going "in country"

I have been bad with the posts because I am entertaining overly demanding family members..well, really family member who expect me to get out of bed every day, skip the bonbon eating and Oprah and entertain with sights, education walks, etc. Honestly, going out EVERY DAY!

In an effort to completely deplete what energy I have left, we are about to leave for a week in Vietnam where we will meet up with Middle Brother who has been touring Southeast Asia in an attempt to recover from the exhaustion brought on by working full-time. In any event, I had assumed that I would be escaping the bone chilling cold of Hong Kong envisioning palm tree lined beaches and tropical cocktails. So, imagine my dismay when I discovered that Vietnam, or Hanoi anyway, is equally as freezing. I am really starting to get annoyed with countries that erroneously put themselves forward as warm but are in fact prone to cold snaps; if I could figure it out, I would try to sue someone for false advertising.

That all being well and good, I am pleased to announce that I am about to pay money to freeze my ass off in another Asian city...will report upon return.

and, i'm out...

So, for those of you not in the know, I and the other Lemony Lemonades have upped stix and moved our collective butts to Hong Kong. That's right people, I have moved from the T dot to the H dot K dot, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.

None of this has been easy - including packing up my beloved condo, which Mr. Lemony Lemonade had to wrench from my overwrought grasp (I considered chaining myself to it but couldn't work out the best way to do this as chain is expensive by the foot). Of course, let's not forget 15+ hours on a plane with a three year old and an insomniac three year old at that. Gratefully, she didn't insist on getting out of the plane and seemed relatively content to play with her toys, put baby Charlie to bed ad nauseum and watch DVDs.

The moral of the story is this...www.snoreonto is just no longer appropriate as I have flown the coup and am on to bigger and better things (e.g. Christian Bale is in town filming Batman Continues On for the Umpteenth Time...and he is a really, really good actor...). I will be moving myself, not only to new real-life diggs but also new cyber digs as soon as I work out a really wicked url for my blog, something both ironic and laconic, if possible. Trust me, you will be the first to know. Till then....cheerio!

Shoes, beautiful shoes...

My most favourite thing in the whole wide world is shoes of all kinds, shapes and price points. I am an equal opportunity addict - and I am addicted; as sick and twisted and vacuuous as it is, I love shoe shopping above all else. OK, finding the perfect t-shirt, that's a close second because a truly great t-shirt is like the orgasm of shopping. But when it comes right down to it, I would give up a thousand beautiful tees for shoes, wondering shoes. I love shoes, lurv shoes, I lik'em a lot, I love a dub dub them.

Having had a daughter, I am beyond excited at the prospect to sharing my obsession because we all know, a boy just wouldn't do. Which brings me to boy shopping, the exact opposite of shoe shopping. Boy shopping is everything that is wrong with the world, of course that would also include such things as Britney Spears' heinous weave and the fact that the Olsen twins are billionaires. The reason that boy shopping is so very wrong is that they shop sans passion. I go to the mall and I am on a permanent contact high, overwhelmed with the choice, mentally jockeying around the dollars and cents trying to justify this must-have sweater and that must-have necklace while Mr. Lemony Lemonade (in this case, acting as the poster boy for all boy shoppers) is like, yeah, that's ok, ummmm, yeah, ok....all I need is a white t-shirt, so, can we go to the white t-shirt section now? White t-shirts? white, freakin' t-shirts? Who goes shopping for JUST A WHITE T-SHIRT? And it's not even like he's all that interested in the crummy white t-shirt either. I go shopping for a white t-shirt and I will finger, stroke, fuss and try one 100 shirts, balancing the merits of each and if the one that I want, the one that I really, really want, because it has a really cute collar or just the right length of sleeve or sits just so on the hip, isn't in my size, I will likely still buy it because I need it that badly. Mr. Lemony Lemonade doesn't find his size, he shrugs his shoulders and heads for the car. One time he refused to buy shoes that he liked because he thought that they felt a bit tight. HE THOUGHT THAT THEY FELT TIGHT? In the shoe shopping world that means, RUN TO THE NEAREST CASH REGISTER AND CHARGE IT. You don't overthink shoe purchases - you just buy. Bottom line, boys don't deserve to shop, what they do deserve is to sit around wrapped in paper towel because that's the punishment for desecrating the beauty of shopping.

Which brings me to today. Baby Girl and I went on our first official shoe shopping expedition because Baby Girl needed running shoes. I had finally accepted that I wasn't going to be able to to justify $70 Nike Shox to Mr. Lemony Lemonade AGAIN (Baby Girl had a pair when she was like one year old and they fit for about three and a half hours) so, I headed over to my fave The Shoe Company. Unfortunately, Baby Girl has recently decided that anything not pink is FOR BOYS and that's how she says it, like, you are an idiot mother and clearly I need to speak louder and slower so that you can understand and get it through your thick skull that I KNOW EVERYTHING. Her recent penchant for all things pink means that she has been making some very dubious fashion choices lately because, let's be honest, pink isn't exactly a ubiquitous sort of colour. Pink should really be reserved for a splash of colour not so much for a whole, heat-to-toe outfit. Anyhow, we got to the shoe store and before I could say, what about these fancy, pink, suede, old school, sneakers, she had removed her own shoes and had put on a pair of bright pink wellingtons with purple spots. As if that wasn't heinous enough, the boots also had antennae and bulging eyes. Once I was finally able to wrestle her attention away from the AWESOME wellies, we reviewed the rather extensive sneaker options, however, Baby Girl quickly rejected each sneaker in turn citing increasingly "boy shopping-esque" excuses; the first pair was "too tall", the second pair "for boys", the third pair was "for Victoria" (not sure what that meant) and the fourth pair was "too fast". I was about to despair when Baby Girl finally alighted on a pair that delighted her. Interestingly, they were the oldest looking pair of running shoes. When I say "oldest" read, they didn't look like they were made by a drag queen or a crafty bedazzler. These shoes were completely devoid of cartoon characters, glitter, flowers, butterflies or other embellishment. She put them on and promptly declared them GORGEOUS. Just when I thought that I was going to weep for joy at her obvious shoe shopping talents, she did the one thing all shoe addicted mothers hope for; she ran back to the display, got another pair of the same running shoes and said, "Mommy, here's your pair." God knows that if I could, I would have crammed my foot into the pint-sized Adidas silver and pink sneaker because the only thing better than wearing new shoes is wearing MATCHING SHOES with your three year old - oh yeah, that's cool. Anyhow, I did obliged by putting on a woman sized pair of sneakers to which Baby Girl exclaimed, "I LOVE THESE SHOES". I couldn't agree more!

My own personal Darwin award...

Today, I almost became the subject of one of those Darwin Award emails where the author of the awards delights in the novel and amusing ways in which imbeciles and the mentally weak manage to get themselves killed. The sort of emails that always end with a smug quip such as, "thank God that moron is no longer swimming in the gene pool". Well, first, I have news for you people, even if I manage to get myself bumped off in a freak toothpick accident or meet my maker at the hands of a small electrical applicance, I have managed to procreate, so the joke's on you because my wacky genes are guaranteed for at least another generation SO THERE. Which brings me to my near death experience.

I have long known that under different circumstances, my Mother would have been an adept assassin for hire. However, it wasn't until my mother got her first SUV that she really came into her own. It was at this point that all her personality peccadillos converged into sharp focus. I suppose that it surprised us all that when she got what I like to call "the instrument of death", my mother discovered her true trucker self. Leaving aside the fact that as an owner of an SUV, my mother has the carbon footprint of a T-Rex, it is undeniable that she has taken on a sort of larger than life SUV persona like when she steps into the SUV, she is KING OF THE WORLD. My mom readily admits to the rush of power she feels behind the wheel of 600 tonnes of Detroit steel, so at least she admits she has a problem and that is the first stage to recovery. However, that being said, she hasn't really shown any real signs of moving on to whatever step two is (begging forgiveness? making amends? checking into the Betty Ford?...really people, does anyone know what comes after step one?). She also now refers to pedestrians and drivers of small (read: normal) sized vehicles as nuisances, not to be tolerated but to be squashed like the bugs that they are. The carmakers also have their part to play in this little drama as the enablers of all time. Every new model they cook up some new fangled gadgetry that really just ends up making the SUV more threatening than before. Take the reverse alarm in my mother's newest SUV. Because the SUV is so ridiculously oversized, the car makers finally realizing that instead of letting armies of megalomaniac moms and the similarly oversized vehicularly endowed run over curbs, posts and anyone under six foot because they can't see a freakin' thing out the back of the vehicle, they will placate their consciences by installing a little alarm that will warn drivers of these instruments of death that they are about to squash someone. All this means is that my mother now reverses staring straight ahead as the little alarm will no doubt let her know if there is anything to be worried about.

Now, where was I? Of course, my near death experience. Many of you will likely not believe what I am about to relate because in a city of over five million people and thousands of kilometres of roads, the events that I am about to describe would require an unbelievable confluence of circumstances. The sort of circumstances that could be thrown off by the slightest inteference - a left instead of a right, missing the elevator, deciding to go to the bathroom before leaving the office, returning for a forgotten item. In this case, the planets were perfectly aligned and if I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe it myself. I swear that (more of less) every word of what I tell you is true, save embellishments and pointless digressions.

Which brings me to the non-event of my near death. I was crossing the street to go to the bank around lunch time today. As I was crossing the street out of the corner of my eye I registered a car had misjudged the light. As the light turned red for the car, it turned green for those of us waiting to cross and simultaneously, I stepped off the curb as the car, frantic to correct its error in judgment, attempted to charge through the pedestrians. Of course, like any God fearing Toronto pedestrian, I KNOW MY GODDAMNED RIGHTS and those rights include crossing on a green no matter what is coming in the opposite direction. If anyone tried to interfere with my pedestrian rights, they were in for a look of death, likely a finger waggle, possibly a full arm gesture and, if I am feeling unusually nervy, a cuss word or two. In this case, I turned to unleash any combination of finger, arm waving and/or cuss word when I found myself staring right into the eyes of my Mother. I would love to say that she was grim, determined, possibly even apologetic looking but instead, I saw what I can only interpret as the face of a woman at peace with the world. So, while I was within a hair's breadth of becoming a stupid, infinitely forwarded, joke email, my mother had achieved SUV nirvana. The best bit is that while I slinked off, head hung low so that no one would notice me, a rather confident and bossy pedestrian took it upon himself to hold up the pedestrian traffic so that my mother could pass. As I hustled away from the melee, presided over by the Good Samaritan Pedestrian, I heard him mutter something about stupidity and gas guzzlers.

I of course quickly called my mother to confirm that what I thought had just happened had actually just happened and I am pleased to announce that my state of shock and near-death experience was of no interest whatsoever to my mother, however, she did express great concern that I not tell anyone in the family about the "incident" and of course, I am keeping my promise...

i don't want to be a fat guy

Dieting is so very boring. I would love to say that pregnancy was my downfall but it was so much more. First university (delivery pizza, beer), then work (sitting for 10 hours straight, bagels, business lunches) and then pregnancy (great excuse for eating Dairy Queen for breakfast) and then anxiety and depression (also great excuse for eating Dairy Queen for breakfast). Before becoming pregnant, I had managed to shed a whopping 50 lbs. but then gained it all back plus and then lost it and then gained some of it back again. So, after learning from the news television in my office building's elevator that being even slightly overweight can increase mortality by 351%, I resolved to get back on the wagon and lose the pesky pounds. I'm not sure what is more disturbing, the mortality statistic or the fact that I now consider a television in an elevator a reliable source of medical information.

Mr. Lemony Lemonade is always my biggest champion when I try to eat well. Easy for his lean and lithesome butt; he's not cursed with the genetic makeup of an eastern european weight lifter. Truly, when it comes to losing weight, I am totally buggered as I seem to have been blessed with one of those metabolisms that needs only 5 or 6 calories a day to function effortlessly; anything over that, and it goes straight to my hips. It's not so much that I put on weight, it's just that it won't goddamned go away. I once watched a documentary on a woman in England who claimed that she didn't eat or drink anything as she had developed the ability to suck all the water and nutrients that her body required out of the air. She claimed not to have touched food or water for, like, eight years. She didn't exactly look the picture of health, appeared dazed and disoriented and sounded like a complete looney toon, but I could relate. I am certain that if I stopped eating altogether, I could last a good six to eight months before anyone would even notice.

As for what form my diet will take, Mr. Lemony Lemonade, in spite of his cougar-like physique, is no stranger to the diet and so, perhaps a page out of his book is just the ticket. I remember one particularly successful diet was his imaginatively titled "apple and vodka diet". I would like to tell you that there is something fancy about this diet but really, Mr. Lemony Lemonade just ate apples and drank martinis for like a week. The final insult was not that he walked around like a wino for ten days, but the fact that he dropped five pounds! Then there was the "apple and soup diet", again, imaginatively named and as the name suggests, consists of eating apples and soup. Although not quite as entertaining as the apple-vodka diet, Mr. Lemony Lemonade dropped another five pounds. It's clear that Mr. Lemony Lemonade could go on the cheescake-lard diet and lose another five pounds. I suspect that he may have supernatural powers of weight loss and that he just sort of wills the extra pounds to flee his body. Of course, his motivation is the much feared "man titties", worse than cellulite, saddle bags and muffin tops all put together. That being said, as much as I personally approve of drunken dieting, I think that I need something more, mainstream; perhaps eat more, exercise less, errr, sorry, eat less, exercise more.

I would love to say that I have a brilliant dieting scheme all worked out but I think that I will opt for plain old fashioned starvation because, we all know how much I love exercise. So, while Mr. Lemony Lemonade downs his fifth "diet martini" and Baby Girl polishes off her nightly chocolate ice cream, I will be in some form of starvation ecstasy having just scarfed my quota of celery, water and tofu - please pray for me.

late bloomer

I have often been struck by how un-parental I can be, like how I didn't really want to be a stay-at-home mom or how I eschewed breast feeding (yucky). Even more un-parenty is how I seem to be so very thrilled at every new achievement of Baby Girl's that makes her less dependent on me to do things for her confirming what I had always suspected about my own parents; they only had children so that one day, someone else would empty the dishwasher.

When Baby Girl learned to crawl, hurray, no more having to move her around like a potted plant or having her scream endlessly about the toy that was just outside of her reach. When Baby Girl started eating solid food, I was mentally calculating how much money we would save on the reduced amount of formula. When she learned to feed herself, hallelujah, no more having to coax her to eat or making stupid plane sounds. When she learned to walk, I was thrilled that my back might finally recover from the months of hauling her around like a sack of potatoes. This was so unlike other mothers that I talked to who seemed saddened by their children's creep toward independence. They would say things like, "I miss giving Emma her bottle" or "I really loved the bonding of nursing Connor". I would of course, nod knowingly as if to say, "I so, know what you mean" when I was thinking "are you freaking kidding me?". What really happened when Baby Girl no longer needed the bottles? I threw them out without a second thought and proceeded to myself a margarita party (for one). However, if I ever let that little internal monologue out into the open, as I have done by mistake on a few occasions, I get this quizzical look that clearly conveys the fact that I have just revealed myself to be a TERRIBLE MOTHER, I might as well have casually mentioned that I was a part-time porn star or kept a switch in the family room for "discipline". That is until yesterday morning when IT HAPPENED.

I was in the closet getting dressed and Baby Girl was happily watching Miss. Spider on the bed when I peeked around the corner to check on her and she was gone. This was unusual, so I called her name and she yelled back, "I'm in the bathroom." I went out to have a look and Baby Girl had not only just gotten up and off the bed and gone to the bathroom, she had put herself on the potty and was reading Dr. Seuss. She looked up from the book and nonchalantly asked "what, Mommy?" and I said, "what are you doing?" and looking at me as if I was the village idiot, she said "I'm doing a stinky Mommy, GO AWAY".

That's when I got all verklempt, because Baby Girl had just, of her own volition realized that she needed the bathroom, gotten up off the bed, managed to get out of her clothes, had the wherewithall to know that she might be some time and grabbed some reading material and then put herself on the potty. That, people, is independence and that was when I got all "oh, my god, she's so grown up" and "where did the time go" and all sad and drippy like a complete and utter LOSER. The unfortunate truth is that I now know why Connor's mom misses the bonding of breastfeeding and Emma's mom is wistful about bottle feeding. I am clearly just a late bloomer when it comes to these things. Where it took other moms months, it has clearly taken me years to develop the wistful, sentimental thing which makes me wonder what other parental pitfalls and anxieties I have avoided out of parental immaturity but that are bound to hit me like a ton of bricks at any given time. Am I going to start getting broody and wanting another child? or even, gulp, wish that I had stuck out the breastfeeding thing? but the even more unfortunate truth is that I can't really share this story with other mother's because it's not cute enough like the bottle thing or the breastfeeding thing; I mean, could I be any grosser - I am getting weepy over poop. What's next, missing her wiping her drippy nose on me when she finally learns to use a tissue and blow like a normal human being?

martial bliss, lemony lemonade style

In the early days of the Lemony Lemonade marriage things could be tempestuous but we were younger and more immature and finding our marriage legs. Mr. Lemony Lemonade was far more volatile and I was far more provocative and I don't mean that I walked around all day in garters and a teddy. We have since mellowed, accepted certain realities about each other's personalities, matured and learned that it is unlikely that holding one's breath and threatening mayhem is not the most productive way to bend another human to your will.

More recently, we have found our stride although I will admit that our testiness levels are directly correlated to Baby Girl's mood and temperment. If she is being a diva, we get snippy and crappy to one another. If she is being a petite ange, life is a box of chocolates. But that all goes out the window when Mr. Lemony Lemonade gets humpfy and sniffy. One might think that sniffiness isn't all that bad but believe me, no one can sniff so derisively, so snootily, so witheringly as Mr. Lemony Lemonade.

Tonight, I got the sniff and I knew that I was in big trouble because Baby Girl was hundreds of miles away with her grandparents, so this mood was clearly ALL MY FAULT and I knew that it was because I am a horrible, terrible, failure as a housekeeper.

Few people would know this or guess this even if they knew us very, very well but when it comes to keeping house, I am a complete and utter slob (not so surprsing) and Mr. Lemony Lemonade is fastidious and regimented (more surprising). Most people would assume that I am the fascist to his pacist but when it comes to housekeeping, I am the slobby bobby hedonist and he's freaking Mary Poppins. Tonight, the sniff was about unpacking. I got in and sat down because I hate doing worky stuff and he promptly, as he does every day, went off to do chores which of course, drives me insane because how can I be expected to relax and decompress when he insists on running around ensuring that the house is kept in order and that a high level of hygiene is maintained so that none of us contract dysentary or the plague. I know, I know, I bloody well know that I come from a long line of malingering lazy bones, so, really, my failing as a housekeeper isn't my fault, it's my parents' fault. If only they had done a better job raising me, I would be a better person. One time, my laziness even made Mr. Lemony Lemonade threaten to leave the country - my laziness was that irksome and vexing that it required not only just leaving my immediate vicinity, it was actually worthy of international flight.

So, because I am relentless in my pursuit of not being bossed, I pulled out all the stops, I argued like I was making a case before the Supreme Court on why the death penalty shouldn't be applied so, of course, no argument was too ridiculous, too flawed, too outrageous. I got so crazy at one point that I actually suggested that Mr. Lemony Lemonade's attempts to get me to do housework was tantamount to gender discrimination akin to 250 years of male oppression of women the world over. Somehow, I managed to justify the fact that I don't touch garbage, do laundry or mop floors by suggesting that asking me to touch garbage, do laundry and mop floors was just another example of the iron boot of white male oppression. Let's face it, I reached marital rock bottom with that line of argument.

Unfortunately, I have made my bed and as we speak, Mr. Lemony Lemonade is sleeping in it like a baby. My argument was so blindingly successful that he has bought my laissez faire stance and decreed that he is going to enjoy life more and clean up less. Fan-fricking-tastic, I say, but how in God's name am I going to manage this frightful situation that is sadly, of my own making. Clearly Baby Girl is just going to have to learn to do laundry or wear disposable clothing and eat only no-cook, garbageless foods and possibly, I can just buy like 150 pairs of underwear and sleep on top of the sheets; my sisters are depending on me and as God is my witness, I will not capitulate, even if it means dysentery and the plague because that would be better than having to admit that I might, just might be wrong.

I want, I want, I need, I need

As I was waiting for my threading appointment (a well kept brow is a must for this gal about town) I was FORCED to read one of the many magazines that are dedicated to celebu-news. I have, on occasion actually paid good money for these publications and probably should have instead simply just wiped my ass with the five bucks or set it on fire because it would have been about as productive and I likely would have lost less brain cells. That being said, I have since resolved to not pay for them so, I am reduced to reading them in kitchen check out lines and at the spa.

Of interest was an article (can I really call something that is only four paragraphs long an article? more like an articlette) about Angelina Jolie's worrying thinness. According to "an unidentifed source close to the star" poor Angelina was unable to eat because every time she tried to eat, she was overcome with guilt about all the people in the world that didn't have enough to eat and was unable to put fork to mouth. I was left wondering if she felt the same guilt when she put on her $1,200 sunglasses or took a private jet; was she overcome with guilt about all the people in the world that couldn't afford Ray Bans or a Gulfstream?

All of this was rather topical given my current obsession with shopping. At the best of times, I really, really love buying clothes, or let's be honest, shoes. But now, I have discovered ebay and have already been able to get the beautiful silver Birkenstocks for half price, HALF PRICE; that's practically FREE! My next objective is to get Puma's at HALF PRICE or, as I like to think of it, FREE.

Of course, Mr. Lemony Lemonade's head is going to explode if I keep going but then I remind him he could be married to Posh Spice and she is obnoxiously spendy, like $20,000 on a throw cushion. Then again, that would make him David Beckham; a studly footballer wandering around the house in a sarong and a faux-hican hairdo, so really, who's he to take me to task over a $20,000 throw cushion.

Just as I am sitting here on the verge of gross delusion having convinced myself that I can, I can afford that Pucci silk scarf, I look over and what do I see - Baby Girl, butt naked (preferred state of affairs in Baby Girl's world) watching Max & Ruby with a hair clip attached to her nose. On second thought, put the $150 in the college fund for my special little princess.

The Omerta

There are things in life that you think you understand because they are so mundane and routine. However, until you experience them first-hand, you don't REALLY know anything about them like the Masons or a Fraternity, jumping out of a plane, and of course, being a parent.

We have all been to Frat parties, done a beer funnel and woken up wondering why it's Monday when our last cogent memory is of Saturday but we don't really know the secret handshake or what happens when you are jumped in or whatever it is that one does to become a "brother". I've seen people jump out of planes and I understand what happens, but it's a far cry from abandoning all good sense and actually jumping out of a plane. Which brings me to being a parent. There are millions of people out there who are parents and in fact, my own parents are parents, so it's not like it's all that unusual and yet, who knew that I knew bugger all about being a parent. The worst part is that just as the whole Frat thing is cloaked in the utmost secrecy, so to is parenting; it's like all parents have taken an oath tantamount to the Mafia's Omerta. The truth is, if the innocent non-parents were ever let in on the secret, the species would end tomorrow.

It all begins with birth; an incrediby misunderstood and poorly discussed event. If anyone actually told you what happened, the species would end tomorrow (didn't I say that already?). I can forgive women their birthing Omerta because I know that they are in complete denial and they should be because what else in life will ever be as painful and, on some level, incredibly humiliating? And when I say painful, I mean that they should really develop a special word for the infinite and crushing nature of the particularly special pain that is birth. Aside from the pain aspect, let's not forget the indelicacy of the entire procedure and the fact that there are typically half a dozen people watching you do the most indelicate thing you could ever do. After birth, I was convinced that there was nothing more embarrasing, more painful, more grueling; I have seen hell, so nothing could possibly surprise me, after all, I HAVE GIVEN BIRTH, right? WRONG.

Birth is like playful foreplay compared to the act of rearing the little darlings. It was while Baby Girl was doing her best impression of the girl from the Exorcist in the middle of seeing "Surf's Up" because I wouldn't let her go barefoot that I realized that I have now officially morphed into that parent that I always looked at pittyingly while smugly thinking, "I'll never be THAT kind of feckless parent". BAREFOOT IN A THEATRE, she might as well have announced that she wanted to lick a door handle or stick her hand in a toilet.

Speaking of toilets, Baby Girl is now potty training, which, let me tell you, is not all it's cracked up to be because I am obliged to use the public bathroom. I have never considered myself a germophobe, but I break out in cold sweats at the thought of having to take Baby Girl into a public washroom. Having fretted over the fact that she seemed to be the last of her class to be in diapers, I am now wondering if any permanent psychological damage could result from putting her back in diapers, because as gross as changing them might be, it doesn't even rank in grossness compared with taking a two year old into a public washroom.

A typical washroom adventure starts with me using my most serious parent tone to tell Baby Girl that she is absolutely not, under any circumstances to touch anything, she of course nods very seriously as if she understands and then promptly drags her hand along the edge of the toilet seat or opens up the sanitary napkin bin. So, while I scream, "why, why, why did you do that?", she quickly whips all the toilet paper off the seat where I have laid it painstakingly so that I can sit her down and hope that her skin doesn't come in contact with the actual seat. It all ends with me close to tears and needing a stiff drink and her delerious with glee and turning the automatic hand dryer on and off.

Currently, I am being driven really, really crazy, like eye-twitchingly crazy, by Baby Girl's incessant, constant, never-ending, did I mention constant, movement. Even when totally exhausted, Baby Girl fiddles with her toes, stretches, rolls, fidgets, until I want to scream and jump out the nearest window because falling two storeys onto cold, hard, pavement, would be sweet relief from the constant fiddleyness. Like right now, we are on the bed watching Babar and Baby Girl is bone tired but she is putting her legs under the covers, then over the covers, then under the covers, then over the covers and so on and so on... I have been driven to such distraction that I am just waiting for the day that she understands the value of money because I will offer her $250 just to stop moving for 15 minutes, 15 blessed, movement-free minutes.

Having said all of this, I am clearly now going to be hunted down by the parenting Cosa Nostra or whoever is charged with guarding the parenting Omerta but I don't care because if I have to smile sweetly one more time and nod earnestly as a complete stranger at the supermarket remarks "aren't children a blessing?" I think that I might just spontaneously combust. It's not like I'm suggesting that you shouldn't be a parent or that ultimately it isn't rewarding and that the good far outweighs the bad, it's more like, don't be a parent because you think that it would be fun or you like dressing things up or because you think that it's going to save your marriage, because it will do the exact opposite. It will kill your love of dressing things up because the thing that you are dressing up, ie, the baby, will promptly puke up and ruin the cute outfit and it's not going to save your marriage, in fact, it is going to be the very thing that drives you both crazier than you ever thought you could be and long for the days when you thought that your marriage was failing apart because now you know, your marriage was a bleeding cake walk compared to being a parent.

But then it happens, there is a moment, a flash of pure brilliant beauty and Baby Girl leans her head on my chest and strokes my hand softly or plants a kiss on my cheek and says "Mommy, I love you". That's when it all floats away; the horrifying public washroom episodes, the public tantrums, the incessant jiggling, the poo, the irrational fixations, the refusal to eat anything that's not pink and it's like a good hair day, chocolate, new shoes, champagne, and winning the lottery all at once.

My inner diva...

My recent hiatus from writing can easily be explained as follows: I have recently realized that my "very cool Fall 2006 haircut" has now become the "bane of my existence Summer 2007 hair disaster."

It all came to me, as if in a dream, when I realized that the entire Lemony Lemonade family has simultaneously fallen into a "hair rut" with all of us looking rather ragged. I have been so preoccupied that I couldn't possibly focus on anything else. Then, the most extraordinary thing happened; Mr. Lemony Lemonade CHANGED HIS HAIRSTYLE. He came out of the bathroom the other night looking smug and triumphant. Although he typically looks smug, he rarely looks triumphant unless it involves holding me down and threatening to tickle me until I puke. His smugness and his triumphantness were the result of his new parting and althougth this may sound mundane and insignificant, hear me now and believe me later, he looked different, improved, groomed in a very Ralph Lauren-in the Hamptons-yachting-prep school sort of way.

Of course, Mr. Lemony Lemonade sorting out his hair ennui was not what this trendsetter really needed. So, for the past week, I have feverishly been seeking inspiration. In fact, I have become so desperate that I even gave a passing thought to a Victoria Beckham. I put it down to sugar shock as I had just downed a handful of Smarties, which I was meant to be using as Baby Girl's potty training rewards but I figured that I deserved potty training rewards just as much as Baby Girl, particularly as I now know the joys of taking a two year old into a public washroom.

And what of Baby Girl's hair woes - she is currently growing out her fringe although she doesn't really have a clue that this is in fact what she is doing. I resolved that she wasn't going to be a "bowl cut" child and I am steadfastly refusing the obviously more practical, child-friendly haircut that involves oddly short and uneven bangs. This of course brings me to confess that only recently has Baby Girl begun to have an opinion on her appearance and let's just say that she isn't wanting in the self-confidence department as every morning she declares herself "gorgeous". The only problem is that her choices are somewhat questionnable and I have had to develop Machiavellian manipulation skills to get her to agree with more appropriate wardrobe selections. Gratefully, her hair repertoire is limted to "big ponytails" or "little ponytails" which makes my life easy although I am getting extremely tired of wrestling with her every morning in order to achieve a straight parting and even ponytails. I have to admit that I would rather that Baby Girl figure out how to work a brush, barettes and an elastic band instead of buying, gasp, whatever pair of delicious shoes I am currently coveting.

That leaves me with my hair, which is now turning grey. The fault for my greyness and general raggedness falls squarely at the feet of Baby Girl. Pre-children, my hair was shiny and sans grey and my face was as smooth as a baby's bottom. Once I had Baby Girl, my hair has turned grey, I have noticeable wrinkles - to the point that my esthetician has recommended Botox and I have dark circles under my eyes. So, not only do I have to now spend a small fortune to get a cut, I am also obliged to colour which vexes me to no end.

Typically, I look for inspiration for a new hairstyle from celebrities; like when I realized that I HAD TO HAVE A MEG RYAN HAIRCUT. That worked out so-so but the real tragedy occurred when I HAD TO HAVE A GWYNETH PALTROW circa the uber-short, gamine, pixie cut. I, unfortunately, just looked like a very butch lesbian. Then there was the inevitable Jennifer Aniston circa Friends and the sort of ubiquitous Eva Longoria diva hair. More recently, I have had the very saucy long straight hair with a thick fringe but now its sort of a very awkward long haircut with a sort of growing out fringe. If Baby Girl had her way, I would get a Dora the Explorer "do" but I just don't have the right shaped face. Clearly the situation has reached Defcon five meaning that I am days away from an impulse haircut and inevitable tragedy.

It may be shallow and pointless and there are a million more important things that I could be obsessing about but this is a matter of me drawing a line in the sand and refusing to become a frumpy, unkempt, mummy. I have given up dry clean only clothing, lie-ins on the weekend, hangovers and three inch heels - there is only so far that I am willing to go and so, as God is my witness, I will find a new, dazzling and fabulous hairstyle proving that this old gal still got game...

Keepin' it real...

I recently became very annoyed about the increasing ghetto-ization of our neighbourhood. Unfortunately, I don't mean fun and interesting ghetto-ization like where people play ghetto blasters on their stoops and wolf whistle at passing hotties. Instead I mean gritty and real ghetto-ization like where people smoke crack and expose themselves.

Because the last thing I am is afraid to confront a problem head on, I did what any self respecting individual would do and contacted my City Councillor. Embarrasingly, I have to confess that I did resort to referring to myself as a taxpayer and thus, had to endure the fleeting and painful realization that I have become my father. Believing that I would be written off as another self-important, nit-picky, elitist do-gooder, I never really imagined when I pressed "send" that I would be listened to or even better yet, receive a response. Well, receive a response I did, much to my chagrin because let's be honest, I never thought that anyone would call my bluff. I write an email, vent, get to bitch about politicians and how they don't care about anything, complain, moan, complain, moan and so on. A compulsive complainer like myself never expects to have someone actually suggest a solution, that would be downright ridiculous because everyone knows, solving a problem means no more complaining and what fun is that?

Giving credit where credit is due, my Councillor is Ward 28's Pam McConnell, so, kudos to Pam and her trusty sidekick who was entrusted with dealing with my complaint. I feel sorry for Pam's sidekick but console myself with the thought that possibly, my complaint was slightly more interesting that your average, "I don't like the pink geranium planters on College Street" or "please declare October 12 Love your Ferret Day". At least my email included words like "urination" and "indecency".

So, Pam's sidekick threw down the proverbial gauntlet and not only responded to my email but also suggested that I might want to join the local neighbourhood association who, as luck would have it, were having a meeting tonight to discuss the very issue of neighbourhood safety. I was genuinely upset to learn that I had an unresolvable conflict and suggested that Mr. Lemony Lemonade might want to attend. It seemed like a good idea because Mr. Lemony Lemonade complains about 300 times more strenuously about the gritty realness of our neighbourhood than I do. Much to my surprise, I got a one line response from Mr. Lemony Lemonade, "thanks, but I will pass on this."

Hot on the heels of Mr. Lemony Lemonade "outing" himself as an apathetic tax payer and not a hot head taxpayer like myself, I made the mistake of observing that where I was all piss and vineagar, Mr. Lemony Lemonade was verging on ambivalent. Being the king of "the last word" he retorted that perhaps I should have married an eco-warrior and instead of sitting in my comfortable abode, I could be chained to a tree or on a hunger strike. All this proves is that Mr. Lemony Lemonade clearly has no understanding of my complicated psyche at all. Now that I was earning my own keep and comfortably having achieved middle class status independent of my parents it is important that I be able to convince myself that in spite of my middle class malaise, I am still "keeping it real" even if "keeping it real" means banding together with other prissy "tax payers" to decry the injustices of having to step over homeless people on my way to work in the morning or being startled by the sight of public urination while walking the Pug.

In the end, we just agreed to disagree although I did announce rather triumphantly that Mr. Lemony Lemonade is officially banned from complaining about our gritty and real neighbourhood because clearly he wasn't willing to be part of the cure so I think that makes him part of the problem or at least a complainer without true objectives and goals like myself - a complainer who has EARNED the right to complain.

The dao of drunken parenting

After writing so earnestly yesterday about how I am going to go off and find my exercise passion in a very Oprah-esque way, I went out this evening and promptly downed slices of pizza (appetizer sized), shrimp skewers (seafood, so very healthy), cheese (no way to interpret this one as anything but cardiac arrest inducing although I did eat the cheese with figs, so , it was like eating fruit which is beyond healthy), olives (aren't they the GOOD type of fat?) and part of a mini burger that seemed to be smothered in mayo (ditto on the cardiac arrest thingy) and for good measure, I washed my cardiac arrest down with two martini's (delish) and two champagne cocktails (how civilised!). So, the truth is that I really had zero intention of exercising at all, I mean who am I kidding? the very word "cardio" makes me sweat and that's workout enough for me. However, don't think that I won't be enjoying a late night Kozy Shack 90 calorie pudding because, first, we bought a flat of them from Costco so that's the only thing that fits in the fridge and second, let's face it, it's like eating nothing at all, in fact, you might actually lose weight because they are that GOOD.

In addition to learning that I am a complete and utter fibber when it comes to "exercising more" I also learned that drunken parenting is highly underrated; not only is it stress free and enjoyable, it is downright fun. Now, before you go off and report me to Children's Services, Mr. Lemony Lemonade supervised said drunken parenting so, no children were hurt in the course of my drunken parenting.

My first order of drunken parenting business was to throw caution and routine to the wind and break my most sacred evening rule, "don't get Baby Girl hyper before bed" which of course meant that I promptly started a tickle fight which, in hindsight was a bad idea because in my compromised condition, I was quickly overpowered by Baby Girl (who, by the way, tickles like she is kicking the s&*% out of you). Baby Girl, in the space of seconds managed to head butt me and give me, what I believe to be a shiner on my left eye and then proceeded to square Mr. Lemony Lemonade, all the while laughing hysterically. Just in case I hadn't made her hyper enough with the tickle fight, I snuck a bag of marshmellows upstairs like a common criminal where we proceeded to shove them into our mouths by the fistful.

The tragic truth, however, is that all that my two martinis and two champagne cocktails did was remove much of the anxiety inherent in parenting one's first-born, precious, prodigy-genius child rendering me into an idiotic woman-child who thinks that feeding a two year old a pound of sugar before bed is a brilliant idea - but really, what child ever failed to get into Oxford because they had eaten marshmellows before bed?

Therefore, the inescapable conclusion is that exercising and healthy living only lead to bad, anxiety-ridden parenting while a teensy martini once a day and NO EXERCISE will render you a fantastic parent, full of joie de vivre and childish delight. So, jaunty, jogging girls with your fancy Lululemon outfits and your lithe runners legs, a votre sante and cheers!

Happiness, thy name is Kozy Shack

As much as I would like to believe that when I look into the mirror what I see is the body of a supermodel, I have to be content with the reality that I am a thirty-something working girl who has had a baby. I am unsure which fact contributes more to my flabby thirtiness; whether it is working, which by definition means complex carb snacks at breakfast meetings and endless hours parked on my spreading ass doing sweet f&*% all OR could it be the fact that I used my pregnancy as carte blanche to indulge my "craving" for hamburgers, ice cream and chocolate chip cookie dough. I am beginning to believe that it may be a combo of both items plus now, I find myself mindlessly finishing Baby Girl's meals which means that not only am I getting the fat and calories from my own meals, I am also benefitting by finishing off Baby Girl's half eaten chicken nuggets shaped like rocket ships and the tail end of yogurts and cookies.

The even bigger problem is that I really detest exercise and when I say detest, I really, really mean it. I nod knowingly when friends say things like, "I just don't feel right if I don't workout at least 5 times a week" or "I need to run every morning or else life just isn't worth living" but the truth is, they might as well be saying, "unless I poke myself in the eye with a burning hot poker, I can't concentrate" because if you asked me, it's a toss up between going for a jaunty run and poking myself in the eye. The even worse part is that I secretly long to be a lithe, springy runner, flying around effortlessly in my Lululemon flared running pants and sassy top, ponytail flying in the wind but the truth is that when I see someone jogging, I feel faint and have an immediate need for a martini and a square of chocolate. The even funnier part is that I really enjoy active activities like tennis, biking, skiing and swimming but then, they don't really feel like exercise. So, I have committed to trying to find some active, baby belly burning exercise that doesn't feel like exercise. Many, many moons ago, I did boxing and not boxercise but real honest to goodness, smelly gloves and incessant skip rope boxing and I really, really liked it because I was too exhausted to be a stress merchant or my usual onery self. Mr. Lemony Lemonade loved it because when I got home, all the fight, literally, had gone out of me and I was like a little pussy cat. I will also be trying to find a sort of combo dance/fitness class thing that might fool me into thinking that I am having a good time and not actually exercising.

In the meantime, I am thanking my lucky stars that Kozy Shack has figured out how to make their little pots of pudding goodness a mere 90 calories so that until I can figure out something that will keep my butt from further spreading, it will at least spread at a slightly slower rate.

The indomitable Mr. Kasparov

I was beyond pleasantly surprised to be asked to be a "plus one" for the Empire Club luncheon at the Royal York Hotel where the one, the only, Grandmaster himself, Mr. Gary Kasparov was to address the assembled masses. I am beyond a bumbling schoolgirl about people like Mr. Kasparov - you can have your Brad Pitts and McDreamys because I am a complete sucker for a highly accomplished mind, thus my undying love for Mr. Lemony Lemonade who could easily be called Mr. Brainy McSmarty Pants - the man can read Latin, for the love of God and speak with conviction about economics and opening gambits. I digress.

Before I get to the nitty gritty and because I don't want to detract from the brilliance that is Kasparov, let me gush and say that the man quoted Einstein and Godel's Incompleteness Theorem causing me to swoon inappropriately into my strawberry shortcake. Thankfully for my family (the event was heavily covered by the media) I was able to maintain a modicum of dignity and refrained from pushing through the crowd and demanding that Mr. Kasparov sign my chest with a Sharpie like a common groupie.

Although I was disappointed that Mr. Kasparov didn't regale us with stories of his amazing chess career, attempting to beat and ultimately beating IBM's Deep Blue super computer , thoughts on the illusive Bobby Fisher and growing up a chess genius behind the Iron Curtain, what he did do was send the proverbial shot across the bow of those of us in the western world who have snoozed through the deconstruction of Russia and the rise of Putin, whose gaze, by the by, turns my blood chilly. As the Chairman of The United Civil Front characterised as "a broad, non-ideological coalition of opposition groups called The Other Russia" Mr. Kasparaov was passionate and eloquent in conveying his key message - that western leaders, by remaining silent have cloaked the actions of Putin and his government in a shroud of legitimacy, or as Mr. Kasparov suggests, have provided Mr. Putin with "demoncratic credentials". Not being happy with his criticism of Mr. Putin and his cronies, Mr. Kasparov also derided the UN as outdated and ineffective and chided the US and President Bush for a lack of a coherent strategy with respect to the Iraq War. Being a long time lover of all things controversial and provocative, I was giddy and I think I experienced a contact high.

I am not well informed about the internal politics of the Russian Federation and have only passing familiarity with such things as the alarming and highly suspect rise of the Russian oligarchs and the sensational and suspicious deaths of the dissident journalist Anna Politkovskaya and the just plain dissident and enigmatic Alexander Litvinenko. That being said, I listened carefully to what Mr. Kasparov said this afternoon and I have resolved to question those in power and will therefore, write another of my ubiquitous letters to my MP and to Mr. Mackay, Minister of Foreign Affairs (he can be reached at: 509-S Centre Block, House of Commons, Ottawa, Ontario, K1A 0A6 or at mackay.p@parl.gc.ca). It may seem small and ineffective, but it is one of the few practical ways in which I can express my views and be counted.

In fairness to our Grande Queso, Prime Minister Harper, I will add that at the most recent meeting of the G8 in Germany, Stephen (whose gaze also turns my bloody chilly) acted in a most un-Canadian manner and confronted Vlad Putin about alleged anti-democratic behaviour and human rights abuses in Russia. Kudos to you Stephen. Putin, however, in what I perceive to be his typical unflappable fashion did the political equivalent of answering a question with a question and suggested that Canada is not immune from similar criticism and therefore should refrain from casting the proverbial stone. Duh?

In any event, read, question and make your voice heard. I, more than anyone, would prefer to buy a cute pair of shoes or watch really, really bad television but out there somewhere, people live in fear and the least that I can do is question, question and question some more.

In all, I was struck by the personal risk that Mr. Kasparov was taking without promise of any personal gain other than harassment and possible incarceration. It is a long way from the insular world of chess to the rough and tumble world of democratic/human rights activist. So, to you my geeky chess crush Mr. Kasparov, I say, check and mate.

Farewell sweet Tapas...

My current bugaboo is Tapas. Unfortunately for me, it is also my sick little addiction but I am forced to ask - am I addicted to the Tapas or am I addicted to the hype; either way, it's tragic. As my current "love-hate," here's the breakdown - love vs. hate:

Love: because I am a huge fan of the "tasting" and the "sample". I am the one at the table who ends up hating what I ordered and trying to scam bites off of everyone else's plate. I can also NEVER decide what I want and am the consummate restaurant wheeler and dealer; poor Mr. Lemony Lemonade typically gets drafted into my plans (I am quite certain that it was in the vows between love and honour) that typically involve sharing any number of items accross all menu categories . Half an appetizer, plus a quarter of my entree plus part of my salad for part of his prime rib plus a sip of his wine in exchange for my potato, part of my fish and a bite of my dessert. Tapas is therefore, like enforced sharing and tasting - my friends and family are required to engage in my twisted game of indecision and gluttony.

Hate: slavishly following trends and paying the price. Knowing that I am being manipulated and not caring, paying three times the going price for a ridiculously small portion and still not caring. You can't buy this brand of hipness people, oh, sorry, errr, yes in fact you can buy this kind of hipness because apparently, I just did four weeks ago at Kultura. After all, would I really want a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes if they cost $19.99 at Payless, absolument NON! The correlation between expensive and cool is as inevitable as it is pathetic.

The fact that I am blogging about Tapas is a sure sign that its status as the "it-food" has clearly passed, I acknowledge that it is so January '07. That being said, it's still everyhwere and I continue to be awed by the marketing genius behind the devilish little plates of goodness. The concept is fiendeshly simple in its execution - make smaller portions, ask people to buy more and charge them the same price as if they were eating regular sized, single portions - cunning.

Having got my petit rant out of my system and coming clean with my dirty little secret, I can publicly admit that I have personally eaten at three major Tapas locations in T.O., one of which I can't recall so it couldn't have been that good. Without going into specifics, because God knows that I would make a truly pathetic restaurant critic:

Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar
9 Church Street
...really does have amazing french fries as promised although it's more lunchy than dinnery and lunch cost a small fortune (around $100 - ouch!)

Kultura
169 King Street East
...really does have the best ambience but I felt pretentious, nevertheless, I did love the chocolate dessert

As an aside and digression: Baby Brother went to Lee and whole heartedly supports what I have heard about the Black Cod being delish, that being said, I refuse to go because I have seen Susur Lee on a number of television shows and he seems like a bit of a nasty piece of work - and I don't care how good you are at something, you still have to play well with others. The moral of the story is that I won't go to Lee or Susur or any Susur/Lee related locations because I am conscientously objecting to Mr. Lee's fanciness.

Having reached my Tapas rock bottom I am now officially swearing off the stuff - my Tapas shame spiral is at an end and I will endeavour to replace every last dollar frittered away on Tapas back into Baby Girl's college fund.

Having got this monkey off my back, I can say with conviction that Tapas has put the ASS back in dining.

The Diabolical Otter

It is almost beyond belief that my family can provide such interesting fodder for a blog - and really, I am not convinced that the high jinx of the Lemony Lemonades is really all that interesting or inspiring but this is like my own little Prozac or my cheap and cheerful alternative to pricey therapy. That being said, I was reminded this evening while supping with my parents, Baby Girl and Mr. Lemony Lemonade about one of my most favourite summertime dilemmas - the Diabolical Otter.

It all officially began for the Summer of '07 when I made the mistake of asking my parents, recently returned from "up North" if they had seen hide or hair of the Diabolical Otter. I should explain, said Diabolical Otter entered the scene last summer after my parents had invested my inheritance in building a boathouse at their cottage. At the conclusion of said construction, which, by the by, rivalled the Taj Mahal in its importance, dedication of parental man hours and general angst, the Diabolical Otter appeared.

The Diabolical Otter at a moment's notice and the minute that the cottage was vacated, would hop or leap or whatever an amphibious rodent is want to do, and would take a huge poop on the dock of the boathouse. Once, we left the boathouse only to realize that we had forgotten some important and no doubt essential piece of equipment and quickly returned to the boathouse only to find that in the intervening minutes, the Diabolical Otter had done his diabolical business right on the dock. The combination of the stealth and the stinkiness culminated in the Otter being dubbed by me as "the Diabolical Otter." Only the most diabolical creature could be so MEAN as to desecrate the boathouse. I mean, didn't the bloody thing know that it was simply ruining our peaceful enjoyment of nature and the outdoors. How, in God's name, was I supposed to commune with the natural world with the stink of Otter poop ruining it all for me? Of course, my father felt that the Diabolical Otter was an afront to all that was good and right with the world and did not appreciate it when I helpfully pointed out that the Diabolical Otter was likely taking some sort of lefty-liberal-tree hugging-pro-environment stand and protesting the fact that we had inadvertently built the Taj Mahal directly over its home, mating ground, Otter public space or sacred Otter burial site. It was a stand of poopy proportions, a sort of Otter f-you.

Of course, the pooping Diabolical Otter is now safely ensconced in the Lemony Lemonade vernacular, right alongside things like the genius of John Denver. However, the Diabolical Otter is not important because of the stinky poops but because he started the ongoing Lemony Lemonade dialogue as to how to deal with the Diabolical Otter, because you see, the Lemony Lemonades are what I call "big picture people." Silly little details like actually solving a problem would be far too "micro" for us, we hire people to solve problems, but we are giants of the commentary, the complaint and the personal soapbox. Therefore, we are engaged in debate from now and on into infinity about the motivation of the poopy Diabolical Otter - was he or she hugged enough as a child, was this a failing of the Otter community as a whole that they had managed to create such a scallywag and by God, wasn't there a governmental agency that was responsible for dealing with this sort of thing? Didn't we pay our taxes in order to be protected from vexing, small rodents and their poop!

In a stroke of what I can only call sheer genius, my mother was the first and to date, the only one to posit a possible solution. She determined that without a doubt, the best and only solution was to smear bear scent on the boathouse. This suggestion silenced the Lemony Lemonades for about one nano-second as all our little pea brains spun furiously attempting to come up with a retort, a put down or witty remark. Let's just say that while we all chortled and generally rolled our eyes to indicate just how very crazy smearing bear scent on the boathouse was, what we were all really thinking was "curses, why didn't I think of that." My mistake was to suggest that perhaps smearing bear scent was perhaps going to create an even large problem. For example, what were we going to do with thirty horny bears on our dock? or, what if the bears showed up and I had gotten some bear scent on me and I was carted off and held as their captive? or, far more likely, what if a bunch of drunk adolescent bears decided to "hang" at our place, smoke pot and listen to rock and roll music at uncivilised and anti-social hours? Thank God one of us was thinking straight!

You will be happy to hear that this isn't the end of the tale because tonight at dinner we were updated. As it turns out, a box that formerly housed a television had somehow fallen onto the dock over the winter and this past weekend my father discovered that the Diabolical Otter, in a show of gallantry and impeccable manners, had decided to use said box as his own Otter Port-a-Potty. My father determined, therefore, that the box was to become a permanent fixture at the boathouse, as it is far easier to clean up the oily, slick, otter poop from the box rather than the dock itself; we are to think of it like an Otter kitty litter box.

Just when I thought that my head might actually explode, my mother piped up with possibly her most inspired thought to date - she had in fact thought of another SOLUTION. All we needed to do was smear the boathouse in otter blood because, she stated, as if she actually knew, that an animal will not venture to a place where another member of their species had died. But of course, she continued, it would be difficult to locate sufficient quantities of otter blood to really do the trick.

So, my Diabolical Otter friend, I am certainly glad that my mother is on my side of this equation because I am not quite sure if she is a genius or a budding serial killer, either way, I say to you Diabolical Otter you have been a worthy adversary but you are no match for the Lemony Lemonades.

My country for a drop of pee...

Just when I thought that there was no lower level to which I could sink, I sank.

You should understand that I am a complete hypochondriac-by-proxy, which means that I am constantly convinced that Baby Girl has contracted some devastating (but not deadly) disease. The slightest hint of a sniffle or sneeze sends me running for my second most prized reference book in the entire world, The Encyclopedia of Plague and Pestilence (the first place going to The Oxford Dictionary of Saints). Just this weekend, Baby Girl, while using her new baseball tee turned to me and said that it hurt when she peed, so, I quickly diagnosed the Black Death. Mr. Lemony Lemonade thought it best to get a second opinion (no fun!) - from a "conventional medical doctor."

We went to the pediatrician this afternoon and quite to my utter dismay, we were told that a urine sample was necessary. Now, Baby Girl is NOT POTTY TRAINED, or, at least, she is apparently potty trained at daycare but at home, the potty is a place to play with her dollies and read books. Anyhow, we were given two options: option one, conventional plastic cup and option two, a plastic bag that has an oval hole cut into it surrounded by sticky plastic that is somehow attached to, errr, the nether regions to collect pee. I assessed the options: option one, tough, given that she can't pee on demand and even more difficult, as I have to somehow figure out how to get the cup in the right place at the right time. Option two seemed on its face easier but could it really work?

We tried option one first which found Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I in our suits in the bathroom bracing ourselves for how in the world we were ever going to achieve what was clearly doomed to failure from the start. Feeling that it was necessary to give it a try, I put on the latex glove and use the provided antiseptic wipe to, well, wipe. That marked the end of the easy portion of the program. What ensued was the most ridiculous gymnastics; attempting to get Baby Girl on the potty, trying to get the jar into position, trying to stop Baby Girl from squirming and trying to watch what I was doing. At least Baby Girl had the sense to declare the whole thing a bust. In any event, it doesn't take a bleeding engineer to work out the logistics on a two year old, full size toilet, two adults and one, very small plastic cup into which the two year old is supposed to pee. Option one aborted.

Option two was too complex for our parental pea brains, so the doctor did the whole peel and stick thing. Of course Baby Girl was amused for about a nano second before removing the whole bag contraption thingy-majig. Option two aborted.

So, now I am at home plying Baby Girl with water as if a drought is imminent and chasing her around the house with the Fisher Price Sing and Learn Potty (the potty plays music when she pees) and generally enthusing about urination, like, "oh, I wish I could do a pee pee in the potty" or "wouldn't it be fun to pee pee in the potty" and the ultimate sign of desperation "Dora likes doing a pee pee in the potty." Finally, I got her to sit on the bloody thing and she sat there for 33 minutes! She doesn't do anything for 33 minutes EVER, nothing, or at least not anything that I have ever witnessed. She read a few books, fed her Dora doll pretend peas and carrots, did a puzzle and coloured a picture - all while sitting on the potty! After 33 minutes, not a drop of pee pee was to be found; I practically fought back the tears.

So, if Baby Girl is suffering from the Black Death, I will never know because I can't get any sodding pee.

Fixation Fridays

For those of you who know me at all, know that my kin are beyond 'splaining. Those who have the misfortune of crossing our path or God forbid, being invited to dinner, are lucky to survive the interaction with their sanity intact. This isn't because we attempt to poke out your eyes with dull spoons or have an unusually large taxidermy collection - no serial killers in my family. Instead, it's because we appear so normal, so plain potato chips that the an objective third party observer is inevitably struck by the incongruity of the apparent normality with the craziness that lies just beneath the surface. The Lemony Lemonades are a bunch of stark raving mad lunatics who someone, anyone, should clearly be medicating before we are allowed to do any real damage.

That being said, we are also a great source of humour for those who are not actually related, but poor Mr. Lemony Lemonade had the misfortune to marry into the madness, so, he finds it less funny than others.

Of all the Lemony Lemonades, none is more entertaining on a pound for pound basis than my father - likely because he is downright likable and genuinely humorous and because he appears to be the most normal of the bunch making his idiosyncracies all the more hilarious. Of all of his characteristics, his most marked is his unerring commitment to his views on anything and everything ranging from controversial political issues to country music. No matter how many times we tell him that we could care less about his views on weather or capital punishment, he persists in providing said views. This characteristic is only slightly more prominent than his anal retentive commitment to pattern and routine.

With summer in full force, I recently reflected on my most favourite summer memories and was immediately reminded of my love of the smells and sounds of summer. Unlike some, however, my smells and sounds of summer are not of the laughing children and bbq variety but instead are tangled with memories of my father's unerring commitment to life's injustices.

We previously lived next door to a prolific, amateur, lawn care specialist who, for whatever reason, chose to trim his delectible lawn right around dinner time or at least right around OUR dinner time because clearly he cut his lawn AFTER his dinner time, which apparently was about 4 p.m. Needless to say, just as our collective asses would touch the chairs around the Lemony Lemonade table, the mower would start up. Every time, without fail, my father would freak out which involved him getting alarmingly red in the face and tirading about how "every goddamned night....just as we sit down to goddamned dinner...how many goddamned times can you cut a goddamned lawn...one day...going to set that goddamned mower on fire" and so on. It never occurred to him that the neighbour sensed his displeasure and that was why he cut the goddamned lawn every goddamned dinner time - because that is the role of the neighbour, to grate on your nerves with their own idiosyncracies and issues until you think that if they park their car too close to the edge of the driveway one more time or drag their rubbish loudly to the corner at 5 a.m. or remind you one more time that your children are loud, drunken, louts who should be imprisoned for staying up past 11 p.m., that you will be justified in egging their house and flipping them the finger every morning as you both leave for work.

All of this common sense, however, was totally lost on my father and as such, we lived in the house for 25 plus years which conservatively means that we were treated to the lawn mowing tirade about a thousand times and God bless him, it never changed, it only got more intense until I was sure that his head would explode, or at the very least spin around.

More recently, my siblings have moved out, I now have my own home with my own family and my parents sold that particular house a number years ago but I still get a warm, fuzzy feeling when I hear lawn mowers and smell the scent of freshly cut grass - for some inexplicable reason, I sort of miss those summer dinners around the family table, accompanied by the dulcet tones of the neighbour's mower and my father's impending infarction - because these are the comforting, sentimental sounds of my life...GODDAMIT.

GELATO ME BABY!

This Thursday's theme is going to be ice cream, in case you hadn't already guessed. I could spell out the reasons for the ice cream theme but really, people, I am too busy mopping my brow and wondering if my hair is "playfully tousled" or just plain limp.

Let me preface my post by saying that I have a very, very long love affair with ice cream of all varieties including full fat, low fat, gelato, granita, fro-yo, ices and sorbet. I once spent three days in Florence and much to my travelling companion's chagrin, insisted on eating nothing but gelato and took to screaming "GELATO ME BABY" every time he asked what I wanted to eat. But let's let bygones be bygones...

Solferino
38 Wellington Street East

My current most favourite place to get ice cream, or rather, gelato, is Solferino, located just on the fringe of the St. Lawrence Market but close enough to still feel like a local, neighbourhood joint.

The gelato on offer is across the board delish but what I love more than anything is that the flavours feel really real. Only moments ago, I had the pineapple gelato and it was a delicate yellow colour and tasted just like crushed, fresh pineapple. I managed to get the gelato scooper dude to give me my current three faves together - blood orange, pineapple and banana. No creepy colours, just amazing, fresh flavours. They also do more "out there flavours" like avacodo, which I have tried but can't say that I will be eating on a regular basis.

Nevertheless, the selection is grand and all the flavours that I have tried so far I would recommend without hesitation and would eat again in a heartbeat including mochaccino, chocolate mint, dulce de leche, belgian chocolate (of course), chocolate orange, cookies and cream, strawberry, blood orange, banana, pineapple and vanilla.

Kid compatability: Baby Girl loves Solferino mainly because every time she goes in, the owners or employees give her little extras on her Belgian Chocolate gelato (is there any flavour other than "brown"), including sprinkles and amazing chocolate chips that she oddly refers to as "cookies". It can at times be a bit crammed and so it's not always possible to get a seat, but fear not, you can nip across the street to Berczy Park and enjoy your gelato sitting around the fountain. If you can ignore the local "colour" and the odd public urinator, it can be downright pleasant.

Other kid friendly pluses include: really clean and spacious bathrooms, sugar-free chocolate and vanilla flavours, the owners and staff are really friendly and helpful and don't mind doling out samples for the kids to try (errrm, did I already mention that there is really only one flavour in Baby Gir's vocab - "brown"),child size portions for $2.95 and the overall cleanliness and spaciousness of the place - it is possible to bring a stroller and not wonder if the other customers are going to lynch you.

So, as a homage to my misspent youth and my trusty travelling companion ...GELATO ME BABY!

Dumb, dumber and just plain stupid

I have been feeling stupid lately and really, I am not being funny, I am concerned that I am becoming a dullard.

It all began when I realized that I felt generally fuzzy. I became seriously suspicious however, when I realized that my reading material had downgraded from bona fide novels to magazines. For the love of God people, I had become incapable of sustaining any serious thought for more than 850 words of information; and not even challenging information at that. Even more embarrasing, it's not like I am reading the Economist, more like Voge or, my current favourite, Conde Nast Traveller (or, as Mr. Lemony Lemonade calls it "Conde Nasty Traveller"). The situation reached Defcon Four when I further downgraded from Vogue to Us and Star which represents a whole new low. Of course, because I couldn't actually bring myself to purchase the bloody things, I am relegated to reading them while waiting in line at the supermarket and even then, I feel like I am doing something really bad, like my high school Physics teacher is going to catch me and realize that I in fact I am a complete idiot, just as she suspected...

So, long preamble aside, the issue is this, when did I become part of what I had always identified as the problem? The problem being a society that is more interested in the train wreck that is Britney Spears than the accomplishments of a nobel laureate or that is more interested in the "Best Beach Bodies of '07" over the human crises that is taking place right now in Darfur, or even, gulp, on your very own doorstep.

I have become increasingly alarmed and despondent at the growing cult of celebrity worship. Part of it is selfish because I am worried that Baby Girl is going to opt to emulate someone like Britney Spears over someone more deserving like oh, say, Maya Angelou, and part of it is born out of an incredulity that somewhere along the way, we have all gone stark raving mad and have collectively decided that good looks and dubious acting or singing ability is far more valuable than dedicating yourself to community service, excellence in the arts or medical research, for example. Never mind the fact that I have developed a maternal concern for the poor celebrities themselves. Just today I was struck by the screaming headline "Rachael Ray caught in bed with another man." The poor woman; if she was really caught, how awful to have to have it splashed across the media with everyone rubber necking over her personal ruination and if it's not true (which I suspect is the case), how awful to have to see that sort of lie about yourself plastered everywhere, never mind the 'splaining to the family and friends.

Having considered all of this over the past week, I have given myself a stern talking to and won't be reading anything that increases my alarming stupidification. Besides, the endless episodes of Dora the Explorer have dulled my senses more than I care to admit or possibly, my dull senses could be as a result of the fact that I am consumed with Baby Girl's baffling inability to potty train herself. From now on, I am committed to feeding my brain with wholesome information in an effort to prevent it from shirking like an unwatered plant until it resembles a raisin and rattles when I bounce.