More About Life

Hook me up!

2010-11-13T14:12:00.000-08:00

(reprint from the Trentonian 2007)

Staring right at me … all slick, sexy and powerful … lying on my desk and silently calling out for my attention … is my new guy … my Blackberry.

He’s smart, neatly organized, doesn’t complain about my driving and likes shopping. Trouble is, while he knows everything about me, I know absolutely nothing about him. Like what turns him on?

Hey, I’m not trying to talk dirty. I’m serious. He’s just lying there on the desk because I don’t know how to switch this ‘user friendly’ piece of techno-gadgetry on!

It sounds old fashioned and turn of the century (not the last ‘turn’, the one before) but I actually write notes down. I’m a pen and paper kind of girl. I have a purse busting with lists and scribbles. My old cell allowed me to make and receive phone calls. That was it. No camera. No Internet. No automatic car starter. It didn’t read my hydro meter. It was a phone that was a phone.

But my M-in-L said something to me that made sense (don’t tell her I said that). She fought her way through the agony of getting used to using an electronic day timer because she knew if she didn’t stay up to date with technology, she would be left behind. She was right (don’t tell her that either). It’s not like we’re heading back to the rotary dial. We’re going ‘wire-less’ not ‘wire-more’. I knew I needed to get with it!

Mickey D is Captain Technology and I told him I wanted to make the leap into holding the world quite literally in the palm of my hand. After he wiped the streaming tears of joy from his cheeks, we headed to the electronics superstore.

I’m positive I could hear his heart beating in his chest as we slowly perused the handheld all-in-one devices displayed on the Wall of Circuitry – certainly his eyes sparkled and his palms got sweaty.

He reached for the Blackberry and held it gingerly in his hand. I snatched up another unit I liked with a cool slide out keyboard. But I could tell instantly by the gasps, the shock and awe, from both Mickey D and the salesgirl, that I needed to return the ‘less than Blackberry’ to the shelf. Obviously, I was not taking the task of growing up and getting connected seriously enough. This was a commitment and I had to pull it together.

“Will you, Alison Davies, take this Blackberry to be your constant companion? Will you love and comfort him, honor and keep him, in low power and full battery health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live? And if you purchase the no-hassle extended factory warranty for only $99.00, any repair work will be covered free of charge for a period of 36 months as long as it’s not due to neglect or misuse.”

“I will”

“And the extended warranty?”

“Ah, sure, ‘I will’, to that, too.”

We traded in our children's University fund and walked down the aisle into the mall with ‘him’.

Sure there is a high rate of remorse – some people jump into handheld devices without thinking it through and soon they lose interest. But that’s not going to be me. This is different. I’m committed to making it work – for better or for worse.

I’m going to be one of those people that never leaves home without the old ball and chain, oops, sorry, Honey, I mean Blackberry.

There’s no talking turkey when you’re sawing logs

2010-10-16T15:37:00.000-07:00

If you’re feeling a little touch of turkey-itis this week, don’t blame it all on the bird. Your fatigue has just as much to do with your Aunt Gertrude’s stuffing and your Uncle Marty’s glass raising cheers of thanks.

Everyone blames Tryptophan, the apparent sleep agent in turkey but I did a little carving out of the truth. The turkey is a wild and crazy friend enjoying a night out with pals - not a date boring you with his early memories of the farm.

Yes, your main course has Tryptophan and in the body, that produces niacin. Niacin jumps right in there and produces the oh-so-calming, nappy time serotonin. Mmmm, big breath now…in through your nose … out through your mouth. And while this serotonin is indeed a sleep regulator, there’s a problem (and it’s not as far a stretch as the snooze bar). For Tryptophan to be the main suspect in slowing you down, it needs to be taken on an empty stomach and most definitely without protein. Good job, my dear Watson. So Tommy the Protein-packed Turkey is not working alone. Let’s get back to the scene of the crime – the buffet line – and the stuffing. What do we really know about Aunt Estelle anyway?

We know she carted in the high on the carb-o-meter gizzard-packed stuffing. It’s these high carbs that make the pancreas secrete insulin (not often that I can fit the word secrete into a column). Boom! Insulin makes competing amino acids check out of the bloodstream and in to the muscle cells, leaving a high level of Tryptophan swimming in the blood which makes you feel a smidge sleepy. But the Tryp to Snoozeville isn’t over yet.

In docks the gravy boat and you stir in the very fats that slow down digestion. Your stomach sucks all the energy out of the rest your body to deal with what came down the oesophageal pike. So the captain, your brain, sends out a message to return to your seat and settle in for the journey.

Alcohol gets a big pat on the back for its contribution to the nap-needing, too. By dessert, Uncle Marty has expressed thanks by way of a toast to family, sunny days, the CBC, Don Cherry, Viagra and shelled peanuts. Booze is a depressant for the central nervous system.

And overeating. Is there a big enough plate in the Country to lay host to the Thanksgiving Day feast? We shove, squeeze, jam and hoist food into our mouths with one hand while we reach for another buttered roll with the other. In the mere presence of turkey, we become pigs. It’s a ‘he who eats the fastest, gets the most’ world.

As the meal comes to an end, with Uncle Marty sleeping with his hand still gripping the wine glass and Aunt Estelle reminiscing about her Grandma Trudy that passed down that stuffing recipe, we push back our chairs and decompress. This relaxation, after an action packed, family filled holiday, provides the slow down and stretch out that’s the final straw to break the groggy camels back. You’re too pooped to even think about the yummy leftovers.

You lean back on the couch and cover your mouth with your hand as you let out a big yawn (and then reach for a napkin because you find a little piece of pumpkin pie on your upper lip). Soon, you snuggle back in and realize what you’re really thankful for. You’re thankful you’ll wake up after your nap – Tommy the Turkey has sadly sung his last swan song.

Hope the holiday was lovely for you all. I’m thankful you keep reading so I can keep writing.

Fail to plan and plan to wail

2010-10-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

Go inside any McDonalds and there is a huge, backlit sign showcasing their complete price list. You know what you are getting yourself into financially when you supersize the fries (not that I have ever done that).

Wanna buy a car? The sticker price is for the base model and if you want to heat up your buns, you’ll pay more for the built-in seat warmer.

Telling people what they are going to pay for something seems standard operating procedure in this ‘selling you stuff’ world.

With the exception of one industry: dental offices. They write their own rules.

“We’re going to do X-rays this visit.”

“Ah, okay”. No mention of what the additional cost is – you just nod in acceptance.

When a retail sales clerk says “This belt is a great accessory for those pants”, you can flip over the price tag in the change room and do the old “Nah, I have one just like it at home”.

Hard to fake with a ‘We have an X-ray machine in the basement but thanks”.

Now truth be told (not always a given in this column), while I’m busy booking my next blind purchase, I mean, dentist appointment, my bill gets magically sent to the insurance company for payment. We have a Dental Plan.

It would be way more fun to have a Disneyland Plan, or an Early Retirement Plan (I think the dentist has one of those) or a Barbie Dream Castle Floor Plan (I think the dentist has one of those, too). But it’s hard to pay for a Dental Plan AND have one of those plans.

I thought my parents had provided me with a lifelong dental plan: brush, floss, rinse, spit, don’t eat rocks and don’t crack-open beers with your molars (thanks for that tip, Grammy Davies).

Doesn’t that sound like a solid dental plan?

The paid-for plan includes metal probes, power tools, recliner chairs and deep scaling. There’s a hooked suction hose that is supposed to void your rivers of saliva but instead it vacuum seals itself to the inside of your cheek.

And the paid-for plan also includes the use of mad scientist torture devices like the Dr. Jekyll cold iron needle plunger. Yikes. Can we not make a pink one with a little portion of the plan premium going to breast cancer research? Why does it have to look so terrorizing? And what’s with creepy dentist holding it down low, rolling the chair a little closer, a little closer, and then BAM – in one swift move, he stabs the needle right into the roof of your mouth? My God – is there any part on your body that seems less interested in having a needle jammed into it than the cratered moon-like surface of the roof of your mouth? It’s like hardened rubber up there.

Within minutes of your roof-top injection, you find yourself numb from the temples down, your feet are elevated, your head is downhill, the blood is rushing to your ears, the light is in your eyes, there is a tray of metal instruments to your left, a masked assistant to your right, the suction hook latches onto your cheek and you think ‘Is this really the right Plan for me?”

Dogs chew Denta Stix. They’re laughing at us.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian.

So that’s how the Duke got his swagger

2010-09-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

Real life is so much funnier than fiction. We can get ourselves into such messes!

Family was here from out of town recently and I was talking with Duke. Duke is a formidable guy. Big, solid, as sweet as apple pie and like Superman - he’s stronger than a locomotive. He’s the kind of guy you want on your football team or in the anchor position during a tug o’ war match.

We were talking about a local restaurant he was heading to for dinner when he shared this belly buster with me.

Back in his home town, there is a place that serves an endless list of chicken wing flavours. One of the selections is so brutally hot, anyone ordering them is required to sign a waiver. Now, I’ve never missed a meal in my life but I’d think twice if I had to sign away my legal rights before ingesting something.

Well, eating these wings were a bucket list item for Duke so he signed away. Matter of fact, he was so confident in his superhero abilities to swallow fire that he didn’t even read that stinkin’ waiver before scribbling his Clark Kent on the bottom line.

Six wings arrived. Duke made his way through 3 of them. That’s 2 more than a mere mortal could have managed. They weren’t “Gee, I’m sweating” hot, they were “OMG, I’ve lost the sight in my right eye” hot.

Duke excused himself and headed to the washroom. He wasn’t sick; he just needed to move around a bit and take a moment. Remember, these things did come with a warning.

About 15 minutes after returning to the table, Duke started to feel the heat again – BAD. Not in his mouth or on his fingers, not in his stomach … lower, lower … not twisting in his intestines … lower, lower, lower ….apparently that well intentioned but unread waiver included a warning to thoroughly wash hands BEFORE going to the washroom – especially pertinent to you fella’s who need to steer the ship. Ahhhhhhh!

Duke had done what his mamma taught him: pee first then wash your hands - wrong order of events in this restaurant. Again, ahhhhhhh!

He’s burning. He turns to his lovely wife and shared the horror of what was happening to his privates. She, like any concerned wife finding themselves in this situation, laughed.

He wanted to go home. He needed to go home. But he couldn’t move. He was on fire. Our ‘faster than a speeding bullet’ man was buckled over and sizzling.

How far away is the local emergency department?

Is there a urologist in the house?

Smart Mrs. Duke said he better get back to that washroom and bust out the soap. He needed to stop this chemical spill if they were ever going to have a family of their own.

Duke staggered to the men’s room. Taking matters into his own hands, he unloaded the damaged goods into the sink and begin to save what he could. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now what makes me laugh is imagining the other guys that went into that washroom who didn’t know about the waiver wings. Can’t you just picture their surprised faces when they walked in on some neat freak giving himself a sponge bath in the sink!

I’m happy to report that Duke is able to leap tall buildings in a single bound again. And that he barely screams out in his sleep anymore.

Confucius say “He who ignores fine print, soon finds himself sinking.”

Its time to abandon that fashion ship

2010-08-24T05:16:00.000-07:00

How long have men been wearing Capri’s?

I’m at a big splash pad with my boys and watching a flock of dad’s chasing their kids around when I notice they are all making the same ¾ length-leg fashion faux pas.

Sorry, fella’s, but as far as I’m concerned, only women can pull off the ‘too long to be shorts, too short to be pants” look. What are you thinking?

And because the fountains are spewing water, the dad’s are all shirtless so plenty of tattoos are being flashed around. Chinese symbols, razor-edged bands, lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

Back in the day, tattoos were reserved for the ‘bad boys’. Now they are common fare for Chess Club Past Presidents and government tax accountants. Young, fresh-faced daddies are sporting the old snake and dagger on the bicep. What are you thinking?

When men starting wearing earrings in the 70’s, that fad moved to a trend quickly. And at this water park, you would be hard pressed to not see a guy splashing around with a hoop or a stud or …

Hey, wait just one second.

Capri’s, tattoos, earrings...OMG!

Now I know what you guys are thinking.

Shiver me Timbers – its Pirate fashion!

As if sensing I’d stumbled upon their walk the plank, I mean, walk the runway style attempt, every goateed face in the joint looked right in my direction.

(gasp) Goatees! Well, if that doesn’t confirm it, this will:

“When Johnny Depp grew out his thin moustache and goatee for his roll as the swashbuckling Pirate of the Caribbean, young men begin sporting his ‘styled pirate look’.” Says George Caroll, legendary hair stylist to the Stars. (http://www.georgecaroll.com/george.htm)

Oh, honestly guys, pirates?

Clearly, we’ve left them to their own fashion devices too long, Ladies. The warning signs were there. Remember when they attempted the sweater vest? That was a cry for help and we looked away and snickered rather than helping.

You know, hundreds of years ago, both men and women wore cravats – the early neck tie. But those women handed that piece of fashion over exclusively to their men. Some folk lore states that women had liked the idea of a piece of fabric being tied around their husband’s necks and tightened. Other records support the notion women felt men couldn’t really go wrong with such a simple garment. Who would have thought they’d figure out how to stuff batteries into it and make Rudolph’s nose flash for the holidays.

Well, it’s clearly time to help again. We must turn their pirate ship around.

I suggest we give them leg warmers. We’re not using them anymore and it might make them stop wearing socks with their sandals. If it’s a go, I’ll pick up some Captain Morgan’s and schedule the intervention.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian. Continue to email her through her blog at www.alisondavies.ca

Monkey no see, Monkey no do

2010-07-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

Summer makes being a bossy parent much harder. It’s just too easy for the kiddies to hide in plain sight.

"Drewpy, when we get home, I need you to …"

"Drew, I need you to ..."

"Drew, please stop, I need..."

"Drewpy, please…”

Submerge. Submerge. Under the water he disappears again.

My kids go all “Hunt for Red October” in my in-laws pool as soon as they hear the start of a sentence that sounds like I’m going to ask them to do something.

Sean Connery couldn’t track ‘em with sonar. They stay lurking beneath the surface figuring if they don’t hear the instructions, they can’t speak or acknowledge the instructions.

I bet the record holder for holding their breath underwater is some kid from a dairy farm whose mom was trying to get him out of the pool and into the field for cow patty clean-up.

There’s tons of sneaky, defiant, “huh, did you say something?” summer fun for kids.

In our house, it’s been so hot that they know when they ask to play video games down in our chilly basement, I’m very likely to say yes.

And they have realized that my yes not only gets them a mid-day video party, but it also provides a "Sorry, but we couldn't hear you" easy out when I'm on my third, high volume yell down the stairs looking for someone to walk the dog.

Summer was invented for kids who want to run away from home without actually leaving. They get all the benefits of a cushy life as they hoodwink their powers that be.

"I didn’t see you, Mom."

"You didn’t see me looking like a fool waving my arms wildly to signal I wanted you home to cut the grass?"

"Mom, I was on my bike at the other end of the street. You wanted me to get more exercise. I’m sorry."

Everything they say is so sugar-coated in innocence.

Winter doesn’t blow in with all the same built in ‘get out of jail’ free cards.

It even takes more time in winter to get suited up for the outdoors – plenty of time between snow pants and mittens to bark out a few “don’t forget to unload the dishwasher when you come back in” or “I want that homework done before dinner”.

In the summer, they are just a pair of flip-flops away from a great escape.

"Can someone help me carry up the laundry hampers? Hello? Guys, can someone..."

Scuffle scuffle scuffle schlink shlump schlink shlump shhhhwap schlink shlump BANG

"Was that the door? Is anybody up there? Hello? Hello? Where did everybody go?"

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. That’s the summer mantra for my three wise apes.

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You gotta know when to fold ‘em

2010-07-13T05:36:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, you hear about some famous person who never fly’s – they travel around by bus. It’s so not cool. Dolly Parton was recently showing off her bus on Oprah.

“Here’s my teeny tiny bathtub. Here’s my itty bitty TV screen.” But you were a big sensation, Dolly. Show us your private plane and ‘islands in the jet stream’.

She was very excited about one special feature on board: she can simply hit a button and a solid, flat panel will slide out from one wall and click into the opposite wall so she can separate one room from the next. Isn’t that a similar technology to ‘the door’?

Dolly – you’re known for your big hair, big lashes, and big sequins but now you’re big busted in your old-styled transportation.

Younger stars are bragging about hopping on shuttles to the moon and ‘here you come again’ rolling into Chicago in the Partridge Family tour bus.

Travel in 2010 style: Helium filled breast implants. Just politely pass a little gas whenever you need to float down to do a concert.

It would work for her because every aging country music singer loves their plastic surgery. Is their goal to slow down Father Time’s wrath or are they looking to be completely transported back to puberty?

Dolly brought her old pal Kenny Rogers with her to Oprah for a duet. Sheesh - that Kenny Rogers was the gambler alright when he went back for more nip / tuck. Is he getting his work done under the care of Oscar Goldman and the doctors at OSI – Office of Scientific Intelligence? That’s the place that made the promise to the Bionic Man Steve Austin, “We can rebuild you – we can make you better, stronger, faster”.

It’s very disconcerting to hear the voice of Kenny Rogers coming out of an apple face doll.

I hated Ruby for taking her love to town but Kenny, many spouses say “I don’t know you anymore” but Ruby could really make that statement.

“911? My name is Ruby. There is a strange pre-pubescent boy in my home. Yes, I can describe him. He has snow white hair, a snow white goatee, he’s coated in spray tan, his eyes are pulled so tight they are vertical and he keeps singing “Don’t fall in love with a dreamer” – no, Ma’m, he’s not a lawn gnome, he says he’s Kenny Rogers.”

When Kenny Rogers proposed to his wife, he said “I’m your knight in shining armour and I love you”. She said yes to the marriage proposal but did ask why he was wearing the shining armour.

“Oh, I just had 6 ribs removed to make myself look slimmer and this keeps the swelling down.”

Know when to walk away from self improvement and know when to run. Run, Kenny, Run!

Okay, okay, I’m done being mean spirited. I will always love you, Dolly and Kenny, truth be known, I wouldn’t mind borrowing that shining armour because I’m feeling about three times a lady and my control top super briefs just aren’t cutting it. Have you got Goldman’s number handy?

Guinea pigs are people, too

2010-06-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

Einstein I’m not. I’m okay with that. Physicism is not a career path I entertained. Actually, I don’t even think physicism is a word. I just wanted to be at least as smart as my sweetie-piesky, Mickey D. But I’m not. He pokes fun at me to this day that I’m lagging behind him a smidge.

He came up with this notion many years ago when he was in University and asked if I would be a guinea pig for a classmate of his. I said yes.

Just like when I said yes to my brother to be his guinea pig in 1974: “Hey, Al. Jump behind the wheel of my homemade go-cart, okay? I wanna see if it’ll make it all the way down Dead Man’s Hill without the wheels flying off”.

It did not.

And I said yes when that same brother asked: “Will you lie down here? Lets see if it’s possible to free yourself when you are rolled in blankets, bound, blindfolded and gagged.”

It is not possible.

Well, this guinea pig was about to try out a more intellectual path.

“Hey, Al. A guy from school could use your help. Can you go to his class and let him give you an IQ test? The results don’t matter – it’ll be fun.”

It was not.

“If a train was heading east at 147 km/hour with a 33 km/hour head wind on a track with a 5 degree incline, how many minutes would it take for you to travel from the caboose to the engine car?”

“Depends. Where’s the bar car?”

Okay, I made that one up but there were math and vocabulary questions; spatial skill drills and logic (like that’s one of my strong suits).

My short term memory was challenged. I could barely remember what I had eaten for breakfast and, ah, where was I, oh, the IQ test.

The fellow moved skilfully from one set of tests to another.

“Time for Geometrics” he stated.

Geometrics: How well one can comprehend geometric relationships of lines, sides, planes, angles, and topological properties.

Oh, I was in trouble. My brain hurt. It would have been easier for me to dismantle the brakes on my car and head to the top of Dead Man’s Hill.

Rote Utilization. Algebraic. Intuition. Computation Speed.

I couldn’t even spell I – Q by this point.

Finally, he took all his notations and disappeared to summarize his findings.

I headed up a 5 degree incline towards the bar car.

Mickey received his friends test results for the both of us.

“It looks like you scored Superior.”

Well, in slightly more time than it took me to blast out: “IN YOUR FACE! YOU’RE DARN TOOTIN’ I’M SUPERIOR”, he hit me with “Oh, sorry. His final comments for you are down here. You scored high average.” Mickey had scored Superior.

The only thing wrong with being high average is knowing that for a whole 1.2 seconds, I was Superior (kinda). But honestly, do you think someone who is ‘average’ could come up with physicism and sweetie-piesky? I highly doubt it.

The Mother Ship is calling me home

2010-05-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

This column arrives after Mothers Day on purpose. It’s more real life to be late in an ‘Owed to Mothers’ tribute …it just fits.

“Hey, Mom will understand that we didn’t have time to buy a gift, get a card or call.”

Because Mom’s are the Queens of Understanding.

Now for me, the understanding from my Queen began when I was delivered to this planet by way of spaceship. Aliens left me on my parents’ doorstep and my mom, being the Saint she is, agreed to raise me as her own. It’s the only plausible explanation as to how she wound up getting stuck with me.

My mother is tiny framed and 5 foot 1 inch tall (and I think I’m being generous); I’m, how do they say it, “big boned” and 5’9”.

My mother maintains a weight that is within 10 pounds of my birth weight. She exercises everyday, lifts free weights, dabbles with yoga and tai chi and took golf lessons when I was a kid.

I spent grades 7, 8 and 9 in a full length leg cast due to a horrifying, death defying, cross country skiing incident. I’m still nervous around low grade inclines.

Her hands are small and delicate; I have man hands – I mean real catchers mitts. Her nails are filed beautifully to a sensible length and lightly coated in a pastel polish; mine are bitten, jagged, ridgey and I don’t care and she knows it.

There are a few early school pictures of me in a dress. Ick. It just wasn’t my thing. I preferred pants, sloppy shirts and hair tucked behind my ears in a Marsha Brady style.

Girly pom pom hats she would buy were thrown out at school. Sparkling white running shoes were left behind the wheels of the car so my dad would drive over them and scuff ‘em to a wearable condition.

When I was a teenager, my mother would head out to work each day in a classic pleat skirt, silky hose, stylish high heels, crisply ironed blouse and a smart, tailored jacket. Her hair would be gently streaked, makeup carefully applied and accessories perfectly selected.

I would race passed her in a Van Halen t-shirt, black eyeliner and a green lumber jacket with rock band pins plastered all over it.

Our home was impeccable; she whipped up healthy balanced meals after her Mary Tyler Moore day working for Mr. Grant, she took English Literature classes at U of T, volunteered, and smiled through every baton lesson, hockey practice or baseball game.

I live out of laundry hampers, praise the gods for inventing microwaves, take my courses online and sit at the kids’ practices distracted by the thousand things running through my brain.

And you know what my mom has told me pretty much every day of my life? You’d think it would be to pull it together or offer some tip on how I could do better. Nope. She has always told me she’s proud of me. Huh? That she loves me and doesn’t know how I do it. She says I’m smart, talented and these days, that I’m a great mom. Me!!! Ratty haired, broken nailed, sloppy, chunky, frumpy, messy, whiney, moany, her polar-opposite me!!

OMG - You don’t think she’s being mind-controlled by my Martian parents, do you?

Alison Davies is a humour columnist for the Trentonian. Her articles and essays have appeared throughout North America. Read her business blog at www.morebusiness.ca

The Fountain of Youth for $19.95 plus installation

2010-05-10T13:29:00.000-07:00

A horrible thing has happened since my last column. I’ve turned 44. Whew – I just got chills. The occasion was marked with a cake boasting two very big, neatly lined up 4’s. Nice touch. I suppose it was in case the number had slipped my mind or my eyesight had started to fade (which it has, sniff sniff).

To me, 43 seemed so 40-ish. Forty is after all, the new black. It’s chic and hot to be forty. Its “I am woman, hear me roar” time. You’re pre-belly fat, pre-menopausal and post diaper changing – hooray for 40!

But it’s a short lived celebration.

Once you get to your mid forty’s, the party is over and it’s less about pro-living and more about anti-aging.

Itchy, my ‘man in the middle’, is an advertising junkie so I’m used to hearing things like:

“Mom, Mom. A store on TV said if we buy one pair of shoes from them, they will give us another pair of shoes for like 50% off. Fifty percent off, Mom – that’s almost free.”

Well lately, he has shifted his attention to personal care products for me:

“Mom. You’re gonna love this. I just heard about this cream that you wipe on your face everyday for a week. Then you wipe it a few times during the next week. And then all of your wrinkles will be gone and you will be young again. It would be like a miracle for you.”

Ah, the tender surroundings of a house filled with boys.

What about the old fine wine/cheese theory? That you get better with age?

Clearly the product manufacturers aren’t winos or old cheddar fans because they’re really pushing these age-defying, age-defending, age-fighting wrinkle erasers. We’re encouraged to rejuvenate, repair or replace whichever of our parts is not going along with the ‘anti-aging’ program. Aren’t we throwing the grown up, wrinkly baby out with the Epsom salts bath water, here?

I mean, what exactly is the ‘anti-aging’ movement? I’m all for slowing down the hands of time but I’m not exactly anti aging. The alternative to aging seems rather grim.

The Dream Lips Age Defying Plumping Serum offers immediate plumping results. So does a Big Mac. I just have to figure out how to get it to go to my lips.

Revlon has an Age Defying Concealer with Botafirm. If I were them, I would rename it Butt-o-firm – the bigger the butt, the more it would take to conceal and defy – that’s a money maker.

One series of articles I read about wiping the age slate clean came from a guy that also informs on decorative night lights. That’s it – let’s hide in dimly lit rooms while we treat ourselves to a mud mask guaranteed to restore our youth in less than 10 minutes.

I’m not falling for any of this junk. I am who I am and if nothing else, being in my mid forties (gulp, still kinda hard to say) has taught me one thing:

Don’t fall for all the gimmicks and magic anti-aging potions – just hang out with people who are a lot older than you.

Hey, keep your distance!

2010-04-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

My mom was in town to see Drewpy in a school play. Mickey D phoned to say he would have to stay at work late so instead of coming home first, he would meet up with mom and I at the school. I let her in on the plans while we ate dinner with the three boys.

Half way through the chicken caesar salad, my six year old Achey turned and said in a very serious tone to my mom, "Grandma, if you're thinking about hugging my dad when you see him tonight - DON'T. We have a no-touch policy at my school".

I’d rather have cabin fever

2010-04-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

Saturday night was the final banquet for the curling club to officially end the season. Sunday night was the first meeting for the soccer club to officially begin the season.

Is there no time to even take a shower between the extra curricula’s these days?

I’ll miss curling. I hate change and the fact that I can consistently stink at curling is reassuring.

The rest of my life seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.

Yes. That is a camper trailer parked in my driveway. Yes, we bought it. Yes, that was me cleaning it, vacuuming it, buying Tupperware storage bins for it and picking dead flies out of the zippered windows.

Ladies and Gentleman, Alison L. Davies, born and raised a city slicker, will now not have my wagon hitched to a star as much as have my camper trailer hitched to my mini van.

“Sleeps six ‘comfortably’” the guy said in his sales pitch. Hmmm. I wonder if he’s ever slept on a Sealy Posturepedic at Howard Johnsons. They’re pretty comfortable.

He must have been bragging up trailer sleeping over the less comfortable ‘sleeping directly on the ground’. Yeah. I’m certain he was sticking it to the tent-styled accommodations that come with the “suitable for all hard surfaces” guarantee.

A hotel room tends to spoil its guests with modern conveniences like unlimited electricity and boundless streams of running water. The camper trailer gets plugged in and there’s a water jug to fill under the spit sink.

A hotel room has security windows; a camper trailer has sturdy zippers.

A hotel room has a sitting area with a coffee table; a camper trailer has a kitchen table that doubles as the master bedroom.

A hotel room has a hair dryer, wake up service and a coffee maker; a camper trailer has a fire extinguisher, thin canvas walls and a wheel jack.

A hotel room can be a few doors down from the elevator; a camper trailer uses a crank to hoist up its roof.

But who am I to not go along with the group and in this case, ‘the group’ consists of the soccer moms. We have some tournaments to play and the soccer moms want the whole team to camp. And you DO NOT cross the soccer moms.

Last Sunday morning, one of these soccer moms, Madame (French teacher not brothel owner) scored on me twice during my soccer game. And she plays on my team!!

Oh no, if the soccer moms say ‘camp’, you camp – nuff said.

Mickey D knew that me roughing it in a tent could alter my personality forever. And out of fear that it would make me even more unbearable and impossible to live with, he coughed up some dough to ensure I would be nestled a good 4 feet off the ground. I tell ya, that Mickey D knows how to treat a lady.

Drinks Taste Better in Coconut Shells

2010-04-19T07:37:00.000-07:00

Through the magic of modern publishing, I’ve been able to slip away without anyone being the wiser. I snuck back into town last Thursday night after a week in Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.

Certainly I’m no travel writer but I do feel an obligation to report my experiences so no one else has to walk in my shoes … well, sandals.

The people in the Dominican are having a little fun at our expense.

As soon as you land, everyone greets you with a smile and a big “Hola” (oh la!), which simply means ‘hello’. Well, how much fun is Hola to say?? They know that once we tourists master ‘Hola’, we think we are completely fluent in Spanish.

So the laughs are on us when we start an exchange with “Hola”, throw a little slowed-English in and then they reply by hitting us with actual full Spanish sentences.

“Hola. Me a-no like, you know ‘like’, well, me no like too much rum, okay?”

“Ah, Si. Entiendo. Quieres un montón de ron” replies the pool bartender with a grin as she pours what looks like an awful lot of rum into my Banana Mama.

And, of course, the food at our hotel was fantastic. But I knew what the staff was up to. They figured they’d fatten us up for our world-renowned cold Canadian winter. Well, the jokes on you, Island Dwellers, because it’s not winter in Canada all year round. We’re gonna be fat for summer – hah! Take that, Chocolate Crepe Station!

Sadly, the rooms were so clean and well kept that we could never feel like it was a ‘home away from home’. The fresh flowers on the bed, the gleaming tiled floors and the sparkling Jacuzzi tub --nope, sorry, but that’s not screaming ‘home’ at all.

But it didn’t truly dawn on me that we were the brunt of some international ‘kill ‘em with kindness’ tomfoolery until I was on the beach at sunset the night before we left with two of my sons and my two nephews. They were all wave jumping and frolicking as I looked out over the ocean.

The water, quite honestly, was a colour my eyes have never seen before. It never appeared on a colour wheel in school or on a Glidden paint chip.

I’ll say jade but, wow, what a weak description. It was greener, or lighter, or brighter or maybe deeper. And lying under a lavender sky with its streaks of blueberry and pink, well, again, the Punta Cana locals surely giggle knowing they’ve challenged us to describe the indescribable -- in any language, let alone our own.

Thank goodness the honestly of SkyService came into play or we would have been completely duped by greatness. SkyService, our airline carrier, folded its wings while we were away. Thank you, SunWing, aka The Cavalry, who came to our rescue. They were amazing and gave us a fabulous ride home.

We did stumble upon love on that Dominican Island though. Mickey D’s cousin Jaime-Lynn married her sweetheart Damon under a white gazebo alongside breathtaking shores and white sands. They had lots of friends and family gathered. Even bathing-suit-clad onlookers from the beach witnessed their vows. Hopefully the hairy guy in the Speedo didn’t make it to any of the photos. There were no words to describe that sight either.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email your thoughts to alisondavies@morebusiness.ca

Gimme that 25th hour

2010-04-15T14:21:00.000-07:00

“Mom,” Itch said as he entered the kitchen. “I really, really want this 8th book in the 39 Clues book series. I’ve read the other 7 and its ONLY $9.99 if you order it from school” he said while waving a Scholastic book order form around.

It’s Monday. It’s 8:10 in the morning. I have two other kids looking hungrily at me. I’ve agreed to drive them because I have to drop off a bag of clothes and costumes that I’ve been busy assembling for use in their big upcoming school musical.

I’m feeling stretched and he’s throwing yet another something at me. Frustration races through my veins as I stand waiting for the toast to pop.

“Mom. Just come here for a minute and read the description of the book. It’s totally awesome.”

I mentioned it was Monday morning, right?

“Itch. I don’t have a minute. I don’t have 10 seconds. It’s ‘awesome’ for YOU but for ME, it’s just another thing I have to do. And I’m running on overload around here. You guys are sitting there like bumps while I make your breakfast. And in between toast popping and milk pouring and listening to blabbering about who wants peanut butter AND jam and who will die if jam even comes close to landing on their toast, I’m also picking fallen jackets up off the floor, finding matching socks and putting the lunches together.”

I motion to the counter and the three separate piles. “One guy likes apple juice not fruit punch; the other guy will throw his sandwich in the garbage if there is butter on it and I’m smack dab in the middle of my daily struggle to strike a balance between the evil pre-packed snacks and fruit and sliced cucumbers.”

“You guys just don’t get it. There is not enough time in a day. Not only do I carry your laundry hampers downstairs, wash the clothes, dry the clothes, carry them back up, fold them AND put everyone’s clothes away, lately I’ve been having to waste time searching for the dirty clothes – under beds, shoved into drawers, in the closet – its ridiculous.”

“I throw out empty wrappers left on the counter. And, correct me if I’m wrong, I seem to be the only one capable of putting a glass into the sink LET ALONE loading it into the dishwasher.”

“The floor needs to be swept – I’ll end up doing it. I’ve been asking for a week if you would each go through this stack of papers on the table and throw out what needs to be thrown out but I guess I’ll end up doing that, too. And, if you can believe THIS, I found half drank water bottles left by the sink. Are all of you SO LAZY that you can’t even dump out the water from your own drinking bottles???? Do you think someone is going to follow you around and pick up after you FOR YOUR WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE!?”

“Itchy! You might really, really want that book but you leaving the sheet there waiting for me to read the description is JUST GIVING ME ONE MORE THING TO DO!!” Ahhhhhhhh.

After wiping the last bit of spit off my lip, I look towards my three boys for some sign, some glimmer, of understanding…

Itch looked at me wide eyed. “Maybe I could read the book description out loud to you.”

You can't get there from here

2009-07-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if I should be mad or jealous or thankful but I have seen the vulnerable side of my man, Mickey D. It’s a curious side I’ve never known. He’s patient, eager to follow directions and attentive. His guard is down and he’s admitting for the first time ever that he needs help. Oh, not from me.

He’s under the spell of a new lady friend we’ll call ‘Sheila’. She’s smart, worldly and attractive and while she’s open to new ideas, she definitely likes to get her own way.

“Turn right in 500 metres” she says politely.

“Turn right in 100 metres” she says again as a gentle reminder.

And then, when you go against her wishes, comes “Resetting course and travel time” equally as polite but you know she’s thinking “Oh, didn’t want to turn right, eh? Well, you’re on course for Albuquerque now, Chump!”

She’s our new GPS – Global Positioning System. Or ‘Give Power to Sheila: Mind Controlling Piece of Suction Cup Technology’.

Our maiden voyage with Sheila was a round trip to Ottawa leaving from the cottage up around Northbrook, Ontario. She manoeuvred us through some small towns, over a few babbling brooks on a scenic drive that had us arriving at our destination (you know it was a soccer tournament) in plenty of time. It was a lovely drive that lasted about 2 hours.

In hind sight, I think we should have thanked her for the help. Because on the way home, after Mickey D reset her and suggested this time, she guide us back to the cottage via the ‘shortest route’ – she got a bit mean.

“Turn left at the next dirt road”

“When dirt road ends, take narrow cow pass for 16 kilometres”

“Take right at the next house with a broken washing machine tipped over on the front lawn”

“No, not this house. The NEXT house with a broken washing machine tipped over on the front lawn”

“Continue past the field of unmarked graves for 22 kilometres. For your personal safety and that of your children, keep windows closed at all times and do not stop vehicle for any reason”

We drove on one lane dirt roads. We swerved to miss downed tree’s that lay across hydro wires. At one point, we tried to be positive by remarking on how nice a little marina was but then we looked to the left and saw abandoned boats stacked up on top of each other. Very ‘Hotel California” by the Eagles: “You can dock any time you like, But you can never leave”

Mickey D kept fiddling with Sheila.

“The cottage is in Northbrook, right? Is she taking us to Northbrook?”

Ah, my Mickey D, forced to give up navigational control to a ‘woman’ – I knew it was killing him. How many marriages have fallen apart because the man never stopped to ask for directions?

Truth is that the only reason the government is looking for alternate fuel sources is because men waste too much gas driving around in circles and are warming up the planet. Men being lost is the cause of the energy crisis.

So NASA technologists teamed with environmentalists to design the GPS. They knew men would follow a sweet looking little digital gadget with lots of buttons, hi def screen, a soft, agreeable female voice that came with touch technology.

When we pulled into the cottage, I’m positive I heard Sheila whisper “You did a great job, my big strong man”.

Nothing screams Miracle like a coordinating beach bag!

2009-06-19T20:48:00.000-07:00

* Here's one from 2007...*

On one channel recently, Oprah was introducing her new online program, better described as a journey, called “O Girl O Beautiful”. Its goal is to teach us to recognize our own value, bask in our one-of-a kind fantastic selves and essentially be happy with our being – inside and out. Acceptance. Self-Love. True Beauty. Very ‘You Go Girl’ stuff because after all, gosh darn it, we are awesome just the way we are!

Unless you are like me and that glorious, self empowering moment is cut short by a simple accidental flick of the channel down button on the remote. The View (sans Rosie), was showcasing the 2007 summer line-up of stylish new bathing suits and offering advice on which one to buy so you can, you guessed it, hide all your flaws. Big hips. No hips. Flabby arms. Wide thighs. Short legs. Junk in your trunk. Cripes. ‘O Girl O Bountiful’. One channel giveth, the other channel taketh away.

The models on the show cavorted around smiling and cheery as they showed off their jazzy beach attire. And without a doubt, one bathing suit captured the audiences’ hearts. This was clearly evident by the gasps of delight and awe-struck expressions when it hit the stage: The Miracle Suit.

Wouldn’t you love to meet the guy that named it the Miracle Suit? What’s the miracle? Is it a miracle there is a suit out there that will fit me? Is it an act of God that this suit manages to make me look good while being so close to naked? Are people going to point at me astonished and breathlessly exclaim, “Ali. You don’t even look like yourself in that suit! It’s a miracle!”

Imagine the disappointment for the viewing public when I load myself back into my jeans and long shirt and I return to my human form? I imagine the whispers, “Hmmm. Well, that miracle was fleeting”. The next thing you know, my Miracle Suit is forgotten and people are talking up the parting of the Red Sea thing or perhaps some interest is renewed in the 7 Wonders of the World. It doesn’t take much to get people talking about those blasted Pyramids.

No. I can’t have it. If man created the Miracle Suit, who am I to question its existence? I’ll wear the Suit shopping, pumping gas, when going to work, attending parent/teacher meetings – and I’ll wear it with high heels – the swim suit models all wear heels, carry sporty beach bags, put on floppy hats and hide behind designer shades. I mean, it’s a Miracle after all. And a miracle deserves some accessorizing.

Anything but that!

2009-06-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

When my mother-in-law appeared in my doorway, I dropped my head to avoid making eye contact.

I knew why she had popped over. She and my father-in-law were going to Portugal for a big whoop-it-up holiday.

“I have a favor to ask of you” she said.

Please let it be that she needs a kidney upon her return.

Or that she feels I’m genetically inferior to be her son’s life partner and wants me to pack my bags and leave quietly in the night.

Maybe she wants custody of the kids. She’s great at making pancakes shaped like the first letter of their names and she would be a whiz with the math homework.

“Do you mind, while we’re away…”

I backed away from the doorway. Buy you lottery tickets? Pick up your mail? Record Dancing with the Stars? Scrub your kitchen floor with a toothbrush?

“… look after my plants?”

No. No. No. Anything but that! I can’t do it. Come on, take the kids and raise them as your own. With God as my witness, I AM NOT CAPABLE OF LOOKING AFTER YOUR AWARD WINNING BOTANICAL GARDENS!

She set a date for a week later when I was to come over to walk through her foliage beautification routine. I could only hope my appendix would burst and I would be laid up in the hospital. No such luck.

We started indoors.

“This lovely likes to be watered from the bottom, never the top. With this one, you fill the water bottle and turn it upside down in the soil. I’ve started these flats from seeds. Be sure to tip the tray gently so the water trickles east to west. “ Omigosh, I’m in trouble.

“This seems a bit dry.” I offered as I felt the soil in a flower pot on the counter. “Should we water it now?” I asked.

She plunged a knowing finger into the soil and immediately crunched her eyebrows together in a concerned look.

“Oh, no, its fine. You wouldn’t want to over water it”.

OKAY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. MY FLOWERS ARE PLASTIC! I’M THE WRONG PERSON FOR THIS JOB!

We headed outdoors to her newly purchased crowd of trees that she won’t have time to plant before she leaves. My job was to keep them alive in pots.

“Is there some warranty on these? Can I sign a waiver stating I’m not responsible if they band together and go on a hunger strike?”

She’s not amused.

“Watch the Weather Network. If there is a frost, you’ll have to burlap bag the shrubs out front. And if the weather gets nice and there’s no rain, you’ll have to move the hose around. We don’t have the automatic sprinkler system on yet.”

Oh, sure, have it on when you’re home.

You know how sunflowers always look towards the sun? Well, the second my in-laws left, her flowers looked towards the yellow pages for Competent Plant Sitters.

But guess what? Lucky, lucky me! My mother in law’s long time pal and gardener extraordinaire, Dandy Sandy, was relocating to our area and her new house wasn’t ready yet. She had to take up residence at the family homestead. “That’s too bad” is what I said -- yahoo is what I felt.

Dandy Sandy did it all. If there was a botanical homicide, it happened on her watch. I am innocent. Innocent, you hear!

And don’t think I’m an irresponsible big schlep. I picked up their mail while they were away and they get a lot of mail. Sure, I spilled coffee on some of it but it’s all still legible.

Their beloved son could have ended up with a green thumbed girl but would she have been so willing to hand over a kidney? I doubt it.

No wonder we're out of dryer sheets

2009-06-05T20:01:00.000-07:00

Thud.

I’ve successfully dragged my third overloaded laundry hamper filled with fresh from the dryer clothes up from the basement.

My son is oblivious to my domestic work out as he sits at the counter with his school books opened.

I’m sure he figures it’s the Spin Cycle Fairy that drags out the dirty clothes from under his bed or picks up the piles on the floor and then poof, magically returns them to his drawers clean and folded each week.

“Doing math homework?” I ask while wiping away dripping sweat and pushing my dishevelled hair behind my ear.

“Yup. This problem is killin’ me. If a train is going 100 km’s per hour and makes 3 stops per hour that last a total of 15 minutes, how long will it take to get to Split Lip, Ontario which is 647 km’s away? My brain isn’t warmed up enough to figure it out.”

“Hmm. Let me try and heat up your thinking.” I shove the hamper with the clean clothes behind one busting with dirty stuff that’s been waiting for its trip to Laundry Land.

“If 5 people live in a house and everyone wears a new pair of underwear every day, how many pairs of underwear would have to be washed after 7 days?

“Easy. 35”

“And if those same 5 people also wore a pair of socks each day and a new shirt – how many items would need to be washed?

“Another 70 so 105 things would have to be washed”

“Good. Let’s add one pair of pants each.

“We’re at 140.”

“Toss in 12 pairs of pajamas and let’s go for 5 sweatshirts per 7 days.”

“Okay …. Ah, carry the one …. 159”

“Four of the people play a soccer game and have a practice each week. So 8 pairs of soccer shorts, 8 jerseys, 8 socks. What are we at?”

“Plus 24 …. We’re at 183”

“10 towels, 4 pairs of sheets, 7 pillow cases, 5 tea towels”

“209 – Mom, this is getting ridiculous”

“And because the weather is so unpredictable right now, we have tons of days when people change from shorts to jeans, put on a long sleeve or a hoodie with track pants. Blankets and comforters need to get washed, baseball hats, jackets. I think we can safely add another 30 miscellaneous items weekly for these 5 people.”

“239”

“Now, how many items get taken out of a drawer, merely held up in the air, not selected for wear and put in the dirty laundry hamper instead of back in the drawer?”

“Mom. We’re done. I can’t figure it out in my head anymore”

“In a year, we’re talking about more than 12,000 items washed, folded and put away. Don’t say Laundry Chute, say ‘Shoot, Laundry.”

“Forget the laundry, Mom. I’d rather figure out how long it takes to get to Split Lip, Ontario”

“Me, too. Where can I buy a train ticket?”

Don't buy a puppy -- build one!

2009-05-20T10:48:00.000-07:00

I was driving around town the other day, fawning over my new hair cut and colour in the rear view mirror when I heard Drewpy say from the back seat “Mom, I don’t want my lesson in life to be ‘never drive in a van with someone checking themselves out in the mirror and not watching the road’.”

Tearing myself away from … well, myself, I asked “And what would you like your life lesson to be?”

“I don’t know. I’m only 11. I don’t think I’m supposed to know yet. I just know that I will have a life lesson and I will want people to remember it.”

Am I raising the Dalai Lama?

But it got me thinking about what lessons I’ve learned that perhaps as a card carrying member of humanity, is my duty to share. Here is but a sample of the vast wisdom gained thus far:

1. To laugh, to laugh loudly and to laugh often … except when you are pulled over to the side of the road after getting stopped for speeding or when you are fielding inquiries from Ottawa about your most recent income tax return.

2. Don’t spend hard earned money on a Golden Retriever puppy. Go to someone’s house that has a full grown Golden Retriever, sweep up all the heaps and piles of shedded fur and simply build your own dog from scratch.

3. Put oil in your car. They only give you a starter supply when you purchase a vehicle and you are supposed to change it regularly. Who knew?

4. If your culinary talents are limited to nuking hot dogs and heating soup, do not prepare a dish when you are going to a house party filled with great cooks. Bring flowers.

5. Practice driving at least once before taking the road test for your driver’s license.

6. When your spouse says “Stop trying to change me, you can’t!” Know that you can. But you will need a divorce lawyer.

7. Do not confuse driveway de-icer with fertilizer when planting cedar hedges. Garden Tip #214 – Cedar hedges don’t like de-icer.

8. Don’t go down hill skiing with cross country ski’s on.

9. Not matter what they tell you, it’s ALWAYS a pyramid scam.

And remember those provocative words of Confucius: She who stares at own reflection in rear view mirror too long soon finds only vanity looking back and her youth laughing behind her.”

Mothers Day Card a Joker

2009-05-09T16:03:00.000-07:00

If Mothers Day is going to keep coming with a Brunch, I think we have to lay off the sappy cards – at least until the French toast is digested. Who writes these cards? Is this truly how they feel about their mothers?

“You are the river of knowledge from which I drink”. Ahhhh. I’m gonna lose my greasy bacon!

“You are a delicate rose wrapped in lace, forever ready with a warm embrace”. Omigosh. I cringe. My face tightens. My brow furrows. It’s so rhymey and fake.

And what is up with the corny cover pictures? Everything blasted with pink and bunches of flowers. Sometimes other bits of nature make their way onto the front cover too – a dove or sparrow, a babbling brook or perhaps a snowcapped mountain.

The text style tends to be swoopy and fancy. Some cards have raised lettering, ribbons along the crease or onion skin gently embossed with scattered rose pedals. Yuck.

The card makers use the same artwork as they do on get well cards. Why do they feel they need to cheer us mothers up?

Is it because they know we’re going to have to stand in a long, loud buffet line with hundreds of other hungry families?

Maybe the card is supposed to make us forget that we never get the golf day. That’s Fathers Day. They get tee time. We get tea.

Mothers Day embodies the guilt that comes with the job. We never risk hurting anyone’s feelings by suggesting we would like some quiet, alone time.

But how can you resist the little arms wrapped around your legs and the sweet face beaming upward and promising “We’re never going to leave your side today, Mommy, and we’re going to keep asking you to get us stuff so you’ll never be bored”.

Or maybe “You are so lucky that you have kids, Mom, or you wouldn’t have gotten this pink card”.

The truth is I feel more like a mom when I clean out my purse and remove the dinky cars, dried wet wipes and stray superheroes then when I read “you are a calm wind blowing gently through the garden of my life”.

My last card was homemade by one of my boys and showcased crayoned pictures of the family smiling and wishing me a happy day. “Great drawing! You have your dad and your brothers in it. If I’m not in the picture, what am I doing?” I ask. “Oh, you’re doing laundry. When are we leaving for breakfast?”

Hey Coach, play me or trade me

2009-04-28T10:46:00.000-07:00

Some people call this time of year summer.

Gosh the word ‘summer’ has a lovely ring to it. It warms me up just thinking about breezy days, backyard bbq’s and firefly-filled evenings under a starry sky. Mmmmm.

We don’t call this time of year summer in our house. We call it Soccer Season.

May kicks off four months of sweat soaked nylon socks, muddy cleats, injuries, arguments, road trips and folding lawn chairs.

From the satiny black shorts to the shiny jerseys and rain suits – we turn into a slippery bunch!

We also become a team of play running conversationalists:

“Pass the empty Dorito’s bag to your brother. He’ll take it up the wing to the garbage.”

“Clean up this room or you’re getting a red card and a two meal suspension.”

“You were off-side. Stay in our backyard.”

And if we’re not penalizing each other with a corner kick, we’re peppering each other with soccer related questions:

“Where is your soccer uniform?”
“Is your soccer bag packed?”
“What time is the soccer game?”
“What city are we playing in?”

My golden tan sure doesn’t come from stretching out by a pool. It’s the product of sitting, on purpose, in the middle of a field under a scorching sun on a collapsible chair. I’m a soccer mom.

Game schedules, quick dinners and running late make up my daily routine. Looking for me? I’m in Reverse, backing out of the driveway and heading to a game.

Achey is shameless when he scores a goal. His mighty fists rise over his head, he jumps up and down and then ultimately drops to the ground in a 5 year old puddle of exhilaration. Ah, sorry, Other Teams Goalie, we’re working on toning it down.

Itchy needs to get a little meaner. He’s the gentle giant so while he looks like he’d be hard to get by, I’m sure if you said “Hey, could I scoot around you and go score a goal on your net because it would make me feel good”, he would gladly step aside.

Drewpy plays on an outstanding Rep team of scrappy 11 year olds. My sideline coaching is really starting to pay off!

And let us not forget the man who introduced me to the Soccer Season --– Mickey D, the ultimate sports enthusiast.

Dear old Dad is bucking for his own entry in the New England Journal of Medicine. Thanks to soccer, he has ripped his knee apart many times and holds a permanent position on the MRI waiting list.

As far as I can tell, there is only one difference between soccer for the young and soccer for the, ah, ‘mature’, as in Mickey D.

And it’s not the skill level – it’s the equipment needs.

Eleven year olds wear a jersey, shorts, socks, shin pads and cleats.

Forty-something’s get their equipment (and their anti-inflammatory’s) delivered to the field on a flatbed truck about an hour before the game: knee braces, chest protectors, inhalers, elbow pads, sun block, helmets, mouth guards, soft casts, orthodics, neck aligners, bug repellent, hip belts, prescription goggles, ankle splints, tensors, shoulder padding and lycra leggings.

Oh, and young kids all dye their hair green on tournament day. Old kids get their health card numbers and emergency contact names tattooed across their chests.

It’s a shame it has to end

2009-04-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

They fail to mention in the ‘Endless Joys of Motherhood’ reference manual that the day will undoubtedly come when you feel like handing in your resignation without even the consideration of two weeks notice.

Well, lets say, I’m about ready to walk off the job.

I feel taunted by some old John Denver lyrics that keep running through my head – the ones for (I’m a) Leaving on a Jet Plane. Remember that song? I’ve reworked it to better fit my mood:

My bags are packed;
I’m ready to go,
I'm standin' here, outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye …

But the day has come; I can take it no more
The house is a mess, my back is sore
And all of you think that I’ve lost my mind…

So you’re on your own, good luck to you
Friday’s dentist appointment, is for half past two
You’ll find clean underwear, inside your top drawer.

Cause I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
But right now, I feel its time to go….

There are far too many, socks on the floor
Lunch bags bursting with old apple cores
Toys and homework, simply thrown around

I guess you figure, I’m the one
That needs to pick up, after everyone
But here’s a shocker for you all to bear…

I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
But right now, I feel I’d better go…

The calendar, is jammed packed
Music, karate, birthday parties a fact
Laundry, lunches, science projects due.

“Here she goes again”, you all say with a yawn
When I tell ya the dog has pooped on the lawn
I know I’ll end up cleaning it my-self.

The milk is low, the hampers heaped high
I’m shrugging my shoulders, and think with a sigh
It’s too bad, it had to end this way

But I’m a leav’ing
You’re such a drain
Don’t know if I’ll be back again
But right now, I’m heading out the door.

“Hey!”
“Mom!”
“What’s wrong with her?” one son asks another.
“I don’t know. She looks comatose. Maybe she’s been drinking dad’s homemade wine.”
“Yeah. That must be it. She looks all happy.”
“Well, of course she’s happy. She’s got us, doesn’t she?”

Meeting to meet about meetings

2009-04-21T16:53:00.000-07:00

Two things signaled adulthood to me when I was a kid: meetings and getting mail. My father would talk about the meetings he had been in that day as he sorted through a stack of mail before dinner. He seemed immersed in important, grown-up things.

Now I’m the grown-up. And I’d rather get stuck with a fork than go to another meeting.

Blech! What I learned in high school Law class helps though – oh, not stuff about codicils or liabilities, no, I’m referring to the ability to clench my jaw and yawn into my mouth.

No one can tell when I’ve slipped into a boring-meeting induced coma. If my head was under a scanner, there would be very little brain activity detected on even the most sophisticated pieces of equipment.

“Can you join us, Alison? It’s going to be a quick meeting”.

There is no documentation to prove there has ever been a quick meeting during the entire human history of meeting.

Cavemen used to draw pictures on the walls of their Stone Age boardrooms to pass the time. Egyptians chiseled hieroglyphics into caverns in the pyramids that when translated by leading archaeologists said “Help. I’ve been in a meeting for 6 hours and we still haven’t broken for lunch!”

Oh, sure, when my first real job meant getting to go to meetings, the thought was exciting. I brought paper and two pens, in case there was a flood of info to take down. I eagerly awaited hearing something meaningful – but it never happened. Someone would open their mouth – a string of nonsense would roll out – and then the next guy would add more big words or statistics or acronyms. Meetings were as painful as a comedy show with no funny jokes.

The job training included how the filing system worked, what my extension was and where the washrooms were. When it came to learning how to ‘do’ meetings--I had to figure it out on my own.

The agenda was the cheat sheet on what to expect in the Bored Room. You bring it to the meeting so you can flip it over and doodle.

Minutes regarding the previous meeting were handed out at the beginning of this meeting.

Here’s where it got crazy for me. We were going to waste time in this meeting going over the details of the last meeting?? Like that meeting wasn’t lackluster enough, we were now going to rehash it! I wanted to fake an appendicitis and crawl out on my hands and knee’s.

A Motion was passed to accept the Minutes and we begin rolling through a list of stuff. Then New Business gets introduced. New Business never gets resolved in the same meeting so someone needs to, you guessed it, bring forth a Motion.

“Who will second the motion of the motion to motion to move the New Business to the next meeting?

Ahhhh. Get me a Gravol! I’ve got Motion Sickness!

Fake smiles and water drinking also goes on in meetings. That’s because the attendees zone out and need to buy some time when called upon.

Some snoozer throws out the “Here’s another point we may want to consider…” and we’re forced to consider it even though everyone knows he only brought it up because he wasn’t listening to what was already being considered.

I did figure out why everyone checks their watch to make sure they aren’t late for meetings though.

It’s a race for the window seat so at least you can stare out at the world as it passes you by.

Plus, these days, if you get to a meeting early enough, you can pull out your Blackberry and go through your stack of e-mails. Boy, nothing screams good times like being a grown up.

Wait til the cows come home

2009-04-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

My oldest son Drewpy is working on a Grade 5 group project to describe the various levels of government – Federal, Provincial and Municipal. The goal is to understand how everyone works together in a democratic society for the good of the people. He explained it to me in the simplest of terms so I could understand. Here’s what he and his colleagues came up with to help create a visual.

The Federal government is like a cow – big and slow moving. They spend most of their time out in a field. They hang out with other cows but don’t really communicate with them – just a lot of standing around and looking at each other, grazing, and passing time.

The Provincial government is the udder on the big cow. Whether it likes it or not, the udder has to go in the same direction as the cow. The udder holds all the milk that is produced by the cow. And udders don’t leak – they try and hold onto the milk as long as they can. You have to actually milk the cow – the udder doesn’t give you milk unless you ask.

There are a lot of teats on an udder. Each teat is like a Municipal government. Teats pull on the udder in hopes that milk will trickle down. Some teats are better than others at getting milk. Usually, the more often a teat tries to milk, the better it gets at tracking down the milk. Once the milk is collected, it gets sent in different directions depending on where it’s needed most. Should it be used to make butter? Or combined with other stuff to make cheese?

Holy Heifer! Kids. What crazy imaginations they have, eh? The Federal Government just mingling about with no clear purpose. And the Province holding on to their resources until they are asked. Ha Ha. Then the Municipal offices have to work so hard for their share and then having to pick and choose where it ends up because there just isn’t enough to go around.

The teacher thought their idea was very imaginative. To be so young and have come up with that analogy – well, clearly it was bovine intervention!

Nursing Students slapped with restraining order

2009-04-14T14:34:00.000-07:00

I’m hunched over the keyboard today grimacing every time I hit the ( or the ) key. Perhaps it’s the additional requirement of holding down the Shift key. I don’t know but don’t expect much in the way of bracketed text.

I just had a procedure done on my stomach. It’s all very technical but essentially, my doctor cauterizes (ouch, aka, burns, ouch, I forgot the bracket thing), the lining of my stomach with a laser to prevent it from bleeding. I know, up until now, you thought ‘That Alison, she’s got everything going for her’ but the truth is, I’m but a mere mortal afflicted with a skinny stomach lining. We all have our crosses to bear.

So,my doc belly blasts me every couple months. And he maintains “it doesn’t hurt”. Note that I’ve had to utilize the “ “ because IT DOES HURT and my inability to use simple punctuation would underscore that point if I could indeed underscore!

Over the years during prep, the nurses give me a pleasant grin when I warn my veins are lousy for intravenous. They seem to go ‘game on’ as they tighten the tourniquet. Poke, poke, poke in the back of the hand – no go. Slap, slap - lets try this one – and so goes the ‘spear the fish’ adventure.

“I think, hmm, if I just, jeez, get back here and stay still.” Jab, jab, jab. I never know which nurse it is because I squeeze my eyes shut and “I’m a human being!” screams out in my head. I reportedly have ‘rolly, skinny veins’. Have you noticed that all my skinny is on the inside of my body?

There have been some that get the i.v. on the first try and others that after a few attempts in the back of my hand, move to the thumb and then ultimately give in and go to the elbow – then to my chart to memorize my name so they can avoid me next time. And I’ve had to slap a few restraining orders against nursing and ambulance students that had an unwavering ‘can do’ attitude. You’re not getting an A for Intravenous and leaving me imitating a leaky shower head!

It’s not all bad times, though. I play “Who is here for a colonoscopy?” when I’m in the waiting room. Those folks typically have dark, sunken eyes and their clothes are hanging off them.

If you’ve ever endured the prep, you know what the 24 hours prior to a colonoscopy is like. You drink the poison that the doctor has prescribed and it hurls you into a full blown war with their innards. You are in pay back mode for every lie you ever told your parents and for every time you sped and didn’t get caught.

It’s when you are convinced you are ‘empty’, that the prescribed devil’s juice really kicks in. You must still repent the time you didn’t give back the extra change the cashier mistakenly handed you, all the times you called in sick when you weren’t and the occasion you said you made the avocado dip but it was actually store bought.

You’ll convince yourself you’re allergic to the liquid you’ve ingested because in no way can this be right. You’ll search the bottle for a 1-800 number but none will be listed. On and on you’ll cleanse until your shoulders disappear into your weakened frame, your hands tremble and you are within 27 pounds of your birth weight. It’s only then, that you will emerge from the bathroom – truly empty!

While I’m waiting in day surgery for my turn to get wheeled in for the “it doesn’t hurt” procedure, I hear the nurse ask the guy next to me:

“You’re here for a colonoscopy. Did you do the prep?”

Some wispy noise escapes from his lips but he is obviously too weak to actually summon up a vowel or consonant.

“Good. I’ll get your i.v. going. Hopefully, you’re not a mutant, no veined, alien from another planet.”

Hey, I heard that.

Cleared for take off

2009-04-11T18:10:00.001-07:00

“Attention, all passengers. We are boarding in approximately 2 minutes. Our trip this afternoon does not allow for additional stops prior to arrival at our destination so we request all travelers attend the restroom before departure.” It’s guaranteed that one of the boys won’t heed the warning to take a second and go right now. With Amazing Kreskin-like accuracy, I predict an emergency stop within 16 minutes of getting on the highway.

“All carry-on knapsacks, bags, books, buckets and electronics must be managed by the individual passenger. All items brought onboard are vulnerable to confiscation if their presence causes unbearable hardship to other travelers.” The boys aren’t even in their seats when they start looking around to see what brother slipped in with something better than what they brought.

“We will be cruising at approximately 60 miles per hour today eastbound to Kingston. For the safety of everyone, please keep hands and feet to yourself and remain seated at all times.” On a previous trek down the highway, I heard this little ‘click’ sound. I flipped down my mirror and my 4 year olds car seat was empty. He had taken off his seatbelt and was wondering around the van – you know, just stretching his legs!

“Our in-flight movie will be Shrek 2 starring Canadian funnyman Mike Myers as Shrek with the lovely and talented Cameron Diaz in the role of Princess Fiona. We ask for silence so all passengers may enjoy the film.” Portable DVD player - $249.00. Crowd pleasing movie release - $19.99. 93 minutes of silence while driving -- priceless.

“Snacks are available upon request and consist of bananas, boxes of raisons and chocolate chip granola bars. A plastic bag is available for all wrappers and peels. Small juice boxes are stocked but we remind you there will be no restroom stops during the traveling portion of today’s expedition. Once we reach our destination, Cosmic Adventures, you will be provided with all the necessary amenities.”

“Mom. You’re losing it”.

I bet my neighbours look out and think I’m simply backing out of the driveway. Little do they know, it’s more aptly described as taxiing down the runway.

Provincial Action against Distraction

2009-04-09T13:57:00.000-07:00

Hey, over here. Put down that Tator Tot for a second and mute the volume on Dr. Phil so I can have your complete, undivided attention. And I’m not being bossy. I’m trying to get you used to ‘mono-tasking’.

During a recent telecommunications presentation (don’t ask), I heard a few comments about Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty’s proposed Anti-Distraction legislation.

Can the Government do that? Force us not to be distracted?

Hmm, I wonder if I would have gotten better grades in High School if I had – oh, sorry, I zoned out there for a second. Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Legislation enforcing anti-distraction. Whew, that’s a big one. For now, the proposed rules will make it illegal for us to be distracted by electronics while we’re driving. I’m all for eyes on the road, who isn’t, but they regulate these high tech devices and then decide they don’t like how we’re using them.

Holy power play, Batman. Is there a ‘Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth’ ordinance around the next corner?

McGuinty originally opposed the notion of banning cell phone use in cars. We do have a ‘careless driving’ charge which carries lofty penalties. But then, in a surprise government move, he flip flopped on the issue. Well, maybe just a flop. He says we can use our phones, but we can’t hold them. Opposite to the new smoking law where you can hold your cigarette, but you can’t smoke it.

No Cell Phones; no in-dash DVD Players; no Blackberry’s; no GPS. That’s right. You have to turn off Cecile or Stella or Gracie – whatever name you’ve given that sweet talking lady with the slight British accent that lives in your GPS. When you need directions, stop the car and then flip her on. Just when I thought we were done with the “We MUST be lost – all the street signs are in French!” arguments.

If the folks ruling the roost are concerned about us being distracted while driving, we shouldn’t stop with electronics. Shut down the entire drive thru eating industry:

“Yo, Joe. This is the Premiers office calling. We’re making it illegal to shovel in any food that could ooze or spray or otherwise distract while driving so sorry, Friend, you’re not getting that permit to build the Sloppy Joe Drive-Thru Splatter Puss Emporium”.

Next, let’s ban hot coffee, hot chicks that turn heads and big eye-catching signs that scream hot savings.

When I’m behind the wheel, I find myself breaking up brotherly fights, passing around snacks to my road crew, assembling KinderEgg toys, rockin’ to the musical stylings of Miley Cyrus and ducking as an action figure grazes my temple.

If there is still room in the STUFF TO BAN Suggestion Box in the Premiers Office, I’m going to insist on the immediate end to transporting all life forms under the age of 10.

No Green Beans -- No Dessert

2009-04-03T06:57:00.000-07:00

The McDonalds Playplace is a great spot to take the boys. They get to goof around while I write. And for a girl writing about bizarre day to day stuff with the added charm of family weirdness, it’s the premier feeding ground for new material.

Today brought back memories of how much I hated the threat of no dessert getting thrown in my teary face as a kid.

“But I don’t like green beans!” I would plead.

“They’re good for you and there won’t be anything else tonight if you don’t eat them”.

There won’t be anything else? I don’t even get a heads up on exactly what I’d be missing? I imagined my green bean loving brother sinking his spoon into a mountainous heap of ice cream topped with chocolate sauce while I spent the evening pushing little inedible green stumps around my plate.

What else could a dessert lover do but plug her nose and shovel ‘em down? I threw in choking and gagging to underscore the point that I believed green beans were the work of the devil.

It would be so disappointing if a bowl of fruit cocktail arrived in front of me. Of course, my green bean loving brother also loved syrup soaked fruit chunks. My parents always loved him more than me (but I’ll save that for therapy).

“Eat all your french fries or I’m taking that toy away” I overheard a mom say from the next table over in the Playplace.

I was convinced, way back when, that my mom was trying to kill me via vegetables. A kid nowadays with similar thoughts about being force fed deep fried potatoes rolled in salt, would have a compelling case.

And ‘no green beans, no dessert’ – that was the natural order of things. But when the child has already received ‘the dessert’, in this case, a toy from a Happy Meal, you’ve lost your leverage. You aren’t threatening to withhold, you’re threatening to withdraw. Been there, done that temper tantrum.

This nearby Mom demanding complete french fry consumption doesn’t realize her Precious is prepared for a full blown melt-down if anyone makes a move towards her newly acquired Bee Movie toy mosquito.

“Emily. Mommy loves you and is very proud of you. You walked instead of running today. You let Mommy help with your coat. You sat in a chair. You are my clever Princess. But Mommy thinks you have taken your listening ears off so Mommy must take back that toy.” Emily’s eyebrows crunch together. Her plastic tiara rides forward on her head.

Instinctively, I yell out to my boys:

“Drewpy. Itchy. Achey. Come on, Fella’s. We have to go!”

I clear away the garbage on the table in record time.

“Emil-eeeeeeee” Coos the Too-Much-Dr. Phil-Mommy. “You have a decision to make. Eat your whole lunch like a big girl or give me your mosquito so I can give it to another little girl who is behaving nicely and listening to her Mommy.”

“BOYS!”

My three sons come into view. My eyes point them in the direction of Princess Zelda and they immediately get it. I’ve noticed that boys, right from their first multi-gender experience in the playground, recognize that chicks can be, well, how would you say, ...they display a full range of emotions.

Emily has pulled her entire 2’ 11” frame onto the chair. She stands strong with her Tinker Bell rain boots firmly planted as she leans into the table. Her eyes narrow and her pudgy-fingered grip tightens on the mosquito. The bejeweled tiara has now settled across her forehead in full Ninja warrior fashion.

“Get outta here! She’s gonna blowwww!” cries Itchy as he wraps a protective arm around his younger brother. Drewpy and I are making our way to the nearest exit -- we’ve seen this kind of thing too many times before.

None of us know for sure what happened next. Everything seemed to go dark. We were disoriented. When the dust finally settled, there were a lot of fries on the ground, drinks overturned, debris strewn about and ‘Mommy’ was trying to get all the ketchup out of her hair.

And Emily? She played happily with her Bee Movie toy mosquito. I wonder how she feels about green beans.

Anyone for seconds?

2009-04-02T12:50:00.000-07:00

My ‘man in the middle’ son Itchy and I were talking the other night about school. My oldest son Drew made all the sports teams he tried out for this year. Very cool for him and certainly garnering him a lot of attention for his athletic prowess. But Itch isn’t old enough to try out for any of the school teams yet.

It seems he wants to get rolling with some fun extra curriculars at school though.

“Are there any Clubs that interest you that maybe you could join?” I ask him.

And without missing a beat, he replies:

“Yeah. The Breakfast Club.”

Ha! The donut hole doesn’t roll far from the Double Chocolate Glazed, does it?

Itch smells the buttered toast in the halls of his school in the morning and wants to know when the try-outs are.

I would have thought the same thing back in my day and it got me thinking about the similarities he and I share. We are way more into writing and art then the rest of our household. We would giggle through every meal if it wasn’t for our other, more serious family diners. And we’re both the second born. So, I hit the internet.

As you would guess, sources report that the first born children in families are (sigh) touted as the responsible ones. They are achievers, perfectionists and reliable. Notable first borns are Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, Ted Koppel and over half of all U.S. Presidents are first borns. Bill Clinton is a first born.

Second borns get hit with (apparently) wanting to overcome the first born but knowing that we never will because no matter what, at the end of the day, we can’t change the fact that we will always be ‘second’ or ‘next’.

We wait for the second hand clothes. We’re next in line for the bigger room – we just have to wait until the older one moves out which is only 18 human years or 126 dog years.

Being next is not always a complaint though.

“Which of you is first?” Asks the receptionist at the dentist’s office.

“He is. I’m next”. Grins Mr. Second Born.

Many say we #2’s feel we can’t compete with our over achieving older siblings so that’s why we choose different paths.

If you saw a busy street up ahead, wouldn’t you take a detour? Hind sight is twenty twenty so from back here, we’ve got perfect vision. It only makes sense to opt for the road less traveled.

Bill Clinton’s younger brother, Roger, became a musician and formed a rock band. Roger Clinton could have worked his butt off in University, become a lawyer, and fought in politics, run a State, then get publicly humiliated and bashed during a stint in the Whitehouse.

But why?

Eating buttered toast and being in a band sounds like way more fun! At least from this second borns’ point of view.

The good times have ROLLED!

2009-03-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

When I was 20, and a smoker, losing weight was a cinch. If I had a big party to go to on the weekend, by Wednesday, I would start pounding back the water (pure Canadian tap), smoke 3 packs a day and just not eat. That worked like a charm and I would be down 10 ell-bees by Friday night. Simple, effective and at the indestructible age of 20, I felt 75 cigarettes a day seemed like a reasonable option.

Well, the decades have passed, the smoking has stopped and the ass has grown. (Can I write ass?) Let’s move on. My ‘behind’ now includes behind and beside. And the two major contributing factors are nixing the smoking and having kids. Both are life enhancing. Both are butt widening.

First off, there is the quitting of the smokes. I mean, after 19 years, I had to quit. And I certainly don’t regret it. Quitting is listed under Major Accomplishments on my resume. I realized the physical addiction, those sticks owned me, but wow, emotionally, everything that happened, good or bad, included smoking. “I got the job! Let’s smoke”. “I’m working like a dog – let’s smoke”. “I got the promotion – let’s smoke”. “The company folded. Let’s smoke”. Smoking was always invited to the party and when I quit, it was hard to say “I got a better job – let’s eat carrots sticks”. So “Lets eat chocolate” became the substitute.

Secondly, having kids forced me into elasticized waistbands. There’s only one way out of a 9 month pregnancy so when my mind wandered to the ‘do date’, which is like anticipating getting hit by a bus, my body wandered to the fridge. I also spent a lot of time as the official designated driver so why not cruise by the dessert table one more time when he’s bellying up to the bar? Now, with those pregnancies quite literally ‘behind’ me, I finish the grilled cheeses and left over chip crumbs. If the youngest can’t lick that ice cream cone fast enough in the summer sun, he can count on his mom to clean up all the drips and dribbles.

Where has all this left me? On a diet. Listen to this radical approach I’m taking to weight loss. I’m eating fruits and vegetables, choosing lean cuts of meat, reading labels to ensure low fat, low salt, low carb and high fibre, consuming lots of water, limiting my coffee and including exercise in my daily routine. Yuck. And by adopting this new lifestyle, I can expect the pounds to slowly melt away. Its not fair that I get slow weight loss in an instant messaging world.

Maybe I’d be better off seeing a psychiatrist and working through my dysfunctional eating patterns. After all, they are nicknamed ‘Shrinks’, aren’t they?

Not a bad view from the back of the line

2009-03-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

My ‘man in the middle’ son Itchy and I were talking the other night about school. My oldest son Drew made all the sports teams he tried out for this year. Very cool for him and certainly garnering him a lot of attention for his athletic prowess. But Itch isn’t old enough to try out for any of the school teams yet.

It seems he does want to get rolling with some fun extra curriculars at school though.

“Are there any Clubs that interest you that you could join?” I ask him.

And without missing a beat, he replies:

“Yeah. The Breakfast Club.”

Ha! The donut hole doesn’t roll far from the Double Chocolate Glazed, does it?

Itch smells the buttered toast in the halls of his school in the morning and wants to know when the try-outs are.

I would have thought the same thing back in my day and it got me thinking about the similarities he and I share. We are way more into writing and art then the rest of our household. We would giggle through every meal if it wasn’t for our other, more serious family diners. And we’re both the second born. So, I hit the internet.

As you would guess, sources report that the first born children in families are (sigh) touted as the responsible ones. They are achievers, perfectionists and reliable. Notable first borns are Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, Ted Koppel and over half of all U.S. Presidents are first borns. Bill Clinton is a first born.

Second borns get hit with (apparently) wanting to overcome the first born but knowing that we never will because no matter what, at the end of the day, we can’t change the fact that we will always be ‘second’ or ‘next’.

We wait for the second hand clothes. We’re next in line for the bigger room – we just have to wait until the older one moves out. That’s only 18 human years or 126 dog years.

Being next is not always a complaint though.

“Which of you is first?” Asks the receptionist at the dentist’s office.

“He is. I’m always next”, grins Mr. Second Born.

Many say we #2’s feel we can’t compete with our over achieving older siblings so that’s why we choose different paths.

If you saw a busy street up ahead, wouldn’t you take a detour? Hind sight is twenty twenty so from back here, we’ve got perfect vision. It only makes sense to opt for the road less traveled.

Bill Clinton’s younger brother, Roger, became a musician and formed a rock band. Roger Clinton could have worked his butt off in University, become a lawyer, and fought in politics, run a State, then get publicly humiliated and bashed during a stint in the Whitehouse.

But why?

Eating buttered toast and being in a band sounds like way more fun! At least from this second borns point of view.

Nothin' Like the Holidays!

2009-03-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

Christmas is a joyous time of year and a brutally expensive time of year. But despite the beating my wallet took, I still managed to buy myself a few pricey things. Hey, a girl needs to pamper herself from time to time, doesn’t she? And fasten your seatbelts because I splurged!

I bought myself a shiny new Cadillac! Can you believe it? I'm the Princess of Spending! Oh, wait, I just re-read that. That’s wrong. Not a Cadillac, a Catalytic – yes, that’s it, I bought a Catalytic Converter for my van.

Let’s face it. Anybody can blow a muffler. Whoopee. But I wanted to show off.

Heads used to turn as my mighty Mom Van roared around town. I felt like a street racer, a rebel-chick without a cause - well, last Thursday, I was only heading out to get the boys healthy snacks for lunches, but still, I was soundin’ fierce doing it.

I've noticed when you say to a guy “I need to replace my Catalytic Converter”, he winces. It’s the same wince you get from a female when you say “forceps delivery”.

But lucky for me, I got to pick from a few Cat Cons (the pet name we ‘spare no expense’ vehicle repair people call them). Gee, do I want the $1300 brand name that would dazzle onlookers whenever I’m on a hoist or do I go with the less expensive no-name that doesn’t come with the same coast to coast warranty?

Well, close to fifteen hundred dollars two weeks before Christmas in a household that buys gifts-a-plenty for our 3 kids, their teachers, pals and dog, 54 family members, friends and co-workers, tack on several bottles of adult beverages to have on hand or take with us, the giant holiday grocery order, a few extra tanks of gas for travel, a couple nights out – hmmm, I’m not thinking we’ll be needing any brand name ‘coast to coast’ warranty in the near future.

Maybe ‘block to block’ or ‘east end to west end’ but that’s about it. Any 2009 travel plans we make will be classified as ‘No GPS required’, if you get my drift.

Oh and did I mention that the repairs didn’t stop with my gleaming new Catalytic Converter? They stopped when I got some shiny new brakes, too.

I toyed with the notion of not fixing anything. The way things stood, after all, you would have heard me coming a mile away if my ABS (Ain’t ‘Bout ta Stop) braking system kicked in.

Back in the day, when I was bombing around in my beat up 1977 yellow Honda Civic, mufflers and brakes would have been a luxury.

I was pulled over once and the cop said “You must know why I’m stopping you. The noise has to be bothering you as much as it’s bothering the rest of us.”

But in those days, one perfectly timed “its no big deal, they’re just the brakes” at my parents dinner table would have erupted into the standard issue lecture on the importance of vehicle maintenance and how I’m responsible for the safety of not only myself and my passengers but others on the road. Then it would have steer itself to the “take the car in, get the brakes fixed properly and you can pay us back later” victory lap.

Come to think of it, I better not let my mother read this. There may still be an outstanding balance on my account.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email her at alisondavies@moreaboutlife.ca

How do we get more?

2009-03-25T13:30:00.000-07:00

Mickey D had his knickers in a knot but good last Saturday! We were out with the boys at a bonspiel and while they bellied up to the hot dog bar that was included as part of their day’s festivities, we ordered lunch off the menu. We had a pretty good barbequed chicken pizza but Mickey stewed about it for hours. He was all crumpled up about how much the bill was. I finally broke it to him on the way home. “It wasn’t the food. They add an automatic 15% gratuity there”. I reached for something sturdy to hold onto because he was cracking up and it was a 9.5 on the Richter scale! Or should I say a 10.925 – which is 15% more than a 9.5.

We both earned our keep during the school years by serving up the drinks and grub in restaurants. And we loved getting a guaranteed gratuity but now that we’re on the wrong side of the tipping, it’s all amiss. It doesn’t feel like we’re getting what we’re paying for. No one is working 15% harder. No one is saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ 15% more often. No one is smiling or welcoming us with 15% more enthusiasm. People just think they deserve 15% more.

I want 15% more free time. I deserve it. I would pay 15% for free time. I want my van to drive 15% further on a tank of gas. And I want a 15% bigger windshield wiper antifreeze holder because I don’t feel I’m getting enough squirts. I deserve 15% more squirts.

I want my shoes to last me 15% longer. While the rest of me seems to keep growing (sideways, of course), my feet are holding at a solid Size 10. So if I’m not outgrowing my shoes, I want them to last me longer than they do. And an extra 15% longer would suit me and my feet fine.

The buttons on my new Blackberry need to be 15% larger. I need that. Or I need my vision to improve by 15% so I can see the tiny buttons better. Either is fine.

My children need to help out around the house 15% more often. And give me 15% more time in the shower before they begin the “Mom! Where are you?” thing.

Sure, I say “I’m trying to take a shower!”, but I’m thinking ‘I’m trying to escape out the bathroom window and make it to a single’s resort in Bahamas’. If the bathroom window was just 15% bigger.

I know what Mickey D would like more of. He’d like 15% more … oh, shoot! The column is over. Sorry about that, Mick.

Hey, you know what? Forget it. This week, you folks are getting 15% more! And much like the automatic gratuity, you get it whether you like it or not.

I think there should be 15% more cashiers working during Christmas time. And I should get 15% more Air Miles if I don’t bring any items up to the cash that are missing price tags. If the cashier didn’t have to do the ‘Ladies Wear, Call 262 for a price check; Ladies wear, call 262’, things would move faster for everybody. The people behind me in line would have 15% more of the free time they deserve. Maybe they would meet someone for lunch in a restaurant. And then tip the waiter 15%. What goes around comes around. Well, 15% of the time if the waiter had his way!

Infestation

2009-03-23T14:03:00.000-07:00

“Maybe it’s a raisin.”

“It’s definitely NOT a raisin” I assured my oldest son Drew as we examined the scattered particles on the kitchen counter.

It chilled me to the bone but I knew …. my house had rats.

Okay. Maybe not rats. But mice, for sure.

Probably infested with hundreds and hundreds of toothy, pointy nosed, bulgy eyed, pot bellied rodents living within the walls of what was once my beloved home!

What else could I conclude after this alarming early morning discovery of droppings next to the toaster oven?

“Mom, are you sure they aren’t crumbs?”

I wish.

My fear of mice is not a girly “yuck, I don’t like them”. It’s a full blown, get me to a shrinks couch, phobia.

Brownie the Rat-Faced Gerbil from my kindergarten class came home to spend the 1971 Christmas holiday season with us. It immediately escaped from its cage and stalked and tortured me for two weeks. It ran out of closets, jumped from dresser drawers and crawled out of shoes. Blah! I’ve never been the same since.

I picked up the boys after school and took them out for dinner and a Wal-Mart run. I couldn’t go in that rat-trap house! Mickey D was out of town as he always seemed to be during times of great crisis.

Finally, reluctantly, we headed home. I dashed to a tall stool so I could pull my legs up. When MD called, I relayed the news of the droppings and frantically explained that we were under mice invasion.

“How can this be?? I only left yesterday!”

He instructed Drew to go downstairs and get one of those plug in do-dads that supposedly sends out a high pitched screech which is offensive to mice and yet inaudible to the human ear. I’m sure it comes with a voucher for swamp land in Florida.

“I can’t go down to get it.” Drew reports from the top landing.

“There’s a dead mouse on its back at the bottom of the stairs.”

“OKAY, THAT’S IT!” I could feel my world closing in on me.

“Pack your bags! We’re heading to the Holiday Inn. I’m not staying in this mouse infested, dead rodent dumpster. What’s next? Giant snakes slithering in through the sump pump hole? A Mutual of Omaha Safari Jeep patrolling the street for wild boar?”

Mickey D was so calm on the phone that he obviously was not taking this seriously.

“Just scoop it up and throw it out. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? I’m in the trenches today, My Hero.

I knew I had to call G, Mickey’s dad. He’ll be mad at having to come at 10 pm, in the pouring rain to cart out a dead mouse. He’ll think I’m an idiot. I imagine he’ll be irritated and aggravated and consider the entire fiasco ridiculous but I’m stuck between a rock and a mice-infested place.

“Mom. Mom.” Drewpy had ventured half way down the stairs.

“Leave it. I’m calling your grandfather. I can’t sleep with a rotting carcass in the basement.

“Mom. It’s not a dead mouse.”

“Then what is it?” Please don’t be a rat. Please don’t be a rat.

“It’s a plastic alligator”. Thank you, God.

After a sleepless night, I clanked and banged my way down the hall to the kitchen so any gang of swarthy party rodents would have a heads up I was coming. I had the boy’s shovel down cold pizza and we got outta there.

Mickey D was home before me and had already pulled out the appliances and inspected the counters, floors, small spaces etc.

“Did you ever see a mouse?” he asked.

“Well, no, I didn’t actually see one.”

“There are no mice here.”

“But there were droppings.”

“No, Drama Queen. That was flax seed off your bagel.”

Rats.

Time to put the politicians to pasture!

2009-03-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

The Federal government is like a cow – big and slow moving. They spend most of their time out in a field. They hang out with other cows but don’t really communicate with them – just a lot of standing around and looking at each other, grazing, and passing time.

The Provincial government is the udder on the big cow. Whether it likes it or not, the udder has to go in the same direction as the cow. The udder holds all the milk that is produced by the cow. And udders don’t leak – they try and hold onto the milk as long as they can. You have to actually milk the cow – the udder doesn’t give you milk unless you ask.

There are a lot of teats on an udder. Each teat is like a Municipal government. Teats pull on the udder in hopes that milk will trickle down. Some teats are better than others at getting milk. Usually, the more often a teat tries to milk, the better it gets at tracking down the milk. Once the milk is collected, it gets sent in different directions depending on where it’s needed most. Should it be used to make butter? Or combined with other stuff to make cheese?

Holy Heifer! Kids. What crazy imaginations they have, eh? The Federal Government just mingling about with no clear purpose. And the Province holding on to their resources until they are asked. Ha Ha. Then the Municipal offices have to work so hard for their share and then having to pick and choose where it ends up because there just isn’t enough to go around.

The teacher thought their idea was very imaginative. To be so young and have come up with that analogy – well, clearly it was bovine intervention!

Smile and say'Overdraft'

2009-03-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

Did you know that ‘Braces’ is a short form used by Orthodontists? The full name is ‘Brace Yourself Against the Counter – this is going to be an expensive.’

When a baby’s teeth start coming in, it seems like such a joyous milestone.

“There is the smallest spec, a glimmer of white, on Drewpy’s bottom gums! He’s getting a tooth!!” I yelled into the phone interrupting Mickey’s work day.

Well, proud Papa rolled in that night with teething rings and baby cookies ready for sucking on. He ran his finger over the gums to feel the little bud of enamel and we were as thrilled as when we found change down the back of the couch.

How naïve we were to the hell of teeth.

We honestly figured teething meant Drewpy would let out a little moan, we would hand him a sucky ring to chomp on and that would be the lovey dovey end to it.

Hah. Our home became a giant spit sink with gobs of slobber plastered everywhere, drool-soaked shirts and bibs filled the laundry hamper, fiery red cheeks accompanied screaming, fever, and countless sleepless nights. There was knuckle gnawing and Tylenol doses being doled out – in infant and adult strength!

And no sooner did we get to the end of teeth cutting when we were on the look out for those white demons as they started falling out and hitting the carpet or doing a half gainer with a twist into a bowl of Alphaghetti. We shook our heads each time we tucked another chicklet under a pillow knowing the ‘Tooth Fairy’ was actually having to pay top dollar to cart the blasted thing away.

The big teeth came in wherever, whenever they pleased leaving us with school pictures showcasing a mixed bag of teeth sizes and shapes plopped into otherwise airy smiles.

Dental appointments have always dominated our calendar.

And based on the age of our kids, allowing for the rare occasion when my command was heard by all three boys and then adding back in the times I had to say it more than once (!!), “Brush your teeth” has come out of me a frustrating 18,303 times.

There’s apparently no easy answer to the “Did you brush your teeth?” question.

“Ah, like, today?”
“Why? Are we going somewhere?”
“What do you mean by brush exactly?”
“Yes. Well, no. What was the question again?”

I’ve even heard “I lost my toothbrush”. The toothbrushes are 3 inches from the sink – retrace your steps!

But that was all child’s play, meant to push me to the end of my bicuspids and build dental stamina.

For the day has arrived, as perhaps it has for many of you, when your son or daughter, tears streaming, cheeks flushed, argue how unfair it is that you are about to spend a years salary on straightening their teeth.

“I’m not getting braces! You can’t make me!”

“That’s true. I could buy a Lear Jet instead but it was my grand master plan to raise you this far and then, whoosh, pull the rug out from under you.”

So, we’re back to paying for teeth -- not to cart them away but to straighten them. And the irony is, no one seems to be smiling about it.

Well, except our new ‘Tooth Fairy’, who requires a credit check, two personal references, statement of debt to asset ratio and proof of a pre-approved line of credit.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email her your comments to alisondavies@moreaboutlife.ca.

What kind of person are you anyway?

2009-03-23T13:53:00.000-07:00

Kids are people, too ... Or at least that’s what they would like us to believe. I’m sure there was a focus group of kids in a lunchroom somewhere that fine tuned that expression. There are no adjectives, I’ve noticed.

Kids are tidy people, too, wouldn’t cut it. From the youngest simply dropping their action figures in mid run down a hall to teens clearly not getting how a hanger works – kids are not tidy and they were clever to leave that part out in their proclamation of their people-ness.

Kids are agreeable people, too. No. And that’s not me disagreeing with the statement. That’s the first word out of their toothless mouths after ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’.

“Oh, I think its time for someone to have a nap”.

“No.”

“Just one brussel sprout. Please?”

“No”

And speaking of trying new foods, its not ‘Kids are daring people, too’. The young focus group knew enough to omit any word implying openness to venture beyond the feel-good of a cardboard box filled with carb-packed noodles and powdered pretend cheese.

Kids are financially responsible people, too. I don’t think so. No savers in my house. But we do have some budding politicians.

“I promise not to wear my shoes in the house ever again in exchange for getting all my 2008 allowance today.” If they knew the power that a pledge to lower taxes had, they’d throw that in.

Kids are attentive people, too. I still marvel at the time wasted by me and Mickey D to find good names for our kids. If we knew they wouldn’t respond when we called them anyway, we would have just slapped something together for the birth certificates.

Kids are knowledge seeking people, too. You know this isn’t the case when you witness the sheer jubilation a snow day with cancelled buses brings. Or, joy to all, the newly crowned Fog day that shut things down. Now they are hoping for a Drizzle Day, a Winds Coming In From The North Day, or a Possibility of Excessive Dew Day.

Kids are loyal people, too, wouldn’t fly.

“Mom. Can I rent a game for the GameCube?”

“No.”

“Okay. Dad, can I rent a game for the GameCube?”

Kids are discreet people, too. Not.

“My mom is way older than your mom and none of her clothes fit her after she ate so much chocolate at Christmas.”

The fact they were bright enough not to include any adjectives would lead you to Kids are smart people, too. But they ditched ‘smart’ so they could respond with the parental pleaser “I don’t know” when asked “Who put the empty milk container back in the fridge?” or “Who wrote on their little brother with marker?”

Every kid or teen has had to have the ‘I don’t know’ at their disposal. “But where is the car now?” was posed to me by my parents many years ago to which I found the ‘I don’t know’ very handy.

So we’re left with ‘Kids are people, too’. Yeah, I guess we can give them that.

Don't face off with a Mom

2009-03-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Don't face off with a mom

Have you ever had a dream, a really scary dream, like where you are surrounded by an angry, tense mob and there seems to be no clear path to the exit? Well, I had it this week. Only I wasn’t dreaming. I was smack dab in the middle of a crowd on the edge, just waiting for a reason to snap. I was at a Bantam hockey game and I was sitting with the hockey mom’s.

This is a rare breed of mom. Sure, they have their hair done and coordinate their mittens with their winter coats, but underneath their skin refreshing foundation and shimmery pink lip gloss beats the heart of a World Boxing Federation champion ready to go a few rounds and fight to the death if the ref makes one more bad call or misses one more high stick.

These are the same mothers who refused drugs during their deliveries and asked only for a piece of wood to bite down on.

Every time the whistle blew, one side had Stick Chicks yelling “Oh for god sake, he barely touched him!” while the other side of the stands, with spit balls hitting the Plexiglas, offered something like “Well it’s about time you manned up and called something, Ref!!" Maybe from the players side of the ice, the bleachers look like a huge penalty box.

I’m certain the referee walked cautiously through the parking lot after the game for fear of yet another mini-van ‘accidentally’ getting thrown into reverse.

“The last thing I saw, Officer, before I leapt to safety, was an ‘I’m proud to be a Hockey Mom’ bumper sticker.”

Welcome to the ‘hood, brother…Motherhood.

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

Say something bad about my kid

You’ll get what’s coming to you!

These mommy’s and grannies are jacked up on green tea and multi vitamins so keep your distance. Don’t ask them if they know the rules or if they themselves have ever played hockey. It’s not your business.

And if you have a question about the upcoming bake sale or have an Avon book to share, do it after the final buzzer sounds. Because if you interrupt a hockey mom during the game, well, there’s a very good chance the mittens are coming off!

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly. Email your thoughts to alisondavies@morebusiness.ca