The Maven: Advice Columnist?

A couple of quick things, because I'm trying to get to bed before midnight:

1. Writers should never watch the movie Capote. I'm traumatized. Fascinated, but traumatized. And since there's no money in the ol' budget for therapy, this is a bit of an issue. Nothing a bag of chips won't fix, I suppose.

2. For the longest time I've wanted to realize my dream of being an advice columnist. Now, since nobody in their right mind would pay me money to do such a thing in my oh-so-Mavenly way, I think I might like to try it on my blog, maybe once a week. I could answer between 1 and 3 questions, depending on how many people are stupid enough interested in hearing me tell them how to live their lives.

And, since I'm sure I'll get thousands of desparate fan mail pouring in daily (pretty much like now, but with questions) I'll be able to feel incredibly superior by picking my favourites.

So basically, I'm whoring out my vast knowledge to the masses. You are the masses, just so we're clear. Would you like to know how to properly parent your little crumbsnatcher? How to make your spouse happy? How to have a sensible conversation with little Timmy's teacher without resorting to jabbing her ear with a pencil? Drop me a line by touching my monkey (there's a link on the side, too ----> ) and I'll answer your life-altering questions.

Oh, and, like any good advice columnist, I will ensure your confidentiality. We'll come up with some fun pen name. You pick it or I will. So you might want to pick it. I'm not terribly creative and you could end up looking like a dumbass with a bad name.

That's it. I'm going to bed now. I did manage to get a good night's sleep last night and I hope to get another tonight. Then I'll be well rested when I make a fool out of myself speaking about my sober (and previously not-so-sober) self tomorrow night.

Gettin' Busy Tonight

You'll never guess what I'm doing tonight.

Not writing a long blog post.

Not watching Lost (because I'm ashamed to say I missed the first episode this season and am still catching up online)

Not playing Rockband - a shocking thought in itself.

No, I am doing what all the cool elderly people do and going to bed early. I need my beauty sleep. I need the sleep I slept before I ever had children. The blissful, wake-up-to-the-alarm-after-eight-solid-hours type of rest. To have the sort of morning that says "I'm going to have a coffee because I want to, not because I need to."

I hear that such mornings exist, somewhere. Perhaps if I do some regression therapy I might find a time - say, about twelve years ago - when I too experienced such a miracle.

After several nights of Spawnling waking up around 5 a.m. and doing everything in his power to make sure I wake up with him - lovely, gentle gestures like arm-scratching, face-slapping and hair-pulling - I am too tired for even caffeine to have its usual chipper affect on my personality.

I did manage to haul my ass to a coffee shop this morning with my neighbour after Spawnling threw a brilliant tantrum. He threw his boots. He cried and wailed and screamed. He used all the little demonic tricks he's mastered so well since hatching from his pod twenty-eight months ago.

The good news is that his behaviour vastly improved and was near angelic at not only the child-friendly coffee shop - where he sat nicely, ate his food, made good conversation and played with some of the toys - but also at Walmart while we picked out some fabric for cushions and curtains. He did have one little slip which involved smacking me over the head a few times because I was taking too long picking out new undies for myself. It's not his fault, though. He doesn't understand a girl's need for new undies. I shall have to teach him, lest he smack his date over the head one day in the Fruit-of-the-Loom section and get a slap back followed by some jail time to ponder how his mother never taught him the importance of women's undergarment selection.

Spawnling has been terribly aggressive lately. This week has been hellish. I've seriously considered writing to some carnie friends I met last summer; if the gypsies won't take him maybe the fair freaks will.

But, just as I'm about to email Fish Hook Willy's Blackberry, Spawn starts working his charm. He'll make me laugh with random song hummings, such as today's E-Pro, by Beck. Or, if he figures that's not enough to guarantee a mother/scratching post for the next sixteen years, he'll say something cute like "Mommy, you're my very best friend in the whole wide world. You know that?"

Yes, he really does speak that well. My genius genetics have travelled to the next generation. Either that or he's an alien. We're still on the fence. I'm leaning towards alien not only because my genetics are more of a biological joke than an asset, but also because I could sell him to the travelling freak show for more money.

I am off to watch some Little Britain before getting my granny self to bed. If you haven't seen that show I highly recommend it. It's like Mad TV on crack, except you don't have to do the crack first.

Very good news if you're a recovering addict like yours truly.

Oh, and I'm speaking at an AA meeting on Friday night.

And my sponsee will be there.

So, like, I actually have to be good at it.

Yet another reason for some good sleep. Trying is really hard.

A Very Decent Proposal

Dear Maven,

Thank you for your most recent proposal. Our records indicate you have submitted similar ones 68 times between 1996 and present. We have reviewed your bid to sell us Gutsy, 6, and Spawnling, 2. However, we have some concerns which we will describe in the following paragraphs.

Firstly, most parents ask for at least a nominal fee when the transfer takes place. We were intrigued by your suggestion of a $25 Starbucks gift card. That is not only a minute award but also sounds a little desperate. Why would you not take at least a few gold coins for all the hard work you've done raising them?

Secondly, you describe Gutsy to be "a spirited individual who will not back down in the face of controversy and will probably be very good at scaring bandits and wolf packs away with his mighty yell". Spawnling is said to have "teeth sharp enough to break fishing line and nails that could scare a roaming bear away with one swipe - trust me, I know". These statements appear innocuous and even beneficial to us on the surface, but we suspect there may be more to it.

But what really concerned us was the rumour of a third child you will not part with who is 12 years old. What is so wrong with the other two that you would only sell them?

Also, we have heard you refer to them as "gremlins". What mother would call her kids something so horrible? They must be very rotten to deserve such a nickname.

In short, it is our belief that you are not being fully honest in this transaction and thus, we have decided to decline your offer. We hope you will find a better fit for your offspring in the very near future.

Sincerely,
The People Formally Known as Gypsies Until That Was Deemed Politically Incorrect By Somebody - Probably Us - But Wikipedia Doesn't Have That Information.


Dear People Formally... Screw it.

Dear Gypsies,

Listen. You have it all wrong. My chidren are perfect little darlings who bring me much joy.

My reasons for trying to sell them are purely health-related. See, my cat has suddenly become very allergic to them, and he's been with us for 15 years. That's nine whole years before Gutsy even came along. How fair would it be to my poor old cat if I shoved him down the hierarchy and found him a new home instead?

I'm sure you're beginning to see my point.

As for the descriptions of Gutsy and Spawnling, I only wanted to showcase their unique abilities as they would pertain to life in a travelling community. It is my sincere hope that they be so valued they get their very own caravan. They could send me pictures of their adventures when they're not screaming and fighting over the cam...

(Where's my white-out?)

Also, there seems to be a cultural miscommunication going on here: "Gremlin" is a popular term of endearment in Canada. It means "well-behaved child." Honest.

My decision not to sell Intrepid is entirely for your benefit. He's a bad, bad seed. He stays up until 9:30 every night and watches PG television. He's not even thirteen yet! He also uses gel in his hair to get that spiked, punk rocker look. And sometimes he forgets to feed the rabbits or take out the trash, or he'll eat ice cream when we're out of the house and when we come home there's none left. Now, I ask you: Do you really want someone like that travelling with you? I think not.

In short, I ask you to reconsider my offer given the clarifications I've provided. You may still pay me in a gift card, but I'll also accept a new iPod or 42" flatscreen television. Whatever works best.

Sincerely yours,
The Maven

8 Things I've Learned Today

In no particular order:

1. Rice Krispies Squares are low in fat, which means I can - and will, even if try not to - eat three times as many as I would brownies.
2. It takes marshmallows to make those yummy little hip enhancers and marshmallows contain gelatin, which is an animal by-product. Please ask this vegetarian if she cares to be that hardcore. Go ahead: ask. The answer is no. I like marshmallows. I'm a walking contradiction and I'm going to Hell. Whatever. It's kind of like going down south, right? Warm weather, pitchforks. Do you think they serve lemonade? I like lemonade.
   
3. To-do lists look very nice when they lie untouched on the counter.
4. Strong The Force in Spawnling is, yes. Especially when tired he is also. More effective than Lightsabers sharp nails and baby teeth are. Defeated mommy was. Sore, too.
   
5. Having Angelmama gift Gutsy with a Gameboy Advanced was by far the greatest thing she's ever done for us. Now we have extra leverage at bedtime. Not only can we encourage good behaviour with the promise of a new game at the end of the week, but we can also take the thing away when he just won't listen.
   
6. Reorganizing the pantry with one's mother goes far more smoothly after bribing any exhausted toddlers with a donut or five.
7. Having everything from the pantry all over the kitchen table, floor and counters in a sea of disorginazation and peril will result in a higher number of toddler tantrums and random phone calls.
8. After the day I've had, the idea of going out to Walmart to buy eggs and dishsoap sounds about as good as a hot stone massage. I leave in 20 minutes. Peace out.
   

Manners Suck and are Stupid

I have boys who are most certainly not the of the quaint and quiet sort. They sometimes require a nudge from Geekster or me to use their manners. They will occasionaly spew forth sentences that cause other parents to bore a hole into my head with their judging eyes. Things like 'I hate that game', 'This sucks', and 'Why can't I do up this stupid coat?!'

Hate? Sucks? Stupid?

Heavens to betsy! That Maven needs to tighten the leash on her wild little gremlins. What kind of freak show is she running?

The truth is, it's exhausting to hang out with people who have their children on choke chains. They expect something from me and mine that is virtually impossible.

Allow me to explain: They have little kids who interact with other little kids. They don't have smaller kids who have twelve-year-old brothers. They don't hear the language on some the older kid shows that said twelve-year-old brother watches. They don't have to deal with the friends of said twelve-year-old who may or may not mutter things under their breath when I'm not around to catch it. And, while the use of swear words is prohibited around the very young in our family, we have to make certain non-cussing allowances for sanity's sake.

Intrepid tries not to sound like a preteen around his little brothers. He really does. He's a very good eldest sibling - better than many I've seen. He's kind and gentle and thoughtful. He takes his responsiblities seriously. He comes to my rescue when both little gremlins are clinging to my legs crying while I'm trying to make dinner.

So if he says 'That level really sucked' when he's playing a game with Gutsy, and Gutsy repeats that at a birthday party, and everyone glares at me, well, I'll just tell myself that at least he didn't say 'That level really fucking sucked'.

See? It's all about perspective, folks.

At one point I figured if I surrounded myself with those who are very language-conscious and very strict about things we are not, then maybe it would rub off through osmosis; maybe my laissez-faire attitude would become a little less so. Maybe someone would leave their Childrearing: rules and guidelines book lying around and I could figure out the secret to how everyone else parents so well.

Instead it just made me want to tear my hair out. Do you have any idea how many different words are considered a no-no in different families? How many unique sets of rules there are? How many forms of discipline? How many types of time-outs, time-ins, time-upside-downs, time-inside-outs? How many bedtime routines?

It's damn confusing, is what it is.

(Actually, we don't say 'damn' in this house. Well, not in earshot of anyone under the age of 12)

I've learned an important lesson when it comes to raising my boys: Don't sweat the small stuff, and make a point of hanging out with a lot of people who don't either.

Today we went to visit Angelmama, Devilpapa and their demons (apparently he has the stronger genetics). When we get the gregarious gremlins and disorderly demons together it's always a good time. A loud time, a chaotic time, but always a fun time. I like that they just let their kids be, well, kids. Sure, they have rules based on safety and respect, but they are not taken straight out of a 2008 magazine article on manners by Peggy Post.

Discipline, I've learned, goes through cycles similar to fashion. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes thrown together, sometimes carefully planned. I, myself, have given up on following the current trends. I can't keep up on what's acceptable anymore. I'm too tired, too lazy, or there's usually something I'd rather watch on television instead of reading yet another article on what I'm doing wrong this month.

Terrible, isn't it? You may add yourselves to those who stand behind me, boring into my teeny brain with distaste for everything I stand for. Thankfully Angelmama doesn't do this. She has me over for dinner and relishes every minute our children create beautiful chaos together.

In fact, today she asked Intrepid if he would like to be her daughter's second husband (apparently the darling girl eloped in the school yard and didn't bother to tell anyone until she skipped home with the dollar store ring to prove it). We hoped Intrepid would say yes, because what's a little reverse polygamy between friends?

'No way!' declared Intrepid, firmly. 'I'm not going to be anyone's trophy husband!'

Please don't ask me where he came up with that. It must have been one of his evil preteen shows. When in doubt, blame Hannah Montana. She sucks.

Oops. Sorry. Her television show is not one in which I am interested.

See, Peggy? I'm learning.

Do Not Be Alarmed

Dear blog world,

I know it has been two days. I have not posted anything at all, and my promise has been to post 365 in 365. I get that. I've just been busy.

My social calendar is so hot this weekend it's on fire.

I will have much to discuss tomorrow morning when I sit down to write a real post.

In the meantime, don't panic and please do not break out the emergency Kool-Aid. I'm coming back. Tomorrow.

Ok? We cool? We still friends?

That's good.

The Maven

Enclosed: One Still-Beating Heart.

You know, I really want to get all creative tonight, but I simply don't have it in me. That's the one problem with blogging every day. Who can come up with original and interesting content 365 days a year? A goddess, that's who. And what am I most definitely not?

You got it: Ugly.

"Unpopular" would have also been an acceptable answer.

A friend of mine wanted me to write about Valentine's Day. And since she works at the gremlins' school and knows what an irresponsible and forgetful parent I can be and yet hasn't called me on it, I feel I owe her at least one post.

If she starts spreading rumours that I'm a fantastic mother I'll dedicate a second post to her. Maybe even an entire weekend; a theme, if you will. Bribery will get you everywhere.

So, let's take a closer look at Valentine's Day with our good friend Wikipedia. The Wiki Gods' words will be italicized while mine will be boring, ol' regular... cized.

Valentine's Day or Saint Valentine's Day is a holiday celebrated on February 14 by many people throughout the world. In the West, it is the traditional day on which lovers express their love for each other by sending Valentine's cards, presenting flowers, or offering confectionery.

I truly believe we should be focusing more on the confectionery aspect, and by confectionery I mean chocolate, and by we I mean my husband. Flowers are also nice, but only if they are made of chocolate. Same thing with cards, really. And if the envelope can be an outer candy shell, well, I think you may have just found yourself in my good graces for a very long time.

The holiday is named after two among the numerous Early Christian martyrs named Valentine. The day became associated with romantic love in the circle of Geoffrey Chaucer in the High Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished.

Take note, children: We've come a long way from those primitive times where love was the only thing that mattered on a holiday that now involves confectionery. These days you don't have to court anyone to give them chocolate. For example, you could give me chocolate and not even take me on a date. That's progress for you. You should try it.

An alternative theory from Belarus states that the holiday originates from the story of Saint Valentine, who upon rejection by his mistress was so heartbroken that he took a knife to his chest and sent her his still-beating heart as a token of his undying love for her. Hence, heart-shaped cards are now sent as a tribute to his overwhelming passion and suffering.

Okay. Now that's just gross.

Just because some mistress rejected you - and believe me, once the perfume and Prada bags stop flowing in you can bet she's going to find herself another guy to call "big daddy" - doesn't mean you have to go all goth and rip out an organ. Did this guy also write poetry in his own blood? This is what we're basing our Valentine's cards on? We're sending our children to school with symbols of someone's torn-out beating heart sent to his ungrateful, gold-digging mistress? What kind of sick society are we living in? I'm disgusted with the entire holiday now.

(Except the chocolate part.)

The day is most closely associated with the mutual exchange of love notes in the form of "valentines."

I can't tell you the last time I got an actual valentine card. Now I feel like writing poetry in my own blood, too. Damn.

The sending of Valentines was a fashion in nineteenth-century Great Britain, and, in 1847, Esther Howland developed a successful business in her Worcester, Massachusetts home with hand-made Valentine cards based on British models.

Smart woman. She was probably a stay-at-home-mom with no talk shows or soap operas or mass-produced Harlequin Romance novels, so she got desperate and decided to escape into something profitable. How come I never manage to escape into something profitable?

This post is getting more depressing by the minute. It can't get much worse. I mean, it's Valentine's Day, right? A happy day all about love and stuff and crap. There's going to be a silver lining here somewhere. Let's move on.

The popularity of Valentine cards in 19th-century America was a harbinger of the future commercialization of holidays in the United States.

And Canada, I might add. Stupid commercialization. Sure, Esther was living the high life through her get-rich-quick card-making scheme, but now I have to shell out hundreds of dollars buying stuff in December. Thanks a lot, stupid entrepreneurial woman. Weren't you supposed to be filling wash basins and popping out dozens of babies back then? What were you doing working for money and planning out inevitable yearly the ruin of my bank account?

The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide, making the day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year behind Christmas.

Okay. Hold the phone. There's a U.S. Greeting Card Association? Are you serious? Talk about job creation. Don't have a career? Make one up! Don't have an association that will fit your new career? Make one up! That's the American dream for you. I'm really impressed. I now want to work for the Greeting Card Association for no other reason than so I can say I work for them and watch the reactions of confusion, ridicule and eventual envy.

Also, I hear the trees crying right now. Valentine's Day is raping the rain forest. Another good reason to just buy chocolate (for me). And if it's organic and fairly traded that's even better, but I won't be picky.

The association estimates that women purchase approximately 85 percent of all valentines.

Oh. Well there's a shocker. It's a good thing there's a Greeting Card Association to run important estimates and answer the really big questions. Now I no longer have to lie awake at night wondering what gender thinks of the little things more often. If someone could just tell me what shape the earth is that would be wonderful, too. Do we have a U.S. World Shape Analysis Association working on that?

No? I think I just found my new job.

Settle An Argument For Me

If you're looking for a post in which I actually write stuff, please see the one I wrote late last night. Besides, it's rather funny and you get to hear all about proper negotiation techniques in a relationship.

This post is to settle a dispute.

See, two days ago I posted a picture of Pixie on my blog. A picture she willingly took for that post and asked me, oh, about five times throughout the course of the day if I had written it yet. She was excited to be a blog celebrity. Rightfully so, since this is my blog and I have millions of readers.

Yeah... Anyway, back to reality.

Doesn't she call me after it's posted to tell me she hates the picture I took. She thinks she looks terrible. I tell her she doesn't. She think she looks like The Joker. I think she doesn't.

Oh, but she does, she tells me. She really, really does. She wants me to remove it. She wants me to black out her face or something. I tell her she's being vain and to get over it (because thats' what supportive friends do, you know). And instead I'll get my blog brethren to tell us what they think (I believe most of you are girls, but whatever - this isn't about you or me and my poor choice of words. This is about Pixie. Now stop being selfish)

This is the picture of Pixie that I took a two days ago:



Alright. maybe the lighting is bad, but that's what happens when you don't strategically place yourself in room with northern light so as to have better pictures taken of yourself. Other than that she's looking great, as always. I don't even look that attractive when I'm trying.

This is a picture of The Joker I snapped when he was over at my house last week putting the finishing touches on Joker Junior's project (this "helping" thing is turning into a bit of an epidemic, I'd say):




I see no resemblance.

Okay. Maybe the cleavage, but that's it.

A Lesson on Relationship Negotiations

Pop quiz, hotshot: What do you do when your spouse says he wants an electronic drum kit and you have no interest in owning one nor spending the money so he can own one?

A) Say no and have a discussion in which you express strong feelings regarding the other person's position

B) Say no and don't give a reason, then hope he doesn't spit in your oatmeal

C) Say yes but secretly harbor a deep resentment over the ridiculous and frivolous purchase of yet another thing you have to dust every week, and take out your anger in a very passive-aggressive manner for several months ('Honey, why can't I find a matching pair of socks anywhere? And why does the dog have a bed made out of my dress shirts?')

D) Say yes, but throw in some conditions, like, say, a weekend away with the girls

Here's how I figure out important decisions like this. Pay attention so you can learn how to do it, too:

Option "A" Sounds like a lot of work. Who wants expend all that energy doing something annoying like trying to drill reason into someone's head? There are only so many times you can say 'Look: we don't have the money!' or 'It's just going to sit neglected in a corner after about two months, you know!' Purchases like electronic drum kits are never reasonable unless your name is Neil Peart.

Option "B" could mean not only the silent treatment, but a very nasty breakfast. While the threat of spit in one's cereal could technically lead to weight loss, it's not a significant enough cause to chose this option.

Option "C" could be a lot of fun. There's nothing like doing some passive-aggressive things to one's spouse to liven up a marriage. Leopard cuffs in the bedroom? That's so amateur. Some subtle oneupmanship in the form of packing rotten oranges and moldy bread in his lunch is much more amusing. Feeling superior is a huge turn-on and could actually lead to a better marriage. Still, it's unhealthy in the sense that the black hole that was once your caring heart will eat you up like cancer and, worse, cause premature aging. Wrinkles are so not worth it.

So that, my pupils, leads us to the only right option: "D". If we can't afford a drum kit and he gets one anyway, then you should obviously get something else unaffordable to make up for it, right? Debt is one of those things in life you don't have to think about until after the party stops. And we've had debt for so long that, really, what's a little more? So the whole thing sets us back maybe six weeks in our debt repayment plan. Who cares? In the end we not only have a (boring) drum kit, but also some (amazing, spectacular, way better than a drum kit) memories at the spa!

Once I got the green light to go ahead with this master plan (we can thank Pixie for the suggestion, as she gave it in between grouping dinosaurs together at my kitchen table) I pretty much threw myself at my laptop and put it out on Facebook. I figured I would get, oh, two or three people interested in joining me.

I underestimate my awesomness a lot, I think.

Ok, I don't, but let's just say I do so I can look humble for a moment.

After about twelve 'I want to come, too!' messages I stopped counting.

At any rate, there are six people who want to go for the entire excursion, including spa treatments, dinner, clubbing and hotel. Then there are others who want to join us only for a portion of the two day festivities; just enough time to say they could hang out with me on my very special weekend.

I have two confessions to make so that my readership can understand just how amazing this weekend will be:

1. I have spent a total of four nights away from my gremlins and only two nights away from my gremlins and spouse.

2. I have never been to a spa.

Yep. You heard right. I have never been to a spa. Not ever. This will be my first time. These women are coming for the sole purpose of watching me get deflowered by various instruments and the people holding them.

Doesn't that sound dirty and terribly fun?

March 7th and 8th will be the big, exciting adventure. I'm stoked! Two days with dishes, no laundry, no poopy bottoms. My boobies will be my own for an entire night.

I suppose that's a bad thing to most people. Most people have not been pregnant and/or breastfeeding non-stop since the Spring of 2002.

Geekster is reading over my shoulder. He would like to also point out three things:

1. That the drum kit will not be collecting dust

2. That I spelled Neil Pert wrong ('It's P-e-a-r-t. Look it up. I know my drummers.')

3. That all that stuff I'm leaving behind will be waiting for me when I get back home.

All those things being said, I'm really hoping he wants to buy a plane soon. Imagine what I could get out of that deal...Oh, and he is not leaving me the dishes. He would like to add that,

4. I am making him sound like a big meanie and he is not. Which is actually true, but it's more fun to make him look this way. And it's my blog, so I get to choose.

('Choose has two o's, honey')

Thanks. A lot.