Monday, August 31, 2009

Who Am I?

Kid's whole school is pursuing the concept of "identity" this year, and so he has to bring three personal objects from home to school tomorrow morning:

These objects should have some special significance such as a baby blanket, their first stuffed toy, an ornament from someone special and so on. These objects should not be something that would cause distress to the children if they were broken or lost by accident.

So. . . . something special that isn't so very special that Kid would care that it went missing. . . .

So far Kid's suggestions have included:

The remaining half of an ice cream sandwich in the freezer
That one sock, you know, with the bear and the fish
The apple tree in the backyard (we could just grow a new one)
His toothbrush
A mood ring

Overall, the entire exercise has turned into a weepy appreciation of things he suddenly realizes he would mourn upon loss.

"Dear Lord, not Bunny."
"Red Hat, Blue Hat? Lor, are you crazy?"
"What will I do without my glow-in-the-dark star? I won't ever be able to sleep again ever. I won't be able to keep my eyes open at school and will fall off the swing. Waaaaaaaah!"

I can't help but notice that the suggestions offered--baby blanket, first toy, and one of those popular "ornaments from someone special"(?)--miss the mark pretty seriously, at least as far as Kid is concerned. Because let's face it, if we want to really get to the heart of his identity--not the pie-in-the-sky, say isn't that deep and interesting, what a sensitive boy you are raising fictive identity that this assignment seems to be asking for, but Kid's own understanding of his unique Self--he would be bringing his Nintendo DS, his Jedi robes, a DVD of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Count Dooku's Solar Sailor Lego kit. (At school they could then teach the dangers and mythologies of defining oneself according to material possessions.)

My real-life suggestions for things that define my boy would include:

His whoopie cushion

The lilac-bush slingshot that his grandfather made for him

His savings account book

His tiger-striped underpants

The complete adventures of Captain Underpants

His passport

The picture of him taking pictures of tourists emerging from the loo near Jasper

The comic books he creates (complete with copyright)

His sports goggles

The bronze acrylic paint tube that he uses to create gleaming armour in his art

His white cowboy hat

His fedora

His walking stick

His medal

His tie collection

The frog shorts

Now you know what's in my time-capsule. Sigh. . . it goes by so quickly, sometimes it's hard to catch my breath.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Celebrity Dogs

I admit it, I check on Coco and Chuck all the time at Like, I go there, on purpose, because I'm curious what they'll make Chuck wear this time. The day he was balancing huggies on his nose was a memorable one. And the bonnet! Hoo, boy, don't get me going. Not going to spend any time pondering my rationale--I am a creature of deep mystery. I'll just add something of my own.

Elvis here, the Elvis shedding all over the Spiderman couch in my office, the Elvis who just ate about a dozen green apples as they fell from the tree, THAT Elvis, should be wearing a diamond encrusted tiara and perhaps an ermine wrap.

If that is the sort of outfit worn by the world's champeen dog farter.

Overheard in Oakridge

On Day One of Grade One:

Me: How was school? What did you do?
Kid: Oh, just the same old thing.

At lunch:

Me: You seem to be making a habit of spilling your lunch all over your shirt.
Kid: It's not a habit, it's a hobby. It's not a very good hobby, but it's the only one I have.

While helping pick apples:

Dad: Will you please pass me that bowl?
Kid: What did your last servant die of?

While getting ready for bed:

Dad: Get in here, it's time to brush your teeth.
Kid: You weird imperialismed guy.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

On Lawnbowling

You know a girl's got it bad when watching someone else lawnbowl qualifies as a real treat. A night out.

Moving right along, here are some things I noticed while posing as a lawnbowling groupie.

--Hubby is WAY more competitive about the sport than he would like to let on. I counted four times when he asked the skip to move the mark six inches to the left, or the right, and once he just went commando (sort of) and made up his own mark in his own mind. I am of mixed feelings about this. One the one hand: yay honey! You're filled with integrity and athleticism and a healthy sense of sportsmanship! On the other hand: DUDE, IT'S LAWNBOWLING (with apologies to Heather Armstrong, QUEEN OF ALL CAPS).

--I noticed a man with a French pedicure. It kind of freaked me out. Why? Because if he had that kind of time, you think he might have, oh I don't know, combed his hair or checked one last time to see if the plaid pork-pie hat was dorky. On the plus side, he was a very nice person who offered to get me a beer on his way over to the cooler.

Here's one of his feet:

You totally cannot see the pedicure, but all the girls at the green noticed it. I believe it sapped the strength of this gentleman's team; they certainly seemed surprised by the trouncing handed to them. And if his mom knew about it, she'd have something to say.

--Lawnbowling might be the only activity in this city that unites mid-40s new media faux slackers, earringed attornies, grandmothers with flappy upper arms, 20-year-old stoners, men with French tips on their feet (as mentioned:), older men who resemble Colonel Tigh from Battlestar Galactica, and random French people hauled off the street to serve as subs for absent people. Thank God they eventually repealed the Act of 1541, which forbids artificers, labourers, apprentices, husbandmen, servants or serving-men, and other "low-born" people from participating in the game of bowls, except at Christmas in their master's grounds and in his presence.

--The bowls themselves look a lot like malted Whoppers to spectators who haven't yet had their dinner because SOMEBODY forgot something at home and had to go back for it and there was no time to eat before the first jack was hucked or whatever it is they do to jacks.

--Everyone who doesn't lawnbowl treats lawnbowling as a joke, but I am assured by all who play that it is a game of raw courage, Machiavelian strategy, and physical grace. Much like motherhood in that respect, except no one stocks a huge cooler of free beer at the front door of THIS place.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Child "care"

A lovely friend was recently horrified by the bucket of dirty blocks her angelic 2.5-year-old was handed at a soon-to-be-hastily-abandoned childcare in the neighborhood.

Today I'm hosting that particular angel, her equally angelic (though steely-willed) older sister, my cousin's angelic 12-year-old, and Kid (streaming trails of glory, etc etc). They're in the living room, just down the hall from my office, each in a different chair, all playing DS/Leapster in dead silence. The house is a tip, there's a drooling coonhound licking their feet, roughly 18 million fruit flies in the kitchen, nothing even remotely resembling a healthy snack anywhere within walking distance, and inappropriate music being streamed on my Mac.

And yet how much better this is, for all of us. I will actually be sad when they're all back in school and I am left alone here with my little career. But at least I won't have to share the Pringles. . . .

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The beds are made!


And here's how I'm going to do that (thanks, government of Indonesia, for the inspiration):

Yep, I'm going to grease me a totem pole, tie some treats up top, and -- where was I going with this? How will having the Kid climb a greased totem pole result in him cleaning his room?

Just a sec. I'm sure it will come to me.


Well, THIS is awkward.

Once again, "eyes bright with purpose" has not translated into "brain bright with logic" here in the voodoo bungalow.

I think I should maybe go back on disability for another week or two.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Time to grow a pair

An interesting turn of events:

When you have a spiral fracture on (in?) your metacarpals, you risk losing some centimeters from your finger length.

The relative sizes of one's ring and index fingers supposedly point to whether or not you are a transvestite or trans-gendered person. (Thanks, tflem, for forcing me into gloves for the rest of my life). I shared this info at the dinner table last night. Even I could not have predicted what would come of it.

My six-year-old son is now not entirely convinced that I am currently/have always been a girl. Evidence: the finger thing but also the fact that there is sometimes a long white hair sticking out of my jaw (clearly, a beard). Also noted by small brain: daddy often refers to "mommy" as "Pete." "Mommy" likes to watch Eddie Izzard (formerly the world's funniest transvestite comedian, now, one hopes, soon to be a Member of the British Parliament) in the afternoons and has been heard to say "I love that guy."

Note to the interested: when you say, "Time to man up, son" to a small boy worried that his mommy is really a man, you should expect a look of horror followed by questions about how adoption works.