Thursday, November 26, 2009

Retirement Planning

On my way to satisfy my falafel problem today at lunch, I witnessed a very elderly woman helping an incredibly elderly woman up the curb. The sight stopped me dead in my tracks. I'm not ashamed to say I may have even shed a tear at this touching scene.

Now before you chalk me up as some Tuesdays With Morrie-toting fruitcake, I've got some 'splaining to do. You see, I've always maintained that there are certain benefits to having your children at a younger age. For instance, the increased likelihood you may grow up to be a MILF (like me!). However, when I overheard Elderly #1 call Elderly #2 "Mom", a certain facet of early reproduction that had never before occurred to me jumped up and bit me on the face.

Hence the tear.

Studies addressing the demographic consequences of early primiparity do exist, and while some of them have focused on large iteroparous mammals, precisely none have considered the day approximately forty years hence when a seventy-year-old me helps my ninety-year-old mother cross the street. Perhaps we'll be accompanied by my middle-aged daughter trundling her hundred-and-four-year-old great-grandmother in a wheelchair, because surely the woman has been so thoroughly pickled in cigarette smoke and Pil that she'll still be around at that time.

We will be the Golden Girls, all by ourselves.

(Lord, please let me be the horny one.)

I raced back to my desk to email my mother but surprisingly, she took my curbside revelation in stride:

I've already thought of that, dear. You can come with me and the book club ladies. We're all going to move to the same nursing home and spend the rest of our days baking hash brownies and playing crib. TTYL.

Well, then. Now that my future is settled, I've only got one thing to say:

I'll bring my apron.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Tall, Dark and Handsome

Know what the best thing about pregnancy is?

Actually, I was going to tell you something else, but it just occurred to me that the very best thing about being pregnant is that I'm not.

The second best thing is stretchy pants that are designed to look like real-people pants* (*everyone knows you're not actually human when you're pregnant). I loved my stretchy pants. So comfy! So forgiving! I wept a little when I finally had to give them up and venture again into the cold and unforgiving realm of The Muffin Top.

Know what the worst thing about Muffin Tops is? The damn cutesy name. The juxtaposition of 'adorably delicious name' against 'rather disturbing reality' makes it seem all the worse, don't you think? Like "Vegemite", or "Kirstie Alley".

Anyways, I managed to snag some precious time away from the children (!) last weekend by going Christmas shopping with my Aunt. Or at least that's what I told DH, but the joke's on him. Not only am I done Christmas shopping, but all the purchases I ended up making were for me!

Oh, damn. He reads this.

Uhhh... I hadn't intended it that way dear, honest. It just went all Pig A Pancake on me - an eggnog latte led to some conversation, and that conversation led to some browsing, and that browsing led to some trying on, and before you knew it I had fallen head over heels in love with a tall, dark and handsome... pair of real-people slacks.

With a stretchy waist.

And I'm not even pregnant.

Oh my gawd, my panties just evaporated from the sheer joy of it. I haven't been this happy since I last went bra shopping.

I bought three pair of these miraculous pants, and I must say I looked simply fabulous at work this week. Some people suffer for fashion, and I'm not going to correct those who may say it of me now that I have my beautiful, Muffin Top-Eliminating pants to wear, but only I knew how comfortable I was! At frequent intervals I would grab a camera or some other useful object, and stride briskly (but fashionably) around the office. Occasionally I would pause to gaze thoughtfully (also fashionably!) at a wall map.

The trick is to go once clockwise, then once counter-clockwise so it looks like you've completed whatever Very Important Task you were working on. To mix things up, you might try executing a dashing turn at the photocopier, or stylishly selecting an item from the supply room. And don't worry about eating that danish for breakfast! These pants can take it.

(P.S. It would be cruel not to tell you - you can buy your own at Reitman's.)

Friday, November 13, 2009


Working From Home is one of those things people claim to aspire to, generally in the same breath as 'acreage' or 'little place in the woods'. Idyllic, right? No traffic crunch, skip the hustle & bustle, wear your pyjamas all day. Put your feet up. Drink Nescafe or something. And then when you have children, you never have to stoop to subjecting them to daycare [delicate snobby shudder], you can simply carry on with the work you're fabulously passionate about doing, from your acreage, in your jammies, with your Nescafe, while your angelic future children play quietly, or nap, or, you know - whatever it is that children do.

I was fortunate enough on Friday for the Fates to grant me a tantalizing tittle of the ambrosia that is Working From Home. It went a lot like this...

* * *

"Mommy just has to work for one more minute, and then we can read a book. Why don't you pick out a book to read while mommy just works for one minute?"

Small Fry looked me straight in the eye and slowly, deliberately poured his cup of milk on the floor, then promptly began wallowing in the puddle.

"Milk, swim! Milk, swim!"

"Oh, you little [several choice terms not fit for a family-friendly blog such as this one]! Go! Go away! Mommy has to clean up your mess."

[Probably some more terms uttered at this point, if we're being honest here.]

And just in case I wasn't crying over the spilled milk, while I mopped up the kitchen Small Fry ran to the living room, removed his clothing and peed on the floor.

"Water," said he, "mess."

And then my head exploded and I bloody well had to clean that up, too.

* * *

... for approximately eight hours.

I hope I enjoyed whatever naughty things I got up to in my past life, because Working From Home is a special kind of hell.

While I was still on maternity leave with Small Fry, I once dreamed that I went to work to take a break from home. I sat in a squishy, ergonomic office chair, put my feet up on a desk, sipped a coffee. My boss stopped by with a batch of homemade popcorn balls that he was selling from a cigarette tray. I bought one. It was delicious.

That was one of the best dreams I've ever had (sorry, Keanu). Admittedly, I've never been served popcorn balls nor lounged with my feet up at my workplace, yet somehow Friday's events triggered a vivid memory of that dream. It was clearly a message from my subconscious, and the message was this:

WARNING: Get your head out of your ass. Work should never be attempted From Home.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

I'll Take 'Dentists Are Bastards' for Six Thousand, Alex

A: Two-thirty
Q: What's a dentist's favourite time?

'Cause when your tooth is hurty, they can really go in for the kill. I've heard tell they can suck your wallet right up through your jawbone.

I've said before I'm not a big conspiracy theorist, but when my two thousand dollar dental crown of barely a year ago completely shattered and left me with holding the bill for a four thousand dollar dental implant, I got the distinct sense I had been - 'ow you say? - screwed-over. If that had been a car part, I could have had the shoddy workmanship refunded or replaced under warranty. Because it was a dentist, it's thank-you-may-I-have-another and I'll be back to fork over more bucks in six months.

I repeat: dentists are bastards.

On the bright side, now I'm a cyborg. This calls for a pointier bra!

And hey, on that note, a quick internet search reveals that for six grand, I could have skipped the bicuspid implant and gone straight for some breast impl... bwahahahaha! Man, I couldn't even type that with a straight face. But, say, a tummy tuck? No laughing matter! Should have yanked the damn tooth when it first started giving me trouble ("Let that be a warning to the rest of youse!") and started saving up.

I'm sure there's a fable in there somewhere. Or at least a country song... hmm, nope, can't quite put my finger on it. Anyways, one thing I know for sure is that I'm not letting my babies grow up to be cowboys. It's dentistry all the way for them.

(Hear that, kids? Momma needs a new BMW.)