The Tale of Two Mavens, Part II

This, of course, is part I. You want that part first, because the plot is so intricate that it would be nearly impossible to follow along from this point; another fine example of my excellent writing capabilities.

But I digress...

*~*~*~*~*

The last time we left our heroine, she was knee-deep in magical spells, unable to break the shackles of forgetfulness and thrush infections. Her thighs were the width of one of those pylons on the highway with the orange and black stripes, and her IQ rivaled that of an elderly chicken.

Just when she was about to stoop to a new low and become a Jerry Springer viewer, she was handed a secret note by a cloaked, pixie-like figure.

Great hair, thought the Princess. And she looks like she's super skinny under that robe-thingy she's wearing. What a bitch. I'm so burning this letter.

But just before she could go into her chambers and cast it into the fire, one of the minions of darkness (by this point, there were three clouding her mind and crowding her and the Prince's bed at odd hours of the night) came outside to ask for a sippy cup of oxen blood. The stranger vanished as quickly as she had appeared, squealing the tires of her silver minicoach as she peeled over the moat bridge. The Princess stuffed the letter into her faded granny panties, smiled dedicatedly, and shuffled her way into the kitchen to serve Those Who Must Be Waited Upon.

*~*~*~*~*

Later that night, after tucking the gremlin-like creatures of darkness guys into bed, the exhausted Princess with grey roots carefully removed the letter from her mystical Granny Panties of Holding and looked at its waxed seal. On it was an image of a shopping bag filled with non-essential objects like pretty shoes and a ThyPod. In the back of her mind, the Princess remembered pretty shoes. And she had heard of the music-playing ThyPod, but always dismissed it as an unnecessary gadget contriburing to the breakdown of the kingdom's social graces and a materialistic stepping stone to global warming.

... And yet, now, at this very moment, it looked rather... neat. Like she could use it to dance around in sillouette or something.

Intrigued by these strangely familiar images, she broke the seal of the envelope, unfolded the perfume-smelling parchment paper, and read its contents:

Dear friend,

If you are reading this it is because you are in grave danger. The creatures you live with are not what they appear to be. Please meet us for coffee and treats to discuss.

8PM (you may have to get a sitter) on Wednesday (which is Scouts night so you may have to work out carpooling) of this week (short notice, but next week has the season finale of Lost and some of us don't have PVRs)

Discreetly,
T.H.O.N.G.

The acronym was written with a mix of blue and pink glitter glue. It was really pretty, actually. But who was T.H.O.N.G. and why were they attempting to infiltrate the Princess' perfect little world? What were they trying to say about her family of adorable little horned beasts? And besides, she didn't have anything to wear to something like that. Coffee and treats? That was pretty high class stuff compared to her regular outings to Ye Olde Playgroupe on Thursday mornings. Her sensible eldery chicken side was thinking a Wednesday night on the couch sounded a lot better than putting in all that effort.

*~*~*~*~*

Surprising even herself, the Princess decided to sneak out of the palace Wednesday evening after dark. While gently filing down her little minions' fangs before bed, the littlest one sniffed the air. Spawnling looked quizzically at the Princess "Mother, is.. is that... excitement I smell?" The other two beasts shifted uncomfortably at the thought.

Flustered, the Princess gave a nervous laugh. "Excitement? Goodness gracious, my little ones! When was the last time you saw me excited about anything other than your continous stream of accomplishments?"

The minions of the depths high-fived each other as they remembered all the awesome stuff they did and how their mother was there for every single one of them, often with containers of home-baked goods for all their friends. It was then, however, that the oldest and wisest of them noticed something new. "Mother," asked Intrepid suspiciously, "is that lipstick your wearing? Are you... are you going out somewhere? You're not going somewhere without us, are you?"

"You wouldn't do that to us, would you, Mother?" Gutsy, the second in command asked with tears in his eyes. The three little creatures swarmed around their mother, ready to pounce on her legs in a fit of tears and protests at any moment.

"No! No, of course not. Where would I go? I mean, really! When do I ever go anywhere without you beautiful boys? I wouldn't even know how to get to somewhere other than the school, the grocery store or the park. Come on, silly ones. Let's get you into bed."

"Well, alright." said the creature, Intrepid. "Just remember how much we love you and how much we mean to you. Oh, and you might want to catch up on my favourite show tonight while I'm sleeping so we'll have something to talk about tomorrow when I get home" And with that, the Princess ushered them into bed, careful to wipe from her lips any visual trace of her attempt to flee the palace for a few hours.

Then, when all was quiet (after another pee break from Gutsy, an extra blanket brought up for Intrepid and two stories and a boob for Spawnling) the Princess that was once the Girl who was once upon a very long time ago the Smart, Beautiful and Terribly Popular Girl, snuck off the castle grounds and embarked on an adventure of peril and calories.

... But where would this lead her? What would she learn from T.H.O.N.G.? Would she be the fattest girl the room? Would she have the nicest hair? Would they have chocolate there? Would she feel confident enough to eat it?

Stay tuned for the final harrowing chapter tomorrow.

*~*~*~*~*

(Sorry, I actually thought this would be shorter... Apparently I like to write really lame fiction.)

The Tale of Two Mavens

Gather 'round, kids. Let me tell you a little story:

Once upon a time, there was a girl. No, actually, she was more than that: She was a beautiful girl. And smart, too. And terribly popular, let's not forget that. She was invited to many social gatherings, had opinions about current events, and went to movies on opening weekend.

One fine Saturday night, at the age of sixteen, she met a boy. He was dashing enough to be a prince, which is what he actually was, underneath all that leather and spiked up hair. He really liked her, obviously, because what wasn't there to like? They fell in love quickly, and he declared: "Beautiful Smart Terribly Popular Girl, please be my girlfriend and eventually my wife. Come away with me to my one bedroom apartment in a trendy yet prostitute-ridden part of town, and we'll ignore the used condoms on the sidewalk as we stroll the streets in search of delicious coffee."

This was too good a deal to pass up for the Beautiful, Smart and Terribly Popular Girl was positively smitten with the Dashing, Leather-Wearing Prince with Spikey Hair. So she moved her suitcase of meagre possessions from the downtown YM/YWCA into the newly leased one-bedroom palace.

Life was grand: They hand-picked furniture from the finest thrift stores in town, ate ramen noodles by candlelight, and giggled quietly as they tiptoed past the open door of the drug dealers living downstairs, trying not to wake their 150lb rottweiler.

It was love and it was beautiful. It would have been a time for celebration, except they were way too poor to do any celebrating that did not involve a payday loan. But a dark force was brewing inside the Beautiful, Smart and Terribly Popular Girl. A force that could only be so dark because it was inside her uterus and no light got in there.

A small, egg-like creature burrowed its way into the belly of our heroine, causing her pain and sickness. The Prince tried to find a wise woman to advise his lover, but quickly found out that any wise woman in that part of the kingdom was really talking to herself and not any actual spirits. So, he did what any good boyfriend would do: he told his girlfriend that nothing would change, that they were ready for this and that it was all part of the grand adventure.

Nine months later, the egg-like creature crawled its way out of the darkness. It was really cute by now, so they called it Intrepid and decorated a room for it. However, unbeknownst to anyone, the creature had magical powers. And very soon therafter, the Beautiful, Smart and Terribly Popular Girl started to feel the effects of its spells.

First, she would forget things. She forgot where the shower was or what her pillow felt like. She forgot about matching clothes, concealer and pretty bras. Before long, she forgot all about what going out was like, who her friends were and what she liked to do on a Saturday night other than watch Law & Order reruns. The Beautiful, Smart and Terribly Popular girl had suddenly become ,simply, The Girl.

(But don't worry, because the Prince married her and she then became the Princess. So it's not all bad.)

For many years she was bewitched by adorable creatures who emerged from her belly. They smiled and cooed and told her they loved her. They brought her much joy; so much that the veil between her old life and her new became heavier. Entranced by these beings, her old life became a distant memory. She dismissed it with words like shallow, and without meaning. The creatures relished her dedication to them, as they never went without clean clothing, rides in the royal coach, or homecooked meals from the palace kitchen.

But one dark and stormy night, after the youngest creature had just turned two, a cloaked figure arrived at the palace gates. She had cute hair under that cloak, sort of like a pixie. She handed the Princess a letter.

A letter that could change everything.

Part II tomorrow.

(Ok, I know, I know. It's just that sometimes I need to write something that resembles fiction. If you don't like it, Captain Bringdown, feel free to go read about how peaches are canned or something.)

Why Mavens Should Not Have Post-It Notes

I have to start this post by saying that Coldplay - including my boyfriend, Chris Martin, who isn't really my boyfriend but should be - put on an incredible show Monday night. This is why they're my favourite band in the world. Also, they like vegetarian food and yoga, which means we can be friends.

When I was watching them on stage, I caught myself in creepy stalker mode. I said to myself "Gee, they'd really like me if they got to know me. We're so much alike!" and then I vowed to never, ever think that way again, lest I go just a little further down Crazy Blvd. and start stealing underwear from their homes.

This is just further proof that I need to get out more. And I shall, this weekend! Pixie is coming over to watch the boys on Saturday night while Geekster and I stay at a hotel downtown. We'll be taking in a movie, a museum and possibly a morning at the gallery. How cultured of us.

Or maybe not. See, I have a confession to make. As shocking as this may seem, I'm not very cultured. I'm sure it has nothing to do with my being at home for nearly 12 years raising children. Not in the slightest.

Last night I watched an art film called Stalker. It's supposedly a cult classic from 1979 - a Russian film with some heavy sci-fi undertones. Geekster thought it sounded interesting when he ordered it from the online movie store. We only get one movie at a time because we have the cheap-ass plan, so, despite the incoming sinus cold building up behind my eyes and the strong desire for a steamy, hot bath, we ate some chocolate (vegetarian, you know) and opened a bag of chips (those are vegan, even) and sat on the couch to become... enlighted.

I was not enlightened. I was bored.

The movie was two hours and fourty-five minutes long, and it didn't go anywhere. There were twenty minute long philosophical discussions in grassy fields and five minute segments where a camera is following the back of someone's head through a dark tunnel. The story revolved around three scruffy, weird men with not even a hint of attractiveness. So, I ate a lot of chips, tried not to fall asleep, and daydreamed of the hot bath I wasn't having.

I know I'm supposed to say that I really enjoyed the movie, because it's one of those smart people films that gets you thinking. But I am apparently not very smart. All I could think of was that I had just wasted nearly three hours of my life watching a potentially good plot fall apart before my eyes. And the end scene? It was supposed to be meaningful and intense, but I have yet to figure out how it fit with the rest of the movie.

These are hours of my life I simply won't get back.

I could bring up a wiki page on the movie and become enlightened through other people's interpretations of the film, but that's just more work and probably more confusion. I have mommy brain, not director brain.

I'm ok with this; gone are the days when I needed to prove my worth through what I watch or listen to. Now I just blog, because blogging is easy and makes people like me. Isn't popularity what life is all about anyway? Nobody likes smart people. They just make the rest of us feel bad. And those cultured folks are giant jerkfaces. Thanks to them millions of tax dollars have gone into purchasing "abstract art". No matter how you slice it, three stripes painted on a canvas is not art. The art is in how smoothly the National Art Gallery was conned into paying $1.76 million dollars for it.

I can paint better stuff than that. At least four stripes, and I would use different colours.

So who decides what's art and what isn't? What's good and what's not? I almost feel like bringing some Post-It Notes along to the art gallery so I can rate the artwork:

Yay! I can actually tell what this one is!: 6.2

Why did you draw a dead cat? Did you keep the corpse around long enough to get the shadowing just right? Sick: 3.4

Wow. A bowl of fruit. How original. I could have stayed in my kitchen to see that: 2.1

This one has a penis and that makes me giggle: 8.5

This late artist sure liked to paint bottles. Did anyone autopsy the liver?: 5.0

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I don't get to be an art critic.

The Incredible Mr. Spoon

This is a story that must be told.

As pretty much everyone knows, I don't spank the gremlins. I never have and I never will. I have my reasons and I think they're good ones. Even friends who spank seem to understand and respect why Geekster and I don't. And that's good, because otherwise I would have to use my Crabby Mommy Powers on them. Nobody wants me to use those; just ask the boys.

In turn, I don't judge them for spanking. That's pretty nice of me, really. I mean, I could be judgmental and not include them in the inner circle of coolness (which is the circle surrounding the entourage), and instead I embrace them and accept them, differences in parenting and all.

In fact, I used to shake my finger at the naughty corporal punishment users, sticking my (fairly large) nose up in the air, full of haughtiness and tsk-tsking. I would find out early in the game if someone was an evil spanker and file them in the acquaintances folder. 'Only bad parents spank,' I would declare. 'Their children live in fear and I don't want to be a part of that.'

Rumour has it that, one day, the Spankers Coalition got together and brainstormed over how to get me to be friends with their members. How could they pursuade me to soften to my ways, as I had been known to have the ability to smell bum-smacker from one hundred yards away?

After much deliberating, they trained a small group of special agents to infiltrate the inner circle. They chose nice, friendly parents with big smiles and a good sense of humour and a love of coffee and coffee-related beverages. They chose children who didn't look like they were traumatized plane crash survivors, who didn't wince when their parents' hands entered their personal space bubble. In short, they were nothing like I had imagined Evil Spankers of the Spanker Coalition to be like. So I let them in, thinking they were very much like me in all my parenting perfection.

I was blindsided by their normalcy. And, when the truth came out that they were indeed those-who-shall-not-be-named, I was shocked. They didn't even feel the need to debate their discipline choices with me! Instead, they were sensible and open. They explained why they did what they did, but not to convince me to do the same and not in a condescending way. What amazing training! I had no choice but to amend the inner circle guidelines and let them in.

One such spanker - a good friend, a mom to two boys and a blog stalker of mine - told me a story I just had to share. She did ask, however, that I not use her name, as she does not care to be stoned with insults from the non-spanking crowd. She understands that not everyone's inner circle has been infiltrated by her evil spanking cohorts. She also gets that I've evolved to a new level of non-judgmentalness (emphasis on the "mental" part) a little ahead of the curve because, well, I'm The Maven.

In an attempt to enhance the discipline experience, Friend decided she would draw an angry face on a wooden spoon. She called it, quite originally, Mister Spoon.

Mr. Spoon looked mean. He looked like he could hurt you. He looked like a guy you didn't want to mess around with. She waved Mr. Spoon around in such a way that fear would be instilled in her young boys, as the thought alone of coming into contact with Mr. Spoon would be enough to force good behaviour.

One day she was making soup, stirring the red tomato base with a wooden spoon. Suddenly, she noticed a green trail following in the utensil's wake.

Pulling the spoon out, she saw the faintest remains of a child-drawn face in green marker. Her boys had apparently made Mr. Spoon a friend, and she had drowned it in her now multicoloured soup.

Her children began sneaking off with Mr. Spoon and playing games with him. He turned their duo into a trio, staring in that disapproving marker face as they pretended to be dinosaurs and played with trucks.

They even fought over who got to sleep with Mr. Spoon. On more than one occasion, she found the scary/mean utensil snuggled in someone's arm under the covers.

Obviously, these are traumatized children living in fear. Isn't it obvious how right I was about those spanking families?

Mr. Spoon became a failed experiment, and the idea of wooden kitchen spoons being used to keep the boys in line was abandoned completely.

The moral of this story? No idea. Why do you expect a moral? Are you trying to make me work? Why would you do that? It's Monday, for crying out loud. I'm blogging, isn't that good enough?

Oh, alright fine: The moral of the story is that you shouldn't draw faces on wooden spoons. It's wrong on many levels: it will encourage fighting, your kids will develop unhealthy relationships with other inanimate objects, and they will eventually get in the van with the creepy, angry-faced stranger who looks a lot like their friend, Mr. Spoon.

I have no moral when it comes to spanking. I'm not judging, remember? Stop trying to make this a debate, already. I'm going to see Coldplay in a few hours (!!!!!) and I don't have time to argue. Now I must go and make myself look pretty for Chris Martin.

Budget this!

Dear school,

Thank you very much for your letters home asking for money. We love to give out money! Nothing makes a parent happier than paying a yearly school tax and school fees on top of buying everything from binders to paper towel for our children's classrooms. It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it.

But wait! Just when we think the party's over, you show us how to put the "fun" back into fundraising! In the seven weeks since school started, we've done a $50 bottle drive (but were unfortunately scolded for only raising $25 - shame on us), a weekend BBQ and a now an entertainment book sale, in which we're supposed to convince people they want to buy a bunch of coupons for $35. Because people never get coupons for free or anything. You have to pay for them.

Oh! And today I had the joy of spending $50 on school pictures and $40 on Intrepid's running team registration. Gutsy wants to do the lunch tae kwon do program, too. I hear there's another fundraiser in the works, and, if we don't make enough money, we have to pay outright for our child's end-of-year trip. I'm crossing my fingers that we'll be able to part with more cash!

It's a good thing we're loaded like most families and thus have a bunch of money to blow on this stuff. Otherwise I might have to inquire as to your most sexually frustrated faculty member in hopes of acquiring a financial waiver.

Must go. It's the best time of day to pick $20 bills off the money trees in the backyard.

Richly yours,
The Maven

Meet the ark

I had to post something new because I get scared every time I load my blog page. I have crazy eyes. I didn't know that. Apparently when me and Tofurky get together we make me look like a serial killer. That is so not cool.

I'm hosting a "moms night" on Friday evening. Moms night is when you have women you know and women you barely know and women you don't know at all but know other women you know or barely know over to your house for a night of food and small talk. It started out as a way for playgroup moms to get to know each other without having to wipe snot off a preschooler or stop a toddler from eating purple sand. It's a fun time, except when you have to host it.

By Friday afternoon I should have a clean house and some appetizers prepared for the ladies. Today was a cleaning day, and so far I've swept a floor and put some dishes in the dishwasher and hung out some clothes on the line.

I'm so terribly motivated.

Oh, I've cleaned up some urine, too. From this guy:



This is our new dog, Shadow. He's been with us just over a week. Shadow is three and has a slight tinkle problem. He likes to put wee-wee on my carpet, drapes, ottoman and any laundry basket he finds on the floor. Other than that he's an excellent dog: Loyal, affectionate, protective and very mellow. We love him dearly. We just have to teach him not to sprinkle yellow sunshine all over the house. It smells bad enough in here already.

He did encourage me to pick up a new carpet cleaner, though. It makes my house smell pretty. I'm going to continue spot cleaning until Friday morning, when I shall treat the entire area in 'pet cleaner rug shampoo'. Chemicals? What chemicals? Who cares? My rug smells nice and isn't that what really matters?

To curb his little "problem", we're going to get him fixed ASAP. I'm also taking he and Taylor for at least two walks every day, which is great exercise for me.

Taylor is my five-year-old daughter. Doesn't she look a lot like me?


That's her trying desperately to get attention. It's tight competition around here. We also have:


Matrix, the girl cat with the boy name who was NOT named after the movie, but after the mathematical whatzit that only smart people like me know about.

And...


Simba, who was most definitely named after the Lion King character before we stupidly realized that absolutely we and everyone else named their cat Simba in 1994. He's an old bugger who has outlived a dog and two other cats and survived being at the mercy of three - count them, three - boys. I believe he may be a vampire.

And, finally, we have two of these. I took a picture of Buddy the rabbit, but we also have his brother, Squiggles:


Their cage is dirty, I just realized. That's nasty. I should probably get the kids to change that.

Gutsy asked me once why Squiggles loves Buddy so much. It turned out that Squiggles was "hugging" his bunny brother a lot. He was hugging his bum over and over and over and...

Oh my.

Incestuous bunnies.

It's a good thing I don't put any soap in the cage for Buddy to drop, or there might be a lot more hugging going on.

So that's the family. I must go. Spawnling is going between hitting random keys on my laptop and pinching my arm. Time for another toddler time out!

Tofurky and extreme toddler video

I have a video to show off and a couple of pictures, too. What this means is I'm too lazy to write any actual content. I'd rather be in bed reading Fast Food Nation and patting myself on the back for the cruelty-free dinner we had tonight. I must thank Lovebucks for her suggestion of Tofurky. She's not even a vegetarian and yet she knew all about the wonders of meatless Thanksgiving in a box.

As a vegetarian, I find I make almost everything from scratch. I enjoy it in that masochistic kind of way and I've realized I actually do have talents outside the realm of World of Warcraft. However, it means a lot of dishpan hands and no Madge on television to remind me to use the right kind of moisturizing soap while washing the continuous stream of pots piling up in my kitchen. I figured Thanksgiving dinner (we're in Canada, folks, so we get an early turkey - sorry - tofurkey day) would involve way more work than I wanted to put into it, and would have ordered a traditional and oh-so-wholesome cheese pizza if my good friend had not shared her glorious secret with me.

So we tried it. We bit the bullet and spent thirty freaking dollars on a small box of pre-made food that is entirely vegan in its contents.

I had my doubts. I really did. No dead animals? No dairy products from exploited cows? Could this even taste good? I was intrigued, yet terrified. I honestly thought it would taste like crap. It looked scary when I first opened it with its lack of anything resembling anything I ate last year for Thanksgiving. But I took a big swig of coffee and set about the task of throwing the "turkey" in the a roasting pan with some carrots and potatoes, the apple-cranberry dumplings in a pan to be fried and the gravy (meatless gravy? A perversion of the devil, I declared!) in a sauce pan.

Know what? I hate to admit it, but it was actually kinda really amazingly good.

Really.

I'm not even making it up. The company hasn't paid me to say this (although they could definitely do so if they feel like it - my email address is over there ------>). I'm not trying to convince the world to be vegetarian (even though you all should be because anything I choose to do is obviously the right thing).

Like, I didn't even miss having dead bird. I didn't get cravy for gravy. The stuff was awesome. Then we made these, which I must say get a huge thumbs up (and caused me to take both dogs for a power walk - Oh, we got a new dog. More on that next post)

Here's a recent, non-tofurky picture of me, taken once I put the stupid box down. I haven't lost a ton of weight, but enough that I think it's noticeable. Moreover, I'm healthier looking. Look at me glowing that glorious glow of many fruit salads:



And, here's a video taken this afternoon as the Spawn kicks Speed Racer's ass:



Isn't he the coolest? That's because he's my spawn.

The Maven, now with added toddler

The Spawnling turns two tomorrow. I can't believe it. I can't wrap my head around my littlest and last about to exit his babyhood and become a man.

Maybe "man" is a little strong of a word right now. I'm rushing the season, or whatever it is I would rush by calling him something he won't be for 16 years. I'm a little emotional, alright?

As I'm writing this, Gutsy has run into the office cowering from his little demon, er, brother. Apparently he has a drumstick in his hand and isn't afraid to use it.

Basically this is a very normal Saturday.

Life with Spawnling is never boring. So, to commemorate his second full year on the planet, I will list some "to remember" elements of his life thus far. At some point this year, the horned wonder:

1. Has had more ear infections than a herd of African elephants and more antibiotics than Joan Rivers ever used after all her face lifts combined
   
2. Discovered that one can flood an entire bathroom floor very, very quietly
3. Started calling "coffee" "Koofee", which is a term we've now adopted
4. Accidently heard me singing a South Park song a couple of weeks ago and will now respond to anyone saying 'What, what?' with 'In a butt!' and giggle profusely
   
5. Decided that he's not going to wean until the age of 28
6. Figured out that giving someone a good wallop is more effective when one generously sprinkles it with biting
7. Has skipped over saying 'I don't like this' and is instead using 'I hate dis. I hate it. I hate dis cup!' in the most adorable voice you can imagine
   
8. Listened to his dad curse under his breath for a few days and temporarily replaced 'Whassat?' with 'What de fuck issat?' (Having had two hard of hearing kids prior to Spawn's arrival, we're still not used to gremlins being able to hear muttering)
   
9. Learned to use a scooter, help drive a tractor and stand on a skateboard without falling, knows all his colours, some letters and numbers, and says 'I do it, mom!' because he's trying to grow up too fast and make his mommy cry
10. Has amassed an array of funky shoes (mostly hightops) because his crying mother knows it won't be long before he starts refusing to wear her idea of style
11. Has acquired such a love of ride on toys that he will lay a smack down on anyone who tries to touch the one he's on, or any others he plans to ride in the future, because didn't you know we should all be able to read his mind?
12. Has morphed into the funniest, cutest, nearly-two-year-old on the planet, despite the wound on my arm from his biting yesterday, despite him trying to whip the dog with a chain this morning (please don't ask where he got a chain), despite the fact that I grew him in my belly on Peanut M&Ms and Wendy's burgers

On October 12th 2006, our "surprise" third baby entered the world in a way in which I had sought to avoid and our lives will never be the same, chains and all.

Here's his birth story, condensed. Let's remember together, shall we? And then I shall go eat my feelings and blow my nose in his baby clothes.

Fight Club

What a crazy week, boys and girls. Financial bailouts with imaginary money, snakes battling other snakes in order to become the next president or prime minister... Insane! I've been glued to news channels and financial/political blogs, trying to grow my intelligence a little. With more than a decade of stay-at-home-momming under my belt, I'm experiencing a little bit (or maybe quite a lot) of brain rot.

What I've realized is that I'm not feeling so smart, but I can recite quotes from websites which make me seem smart. More important than actually having a high IQ is giving the impression of one.

The editor of Mothering magazine was quick to realize how north my solar panels face, and rejected my idea for an article. I'm still, and fear I may always be, a wannabe writer. Thankfully this is the age of the internet and the internet has blogging. I can still technically be published and not have any talent whatsoever. What a great world we live in.

We've had some bullying problems at school, and my mama bear mentality has been growling to be let out of her cage.

Oh, wait. That's my stomach. It wants chocolate. I shall not give in.

Yet.

A boy in Intrepid's class - who has been trouble for my son and others for about three years now - punched him in the hearing aid and it temporarily stopped working. When Intrepid told him off and started getting teary about the potential of losing some precious hearing while sending the aid off to be repaired, the boy laughed at him and mocked his crying. "Aww, poor baby Intwepid, cwying wiffout his heawing aid! Well too bad for you. Hahaha!"

So do you know what my normally level-headed, gentle child did?

I'm grinning with sheer glee as I recount this. I really am.

Intrepid chased him down and kicked the snot out of him. Well, at the very least he roughed him up a bit and scared him into an apology and a renewed friendship (the boy was teasing him every day before this).

I'm normally an extreme pacifist. I don't condone violence of any sort. I don't like it when my children fight and I give them consequences for hitting. I don't spank them or cause them any intentional physical harm. I expect, from the way they're raised, that they'll treat others with the same respect. It's my wish that they'll use words instead of fists to fight their battles, and that most battles will be solved by using those bright little noggins of theirs.

But I would be flat out lying if I didn't say I'm very proud that my eleven-year-old decided not to put up with it any longer and instead took some action - the only action he felt he could take after trying everything else first.

Of course we told Intrepid all the right things. Geekster and I sat down and talked about other ways he could have handled it, and how he needed to make some amends for what he'd done. Yadda yadda, blah blah blah, parent crap talk.

The truth is my son stuck up for himself after three years of being pushed around. He put the smack down, yo. So between you, me, and every indexing site out there scanning my blog, I'm happy he didn't just walk away this time, holding his painful ear and wondering if his hearing aid would start working again. He's a champion for all the kids with hearing aids, glasses, walkers and everyone else who's an immediate target for bullies. He's a special needs god, damnit.

I once did the same thing after years of being picked on in school. In grade 5, I threw a girl onto the ground and wrecked her brand new acid wash jean jacket.

Oh yes, I went there. I went there and I went there big time. She never bothered me again, either. I let her smell what the Maven is cooking. Somewhere in my genetic code lies a dormant warrior, hibernating underneath the "doormat" banner designed for my forehead. I passed that warrior onto Intrepid, who bared his horns and fangs when he needed to. I don't want to raise a bully, but I don't want a pushover, either. There's a fine balance somewhere, and I think he may have found it.

Now back into mother mode. The mature, sensible thirty-two-year-old who is in charge of instilling values and morals into the little minds I'm growing.

I would turn this into an article, but I somehow don't think it would go over very well in the major publications. Only warped people like me would enjoy it, and there aren't enough deranged folks out warrant an entire magazine.

Thankfully we have blogs for that.