My Little Spammer

The middle gremlin has his very own laptop. It's an old Mac iBook from around the year 2000 which was sitting on a shelf at Geekster's work for years, untouched. Finally he asked if he could bring it home, at least temporarily, to let his son destroy use. Since it was destined for the scrap heap he got quick clearance.

Gutsy loves his laptop. He listens to music on it. He looks at websites on it with a very old version of Firefox. He plays one game on it called Midnight Mansion, which is very cute and about the only Mac game we could find that will run on the old beast. He's been very happy with the limited capabilities of his machine because it's his. And, from what I've learned so far by raising three kids, when you're in the middle you hold on tight to what's yours and never let go. It's just nice to have something that belongs to you and only you.

Having this computer has helped Gutsy learn to read. It has helped him think logically while he sorts and maintains the files on his operating system. It has helped him acquire coping skills the few times his little brother pulled off keys and his dad patiently put them back on with tweezers. It has taught him to appreciate and take care of his belongings. Or, rather, his belonging - no s. He's not so careful with the other stuff.

Gutsy begged his dad for an email address. Generally, what Gutsy wants Gutsy shall receive, as long as he's persistent enough to wear us down over the course of several hours to days. This time was no different. We were concerned with the level of havoc he could bring to others' inboxes if he were given permission to do so. However, the pros of him learning to read and write and communicate online seemed to far outweigh any paranoid parental concerns.

The first email I received was this:

To: The Maven @ my real person address.com
From: Gutsy
Subject: Hi

hi mom i lov you

Gutsy

Now, that was touching. What a sweet email to get in the middle of a hectic day. I wrote back something about loving him, too, and smiled for the next hour. Such a sweetheart.

The next day, which was Friday, I sent him the following email as a surprise.

To: Gutsy
From: The Maven
Subject: Hello!

Hi Gutsy,

Hope you are having a good day! Love you!

Mom.

His response?

To: The Maven
From: Gutsy
Subject: Re: Hello!

mom i haf to go pee

I chose not to reply to this one and instead vowed to have a little talk with him about appropriate vs. inappropriate sendings. Then we got busy with yesterday's trip to the in-laws and I had completely forgotten.

This morning, after prying my eyes open, grabbing a bowl of cereal and making coffee, I sat at my computer and perused my email. It didn't take me long to see Gutsy had tried to make himself a priority in my inbox:

To: The Maven
From: Gutsy
Subject:

i haf to goPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Fantastic. I have created an email spammer.

The Week in Quotations

Last night I took Bastette The Sponsee out to a meeting. This is one time I can definitely say I needed it just as much if not more than she did. A recap of last week in memorable quotes should give an idea of why:

Geekster: "Thanks to my paycut it looks like we have about $500 more a month going out than coming in. I think you're going to have to start bringing in some extra money right now. In the meantime, what can we cut?"

There's nothing like a Sunday bill paying session to start your week off on a positive note.

Dentist: "It appears we're going to have to pull all four top front teeth. They're too far decayed. Had his regular dentist referred you out to a pediatric specialist the first time you went in we probably could have saved them."

Yay! We get to the play the woulda-shoulda-coulda game? And it's only Monday, too. What luck!

Me: *cry* *sob* *blow nose* "My baby's teeth! It's so not fair!" *screaming into a pillow at 1AM so as to not wake up the rest of the house and have them awake with me while I cry, which would promptly end my little pity party*

A true display of my upbeat, positive attitude at work. It's beautiful to behold, isn't it?

Pixie: "Oops! Looks like Spawnling's truck collided with Einstein's nose and caused a nosebleed. It's okay, Einstein. Let's just go in the kitchen and get some tissues. Oh Maven, don't worry about it. Einstein will be fine. And about my white designer sweater with blood all over it? That's why I have this stain remover pen with me. See? All better."

My friends make such a big deal out of Spawnling's little love taps, don't they? Look at how upset she is. She's practically screaming at me. That just added to my stress level.

Spawnling as blood pours down his face later that day: "I try to hit Gutsy wif a Rescue Hero but I hit myself wif a Rescue Hero an' now I am full of red on my face and it hurts!"

What's that squeezy feeling in my chest? Must be all the love inside.

Gutsy: "Mom, the school needs us to raise more money for textbooks by getting people to donate to our bowl-a-thon"

Wow, really? That's awesome! I was just thinking that I needed a little fundraising in my life this week. It's been so monotonous, after all. How about we use the one free day we have this weekend - Sunday, when we're not three hours away seeing your grandparents for the day - and spend that time walking door to door and trying to collect money from people who are in the middle of an economic crisis?

A good week overall, but there's a little bit of stress mixed in there - no clue why, really - and I felt I could use last night's 12 step meeting. By "felt I could use" I really mean "ran out the door, jumped in the van, cranked up the punk music and took off screaming angry lyrics at nobody in particular before picking up Bastette The Sponsee and trying to make it seem like I was doing this for her"

She knew better, but she didn't let on. Instead she bought me coffee and let me act all sponsorish.

We saw Jobthingy after the meeting and went to a diner below the scariest strip bar in Ottawa. They make good poutine, but I had to stop eating it when the cook came out to talk to someone and wiped his nose on his apron.

Anyway, I'm off to pack up our stuff for this morning's excursion to Peterborough, Ontario. I'm one of those freaks who actually loves my in-laws (and I'm not just saying that because they read my blog - Hi in-laws!). The trip involves beautiful countryside, coffee, and three extra people to lasso the gremlins. These are definite Maven-enticing bonuses.

Given the week I've had I may sneak away for a walk. Or maybe just make a run for somewhere tropical and skip all the preliminary steps of slowly distancing myself from reality. I haven't quite decided yet.

The Rescue Hero Incident

(Photo courtesy of Photo Lush, the non-blogging sister)

Everyone feels so sorry for the littlest gremlin since hearing of his impending dental surgery next month where they will extract his four top front teeth.

When they see him this week they get a look of pity in their eyes, as if he will be having his fingers pulled off with rusty pliers by some sadistic doctor. 'Poor Spawn,' they say, and get teary.

When friends and family call or email they ask how he is as if he has a prolonged illness - and unless you count sad-and-guilty-mother-itis among the baddies in the medical textbooks, he's quite healthy.

'How's poor little Spawnling?' they ask gently. 'Is he doing okay today?'

'He's so little and it's really unfair,' will remark a kind soul.

'Is there anything I can do?' they will ask hopefully.

There is something you can do, actually: duck and cover.

What people don't realize is that Spawnling is a little boy from my womb, and therefore made of the very finest demonic ingredients: Specifically, rabid puppies and dark matter with just a pinch of chaos for added spice.

Oh. And half teaspoon of cinnamon.

Don't let those sweet blue eyes fool you, for the child is a creature of the nether world.

And being such a creature, my little demon feeds off the sorrow and misery of others. There's always enough of it going around on a daily basis, but pump up the sympathetic volume with a few more tears on his behalf and he gains immense strength.

And you don't want to see him when he has that much evil inside of him. Nay, it is the thing legends are made of and it is truly frightening.

Don't look at me like that; I know what you're thinking. 'Maven, he's just a little boy with rotten teeth. How could you say such things?' You probably write me off as a horrible parent. You probably think I'm over-exaggerating or mentally unstable.

You'd be right on to something with the mental instability part, but I'm telling the truth: My boy is vicious lately. So vicious I have to follow him around whenever there are other kids, never sitting down, never letting down my guard. Any child regardless of age can be a victim of his scratching, biting, slapping or pushing. He attacks mercilessly and without warning:

Get in his bubble? Smack!

Take a toy? Whump!

Talk to him when he's busy breathing? Blammo!

Crawl around on the other side of the room innocently looking at the carpet? Ka-Pow!

It's stressful and exhausting, I'll have you know. My job is full time referee, always watching and waiting for the next foul play. I drink a lot of coffee. A lot.

Thursday appears to be when he's at his finest. Last week he pinched my friend's toddler's face, getting one claw inside his cheek and pulling enough to draw blood. Today, he not only smacked Pixie's four-year-old with a car and made his nose bleed, but he also did a drive-by smacking of another little boy for no apparent reason. Just because. He was paying it forward. Doing random acts of violence. Taking a chance. Being spontaneous. He also committed at least a dozen other infractions that I won't bring up for brevity. I'm like a sports anchor reporting only the highlights.

My arms and chest are covered in scratches and have been for weeks. It looks like I raise large birds for a living and fail to wear protective gear. I wish I could have a good reason like wild bird rehabilitation to excuse my mangled body because it would provide a more interesting and less embarrassing answer to 'What happened to your arms... and neck... and, um, cleavage?'

Yesterday was a 'taste of your own medicine' day. After a full agenda of gremlin taming I decided to take the dog out in the back for bladder relief while the children were playing together. Spawn is just starting to figure out cooperative play, so he's been enjoying action figure adventures with Gutsy. They were doing very well when I walked out the back door. Intrepid was supervising nearby.

Did I mention they were doing very well when I walked out the back door?

I was gone three minutes.

THREE MINUTES.

I came back in to the following scene:

Intrepid had jumped on the computer to check his email and was oblivious to what had just transpired. Gutsy was crying in the livingroom. Spawnling greeted me at the door screaming and, when he turned around, I saw his face was covered in blood.

Apparently Spawn and Guts had a little "incident", where they began to fight over adventuring techniques. Spawn then chased his older brother into the livingroom and raised the action figure to hit Guts with it. When he did so, he whacked himself with the toy's feet: once above the hairline and once below. The bump on the forehead split open and started bleeding. Head wounds bleed a lot, just so you know. It was a tiny cut, but it hurt and it was scary. Spawnling was screaming 'Mommy! There's red on my face and it's yucky and it huuuuurts!'

It will go down in Maven family history as The Rescue Hero Incident.

A little bit of karmic payback perhaps? Now not only is he the kid with rotten teeth, but also with a large scabby bump on his head. From a parenting perspective I'm looking less attentive by the minute.

I've heard cavities can cause a low level of discomfort in children that can make them extra crabby. I pray every day that this is Spawnling's problem and he will emerge from the dentist chair a changed child. A happier, more complacent little guy like he used to be. And until I see otherwise I will hold on to that pipe dream and tell myself it's not all aggressive personality. He's in pain. Poor Spawnling. Poor, poor Spawnling.

(It is that sympathy which makes the darkness grow in him. I had better wear a long sleeve turtleneck tomorrow.)

A Recap of my Debauchery

Thank you for the love, sheeple. Truly, I appreciate all the comments, emails and phone calls of love.

Except for the calls where I pick up and someone is breathing hard. I don't appreciate that kind of love unless I consent to it. Just so we're clear.

I was having a very crap evening and this morning wasn't so great either until my friends showed up with gifts of coffee and chocolate. Being able to slowly brainwash people into thinking I'm so fun to hang out with that they must bribe me with food has proven to be a worthwhile effort. Sure, it's a huge lie, but who cares? In the end I get sweets and bitters. And once they figure out how boring I am I'll have convinced someone else they want to please my stomach.

Baby, don't hate the playah. Hate the game.

Completely coffeed out and with friends gone home, I'm indulging in a glass of water - exciting - and a chocolate-covered cherry - significantly more exciting, I'd say. Intrepid and Gutsy were ushered off to school with a hired marching band following the bus. I ran alongside it with some pompoms and made up cheers about how wonderful it was that March Break was over. It was a subtle sendoff, but I think they got the message.

As of right now, Spawnling and both dogs are asleep in various parts of the house, while one cat is eating and the other is outside like it's Spring or something, but with a foot of snow still on the ground. He's old and senile, so we'll forgive his stupidity. In short, this seems like the perfect time to write about how fantastic my spa weekend was, and maybe even add in a few pictures.

For starters, I attended the Ottawa Blogger Brunch... Or is that Breakfast? I never remember. It was a lot of fun. After this brunch I have deemed Nat and I to be official, bona fide friends and not just geeky internet weirdos having the occasional coffee, as we've spent enough real life time together. I met Laurie and one of her sons who was probably the most personable child I've had the pleasure of hanging out with. In fact, it made me wonder what is wrong with my own gremlins that they don't sit and talk to grownups in quite that way.

(It may have something to do with my referring to them as gremlins, which are little, ugly destructive goblin-type creatures. It could maybe be affecting their self-esteem a little. I don't know.)

I also had the pleasure of finally - finally! - meeting Jobthingy's Raspyberry. Can I just say that I adore that guy? What I don't adore, however, is their constant mushy gushy stab-me-in-the-eye sweetness with each other. It's disgusting! I mean, get over yourselves. Even my sister - who I rebelliously brought to the meal even though she's *gasp* not a blogger - was grossed out. We kept rolling our eyes at each other as we attempted to keep our food down.

I also met Raino, Hannah78 and several others I'll add to my blogroll. They're really cool chicks and so personable! Who new you could use the internet and not be creepy?

These are mine and jobthingy's name tags after the big event:



After brunch we hit the spa. I got my first ever pedicure. Man, that was gross. Who knew you could slice off that much dead skin from a heel? Uber nasty. I really admire people who can work on feet for a living. The aesthetician put pretty coral pink on my toes, which inspired me to buy a pink purse and dark metallic slip-ons with hot pink interiors. I was in heaven, buying stuff just for me! Normally I wouldn't, but I was caught up in the do-something-for-yourself whirlwind and I just couldn't stop. Sort of like binge drinking but with a money hangover.

My hair got cut and straintened at the hair salon. Damn I looked sexy. Well, sexier anyway. Slightly more sexy than usual, which probably isn't saying much. Still, I liked. Here's a pic of my sister and I getting ready for dinner. Note my hotness.


It takes me a good 45 minutes to an hour to straighten my hair. Way too much work with three gremlins to tame on a daily basis. I'm relieved to report that it looks almost as good curly if I put a bunch of frizz-taming and curl-enhancing products in it. It's all about the products, ladies.

We had dinner at an Italian place. As a non-meat-eater I was highly skeptical. Normally when a vegematarian goes to a place where meat is served, the dishes are rather bland and boring without a big slab of seasoned carcass. Not so at this place; I had the most amazing fetuccini of my life. I'm salivating just thinking about it.

Salivating all over my keyboard like an internet pervert. That's freaking gross. Where's the tissue?

Clubbing was fab. I had my first ever energy drink, which is basically some pop with a hell of a lot of caffeine in it. It had zero affect on me for the first twenty minutes. I thought of telling the company that their drink is for sissies. Then it hit me like a herd of elephants and I started yelling song lyrics while dancing profusely anywhere I was. I couldn't sit still.

No more energy drinks for The Maven. She has no tolerance. They are like crack to her. She is banned.

We had poutine at a 24h diner when the clocks changed from 2 to 3am. I felt like a bad girl being out so late. It was a wonderful feeling. I started to get really giddy as the energy drink wore off. We headed back to the hotel around 4am, which was really 3am but whatever.

Around 4:30am we - mostly the drunk sister and her hilarious friend Toupée and I - were being so loud we had the neighbours next door bang on the wall so violently it freaked us all out. Then we were quiet and well-behaved girls. Honest. Not another peep.

The Sister and Toupée made a funny video about the whole ordeal in which they whisper about the mad banger on the banging wall and giggle to themselves. I'll see if they'll let me post it.

Do you know how long it's been since I had a noise complaint? How awesome is that?! I felt like a rocker girl. I contemplated trashing the room but unfortunately I am without the rocker salary. Tragic.

I slept a total of four hours but am happy to report that there was a Fourbucks in the hotel lobby. Bastette bought me a very big latte and that kept me going. Speaking of Bastette, she's my sponsee and she's gorgeous. Check it out:


(She is gorgeous, but really I just wanted to show off my hair again.)

We checked out and I had brunch with The Sister and I came home. Because, honestly, there was nothing left to do. I had pampered, I had partied, I had partaken in shopping and food. What more was there? For just over 24 hours afterwards I was the happiest - and most exhausted - person alive. Then yesterday's dentistry surprises occurred and I felt glum. Refreshed, but glum.

At least I'm refreshed. And I have cute hair, feet and shoes. Not to be confused with "hairy feet in shoes". If you read that you need to go back, read slower and stop watching Lord of the Rings.

Besides, hobbits don't even wear shoes.

Duh.

Spawn's Toof(s): The Saga Continues

Know what really sucks?

When you spend the day writing a fairly fantastic post about your stupendously superb weekend and figure you'll finish it right after Spawnling's surprise dental visit at 5pm (there was a cancellation and they called this morning), and then you find out that your child's teeth are too far gone to be saved and they will have to pull all three of the remaining top front ones.

Yes. I said all three.

I told you it sucked.

My child is going Deliverance style. Wasn't I just making fun of Deliverance and having a purdy mouth and all that? Is this some kind of karmic joke? Now I'll have to buy him a banjo and some slacks with suspenders. We'll need to move to a log cabin, join a militia and raise our own turkeys and pigs for the slaughter. This is how these situations work. It's practically a law.

And we're peace-loving vegetarians, damn it.

On Saturday April 25th, my poor little Spawnling will go under general anesthetic and have three teeth pulled, two filled and sealed, his mouth flourided and polished. He will wake up sore and confused and I will feel like a very, very shitty mom.

Oh, wait. I already do. I suppose that will simply be a continuation of the feeling coupled with copious amounts of empathy for my baby.

You know that little nagging feeling I had about my dentist not picking up on the decay like he should have? I should have listened to that voice about six months ago instead of waiting and waiting and guessing hearing voices in my head simply meant I should drink less coffee.

I'm also trying not to have murderous feelings toward my dentist. I know everyone makes mistakes. Sesame Street taught me that. However, they were referring to spilled milk and not the loss of four top teeth.

Just sayin'.

There's no point in being mad, I suppose. With that in mind, I suppose having several crying jags on the way home was also pointless. The pattern was sort of like this:

I'm fine. He's fine. It could be worse. He could have leukemia.

Oh my God. Did I just use the "He could have leukemia" card? What the hell is the matter with me? Kids get cancer and it's nobody's fault. Spawnling's teeth are rotting out because I feed him peanut butter cups while watching Arthur. Leukemia. You're such a jerkface, Maven.

*crying jag*

No, I'm not a jerk. I'm a distraught mom, that's all. This is a big deal. My child is going to have dental surgery. My child is going to have no front teeth. How is he going to talk? Is he going to sound so weird that none of the other kids will play with him and he'll be at home feeling lonely and doing puzzles with mom and dad until he's seven? Will he look like we don't love him and take care of him? Will someone call the authorities?

Oh. My. God. Did I just make this all about me? Seriously? All I can think about is how I'm going to look to the rest of the world when my child is losing his rotten teeth? I'm such a selfish bitch of a mom!

*crying jag and nose blowing*

Shut up, big meanie voice! You don't know what you're talking about. I'm a great mom. Or at the very least mediocre. I brush my kids' teeth! I make sure they get their calcium! I take them outside! And play games with them! And fix them nutritious snacks like apples and...

Oh. My. God. How is he going to eat an apple now? Is it considered a longterm disability if you have to cut up fruit for a child on account of being toothless for five years? A preventable disability, even. I ruined this poor boy. He should have had a better mother who loved him enough to floss. And... and... Corn on the cob is his favourite and he'll be without it for so long he'll forget what it tastes like! He's going to need therapy forever!

*crying so hard the person in the car next to me looks like he might put it in park and come hug me*

So, as you can see, this has not been a good evening. My mom called tonight just to make sure I'm okay. When I can talk about it without crying I'll be sure to call my in-laws and tell them, too. And maybe my friends - the ones who don't read my blog.

Are there any of those left? I think they all like to read my little trainwreck. Probably because I look so composed and together in real life and it makes them feel better about themselves.

Yes. That's it.

I suppose we might want to look on the bright side. All this angst he'll be feeling is the perfect fuel if he wants to front a punk band later (after his teeth come in and get knocked out again in a bar fight). I'm also slightly relieved that biting will prove more difficult. He's been doing a lot of that lately and it's soooo annoying.

I think it might have been over the line to celebrate the end of biting. Whatever. It's been a crap day and I'm grasping at the straws of positivity. Just smile and nod for me, alright?

Tomorrow I'll post about my awesome weekend, though. It was spectacular and I enjoyed every minute of it. I'll also post pictures of my incredibly sexy new hair. It loses some of its appeal when my make-up is smeared from sobbing all the way home, though. I'll make sure they're happy pictures from when I was blissfully unaware of what was coming today. Stupid life, throwing curveballs.

But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not at all.

In Which The Maven Runs Away

Technically, morning will be here in half an hour. But my morning - the morning of all mornings - starts in about nine.

In nine hours I will wake up anything but well-rested because I will have likely been Spawnling's trampoline and food source from about five in the morning while getting only very broken sleep. But I will wake up anyway, because it's going to be the first day in a long time that is dedicated entirely to me and only me.

Let me say that again. It's all about the most important person in the world: me and only me.

Me, me, me.

Me.

No gremlins, no husband, no pets, no housework. No mundane thoughts like is the load in the dryer ready?, no how many vegetable servings did the kids get today? calculations. Nothing ordinary, nothing selfless, nothing responsible or productive or educational in any way. I will have two days of complete abstinence from the real world in which I will enjoy my happy pink bubble filled with friends and rich foods and too many diet drinks at the bar while I dance my face off.

Spa weekend is here! It's officially happening in a really real way and I will enjoy it to the fullest. I'm starting off the party by heading to the Ottawa Bloggers Brunch and will be bringing my sister Photolush along for the experience of meeting other internet exhibitionists. She will see that her sister is not the only one who puts her life out there for other people to laugh at.

The highlight of the brunch? Other than seeing some of my favourite people, I am beyond excited to be meeting Laurie, who I first blog stalked, then Facebook stalked and am now working my way into an autographed copy of her new book. The poor girl is probably terrified to learn that I'll be there and will undoubtedly hide from me at the other end of the really long table, but I'll flash her some Maven charm and she'll come around eventually. Most people do once they realize I'm the harmless kind of crazy.

Then Photolush and I will meet up with the othe girls at the spa and get very self-indulgent things done to our bodies. I fully intend to burst out of my pants at dinner by commiting caloric suicide at the Italian restaurant before destroying my very first pedicure on the dance floor until I drop from exhaustion and fall blissfully asleep in the hotel room with four other girls in various states of drunkenness.

Obviously I will not be drinking, as I've heard that can be a bad move for a recovering alcoholic. Something about complete abstinence? I'm sure I read that somewhere...

In my seventeen years of clean and sober living I've come to appreciate drunk people in a way I never thought possible. Some would call sobriety boring in that you can't share in the inebriated fun. But that's the human character flaw of instant gratification talking; the real joy of not drinking in a room full of booze is that you can remember the stupid crap people do even when they can't. Then you can remind them of it at your convenience for a very long time. For example:

Friend Who Drinks Too Much Sometimes: You were half an hour late picking me up. You're always late lately. What's the matter with you?

Sober you: Hey, remember that time last year when you puked on the cute guy in the bar that was buying you that drink and then puked on the bartender when he got you a towel and then still asked the cute guy for his number? How gross was that? Did you ever tell your boyfriend? But it was so hilarious! Can I tell him? No? Then shut up and get in the car, perfectionist.

See? There are definite advantages to being a non-drinker, and blackmail is just the tip of the iceberg.

Anyway, I should get some sleep. This has been a very busy, exhausting week; hence the lack of blog posts. You can blame the gremlins for their constant bickering and boredom as it lead me to - ick - having to do things with them. Like, come on! I gave them life and now I have to amuse them, too? That's so not fair.

Goodnight! I'll update on the awesomeness on Sunday. In the meantime let's place bets on how destroyed the house will be upon my return. They have thirty hours without me, give or take. On a scale of 1 to 10, I pick 7. But what do I know? I'm just the mom.

Also, Monday is advice column time! Have something you want to ask me? Write to me at mavenmayhem@gmail.com

If you're too lazy to copy and paste that, you can just touch my monkey on the sidebar, over there ---------->

The Spawnling Toof Saga: Volume 3

See, the thing about being a frantic typer is that you can hit the keys so fast and unpredictably that you could, say, wipe out a half hour's worth of writing in one unknown keyboard shortcut.

I was not impressed with what transpired two hours ago. So, I went to watch 300 and now I feel better. Sure, I nuked my rather funny post, but at least I'm not a psychotic Spartan.

I was trying to update about Spawnling's toof situation. If this is your first time here or you happen to not care enough about my incredible life to read me regularly, you'll want to catch up here and here. I don't like to repeat myself unless it's to mention what an awesome person I am; the truth should be told over and over until it's believed.

Incidentally, that's also the way brainwashing works.

Spawnling and I took a little trip to see Dentist A on Friday, but not before booking an appointment with Dentist B. I had heard good things about both thanks to the wonders of Facebook status comments and the many people who's children also have horrible teeth. I called Dentist B's office first but couldn't get in until March 23rd. So, I called Dentist A while keeping the appointment with B.

Finding a dentist, I've learned, is a little like dating: Your date on Friday might be a kind and wonderful bloke who makes you laugh, or he could be a rabid serial strangler from the mountains. There's just no way of knowing, so it's best to keep your meeting on the 23rd, just in case. See what I'm saying?

Like a good mother, I came to the appointment equipped with toddler essentials: his "Baby" (a teddy bear dressed in WWII flight gear), his blanket and his purse that he had adopted from my armoire a few minutes before leaving the house. It's taupe and matched his pants and he refused to get into his carseat without it.

It's all about the pant to purse matching, ladies. Let Spawnling be your guide.

I made sure we arrived early. I gave him plenty of time to explore his surroundings, which mostly involved scribbling on top of other children's scribbles on the kiddie table, repeatedly glaring at and saying 'no' to an infant on the opposite end of the waiting room for no apparent reason other than he could, and crapping his pants. When I changed him in the bathroom I also had to change Baby the WWII pilot veteran. I'm glad I brought a spare diaper or we might have had a meltdown earlier than expected.

We met Dentist A in a very cool room with not one, but two televisions: one on the wall and one on the ceiling. And, they played Thomas the Tank Engine at the push of a button. The doctor gave my boy some cool sunglasses to wear and let him hold one of those little mouth mirror instruments. Spawn and I both agreed that he did not in any way resemble a mountain man serial strangler, nor did we notice any rope with which to strangle us with, which was quite reassuring. All these things combined made Dentist A very cool in Spawnling's book.

Until, of course, he realized that Dentist A was, indeed, a dentist. That happened just around the time we wanted to do dentistry things, like have a look in the ol' mouth. Then he screamed the scream of someone about to be strangled by dental floss and feeling the betrayal of not knowing a serial stranger when he sees one.

The entire thing was quite tragic, and lead to two conclusions:

1. That he has two definitive cavities in two different teeth with possibly more decay elsewhere that couldn't be *ahem* "evaluated", and,

2. That Dentist A recommends we not go with his laughing gas/oral sedation wussy stuffy and move right along into full sleep-like-the-dead sedation reserved for the truly traumatized, which can be done by making an appointment with another dentist.

Oh, you guessed it: Dentist B. And who has an appointment already booked?

You may high five me now. I am that good. So good at my job I'm damn near psychic!

I'm not terribly thrilled with the idea of full sedation, but having Dentist A explain the very real potential (30-40%) that Spawn could wake up in the middle of his proceedure and flail around if not put completely under, I don't think there's a lot of choice. Also, I would like to think that if a dentist is recommending I take my business elsewhere he has a very good reason. He's losing out on some serious cashola.

Dentist B is, I believe, the nice doctor who pulled Gutsy's tooth four years ago. He works at the local children's hospital and I really liked him. He didn't judge like another dentist we had to deal with for the consultation. Instead, he simply explained, empathized, froze, pulled, and comforted me while I comforted Gutsy. A good guy and I look forward to meeting with him again.

Can I let out a long, drawn out sigh for a moment? Can I just say again that this toof thing really sucks? I've had five root canals, two crowns, a host of cavities, a six tooth bridge and various other dental surgeries in my lifetime, but the thought of the Spawn having to be put under to save what's left of his front teeth really makes me a sad Maven. I feel so bad for the little guy and a part of me still wonders if I could have done something differently. Brushed more, fed him fewer Skittles. That sort of thing.

This is one of those times a recovering alcoholic and drug addict will try to use 12 step program knowledge to make sense of a situation. It's a very effective way of not freaking the hell out and diving into a bottle. So, in this case, I'll use the 'everything happens for a reason' mentality. Eighteen months ago, Intrepid fell out of a tree and broke his femur. He had two surgeries which were far more invasive than simple dentistry and required heavy sedation. He came out of it just fine.

Perspective, right? It's all about perspective. See? I can be positive! I can be wise! I can mature about this, and all that crap.

Want to know the other thing I'm good at? Asking my mommy to come with me so she can buy me coffee and hold my hand while I wait for my baby to wake up with fixed teeth. Because while I can keep it in perspective now, I will be a hot mess when the big day comes. Geekster can hold the fort here and The Madre can prop me up in the waiting room chair. Team effort all the way.

For now I'll enjoy March break. By "enjoy" I mean dig my nails into my palms and pretend I'm looking forward to summer break when they can take the time to work on more effective and louder fighting strategies. By "break" I refer to being on my feet all day breaking up arguments and cleaning up messes.

Confession: All this noise takes my mind off of what's coming. It's oddly comforting. I suppose that means I've completely lost my mind, now.

Mavenly Advice, Week 3: Matricide, Panticide and Vegecide

A little guilt goes a long, long way.

I received three decent questions this week while I was not blogging. Why wasn't I adding daily meaning to your lives with my eloquent prose? In less than seven days I caught both a stomach flu and a nasty head cold, the latter of which is only starting to dissipate. When I said I would attempt 365 posts in 365 days, I also added a disclaimer about not wasting precious energy posting when I could barf on my keyboard or some such. I would also think that too much sneezing would make keys sticky and non-responsive. I've had three keyboards in two years on this poor laptop. It's bordering on ridiculous and I refuse to buy a fourth, ok? Ok.

Onward with the questions!

Dear Maven,

I'm sitting and drinking a cup of hot chocolate as I calmly consider the pros and cons of matricide. I thought you might have some helpful advice for me. Here is my situation:

I live in a house of five people. Other than my wonderful self, these five people consist of ...
1) a husband who likes everything to run as smoothly as a Jedi council meeting. (Well, you know, the meetings before Anakin goes over to the dark side and hacks everyone to pieces with his light saber.)
2) my wonderful free-spirited, non-conformist, unpunctual, unorganized self
3) a daughter who has a genius level IQ and is therefore, perfectly capable of walking into any room (say the bathroom), standing still and becoming lost in her own thoughts for an hour or more with NO CONCEPT of the passage of time
4) a son who is five, active, and nicknamed "Gozer the Gozerian"
5) my aging mother, who's super power is to be able to sense when would be the worst possible time to get in the shower, and then do so.

We have one bathroom. Not one and a half. Just one. Adding another bathroom or moving to a house with more bathrooms is not in the budget right now, despite the rut the housing market is in.

Every morning, I, who am not a morning person, face this terrible choice
A) get up at the ass-crack of dawn and get in the shower before 7am
B) wait until close to 9 am to get a shower, then grouse for the rest of the day about how I can't get anything done till 10 am.

Why are those my choices? Cause my mother is in and out of the bathroom between the hours of 7 and 9. She needs in to use the rest room every 15 minutes. Tomorrow I shall time this phenomena to prove my point. If I'm not out of the shower by 7:30, she's in a panic cause she's going to be late to work. (She's late to work every day, regardless of whether or not I shower.) Even if I am out of the shower before 7:30, she's standing in the hall with her legs crossed cause she really needs to go (despite the fact that she went right before I got in the shower.) I typically occupy the bathroom for 30-40 minutes when showering. I don't think that's an unreasonable length of time. Therefore, after calmly considering this, I'm coming to the conclusion that matricide might be the best solution to my situation.

Sincerely,
Requiring Another Necessary Today

Dear RANT,

I empathize with your situation; there is not a single one of us who hasn't considered matricide at some time. (Except me, mom. Never once have I thought about contributing to your untimely demise. Unless you count the episode when I was thirteen and you found both my cigarettes and drugs while doing my laundry, punished me severely and refused to give either back to me. Big meanie.)

Good news: Surprisingly, there are ways to avoid killing your mother. Sure, that might be the simplest solution, but then you have to figure out how to cover it up, bribe the cops, or find a judge who's sympathetic to your need for an early shower. And in the end, do murders just never work out the way we want them to? Sadly, no. It's disappointing, but we need to move beyond the woe-is-me attitude and become more proactive. I have a few suggestions for you.

Do you need your mother living with you for financial reasons, or would running her out of the home be a viable option? Asking her to leave is just going to create waves; running her out of the house is far better. Ultimately, you want her to make the decision to move out. To do so, you could try some of the following conversation starters:

"So, we've joined this nudist colony..."

"Hubby and I are going to turn the house into a free-run shelter for orphaned tarantulas. You don't mind shaking your clothes out in the morning, do you? Those furry little cuties can hide in a lot of places!"

"The thing is, by removing the bathtub/shower and hosing ourselves down outside, we'll save a lot of energy and make the lawn look nicer, too. Oprah says it's all about getting back to basics, you know."

"Mom, we've been talking and think you deserve more for your monthly contribution. So, every time you pay your portion of the mortgage, we're going to get you a lap dance. No, no, don't thank us. We insist! That's just the type of giving people we are."

If mother moving out is not feasible, you could slowly warp her aging mind with some of the following statements repeated several times daily until she starts believing them:

"If you shower at night you'll save soooo much time in the morning. You really must make use of every minute you have left. Don't you think?"

"You should try sponge bathing with a bowl and a rag. All the cool elderly are doing it!"

"If you stop drinking liquids by about 4PM every day you won't have to pee until you leave the house in the morning. Talk about efficiency!"

As you can see, matricide is not the only solution to your hygienic dilemma. Let me know how it goes.

Spending most of my morning un-showered and still in jammies,
The Maven


Dear Maven:

How can i get my daughters who are 11 now to put their dirty knickers in the damn laundry basket, instead of on the ground, so that the dog doesn't eat them? She so loves dirty undies!

It's really quite embarrassing when I'm at the dog park and the missus goes for a shite and out comes pink and purple Dora underwear.

Sincerely,
The Panty Whisperer

Dear PW,

That sounds very problematic. I'm sure there's a hotline for this kind of thing but I can't seem to find the number. Have you checked on the back of a milk carton?

While your children definitely need a lesson in hamper usage - and if you put them in a course I would also like to enroll Gutsy, the king of dirty laundry pyramids - I would be more concerned with your dog. If she were human, would she still be eating knickers? Would she insist on filling her belly with cartoon-plastered undergarments? Isn't that behaviour some kind of early warning sign for serial killers?

I recommend some serious puppy therapy and a Hannibal Lecter-like mask until the help kicks in. With any luck she can be reformed before she starts chewing up bras and shanking other dogs in the park with leftover underwires.

I wish you all the best. Please keep safe.

From the woman whose cocker spaniel wears a doggy diaper,
The Maven


Dear Maven,

In all your vegetarian goodness, what would you do if someone did a drive-by ham throwing at you?

Sincerely,
Getting Porked


Dear GP,

I think you raise an important issue, and one that I don't take lightly. This video depicts the cruel act of violence brought on by omnivorous vigilantes. I warn you: it will burn into your psyche and haunt your dreams.

Unfortunately, as with most minority groups, hate crimes are enacted on innocent vegetarians all the time. I, myself, have not been a victim of a drive-by hamming, but I know the permanent damage this can cause non-meat-eaters and their families.

How many bottles of stain remover must we go through to get the grease off our good walking clothes? How many washes before the fake smoke smell is removed? How many vegetarians need to lose their homes because they can't pay their chiropractic bills? How many of us must be buried after a large pig thigh is hurled at our unsuspecting heads?

I pray the day will never come when a cured carcass part is launched from a passing vehicle at myself or my family. However, one must protect the ones they love; I have told the gremlins not to mention our "lifestyle" to people they don't know. Especially people who eat ham.

Munching on an organic apple (with the blinds closed),
The Maven

Spawnling's Toof: The Sequel

Oh, I bet you were wondering if I was ever coming back to this dusty ol' thing, weren't you? Two whole days without a blog post? That's apocalyptic in nature! I'm not religious, but I believe this may be one of the four horsemen: conquest, war, famine and lack-of-blogging. I hope I haven't started some cataclysmic event.

If I have, I'm sorry. To make up for it, how about I buy us some pie while we watch the fall of humanity?

The reason for my absence has a lot to do with a certain two-year-old who's other front toof is just barely clinging to life. Looks like he has some decay that's about to kill it off if we don't do something about it very soon. He's sore and moody and stressing me out with his constant clingyness. Meanwhile I've begged, pleaded and offered sexual favours to virtually every kid-friendly dental clinic in the Ottawa area. I finally scored a timely appointment.

No, you probably shouldn't ask what I have to do for it.

While I love our dentist, I think Spawnling would launch himself out the second storey windows if I brought him back there anytime in the next year. We need a fresh face for his fear and rage to focus on so he can forget his nasty ordeal.

Tomorrow we see a dentist with televisions in the ceiling and access to drugs that can mellow the terror right out of my hoofed wonder. Still, after last week's mini vacation to the trauma chair I'm anything but excited about the endeavor.

Thankfully we're going to the boonies after school lets out to hang with Angelmama and crew. That should take the edge off after a potentially brutal day. I really enjoy hanging out with those hicks country bumpkins country-dwellers. They're even letting the gremlins and I stay over for the night. Isn't that crazy fantastic of them?

Incidentally, tomorrow is the last day of school before March break in our area. We get it over with early around here so we can laugh at all the unfortunates who still have it to "look forward to". Those poor parents and caregivers who have blissfully forgotten the horrors of Christmas vacation and are excited for the "break" a week from school routines will give them.

I'm anticipating nothing short of pure and unbridled hell. I have a cupboard full of coffee and a stockpile of 10% cream awaiting my impending usage. There's also some duct tape downstairs and handcuffs from Gutsy's police kit if things get really bad.

If I survive the week I have the spa party the following weekend. The idea of replenishing my soul with a pedicure, pasta and dancing until my feet are ruined again will probably keep me breathing, even if at a shallow level. Heck, with any luck I'll lapse in and out of a coma for the few days prior and forget anything that happened while all three gremlins were home.

I must stop scaring myself and focus a little more on the present. This is one of the many things 12 step programs have taught me.

Did I mention that I was planning on homeschooling?

Did I also mention that I narrowly dodged yet another I'm-sure-I'm-more-than-capable-of-taking-this-on bullet? I've dodged a lot of those in my long years on this planet. Hey, hats off to the homeschoolers. I'm in no way putting you down. You raise the future generation from your kitchen table. What could be better than that?

On the other hand, I stay home with them for five years and then ship them off to be institutionalized. But, hey, sometimes they get homemade cookies as they walk in the door after a long day of learning to be part of the flock of sheep that make up our sickly society. That's pretty great, right?

The sensible Maven side of me tells me I should keep this short and sweet, as I have an early morning and a not-so-pleasant appointment to keep with a not-so-sleepy toddler. I just had to tuck him back into his pod with the help of my magical boobie milk to lull him back into a light slumber.

I'll update tomorrow on the fun, fun, fun! Fingers crossed that it will go well. The vanity side of me cannot imagine having a child with two missing front teeth for 3-5 years. Between he and Gutsy we're starting to look a little Deliverance 'round here. Last time I checked I did not own a canoe or a banjo, thanks. But I do gots a purdy mouth.