"If a hooker comes by, just say no."

I'm so grumpy tonight I might make a baby cry just by looking at it. That's a bad kind of grumpy.

I'm trying to make it better with a latte and some rice pudding, but so far it's not working. Maybe blogging will help. Well, that and loud music in my ears on some headphones with skulls plastered on them. Done and done.

Guess what? I had to buy a car this weekend.

Well, "had to" may be a tad strong. Probably more like "decided it would be best to." I've been thinking about trading in Vanzilla for awhile now. She's a good bucket of bolts, but she's showing her age. Things just keep going wrong, and some of those things are scary. Fires brought on by the brakes seizing, for example (that was a fun day). Or the fact that we were all stranded an hour outside of town Friday evening - that would be Geekster and me with three worried kids and two dogs on our way to see Geekster's ailing grandma for the weekend.

That little kerfuffle resulted in me having to call a friend to come and get the kids, dogs and I and bring us home while Geekster spent the night with the van at one of scuzziest motels I've ever seen.

Oh, wait - hang on. Geekster didn't spend the night with the van at the motel. Ew, gross. Get your twisted mind out of the gutter. He's not weird like you, sicko. He's not automobile-sex-fetish weird, I can assure you.  Last I checked, I had some junk in my trunk but I have yet to make the cover of Auto Trader.

Anyway, that motel was the kind of place bachelors go to die. No lie, dudes. Guys in stained wife beater shirts and days' worth of stubble hibachi-ing the shit out dinner with Achey Breaky Heart blasting from the pick-up truck out front and a string of laundry hanging unceremoniously from the room windows. Beer cans stacked outside, a little bit of yelling... I half expected the cast of Cops to show up.

As such, I gave Geekster two rules:

1. Don't get murdered, please, and,
2. If a hooker comes by, just say no. (In truth, this was primarily based on budgetary issues: no happy endings with the van needing repairs in the morning, ok?)

The long and short of this story is that by the time Geekster came home on Saturday, I had decided I needed a new ride. So we went out and found me one. Instant gratification: that's how I roll.

I bought one of these babies. Yes, the Olympic model - the one the athletes and people who get rich off of the athletes were given to drive around the Olympic village in Vancouver last year. Sexy, right? I figure that I'll probably get skinny through osmosis just being behind the wheel. And it's a hybrid, which makes me instantly eco-friendly. Cyclists will give me a thumbs up as they come up beside my car. Birds will flutter around me and tweet merrily before shitting on the Escalade behind me. Roadkill will rise from the dead just to bow as I quietly drive past. People everywhere will say "There goes that Maven - she's so hot right now."

Or something like that.

Anyway, I'm waiting for the paperwork to go through, making it all official and stuff. This is a huge step down from my van in some ways - space-wise and seating-wise - but it's a dead sexy car with room for all of us and some decent fuel savings. And it's new. And, most importantly, I'm pretty sure the brakes won't catch on fire anytime soon. Besides which, I have six years of bumper-to-bumper warranty and an anti-rust thingy being put in. I may get buried in this car.

In truth, this what is known as a "mild hybrid," meaning that it uses its battery pack less than some other hybrid cars. But I like to measure all environmental efforts on a scale of 0 to 10 rabbit deaths. To demonstrate, I show you this exquisitely drawn example:

So if, for example, a Hummer's fuel emissions are the equivalent slaughtering ten baby bunnies as it drives by, and my old van is the equivalent of around 5, and an electric car quietly rolls over 1 as the driver sheds a tear into her organically fair traded coffee, I'd like to imagine I'm only snapping 2 baby bunny necks with my new car. And that makes me feel like I can sleep better at night.

And, in the end, isn't life all about how well I sleep at night? Your day, my day, all geared toward my emotional well being, just the way it should be.

For the next couple of days until my new baby is ready I am pretty much vehicle-less, which is an impressive 0 on my heartwarming eco-scale. No rabbits were harmed in me staying home and watching reruns of Glee. But I'm still a moody biatch because - get this for timing - Geekster's grandma was admitted to the hospital the same night the van broke down. His parents are out of town and family friends are visiting with her right now, but it's beyond frustrating that we can't be there like we had planned. Hopefully my ride will make her driveway debut by Tuesday, and as soon as she's here Geekster will be driving to Peterborough to see his Nana. He has his own car that can make the trip, but we need to make sure I can get the kids to school and myself to work while he's gone. Like I said, the Universe has remarkable timing sometimes.

So I should be over-the-moon excited and instead I'm just kind of worried and feeling guilty, which sucks. Writing it out helped a little, and I think I've realized there isn't a whole lot I can do right now. Life is what it is.

Technically,  according to the mechanic who looked at it, I can drive my van if absolutely necessary, but not above 80km/h. This is not only because the caliper is partially seized on the back brake, but also because my car will time travel and I will end up having to help my dysfunctional parents fall in love at the Under the Sea dance by playing guitar before my arm disappears.

And if my arm disappears I'll be really grumpy.

PS: I'm trying to come up with a great name for my car. She's sexy, so give me your best exotic dancer name. That's right: I'm going to name her after a stripper. My friend's car is already named Candy and I'm not going to Single White Female her ride, so let's come up with something different. Then I'm only partially a copycat. Here's a picture. Picture her with tassels on the headlights:

Some people panic; I bake disturbing things.

Today marked a special occasion: For the first time in our family history, all three gremlins scuttled off to school and both parental units hit the office. Normally there is at least one of us home during the day, but today the house is empty. (Don't get any ideas about breaking in. We have an alarm and two dogs who will lick you to death. Plus, you could get knocked out by a mystery smell from the compost under the sink as you search for the very few valuables Visa MasterCard we own.)

It's the end of an era. No longer am I a stay-at-home-mom. With Spawnling in school four days each week (beginning today) and I at the office for at least two of them, we are a family who hustles out the door with backpacks and jackets and hastily-brewed coffees in fancy travel mugs.

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic as I remember holding a wee gremlin's hand as we wished his older brother a happy first day of school. I miss signing up for playgroup and meeting new people who will undoubtedly become my groupies. I miss hanging out with my friends Maury and Oprah and Phil, and learning about the important things, like what makeup style is in this fall, or why I look fat in these jeans, or who Latisha's baby daddy is (or isn't). The good ol' days of very little scheduling, lots of parks, the blissful quiet of naptime.

I love that I stayed home with my boys. It's been a wonderful experience. I'm bottling up the good feelings from those times and storing them in the recesses of my cobwebbed mind so I can draw on them when I'm about to go batshit crazy over how busy life is going to get. And make no mistake: it's going to get all kinds crazy.

Some people panic when responsibilities are looming. I can see why. After a couple of months of sleeping in most days, drinking a leisurely coffee on the deck, and only half-assedly parenting, we are now getting three sleepy boys out the door before 8 a.m. four days a week - and thankfully only two out on Fridays.

Intrepid pretty much gets himself ready as long as you wake him up, but like most teens, we still need to remind him to bring his lunch, his backpack and his brain to school. Gutsy is a bit of a landmine - he's unpredictable as he's definitely not a morning person: I wake him up before anyone else so that he has time to eat cereal in bed, watch a show, get dressed, and slowly meander out the door for 7:45. He may or may not blow up in the process, but the likelihood increases as the week drags on. Spawnling will go back to sleep if I don't check up on him repeatedly. He's usually happy, but sloth-like. Since cattle prods are illegal to use on children (no idea why), I tend to entice him downstairs with promises of food. It's far more humane but involves me actually having to make him something. Dammit.

Now, with having my own schedule to keep that does not always allow for the wearing of yoga pants and scrunchies, I feel a little like a domestic air traffic controller. Thankfully, I only work two days a week right now and have a helpful husband. Still, I could see how this schedule could induce panic.

But I do not panic. Oh, no, I do not. Instead, I reach deep within, grab hold of my inner Virgo, and do what Virgos do best: organize, organize, organize.

As of 8:30 p.m. yesterday, I had the following tasks completed:

• Backpacks ready by the front door
• Spawnling's school supplies ready for his first day
• Gluten-free apple crisp cooling on the stove
• Gluten-free homemade crackers put into lunches
• All the lunches made and in the fridge
• Bacon cooking on the stove for breakfast

Boo-freaking-yeah, bitches. By the looks of things I have my shit together, don't I? There are undoubtedly tears of envy flowing down your cheeks as you wonder why you can't just get your life together like The Maven can. It's dark in my shadow.

Well, before your call your employee therapy hotline, can I just point out a couple of things?

Let's talk about those crackers for a minute. I made them from scratch, and they're yummy. I even made them autumn-themed. Check it out:

I should call myself "The Martha"

Cute, right?

Want to be even more impressed? I wrote everyone's names on some of them. (Please ignore the fact that I was tired of cutting out shapes and just smushed them down with my hands. Sort of takes away from the cutesy-ness a little bit.)

I even made one for my boss (not shown here)

But Martha I am not. A true sign of my crazy came through when I got a little tired of making happy faces on the pumpkin and apple-shaped crackers.

My favourite one is obviously the bottom left. I made lots like him.

After snack time today, the teachers are going to flag my children as coming from a troubled home-- or at least a troubled womb.

Does that make you feel better? It should. And if it doesn't, you can smile gleefully as I mention that, despite planning everything down to the minutest detail in my control-freakish way - getting everyone off to school on time with wholesome lunches, and even picking up a coffee in the process - I couldn't control just how much traffic was on the road and was 10 minutes late for work.

You're very welcome.

Maven, out.

Not Just a Mommy Blogger (NOT that there's anything wrong with that)

Did you miss me? Hell yes, you did. And I missed you, too.

No, really, I did. I'm not playing you, boo. I'm not a drunk middle-aged guy at a bar feeling up your leg over those skinny jeans. (PS: most people old enough to go to a bar can't pull off skinny jeans anymore. I thought you should know so that you can reconsider your wardrobe choices. This public service announcement has been brought to you by me, The Maven.)

I've been so caught up in real life crap that I haven't given my baby any attention. I'm a neglectful blog mother. I wish I could say I was doing something made-for-TV-movie-worthy, like working as a high class prostitute while supporting my painkiller habit and go-nowhere acting career, but it hasn't been nearly that interesting. I'm more of the rock back and forth in the corner while twitching and mumbling under my breath because the real life kids are fighting way too much kind of blog mother.

Hard to get enough quality script material out of cowering in a puddle of my own tears. Now, if I had a crack pipe in my pocket we'd at least have a shot at getting on Intervention.

But I digress.

The kids are back at school and today is my birthday. It's like I won the lottery, but instead the gremlins aren't clawing at my pant legs anymore (not skinny jeans, for the record) and my husband bought me a Kitchen Aid mixer (yes, the kind I've been fantasizing about for years) and now we're broke. So not really like the lottery at all, unless it's the sanity/baking lottery.

I actually like the sound of that lottery.

Owning this is the domestic equivalent of street cred.

I'm 35, and I've been waiting for this birthday for a long, long time. Why? Because this is going to be my year. Why? Because my late grandmother told me it would be, that's why.

Once upon a time, when I was about 23 and going through a hard time, my grandma held my hand and told me that I was going to be beautiful in every way at 35. I would be confident, assertive, and have a clear vision of what I want in my life. Basically it was a grandma-to-granddaughter pep talk, but I took it very literally. I decided a long time ago that this would be the year to start doing great things; to come into my own; to fucking shine.

And that starts today.

And, oddly enough, it's starting with a blog overhaul.

I've been posting on stay-at-home-mayhem for over four years now. I love this blog. But lately I've been feeling like I need something new and fresh. I was feeling blocked, and almost shut the blog down. True story.

I love writing about my little ankle-biters, but with all of them in school most of the week, I'm finding I have less to say on parenting and more to say on other things.  So, instead of giving the blog up altogether, I decided a name change was in order. Same blog address (you're welcome), a broader range of content.

See, at my ripe old age of 35 and no longer suffocated by dirty diapers and blinded by scream-induced migraines, I've had an epiphany: There is more to me than simply being a mom.

I know, I know. Let that sink in for a minute. Try not to drop the baby while in shock.

I have a lot to say, and not all of it is about parenting. I've always tried to write about whatever is on my mind, but I felt kind of stifled by being deemed a "mommy blogger." I felt guilty writing about other stuff, like I was somehow straying too far from the theme.

Not that there's anything wrong with being a mommy blogger. Don't hate me, mommy bloggers. Don't throw all-natural bamboo toys at my gorgeous face. I'm not putting you down, I'm just branching out. In case you've forgotten, I have three boys. I'm not just a mommy, I'm a momzilla. So don't get all up in my grill lest I stomp the hell out of your proverbial Tokyo.

Anyway, this is a birthday present to myself. Happy birthday, me. I deserve this change. I deserve to love writing again, and it's been awhile since I've felt that way.

Must go cuddle on the couch with that handsome Geekster of mine. Not only did he buy me a mixer, but he's also making me popcorn and watching a show I like. And did I mention he's handsome? And that he bought me a fancy mixer?

Welcome, 35. We are so going to own this year. Maven, out.

How to be as High on Yourself as I am: a Self-Esteem Primer

An amazing self-portrait, I know.

I drew this myself on my new tablet-mousy-thingy. They call this particular type a "Bamboo," but I honestly don't know why. It's not green or long or a renewable resource. I see no pandas attaching themselves to it. But whatever. Call it what you like, but it's fun to draw my feelings instead of just typing them all the time.

I need the kids to go back to school, like, last Thursday.

This is why I'm at work 90 minutes early today. It's not because I'm trying to get ahead on my to-do list. It's not because I was attempting to beat traffic. It's not because I'm trying to look good to my boss (my boss is my Facebook friend and follows me on Twitter - there's no way I can hide my crazy from her). It's because I get an extra 90 minutes to sit - get this - quietly and uninterrupted while I drink my coffee and write a blog post.

And, for that, you are most welcome.

Last week, I blogged about how being fat and miserable keeps us fat and miserable. And what I mean by that is simple: love your fatty self, because taking care of the body you love is a lot easier than hurting the body you hate by stupid shit like fad dieting. This post, of course, meant my inbox filled up with questions about how someone learns to love themselves as much as I love myself.

To be honest, I likely suffer from a deep-seated narcissism. So you probably don't want to love yourself quite as much as The Maven does. When you start to refer to yourself in the third person and not even question it, you know you have a problem. But I digress...

As I've explained many a time, The Maven wasn't always a big fan of The Maven. (See what I'm talking about?) I am a never-ending work in progress, much like the construction site down the road from you that never seems to produce much of anything despite all the guys standing around there each and every day. One day, they say, there will be condos there. And every once in a while you see a bit of digging, a bit of framing, and think to yourself that they better damn well put a Starbucks on the main floor to make up for all the noise you've endured.

Well, I will also have a Starbucks on my main level when I'm done, and I will make the most delicious lattes. But I'm not quite there yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I have a lot of work to do. But here's what I do know: There are concrete things I've done - and still do - that have helped me get this far. So I'm going to share them with you, what with me being such a self-help expert and all. (Please stop laughing.)

1. Let's look at this rationally.
We have one life to live. One. (Unless you believe in reincarnation. But then you might be born a toad or or a mushroom or something, so that doesn't really count anyway.) Do you really want to waste it feeling like shit all the time? What purpose is that serving? And believe me: It is serving some kind of purpose, so you need to figure out what that is.

Are you keeping yourself down because you're afraid of taking any steps to fix it? Is it comfortable doing what you're doing, even if it's not pleasant? Do you get some kind of attention from it? (AKA, having other people feed your ego by saying "Don't say that about yourself! It's not true!" That's not self-esteem, and it's not going to make you feel better about yourself. Like a junkie, you'll always be looking for the next compliment fix. Been there, done that.) Are you afraid of succeeding? Are you afraid of becoming ridiculously arrogant if you're not meek and mild all the time?

News flash: Being ridiculously arrogant is my job, not yours. You can't have it, so you'll have to settle for feeling confident. I know that sucks, but that's how it's gonna go down.

Anyway, figure out what's keeping you down. If it's fear, work through it. If it's depression, open up and talk to someone. If it's traumatic childhood issues, watch a few episodes of Hoarders and realize that pretty much everyone has traumatic childhood issues, but we need to work on letting them go and live for today, or face a lifetime of garbage collection and dead, buried cats.

2. Get over yourself, you big, whiny baby.
Having figured out what's keeping you down, it's time to let that go. Have a good cry if you need to. Say goodbye to the pity party, eat your last self-hatred sandwich. You are not a victim today. You are awesome. You are stuffed full of amazing (and maybe that self-hatred sandwich you just ate. But don't worry, you'll digest it soon). You are capable of great things if you'll just let yourself do them.

3. Come up with something you like about yourself every day. Yes, EVERY DAY.
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, or whatever. That sounded like a good spot to throw in a Chinese proverb (my apologies to the Chinese if this saying doesn't belong to you. It just sounds like something your wise people would say. It's a compliment, ok?).

Anyway, the thing is, we all have stuff we don't particularly like about ourselves - even me. And now I'm asking you to compliment yourself every day. But start small: if your problem is that you don't like your weight, don't look in the mirror and say "My inner thighs look great today" because you'll probably just start crying while you say it, and that just defeats the whole purpose. Likewise, if your problem is that you're missing an arm from an unfortunate zoo accident, don't say "The lion left a really nice nub at the end of my shoulder" because that will likely have the same result. You can't start with the big stuff. If you could, you'd already have good self-esteem and not need to read this stupid primer.

My issue has mostly been my weight and how ugly I thought I looked because of it. I did not start with that. I started with non-physical things I appreciate in myself. I would look in the mirror and say - out loud, like a crazy woman - "I'm a pretty good writer" or "I'm very involved in my kids' lives and that makes me a good mom" or "I can arrange a beautiful wild flower bouquet." Anything at all that is positive about me. One thing each day, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. No exceptions. 

Why do I do this? Because I'm slowly building up my army of good to defend against the army of darkness (not the movie) that is occupying my head. Every time I plant a positive thought in my brain, it's like planting one troop in a hot zone. Every day the army grows. If it helps you to envision some yummy, sweaty, young infantry guy, go for it. I won't judge. Just do it.

4. Now come up with something harder you like about yourself - every day.
This step comes when you're ready. Step 3 can be done for a very long time or a very short time before implementing step 4. You'll know when it's time. You'll know because you'll test the waters by saying something like "I have very beautiful eyes" and you won't burst into fits of laughter or roll those very beautiful eyes after you say it. You'll believe it. 

Since physical appearance has been my Achilles heel when it comes to self-esteem, being able to slip in some compliments about the way I look was a good indicator that my army of light was growing in numbers. It took me a long time to really like my hair (I know, right? As if! I have great hair.) It took me a long time to like my smile. It took a very, very long time to be able to tell myself I looked pretty in what I was wearing, or to find myself worthy of - and rather stunning in - a beautiful dress in a size 18.

But I got there, slowly.

If you're frustrated by how long it takes to get good at step 4, just remember: At least you're making progress, which is a hell of a lot better than when you were crying into a bag of Oreos before step 1. Progress, not perfection. Baby steps. Enjoy the process, because, when you think about it, we never really reach a destination. We just travel more happily, and the scenery gets a lot nicer.

5. Beat negativity to death with a stick.
Steps 3, 4 and 5 can and should be done daily - when you get there. The thing about our society is that it thrives on negativity. We're fed all these messages every day through the media that we're not good enough unless we look a certain way, reach a certain income level, and own certain things. We're expected to be fountains of youth with fat bank accounts and huge, eerily white smiles plastered on our faces. That's how selling stuff works. Marketing 101; I didn't even have to get a degree to understand that basic concept.

The army of darkness (not the movie) will always be present and waiting for your forces to weaken. You need to replenish your troops regularly with compliments and recognition, surround yourself with positive, loving people, and shun the negative.  It is so easy to pick ourselves apart when we're bombarded with messages telling us to do exactly that. Make your world as safe and healthy as possible.

Despite my best efforts, I find that I sometimes still put myself down. I might have had a bad day, or I'm hormonal, or there's another area of my life not going the way I wish it would and I'm in full-on attack mode on myself. The difference is that I recognize when it's happening now and I fight back against it. If I think to myself "Look at those fat rolls. I'm digusting!" I quickly follow that up with "Maven. you've had a bad day, but you're still beautiful no matter what size you are. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's going to be okay." Blammo! Troops are parachuting into enemy territory. It really works - especially if you do this regularly.

And if you're struggling, just come on down and sit in my Starbucks for a bit. I'll make you a latte and tell you how awesome you are. Promise.

Why Being Fat and Miserable keeps us Fat and Miserable

What a scary scale. Please never buy me one of these.

This was my status on Facebook this evening: "Day 1 of sugar/simple carb detox. I feel like poop. My body hates me, but it will thank me in the long run. That is all."

Yep, I'm doing a sugar cleanse. And people probably think I'm nuts. But I'm hoping this will do my body some good - and maybe take off a few pounds, too.


I have pretty good self-esteem for a fat chick. Actually, I think I have pretty good self-esteem for any chick.  This has taken a tremendous amount of work on my part to talk my psyche down from the ledge on a daily basis as it's continuously bombarded by messages telling me I shouldn't like myself very much at all.

Nothing bothers me more than when a woman is down on herself for not looking like an airbrushed, boobatronic supermodel. I want to slap her, and shake her, and tell her she's beautiful. But then I remember that slapping and shaking a woman doesn't help her self-esteem, either. Well, unless she's into that kind of thing. (And then I would charge. Hey, don't judge: inside this meek and mild exterior is an entrepreneurial spirit.)

I am fat, and generally I am okay with that. It's not that I love being overweight, it's just that the adoration I have for myself does not hang in the balance of what dress size I wear. Like most other humpty-dumpties I know, I do dream of fitting into lawn chairs more comfortably (those cheap plastic sides can really dig in - especially when one is wearing shorts), but I don't lie awake at night wondering if I'll ever be pretty. I'm already pretty, thanks. And I don't walk the streets with my head down, feeling inferior to my smaller-sized counterparts. I'm a worthy biatch who smiles wider than her hips, makes plenty of eye contact, has a firm handshake and expects the same level of respect and kindness that everyone else gets.

Okay, fine: I expect a higher level of respect and kindness because I am The Maven and thus somewhat goddess-like. But I digress. 

Nearly everyone I know is trying to lose weight, or talking about losing weight, or at the very least thinking about losing weight. And many people I know - women, especially - are doing it because they "hate" their bodies. Like, cry-in-the-bathroom-mirror-after-a-shower type of hate. This is how I used to feel not too long ago, too.  I figured that accepting myself in my current situation would mean I'd be giving in to being a chubby checker, and I would just get bigger and bigger until I had to sew tablecloths together to make summertime patio party moomoos.

But here's what I learned about trying to do something good for yourself when you're busily self-deprecating:

It. 

Doesn't. 

Work.

Here's an example of my previous way of thinking: I wake up in a good mood and have a shower. When I'm toweling off I have a quick glance in the mirror.

Disgust sets in.

Suddenly I'm thinking about how much I despise the way I look, and why can't I stop being such a slob, and look at my fat ass, and how could anyone find me attractive, and why does Tommy's mom look like she's a size 4 and yet has a fatty latte and a muffin in her hand every time I see her, and why can't I just find the time to exercise, and I suck for being this lazy, and I just totally hate myself and my stupid body and it's not fair.

And then I slap on whatever clothes will cover the parts of me I find the grossest and tell myself that'll do until I have a nice body and can buy nice clothes for it, and I sort of do my hair and I sort of do my makeup, but I don't put a lot of effort in because I'm not going to look good anyway because I'm fat. Belugas with lipstick on are still belugas, right?

By the time I arrive where I'm going, I'm not just fat. I'm fat, un-kept and have a serious case of bitch face because I'm so miserable in my own skin. I've beaten myself up enough that I've made the problem a lot worse.

And yet, in that horrible head space, I will decide I need to eat better and exercise so I can be skinny and happy (note that the two of them are synonymous at this point; more on that later). Here's a newsflash:

That doesn't fucking work, either.

The minute I try to do anything out of negativity it goes awry. If I eat a bunch of carrot sticks I just get angry that I have to eat a bunch of carrot sticks to feed my stupid, sluggish metabolism. I feel deprived. And if I exercise, all I can focus on is how my fat is all jiggly and I probably look like a total idiot in these yoga pants. And when I weigh myself and see I haven't lost, or haven't lost as much as I think I have, it completely negates all the hard work I've been doing and gives my hopes of ever being skinny and happy (See? Those two words again) the beating of a lifetime. Before long, I'm elbow deep in a bag of chips, berating myself for it the next morning, and giving up on exercise because I'm a big, huge failure.

In short, I am my own worst enemy and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If I don't like myself then I'm not going to want to do good things for myself. Period. Why would you do something for someone you don't like? And if I try to do it for my kids, or my spouse, or whoever else it might be for, I'm going to run out of steam pretty damn quick.

I'm old hat at this. I've played the same games with myself over and over again for years: Either I "don't have time to take care of myself right now" or "I'm so ugly/fat/disgusting/whatever that I have to do something drastic RIGHT NOW." There was very little in-between in my world for many years.

One day, I woke up and I just got really tired of feeling so down all the time. I realized that it wasn't about my weight, it was about my attitude.

Like any good structure, one needs to start from the ground up. A solid foundation is crucial to any success plan. Not too long ago, I started laying that foundation for myself. I stopped doing any exercise I didn't enjoy. I stopped chastising myself for every "unhealthy" thing I put in my mouth. I picked out clothing that compliment the body shape I have today instead of waiting for that magic number on the scale or dress size that would make it okay to look fabulous. I worked hard to remind myself that I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can't--

Oops. That last part is someone else's mantra. But suffice to say that I tell myself I'm beautiful every day. Having done it for awhile now, I'm starting to believe it. Those old messages can take years to erase, and my worry has always been that if I don't love myself today - for who I am right now - then I'm never going to love myself no matter what size I am. And I refuse to go my entire life disliking the wonderful person I am. That is a life wasted, and I simply won't do it another day.

This has taken a lot of effort and a great deal of time. I've had moments - especially PMS moments - where I feel depleted, tearful, disgusting. But like any kind of cognitive work, I'm slowly reshaping the landscape of my scary little brain; I'm teaching it to filter out all those negative media and social messages so I can focus on one thing: unconditionally loving myself.

Now that I know how much I rock, it's easier to make good choices. I don't like my body feeling sick, so I took out gluten and feel much better. A pleasant side effect is that I dropped a couple of dress sizes, have more energy, less anxiety, far better nails and skin, and my digestive system loves me again.

I didn't like my body feeling sore, so I had my incisional hernia repaired. And now that things are improving - no more hematoma, no more bleeding, staples out - I'll soon be able to exercise again. I'm looking forward to getting my body back into shape so I have more energy. And, of course, the happy side effect to that might be that I lose some weight. And that would be great, but it's no longer an absolute when it comes to feeling good about myself.

Today was my first day cutting out all refined sugar and simple carbs. Why did I decide to do this? For the same reason: health. There's a very good chance that I'll lose weight in the process, and I'm sure this pudgezilla will look ravishing with more of a waistline, but even if I don't lose a pound I'm sure I'll feel better and add years to my life. These seemingly drastic steps are so easy to do when I put myself in a place of honour and respect the hell out of me. I might even slaughter a few goats on my shrine of awesome while I'm at it (goat burgers, anyone?)

Anyway, I guess I just want to see more people think they're as great as I think I am. It's lonely up here with only a handful of celebrities and narcissists to keep me company most of the time. So do me a favour and work on loving you if you don't already, ok? You deserve it. You are deliciously gorgeous right now, just as you are. There is so much more to you than your fat genes - or fat jeans, for that matter. And if a girl like me can look in the mirror and feel great, you can, too. Please don't make me slap you.

Well, at least not until we work out a price. And I might need to go find me a leather outfit or two to really get into the roll. Mistress Maven; I kind of like the sound of that.

Buckets of Joyfulness, and other crap I've realized.

Epiphanies suck because they happen just when you're all busy crying and feeling sorry for yourself and shit. 

So we all know it's been nearly a month since I've blogged. Did I mention the giant hematoma in my stomach? The constant bleeding for four weeks? The multiple trips to the hospital to see the surgeon, the ultrasound, the constant changing of sterile pads and gauze that now make my period look like a pleasant walk in the park? "Have a happy period"? Oh, I will. I will because a period in no way resembles the bleeding that might occur when one is stabbed in the stomach - which is pretty much what I lived with for several weeks.

Then there's the fact that all three gremlins are home for the summer, my family was wound up to the point of busting a spring or twelve, the house looked like it had been hit with a weapon of mass destruction by the time I could start cleaning it again, and I have a part-time job to go to; we can see where a serious lack of creativity may have occurred.

Have I been a little depressed? Anxious? Unhappy? Downright fucking miserable? Perhaps. Not only does this lend poorly to writing, but to living in general. It is really hard to want to do much of anything when you're chronically unhappy, and I've had many reasons to feel that way.

But what I gained from this experience - this fairly unpleasant, stressful experience - is that it helped me hit some kind of emotional bottom. I hit these every so often; a low point in which I have to reassess exactly what I want in life, where I want to direct my limited energy, and what I need to do to achieve those things. Naturally the exhibitionist attention whore in me has made a to-do list, in no particular order, Maven-style (you may want to take notes):

Fall in love with my partner all over again - without making three more babies together (emphasis on the NO MORE BABIES part, thank you).
Some wise person once said that marriage is like a garden, and that it can get overcrowded with weeds if you don't tend it, and those weeds get huge and overbearing and get little spikes on them and end up choking the life out of the pretty little flowers of love and affection, and then the dandelions turn into fluffy things that get caught in your nose when your partner blows on them, which sends you into a frenzy of resentment because why couldn't he blow that shit the other way, and you end up sneezing your way to divorce court.

Or something like that.

Underneath the years of baby-making and child rearing and financial stressors and all-nighters and tantrums and exhaustion, there are two people who love each other and miss spending time together. When you're buried in babies, it's easy to forget that this person is the reason you have those beautiful little beastlies in the first place. Reconnecting with Geekster has become a big priority in my life, every day. We're talking more, working together more, laughing more, going out together more, and putting in the effort to make our relationship the heart of our family. It's awesome. I feel like I have my best friend back. Eighteen years together is a long time, and I'm looking forward to the next eighteen.

Spend more quality time with The Gremlins Three without going bat shit crazy.
This pretty much goes without saying, but the horned wonders are the little moons that circle my planet - or, at times, the meteors that crash into it. They either control the tides or render large creatures extinct - both important roles in planetary evolution, really.

The boys need more of my positive attention so that maybe they can stop seeking so much of my - ahem - negative attention. Now that I'm able to move around and drive again, we've been hitting up museums and parks with more frequency. I've been putting my fear of epic meltdowns aside and realizing that if someone starts screaming, we can always leave; it doesn't mean we shouldn't go in the first place. Yes, we have a four-year-old who challenges everything right now and an eight-year-old with special needs who can get very defiant, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't go out and live - intelligently, of course.

This weekend, we attended a family-friendly BBQ. We stayed just over three hours, then packed up after dinner and said our goodbyes. Everyone was calm and playing nicely, so why did we leave just then? Because Geekster and I knew that we had hit the sweet spot: The kids had played enough and were just tired enough that they would likely leave happily. If we stayed much longer, we'd have to take off quickly with someone screaming and kicking while in the fireman's hold over my husband's shoulder. So the trick is to go out and experience life as a typical family, but also know when it's time to head back home for some decompression time. At any rate, the boys seem a lot happier lately, and as such we are all a lot happier. And this is saying something, considering it's summer: the cosmic joke on stay-at-home-moms.

Extended family: yes, I really do have some.
I'm fortunate enough that my parents and siblings and grandma all live in the same town as I do. And yet I don't see them nearly as much as I'd like. This is a damn shame, because they're all awesome people (it's genetic) and we should see a lot more of each other. So another priority for me is to connect more with them. I feel a little sorry for them that they don't get a Maven fix as much as they should, so we can call this an outreach program. You're welcome, family unit.

Friends - those great people you wish were family because they know exactly what to get you for your birthday.
This shouldn't come as a big surprise to anyone, but I'm really popular. This became even more apparent over the last few weeks, as people regularly checked up on me post-op, and did everything from drop off a coffee and a hug to clean the house and cook us a meal. My friends deserve a standing ovation for being so wonderful (I just need to finish my coffee first, ok?)

The thing about friendships is that they are relationships, and as such require their own bit of emotional landscaping. I've given a lot of thought recently to what makes a good friend, and how I can be a better one. What I've concluded is this: Good friends leave a conversation feeling mutually enriched, fulfilled and positive. This is how I want to feel when I interact with my friends and, just as importantly, this is what I want to give back to them. No head games, no passive-aggressiveness, no manipulation, no drama. Just good stuff, love, laughs, support, hugs. I think I'm a good friend most of the time, but having given it a lot of thought, I see room for improvement. I know this is shocking, being as I'm so fabulous and all, but it's true. So I'm going to focus on bringing joy to my friends' lives, which will only serve in bringing me joy as well. And then we'll all have buckets of joyfulness, and I'll likely get a Nobel Peace Prize for discovering said buckets and ending all wars.

Attitude. Oh, do I ever have some.
What I've been reminded of recently is that happiness is a state of mind. It's a choice. It's not something that is created or taken away from outside influences. Yes, there are big catastrophic situations that can suffocate a person's happy for a time. But, overall, most of how we see life is based on how we choose to see it. I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy for a good while. But you know what? I've had plenty of reasons to be happy, too. I've just overlooked those in favour of focusing on the negative stuff.

As such, I'm making a conscious effort each day to look for the good stuff in my life and celebrate it. There may be plenty of suck, but there will always be plenty of suck. There will also be many things that are plenty of great. I'll deal with the suck, but I'll also invite in the great. And thus, I will be even more kick ass than I already am, if that's even possible.

Buckets of Joyfulness, Batman! You've hit on something big! (See? It's already happening - my buckets are being mainstreamed into the English language)

What's big on your priority list? (Other than reading my blog, of course...)

Methinks Someone's Going a Little Stir Crazy

I really thought I would be the one to lose it first.

Being so used to having umpteen balls up in the air at once as the domestic goddess/part-time employee/insanely popular woman I am, having to sit around and pretty much do nothing all the time makes me a wee bit twitchy.

If, for some reason, I managed to keep the flood of insanity at bay (trick: sandbags. Lots and lots of mental sandbags stacked impossibly high by the dedicated army reserve troops in my head), then my husband - the man doing all the chores, breaking up the heap of fights, battling the laundry monster, making all the meals - would be the first off to the loony bin.

So far, we're both okay. A little stressed, a little frustrated by my limitations and slower-than-anticipated recovery, but otherwise fine.

It's Spawnling I'm worried about.

I never suspected the four-year-old would be the one to snap. But when I hobbled into the kitchen this morning and was introduced to his latest invention, I quickly realized the boredom of being cooped up at home most of the time has started taking its toll. He's being creative, but a weird kind of creative. Observe.

Meet the Flossing Chair.

Prototype only, patent pending.

"Spawn," I asked. "What's this?"

"It's a flossing chair. Duh." he replied, somewhat annoyed by my ignorance.

"And what does one do on a flossing chair?" I inquired, curiously.

He looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Well, you obviously floss your teeth."

"See," he continued, as if he were talking to a really stupid monkey, "there's some sticky tack holding the floss up on the chair so it's easy to reach. And then there's a magazine you can read while you're sitting there, flossing."

Given the eye rolling and the sighing going on, this really stupid monkey figured she dare not ask how one flosses and flips through a magazine at the same time. Instead, I figured I would turn this into a dental hygiene lesson. "So... Does this mean you're going to start flossing now?"

If he were at all telekinetic, death would have come swiftly for me with that look. "Um, no."

I decided to leave Dr. Doom alone for awhile. Apparently someone pissed in his Crazy Man Wheaties this morning.

I think we need to start getting out more, or it's going to be a very long - albeit impressively creative - summer.

I'm a Bloody Mess (No, really.)

All it needs to look like my body are some little coffee cups floating around in there.

Hey, know what really sucks? Having abdominal surgery.

Know what really, really sucks? Still bleeding from your incision two weeks later.

I really wish there was a good joke in here, but I can't really come up with one. That's the irony of situations like this. They're only comical later.

Two weeks ago, they cut me open. And I had more or less a great recovery for the first week. I came home three days post-op, did a lot of resting, watched a lot of TV, read a lot of trash in novel form. Life was pretty good. And then, on the night of recovery day 6, I got up from reading a book and noshing on popcorn to get dressed in my pajamas: That's when I noticed that I was saturated in blood. Like, totally, from the belly button halfway down my thighs.

It was everywhere - and I mean everywhere. I didn't know what to do. My first thought was that the alien baby they had secretly implanted when they were "fixing my hernia" had quietly clawed its way out while I was licking butter off my fingers. My next thought was that my incision must have opened up despite the clips meant to keep it shut. I yelled for Geekster, shoved a folded up towel under my track pants, and we made our way to the closest emergency room. By the time we arrived, I had soaked through the towel, too.

They took me in right away - probably because I looked a little like a stab victim, and I was sobbing pretty hardcore. (Readers: If you're ever having issues getting through triage and into a room, some red food dye could probably help you out. You might have some explaining to do when you show them a twisted ankle and not a gash in your abdomen, but you can cross that bridge when you get to it. Maven tip #53 to receiving top notch public health care.)

Anyway, the diagnosis from both the ER staff and my own surgeon is that I have a hematoma. Basically, a huge pool of blood is sitting in my belly from the surgery, and is slowly making its way out of my body via the incision site - all day, every day, as soon as I sit or stand up. And that means that the bottom of the incision isn't healing up yet, because it's too busy acting as a drain. "Barf-o-rama, Maven. Thanks for the visual", right? Wrong. Suck it up, princess. It's my blog, and this is what's going on in my world right now, and this is what I'm sharing. It's unpleasant, and somewhat atypical, and annoying - and have I mentioned unpleasant? But this is my reality.

When will the bleeding stop? We have absolutely no idea. It seems to be tapering off, maybe. Sort of. Sometimes. It's more trickle and less "Why hello there, Ellen Ripley."

I'm on a steady regime of iron (for blood loss), vitamin D and zinc (to boost my immune system) and arnica (for bruising). I'm on constant "is this incision getting infected?" watch, but so far, so good. I'm drinking tons of water and getting lots of rest. I have a bag from the hospital that is filled with sterile compresses and adhesive bandages; I go through several each day. And to double up the protection, I'm also using an array of female hygiene products in case there's a breech - and there have been many, believe me.

I see my surgeon next week to assess the situation once again. Hopefully I'll no longer be a fountain of type A negative at that point, but if I am, we're going to have to probably do some tests and see if there's something more ominous going on, like a slow internal bleed, or a rejection of the mesh used to repair my hernia. And those could mean another surgery, so let's pretend I never said that. Denial is sweet.

The thing is, I feel good. Every day, I feel better than the day before. My stomach is shrinking, the top part of my incision is healing up beautifully, I have no signs of infection, and my energy is going up. I'm taking very good care of myself - yes, mom, I really am - and resting a whole lot. So I really do think that this is just part of my somewhat atypical healing process. While the bleeding isn't necessarily abnormal, but the amount and duration is somewhat concerning. I'm taking a wait-and-see approach.

Leave it to me to be a little bit different. I must like the attention.

Anyway, if I sound a little bitter, that's probably because I am. I'm trying hard to stay positive and enjoy the fact that I can't do very much, but it's not always easy to do. I have three kids who are home for the summer. And granted the hubby and boys have been great at cleaning and fetching and doing, but I want to slowly get back into the game, and it's not happening right now. I'm frustrated that I've had this setback, and I'm finding it hard to accept my limitations (there are many).

I had myself a very good cry a couple of days ago and felt a little better after that. There's a certain level of acceptance that's come over me since, but also a determination that I will get better. I'm trying to visualize my own healing, willing myself well, and all that other mind/body connection stuff.

Tonight, I'm stepping out of the house to read at the 3rd annual Blog Out Loud Ottawa. Maybe I should just be staying home and resting, but I need emotional healing, too. I need a mental break from these walls, sometimes. I need to do something other than sit at my computer desk, sit on my bed, or sit in the recliner. Now I can sit in a restaurant and steal an extra chair to put my feet up. I need to get out and see people. I need to laugh a little, smile a lot, and enjoy the company of some amazing local writers and photographers. I need this just as much as I need rest right now, if not more. I'm really excited.

Problem? I'm still rockin' the track pants. Oh, that's right. tonight's ensemble will be stretchy. Those on Twitter have been warned that my sexy shall not extend below the waist. I'm a little bummed about it, but I'll make it work. Awesome is exuded everywhere, not only in the choice - or lack thereof - of pants. And we all know I have a ridiculous amount of awesome.

Speaking of awesome, I really need to thank the countless people who have stepped up and done incredible things for us the last several days. Within an hour of being out of recovery, I received the first 2 of many bouquets of flowers given to me over the last 2 weeks. We've been kept happily in coffee deliveries, baked goods, full meals, housekeeping, gardening, babysitting, cheer-up visits and some really great hugs, phone calls, emails and texts. Thank you so much, friends and family. As much as I'm not too happy fighting crime from my couch as the Hemoglobin Heroine these days, I am so, so, so grateful to all of you for being the amazing people you are.

Anyway, I've been feeling very uncreative since coming home. I've tried to blog several times and have always given up by paragraph 2 or 3. I promised myself I'd write something, even if it was whiny and discombobulated and not up to my usual standards. We can blame the blood loss. Oxygen deprivation and all that.

(On the plus side, I'd make a great looking goth queen right now. Maybe I should invest in some black lipstick and start writing some poetry in my own blood. It could work.)

Why Surgery is My Dream Come True

Mmmmmorphine.

 I had originally mentioned that my surgery was June 21st. That was a big giant fib told to me by some mean lady at the hospital, who then told me something else (actually she was quite nice and apologetic, but that doesn't sound nearly as dramatic). In fact, it is tomorrow, the 23rd.

Tomorrow morning I head into a lovely country hospital about 45 minutes from here, will be put under, sliced open, meshed shut, and will spend the next three days or so in bed before I'm able to come home.

I can't wait. This is sounding more and more exciting to me by the hour.

Tonight, as I was chasing Gutsy and Spawnling through a parking lot, then through the aisles at a grocery store whilst having my arms unceremoniously packed two feet high with various forms of high-fructose corn syrup (operation Buy Their Love complete), a list of reasons why this surgery is not only required, but needed, started running through my head. Here's what I've come up with:

Time to Myself
I've been a mom for fourteen years, and have had maybe four nights away from my children in that time. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm willing to get my gut cut open and barbaric things done to my insides in the name of some time off. Desperate times call for desperate measures. To celebrate my alone-ness, I have packed two books, a few magazines, my iPhone and headphones and am praying they still offer me free cable. Nothing says "I have nothing better to do" than watching The View.

Say Yes to Drugs
Unless you're living under a rock, you probably know I'm in recovery. That means I'm stone cold sober at all times: No drinking, no drugs, not ever, in just over twenty years. The exception to this rule, of course, is if they're administered at a hospital under strict control for the purpose of pain management. I am not-so-secretly hoping to get stoned out of my everlovin' mind for a couple of days. I'll be happy as can be, it'll pass the time, I'll sleep a lot, and I'll probably engage in some serious Stonedbooking and Tweeting while I'm at it to amuse the masses. You're welcome.

Not cleaning
I don't even think I need to elaborate here. Mothers everywhere are breathing heavily at the enticing thought of not having to lift a finger for days, if not weeks. I think I'll enjoy it at first and then will be dying to clean something - anything - before I'm given the green light to do so. But until the twitches start up, I'm going to enjoy every unproductive minute.

Quiet
I know hospitals aren't quiet, but they're a hell of a lot quieter than Casa Maven. There are not three unbridled boys running through the joint, knocking, misplacing, breaking, manipulating, and disorganizing everything. I know I'll miss my Gremlins Three. I really will. And I'll likely sleep better once I'm drifting off to the sounds of their tirades and tantrums again. But in the meantime, I'll just up the morphine drip and listen to the soothing beeps of the monitors.


Staying in Bed
"Mom? Moooom? MOOOOM?? MOOOOOOOOOOOM??!! ... Can I have some cereal?"
"It's 6:15 on a Sunday, and you know how to pour your own cereal."
"But I can't open the baaaaag. And the milk is emptyyyy."
There will be none of that.
All. Weekend. Long.

Booyeah.



Room Service
"Nurse? Nuuuurse? NUUUUURSE!? NUUUUUUUUUUUUURSE?!?"
"You have a call button beside you bed, Maven."
"I know, but it's more fun to yell for you. Anyway, can you get me a coffee?"
"...Again? Didn't you just have one?"
"But, but, I should really make good use of this provincially-funded catheter, and I'm an invalid with a stapled wound, trapped in a bed, and life is hard. And come on now, do you really want to see my sad face? Look how pretty I am with this mascara on. This hotness can't be redone with swollen red eyes, girlfriend."
"*sigh* Fine."
"Thanks, toots. Two cream, k?"
Oh hellz, yeah.

See you on the flip side. And don't worry, I'll be back. I'm speaking at BOLO two weeks post-op, so I'll be sure to get plenty of rest, blog from bed, and get better - fast.