Lily Needs A Date

(So who is new? Kate has written a beautiful, melancholy and honest piece about her Dad. Small Town Toys has been updated as has Small Town Eats. And Small Town Laura will be new tonight. As always, check out Small Town Wendi too...sometimes I like to re-read her just because she is her...)

I have a dog named Lily. She is named Lily because I failed to produce a daughter, and my sons thought a dog named Lily was really the next best thing. Lily is one of those dogs that cost around thirty five dollars at the Humane Society rather than one thousand dollars from a dog breeder. I hadn’t really been looking forward to a dog - especially considering I had already managed to kill off a few beta fish and a turtle (which are notoriously difficult to kill though I eventually managed) - but the boys begged. So what do you do?

When we got to the Humane Society there were about a dozen huge, snarling barking dogs who were making it perfectly clear they weren’t fond of doggy jail. I had a feeling one or two in particular might be escapees from real jail by the looks of their scarred snouts and world-weary eyes. The nice thing to do would have been to adopt one of those dogs. Who the hell else was going to? But…there lay Lily. Silent in her little cage, staring up at us with those big sad eyes - boy, that girl knows how to use her big sad eyes. She could give tips.

Lily isn’t a young pup anymore. She has started to give up a little on her looks. Lays around the house all day, sighing and licking herself. She needs a date but fast. She is forty-two now which may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s pretty choosy, I must admit. Gets it from me. Plus, she’s had a volatile four year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.

Lily gets looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is one hot little canine. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of a sunny afternoon again. General malaise setting in pretty strong.

She needs to get over it and focus on the positive…all the dogs want her. It’s because she’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs. Way cooler than those Golden Retrievers - such obvious beaty. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.

I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - damnit, they’re pretty cute. Plus they feed her and stuff.

I bet she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head sometimes. You know like “Oh, you just wait and see…one of these days I will find myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and then it will be too freaking late!”

So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30, happy hour for dogs. The quality is miles better that early, who knows why. She might find herself a decent dog…with a really hot owner

Vampires And Sex And Stuff

(Wendi's blog is new. New movie review of 'A Christmas Carol' by Laura. New Travel comes out Saturday. Toys and Food on Monday. And Kate's will be new too...or I shall tan her hide!)

So I've been thinking about sex lately. Am I allowed to say that on a mom blog? Oh wait..it's my blog. So I am.

I'm thinking about sex because I went to see New Moon last night. Those boys - they're at least 18, right? Right?? - are too adorable for words. When the werewolf took his shirt off I'm telling you, it was like Beatlemania all over again. The whole theatre erupted in fits of giggles and nervous sighs and lots of fanning of faces. And that was just us old gals. I couldn't help but wonder...how many of the scads of young girls sitting in the dark theatre beside their spotted, awkward, gangly boyfriends were looking at them and thinking 'Really? This is who I'm leaving with?' Poor guys. I'll have to let my man cub know not to go with his girlfriend. She might turn her back on him in favour of the undead. And as much as I hate the fact that he even has a girlfriend (who, by the way, has been smooching in front of the bus loop! The things I never really wanted to know...) I don't want her to dump him on the faint promise that there might be a hot bloodsucker out there waiting for her. That might break his heart.

But I'm also thinking about sex for other reasons. Maybe because I'm in my late thirties and...well, you just think about sex a lot in your thirties. I don't know why. Maybe because you've finally figured out how to do it properly so it's a heck of a lot more fun. Or maybe it's because I have a visitor coming this weekend. A gentleman caller. A Chester. And I think we all know what that means. Hallelujah.

A friend of mine and I were talking about sex the other day. Who am I kidding? My friends and I talk about sex most days. But this time we were talking about what makes sex good. Other than the obvious, of course. No, we were talking about how to get past all the 'Oh God, he's looking at my giant thighs!' and 'Now what does he want me to do?' and 'How do I look in this position?' problems. We were talking about...well, how to please a fella. So that he might want to please us in return. Some of us think it's a tricky thing.

And some of us think it isn't. See here's what I learned over my years of clinical study. Most guys are just pretty happy you showed up. And if you're feeling inadequate...distract, distract, distract. Like a puppy with a bright shiny toy. Keep things in perpetual motion. Keep things focused on the end result. Destination - it's all about destination. No sight-seeing.

The trick is remembering it's supposed to be fun. A whole bunch of fun. And if worse comes to worse...candlelight is universally flattering, ladies. Use it well.

Is Yelling The New Spanking?

(Kate's is new. Laura's is new...check them out! And FYI, Laura will be writing her VERY FIRST movie review this week for 'A Christmas Carol' with Jim Carrey. I'm anxious to hear what she has to say...I'm feeling dubious.)

Jesus...can you believe this was a headline recently? And when I say it was a headline....what I mean is that it was one of the little subject lines on Yahoo. But still. It was right up there with 'Janet Jackson Blames Doctor For Michael's Death' and 'Michael Moore Attacks Canada'. So pretty newsworthy.

I guess the whole idea is that yelling is awful. Terrible. Capital letters SHITTY parenting. If you have to yell at your kids, you're doing it wrong.

I call Bullshit on this one. BULLSHIT! It's not like I'm screaming at my kid's all the time, not really. But yelling is a useful tool in my parenting arsenal. It's right at the top of my weapons, just ahead of threatening-to-throw-away-their-toys and my raised eyebrow, terrifying stare. The one where I think I can willfully dilute my own pupils until they're pinpricks just to get me point across.

Yelling is what I do to get my point across. To make myself heard over the terrible din that is four boys in the middle of a 'You were looking at me!' 'No I wasn't!' 'Stop picking on him!' 'Mind your own business!' fight. If I didn't yell to get their attention, our little society would devolve into Lord Of The Flies-like chaos, pig's head on the stick et al. Yelling means I mean business.

I think I've heard just about all I can take from this whole 'gentle parenting' movement. Your kids need you to be gentle sometimes, of course they do. But they need you to prepare them for the world too. And the world...it ain't so gentle. The world will kick the crap out of you, we all know it. We've all been there.

Here's the thing. I think we live in such an educated world that we've conned ourselves into believing we can educate ourselves into being perfect parents. If you read a million parenting books or try to remind yourself of everything your parents did that you hated or just keep a little checklist of everything you think doesn't work, you'll raise a bunch of super humans. If they have this many lessons or eat this many vegetables or never taste an ounce of sugar...you've done it right.

And if you never raise your voice...they'll be in a beautiful meditative state their whole lives.

Bad news - I don't think there's ever a point when you get to say you've done it right. You've succeeded. Because parenting isn't a job. It isn't something you apply for or can set deadlines for. It's a life. A whole long life, with any luck. You can't train yourself to do it perfectly because you don't know who these people are going to be. It's like going on a lifelong blind date - you just don't know what's going to work and what isn't.

Four boys live in my house. They're all different. They all need different things from me. The one thing they all need, though, is to know that i'm invested enough to give them heck if they need it. It's my job. It's how I love them. And it's how they'll (hopefully) all grow into productive, happy people.

Although you really just never know, do you?

The Worst Has Come To Pass

One of my sons has a girlfriend. I don’t think I’m allowed to say which one, but he’ll be easily identifiable by the giant scarlet letter I plan on forcing him to wear.

I just found out the other day. Facebook was kind enough to inform me. A little tip for parents of younger kids…if your kids get Facebook, force them to add you to their friends list. It’s been a veritable font of information for me. Once a few years back, one of my sons was planning on going to an all day party at the beach B.Y.O.B.. There was a group on Facebook giddily giving out all the details about the B.Y.O.B.. My response? O.M.D.B. (over my dead body. Yeah, he didn’t think it was clever either.). I caught my son lol’ing at a mildly homophobic comment on Facebook and let him have it via his inbox. If it’s in his inbox, he’ll read it apparently. Even when it’s from me.

And now…a recent status update letting me know that my Man Cub is being lured out of the jungle to live in the village by one of those girls who can carry a jug of water on her head. How dare he? I’m not even going to delve into the fact that he has been able to use the ‘in a relationship’ option before his own mother. I’ll brood over that one later. With wine and left over Miss Vickie’s chips. Sea salt and malt vinegar should do the trick.

That isn’t what this is about. It’s about…loyalty. I thought he and I were close. I make him all his favourite foods. I watch College Humour skits on Youtube with him and pretend to laugh even though it’s only mildly funny. I buy him cool shirts. What the hell? What does he need HER for?
Oh God…I can’t breathe. She’s going to poison him against me, isn’t she? It’s like that old saying that haunts me every day of my life. ‘A son is a son ‘til he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter the rest of her life.’ Well that’s bullshit, I tell ya. BULLSHIT! I’m the one that buys him the really good, hypo-allergenic anti-acne cream with a faint hint of green tea. I could have just gotten him the cheap stuff. Maybe I should have gotten him the cheap stuff. Curse me for making him so appealing to the opposite sex.

Suddenly those ‘how to treat girls’ lessons seem ill-advised. What was I thinking? I taught him to hold doors open for girls, to offer to pay for dinner and offer his coat if she’s cold and really listen to her when she talks about her day. It’s like giving plutonium to the Unibomber. What an idiot.

Well, enough of that. I’m about to employ one of the oldest, best gifts my Irish Catholic mother ever passed on to me (besides this new bra she got me…it makes my cleavage look awesome!). Guilt. Good old-fashioned ‘You’re going out again? Oh…I’ll just lie on the couch and let old age kick in.’ guilt. It always worked like a charm on me. It still works like a charm on me.

Oddly, I don’t remember it ever working on my brothers…which could spell bad news for me. Sigh…I’ll keep you posted.

Remembrance Day

(Lots of updates. New movie, The Men Who Stare At Goats reviewed in Small Town Movies. Wendi talk about sex as an Olympic sport - curse you, Russian judges! - in her recent blog. Laura and her family have 'it'. The flu. Exactly what she's been dreading. Check them out!)


Every Remembrance Day chokes me up. Like clock work. I try to hold it together...after all, who am I to cry? I've never lost someone to a war. I've never had to say goodbye to a son, sending him off to something braver and bigger and more frightening than anything I will ever know. I've been blessed.

But I guess that's probably why I get choked up.

I just got back from a Remembrance Day assembly at the kids' school. It's one of those gorgeous November days that almost never happens. Sunny and clear and the exact right amount of coolness. I walked to the school and thought 'This is perfect'. The river runs under the bridge at my feet. Traffic is fairly light. Two police men stand in full dress uniform at the stop lights looking smart and serious. Everywhere I look - poppies.

I held it together through the assembly, despite the fact that the teachers let the grade fives run the show and they were so solemn and sincere. Despite the fact that Jack's favourite all time teacher came back from her retirement just to play the piano while the entire school sang 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone?' Despite the fact that each and every one of them, right down to fidgety little kindergartners, observed their moment of silence. It was as lovely as it is every year.

So what made me finally break down? The same thing that gets to me every year. Old soldiers in uniforms they've kept in pristine condition despite the fifty years or so. Standing erect, hand over heart, voices still strong. Singing O Canada. Saluting the cenotaph standing watch over the river. Proud and sad and strong and careful. It gets me every time.

And it makes me think of my grandfather. The way he would keep the television on all day to watch Remembrance Day services all over the world. How he would read the paper in his armchair then fold it carefully, rise and recite 'Flanders Fields' with his hand over his heart. His eyes closed to prove he still remembered every word. He died ten years ago tomorrow. He waited until Remembrance Day was over.

Lest We Forget.

Happy

I have two sorts of happiness in my life. Mutually exclusive and equally perfect to me for different reasons.

The first one has to do with productivity. This one I don’t feel much really. But every once in a while, when I’ve made the beds and put away the laundry and started a roast pork for dinner in a delicious marinade…when I’ve volunteered at the school, played basketball before dinner, read to Jack and Nathan by their night light, talked to the older boys in that new commiserating tone we’re getting used to over popcorn and chocolate milk.

I fall into a deep sleep on nights like those, the sort that you get when you’re full of a kind of satisfaction at how you’re finally getting it done. On those days I feel like I’ve lived up to an ideal. On those days I feel like a Good Mother. I might even feel like a Good Woman.

Then there are days like today. When I give in to this cocoon I always want to build around myself. This selfish little space that’s only about me. When I sit in my favourite chair for the entire day drinking tea and writing every shitty little thought that pops into my head. I write in my journal and dig down deeper into myself so that when the phone rings it sounds like it’s in someone else’s house, it’s so far away. From nine until three I’ll be here, and when the boys come home it will confuse me a little. They will wake me up. And I feel more like myself the way I was probably supposed to, the way I was built.

I’m giving in to days like these more and more lately, despite the fact that they’re not doing a hell of a lot for my bank account. It’s one of the joys/dangers of being single. The lines I used to draw through my days - the half-pasts and quarter-afters and ten-tos- are dissipating. Which is frightening in it’s own way I suppose. No one is here to remind me to get off my rump and clean the bathroom or start dinner or make my bed. No one is here to say ‘What exactly did you DO all day?’ I still can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

It’s just…it feels like there’s a clock ticking. All the time. A clock that started up in my mid-thirties. A clock with no hands but with pictures of all the things I should be seeing, doing. A clock that gongs every hour or so that if I don’t figure out how to be happy soon, I never will. And I need, need, NEED to be happy. I do. We all do, really, but I think some of us are mature enough to understand that you don’t always get to be happy. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices so that you end up being happy. Eventually.

I’m not that mature. And I’m not that happy all the time,. I think. But here, in my little cocoon where everything I do is on the inside…here is where I’ll find it I think.

Because if I don’t find it…Jesus, what’s the point?

Take Your Kid To Work Day

Yesterday was take your kid to work day here in Owen Sound. I figure my kids get off pretty easy for this one...after all, what do I really do? Not much.

Ben was my helper yesterday. Here's a rundown of what we actually did
- Went to the Rocking Horse to pick up our toy of the month for November.
- Went to the Downtown Bookstore to pick out a book for November (it's for teenaged boys and it's about zombies! Stay tuned...)
- Drank coffee at the Bean Cellar while trying to get some writing done on my laptop (me)
- Ate a brownie at the Bean Cellar while playing guitar (Ben)
- Groceries and pizza for lunch.

A pretty easy gig, eh? So let's here what Ben has to say about it (Editor's note : Despite my reservations I've decided not to edit a word of Ben's blog...just so you know)

Ben- Today I looked forward to one thing and one thing only - sleeping in. I couldn't wait to wake up feeling completely refreshed for once. To actually wake up and not still be tired is a personal goal of mine. But unfortunately my Mom had other plans. She knocked on my door at eight o'clock, breaking my deep slumber and bringing me back to reality.
The reality is today is take your kid to work day. A day loved by children across the country. All they have to do is go to their parents' work for an hour or two. Maybe spend the rest of the day sleeping. Me?
I got to spend the entire day gallivanting around town helping my mother. Enthralling, isn't it? Well, to be completely honest, it wasn't all bad. I got a brownie out of it. And any day that includes a delicious brownie from the Bean Cellar is a good day in my books. Plus, I got pizza. And I'm reading a pretty decent book to review for this very site. Zombies...awesome.
I aslo got the extreme privilege of writing this blog. Although I would love to go into a fifty page long pros and cons list of my day, I'm running out of room.

That brownie was pretty good though. So not a bad day.