From Nat's Brain

Happiness is a fish you can catch

There is a shift occurring at work. It's caused by whisperers and meeting behind closed doors. Not saying it means anything. But it does tend to make even the hardiest of people feeling just a wee bit paranoid.

I had a five minute catch up conversation with The Man pre-soccer (football as it is more appropriately called in the rest of the world.) In a sentence, he made me feel better. Surprisingly, he said something to the effect of "I hate when that happens." Validated in a sentence what I'd been feeling. He's really fabulous that guy of mine.

I played assistant coach. With 14 kids running amuck, I am pretty sure non of our foremothers would have had time for crap like office politics. They were too busy looking for a way to distill alcohol more quickly. There were too many right now crises to deal with. JoJo, coach, reminded me to take care of me. (And not to forget we play at 6 next week too.)

By the time I came home, I felt better about things in general. Then I logged on to MSN, I whined and ranted at Michelle who said "I'm sorry." And I laughed and laughed. Because we used to know someone who said that a lot. It didn't matter what you were talking about from the weather or major life crisis. She's say "I'm sorry." (I wonder if she wasn't really listening.) Sometimes, the best friends make you laugh, and then remind you that they are there to just listen.

Finally, I caught up on my blog reading. (I love my reader -- and my readers.) I read some stupendous things, many people who were feeling hard done by and letting us know about it, and some who are definitely hard done by and who are dealing with it. Then I read Punk Rock Mommy's Post. (Go read it's brilliant.) She is absolutely right. Happiness, even in times of strife, is a choice. Appreciate every moment because every moment you spend worrying about something is a moment wasted.

I can surround myself with people who care and who know me well enough to say the right thing. I can't control what other people do and say. But I can make sure that I am ok. And that I'm doing the things that keep me happy making the best choices I can make for me.

(And I got into a pair of exercise capris' I thought were far too small. Damn I love running.)

Creepy or funny?

Every year, the fine folks of the Hintonburg Arts Committee put Artspark, just down the street from my house. It's a fun event with live music, dance, visual art, theatre and all sorts of fun stuff. This year, they invited this guy.

The kids loves him. Consensus among the adult, a tad on the creepy side. We're not sure why... the Jim Carey smile? The hat... maybe we are NO fun at all. I remember thinking clowns were cool and fun as a kid. Not sure why I don't think so now. Odd really. Clowns/Jesters and all that. Whaddayathink... creepy? funny? misunderstood?

Un-natural disaster.

I make it a policy not to get Karled*. So to play it safe I don't talk about work much if at all. (Safe for people being dressed inappropriately, or showing their asses to staff members.) Today, I would rant but for the fact that I know one or two co-workers may read this. (Passive Aggressively -- Grrrrr.) Seems to blogosphere is full of bad days today. Sending some love your way if you had one.

Today the world felt off kilter, I road to work as we listened to the reports of all those schools collapsing in China and of the Burmese government's resistance to outside aid following a cyclone last week. The Boy naturally wants to know how they are going to get every one out of the rubble. (Good question.) I am wondering why things weren't made more solidly (and what about that great big dam.) Meanwhile the Chinese government, while agreeing that perhaps, yes, they could use a bit of help, but they want to make sure we know that this won't affect the Olympics and all those building are earthquake proof. Good to know. Too bad you didn't do that to your schools. Maybe you should worry about the health and well being of your people first. Just saying. (Tone of my life... don't forget the people.)

Now the situation in Burma strikes me as a bit strange. Ok. A lot strange. Massive cyclone hits, at last report the death toll could reach 215,000 people. But the government is refusing help. Does there not come a point at which we, as a whole say "Ummm.. yeah, you're fucked up. We are going to help whether you like it or not." You just fucking do it.

Yesterday, Google had a button asking me to donate to a charity to help Burma, and then there was a report on CBC about how Canadians aren't being as generous this time around. I know this family hasn't donated towards this. (We made a large, (for us) contribution post Tsunami.) I believe in allowing people to find their way. Now, evidently there is one bad ass dictator in Burma. But I am keep playing questions in my mind... How does the money I contribute actually get to the people in need? In this case, is my donation simply going to end up making this nutbar richer, how do I know that? And if in the end it means relief getting in there, do the ends justify the means? What about contribution to help the Chinese...
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*Fired from gainful employment because of a blog entry.

This office is rated E for Everyone

I think I am becoming a prude.

Some would argue that I always have been but really, I try to be open minded. Live and let live. But from time to time, I see signs of my age. The office has a new clerk, and she is young. Very young. Pre-cellulite young. She used to be a figure skater and so she's a bit fearless (also a fan of American Apparel, which as a feminist makes me irate but that is fodder for another post.)

This morning she waddles into the office à la Amy Winehouse after a bender. Evidently she had a roller blading mishap, took a big old wipe out and got some big old road rash on her hip and ass. The reason I know this, is because she took a photo of herself post wipe-out, bottomless, so she could show off her wound. Then she insisted on showing every single staff member (in spite of my refusing) her naked ass/hip area covered in road rash.

I'm not entirely sure why it's necessary for me see her wounded naked ass. Nor am I sure why she felt compelled to take photographic evidence of it. But this is when I see myself turning into the crotchety old woman sitting on the stoop shaking her fist at the world. "Why in my day, sonny..." But I am of the distinct belief that it is totally ok to describe what happened and tell people here how big the wound is, and all that jazz... BUT I'm pretty sure i don't need to see it.

Here's to you...

The three of us we snuggled up on the couch last night, watching Eragon. We were all pretty darned tired. So the snuggle time was a welcome part of the day. It'd been a good day, early morning to find Franktown where The Boy has a PB 1K, and a had PB 15K (it's the time I've raced that distance.) Then we went to the Park up the road where we celebrated the Tulip Festival. Today we'll hit Artspark. (I love this neighbourhood.)

It's quite the fun little family unit we have here. I always knew I would love my child. But you know, I really like him as well. He's a laid back roll with it sort of kid, who is not afraid to throw his arms around you and tell you he loves you. Lately, he's begun teasing us back. "Mom, you know that's bad parenting." (I was making sure he was brushing his teeth.) Cheeky monkey. (Sometime you get mooned when you tell him that.) And he is really excited about the road trip this August. We'll explore the world. Take it on together. And I know it won't always be like this.

So for mothers' day, I'm going to spend some time with The Boy and The Man and enjoy to wonder that is family life.

Odd silence in the playground

It's been one of those days when I just can't seem to get it together. I begged off work early (fatigue), I was hoping for some QT with The Boy alas. It's a gorgeous spring day and well with the sun shining and the kids out for the weekend. Somehow three boys and three moms end up at the park.

These are not close friends of The Boy but I like one of the moms a lot. Mom#1 ran Boston and as happens when runners collide, we talk running. (She is really a gifted runner, and I have so much admiration for her. So much.) Add to the mix Mom#2, I have spoken to at an assemblee here and there. Seen her when we pick up our kids. She is one of those people who are never happy. In the last three years, I don't think we have had a conversation that doesn't involve her whining about her life in some way. In fact, while I am sure she loves her kids, I get the feeling that she doesn't like them very much. If you were to ask for a definition of unhappy, I'd point to her.

Now we have to make small talk while the kids play. (As the lack of post signifies usually.) It's been a long stress-filled week that involved getting VERY dressed up for some politicos. I have blisters on my toes to prove it. It's sunny, it's Friday... I am all about talking mother's day plans, and looking forward to some serious down time.

Unfortunately Mom#1 and I stepped on a landmine right out the the door. "So any big plans for mother's day?"
We stood helpless as it detonated.

"Well, it should come to no surprise to you that Dad#2 and I have separated."
(This is not a mom, I know well at all. Just one of the mom's at school. We chitchat from time to time but I don't think I've seen her since Christmas. Why we would suspect there were issues is beyond me. Sad for the kids in the short term, I suppose.)

She then proceeds to go on at great length to tell us why her marriage failed and what an atrocious bad guy her ex is. How he stifled her career and how he'd asked her to try and travel less, maybe take another job. Taken like that it sounds awful. Fact is that when The Man traveled a lot, I used to ask him to try and schedule things better. Closer together. Just so he could be home more. I have some sympathy for this guy. And they have three kids. Three. I was going insane with one. Then she goes on about all sorts of other issues you really don't need to here about people you only know from five minute snippets in the parking lot.

Truth be told, I like her ex. He seems like a glass half full kind of guy. (And perhaps on a fundamental level, this is why it didn't work.) And I don't say much. Mom#1 is very good with platitudes and she is doling the out. Meanwhile I am watching the kids. And not saying much. New topic Alex for $500 -- please? Pretty please.

Then I think I am being safe and I ask where her eldest is going to high school next year. (WRONG TOPIC -- so how 'bout the situation in Burma would have been better.) Here comes round 2. Her son decided (along with his dad) on a high school she doesn't approve of, she wanted him to go with the one with the higher academic standards. (She was in Europe when the decision needed to be made.)

"I always saw his father in him that one, " she said to us with contempt. "I've always had issues with that one. He's a lazy and takes the easy route all the time. He's going to be just like his dad."

I think as mothers we are all aware of our children's shortcomings. We try to teach them about life and luxury and all that. We try to show them right from wrong. Teach them to be individuals that are strong and true. (And yes, there are some days you'd consider selling them to gypsies.) I just wonder what it would take for me to say something that contemptuous about my son in front of strangers. To say he's just like a man she has just spent the last 15 minutes slagging. Insane. Absolutely insane.

And what as a fellow mother what do you say... good god.

Can I help you?

I made my yearly trip to Walmart on Saturday night. (Why are they open 24 hours now. Why?) I go once a year to remind myself that I don't ever want to shop there again. Ever. Let's hope it sticks this time. There are a number of political reasons why I hate Walmart: union busting \ (if there is a group that needs a union it's Walmart employees), blatantly sexist practices, and the way they stranglehold small supplier into bankruptcy. (Go read the article.) They may say they're trying to be better corporate citizens. It's like Yoda says "There is no try, only do."

It is with some unease that I let myself get sucked into Walmart. But The Boy has been promised a clock for his room. And well, Zellers** was closed. I also need Tide and garbage bags. Gah! Ok. Here we go. Deep breath.

Walking into Wallmart for me, is akin to walking into a casion. Every inch of my body screams one thing. "Get out!" It's frenzied, it's stressful, there is truly nothing pleasant about this shopping experience. While Up ahead, a mom looks at bras, her 9-year-old son is bouncing a very large pink ball in ladies wear. She doesn't care. Neither do the staff.

We are looking for old school alarm clocks. We would ask which way to go if we could someone who works here. I end up in automotive. The Boy's radar sucks him into the toy section. "Sorry kid, tonight, it's just a clock." Can't find the laundry detergent, but it's unsexy enough to be around all these bottles and cleansers -- "Things that make holes in the ozone layer aisle 6). Motor oil-- leads to laundry detergent. (No clue why but it always seems to work this way.)

In spite of assurances that it's cheaper. I am not convinced. The price of Tide is the price of Tide, unless someone has a sale, it's all about the same price. Still it's a frenzy in this aisle. Shelves are mostly bare, given the activity you'd swear there was going to be a storm. A storm that will require huge amounts of household cleaning supplies. Odd mentality. "Ladies, there is enough fabric softener for everyone."

I go in the other direction. While I am not shocked they make spandex in XXXL (what's a girl going to work out in), I am shocked when women choose to wear them in public -- especially the pink ones. Then I nearly get run over by a woman in a too short skirt and too high heels, and looking like she is trying WAY too hard. She's leaning on her cart, yelling into her cell phone. She doesn't notice that she nearly rams into me. I bark excuse me. She gives me a dirty look. I betcha security would have let me off, if I'd have hit her. "Dude, she totally had it coming?"

I find the boys, they found a suitable clock with a projection screen. The Boy is thrilled. I am about to kill people. We find a cash. The lines are all two or three long and it seems to take forever. The guy ahead of us, is buying large quantities of soda. But in increments of threes. (Fuck people are weird.) The Boy wants gum. (No!) Fucking huge mega corp. and the fucking product placement.

Finally we escape. For a "quick" trip, it took 45 minutes. Cost $60.

But I wonder, does anyone say "woohoo!" Walmart -- what a wonderful place. There is no real sense of anticipation for these shopping excursions. The service sucks. Items are hard to find. The prices are par, just written in big bold letters. The staff is unhappy. Why do we keep putting up with this? Is it just that we believe the hype -- that it's so much cheaper.

My greater fear is though, that we are giving up personalized customer service in exchange for 6L of mediocre pickles for $1.99.

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**(Zellers is more like a low end Target. Still crappy. Owned by Hudson's Bay Company. Treat employees slightly better. I placate myself with the thought that they were at some point Canadian -- motto not given First Nations peoples small pox any more.)

Slave to fashion

So The Boss of Me says that I need to stand in for her at an event on Friday morning. Not a big deal, they usually have food and coffee. They have budget for events. We don't. It sucks. But such is life.

Friday is casual day if I don't have meeting. (Usually pretty good at avoiding them). But if I have to do work formal and it's almost spring I decide the wear a skirt. With said skirt, I need shoes -- which I am sorely lacking in. But, it's almost summer spring and I find these super cute pair of mules in the closet. No pantyhose/mules. Little black skirt with white stripes and short jacket. I am going to look, well, presentable.

As I leave the house, I wonder why I never wore these shoes much.
I walk from the parking lot to my office. (I park far far away.) I notice that my toes are feeling a little smushed.

By the end of the event at 10:30 -- I am thankful that I can spend the rest of the day at my desk.
10:31 -- realize that I am going to need to get up at least once to pee
10:32 -- realize there is a 2:30 walk-about.
Walk-about...
Damn.
By the time I get back to the car to drive home, I consider going barefoot.

You know I have run a marathon. I have walked great distances. The pain in my feet on Friday was worse.

There is nothing worse than the pain you can get yourself in from wearing shoes that are designed for mannequins. I am all about the concept of shoes. Really. I love a pair of cute shoes. But you know what I love more than cute shoes. Comfortable shoes. I love comfortable shoes.

And these mules... these mules are designed by one of Satan's special minions I'm sure. I ran a marathon, and my feet didn't hurt like this. In fact, my feet had fewer blisters post-marathon than they do now.

Be it resolved that I am going to throw all the implements of torture such as these out and send them back to the fucktards who made them.

Confessions of a reluctant soccer mom

I know my readers have gathered by now, I am all about sports. We are just a bunch of jocks in this household. Too bad about the Blue Jays losing the Grey Cup eh?

Now when I signed The Boy up for soccer, I didn't do it out of any love for the sport. Then when they asked for volunteers, I ticked off yes because I am on the board of this community group who is organizing it. So how can I not. I thought to myself, I can go "Rah rah rah... kick that ball" or whatever it is you are supposed to say at soccer games. But, well, did I mention I'm on the board and people know who I am and know that I'm unlikely to say "no" in a pinch.

"Hey Jo, so what do you need me to do?"
"Well, The Boy is on our team. We need an assistant coach, so I put you down."
"Ummm... Jo. Are you aware that I have no coaching skills and... umm... don't really know anything about soccer. It's just one ball in soccer right?"
"Oh Nat, you are so funny."
And she walked away.

So just call me coach. Now I must admit that G. (Jo's lovely man) is a great coach and he basically coached me too. G. is also in tremendous shape. (Thank god for running.) Me, well, I am good at "You, there in the blue. Yes I know blue is our team colour... please don't climb the goal post. They aren't stable and we are in the middle of a game" "No no no, please don't eat the grass." "Really that little scratch is not going to kill you." And standing on the sidelines yelling "Go ___ Go" (I leave a blank because I usually can't come up with the team name or the child's names.) But for $70 for 7 weeks. It's great fun and the kids seem to enjoy the social aspect of it. Even if the Assistant coach is clueless. (My child is the one talking Pokemon with the other team.)

But I did this for The Boy, who is not exactly a jock. I'm hoping he'll learn to like team sports a bit. And if he hates it, he doesn't have to play next year and then my coaching career will be short lived. (And that's ok.) If he likes it, then I'm fucked. I'll end up assimilated into the soccer Borg -- the motherhood equivalent of Scientology. Next it'll be soccer in the spring/hockey in winter/ football in the fall (when do they play football??) and all those sports, that involve more than a ball and a net. There goes my life as I will be guilted into every single game. After one game I am sad to report that we are leaning towards Borgland. Nooooooooo!!

I must admit, that in this neighbourhood, most parents are relatively cool. We all walk to the field, and well, it's ok that we aren't the minivan set. A few who take it a bit to seriously who are a bit overdressed for the casual league. But whatever. Perhaps I'd got a bit wrapped up in the label. I should know better. I hate labels.

Like the term Mommy Blogger. I really freaking hate it. This post makes me a mommy blogger. Sure part of Nat's Brain is a parenting blog. The Boy is a major part of my life. But, I think, calling me or anyone else a Mommy Blogger pigeons holes us for no good reason -- sometimes I talk about parenting but mostly I talk about the world and the way I see it. I am very proud of being a mom. Very proud of how the little guy is turning out (in spite of his poor choice of parents.) I am a mom but I am also a writer, a friend, a runner, music lover, a worker bee... and so much more... like how does that get captured in that label of "mommy". "Mommy is why I am in therapy... " "Mommy dearest..." Aaaaaaack.

I think there are blogs you can easily label. For instance See Nat Run, is a running blog. All running and fitness all the time. Call that a running blog I have no issue with. If all I wrote was about books, or music reviews or Wii games. Those are easy obvious labels. But this here is not a mommy blog. It's a blog that happens to be written by a mom. But it's a lot of different things too. And to label it, like most things sells us all short.

Attack of the viral nose snot

Just so we are clear on this.

I have some sort of virus that is in the process of full frontal assault on my immune system and it's making me cranky and tired. In fact, I am now frozen to the bone even though I sitting here wondering if my child really needs all those blankets on his bed and if it would be ok to steal them. I have decided not. But I'm not sure why. The Man on the other hand, well, he is the epicenter of this infection, so I may just steal the blankets off our bed. The Bed, he is sleeping in. But then I'd have to make the bed again when I get in it. Maybe I'll just shiver.

But I promised cookies for the bake sale. So I am making cookies. (Yeah, Nothing says love like influenza in the cookies. Droplet precautions and all.) I reckon, as a working mom, I should get an exemption from those tasks that involved baking or crafting (including any project involving bristol board or a glue gun.)

Funny, I clearly remember feeling completely ripped off when my mom used to bake for other people. Let's face it, us working girls don't usually have time to for the cookies and banana bread (now nut free) as often as we'd like. "How come we don't get the cookies?"I'd whine to her. (Because she was bone tired and double the recipe takes WAY too much brain power. At least that's my excuse.) Maybe that's why it's one of the first things I learned to bake was cookies. Fresh baked cookies.

Fact is cookies and I have a relationship. I run in order to be allowed to eat cookies. I have very rarely met a cookie that I didn't like. This is a good batch. Chocoloate and Butterscotch chip. Yummy. (I have to make sure they are edible.) But no running because of the tennis-ball-sized tonsils and the fact that I feel a bit hazy. Not that any of you know this feeling but that feeling between pleasantly buzzed and hammered... sort of how it feels in my head (minus the slurring.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I am now officially hot! Excuse me while I strip down to my tong. (Not to worry I'll wear an apron.) I am so not looking forward to menopause. What kind of fucked up system is the entrie reproductive system. I bleed once a month -- then just for shits and giggles once that stops, we'll give you massive hot flashes, insomnia, and osteoporosis. And just for fun you can stay bitchy.

Well, the cookies are done. And they need to be packaged.
I hope you are avoiding influenza B and staying healthy. Run a few miles for me ok?