, I will create a series of lesson plans, which will be posted once per week. A training manual, if you will. Aren't I nice? Isn't that generous of me?

(Payment can be made in the form of comments, but lattes are preferred.)

I now must take my rambunctious Spawnling to the park to play with another boy and two girls. I'll be sure to write this week's lesson when I get back from there with adequate inspiration.

Building an entourage

Now that I'm well on my way to being a skinny vegetarian, I've been thinking more and more about who I want in my entourage. After all my hard work I have plans to look like that girl we all hate - the one who must come by skinny naturally and probably eats a big bag of chips for breakfast before fitting into her size nothing clothing.. I'm going to wear cute little jeans and pretty tops and awesome shoes. I'm going to have bags that match my hair accessories. I'm going to be a show-stopping mix of sophistication and punk, of earth-loving hippy and glam, of good-heartedness and jaw-dropping coolness. And I'll walk through downtown streets as I turn heads, pretending I don't notice people noticing me.

Amazing how much life is going to change with all this weight loss, eh? I have big plans to turn it not only in a health benefit, but also a social extravaganza. If I'm going to save the earth through my meat-free diet and look good at the same time, I owe it to myself to have a good group of people behind me.

With that in mind, I've started interviewing for positions. While entourages may look casually thrown together, they are anything but. A good posse is composed of just the right people doing just the right things. The smallest group has three people in it: the lead, flank right and flank left. This type notably appears in the movie Mean Girls.

...And it's a great system in that it's intimate, compact and easy to bring to the mall for those must-have shopping excursions. The only flaw is the mandatory attendance: if one of your girls calls in sick it's no longer an entourage. You'll look like besties out for a shop and a Diet Coke.

You can't go out with just one person. Ew.

In the show, Entourage, they chose a larger group of five to hang out with the main star. I haven't actually seen the show, but I hear this size works well. With five people you're completely surrounded and take up a lot of space. These are both highly positive characteristics of an entourage. Since 'entour' is french for 'around', you are meeting the literal requirements of the word.

One major problem with this system: It was designed for men. There are fundamental differences between the sexes in this instance. Do you have any idea how long it takes for five girls to get ready to go out? Guys throw some gel in their hair, whip out a dress shirt and some jeans and they're done. Women start getting ready weeks in advance. They get highlights and go dress shopping and call their friends to see if their new dress clashes with the other girl's new dress, and we spend four days in the mirror experimenting with lipstick shades. It's a very big, messy procedure. I can't imagine having to coordinate with four other girls on a regular basis.

There's also the social element. Guys say a few sentences to each other, laugh, grunt a bit, and then shoot some pool. Well, the type that would have an entourage, anyway. Women require a lot more maintenance than that. Having such dedicated soldiers in my tight, little group is going to require regular communication. We have to make sure that Flank Left isn't upset with Flank Right for wearing clashing shoes, for example. More people equals more attention. I don't know if I'm going to have that kind of time as a mother, humanitarian and incredibly good looking person to solve problems for four other women.

With these things in mind, I've decided to go with a simple, four person entourage: Flank Right, Flank Left and Trailer, with me, the Centerpiece, in the front and center. Here are the general requirements for the positions:

Flank Right: Very good looking, but not as good looking as the Centerpiece. Must look sluttier than Centerpiece, but in such a way that people think "Wow, she's pretty, but looks cheaper than the girl in the middle." Must be a good conversationalist and be willing to share frozen yogourt when Centerpiece cannot hold one with her new nails on.

Flank Left: Also very pretty, but needs to be a follower by nature. Biggest task involves holding Centerpiece's drink while she flips her hair and applies designer sunglasses in slow motion as the wind is blowing. Being good conversationalist a bonus, but not a direct requirement. Knowing Centerpiece's latte order is, however, a must.

Trailer: Generally taller than Centerpiece, but just slightly. The Trailer's main purpose is to flank the back of the entourage to make sure that other girls don't try to join in without anyone noticing. Being able to subtly push, trip or growl at followers are requirements. Being menacing is more important than being gorgeous, however some level of attractiveness and style awareness is mandatory. Trailers are often temporarily put into Flank Left or Right positions if these positions are being punished for not laughing at Centerpiece's jokes.

And there you have it. A nice, simple entourage. Positions are now open and I plan to offer a full medical and dental plan.

An open letter on customer service

Dear Tim Hortons owner;

I love your store and visit every day. You don't normally serve me and were probably only behind the cash because you were short-staffed today, but I always - and I mean always - order a large coffee with 1 cream and 1 milk. I never switch it up and try something new. I'm a boring thirty-two-year-old mother who doesn't like change. In fact, making the switch from 2 cream to 1 cream and 1 milk took months to become permanent.

So, it was with great surprise today that, upon returning to the counter with sugary coffee in my travel mug, you would tell me I ordered 1 cream and 1 sugar. And, when I politely corrected you, you would again tell me what I ordered, despite the fact that I hate sugar in my coffee and would never order that.

I make mistakes all the time, Mrs. Coffee Franchise Owner. All day, every day I screw up. I put frozen peas in the pantry, I find leftovers in the microwave that I had zapped for lunch two days prior, I re-wash clean laundry. I'm about as close to having 'dumbass' stamped on my forehead as a person can get.

Unless they stamped 'dumbass' on their foreheads or something.

However, what you don't understand about me because you are not my regular server, is that I do not mess around when it comes to my coffee. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that. In fact, I ran into a closing Fourbucks the other day because I had to order my grande half-sweet soy pumpkin spice latte, low whipped cream, with nutmeg. And I mean ran.

I go out of my way to buy fair-trade organic Sumatran whole bean coffee for my morning cup. Do you know how hard it is to find fair-trade organic Sumatran whole bean coffee? Well, I do, because I am a coffee connoisseur, which is a classier name for "junkie". My pulse goes up at the sight of a $4000 espresso machine and I have more than once tried to convince my spouse that we could easily carry that cost on our mortgage.

Now, I realize you are a successful business owner with a large sum of money in your bank account. You are most likely a very educated woman, both outside the Tim Hortons company and within. You've undoubtedly had a lot of training in order to run a busy franchise location. Congratulations on those things. You've earned it through hard work and a deep understanding of the golden rule of customer service: the customer is always right.

Oh, wait a minute.

Wait just a gosh darn minute.

Was there not a moment today when the customer was not right? Didn't she come in, set her travel mug down, and ask you to put sugar in her coffee? And then didn't that space-cadet come back and try and tell you - the owner - that she didn't ask for sugar?

It's a good thing you corrected her. It's a good thing you told her what she actually said. Good for you. You showed her how amazing you are, Mrs. Franchise Owner. You showed her who's boss. You showed her that your balls are made of roasted Columbian beans. You go, girl!

But could I perhaps point out one little flaw in your logic, if I may? It's just that - and by no means do I consider myself nearly as savvy and knowledgeable as you with your coffee store and astronomical profits - it's just that I did do some customer service work back in the day and what got me raises and praises was remembering that the customer is always right.

Even if you don't think she is, and even if you're sure you heard sugar, and even if you look for support from the teenage employee next to you and she smiles nervously and seems like she's agreeing with you even though she's probably terrified to do otherwise because you'll go all ninja on her and chop up her Tim Hortons hat before throwing a pink slip at her... Even if all those things happen to be true, the customer is always right.

With these things in mind, would you like to tell me again what I ordered in my coffee this afternoon? Or was my sudden, dark glare and response of "Well, that's interesting I would ask for sugar, considering I never, ever take sugar in my coffee" enough for you?

Just asking, that's all.

Your space-cadet customer,
The Maven

Tofutots, anyone?

Today is a good day because it started with coffee made by my Geekster. For some reason, he makes far better java than I do despite my obsession with the stuff. And to think I'd love to own a coffee shop one day. That's a bit like someone who can't hold a note wanting to sing in a rock band. I hang my head in shame.

Yesterday, The Butler Did It called to let me know that The Smurfs were being played weekday mornings at 8AM. "The Smurfs??!" I exclaimed incredulously. She seems to share my obsession with talking, hat-wearing blueberries and that's just the coolest. From now on, my morning coffee will take place inside Smurfette's pink mushroom house, where we'll discuss how difficult it is to be the most beautiful women of our species. We share so much, her and I. It's a curse.

Perhaps I'm not the most beautiful woman alive - maybe second, or third when my hair isn't washed - but I feel better than I've felt in a very long time. I wake up fully rested and in a good mood. I no longer feel like a lab rat in a maze on cocaine, trying to figure out what to do first and how to do it and oh-my-god-how-do-I-even-get-started overwhelmed. Anxiety? Down. Stress levels? Down. Anger? Down. Pants? Down.

Just seeing if you were paying attention.

Oh, and I just may feel a little bit better about my hot self because I'm down 14 pounds so far. The last three fell off this week in a heap after I stopped eating meat. While I certainly can't say that's all fat, whatever it was causing that weight to hang out is now no longer there and my clothes are fitting better than ever. I'm sitting at 238 and feeling great. I like the 'eights' because I can rhyme stuff with them. I'm a poet and don't I know it.

Could this day get any better? How could it not? I'm going to playgroup for a second time this week, flanked by a couple of my entourage. Afterwards I'm going to whip up something vivaciously vegan for The Butler Did It, whether she wants it or not. Oh, she may thinks she doesn't want it at first, but once I give it to her she'll know she wanted it all along.

And now that I'm done sounding like a drunken fratboy idiot, I'm going to gulp down the rest of my coffee, grab a surprisingly delish vegan muffin and head off to playgroup.

Also, how cool is it that losers like me can order a free vegetarian starter kit? I wonder if it comes with tofutots? Back off. You can't have mine. Go get your own:

Divine Caffeination

It's true: God loves vegetarians. Way up in the clouds lives a deity with the biggest collection of hemp robes anyone has ever seen.

Allow me to explain in that long, rambling way I normally explain things: I woke up with more non-coffee-induced energy than I've had, well, ever. After my shower I stood in front of the mirror admiring the Incredible Disappearing Double Chin, before flashing myself a sexy grin and dashing off to playgroup.

Oh, wait. I put clothes on first. In fact, my body felt fantastic and I slipped into a pair of once-too-tight jeans with no problem at all. Then, ten minutes before my departure, Flashdance the coffee fairy arrived with an extra large, two cream. She couldn't make it to our first playgroup day so she figured she would at least bring me some java. I love her and I would marry her, except she would probably stop bringing me coffee right after the ceremony. At the moment we're in the courting phase and she's my sugar mama. We need not take this any further.

During playgroup, Spawnling filled a shopping basket with plastic animals. My friend, Pixie (also a new veggie convert), pointed out that some were not only animals, but endangered species.

My toddler is obviously rebelling against my new lifestyle. Next thing I know he'll be stoning Canada Geese in a nearby river to get attention.

Sadly, his sentiments have been echoed here and there as people hear of my decision to forgo land meat (and I'm seriously considering ocean meat, too). Of course I don't expect a parade in my honour (maybe just a medal or a knighting or something), but some support and respect would be nice. When I think about it, I guess it's a bit like quitting drinking: the last people you can expect support from are the ones still in the bar. I know I'm a freak. When have I claimed otherwise? Now I'm a vegetarian, too. But I'm a freaky vegetarian with feelings, and my feelings are a bit hurt.

Thankfully the majority of people have been really cool about it, even if it's not their thing and those people will get Christmas cards this year.

But, to console myself, I decided to put my (VERY, VERY, VERY loud today) gremlins to bed a little earlier and head off to the book store. I wanted to go with someone, but after several phone calls I couldn't pull anyone away from television or family time. I get television, but family time? Maven time is so much more fun, and I had Fourbucks giftcards to spend, too! Who wants to hang out with their crumb snatchers when they can get down with the meat-free, non-drinking, non-smoking party animal that I am?

Putting it that way I don't think I would hang out with myself, either. I'm going to have to come up with a snazzier description.

So, basically, I went to the bookstore all by myself.

Don't be sad. That's the part of the story where I'm at my lowest. It draws the reader in for more. After this comes all the good stuff.

Once I got there, three good things happened.

First, one of my friends was too tired to come, so she sent her husband as a surprise replacement. Therefore I was given a shopping partner and someone who's ear I could talk off. I must have sounded really desperate on the phone. Sweet.

Second, I bought this book, which I think will be a nice follow-up to the book that changed my life.

Third and most importantly, God loves vegetarians. And because of this, I was given two free soy lattes by the Fourbucks employees. Why? Because they liked me and they liked talking to me and they liked my choice in books and they wrote down some other ones for me to read after, too. Why else? Because I may be fat and have a big nose, but I'm damn charismatic. Why else else? Because she said she didn't feel like ringing up my drinks and would rather stand and talk to me.

I think I like the first two reasons the best, though, so let's pretend I didn't say the third. Getting free drinks because the cashier was lazy is not nearly as cool.

That's the second time just over a week that Fourbucks employees have given me free stuff for the sake of giving me free stuff. And that just totally rocks.

The simple act of giving me $10 worth of designer coffee (one was in my brand new travel mug given to me by Photo Lush, which will help me save the planet one drink at a time) made my entire day a little brighter.

Isn't that awesome? Aren't I amazing? Where's my halo? Did a cow eat it? Don't cows have eight stomachs? How do I humanely retrieve something from a cow's insides?

The cruely-free halo retrievement brainstorming session will commence early tomorrow morning. Until then, I'm going to bed.

Ignorance was bliss

Mondays are never miserable when Spawnling is around!

Today's amusement? Try getting Spawnling to say "bus". Go ahead and try. It's priceless.

When his brothers boarded theirs this morning, the toddler shouted out: "Trepid and Gussy in a butt! In a yewwo butt!"

He then went on to create a musical masterpiece as he sang about the "yewwo butt" while stomping his feet.

I love that kid.

***

Ever read the book Skinny Bitch? No?

Good. Don't.

My gift to everyone I care about is not to give them my copy when I'm finished with it.

I picked up the book thinking it would be a light, funny read. It has chapter titles like "Don't Be a Pussy" which made me giggle when I skimmed through it. They say naughty words throughout and it's written by two former models, which I assumed meant it would be shallow and pretentious.

For some unknown reason, I really enjoy shallow and pretentious.

Little did I know my "light read" would be wrought with tales of horror about meat, dairy, caffeine, sugar and even my beloved aspartame. Little did I realize I would go to sleep feeling sick to my stomach, vowing that I would never eat like that again.

So I gave up meat. Well, land meat. I still eat fish. Can I start a trend and call myself a land vegetarian?

But what if I want to cheat, you ask? What if I want, say, a big, delicious slice of turkey for Thanksgiving? What if my children want to taste Big Bird on Christmas Day? Would I deprive them of that just because I want to be a skinny (and ethical) bitch?

Absolutely not. I will simply pre-order a free-range turkey from a local farm and believe that I'm better than everyone else because of it.

Shallow and pretentious, see?

But we're getting ahead of ourselves here.

I didn't realize Friday would be my last day as a meatatarian, and yet it was the perfect one. It was one of those extremely rare situations where every meal was eaten out of the home and every one contained delicious meat: sausages at breakfast, hot dogs for lunch and a big, ol' Quarter Pounder for dinner. Then I came home and read the first half of the book, which made me want to carve everything out of my stomach and start the day over.

Saturday was meat-free-tastic. Sunday was more of the same, although I did have a bit of salmon with dinner (say it with me: land vegetarian).

Oh sure, the book suggested I give up dairy, caffeine, sugar and sweeteners. But one thing at a time, ok? First of all, I like a bit of sugar. Why must I go cold free-range, grain-fed turkey like that? Why can't I enjoy some Monkey Munch now and then? It even contains peanut butter, which we all know is an excellent meat substitute.

And cheese? I love cheese. I love it so much that if it had more holes I might have sex with it. Yogourt is another food I can't live without right now. It contains fruit and sometimes chocolate. Oh, and chocolate has dairy. The chocolate I like, anyway. Try and pry my hands away from it. Go on, try. I'll beat you over the head with a bag of leftover chicken breast from my freezer.

My lack of meat eating will save a minimum of 90 animals every year. That's almost saintly. Plus, I'll definitely get skinnier. There's just no way around it. I know there are fat vegetarians out there but I figure they really have to work at it.

My weight hasn't budged yet, but we're only at the start of day 3. Right now I'm plotting revenge on those ex-models who had to fool me into reading about how horrible my lifestyle was. They took my ignorance away. My beautiful, fluffly ignorance. Maybe I'll unknowingly serve them up a batch of non-vegan brownies made with eggs. That'll show 'em.

Oh, but they'll have to be free-range eggs because that's all I buy now. Damn them.

Off to the organic market *grumble*...

Variations in popularity relating to the birthday equation

Like that picture? Photo Lush made it, of course. She's such a great sister (she also buys me coffee sometimes and I would like that trend to continue, so I had better give her credit for her work)

My birthday was several shades of awesome thanks to how insanely popular I am. Okay, and because of my husband.

Geekster decided that since he couldn't buy me the rich person camera I wanted on account of not being rich enough, he would instead throw me a barbecue with meat and meat-related products (very thoughtful, coming from a vegetarian).

He created a Crackbook event and invited a few people. Then a few more were invited because, hey, not everyone is going to come, right? Probably half the people, so it's best to extend the invitation far and wide. Besides, it was the end of a long weekend and the last day of summer vacation for many people. School would resume the following day for many a crumb snatcher, so surely there would be a lot of 'no' RSVPs.

And that would have been fine, because small parties are great. I didn't want a big bash for my thirty-second year of life, anyway. Small, quiet, peaceful and gift-less (minus, perhaps, a camera). And this has nothing to do with what happened to me in school. Nope, not a bit.

Maybe a little bit.

There are different levels of popularity. Most people float through life with a 'I was in gym class with him/her' popularity. There are a handful who get beyond that, to 'He/she seems to be at every party and has pretty hair.' Those are the lucky people. I envy you.

In school, I was always below even the level of comfortable mediocrity. Normally I stayed squarely between 'Does she even go to this school?' and 'Eww, zits!' I thought that was bad enough, until grade 8, when I shouldered the brunt of all loser-related jokes in a school of 1200 students and was shoved, quite unexpectedly, into 'Let's light her on fire with some hairspray and a match!'

I mean literally. Thank goodness for stop, drop and roll.

Don't feel too badly for me. I don't. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, every cloud has a silver lining, and all that other crap people tell you when your life sucks.

Yes, I learned some very important lessons through my years of ridicule, punched eyes and singed arm hair. Things I would have never learned if I had been the homecoming queen of Perfectville, USA.

I learned that public school is an evil place full of jerks. I learned not to trust anyone who can light a match. I learned I would eventually turn into an obsessive parent who fears even the thought of her children being picked on in the big, bad school system. But, most importantly, I learned to be insecure.

See what hardship can do? It can really help a person grow.

I eventually drank my way into rehab and found some confidence with which to whip the emotional asses of my former tormentors. Heck, I even have some of them as Facebook friends because I'm a strong woman who likes to show she's above all that old, petty stuff (never you mind that I'm writing about it right now). However, those scars still show many years later, and my heart about dropped into my bowels when Geekster started inviting people to a party just for me.

As the guest list grew, so did my anxiety. Nobody's going to come, I thought to myself. I prepared the rejection speech in my head:

Oh, that's fine. No problem at all! I know it's a long weekend and it's the day before school for a lot of the kids and you probably have to work tomorrow. It's just a silly little birthday party, anyway.

Because while I'm The Maven and a would-be internet sensation if I could only write more than twice per week, I'm a nobody in real life and I know it.

A total and complete nobody.

We had 38 people in our backyard on Monday afternoon. Only a handful didn't come and I didn't have to give them my rejection speech because I felt, well, not rejected. The turnout was so great that I couldn't help but be amazed.

I suddenly catapulted in popularity from 'She helps me with my algebra so I let her go shopping with me' popular to 'She, like, plays a supporting yet totally important role on the cheerleader squad!'

Hot damn.

Oh, sure, there were some drawbacks to having that many people over to celebrate the day of my birth. Sitting down for more than 23 seconds was out of the question. I had to share my presence with others in small doses, which I'm certain was a disappointment to those who traveled from as far as 30 minutes away to see me (I wouldn't let Geekster invite people even further out because I was afraid they would say no due to gas prices and I might go throw rocks at an Esso sign with tears in my eyes). I had to share the cupcakes my sister made in my honour with so many guests that I tragically never got a second one. Nor did I have time to make coffee for the hordes of people who left in a mass exodus at 7:30PM, either, which means I was deprived of my much-beloved caffeine.

Being popular is very tiring work. I pity those of you who have to be like that all the time.

I did, however, make it to Fourbucks after all was said and done, complete with gift cards. Do people know me well or what?

I have to preface this part of the story by mentioning that A) I am not a regular at Fourbucks lately due to it being, well, four bucks, and B) I was already on a massive ego high from much Maven worship in the afternoon.

Still, the surprises were not over yet. The barista treated me to a free latte and free cake, nicely decorated with whipped cream, chocolate syrup and half a straw with a dollop of whipped cream on the top to simulate a birthday candle.

If an ego inflates in a coffee shop, does anyone around suffocate?

I'd love to sing the praises of karma and how all the good I do in the world has come back to me on my 32nd birthday. I would love to sit here, smug and pretentious yet acting incredibly humbled, all while being a shining example of positivity attracting more positivity.

I would love to, except Paris Hilton has better birthday parties than I do, and she's prettier, and more popular and a even a little bit wealthier, and I don't see how she fits into my theories.

Yet, it's still great to be The Maven (and later that night it was really great being Geekster, too, if you know what I mean - don't read that part, mom).