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.

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.)

Hell-ecommuting

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.

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.)

Baby-lympics

I don't know about where you live, but people are constantly raving about Ultimate 'round these parts. I like a good Ultimate every so often myself, preferably with a cheesequake Blizzard to wash it down, but it's quickly apparent that this is not the Ultimate of which they speak.

Actually, the first several times I heard "ultimate" used as a noun, I thought the offenders were just a little gramatically addled and I let it slide. Who am I to judge, right? After a while, though, I realized there was something more going on, so I started asking questions. The conversation invariably took on a Who's On First? sort of bent:

"What is Ultimate, anyway?"
"Oh my gawd, it's just the best! It's so much fun! I just love it!"

Then they'd go all starry-eyed and gaze grinning off into space, and that would be it for my explanation. I surmised Ultimate was some form of recreational drug that I was too old to have dabbled in.

But there remained a nagging sense that, no - these people were all pretty Church of Latter-Day Health Freak, and mostly my age or younger, so I pressed on and eventually gleaned that Ultimate is shorthand for Ultimate Frisbee, which is a sport. Enlightenment! A little online sleuthing rounded out my search for the details, which go something like this: if you could take the top seventeen or so most dreaded activities for an overweight, undercoordinated person who could never quite get the hang of any team sport, ever, and cross-breed them all together into one great, jocky hydra, Ultimate would be that beast.

*shudder* Terrifying, isn't it? And just in time for Halloween!

But let's not dwell on what kind of nutballs get all twitterpated over extreme sports. Let's talk about how inadequate it makes me feel that people can actually enjoy that kind of crap when I've managed to slob my fat ass to my local Curves once in the past six months.

And it was closed early for a staff meeting.

So I went home.

And ate a bag of cookies.

Oh my gawd, I'm pathetic.

But if I've learned anything from my mother it's how to rationalize shoe purchases, which is a skill that lends itself surprisingly well to many aspects of life if you only try hard enough. So to all you wonderful moms out there who are already paddling like hell without adding supreme athleticism to your To-Accomplish list, come take a ride on Rationalization Rail with me and let's talk ourselves out of this Ultimate morale slump, shall we?

The following is pretty standard fare, but feel free to customize it to suit your rationalization needs:

Okay, so I'm not athletic, or maybe I used to be long ago and far away but just can't find the time for it anymore, but that doesn't make me an underachiever. My house is reasonably clean. My kids, spouse, family, employers, neighbours, dentist, doctor and bank are all reasonably happy. I've managed to maintain a reasonably good relationship with my breasts, despite our increasingly long-distance link. I've perfected the pie crust. I could probably make the Guinness Book for most times singing the ABC's in one year. I could take gold in every Olympic diapering event from Pile of Limp Spaghetti to Angry Greased Pig, while singing the ABC's, and not break a sweat. In short, I've got a lot on my plate, and I don't just mean burgers, and I don't need any other obligations - real or imagined - so just piss off already with the Ultimate.

A toast to you, O Herculean Homemakers! Keep up the stellar work.

Alllll Aboard!

Sometimes, you just have an extremely large pillow to take in to work. Is that really so hard to understand?

Judging by the overt gawking I was subjected to on the C-Train carrying the pillow home from work two days prior... yes. Completely incomprehensible. Didn't come close to the time I rode the train with a soil auger, but that's a different blog entirely.

Funny, when you're carrying something oddball, all eyes are on you. When you're nine months pregnant and would like to sit down, four dozen people become so deeply engrossed in Crowchild Trail that you're practically invisible.

But I'm not here to harp. I'm here to confess that I just couldn't muster up the fortitude to suffer another transit ride with the gigantic pillow - I asked a coworker to come pick me up in the morning on his way in to work.

*ring ring*
"Is this your address, that you just emailed me?"
"Yep."
"So how do I get to your house?"
"Just follow the directions in my email."
"I think I'll Google Map it."
"Sweet, see you tomorrow then, 'bye."
"No, don't hang up!"
"Why?"
"I just want to do it with you on the phone right now."

*wait for it... waaait for it...*

"Oh, shit. You're going to write about that, aren't you?"

And get this, folks - this conversation occurred on none other than a Wednesday! Having read (and I'm ashamed to admit, subsequently seen) The DaVinci Code, I'm now an expert at deciphering cryptic messages. And this one came through loud and clear to my highly-attuned senses:

Another Casual Hump Day convert!

Keep up the excellent work, minions, your recruiting efforts are clearly paying off. We're coming ever-closer to attaining that critical mass of willing participants!

Wonder Woman

I prefer mittens to gloves. Sure, it's easier to dial 911 or pick your nose if you're wearing gloves, but with mittens you can really work on perfecting your chameleon walk. Helps to pass the time at the bus stop in the mornings.

For instance, Thursday morning I had to wait until 6:30 for the 6:00 bus - by way of explanation the driver muttered something about the bus not starting. I just rolled my eyes independently of one another and muttered back how glad I am to see my daily $5 contribution to Calgary Transit being put to good use, like vehicle maintenance.

Here in balmy Calgary the entire transit system keels over dead every time the thermometer strikes zero. And by "balmy" I mean "eight months of crappy," so I find it best to have a dedicated bus stop pastime. Now that it's winter again I'm getting so good at the chameleon that one actually came on to me the other day.

Or maybe it was just some guy with mittens. Tough to tell.

Anyways, you should know I suffer from a rare genetic condition known as Crazy Hair. Crazy Hair generally manifests itself in the mornings, so I often arrive at the bus stop with damp hair from trying to wash the Crazy out before I head to work. Thursday was a Crazy Hair day, and during my marathon wait for the bus I ended up with such a chill that I decided to leave my scarf on at work. Admittedly it was more Arctic Expedition than Downtown Office, and didn't really coordinate with my outfit, but if Lady Gaga can get away with a Kermit cape I figured surely I could rock a mismatched scarf until I warmed up.

The first person I saw said, "Ooooh, covering up a hickey?"

The second person I saw said, "Ooooh, covering up a hickey?"

By around the tenth person I decided to roll with it:

"Sure, why not. Having kids does wonders for the sex life."

Guess they couldn't read my poker face, because there was a long pause before an incredulous, "Really?"

Yes. Really. I wonders where it wents.

With next week's wintry forecast, I should have plenty of time to ponder that at the bus stop.