12 Totally Random Things That Happened This Week, Including Reason #491 I Should No Longer Be Having Sex

In an order that's like so totally random, I will make each one a separate post so you can comment or link to them individually. This will make up for lost time and give you plenty to catch up on.

12. Car Seat Kerfuffle

I got to the daycare today in the car. Normally I park at home and then walk over, but Crabby Kate and Alice were meant to come over for dinner, so I needed to be quick. I hustle Nate out and fold up the stroller to put him in the car. Except there's no car seat. That's right. No car seat. Holy fuck, what am I going to do? Somebody stole my car seat! Why would someone do this to me? Have we not had enough things lost or stolen in the past year?

I open the stroller to put him in and walk home, except I'm parked illegally and how the hell am I going to make it back to get the car? Cell phone battery has had one line for three days. I try my husband anyway. "Have you seen the car seat?"

Him: "Yeah, it's in the living room. Didn't you see it there?"

Me: (yeah. like that was SO obvious.) "What's it doing in the living room?"

Him: "When my mom babysat him last she took the car seat remember? I didn't put it back in. Didn't you notice it wasn't there?"

Me: (Really helpful Dog, really helpful.) "Um, yeah I noticed! I noticed when I took him out of daycare and brought him to the car. I'm here. at daycare. with the car. AND THERE'S NO CAR SEAT! What do I do?"

Him: "Put him back into daycare and go home and come back."

Me: "Are you kidding me? Do you know how confusing that will be for him? He will freak the fuck out! Give me a real solution please!"

And then of course there was nothing. Nada. Because the battery on my mobile died. At this point Nate is pushing the stroller--and me--in circles. "OK, stop. STOP! You're making me dizzy and mommy needs to think right now. OK, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to put you in the back seat, in the middle and strap you in. Then I'm going to drive very carefully for three blocks."

So that's what we did. I shat my pants the whole way that some random freak was going to smash into us on purpose. I worried that the neighbours would notice right away and call Children's Aid. And you know what happened? Nothing. Thank God. Thank God I'm not famous.

11. I sold a book to Daniel Cook

I was at Word on the Street yesterday, volunteering in my company's booth. To be honest, I don't have heaps of time to volunteer, but I felt that if I didn't have a must-be-there-by-a-certain-time reason, it probably wouldn't happen. I spent three hours selling mostly dragon/fantasy books. I was trying desperately to sell the amazing new title we have, probably our stongest young adult book this fall, called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, but my sales pitch was weak.

Potential Buyer: "What's it about?"

Me: "Oh it's fabulous. It's a Holocaust book for kids."

Potential Buyer: "Is it inspirational?"

Me: "Um, no. In fact the end is super sad...but it's a great way to introduce the Holocaust to your kids!"

Potential Buyer: "Yeah, I'll just take the big dragon book that has the movie coming out."

*sigh* I swear it's an amazing book. Probably one of the best in the genre since Anne Frank. (Probably the only one in the genre since Anne Frank.) And then, just as I was ready to leave and be with my boys, a star sighting.

Me: "Ohmygod! You're Daniel Cook!"
DC's Mom: "Shhhhh!"

And then I realized, he did not want to be spotted. He was in a crowd of thousands of parents and kids. The little Canadian reality show with the 6 year-old journalist is on Disney Channel in the States now. He had to protect himself. So he had sunglasses and a baseball cap and a hood over the whole thing.

He bought the dragon book and then begged his mum for the second one in the series. "Now Dan, I told you that you could only have one. So don't keep asking," scolded his mum.

"It's nice to see that superstardom doesn't change the rules," I said.

"Yeah," DC's mum quipped, "In my house, he's not a star, he's just my son." Props to that.

10. I cheated on my hairdresser

Sings With Scissors was off to New York and couldn't take me for my usual: cheap dye-job/trim-job/blow-job while watching reality TV in his apartment and talking about his latest Interweb conquest. Talk about Around the World in 80 Gays! He's like the Gay UN. He has done more for Canada-US Relations than Stephen Harper!

Anyway, normally he puts the dye in my hair and then, with a captive audience, plays his latest songs for me--hence his nickname here. And the quality of the song depends on how his latest relationship is going. God love him, but well...God love him. Also, if he hasn't been in a long-term relationship (read: more than 2 weeks) in a while, well you might show up to find he has an itchy rash on his palms. But whatevs. My hair always looks like I've spent three times as much and the man has a heart of gold.

I went to Coupe Bizzarre on Queen St. W. for a little rock n' roll snip snip. The majority of the staff there are tattooed and pierced and have been wearing skinny jeans since before they became Skinny Jeans. I ended up with the Pat Benetar do of my pre-adolescent dreams and nearly wound up doing my karaoke go-to song, "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," at the Gladstone later that night. (More to come on that.)

9. Of Bourbon and Books

Marla and I went to see Robert J Wiersema do his "not-a-reading" thing at the Gladstone Hotel. He was hilarious, moving, irreverent and lots of other adjectives I love. If ever there was a rock star of the Canadian literary scene, he is it. Oh wait, Leonard Cohen I guess... No seriously, this wasn't a boring author reading from his boring book and talking about his book in a boring way. NO! It was a slide show talking about how certain songs have affected his writing, about the music that he was listening to while writing the book. Between Marla and I, he basically mentioned every record we'd fallen in love to or had sex to, beginning with Portishead and ending off with his Jack Whyte fantasies (you had to be there.) And in the warm glow of refurbished exposed brick and bourbon with one ice-cube (Marla, you have converted me), well it felt positively grown up to be at such an event.

8. Picking up Moms is the new one-night stand.

At the same event Marla and I met up with Kristin from Calgary, who happened to be in town for a business thing and agreed to come to sketch-yet-glamourous Parkdale to meet us. She is sofuckingcool and sodamnpretty and we got along sofrigginwell. She must seriously be the biggest mom blogger in Canada, and even though we had talked on the phone a few times it was still exciting to meet her in person. Don't forget, Marla and I both do the Central-Canadian (OK, OK, it's just a stupid Toronto thing) nervous speed-talking over everyone thing. Somehow our West Coast pal found us endearing anyway.

If only we lived in the same town.

7. So three giddy, hot mamas and an author sat at a bar and...

Yeah, where's the punchline? Oh, it's coming. Rob joined us after all his schmoozing was done. In the middle of animated bursts of conversation, he sucked us into a well-told story involving a stripper and Portishead. A man who can make a stripper story sound poetic and not sleezy? Well that's a talented story teller. Then another author who-shall-remain nameless showed up at the bar. I have a huge crush on him. He is WAY intense, but I get the feeling that he knows he's hot, which dumbs down my crush a bit. With 80% of the publishing world being gay or female, a moderately hot author is something to write home about. Author X was rather flirty and I was a touch tipsy and gushing about how wicked his book is (that I haven't finished=barely at page 10). I quipped about how the three of us met on the internet, making it sound salacious and uttered my latest motto, "Picking up Moms is the new one night stand." To which Rob retorted, "That's always been my motto." Or something to that effect.

Author X joined us at the juncture when Kristin was trying to leave, Marla had ordered another drink and we were getting kicked out of the bar and forced into the karaoke area (What gives Gladstone? What gives?!) So it got a bit messy figuring out who was going where and meeting when. Marla and I went into the karaoke bar to wait for the authors to finish smoking outside. Marla and I passed the time by taking in the show. I told Marla my theories of karaoke, what makes a karaoke suicide. (Ballads are death. Always choose a relatively well-known "party" song. Don't choose an overused party song--Love Shack by the B52s comes to mind, and oh! Someone has chosen it tonight. The group karaoke rarely works. NEVER try to sing a Heart song. No one can do Heart but those eternal Wilson sisters. I cringe everytime someone tries to do "Magic Man.")

Continued on Point 6 below.

6. Bizzarro Land

Rob returns and tells us his night just got weird. That's my cue to go home. I've spent too many nights in what I call "Bizzarro Land" wondering how the fuck I got there. At 32, I've smartened up. Call it maternal instinct. We tell Rob we'll walk him to the next bar where Author X, et al, have gone. He deserves it a bang up night in Toronto. His first book is a national bestseller. So thanks MFM fans. I'm sure you had a lot to do with it.

Success is a seductress and the devil often visits in a beautiful form. And sure enough the groupies arrived. "Come one Rob! We're going. Teeheehee." They must've been English majors or something. Two young things from the group of revellers. They were dragging him out to the tune of karaoke Dean Martin. "Teeheehee. Tell your friends to come too!"

"No, I gotta be up early for KinderYoga," my self-deprecating friend Marla uttered.
"Yoga? Shyah! I've got yoga in the morning too! That's not stopping me from going!" Clearly her university education did not include Comprehension. We said our goodbyes to Rob, and as we were walking away, Young Thing #2 whispered to Young Thing #1 and all we heard was, "KinderYoga? Hahahahahahahahaha! That's the funniest thing I've ever heard! KinderYoga! Hahahahahahahaha!"

We both looked back in horror, only to find them bowled over the cab with laughter. They couldn't breathe sort of laughter. We picked up the pace and put our tails between our legs. We were Mommed.

"I wish that yeast infection a fucking painful childbirth," I muttered as I put the keys in the ignition. I shouldn't have been so bitter. She was heading off into Bizzarro Land after all, and I was going home with a good story.

5. My roots were not the only thing to get a fresh coat this week.

We repainted the living room and dining room, Benjamin Moore's Gentle Cream. Yeah, it sounds boring. But after pouring over my fave design mag, the UK's Living, Etc I realized that if fab Brits were using light neutrals on the walls and punching up with eye-popping artwork and furniture, then Gentle Cream is the new black. Admitting you're in the Gentle Cream years was a tough transition, but my house is happier for it.

4. As if you didn't see this coming.

We were doing our usual morning frolic, when Nate dropped his Elmo doll. "Fuck."

Me: "That's wasn't truck, was it?"

The Dog: "Um, no. And before you ask, it wasn't duck either."

Nate: Looking at us to see our reaction.

So what to do? React the wrong way and risk the F-word being the trigger every time he wants to get a rise. Then, it came to me in a ray of energy-saving light-bulb over my head and I truly became a parent.

Me: "Nate, you can't say Fuck. You know how you can't drink beer or wine? (Yes, he knows this. Given how much the people around him imbibe, it's a valuable lesson.) Well, Fuck is a word that only grown-ups can use. Only Mommies and Daddies can say that OK? It's bad for little boys to say. OK?"

Nate: "OK." (Well it was something affirmative anyway.)

Me: "Good boy."

Do you think my technique is good and will work? Yeah, me neither.

On the way home from the library the next night, he lost his footing on the steps to the porch.

"Sheeyit."

OMG, it was so cute. Seriously. I just ignored it, but the boy is using expletives---IN CONTEXT! He's not even two! Now most people would celebrate more normal things, but in my family this is a big deal. My parents actually took us to dinner on the Danforth to celebrate. I shit you not. ;-)

3. My own McDreamy

We took Nate to the hospital to have a cognitive test done. We’d booked it back in January, before we knew he’d be hitting developmental milestones like swearing. It was a 50-point test administered by a lovely nurse. He sat in a chair at a wee desk and was given task after task. Fit the shapes into the puzzle. Draw a straight line. Stack the blocks. Put the blocks in the cup. Pick the photo where the children are eating. That sort of thing.

Well the kid got so charged up by it all that, in between assignments, he was tapping his hands on the desk, as if to say, “Bring it on lady. I got lots where this came from.” The Dog and I got emotional watching our wee son take everything they gave him and succeed. Thinking of his journey since conception, how far he has come given his difficult beginnings… well, we were pretty proud and in awe of this wonder, this blessing.

The nurse actually exclaimed, “Perfect!” He got 49 out of 50 or so activities correct, and the Dog claims that the reason he didn’t get the last point was because his sleeve was caught on the desk.

We don’t have to go to hospital for follow-ups anymore. The stroke ordeal is behind us. We can move on and put the pain of the past behind us. Thanks to everyone who helped us get through this.

Oh, one housekeeping note for me in the future: Nate was 23 lbs and 83 cm

2. Getting Creative in Bed

Early yesterday morning, we were doing our morning snuggle when the Dog's scruff brushed past my neck. I felt like Harrison Ford in Regarding Henry: Oooh, I remember that. That is something I like isn't it? I realized that the child running around the room would have to be transfered to another region of the house.

Me: "Natey, do you want to play in your room like a big boy?"
Nate: "Yaaaaaaaaaah!"

I gave a knowing wink to the Dog and took Nate to his bedroom, threw some books in front of him, did up the gate at the top of the stairs and took off. Childproof enough. I got under the comforter and we started making out.

2 minutes later...

"Dah-dee? Dah-deeeee."

Nate trotted back in carrying a book asking to be read to.

I had to think fast if I was going to get some. I got my naked self out of bed and took Nate back to his room. I poured all the Melissa and Doug wooden blocks onto the floor and quickly made a tower. "Can you do that Nate?"

"Yaaaaaaaah!"

Back to bed, where it was quickly decided that spooning would be the most discreet if the little Pup was to saunter back in. And surprisingly, we made it to the end before it started again. "Daaaaaa-deee..."

I've trained the little Pup well. For once, I was the one who got to roll over and fall asleep.

1. Reason #491 I Should No Longer Be Having Sex

I'm in the washroom later that night, (which still has no door on it. Grrrrr.) parenting by myself, (the hockey pre-season has started and my dude is doing nights again) when I notice Nate in my bedroom doorway.

"What have you got in your hand? Can you show mummy?"

He doesn't budge. He keeps twisting the narrow black container in his hand. I have a strong suspicion that it might be something bad.

"Come on Nate, bring that to mummy! You can do it."

Oh how I hate being stuck on the toilet when there is no one else in the house. You are trapped.

"OK Nate, fine. Don't bring it to mummy. But whatever you do. Doooon't put that in... your mouth."

Oh fuck, he's put it in his mouth. I know what it is but cannot bring myself to admit it.



The Dog had left the naughty drawer open.

Suspiciously Silent

I haven't been able to write. There have been major, highly moving, emotional things that have happened to me over the past two weeks, but for some reason I haven't wanted to share them with anyone. At least not here. Somehow, my safe place, my free therapy outlet has been sullied as of late.

There has been a lot of buzz going around about moms and popularity and politics and ads on blogs. I saw this coming a while ago when I blogged the post that shook up the momosphere, Blogging Isn't Cool Anymore. This will be my last (oh please blogosphere, don't make me eat my words!) post on blogging, because I don't feel...well I feel too much and then I write shitty posts that make my sister roll her eyes. Frankly, blogging about blogging is about as nerdy as it gets and is far from fruitful. I'm all for a healthy debate, but when it comes mainstream culture, those who disagree with the masses are often hung out to dry. I don't have the PHD to prove this isn't politics (not attacking, just illustrating), but when what seems like a smear campaign against certain bloggers breaks out, well it feels a little bit like Politician A saying, "You won't like Politician B when I tell you what he said about Issue X. And by the way, here are some photos of him smoking pot." (OK, perhaps I took it too far on that last point.)

Keeping politics out of it, if it is indeed about feelings, then feelings have been hurt. I probably shouldn't have jumped in--I left a comment on UrbanMoms.ca--I had said I'd sit in the back of the class and ignore. I don't even think my comment made sense, but whatever. It is what it is. I have felt stilted in my writing as a result of all this ridiculousness. I even had a brief debate with myself on whether or not I should have Scarbie Doll commit Ziggy Stardust-esque suicide (that would be pretty badass, wouldn't it?) and take the time to regroup and think about where I want to take my blog and my writing editorially.

But then I thought about this blog, how I started it for my girlfriends, how it's a tribute to my daily life with my husband and son. I'm not ready to erase that and start over, even if it would illustrate the point that blogging popularity and writing talent have some, though little, to do with each other. You could be the blogging equivalent of Rousseau, but you'd still need to plug yourself heavily if you want to be popular. And I don't have the time that I did on maternity leave to re-promote myself all over again. I guess, in a way, Scarbie Doll and Martinis for Milk have become [shudder] brands.

As I am pursuing different side projects right now that revolve around advertising and writing online, I feel it important to clarify my stance on this for once and for all. I don't really have a stance.

I used to work for the Big TV Company. I sat in on many meetings where integrity and content were compromised to please "the clients" aka the mac n' cheese company with multi-millions invested in commercial air-time. Cutting-edge, innovative programs were criticized by the sales team, who said advertisers only want to buy time on shows with "puppies and babies." Safe shows. Shows that would not negatively influence people's perceptions of Brand X. And I get that. It's too bad, but I get it.

The reverse is not true. As the creator of the content on this site, should I put Google ads up for example, I would not get to decide which ads can appear on my site, ads that might negatively influence people's perceptions of my brand. Of me. Not unless I became the ad-seller on my own site. Which would be a full-time job. And Lord knows my traffic would not support that.

Ads are a part of life. I have no problem with say, a site like SavvyMom.ca, who have never pretended that they were something other than a business venture trying to get sponsors and sell products to moms. My concern about ads on personal blogs is the same as I felt in the TV world: How long before Advertiser K pays you enough to say something you don't believe, or worse, to censor yourself?

It has been stated that most people who have time to blog come from a position of WASP-y affluence. I will tell you that I am not affluent by say...Toronto standards. I have no university education, am a visible minority (though coming from the Caucasus Mountains we were probably the original Caucasians, if I stood in a room of moms I would stand out), and have a LOT of debt. I sacrifice fabulousness to work less and be with my son. It is tempting to put ads on my blog. After all, ads aren't going away any time soon and what's the big deal anyway?

Well it's not a big deal and yet it is. And day to day, hour to hour, I don't know how I feel about it. I don't know how I feel that moms and their children are being targeted by the ad world, but we have been since the heyday of industrialization (ever look at the washer/dryer ads in old National Geographic magazines?). It's not a new issue. Advertising has been around as long as prostitution (I mean even the original pros had to sell themselves, didn't they?)

So maybe advertising can be empowering to women the same way prostitution purports to be--if you're going to give something away anyway, might as well get a few bucks for it. And then my friend Marla's voice pops into my head, "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should." And again I sit on the fence waiting for either side to convince me without pushing me to my fatal fall.

Edited to add: I don't wish this post to re-open this debate, which got rather messy in my opinion. I merely wish to organize my own thoughts a little, so that I can get on with it already and get back to making people laugh.

Robert J. Wiersema -- the author speaks

I'm tempted to add "At Last!" to that title, but really, not so much. In fact, the only ones who have been waiting for me to speak -- here, at least -- are Nadine and I.

But I should back up.

Hi, I'm Rob. Nadine offered me the chance to guest blog here in advance of my imminent arrival in Toronto and the resolution of her end-of-summer book club, featuring my book, Before I Wake.

I, of course, being the attention whore that I am, leapt at the opportunity. Post in someone else's blog? I'm in! My own blog doesn't offer nearly enough exposure. Where do I sign up?

And then I was stymied. What to write?

Scarbie suggested I write something funny, a cute anecdote about me as a parent. Mmm-kay. That might work. Provided I could think of anything...

Or I could write something about being a first-published novelist, with a national bestseller, and what that was like. Hmm. Well...

Or I could write just an introductory post, so her readers could get to know me. Well...

See, I'm not sure if that's such a good idea. Y'all getting to know me, I mean. Because once people get to know me, they tend to come to the conclusion that I'm fairly odd. The basic facts are pretty straightforward: I'm a writer and reviewer in my mid-thirties. I'm married to a wonderful woman named Cori, and have been for 13 years. (I'll pre-empt the questions -- no, we're not fundamentalists of any sort. No, this wasn't an arranged marriage. We were just in love and got married in our early twenties. It seems to have stuck.) We have a seven year old son named Xander who wants to be a Renaissance man when he grows up. His words, not mine. His words when he was four, for the record. By day, I'm the event coordinator and pulic relations guy at Bolen Books, a very large independent bookstore in Victoria. By night, I'm unconscious. I come to life in the early mornings to write. Well, that's what I tell people. Mostly I watch the Gilmore Girls on dvd. Somehow, though, I managed to write and publish this novel some of you have been reading (and if Scarbie is to be believed, enjoying) entitled Before I Wake.

See, the bare facts are pretty straightforward. But the oddness is just under the surface.

Odd in a good way, I think. But then, I'd have to think that, wouldn't I?

Here's an example: I'm in Edmonton right now, on tour. Which is strange and surreal and wonderful. And cold. Edmonton is cold. And flat, but that wasn't nearly as much a surprise as the cold was. Saturday afternoon in Victoria, we were celebrating Xander's birthday with mini golf and other outdoor stuff. It was a little breezy, but bright and sunny and lovely. I got off the plane yesterday, and it was minus three. Yes, below zero. Isn't it still summer in this hemisphere?

But I digress. I'm in Edmonton, and on tour. And at 9:30 this morning I was due to be picked up by my publicist. So at 9.15 I was faced with a dilemma - I had time to either blow-dry my hair (and thereby avoid catching the death by cold that my mother has always warned me about) or fill my fountain pens. Pens plural, yeah. Most people don't have a single fountain pen -- I'm travelling with (quick count) six. Inked in two colours (Noodler's Black and Private Reserve Tanzanite, for those keeping score). So what do you think I did?

Yeah, you guessed it. Thankfully my head didn't freeze, and I can revel in the knowledge that my mother was wrong and I'm still alive.

I'm odd. And I'm comfortable with that. I'm content with being the kind of guy who will always wonder if he's on the wrong bus (until he gets where he's going) or in the wrong theatre (until the movie starts). Yesterday, I was convinced I was on the wrong plane. Yes, rational thought would have told me that there was no way I could have got on the wrong plane, but rational thought isn't the lead in the drama of my mind. A bit player at best, really.

I'm content being the kind of guy who has to buy every used copy of John Crowley's Little, Big that he stumbles across. I'm content with being the kind of guy who remembers musical minutaie with an eerie precision (the recording date of Kind of Blue? Please, ask me something tough!), but can't actually remember if he's been married for thirteen or fourteen years.

But really, do I want to be introducing myself to a bunch of strangers on the internet revealing my oddness? I don't think that's a very good idea. So maybe I'll just go with an anecdote about Xander and be happy with that. That's probably for the best.

So last summer, the family was downtown for one of our regular wanders. Xander has grown up spending a lot of time downtown -- it might not take a village to raise a child, but a platoon of record store clerks, booksellers, comic store geeks, Gap-Girls, waitresses and glassblowers sure help -- and it's part of our regular routine: a wander in the good weather, a stop to check out what's new, a bite of lunch and on home. This particular afternoon Cori was spending a little longer than usual in Lush, so we were sitting outside, watching the world go by.

We had been out there for a few minutes when there was a honking of horns and a loud jangling of what sounded like bicycle bells. And then a naked man on a bicycle rolled up Government Street. Naked hippy guy, with long, flowing grey hair, a long goatee and... well, I looked away. It seemed the polite thing to do.

Of course, in looking away I happened to notice that the street behind him was filled with naked cyclists. Naked cyclists of all shapes and colours and shapes and genders and shapes and states of body paintedness and shapes and ages and... Did I mention all the different shapes? It was naked bodies as far as the eye could see. Everyone stopped to watch the Naked Bike Day Ride as it wended along the city's main tourist thoroughfare. Naked cyclists were waving and smiling and singing and blowing bubbles and bouncing in all sorts of expected and unexpected places.

It took several minutes for the parade of flesh and spokes to pass, and neither Xander nor I said a word. To be honest, I didn't look at him. I didn't want to risk making eye contact at a delicate moment (not, it should be noted, that I didn't want to risk "missing anything" as Cori suggested later. Honestly.). But after the riders were gone, I turned slowly toward him. I had no idea what I was going to say. I'm not that kind of parent. I don't have answers for... well, most things, actually. So I was waiting with some trepidation for what he was going to say.

He started with, "They weren't wearing any clothes."

I shook my head. "No, they weren't."

"Hmm," he said. "That would probably hurt."

nd that was it. And yes, I imagine it probably would.

Yeah, I think the cute anecdote is definitely the way to go here. Leave the oddness until folks get a chance to know me in person. And y'all have an opportunity to do just that, with the event at the Gladstone. I'm opening for Michael Redhill this Thursday at 7:30, and I think it's going to be a pretty good time. I'd love the opportunity to meet you -- I've been reading your comments here for a few months (since Scarbie made the inevitable Kevin Smith comparison) and peeping a few of your blogs. You sound a great bunch, and just the sort of people who might tolerate a visiting oddball author.

Until then, though, thanks for reading.
RJW

Book Your Babysitters Now

Robert J. Wiersema, author of Before I Wake, aka the book I gave away last month, will be in Toronto next Thursday for a very cool event, at the uber-cool Gladstone Hotel (details below). I hope those of you who have read the book will come out to meet Rob and have your book signed. I’ll buy a round for whoever shows up and hunts me down.

This is also a reminder to have your question for Rob to me by Monday. If you have more than one question and you live in the GTA, you can ask him in person at the event.


Thurs, Sept 21, 7:30-10pm (doors 7pm)
Gladstone Hotel Ballroom, 1214 Queen St W, Toronto.
Free, more info: www.pagesbooks.ca; 416-598-1447

Pages Books & Magazines, Random House Canada, Doubleday Canada, the Gladstone Hotel, and NOW present a This Is Not A Reading Series double book launch: Toronto literary fixture MICHAEL REDHILL celebrates the launch of his new novel CONSOLATION (Doubleday Canada) with an exclusive onstage conversation with University of Toronto Humanities Professor RUSSELL BROWN. In addition, writer, reviewer and bookseller ROBERT J. WIERSEMA will perform a “Torch Songs & Typing” multi-media presentation, where he will talk about the role of music in his work, focusing on his acclaimed debut novel BEFORE I WAKE (Random House Canada).

See you there!

Feminsomniac

It seems that Her BM has spoken to the great one on the phone and is looking for the golden question to ask Ms. Gloria Steinem in a future interview. So here's my question:

Dear Ms. Gloria Steinem,

Thank you for giving us feminism, however it's making me tired. After endeavouring to raise a future productive global citizen, trying to be a good wife, attempting to have a clean and organized home, keeping track of the fact that we're on the last roll of toilet paper, working to pay the bills, volunteering to help others, writing to feed my soul, as well as dreaming and scheming of ways to fulfill my larger goals, I only have one question for you -- when is a modern feminist mother supposed to sleep?

Sincerely,

Bags Under Her Eyes That Sephora Can't Fix.

Emergency on Planet Earth

Think what you will of me and this story. I'm going to tell it anyway.

When I was 16, I had a crazy ass vision. Not a dream, but a vision. I was sleeping, but I was awake in the world I was seeing in my mind. I was there in body and soul.

I found myself walking down stone steps, surrounded by rounded stone walls and a ceiling. I was walking into a cavern. At the bottom of the steps were children, more than a dozen, who were sitting around a man who was teaching them a lesson. It reminded me of the stoop on Sesame Street, but from the perspective of Susan coming out of the brownstone to find Bob sitting where she needs to get by. Except I had no clue where I was going. I just knew I had an appointment. I knew I was meant to be there.

Everyone was dressed straight outta The Ten Commandments and as I approached, the man turned around. It was Jesus.

He smiled and spoke softly, "I've been waiting for you." He called over to a man named Lazarus to continue his work with the children. Everyone scattered as I got to the bottom step and Jesus waved his robed arm in the direction of another stone wall. Except this stone wall had a trap door in it. He lead me into a room with computers and monitors everywhere. And this was before Sliver, so you know Jesus was state-of-the-art. With these monitors, He and some trusted peers were monitoring the world. We talked for a long time.

The door we had come in from had a one-way window to the outside. As each hour passed, I could see that the children grew a year older. And I could sense tensions mounting outside the control room. The children were fighting, and I sensed that this Lazarus was actually evil. Perhaps he was corrupting the children, knowing that the chaos might cause Jesus' fall from power. Yet Jesus held my attention, as though I shouldn't concern myself with what was going on out there and I should focus on the conversation at hand. I asked him my purpose in life. He told me that I would be important in the life of a child.

That's when violence broke out on the other side of the door. Jesus looked at me calmly and excused himself. I followed. What I saw on the other side of the door was utter destruction. Blood was dripping from the ceilings and walls of the cavern. The bodies of the children, now young adults were strewn about. Lazarus stood there laughing.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jesus asked, horrified at the site.

"Oh, it's only a little blood." Lazarus replied.

That's when Jesus grabbed Lazarus' machete and sliced him from navel to throat. "Is this only a little blood?"

Then he turned to me and said, "Go and spread the word of the Lord." Then I woke up.

I often stray from the religion I was brought up in. Extreme views, old texts and fundamentalism have turned me off. But on a day like today, it's hard not to think of faith and the good and the bad it brings. I often think of Jesus coming to me in my sleep to give me that message. Many of the things in the dream were my subconscious interpretation of the people and the surroundings in a way that I could understand them once awake. But I wholeheartedly believe that Jesus came to see me, even if I don't wholeheartedly believe in Jesus all the time.

The children of the world have lost their innocence. They are growing up in a world of violence and retalliating out of fear. God, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, Mother Nature--you name 'em, they are all pissed. Everyone in that tower or on the planes that day, even the terrorists, were mothers or fathers or daughters or sons or sisters or brothers. Pain is inevitable, but why must we inflict it on each other? Isn't the inevitable death enough? I know I live in a wealthy world in the middle of a North American scale. I know that scale tips drastically higher when you add the billions of other world citizens. But couldn't this energy be better spent on working together? Am I a ridiculous idealist? Yes, but I wish we all were.

On the day of the 9-11 attacks I was home, depressed and unemployed. I slept rather late and the second tower had not been hit when I turned on the TV to check the tower. What a freak accident, I thought. I called the Dog at work. We watched the second tower get hit and called each other again. One was an accident, but holy shit, two? Something is up. And then the buildings came down. And I felt my heart crashing as deep as the weather. I cried. I panicked. I knew the world as we knew it was over. I lived in a high rise overlooking the CN Tower and I wondered if we were next. If we were, I would have a perfect view of the destruction from the 16th floor. I was paralysed. I just wanted my loved ones under my wing and to be on groundlevel.

My husband and sister were dismissed from work early and were soon at my side. People wandered the streets apocalyptically. We tried to maintain a sense of normalcy and went to Baldwin Street for some cheap Chinese. And then I saw another sign, a sign that told me that all was not lost. Pauly Shore. I guess he was in town for the film fest that year. The sight of him made me have my first laugh that day. The irony of this blockbuster clown, trying to ressurect himself as a serious actor. But I thought, there is still hope. Don't. Give. Up.

Make them laugh.

So two visions, each with its own message. The Being of Goodness that watches over us cannot watch every move we make. It is up to each person to govern themselves to do what's right. What's right for the good of everyone. We have lost our innocence, but we can't let a few bad apples destroy our faith in goodness. We cannot let the children of the world grow up in this way. How lucky are we to have national holidays and baseball games with fireworks, when for entire generations on the other side of the world that sound of explosions in the sky has drastically different evocations? As Khaled Hosseini pointed out in The Kite Runner, an entire generation has grown up in Afghanistan never knowing a world that did not have the sound of gunfire.

We cannot lose hope. We cannot stop laughing. Even when thousands of lives are lost. Because to honour the innocent and defeat evil, the pursuit of a joyous life must reign supreme. Not a greedy life of SUVs and inequalities -- NO! Kindness, generosity, positivity, fearlessness, hard work and true goodness are our weapons. I know it's easy for me to say with my belly full and a roof over my head, but if I don't hang on to this shred of belief... well the alternatives are hopelessness and dispair, and I refuse to bring my son up with a mother who can't get out of bed because the problems of the world are so huge. I want to teach him that living is the ultimate tribute, and that those who are no longer with us might be watching by satelite feed in a cavern somewhere. I hope y'all are chuckling at us up there, giggling at how trivial it all is.

Go and spread the word of the Scarb.

The Boy Who Cried Mommy

Ever since we returned from our vacation, our wee hero has been having some...issues. After two weeks of solid Mummee/Da-ee time, he wakes up in the night jonesing for a fix. Sometime between 2 and 3 pm he begins:

"Waaaaah! Mummy! Mommy! Maaaaa..."
Me, covers off before my eyes are open, disoriented and rushing into his room to see what's the matter at the speed of light. He's had a nightmare, or maybe the cat went into his crib and scratched him, or maybe he has a fever...He needs me!

Him: standing in crib, HUGE smile on his face when I approach. "Heee! Mummee. Mahmee. Mummy!"

Fuck, duped again. Me in not awake man voice: "Hey buddy, what's wrong?"

Him: "Truck?" Sucks thumb furiously.

Me, softening at the cuteness, but mildly irritated at the false alarm: "Did you see a truck in your dream?"

Him: pulls thumb out, cutest hoarse voice you've ever heard, "Yeah. Mahmee!" Pulls my face to his.

Me: swooning and similtaneously thinking, how the fuck am I getting him back to sleep. Shit he's heavy. Change his diaper so he drops a few pounds. Call to the Dog to get some milk. Hey, if I'm up, we're all up. No one gets off easy.

The Dog brings the milk and goes back to bed. I get tired of rocking and holding. I really have to pee. So I pee while I'm holding him. It takes skill to get your underpants down with one hand when you're semi-conscious in the dark. I fall rather heavily onto the throne. I yawn for the threehundredseventythird time. Against my better judgement, I bring the Pup into our bed. The Puppy tries to drink his bottle while tweaking my left nip. After a few ounces, he hands me the bottle, "Done." He sits up, smiles at me and says, "Muh-mee?"

The little voice in my head says, "Uh-oh. Think fast." Just then his enormous noggin comes crashing down on mine. Ow fucking ow. He sucks his thumb. I close my eyes thinking that maybe we can all get some rest.

Him: Toss. Turn. Tweak. Toss. Turn. Tweak. Kick Daddy in the head. Sit up. "Car?"

Me, one eye open: "No, not car time now. Sleep time now." I turn my back to him so that he gets the hint. He jumps on top of me and starts making the clacking horsey sound I taught him. I giggle a bit. I pull him close to me like a mother bird. "No, not horsey time. Sleepy time." He sucks his thumb.

30 minutes later:

The Dog, "Ugh. I can't take it anymore. He keeps kicking me in the face!" He scoops the Pup up. "Sorry Puppy, you have to go to your own bed now."

Him: "Waaaah. Mummymummymummy! Waaah."

The Dog rocks him for a bit until he's quiet and then places him in the crib and comes back to bed.

Him: "Waaah! MAMEEE! MUMMY! MAMMEEEEEEEE! [Some baby shrieking that seems to be an attempt to alert the neighbours to call Children's Aid.]"

The Dog, blocking me with his arm: "Don't get up. Leave him."

10 minutes later:

"Mummee? Mah mee? Maaaaah-meeee..."

Me, half asleep. "Oh fuck, he's still awake." Then, "Oh, it's so cute how he calls for me now. Let me ignore and hope he goes back to sleep."

10 minutes later:

"Car? Truck. Choo choo. Mooooo. Mahmee? Da-ee." And every other cute thing he knows how to say. The Dog and I try to supress our convulsions. Haha tears quietly roll down my eyes. Clearly he's trying to woo me back into his room. But one of us has to give in sooner or later.

I wake up at 6:30 am, we all get dressed and somehow out the door to daycare. The second we pull into the parking lot, the whining starts.

"Hehehehe. (pause) No?"

"Yes, you have to go to school today. Mommy has to work to put food on the table." (Food that you're not going to eat anyway, so what's the friggin point?)

We get inside and put his slippers on. He starts bawling. "Waaah, Mahmee. Oh Mommy." My heart breaks into microscopic shards. I run guiltily, sluggishly to the car and cry on the ride to the office. I walk into the office late and looking like Tara Reid after a Hamptons' bender.

But this last week, a glimmer of hope. After six months of part-time daycare -- no tears! This morning he really didn't want to go, but when we arrived I thrust three cars into his hands. He got distracted quickly. "Mommy has to go. Come give Mommy a kiss," I said with hesitation, worried I may open the wound and the floodgates. Nope, I got my kiss, then back to his cars. I chatted briefly with my daycare provider. Next thing I know, he's looking up at me.

"Bye Mommy," was what the wee monkey said, his attitude implying, "Alright already! I don't need you here anymore. Just go."

Wow. Independance. Scary.

Now if only he would say "Bye Mommy" at 3 am.

Mid-week Hotness

I can't believe I forgot to comment on this hotness last week! Even the Dog had to admit that JT is cool, an incredible dancer, and that his suit was something he should consider adding to his wardrobe.



Penelope was talking about "The List" last week. You know, the one from Friends? You pick 5 celebrities that you could shag without wrecking your relationship (As if? How do you go back to your partner after Angelina Jolie -- as a certain someone found out the hard way.) Anyway, allow me a little 16-year-old girl crush here. JT is def Number 1 on my list. I would even put him in permanent ink and laminate that.

I also watched Ryan Gosling in Half Nelson over the weekend -- a film that I highly recommend (watch the trailer below). He plays an inner city teacher with a crack problem. His (non-sexual) relationship with one of his students is what gives the film its gritty, beautiful heart. The music by Broken Social Scene, the band the other bands in Canada love to hate on, works perfectly here. Ryan Gosling would also be on my list. I like to imagine the Dog and I bowling with him and Rachel McAdams on the weekends. They are both from South Western Ontario and both incredible, smart actors, who make excellent film choices. I vote them Hollywood's--and Canada's--coolest couple.



I have loads to update on, but have not been feeling very bloggy this week, so forgive my absence. I will have a good laugh for you tomorrow.