I Lost My Fitness Tracker in a Chip Bag

I Lost My Fitness Tracker in a Chip Bag

You know those digital bracelet fitness thingies that everybody wears? The ones that are connected to social media like an umbilical cord? I can’t find mine. I have a feeling it might be at the bottom of a chip bag, covered in shame crumbs. It is unfortunate that I wasn’t wearing it today though, because it was a banner day for exercise, yet sadly I have no proof. My tracker overlord of exercise measurement was not on me to bear witness on the internet. My day of fitness started early this morning. I executed a leaping sprint to the toilet that would have registered as 467 steps on my tracker as I waited for the bathroom doing the pee pee dance. Then, I completed the equivalent of a 200 meter hurdle race to the coffee machine. Gracefully jumping clear of school bags, laundry piles and dogs, I was first to the machine today. I earned another few dance steps toward my total as I celebrated in front of the fridge. I got the last of the milk bitches! Later in the morning, when I paced furiously in front of my wardrobe for a good ten minutes, I would have registered a maxed out heart rate on my tracker, as well as 270 footsteps and stretches trying on clothes that had shrunk in the dryer. Screw you dryer. Later on, I had a doctor’s appointment so off I went, excited for coffee shop at the hospital where they had plenty of milk for my giant cup of brew. Then I spent 20 minutes driving around trying to find a parking spot, thus getting my optimum heart rate back into the zone again. My tracker would have credited me for a god damned 5k run considering the vein that was bulging out of my temple as I screamed in my head. Then, if you can picture the fact that parking spots numbered 1 through 300 are pretty freakin’ close to the main doors, also picture my car not anywhere near those spots. No, I ended up driving to the outer limits of the known universe before I found the Holy Grail:  the last parking spot in ten acres of stalls. It was number 919, three lots over and up the hill. I spotted it, but so did the little old dude in a hat in his cream Caddy. We made hostile eye contact. I revved my engine, he flapped his gums in shock for a quick second and revved his. His hesitation cost him. I hammered onto the gas pedal, flew up to his bumper in a game of parking lot chicken and screeched into my spot. More heart rate points...
Women of Turkey – Pack Your Bags and Come to Canada

Women of Turkey – Pack Your Bags and Come to Canada

(This post contains swear words and feminism, not to mention a shot at politicians, so if you are thin-skinned, move along, there is nothing to see here) Can somebody please do something about these misogynist old crinkle dicks in positions of power? This asshole, Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, has said women cannot be treated as equal to men. He has accused feminists of rejecting motherhood. “You cannot put women and men on an equal footing,” he told a meeting in Istanbul. “It is against nature.” He also said feminists did not grasp the importance of motherhood in Islam. His Deputy Minister, a gold-plated limp pecker of a man,  Bülent Arınç  said “women should not laugh in public in Turkey” in a speech on moral corruption in the country. He goes on to say: “Where are our girls, who slightly blush, lower their heads and turn their eyes away when we look at their face, becoming the symbol of chastity?” Are you kidding me with this shit? These two jokers run an entire country that (presumably) has women in it. It has girls and teens who are being raised in this land where the most “powerful” people want to take their person-hood away. These abominable man-shits want to send a message to other menfolk that oppression is okay, that a perceived lack of chastity is grounds for abuse. It is 2016. These repugnant swine are so convinced of their antediluvian viewpoint that they feel free to spout this shit on international media. They preach their oppressive doctrine and do not show so much as a dribble of shame. And people actually go along with this shit. Sadly, these two are among a tragic number of similar thinking leaders in many countries. You find these assclowns everywhere. It is like they come oozing out of the same stinking sewer of hate, consumed with vagina-phobia. Our mysterious place threatens them, but really they want in so badly that they must punish us for making them thirst for it so hard. We push babies out of our dark places, so there must be some evil power in that six square inches of real estate. And biology says they can’t have it. In the minds of these fanatics, vaginas must be cast down and shamed to remove their power. The rest of the world’s possessors of soft clams between our legs often feel helpless to fix such an enormous and pervasive problem. But we need to help our sisters. Maybe we should do what the world always does and set up a hashtag in protest. Maybe #realwomanlaughyouasshole or #wearelaughingatyourtinydick. Maybe we could encourage women in oppressed countries to sneak up behind these pontificating blowhards at public rallies to pants them. When...
Children are Tiny Brain Invaders

Children are Tiny Brain Invaders

Children are like tiny human sniffer dogs that can sense your every weakness and flaw. When they find that deep dark character issue or emotional damage that you carry, they capitalize on it like ants at a picnic. They know the exact wrong thing to say, at the wrong time. For instance they somehow know precisely what you think of your Mother-in-law and how much you fear the dentist even if you hide those things very well. Got issues? Ya,  then those are the ones the children focus upon, talk about or replicate with an exactitude that is unnerving. Don’t know what I mean? Here, let me give you an example. If you have social anxiety that shames you… shabam…. one of your kids will come up with those precise behaviours no matter how well you have hidden your stuff. They will do it with flair like they are wearing a big fat neon sign that says “Hey look at what my Mom passed on to me!!”. Trying to hide your fear of spiders? Then it is guaranteed that Junior is totally going to collect spiders. Conversely, he might make a fool of himself at one of those annoying “pet the arachnid” birthday parties by squealing in terror. Time to share your Atavan with that child. Either way, whatever you have going on, they know about it. If you are so tired you can hardly cope, they get needy. (So do dogs and husbands by the way, it is their super power).  Whatever you like least about yourself will bubble up in at least one of your children… guaranteed. It is like a rule or something. I still remember one of my parents telling me they couldn’t stand the way I talked… now I realize it was because I emulated the asshole in the house pretty accurately. How do they know? How do they see your soul? How come my inability to do basic math exists in my child? Is it genetics? Is it quiet unspoken cues that we give them? No… it is the fact that they are evil mind reading little energy leaches… they see your heart, and they will reach in and pull it out… I am going to make myself a tin foil hat and hide in the closet.   This post ran originally on...
My Son is Going to Military Boarding School

My Son is Going to Military Boarding School

Not really… but he thinks it is a very real possibility. I don’t even know if they have military boarding schools for 12 year olds. If they do, I may need to find one and start the paperwork. As parents, we all hit the wall with our kids… often… we are ploughed under regularly. You think it won’t happen to you, but it does. You talk and cajole and bargain and threaten… to little effect. When your kid is a donkey with an agenda, even the best of parents have their spines ripped out an handed to them. I truly thought we would be at this stage only when one of mine hit their teens. Not so. By the time my boy made it all the way to age 12 without being traded in for a less challenging model, he ramped it up even harder. He is “that child.”  The level of stubborn, un-cooperativeness has been there since his early days. Every single item, chore, obligation or expectation had to be negotiated all along the line, from homework, to bed time, even the consistency of yogurt in his lunch was a point of contention. Picture the scene of a hapless farmer trying to push and pull an ornery pack mule up a hillside. That is our life. We are not wimpy parents either; we’re totally on the ball and delivering consistent rules rewards and punishments. We have one shining example of that in the other kid, so maybe we just got more than we bargained for in the younger one. There comes a time when you have to pull out the heavy artillery. In our plan, we have a sit down meeting with Captain Contrary and lay it out for him. It resembles a formal summit at the dining room table. Picture Dad looking stern and Mom with a file full of official looking papers at the ready. We inform the boy that we are done trying to get him to do the basics. We have had enough of the backtalk and bargaining, the shifting of workload and the overall neglect and the constant forgetting of important tasks. We say “we have looked into schools where they teach all that stuff, and students learn to do it in a scratchy wool uniform.” In addition to academics and grueling phys-ed classes, he would learn valuable life skills such as scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes or sweeping a two-acres marching plaza with a paint brush. They have a great program to keep kids connected with family… meaning they let them come home at Christmas and in the Summer. When I fantasize about this threat conversation that we haven’t actually had, his reaction is instant and full of regret and apology....
In Praise of Grandparents

In Praise of Grandparents

Although many of us have dubious relationships with our parental units, once we have children, some of that changes. Not all of it of course and sometimes the worst bits don’t get better, but we gave them grandchildren, so at some level we become golden. The most perfect of all possible human relationships is that of Grandparent and Grandchild. They love each other for merely existing. They accept each other completely in a state of grace that says “you are perfect in all ways and I will indulge your every whim”. Of course those self same Grandparents sometimes spend an inordinate amount of time telling us what flawed parents we are, or that our children aren’t as well raised as we were. They stand there in their polyester pants gazing disapprovingly into our pantries judging the nutrition of “their” grandchildren. They question our choices and generally make us crawl into the nearest liquor store crying for enough liquid to make it stop screeching in our ears… However, the babies, the grandchildren, the perfect little beings live in the light of beauty and tolerance that we have never seen emanate from the parents. From the perspective of the children themselves, the best Grandparent time is any old time, but maybe if that time is spent at the toy store. They wallow in the sunshine of approval and acceptance with no rules to follow and lots of candy to eat. Really the symbiosis is perfect in every way if the Grandparents are good, and part of the children’s lives. It does give all of us Moms a sense of smug satisfaction to see our parents helpless in the grip of the cuteness of our children as they rule their world. At least I would hope that is how it goes. Families can be whole, or fractured. They can be functional, or not at all. I would hope that every child has somebody who is that perfect love in their life, where the rules are elastic, candy is ok before noon, and the hugs are soft and frequent. Oh and do I have plans when I become a Grandmother…   This post ran originally on...