ninepounddictator

I bought mine!

2009-06-25T15:09:00.000-07:00

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I

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§ The SickKids Lottery gives you the best odds in Ontario , 1 in 3†, and the best chance to win $1 million cash*... and your generosity gives the best odds to sick children.

Check out sweetmama.ca for my weekly blogs!
Sweetmama.ca
Sweetmama.ca

Massages Round the Clock!

2009-05-18T16:21:00.000-07:00

My five year-old had her very first professional massage over Winter Break.

I just could not believe the hotel we were staying at had their very own Spa Menu for kids.

Anyway, I made her an appointment for the princess massage, which was a massage on the beach, using a Strawberry-scented oil. At the end of the massage, she would be covered in Princess Sprinkles.

I mean, my daughter totally needed a massage. All that coloring at school! All those play dates! All that swimming! I mean, she was STRESSED OUT! I kid. I kid.

I took about a million photos of her getting her very first massage, because it was too darn cute. They actually performed a real massage on her, the same techniques they do on an adult. She even had that donut hole head thing to put her face in.

My daughter LOVED every second of her massage! I knew she loved it, because she actually fell asleep half way through - which means she was as relaxed as can be.

In any case, over the months, we have played Spa at home. Now, this is a great game for single, stressed out mothers.

I get some nice smelling lotion, and we pretend her bedroom is Spa Suite Number One (My room is Spa Suite Number Two, and my yoga room, is Spa Suite Number Three.)

She likes getting a massage in Spa Suite Number one. She plops on the her bed, stomach flat, and I rub some grapefruit-smelling lotion on her back, on her legs, on her feet, her hands, her upper arms, for about half an hour or so.

Now, most people would say it's always so much better to be the receiver of a massage than the one doing it. But when's it's your own child you give a massage to, it's fun. My daughter lies perfectly still, whispering to me, "That feels really good mommy!" and even sometimes sighs (Just like us adults at spas getting massages!)

Anyway, the best part of PLAYING SPA, is that my daughter can now give a wicked massage too. She spreads the grapefruit scented lotion on my back, using just enough pressure, and I tell you, she's great!

The point is, if you think you're daughter may be ready for her first massage. Let her get it. Because, I'm telling you, every night now, she offers to give me a massage. And whoever turns down a massage - even from a five year old?

This raising a child thing sure has it's benefits. Who knew one of them would be a massage whenever I wanted (and one I don't have to pay for!) Do your children do anything special for you like that? Share

Also, for a more regular update on my life, check out sweetmam.ca. Go to the "Fun" section and go to the blogs, where you'll see mine and a number of other sweet blogs.

checkout sweetmama.ca
checkout sweetmama.ca
checkout sweetmama.ca

Ok, going upstairs. Got to get my nightly massage, before my daughter falls asleep.

xox
R.

No Nicknames PLEASE!

2009-03-15T18:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes - okay, a lot of the time - it's the small things in life that make me annoyed.

Recently, I've become very annoyed that people have come up with a nickname for my daughter.

Her name, as most of you know, is Rowan.

It's a very simple name, one that I had no idea that someone could find a nickname for. I mean, it's only two syllables!

Yet, some people have actually shortened her name and now call her "Ro." Or even worse, "Ro-Ro."

Yuck!

It started at her school, with her teachers. I adore her teachers. They are amazing.

The one and only problem is that they've started calling her "Ro" and "Ro-Ro."

Again, YUCK! (Honestly, I've tried very hard to think this nickname is cute. But it ain't working!)

So now other parents call her "Ro," and so do some of her friends.

I'm not sure what to do about this. Frankly, I rather talk to her teachers about her progression in reading and writing.

I'd feel like a complete moron for saying to her teachers, "Um, can I have a word? Can you please stop calling my daughter Ro. Her name is Rowan."

Parent-teacher interviews are coming up. I know my daughter isn't having any issues at school, and I have no issues either with the teachers or the school... except for her teachers calling her "Ro."

I just can't imagine going to the parent-teacher interview and the teachers asking, "So do you have any concerns?" And my answer being, "Actually, I do. I really hate that you call her Ro. Can you please stop?"

On the one hand, maybe I'm right to be annoyed. I mean, I named her. Shouldn't she be called the name that I named her? Also, shouldn't I nip this in the bud, sooner rather than later?

Or maybe I'm overreacting? I'm probably overreacting, but, hey, I'm a woman. I'm prone to overreacting.

Any suggestions?

And, also, just a reminder, that if you want to keep up on a more regular basis with my life, please check out sweetmama.ca. Just go under the "fun" section, check out the blogs, and you'll see mine - along with other fantastic blogs - updated weekly.

You can also now post comments there!

But if you have any suggestions, or have been through someone making up a nickname for your child that you hate, please tell me what you did. I love to hear from you!

xox
Rebecca (or Becky!)

Another Miracle!

2009-02-12T05:45:00.001-08:00

It's difficult to explain to people how the book publishing world works.

A LOT of my parent's friends, for some reason, are very interested in how I get paid.

They always seem to think that I get paid "royalties" for each book sold. (Which is ironic because a lot of them go to the library to pick up one of my books for free....anyway...)

The first miracle that happened this week you can read in the previous post (I'm still in shock!)

The SECOND miracle that happened was that I actually received, out of the blue, a fairly nice size cheque yesterday in the mail.

It was a....ROYALTY cheque.

The cheque was from my first book, Knocked Up. I actually earned out my advance, and then some, from my US publishers.

Let me explain. Publishers pay you an advance to write the book. The larger the amount they pay you in advance, the harder it becomes to "earn" back your advance.

Meaning - and I'm just throwing out a number here - if they pay you a $30,000 advance, enough people will have to buy your book to give back the publishers the $30,000 they paid out in your advance. I can't do math, so I have no idea how many books would have to be bought to make up what my advance was.

But, only after that, do you get royalties.

Knocked Up was published in 2004 in the States, so it's taken four years for me to earn back my advance, and now get royalties. This, in itself, is a miracle.

But totally fun too. I mean, how often does a cheque just show up in your mail box? (I'd like to say as often as your child goes to bed on their own....see previous post!)

The good news is that people are always getting pregnant, and, of course, being the author of Knocked Up, I think everyone who finds themselves with a bun in the oven, or who has a friend with a bun in the oven, should buy Knocked Up....And then the follow up, Wiped! Life with a Pint-Size Dictator, and then, the follow-up follow-up Toddlers Gone Wild.

And even Rotten Apple, if you have a pre-teen in your house.

After all, maybe in another four years I'll get another surprise in the mail!

But, mostly, this post is a BIG thank you to all those who bought Knocked Up, Wiped, Toddlers Gone Wild, and Rotten Apple.

Thank You! Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!

xoxo
R.

PS. Go to sweetmama.ca to look for more of my blog posts!

It's a Miracle!!

2009-02-09T17:16:00.001-08:00

Not that I've blogged.

But my daughter just asked if she could go to sleep. Yes, she actually asked if she could go to sleep. What is up with that? She hugged me goodnight, turned off the lights, and went to sleep.....all on her own!

It took five years, four months and eight days for this to happen....not that I'm counting. But I feel like doing a cartwheel!

I'm going to enjoy this miracle moment...I'm sure you'll understand.

check out sweetmama.ca for blog posts! (My blogs are posted every Wednesday, and there are daily posts from other fabulous mothers!)

check out sweetmama.ca for blog posts!

check out sweetmama.ca for blog posts!

xoxo
R.

Ahem....Excuse me....

2008-11-27T19:08:00.000-08:00

For the long, um, vacation from blogging.

So where the hell have I been for the last, um, few MONTHS?????

Well, I had my first YA novel, Rotten Apple, released in October. And I had another book deadline that I just finished. It's an adult fiction that I sent in with the title, "Clover and the Lucky Sperm Club." I hope they keep the title, but, hey, you never know.

Right now, my brain is as dead as my fingers are hurting.

(Honestly, would it be weird if I booked an hour massage at a spa and just asked if they could massage my hands? That's how much they hurt right now....)

So, basically, I've been doing nothing but working. In my recent round of press for Rotten Apple, I had a lot of reporters ask me how I am so prolific. The sad truth is that when I'm working, I shut off my e-mail, and don't answer my phone. I sit at my computer from the minute my daughter is at school, to the minute I go pick her up.

I don't get out of my pajamas, and sometimes I go days without showering. I know. Attractive isn't it? I become a bad friend too when I'm in work mode. My mind is only half in the real world when I get into fiction writing. I fall asleep thinking about my characters.

When I'm not working, I'm spending time with my daughter, who is, by far, my favorite person in the world. Every day, I love her more and more. One day, I think my heart will explode with love for her.

I also want to let you know that I'm now going to be a regular blogger at sweetmama.ca.

If you don't know about this site, you should definitely check it out.

I'll be writing about Single Motherhood every Thursday. As a single mother now, I really thought about whether I should do it or not. The truth is, I'm not thrilled to be a single mother. It's far from ideal. It's not how I pictured my life ending up.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I thought that I should share the good and the bad about being a single mother - As mommy bloggers know, other mommy bloggers just make you feel better when you know that other people are out there who understand what they're going through and that you're not alone.

Truthfully, I'm not happy about being a single mother, but it's my reality, as it is for so many others out there. In fact, I've had a very hard year. I hope, at the very least, that by blogging about being a single mother, that I may, in some ways, make others feel they are not alone.

There are also other great bloggers over at sweetmama.ca, including a blog by founder of Sweetspot.ca, Joanna Track, who is writing about being a step-mommy.

I miss all of you mommies, I really, truly do. I'm going to try and be a better blogger here at ninepounddictator as well.

In the meanwhile, I'm going to look into hand massages.

xoxo
R

Cover Girl...

2008-09-12T10:21:00.000-07:00

I'm a cover girl.

My darling daughter, Rowan, and I are on the cover of Parents Canada magazine. You can buy this magazine at Chapters/Indigo. There's also a spread on the inside of us.

I've never been the type of mother to read parenting magazines. I'm not sure why. But this magazine is actually very good, and I'm not just saying that because I'm on the cover, I swear. I read the thing from cover to cover and actually learned quite a bit. (Also, the people working behind the scenes - the photographers, the makeup artist, the editor - were all super nice, which I think people should know.)

I just feel a little strange being on the cover, and not because the headline is "love her or hate her?" but because now whenever I say something to Rowan's Daddy or friends about some aspect I'm wondering about parenting, they'll respond, "You're on the cover of a parenting magazine!"

Which, apparently, means I should know how exactly to get rid of pink eye. Friggen never ending pink eye in my home. I've been to the doctor three times trying to get rid of my pink eye - and it keeps coming back. I'm at the point where I just wish I could rip my eyes out of their sockets.

There is only one thing worse than pink eye, which is being allergic to the drops they give you to get rid of pink eye, which happened to me. Oh, the pain!

But now I have to go to Montreal on Monday for a speech Monday evening at the Jewish Public Library (This September 15th - Please, if you're in the Montreal area, do come, do come, do come!) And I can't very well wear sunglasses at 7:30 in the evening. But it might happen. (I promise I won't touch you!)

Truly, I'm not a diva. I just don't want to infect you. Plus, my eye is so fugly right now.

So, yes, I may be on the cover of a parenting magazine, but if anyone has any home remedies for pink eye, please do tell. Or else, this gal will be at the walk-in clinic - again - this weekend.

Also, my teen book, Rotten Apple, is coming out next month. If you have any pre-teen daughters who love to read, and write for their school newspapers/blogs - do schools have newspapers? - please don't hesitate to e-mail me at rebeccaeckler@yahoo.com and I'll do my very best to get them review copies....

I'm going to be a better blogger! I swear! I just have to go see if the red is still in my eye. Of course it is....

Help!

The downfalls of having a boy's name...

2008-06-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

So I had a mini-freak out this morning.

The Dictator will be starting camp next week. Full days, bus pick up and drop off, swimming lessons twice a day - the whole nine yards 0 and it hit me! It hit me that THIS is the biggest thing my little girl has ever done.

I freaked out. I called the camp, feeling the need to ask them a ton of questions.

I called the camp, saying my name and my daughter's name. I was put on hold for a l-o-n-g time as they tried to find what group she was in.

Finally, the person came back on the phone saying my daughter, Rowan, was put in a boy's group. I mean, thank god I called. Right?

The good news is that because there was a screw up, she now is in her best friends group, which is good, because now my daughter won't be scared to get on that bus, even though I'm freaking out about her going on a school bus each day.

Then I asked about swimming and if they put life jackets. They said they don't, that they prefer not to, so that these kids can learn to swim.

"But if you're really concerned we will put her in a life jacket," the person told me. "But it's a little pool and extremely well supervised."

I told them I was fine with that, because my daughter loves water. But I also told them that my daughter LIES and tells people she knows how to swim when she definitely does not know how to swim.

Then I was told that a lot of the little "monkeys" - as her group is called - do that. They lie about swimming.

Anyway, I am freaking out about this whole camp experience. I keep looking at the newsletter the camp sent out with all the counsellors names and experience and thinking, "OK, this is their fourth year at this camp," "OK, this is their seventh year being a counselor at this camp," just to reassure myself that these people are going to make sure my child is alive at the end of the day.

I'm going to be like a dog, waiting at home for her everyday at 4:30, by the window. Yes, that's how freaked out I am.

But, hey, at least they know she's a girl now.

Naked?!?

2008-05-22T11:51:00.001-07:00

So I was asked to pose naked a couple weeks ago.

A photographer, who I quite like and who I think is very talented, asked me to pose naked for an art book she's doing on....nudes. (Duh.)

In any case, the first question I asked was, "Will I have to show my Britney?" (If you don't understand this, then ask someone.)

I'm not comfortable showing my Britney. Just not. The photographer said I don't have to, that there are ways for me to cover it.

I've been debating the prose and cons of this.

Pros:

1) It would be an experience. And I like new experiences.

2) My body is only going downhill from here.

3) Ok, I don't have a third.

Cons

1) People will see me naked.

2) People will see me naked.

3) People will see me naked.

I'm leaning towards doing it. And it's a completely strange reason for me doing it.

For the first time in my life, I don't give a shit about my body. I don't work out like crazy. I don't watch what I eat. I'm just well...over it.

And I'm not sure when this happened. Well, I think it happened a couple months ago. Maybe it's my age. Or wisdom. Or maturity.

But I can honestly say I really don't care anymore....and in a good way! In a very healthy way! In fact, I can't believe I have spent 30 (cough-cough) something years spending so much time worrying about my body and body image. I can't believe how much time I wasted being envious of Kate Moss.

I'm so done. And I feel totally free. Which is why, when this request to pose naked was asked, I didn't jump back in horror.

It seemed to have come at a perfect time.

Your thoughts?

Hibernation

2008-04-14T08:36:00.000-07:00

I think I'm out of it. The hibernation, that is. Ah, feels good. Is that sunshine - actual sunshine - I see?

Seriously, it was New Years...and now it's friggen APRIL?!?

When...how...what?

First off, is it just me (I know it's not) but that was the LONGEST winter I can remember. Ever. It was never-ending.

Spent most of it, I think, sleepwalking and dreaming about being in a bikini on a beach....there may have been a couple trips somewhere. Yes, there must have been because I spent 55 minutes the other night taking tiny braids with beads out of my daughter's hair.

I feel like I'm now calling on a friend who I haven't spoken to in months. But in a good way. With the kind of friend that, even if you haven't spoken to in months and months, you can just take off where your last conversation ended.

So, here's the update in my life.

1) The Dictator is now four and a half. And the braids are out of her hair! It took me 3000 times as long to get them out as the woman in Mexico who braided them in in the first place.

2) Toddlers Gone Wild! is now out! Yay! So go to Amazon, or Chapters and order yours now!!

3) Planning a big bash for the book, a Toddlers Gone Wild party, which is all about toddlers. Will be a red carpet and everything...all for the toddlers!

4) My sister-in-law is about to pop. Seriously, any day now (Actually, last Wednesday) she will give birth to my second nephew.

My four-year old daughter now thinks she's pregnant, thanks to my bursting sister-in-law.

I'm like "Whoa! What did you just say?" when my four year old told me she was pregnant.

My daughter yesterday said to me, "Mommy, I need help to get up. You have to grab my hands! I have a baby in my stomach!"

I laughed, and then told her NOT TO TELL ANYONE ELSE THAT! (I don't want her teachers to be like, "Um, let's take your daughter to a therapist. She thinks she has a baby in her stomach. C-r-a-z-y!")

This morning she told me, "The baby is kicking." I told her, "THAT'S OUR SECRET!!"

The only up-side to my four year-old thinking there's a baby in her stomach is that she's now drinking a lot of milk ("I need MORE milk. It's good for the BABY!" she'll say.)

Ah, lots of tales like that in Toddlers Gone Wild! I think you'll enjoy.

It's nice to be back....

xox
R.

Belated New Years...

2008-01-04T22:02:00.000-08:00

Ah, yes, so the long awaited New Year's Resolution.

I only really have one resolution this year. And it's a weird one. I'm not planning to lose weight. I'm not going to obsess about working out. Nope. None of that this year.

My resolution is completely based on my past blog post. (I'm sorry. I will post more of the comments. It's just going to take a while. I have 269 to look through and I haven't turned on my computer in almost two weeks.)

I want to be clear. I did PAY for the apple juice, in case you wondering. And, apparently, a lot of cynics out there assumed that I did not pay for the apple juice. Which kind of hurt. I mean, why do people assume the worst?

Of course I paid for it. Anything my child breaks, I will pay for (I do not take her into china shops for this reason.) However, I will not be shopping in that store again. It was just the way they handled it.

I told another friend about the incident as we walked by the store a week later. I told her I couldn't go in. I was taking a stand, even though she needed to by some Advil.

"They are strange in there," she said. "They always look at you as soon as you walk in as if you're going to steal something."

It was quite interesting to me to read what people thought of customer service. Some thought that I shouldn't have to pay for it - considering I was buying many other items (I didn't end up buying anything but the apple juice.)

I lean too towards customer service. For example, I bought a crap load of Starbucks gift certificates for people for Christmas and while doing so I also ordered a grande non-fat latte. The barista said, "It's on the house."

This is why Starbucks is good with customer service. It was a nice thing to do, totally unnecessary, but completely nice. I will go back to Starbucks.

Once, at Whole Foods, I was buying mini-go yogurts. One of the lids on one of the six yogurts was slightly bashed in. I didn't care. But the dude gave the whole thing to me for free. That's good customer service. It makes me want to go back.

But even more interesting than paying for something versus good customer service it was completely interesting to see how upset some people were that I DIDN'T USE A CART!

Shoot me! I didn't use a cart!

I'm the type of person who believes I can carry everything I need in my two hands (aside from a big grocery shop.)

And even after a big grocery shop, with twelve bags in my trunk, I still believe that I can carry them into my door with ONE TRIP.

And, you know what? I can.

It ain't easy. My arms are usually bruised and the mark on my arms from carrying the bags leave red marks for hours.

But...still...I'm a ONE TRIP kind of gal.

I've always been like that. My mother always used to say, "Make two trips!" And I'd be like, "No. I can do it in one. Trust me."

I'm not lazy. I'm just a person who likes things done efficiently, even if that means my arms are bruised. If I can do something in one trip. I'm going to do it in one trip.

So, my New Year's resolution is to use a damn cart from now on when I go shopping, even if I'm buying a bottle of shampoo. That's it. Interesting huh?

It was also interesting for me to read that some mother's out there don't feed their children in the grocery store while they shop. It may be wrong. But I don't know. I do it all the time. If my child wants a cracker while we're shopping, I will open a box and give her one.

It keeps The Dictator happy, while I can shop for groceries peacefully. And, in case you were wondering, of COURSE I pay for it. What's the difference if she eats a cracker while we're at the check out counter or if we're on the other side. It's going to be paid for.

Other than that, it's been a nice break. We spent a week in Scottsdale with the family. And I took The Dictator to Mexico (again - I'm over my stomach issues.)

I almost cried when I saw that the Dictator can almost swim by herself now. Such joy.

I wish all of you good health and happiness in 2008. And, I promise, I'll use a cart.

Do you have to pay?

2007-12-13T08:38:00.000-08:00

Has your toddler ever broken something in a store? Completely by accident?

Did the store owner/manager make you pay for the accident?

Yesterday, I took the Dictator into a store - let's just say it was NOT Shopper's Drug Mart, but a store like it (Really, it wasn't Shopper's. I'm a Shopper's addict.)

She was thirsty so I grabbed a plastic apple juice bottle from the fridge and handed it to her. My hands were full of other supplies - kid's bandaids, baby shampoo, blah blah....

My daughter dropped the plastic bottle of apple juice and the bottle exploded.

It was completely by accident. AND...AND....AND....

The way the plastic bottle broke wasn't in a way that was her fault. This is kind of hard to explain.

But you know the part around the lid, which is so difficult to rip off, but so you know the bottle hasn't been opened before? The kind that you have to use your teeth to rip open?

Anyway, that's not where the bottle broke. The lid broke in a way that if I had dropped it, the same thing would have happened.

Basically, it was a flawed plastic bottle to begin with. A flawed plastic bottle that my daughter completely by accident dropped.

Now, if you were the store owner, and you saw a mother with a ton of other things she was going to buy and the bottle of apple juice that had completely broken in a way that was clearly the fault of the apple juice company and NOT the child, would you make the person pay the $1.39 for the broken apple juice bottle?

Would you let it go?

I'm not going to say what ended up happening or what I ended up buying or not buying. However I am interested in your stories of your toddlers breaking things in stores and the reactions...

Do tell....

The SO-Early Phone Call...

2007-12-10T05:53:00.000-08:00

It's the funniest thing....

I've always been a walker. I love to walk. People are always, "Why can't we just jump in a cab?" And I'll be like, "But it's only a 20 minute walk!"

Part of the problem is that I'm a really fast walker. And I mean really fast.

But, anyway...

I was walking The Dictator to school everymorning and enjoying it...(Although the looks from strangers, when I was walking back home with her empty stroller, with only a Starbucks cup in the seat, as opposed to an actual toddler or baby, somewhat made me feel a little crazy...)

The weather turned cold. I had to start to drive her to school. Because that wind tunnel at Bloor and Ave is miserable.

And, I tell you, I'm back at home by 8:30 a.m. thanks to this quick drive.

By the time I'm home, I've already gotten three messages on my cell phone.

These, of course, are from my other mommy friends, who have just dropped their kids off from school.

I don't know what it is about these early morning phone calls. But I love them. I had no idea I had it in me to be so gossipy before 9 a.m.

But I do have it in me. And I love these phone calls. You can't really talk to your mother friends in the evenings, once they are with their kids. Or when I'm with mine.

Because mostly my conversations with friends go like this, "Oh she just spilled her juice. I got to go wipe it up....oh now she wants a bandaid....oh now she doesn't like her mushy grape....oh now she has just taken off all her clothes...I think I should just go. Call me tomorrow at 8:35 a.m.!"

Some of my best conversations now happen before 9 a.m.

Oh, wait....my phone is ringing...It's my best friend who just dropped off her kids....It's 9 a.m.

Teachers and presents....

2007-12-02T18:35:00.000-08:00

Again, I need all you mommies out there for some advice.

Yes, it's that time of year again.

I used to be kind of thrilled that I was Jewish and didn't have to go through what seemed like the biggest pain in the ass (according to my friends who celebrate Christmas) when it came to buying gifts. I didn't have to buy X-mas gifts for anyone.

I send flowers to people like certain editors/publishers I like.

But now The Dictator is is full-time school and she has a number of teachers. And I have to buy these teachers X-mas gifts.

She has two main teachers.

But The Dictator also has a music teacher, a gym teacher, a french teacher, a mandarin teacher, and an after-care teacher who sometimes takes care of her when I can't pick her up at three.

Ok, so, my question is, "What the heck do people buy teachers these days?"

First off, her main teacher is a guy. And we all know how difficult it is to buy men presents...anyway. (This is just an added problem.)

Second of all, while I know all her teacher's names, I have no idea what they like to do in their spare time (Would a LCBO gift certificate be appropriate? Because if I had to spend my entire day with 12 toddlers, I'd think that's what I may want.)

I love all her teachers. And The Dictator loves them all too.

So I have to get them something good.

Now, I'm not opposed to gift certificates necessarily. But I would like to get them something a little different, like an actual gift. (That way, they also don't know the exact price of what you spent.)

So, my questions are as follows: What is an appropriate amount to spend on teachers?

What gifts have you given the teachers of your sons/daughters that they seemed to really appreciate?

And, of course, I will be getting a gift for the french/mandarin/music/gym teachers as well. And do they have to be as good as the gifts for the two main teachers?

Please, any suggestions would be greatly appreciated....

A Good Hospital Experience - I know!

2007-11-25T17:36:00.000-08:00

So, a few of you have asked how my trip to Cancun was.

It was great....that is, it WAS great, while I was there.

Then I came home....four days later, I was walking home from Pussateri's when I was hit with awful stomach cramps. An hour later, I had a fever, was shaking, and went to bed, crawled into a fetal position, wishing I could die.

The next three days I barely left my house (aside from dropping off and picking up The Dictator from school.)

I, literally, could not leave my house for longer than ten minutes. I needed to be near a toilet.

Not only did I have awful cramps, not the PMS kind, but the kind of stomach ache that felt like I had just done 3000 sit-ups. And the stomach ache was constant. So were the runs.

I thought it was the flu. Although my daughter was completely fine.

By the fourth day, still with the runs and still with horrendous stomach ache, I headed to the doctor, after my family and friends yelled at me, "GO TO THE DOCTOR ALREADY!"

I thought I just had the flu. What could the doctor tell me, except drink lots of water and eat white toast?

Which is kind of what he told me, when I did finally go see one. But, he said, if it got worse, go to the emergency room.

Now, I'm the type of person who hates going to emergency. I always wonder, "Am I sick enough to bother emergency with this?" "Aren't they so overworked with people who actually really are sick?" "I don't want to bother them if this really isn't an emergency."

But, by Saturday morning, I woke up at 6 a.m. barely able to walk. I hadn't eaten in days. I was so dehydrated that I was lightheaded. The cramps were so bad, I felt nauseaus. I couldn't stand up straight.

I knew it wasn't the flu any longer, because I didn't have any other flu like symtoms. No fever, my muscles (aside from my stomach) felt fine. And my daughter was completely fine. And the flu is only supposed to last a few days.

I called a cab and headed over to Mount Sanai, basically crawling into the taxi. I was in so much pain I gave the driver a $20 and told him to keep the change, even though the ride only cost $7.00.

I checked in saying, "I've been sick for a week with diarrehea - non stop. And I'm in so much pain. I just got back from Mexico."

"Hey, I read your book," said the check in person. "I thought I recognized you."

I was soon taken into a room. The doctor came in shortly and I again said, "I'm in so much pain. I have had the runs non-stop for a week. Sometimes up to 20 times a day. I just got back from Mexico."

"And your daughter isn't sick?" the doctor asked. "I read your book."

Now, I'd love to say that people say, "I read your book," to me all the time. They don't. It rarely happens.

And I can't believe it happened twice to the two people I had just told about my bowel problems, one of which asked that I give a stool sample.

I was mortified (Also, because I was in so much pain, I couldn't get out of my pajamas to go to the hospital, so I looked like I had just walked out of a garbage dump and smelled like it too.)

In any case, much like labor, no one tells you the good stories about giving birth. You only hear the awful birthing stories. The same is true for hospitals. You only hear horror stories about emergency rooms and nurses and doctors.

And, I'm sure, the bad stories far outweigh the good ones. But sometimes there are good stories.

I'd like to say that I had a great hospital experience (as great as you can get being in the hospital, that is, with some Mexican stomach bug.)

All the nurses were nice (and not just to me - I could over hear them talking to the other patients) they went out of their way to make everyone feel comfortable.

And the doctor was amazingly kind.

Perhaps the story is that if you have to go to the emergency room, that 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning is a good time to go.

And, if you know someone who works at Mount Sinai, please tell them what a great job they're doing (At least those who were working Saturday.)

They have hard jobs and probably don't get enough kudos. But I give them kudos. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Keep up the good work!

I feel so much better now, after an IV drip of antibiotic. I just wish I just didn't have to tell the two people who had read my book about my, um, runs.

Eeesh..I'm mortified.

xoxoxo

2007-11-20T11:21:00.000-08:00

Three times in the past week I've dialled the wrong number from my cell.

What can I say? It's hard to press those damn little buttons with gloves on.

Each time, no one picked up and it went straight to their voice mail messages.

I just hung up. I don't leave messages for people I'm not intending to call. I just call the person I had been meaning to call instead.

But, each time, I've gotten a call back from these people I never meant to call in the first place.

"Hello?" they'll say, when I pick up. (Now, as a mother, I usually pick up all calls, just in case it's an "emergency." Even those dreaded "Private" calls, I feel I need to pick up.)

"Hello?" I said back.

"You just called me," they'll say.

I was weirded out the first time.

By the third time I honestly wanted to ask the stranger I had called by mistake why they were calling me back, especially since I didn't leave a message.

Each time, when they called back, I said, "Sorry. I dialled the wrong number."

They all seemed upset about it.

Why do people call you back when they clearly don't know who it was who was calling them in the first place, and the person didn't leave a message?

If a number appears on my phone that I don't recognize, and the person doesn't leave a message, I don't call that number wondering who it was who called me. If it was that important, they would have left a message, I figure.

Maybe I should leave a message after dialling wrong numbers. "Sorry. I didn't mean to call you. Don't worry about calling me back to check."

It's one of those great technology etiquette questions.

My friend just went through another technology-ish question.

"We used to sign our e-mails with 'xoxo,'" she said to me about one of her other friends. "And now she doesn't. And now I didn't in my last e-mail! What does it mean?"

I've been there. A while ago, I started signing off certain e-mails with 'xoxox.'

The 'xoxo' sign-off takes some thought. You can't just sign off an 'xoxo' for everyone.

There are certain people I've written to that I've really wanted to sign off with the 'xoxox' but I couldn't. Mostly these are professional people (my editors) who I also really like as people. Are they friends? Are they editors?

Or other mothers at my daughter's school who send me Thank You e-mails for the gift I've bought for their kid for their birthday. I want to send back, "Your welcome! xoxox R.")

But who knows? Maybe they'd think I was being a little TOO friendly by signing off with a "xoxox."

I also wanted to sign off an 'xoxo' one e-mail with my daughter's teacher, who kindly helped me out with her skates (buying kid's skates is a whole other post.)

I could sign off xoxox because that would cross the teacher/parent code of some sort. Even though I was really grateful.

In any case, once you start using the "xoxox" sign-off, people expect you to continue using it. They read into it, if they don't receive an "xoxox" in all future e-mails.

Once you're in the "xoxox" circuit of e-mails, you're stuck in there. Once you start using them at the end of e-mails, you've got to continue. Or else people will wonder why they're no longer getting the "xoxo" treatment.

Which is why I don't give out my 'xoxox' to just anybody.

Just a couple random thoughts today...

xoxox

C-C-C-Cancun...

2007-11-05T18:43:00.000-08:00

"Toddlers Gone Wild" is almost wrapped up. I have two more days to really finish it.

The dictator has two days off from school next week.

So, instead of sticking around, I planned a last minut Club Med vacation. Yes, I'm taking the dictator to Cancun, where I'll meet up with another mother friend, who is bringing her two toddlers.

(I call it "C-C-C-Cancun," because my daughter was learning the letter 'C' in class and she's come back with this song that goes something like, 'C-C-C-C-C, the sounds of the castinet. C-C-C-Can you click them faster yet."

I've never gone on a vacation just with a girlfriend and our kids.

And I've never done the whole Club Med thing (neither has my friend.)

It all seems a little complicated to me - memership numbers, credit cards for onsite only, everything included. These kind of places sort of freak me out.

I don't like being told to "HAVE FUN!" Andd that's how I sort of picture the staff at a Club Med, always trying to get you to join circus classes and dance classes....but who know? Maybe I will have the time of my life. Maybe at the end of our trip, I'll knnow how to fly on a trapeez.

This Club Med offers all sorts of kid camp programs. For kids it sounds amazingly fun. (I just have to manage to convince my dictator to go to these camps, which I most definitely will convince her to go.)

One friend I know took her kid to a Club Med and barely saw him all day. She dumped her toddler off at the camp at 9 .m., and came back and picked him up at five. She lay on the beach reading books all day. I mean, that doesn't sound so bad.

Mommy needs some rest time, after all.

It's now been more than 2 months getting her up and to school and picking her up from school, all the while trying to meet my deadline of this book, and doing the odd freelance assignment, while taking her to brithday parties, art classes, and more birthday parties.

Yes, while she's at this camp in Cancun Cluub Med - which is included in the package - hopefully mommy will be on the beach, reading my own manuscript. So for me, it's a working vacation.

I may have to work, but I guess at least I get to work in Cancun, which is better than working at my home office. The view will be better, that's for sure.

Still, have any of you been to a Club Med? Thoughts/advice please?

I still can't believe I'm going to a Club Med - "Hands up, baby hands up, give me your heart, gimme gimme your heart." That's all I really know about Club Med.

So, how were your Club Med getaways?

****Also, thank you all who sent me in your cute toddler quotes. I laughed out loud at almost all of them. They are just too cute! And I will try to include as many as possible. You parents are great! So pass along to any friends to send me their cute toddler quotes!

Want your toddler to be a star?

2007-10-25T17:00:00.000-07:00

Or at least a mini-star....or at least have their name in a published book? Or at least have something for the scrapbook?

As some of you know I'm hard at work - ok, I'm at work - on my next book, coming out in late summer, called "Toddlers Gone Wild."

I'm just joking. I mean, I'm joking about the "work" part.

I'm actually really hard at work on it. So hard at work that I haven't been able to blog...or find time to eat (so, yes, dear readers, I've been living on apple juice boxes and animal crackers. You know how it is.)

Without giving too much away, I'm writing essays - some short and sweet, perfect reading before bed, or when you find ten minutes of alone time while raising your toddlers. Other essays will be longer. But you'll all be able to relate with the collection. And laugh along with me (and sometimes "at" me.)

I thought it might be a fun idea to have a page before each essay with something along the lines of, "Quotable Toddler Quotes." Or, "Real Life Conversations with My Toddler."

I have many essays. And many priceless mini-conversations with my own toddler, Rowan. The kind of conversation where you're left shaking your head, thinking "My toddler is a spaz! Seriously, she's a spaz!"

However, I thought it would be even more fun to include my mommy blogger readers/friends.

How?

By getting you to send me your short and priceless conversations with your own toddler(s.)

Here's an example of what I'm looking for:

Rowan: “Daddy has a pee-nuth.”
Me: “Right.”
Rowan: “I don’t have a pee-nuth.”
Me: “No. You have a vagina.”
Rowan: “And you don’t have a pee-nuth.”
Me: “Right.”
Rowan: “I’m going to go look at daddy’s pee-nuth now. Bye!”
Me: “OK. Have fun. See you later.”

Obviously they don't have to be that graphic and maybe that's not my very best example. But you see the length of the conversations I'm looking for and the idea.

And I'll include your child's name and age, and your own name, under the quotes/conversation.

Then, in 12 years, you'll have something to embarass the crap out of your child with! (Just at the same time they're completely embarassed of you.)

And think how proud the grandparents will be to see their grandchild's name in a published book!

And, let's face it, who doesn't love the funny things toddlers say? Honestly, once a day, at least, I find myself telling friends the quotes and conversations I had with my toddler.

So, if you're interested, please send me your "Quotable Toddler Quotes" or "Real Life Conversations" to:

rebeccaeckler@yahoo.com

State clearly that you give me permission to use your full name, and your child's full name (And what your name and your child's name is) and the age when they said what they said, and a contact phone number.

And I'll pick the cutest/funniest/sweetest ones.

And voila! The memory in print forever!

I can't wait to read them!

The Rainforest Cafe...

2007-10-18T19:03:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever been?

My daughter's actual birthday was on Monday, so of course, after we had her birthday party with the kids, and another family birthday party a day later on the Sunday, we just had to do something on her actual birthday...(Talk about a lot of parties for a four year old.)

ALthough, in truth, I had enough of celebrating her birthday. Planning parties are stressful and emotionally exhausting and I'm just glad not that only kid got out alive, but no kid actually cried. They had a great time, adn that's always what really matters.

(I don't really like plugging places here, but this place called the Groove Dance School, made the most painless party for the 21 kids who showed up. So if you're looking for a new venue for a 3-8 year old, it's a fun place to go.)

But, I know, I know, you do actually have to do something on your own child's birthday because the guilt would kill me....if not the food at the Rainforest cafe.

The food isn't great at the Rainforest cafe. It's not awful either. Which means, I guess, it's the perfect place to take a child.

You know it's a perfect place to take a child because it is THE most unromantic resturant I've ever been to in my entire life.

I wanted to take my daughter to tea at the Four Seasons on her actual birthday. But she can be, um, a wild child after school and I don't think the old ladies, dressed in their very tea best, would appreciate my daughter running around the Four Seasons, runing their relaxing afternoon.

Which is why we ended up at the Rainforest cafe, where a monkey hung over my head and every fifteen minutes would wail monkey sounds. Every fifteen minutes, too, the elephants would start howling elephant sounds. There are lots of never ending loud animal sounds at the Rainforest cafe.

The best? Oh, yes, the sound of a thunderstorm going off every half hour. I get why kids love this place (IF you tell them it's your child's birthday a whole bunch of waitors will come out and sing for them - which they love. Yes, it's that kind of place.)

The people I don't get are the people who don't have kids who actually go to this place. Serious, can someone please explain this to me? Why would anyone, without children, go to this place. But they do! There were lots of tables without kids.

If you've been to the Rainforest Cafe, in Yorkdale mall, what exactly attracts you to the place? Maybe you have good food reccomendations. Maybe the fajitas are the best fajitas in town.

I just don't quite get why anyone would go to such a loud place, with so many kids, elephants ranting, thunderstorms going off, if you don't have any kids with you.

And after all this, I know I'll be going back. Hey, my kid loves the place. Which means I, too, will learn to love the place.

Skool Trips with Good Intentions....

2007-10-15T17:24:00.000-07:00

I had really good intentions. I swear.

The Dictator turned four today.....I can't believe it.

In any case, I really have grown up with her. I know, hardy har. But it's true. I still love her more and more every day.

In fact, when the pamphlet came at the beginning of September from her new school, I actually read the entire thing - cover to cover. Twice!

I made one goal for myself this year. I am going to drop off my daughter every day and pick her up every day. So far, so good. We've never been late. I'm, like, the first parent to pick her up. I'm doing good. And I really get such joy out of doing it.

Even if dropping her off at 9 a.m. and then picking her up at 2:45 p.m. really does cut into the day. I'm not complaining, but it's a fact. If I go to a yoga class at 10 a.m. I get back home at 12:30, eat lunch, and then it's basically time to pick her up.

But I really did want to get more active in her school. Well, not entirely it turns out.

The other day I was standing with another parent, while waiting for school to let out, who is also a friend. She's much more of a jetsetter than I am, flying off to Paris Fashion week, parties out of town every weekend, and she works in PR.

Another woman came up to us and said, "Your children are in JK, right?"

"Right," we said back.

"Well, we're looking for a parent blah blah..." I forget what the word was. Oh, yeah, it was a 'parent class representative."

I looked at my friend and of course did what any other parent who DOES NOT like the sound of being a Parent Class Representative would do. I pointed at my friend and said, "That sounds perfect for you! You'd be great at that!"

My friend said - rather whispered violently into my ear - something like, "I'm going to wrap a rope around your neck and strangle you."

My friend told this other woman that she was a working mother and just has no time.

I, too, am a working mother, and, quite frankly don't want to be the one responsible for calling all the Dictator's classmates if there's a snowstorm to tell them not to go to school.

Parent Class Representative would also be responsible for collection money from other parents and buying the teachers X-mas presents.

I mean, I COULD do that all. But I'm so disorganized that I just KNOW I would end up buying the gift and never collect the money from the other parents. And on stormy days, I don't want to get up and call everyone in her class. I just want to stay in bed.

So I told this woman that I couldn't possibly because I'm a working mother and VERY disorganized. Luckily, my parents also happened to be picking up The Dictator with me that day.

"Ask my mother," I told this woman. "She'll tell you I'm the most disorganized person in the world!"

So my mother said, "Yes, I didn't raise her like that. But it's true. She's the worst. But I didn't raise her like that." (Thanks Mom! Even though it's true, you know, it still hurts when your mother crticizes you in front of, well, anyone....)

I could volunteer for pizza day once a month. But I don't really want to clean up after the kids. I certainly don't want to volunteer on skating days, because it's too friggen cold for me and I quite hate skating. And even more than hating the cold and skating, I hate having to put skates on kids. I mean, I really hate skating.

I could volunteer at the lunch room, but they wanted a one term committment at least once a week, and frankly, I can't commit. Because if I ever want to finish this book, I can't be picking up pieces of noodles off the floor. (Also, you have to sit with the kids and make sure they only talk about non-competitive things....I'm super competitive, so I'm not so sure what is considered competitive between 3 and 4 year olds...)

But this Friday, The Dictator will be going on her first field trip to the Yorkville Fire Station. Now, to me, that sounds like a no-brainer. It;s five minutes away from my house. There will be fireman there. And even ugly firemen are kind of cute. That's the one I wanted to volunteer at. I was excited.

So, the good mother I now am, said to The Dictator's teacher this morning, "I know you're going on a field trip. Do you need extra parents to go along? Because I'll help." (I mean, if I have to volunteer for something, this is the thing I want to volunteer for....firemen...firemen...)

"Thanks so much Rebecca, but we don't need help this one. But there will be a lot in the future that I'll definitely ask you."

Doh! Shit! What did I just get myself into???

See, my intentions were good, but god only knows now that I'll probably have to end up going to some puppet show, on the school bus far away from home in the middle of winter. I just know it.

Or even worse, The Science Centre (Still am traumatized from school trips I was forced to go on as a kid. That stupid thig that makes your hair stand on end???? In fact, I walk into the science centre and I immediately want to take a nap.)

So, what do you all think of going on school trips with your kids? Fun? Funny stories? Share with me please!

I am very sad that I don't get to see the firemen....sigh. And I certainly can't go back to the teacher now telling him THAT was the field trip I wanted to go on....I wanted to see firemen, not puppets! Argh.

Four years ago today, was the happiest moment of my life. Still is.

Oh, where or where....

2007-09-25T06:14:00.000-07:00

does the time go?

I may, in fact, be writing to myself since it's been a couple months since I blogged and it's quite possible no one is out there...Is there anyone out there?

I'm hating myself for being a bad blogger.

But, seriously, where did the summer go?

And how did it get to be almost October? And how is it possible that my daughter is turning four? FOUR!

So, she's in school now full days (9 a.m. to 3 p.m.)

It's a good school. So far, it's a great school. They teach Mandarin and French. Which I think is super smart.

And The Dictator loves telling me the new words she's learned when I picke her up.

Just yesterday in fact she said, "Merci."

And I said, "What's that mean?"

And The Dictator said, "It means 'Thank you' in Mandarin."

Ah, my little genius.

The only problem I see about her learning Mandarin is that I don't know how to speak Mandarin, which means whatever she tells me, I'll have to take as being right.

(Even though the girl thinks that if she climbs on a ladder she can reach the moon.)

As for my life, I can now do a handstand in yoga. I'm working on a new book, called Toddlers Gone Wild.

And just trying to figure out where the time went....

I promise ti be a better blogger now. So "Merci" for being patient. That's 'Thank you' in Mandarin.

My Movie Buddy

2007-07-31T20:39:00.000-07:00

I have a movie buddy. Everyone should have one of these.

A movie buddy is someone, who is a friend, but all you ever do together is see movies. And, I mean, that's ALL we ever do together.

We meet at the theatre, catch up while we're buying tickets and junk food, see the movie, and then catch up a bit more when he drives me home. (If anyone's interested, I had a KFC chicken sandwich, fries, a diet coke and then some glosset peanuts. Yes, I'm one of THOSE annoying people who eat throughout the entire movie.)

My movie buddy's name is Mark. And I only am telling you this because he loves when I mention his name. I thanked him in the acknowledgements of my first book, Knocked Up, and felt so entirely guilty about forgetting to mention him for the second one. But for third book, my movie buddy's name will definitely be included.

Anyway, I haven't seen Mark in ages (being in Calgary and all) But now that I'm back in Toronto, it was definitely time to see Movie Buddy Mark. Because Movie Buddy Mark is the perfect non-date date.

We e-mailed. How about a movie, I wrote....then asked, "What do you want to see."

His response? "We could see that Lohan movie..."

To which I wrote back in response, "OH MY GOD. THAT'S EXACTLY THE MOVIE I WANT TO SEE TOO!!!"

That's the thing about Movie Buddies. They're pretty much the only buddies who are absolutely willing to see anything with you. The worse the movie the better. I honestly could not think of one other person in my life that I could have dragged to "I know who killed me" - even if I offered to pay for the ticket and all the food.

Anyway, we saw the Lohan movie. And it was fucking phenomenal. Well, it was phenomenal it that, "What the hell is going on?" kind of way, and also in that, "Ok, I know this is not a comedy, but I've never laughed so hard in my life" way.

My Movie Buddy and I basically had the greatest evening. All we did was see the movie. And we probably said, um, 50 sentences to each other the entire night. And that's a-okay.

And, get this, the audience was actually quite full. I know! Shocking! But even more shocking was that people clapped at the end of it, and like my Movie Buddy and I, were screaming out, "OSCAR NOMINATON!!!!" at the end. I mean, the entire audience was into how bad this movie was in that "I love this movie because it is so bad" way.

The point is, having a Movie Buddy in your life, one that is eagerly willing to see anything at all with you, is one of the best kind of buddies to have.

I can't wait, in fact, for the next shitty movie to come out. See you then, Mark.

Ashram....

2007-07-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

I know. I know. It's been so long since I've posted. I'm not exactly sure why. I think, basically, I was exausted. And needed a break from everything.

Anyhoo, I'm in Toronto for the summer and it's so strange how the Calgary in me is coming out. Basically, I smile at people. And by people, I mean perfect strangers. And I'm scared to cross the streets here. But, boy, do I love being back at Pusie's (the nickname for Pusateries.) and the fact that I can get a cab in a second.

It's like I'm a whole new woman. A happy person! Maybe Calgary has changed me. The other day, I took The Dictator out to breakfast at Eggs Over Easy on Bloor street. We were walking home (her carrying, no joke, three stuffed animals) when I saw a seeing impaired woman, looking very lost.

Mostly, this was, I thought, because there is so much construction going on everywhere that she had to be super careful. I asked her if she would like me to walk her somewhere. So I walked her all the way to her house, her on one arm, and The Dictator on the other.

And The Dictator was being so good, this woman didn't even know I had a three year old on my other arm, until I told her. Anyway, she was a very nice woman. It turns out she became blind in her twenties. Hopefully, I'll run into this woman again, because she was quite lovely.

And then The Dictator asked why the woman couldn't see. I had no idea how to answer. I think I said something like, "Some people can see, and some people can't." It's hard when your child gets to that age where they ask you questions that you really have no clue how to answer.

I'm also working on my next book. I think I have a good title, which makes me happy, because I'm one of those writers who really has to start at the very beginning. I need the actuall title before I can get into writing the book.

But, right now, I have a new obsession. And, I'm hoping some one out there can help me.

I want to go to an ashram. That's my latest obsession. (And I will admit that a lot of it has to do with the fact that I just read Eat, Pray and Love, which is fantastic. So do pick it up. Or I'm sure you have a friend who has read it and can loan it to you.)

A few months ago, I went with a friend to a spa in Arizona. I worked out three hours a day, ate so friggen healthy I thought I may be in detox mode, because I just do not do well without a chocolate bar in my diet every day, and was in bed by nine o'clock every night.

But now I want to go to an ashram, where I can meditate and clean temple floors and enjoy silence. I do want to find inner peace. Yoga helps. A lot. But I want to take it a step further. But I don't want to go to India. I need some sort of ashram that maybe is in California and for beginners. I can't be half way around the world from the Dictator.

So, please, if any of you out there have been to an ashram, or knows someone who has (Also, I only want to go for maybe a week, as I can't leave The Dictator for longer than that...) please do share where and your experience and any tips....

And I promise to start writing more often....

Hope you are enjoying a wonderful summer!

Stuck - literally...

2007-06-22T11:53:00.000-07:00

So I've been stuck lately.....

I just feel stuck...

I have deadlines piling up and, well, like I said, I just feel stuck....

You know that feeling?

Anyway, I was talking on the phone this morning on the way back from Therapist - started going again a couple weeks ago - after realizing that I had lost a ton of weight, and, well, just felt stuck and anxious....

So I was talking to my friend on the phone about feeling blue, got on the elevator, pushed my office floor and she was going on about how everyone once in a while felt stuck, that she has, and that you just have to take things day by day, or step by step, or something "The Secret" like. I haven't read The Secret, but my friend has.

But I had stopped paying attention because quite literally I was stuck. I've never been stuck in an elevator before, but there I was stuck somewhere between some floor. The elevator just died. Just like that.

I freaked out. "I'm stuck!" I screamed to my friend.

"I know you said that," my friend said.

"No! I'm stuck in the elevator! What do I do? What do I do?"

"Pick up the phone. Isn't there an emergency phone in there?"

There was. But it wasn't working. It just kept going through to some phone company.

I was seriously starting the hyperventalate, and was pushing the emergency button like crazy.

"Ok, I got to get off the phone," I told her. "I don't want my battery to die in case I have to call 911.

I made a last phone call. I know it's sad but I did. I seriously wondered how long I would be in there, if the elevator would go crashing down, and if I would die wearing sweat pants, my fiance's t-shirt and a flouresent pink bra. I even thought how lucky I was to have spent the night sleeping with The Dictator.

Luckily, in the elevator there was a sign posted about the water being shut off tomorrow, and the office number was on the bottom. So I called down to the front desk. "I'm stuck in the elevator and I'm freaking out," I told the woman who picked up.

"We'll send someone right over," she told me.

"Good, because I'm freaking out!"

And she laughed. Now, what kind of person laughs when you're stuck in an elevator? Anyway....

I was rescued, thank god. And then it hit me. What was God trying to tell me?

Yes, I believe in God. And then I started to laugh and called my friend back. "Can you believe I was complaining about feeling stuck and then I was stuck in a fucking elevator?"

And, after being stuck, literally in the elevator, I don't feel so stuck anymore...

Ah, signs from above....got to love them.

A day in the life of me....

2007-06-12T11:16:00.000-07:00

*Some* people have spent way too much time obsessing about me and my life in the last few days. Or so I've heard.

So, I've decided to write about my day yesterday. In fact, I think this could be quite fun for bloggers. Just simply write out what you did yesterday. So here goes and feel free to share your day!

7 a.m. Get up with child. Watch her eat breakfast. Say goodbye to her. She ignores me as she's watching Dora the Explorer while eating rice for breakfast. I tell her I love her. She ignores me. I yell "I love you!" She looks up, finally, and says, "I love you."

7:50 a.m. Arrive at gym. Walk/jog on treadmill for ten minutes.

8 a.m. Meet trainer, also known as Fit Pete, because he's super fit and the meanest trainer I've ever had, which is a good thing. I swear, in between lifting weights, I get a nine second break. NINE SECONDS! That's it!

9 a.m. Finish workout. Fit Pete makes me a protein shake, which are so good. It's one of the main reasons I go see Fit Pete. For the Chocolate/banana protein shake that I get after workout.

9:15 a.m. Wonder if I should go to office or take an "emotional" day off.

9:16 a.m. Decide to go to office.

9:17 a.m. Decide to take "emotional day" off.

9:35 a.m Get back home. Play around with Ruby the Nine Pound dog. Dog Camp picks her up. Kiss her goodbye.

9:45: Talk on phone with friends to catch up, moan about life, listen to them moan about their lives.

10:45 Finish protein shake. My stomach feels like I ate a rock.

11:50 a.m: Daughter comes home from school. We play around with her stuffed animals. Nanny fixes her lunch. I eat a left over wrap from day before.

noon: Check out movie listings. Decide to take daughter to a movie. After all, I have taken an "emotional day" off. Look for movies rated 'G.'

3 p.m. Take daughter to mall, where we hit Chapter's to check out books and buy her a dress up princess dress. (Ahh, the things you can get at Chapters, that aren't books!)

3:45 p.m. Take her to HMV to buy new DVD's because I'm so sick of the ones she has. Realize it's time to get new DVD's when you know all the words to theme songs to Holly Hobby and Strawberry Shortcake.

4:30: Head to movie theatre. We're seeing Surf's Up.

4:40 p.m movie starts. Realize that a child's size popcorn is the perfect amount to eat, without feeling sick after. Feel good that I, at least, learned something today.

6 ish. Movie ends. I loved it. Daughter, I think, liked it. Although half way through movie she tells me, "Mommy, penquins can't surf!" I tell her they can. She says they can't. Wonder if daughter will ever believe in tooth fairy if she already realizes penquins can't surf.

6: 45 at home. Make daughter noodles for dinner. Friend of family comes over. We play around. Daughter puts on new princess dress. We play, "Going to the Ball." I'm the prince (because I'm not wearing a dress so I'm not "allowed" to be a princess.)

7:45 p.m. Get her ready for bed. She screams she doesn't want to wear pull ups anymore. I tell her that's not cool, because the night before we triend the whole "no night time pull up thing" and she screamed at 2:30 a.m. "I'm wet! I'm wet!" And she was, so was her bed. Mommy had to change everything at 2:30 in the friggen morning. So we're back to nighttime pull ups.

8:30: Decide to rewatch ending of Sopranos while eating leftover pizza from two nights before. Because I'm not sure I liked it or not the first time around. The Soprano series finale, that is. Decide I do like it. (the pizza and the Soprano ending.)

(in between watching, I needed to go see daughter upstairs 12 times for various reasons, ranging from "I've got to pee," to, "I don't know what I wanted," to "I fell off the bed.")

Finish Sopranos around 10:30 p.m. beacause of running up and down stairs so many times. Decide I did two work outs, because running up and down stairs twelve times must count as some sort of work out. I eat a kit kat bar. Ok, I ate two kit kat bars, but they were the mini ones, so I only feel slightly bad about it.

11 p.m. get ready for bed. Brush teeth, wash face. change.

Get to bed. Decide I can't sleep. Head downstairs. Decide I am tired. Go back upstairs.

And that was my day. Interesting, huh?

Moving Along....

2007-06-04T10:03:00.000-07:00

So I took the Dictator to a birthday party yesterday afternoon.

It was a great birthday party. A princess fairy birthday party where all the kids got to leave with little fairy wings.

After the party, The Dictator and I were walking along when we ran into a friend of mine, who was heading to a nearby park, with her two kids.

So, The Dictator, wearing her fairy wings, and I decided to go along as well.

Now, my friend's little boy was carrying a fishing rod to the park (Because, as parents, we all know that sometimes our kids just refuse to leave the house without certain things.)

The other day, The Dictator refused to go to the grocery store without carrying her stuffed bunny rabbit, her stuffed cat, and her stuffed pony, plus a chapstick - how exactly do their brains work? - all in this Easter basket. I know. I know.

So, they we were. The Dictator wearing fairy wings and the little boy carrying a fishing rod. I said to my friend, "Can you imagine what people are thinking about us right now?"

The truth is, if you're a parent, you simply understand that sometimes your kids just refuse to take off their costumes and need to carry a fishing rod - even though there's not a lake in sight, and it's not Halloween.

For example, Saturday morning I took the Dictator out for pancakes at Phil's (They make good pancakes - if you live in Calgary, you know what Phil's is.)

A little boy walked past the window, at 8:30 a.m., wearing a superman costume. I was like, "Yup. I get that." I didn't find it strange at all.

Kids will be kids, and sometimes kids just feel like wearing a superman costume out of the house, instead of their clothes.

And, I'm pretty sure, for the next week or so anyway, that my little gal will be wearing her fairy wings wherever we go.

Blogger Drama! Future Journalists watch out!

2007-06-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm laughing so hard I basically have tears streaming down my face.

That's because I just got off the phone with someone who told me who was behind one of the blogs that is constantly attacking me and my work and me and me and me.

I'm laughing so hard, because of all people, this person is actually a (part-time) journalism "professor!"

Can you fucking believe that?

It's so pathetic, it's funny. I mean, if it were just some weirdo 60 year-old who still lived in his parents basement who made fun of me, that I would get.

But someone who teaches journalism? Give me a fucking break.

THIS IS WHAT JOURNALISM "PROFESSORS" DO IN THEIR SPARE TIME????? Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Shouldn't they be preparing lesson plans, or actually writing stories, or doing - what's that saying - practicing what they preach?

I liked going to journalism school. Sort of. I mean, it was a long four years. But it got me my first job at Pamela Wallin and an internship at the Calgary Herald. All in all, it was a good experience.

And I did meet some wonderful professors, who, I'm quite positive, would not spend their spare time criticizing other journalists on a blog they hide behind.

Yes, future journalists, if you go to this school, you may possibly be taught by a blogger who seems to enjoy spending her spare time behind a fake blog, criticizing other writers bitterly. And not just me.

Now, the question is "Do I out this 'professor?'"

Hmmmmmm.....

I'm quite positive this professor's bosses wouldn't exactly enjoy knowing what this professor does in her spare time.

In fact, I don't think any school would like to have a journalism "teacher" on their staff who does such things - not because legally there's not much you can do about it, but because morally? It's just too pathetic and laughable.

Yes, dear Journalism "Professor," - I know you read me - would you pick on one of your own students who is busy working what you teach them to do - get a job writing? Where's the love?

And, at least, I have my name on my blog. I don't hide under a fake one.

I believe in karma. Trust me, it will come back to bite you in the ass.

In fact, my guess is you won't be teaching at this university next year. Just a guess. Or maybe I know people.

It reminds me of a story I just heard. This guy my friend knows was in line at McDonald's when someone behind him said something truly nasty to him for no reason.

Well, unfortunately for this man who said something so nasty, the guy he said it to had a black belt and is a champion kickboxer to boot. He may look small, but still...

let's just say this man regretted what he said, when he found himself lying on the floor of McDonald's.

The Dictator is Furious...

2007-05-30T16:19:00.000-07:00

at me.

Well, at least she was last night at about midnight. I don't think I've ever had someone that mad at me.

I was super exhausted from attending an evening yoga class (the instructor only called out my name 22 times last night to correct my postures. It was a great class! As a side note, how is it that yoga instructors who have never met you always know your name? Ok, I know they probably watch us sign in our names, but how do they actually remember our names? Anyway...)

I mean going to an evening yoga class was great in the sense that the class ended at 7:45 p.m. which meant I got home at 8 p.m. which meant The Dictator should have been in bed.

It's just been one of those weeks (OK, two weeks) where the Dictator hasn't slept through the night, so again I'm a walking talking zombie. Well, a walking zombie who can almost put together a sentence.

The point is, I was excited that maybe she'd be in bed. When I'm at home, she only lets me put her to bed. But when someone else does it, she seems to go to bed a lot easier and quicker and falls asleep almost immediately.

In any case, I was so exhausted from this so-NOT-a-Level-One yoga class (even though it was, in fact, a level one yoga class) that I was in bed by 10:30 p.m. which is really early for me. I'm a night person. I could watch re-runs of Will and Grace until one in the morning. Ok, now I'm really sounding pathetic, but it's true.

Anyway, I was so fast asleep until I heard my daughter sudden wailing, "Mommee!!! Where are you?? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?"

I thought if I ignored her, it might be one of those far and few between lucky times when she'd just fall back asleep.

She so did not fall back asleep. She just kept screaming, "WHERE ARE YOU? YOU HAVE TO SLEEP WITH ME!!!!!"

I trudged to her room and she started screaming at me that I was "NEVER supposed to not sleep with her."

"You are always supposed to sleep with me," she screamed. "You are never supposed to sleep in the other bed. NEVER!"

I mean, the gal was pissed off at me. Truly pissed off.

Because I was half asleep I didn't really want to get into explaining how or why I couldn't always sleep with her. I just wanted to sleep. I also was so not going to beg for forgiveness - "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I promise I'll always sleep with you - because she's three and I'm so not always going to sleep with her. And, really, do you have to beg for forgiveness to a three-year old.

Granted, I do hate when she gets mad at me.

I just got into her bed and slept in a wet patch of diet ginger ale on her Dora the Explorer sheets that are about as comfortable as sleeping on sandpaper.

Yes, diet ginger ale is the drink of choice she goes to bed with these days. She doesn't actually drink it, so much as just hold the cup, so please don't yell at me because I let my child go to bed with a sippy cup of diet Canada Dry, that leaks all over the bed that I ended up sleeping in.

Please, I already have a three year old mad at me.

I love Yogis...

2007-05-21T12:49:00.000-07:00

I am so bad at yoga.

Really. I'm always the worst in every class I attend. I'm pretty sure yoga is the only class where they say "beginner" or "Level one," and no one is ever a beginner or a level one. Never.

But I still love it. It really does help my mental state. I just feel so much better after doing a yoga class.

And I love yoga people. I love them. I want to be one of them. In fact, if I could go back ten years, I'd probably decide to be a yoga teacher, because I've never met a yoga instructor who didn't have a great outlook on life or seem to want the best for you.

For example, the other day I went to my new yoga studio and said to the guy at the front desk, "What is this flow class? I'm really a beginner, so can beginners take this? I really am the worst in every class."

And you know what this guy said to me?

He said, "Don't EVER say that about yourself. Ever! I never want to hear you say something like that about yourself again."

I just thought how nice it would be for this yoga man to follow me around all day, while I'm working, or being a mother, and keep saying that to me, "Never say that about yourself. Never say you're the worst." How great would that be?

And there's just something about being in a yoga class that makes you like everyone around you. At the end of every class at this new studio I've been going to, not only do you bow to the instructor and say, "namaste," you have to bow and say it to everyone around you.

I mean, that's nice. It's so very rare that I find myself in a room full of people where I actually have good thoughts about everyone. But in yoga I do. I like everyone around me.

So yoga has become my new obsession. The one problem is, well, actually, there are a couple of problems.

The first being is that I actually want to become very good at yoga. Which means I get quite competitive. Which, I know, I know, I know, is so not the point of yoga. You are not supposed to care about what the person beside you is doing. Which is so beautiful. It's such a beautiful thought to not worry about the person on the mat next to you.

And, yet, I can't help but look at the person next to me - to see how much better they are than me. So that's one problem.

Yoga is not supposed to be competitive, and yet I am, by nature, a competitive person. So I'll need to get over that. How does one get over that exactly?

Second, yoga takes a lot of time out of your schedule. I mean, the classes are an hour and a half. So, if you take travel time to and from into consideration, and an extra 15 minutes, which I need to get the spot at the back of the class, we're basically talking my entire morning...or entire afternoon.

That's the thing. To fit yoga in regularly is pretty stressful, especially considering I have to edit a draft of a book and am in the middle of writing another one. I mean, I got to work! I have work to do!

Which also goes against the grain of yoga. You're supposed to be relaxed, right? Yoga is supposed to be relaxing. And it is, while I'm in the middle of a class. But not so much while I'm trying to get there, make sure I get my spot, and then thinking, after the class, that I just spent two and a half hours doing yoga (or getting to and from yoga) when I should have been working.

The other problem is, and this is one that I'm not sure how will ever be solved and is totally embarassing, but I do not know my 'left' from 'right.' And in yoga, you need to know 'left' from 'right.' I'm always behind everyone else, because it takes me a few seconds to remember which is my right side and which is my left side, after the instructor is like, "Left foot forward, right foot behind."

But I still love it. Because people who do yoga, at least at this studio I go to, are honest to goodness good people. They're all like, "I'll help you Rebecca. We can get together if you like and I'll show you the moves." And, "Never say anything bad about yourself," and, "Is my mat too close to yours? Are you okay?"

I mean, a monthly unlimited pass at yoga is way cheaper than therapy. And it seems to work a heck of a lot better.

Negotiating Mother's Day...

2007-05-09T13:17:00.000-07:00

So, as most of you know, I'm a big believer in Mother's Day. And gifts. Mostly gifts.

I was, after all, the one who tried to convince The Fiance that I was a Mother while I was four months pregnant, so deserved a Mother's Day gift, even if, at the point, I didn't actually have a baby in my arms as proof yet.

(And yes I still believe that. So all you pregger women out there, get your partners to at least acknowledge Mother's Day...by doing something nice for you!)

Anyway, we had a couple couple friends over for dinner a few nights ago. There were three of us mothers, and three fathers and I literally started a debate about Mother's Day. It turned nasty. Well, not really. But I do want you to see how important this is.

It all started because I casually suggested that mothers should receive two gifts on Mother's Day - one from the father of the child, and one from the child (bought by the father on their behalf.)

So, because The Dictator is only three, I can't expect her to buy me a gift because she doesn't understand the concept of Mother's Day and I can't expect her to understand it either. Plus, when you ask her where "money comes from?" she answers, "The money store."

Also, yesterday I told her it was my birthday on Friday and she said, "No, mommy. It's not your birthday. It's my birthday on Friday." (Her birthday is in October.)

So, needless to say, she doesn't understand the concept of birthdays or Mother's Day.

And, as a side note, I'm like the person who is born on Christmas.

It kind of blows to be born around Mother's Day, because people think they can just wrap both your birthday and Mother's Day into one present. And that's just not right.

And that's where the negotiating gets even worse.

I also expect a present from the fiance for my birthday and one from the Dictator (bought on her behalf by the fiance.) I'm turning 33 for godssake. It's a huge year for me, even though I'm totally lying and turning 34.

Anyway, all the fathers (ahem, men!) at our dinner party were like, "No, you gals get one gift from the child. We have our own mothers to buy gifts for!"

And all the gals (Ahem, women) were like, "No, you have to get us two gifts for Mother's Day!"

Women just like getting gifts. Okay? Deal.

So, I have basically had to negotiate the terms of my birthday/Mother's Day gifts. I used to be all over the surprise gift and put a lot of faith (a.k.a high expectations) in The Fiance picking out something he knew I'd just love. And, you know, he was pretty good at it. He never dissapointed.

Most men, unless you say, "I want that bag that is on the third shelf at this specific store and ask for the saleslady named Sally who has been told what I want," don't really get the hint. So I'm very lucky.

But, this year, I couldn't really think of anything I really wanted so simply said, "Well, I'll just go to Neiman Marcus (I'll be in Arizona for a couple days as of tomorrow) and pick out a couple of things for my birthday and Mother's Day from you and Rowan."

This, of course, turned into me having to argue my point about how many gifts I could buy myself, based on my belief that Mother's Day and birthdays are two seperate celebrations and that I should be getting gifts from both The Fiance and The Dictator for both.

And maybe a gift for myself from myself...for both my birthday and Mother's Day.

Anyway, I don't really expect anything huge or expensive. That's not the point. A homemade card or a roll of toilet paper from The Dictator would be just fine for my birthday/Mother's Day. A gift certificate for a massage would be great.

The real point is, it's too hard to negotiate anything with the fiance, who is a lawyer - a trained negotiator.

All I have on my side is tears - I can cry on cue - and trying to argue about the number of gifts by stamping my feet and hope The fiance will somehow see my side of things.

Which will never happen. Or it might. Stay tuned.

Happy Mother's Day to all you mommies out there!!!

At the very least, you should do something nice for yourself.....I can guarantee I'll be getting at least one gift, even if I have to buy it for myself....from myself.

Women who Love Men Who Love Cars

2007-05-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

So, I got a new car.

My trainer asked me what was new and so I told her.

"I got a new car," I said.

"Really? When?" she asked.

"A few days ago," I answered.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, excitedly.

Here's the thing. I really don't care at all about cars. The first car I ever bought was from a colleague of mine, back when I was working as a producer for Pamela Wallin. She sold it to me for $500. It was like 3000 years old.

At that time, I was living with a guy - who I had to lead my grandparents to believe was a gay man, but that's another story. I didn't think they were ready to hear that their only granddaughter was living with a man - and he chipped in $250 for it and I chipped in the other half.

The car, ironically, died the day we broke up. I swear to god.

Anyway, the car was a piece of shit. My colleague who sold it to me had had a german sheppard dog for years, who always went with her wherever she went, and there was no air conditioning in the car and everytime you turned on the fan, clumps of dog hair would blow in your face and up my nose.

But the point was, it got me from A to B, even if I came out of the car on hot summer days looking like I had just taken a three hour hot bikram yoga class and smelled like a dog.

I do have certain opinions about cars. For example, I don't think I have ever seen a person who drives a Ferrari that I actually would like. I'm sorry to offend anyone out there who is a Ferrari driver, but, and I hate to make sweeping generalizations, but every time I see a Ferrari whip past me, I can't help but think, "God, what an asshole!"

Anyway, my trainer asked me what kind of car I got. So, like a trained dog who plays dead when their owner says "Play dead," I repeated the type of car I now drive, thanks to the fiance who had to remind me what kind of car it is about hundred and twelve times. He picked the car.

I kind of wanted a Prius (Is that how you spell them?) because I do care about the environment, and Brad Pitt drives one, which, I know, isn't the greatest reason to buy a car.

But in a city like Calgary, where everyone eats, drinks, lives and breathes, gas and oil, it was hard to convince the fiance to get a Prius, let alone test drive one.

Plus, the government workers in Calgary drive Prius' and that kind of made me not want to drive one.

The fiance loves my new car. He's the kind of guy who lives, eats, breaths cars. He can talk about cars with his friends for friggen hours. It takes him months and months and months to decide what kind of car he wants, only to change his mind, and then we have to go through months and months and months of more discussions about cars.

It's really hard to live with a man who is obsessed with cars. I know he listens to me moan about, let's say the pimple on my chin, for hours, so I guess the least I can do is listen to him talk about cars endlessly. But the thing is, because I don't care about cars, my opinion about cars doesn't have any impact at all in his decision about what car he wants next. He pretends it does, but it really doesn't.

I think cars are status symbols for many people. For me, not so much. I really do not care at all about cars. I'm not even a good driver. I am, however, very good at getting parking tickets, which is at least sort of about cars.

What is the one thing about your partner that he (or she) is obsessed with that you aren't?

Anyway, I told my trainer that there were a couple cool things about this car (See? I already forget what kind of car it is - I do know there is a xi or a si in the name of it. I think...)

First off, as the car dealer man explained to me, I can put my can of diet coke in the cup container and there's a little air conditioner thing, that keeps my can of diet coke cold. It's completey ridiculous. But so ridiculous, I kind of like knowing I have the option of having a cold can of pop in my car, if I want.

Second, there's this button I can push when it rains and the car somehow knows how hard it is raining and the windshield wipers will move accordingly to the amount of rain.

Third, there is a fin at the top of the car (Is that called a spoiler?) which makes me feel kind of cool.

Fourth (am I allowed a fourth?) it is really friggen fast. I swear to god, I can now get home from my office in six minutes.

Fifth (if I'm allowed a fourth, surely I'm allowed a fifth) it talks to me. My car talks to me. I had to take the Dictator to a party yesterday that was very far from my house. All I had to do is plug in the address and as I was driving, Car Voice Lady would say, "In 500 meters turn right. In 300 meters, turn left."

This is the most useful feature as it will save me from calling the fiance or my friends in Calgary screaming, "I'm somewhere and there's a Seven Eleven on my right and a Macdonald's on my left and how the FUCK do I get home from here!!!!" which happens at least once a week, when I'm in Calgary.

Plus, I loved how the Dictator would ask me, "Why is that woman talking? She said make a left mommy! Make a left!"

And, hey, there are no clumps of dog hair flying in my face. And it gets me from A to B. So I guess I like my new car.

Any bets on how long before I get my first ticket?

Cake or Death....by Heather Mallick

2007-05-02T13:28:00.000-07:00

Heather Mallick is a Canadian writer, for those of you who haven't heard of her - Us journalist types think that everyone has always heard of us - we're so wrong! - who has worked at many newspapers as a writer and editor. She's now writing for Chatelaine and CBC.ca.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago, after my first reading for my book Wiped! Life with a Pint-Size Dictator, it kind of hit me hard - like a slap in the face - that readings are awful things to do as a writer.

It's so awful to walk into a room, see two hundred chairs laid out, realize that your reading is on some big playoff hockey game night (and I couldn't give a rat's ass about hockey) and that it's lucky that 30 people showed up.

So I made a pact with myself that I must support the arts more.

And by supporting the arts, I mean showing up for readings of other authors who come through town. Literally, I will be a seat filler if it does make an author feel better during a reading. Because I've been there, done that, grateful to all those who show up.

At around the same time I heard Mallick was coming to Calgary, she received a brutal review about her book in a newspaper. It was so brutal, in fact, that I was completely intrigued by the book (Maybe it's true that all press is good press?)

I decided that, because of my new pact to go to book readings, and because of this awful review that completely intrigued me to the book, that I would go see Heather Mallick in person (I have never met her before) when she came through Calgary.

One of my writer friends, when I told him I was going to a book reading FOR MY FIRST TIME that night said something like, "Well, bring a pillow you might fall asleep."

Anyway, I was very proud of myself because not only did I make the reading, I forced the fiance to come with me.

I often tape shows on television for the fiance about writers and "The writing life," just so maybe he can understand how hard and depressing and isolating and how insecure all authors are.

I need him to know that writing is not always, or ever, that much fun. And that I'm not completely crazy. I'm just a writer! (What came first, the chicken or the egg? Am I crazy because I'm a writer, or am I writer because I'm crazy?)

The point is, that maybe by bringing the fiance he would see that being an author is hard work.

Anyway, I arrived at the reading, took a seat with the fiance beside me and Heather Mallick (who I was stunned to see looked so cute and petite in person) began to read from her book. She started with one of her essays about why we should have higher taxes.

Immediately, in my head, I was like, "OH MY GOD. DON'T DO IT! DON'T READ THAT!" I mean, this was in Calgary, where everyone and their dog believes that they are already taxed way too much.

I thought the fiance was going to walk out in fact. But he stayed put. (The Fiance and I do have different beliefs when it comes to taxes.)

I have to admit that I never really got Mallick's columns before. I mean, they were certainly good enough for me to read them, from beginning to end (a huge feat for any writer) but I always felt like I was missing the joke.

But, in person, she's probably one of the funniest women I have ever met. I get her now! I get her!

She's friggen odd! And by odd I mean in that great way, in the way that you actually start getting a crush on a person because they are so odd (Kind of like my American Idol boyfriend, Blake Lewis...there's just something about him.)

I swear to god, I haven't laughed that hard in a very long time.

And this is also why people should go to book readings. Because as she was reading her essays or "rants," I completely understood her sense of humour. Now, not only do I have a crush on Mallick, but I'm obsessed with going to more book readings.

When I told this to another male writer friend, he said, "God, you must be really bored!" The thing is, I'm not bored. Heather Mallick was super entertaining. Honestly. She was better than any movie I've seen in the past six months. AND I'M SUPPORTING THE ARTS!

The fiance and I went out for dinner after the reading. As soon as I got home, I cracked open Mallick's book, Cake or Death, and practically read the whole thing in one night.

In fact, I don't understand why she got such a bad review. I don't get it at all. The reviewer, I think, should go see Mallick in person and then maybe she'll get her writing.

The book is laugh-out-loud funny, even if you don't agree with Mallick. I was literally reading lines out of the book to the Fiance, while he was watching the golf channel.

Or maybe I'm just as strange as Mallick is. Who knows? But I do know that she's my new girl crush.

Hairy-days.....

2007-04-25T13:45:00.000-07:00

We've reached a milestone!

For the first time, yesterday, I could put The Dictator's hair in a ponytail.

Yup. It's only taken three and a half years, but the gal finally has enough hair to put in a mini-pigtail on top of her head.

For the first two years of The Dictator's life, I had to hear what a "lovely son" I had. I got over it, after the millionth time hearing it from strangers. I mean, at least they said she was "lovely" even though they thought she was male.

Even two weeks ago, running through Pearson airport, a man said to me, "Well, he certainly can run fast!" as my DAUGHTER ran ahead of me (in her pink sweatshirt, her pink pants, her Dora the Explorer shoes!)

Then a few nights ago, while I was doing a reading for Wiped! Life with A Pint-Size Dictator, a woman came up to me to tell me not to worry, that she didn't really get hair until she was 12 years old.

Luckily, The Dictator is all into dresses and tights now, so I haven't heard so much lately about what a "cute little man" my daughter is.

I think she may even have enough hair now to - gulp - braid it!

(Okay, I'm not going to rant about the hair she has on her back! I find it super cute.)

Tomorrow, we're going for a hair cut. It's not her first hair cut. I just figured if she's not going to have a lot of hair, and it's going to be short, it might as well be kind of styled short. So we've been getting hair cuts periodically.

Although, personally, I'm all into the little girls who have messy hair look. That kind of "I just got out of the ocean and I'm a surfer look."

Anyway, I figure after this hair cut tomorrow, it will finally grow in a bit longer. Cross fingers. Cross fingers.

It would just be kind of dissapointing to me if she finally got a lot of hair when she was 12, only to tell me that she wants to dye it blue.

Plus, us gals know how to braid for a reason. And if you can't braid your own daughter's hair, whose can you braid?

Shall I exit the Blogging World?

2007-04-16T08:16:00.000-07:00

One of my best friends called me irrate last week.

"Did you know there was a site out there that is totally dedicated to making fun of you and saying the most evil things?," she asked. "I am so mad right now, I'm shaking. What fucking assholes! What pricks! I can't believe there are such assholes out there."

"Are you talking about that nine gram thingy?" I asked, nonchalantly.

"Yes! Did you know about that?"

"I knew about a year ago when they first started. I didn't think they'd still be doing it," I said, crunching on a cracker.

"They've been doing it for a year?" my friend screamed. "Don't they have lives?"

"They've been doing it longer I guess. Since I started my blog," I told her. "I'm starving right now. I don't have any food in my house!"

"I can't stand this!" my friend screamed. "I'm going to write in anonymously and stick up for you. These people are such fucking losers!"

"Oh, god, don't bother," I said. "They'll probably just think I'm writing in about myself. And then you'll be doing the same thing they do, posting anonymously."

"No, I'm doing it," she said.

After years of being in the "public eye" (or what that means in the Canadian media world) I have a very thick skin.

Which is what happens after reading many complete fabrications about yourself time and time again. I'm not joking when I say I can read/hear something about myself that I did last Thursday and think, "Um, I do remember staying in and watching Grey's Anatomy and falling asleep in my daughter's bed by 11 p.m."

Anyway it all got me thinking, especially after a very nice blogger I met at my book launch started blogging and got involved in such Blogger Drama, it is better than an episode of Nip/Tuck.

See, I read her blog. And I felt sorry for her. Not because she couldn't handle it (She can, because she has a brain) but because the evilness of blogging had finally hit me. I'm kind of asking myself if all this is worth it. Because a lot has changed in the year I've been blogging.

Anonymous assholes really have started to get to me. Not because of what they say about me (or my blogging buddies) but because they insist on doing so anonymously. I mean, seriously. How fucking pathetic. It's one of those, if you have something to say, say it to my face kind of things. If you truly believe what you write, why not just come out of the blogging closet?

Except, when you can be rude and evil under the guise of being "anonymous" it makes it so darn easy, doesn't it?

What I don't get is what motivates these people. Hey, you hate me and my writing, so be it. Don't read it. Except you do, and then you just have to write something anonymously.

I have a problem with this. Not because I don't think you should be able to write whatever you want in the blogging world, especially if you have something worthy of debate to write about, but because you are wasting such time being assholes.

Is that really how you want to live your life? - "Oooh, let's make fun of Eckler and all those who stick up for her?" Seriously. Is...that...how...you...want...to...live...your...life?

I mean, granted, I was quite honoured to be the star of a fake blog entirely dedicated to making fun of my blog. For, like, the first three days. Then it got old. At least for me. But, surprisingly, it hasn't got old for some, who really are quite bitter. And bored with their lives.

In all that time wasted on making fun of little ol' me, these "assholes" as my friend called them, probably could have written a book. Or at least a number of magazine articles. Or been out volunteering. Or, if they are parents, spending the time with their children. Or, I don't know, going for a nice walk.

In any case, here are some clarifications - in case you were wondering.

1) I do not write fake posts to my own site. To me, that is like authors who buy their own book on amazon, just to get a lower ranking. It's not reality, so why bother?

2) I did not ever call my daughter a "bitch." I wrote, once, when she was a baby and screaming that she was "being bitchy." She was. There's a big difference calling someone a "bitch" and saying someone is "being bitchy." I call my best gay friend, who likes to gossip a lot, "bitchy" too sometimes.

3) I don't ever write fake posts to other sites sticking up for me. See number one. Why bother?

4) I never post evil things or anonymous posts to anyone. Why? Because if you don't have something nice to say, why bother? I just don't comment.

The blogging world has definitely changed. I'm not sure I like it. In fact, I don't like it. I do like reading bloggers. I do like the support, which is why I got into blogging in the first place, and many bloggers I do feel (even if I've never met them) are friends.

As for the blogging drama some of my blogging friends have been put through, keep your chin up. Who cares about anonymous bloggers? They're cowards, not worthy of your time or energy.

As for me, tell me if you think the blogging world has changed - and not for the better?

As for the anonymous posters, what can I say? Do yoga.

Blogger Guilt

2007-04-08T11:56:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I have Jewish guilt - about everything - and mommy guilt - about everything - and now blogger guilt.

I've been such a bad blogger. I swear, I keep saying to myself, "Ok, I have to blog about that!" And then, well, life gets in the way and then I feel guilty and then I eat a Big Mac to try and make myself feel better and then I'm just left feeling guilty - and bloated.

Anyway, I've started the book tour for Wiped! Life with a pint-size dictator and that's pretty much taking up all my time. I did get to go to Halifax, which I loved. At least the one night I was there and the next morning when I was on their breakfast television show, and then a newspaper interview, and then a radio interview.

You know when you're so busy you actually dread going to bed, because you know what you have to face the next day? That's the point I'm in right now. I don't want to go to bed because I don't want to wake up the next day. Which is hard, because when you have super busy days, what you need most is sleep...but it will all be over soon enough...

I think being on a book tour is kind of like getting married.....there's so much planning and anticipation and so much detail that has to go into everything that you actually forget to have a bit of fun.

I kind of feel like I'm the bride who doesn't have fun at her own wedding, except I'm the author who isn't having any fun during her book tour.

So, starting right this second, I'm going to start having fun. I have this book launch next week and, gosh darnnit, I'm going to make myself have fun. I will be the bride who has fun at her wedding come hell or high water!

Last time I had a book launch party, not only was I as sick as a dog, but it was also the season finale of the O.C. That was back when the O.C was totally hot and actually good, so most of the night I spent wondering if I was going to be home in time to see the finale (this was also before TiVo....and I had yet to figure out my VCR.)

In fact, it's kind of cool, when I think about it, that I never learned to work my VCR and now it turns out I will never have to learn...see? Everyone who thought I was a total freak for not figuring out how to work a VCR over ten years was wrong. I didn't need to learn!

In the midst of book tour madness, the weather is fucking freezing in Toronto. I so did not pack right for this weather. I thought, hey, it's April, I can get away with wearing tank tops. Which is what I packed. A lot of tank tops.

I so can not get away with wearing tank tops. Which means I had to go shopping (A serious emergency!) Trying to find sweaters in stores in April is hard enough. It's impossible.

But in the midst of all this book-tour-can't-find-any-winter-sweaters-in-stores-for-me, The Dictator has decided that she will ONLY wear tights and dresses nowadays.

I swear to god, I take her every morning to the Tim Horton's one block from my house to get me a coffee and her some timbits, and it's like she's dressing for her prom. She...needs...to....wear...tights...and...a...dress..to...get...timbits.

Try reasoning with a three-year old that it's just fine to go to Tim Horton's in her pajamas with a coat thrown over, like Mommy is. It just doesn't work. It takes a good 45 minutes to get The Dictator dressed (she also NEEDS to wear her necklace and watch) for a two-minute walk to get a coffee.

So I've also been running around the city trying to find long-sleeve dresses for her. Which is also impossible.

On another note, I did just buy her a cute (summer) dress with skulls and crossbones. How do us mothers feel about dressing our kids in skull and crossbones?

I sometimes wear a skull and crossbone necklace and she loves it...she calls it "Scary"

"Why aren't you wearing your scary necklace," she'll ask.

Anyway, that's what's going on in my life. I feel a tad less guilty now that I've blogged. And I promise when I get through my wedding (I, uh, mean my book launch) I'll be a better blogger...

Not So Pretty Pictures...

2007-03-29T10:48:00.000-07:00

So my house is featured in Canadian House and Home, this month's April issue.

The house looks great. I mean, really. It looks better in the photos than it actually does in reality, which is I guess is what happens when, um, you know, someone cleans your house before photos are taken and puts fresh flowers in every room (which does not happen in my house every day...or any day.)

But enough about the house. I have bigger issues.

Like the friggen photo of me in the magazine. Maybe it's true that people always think photos of them suck, but I'm telling you this photo of me bites. It sucks!

They first sent me the shots a couple months ago. But the photo I opened on my e-mail was the size of a stamp. I was like, "OK, I can deal with that. It's so small nobody can even see it." It was too good to be true.

I knew it was bad before I even saw the magazine. I'm in Calgary, and might as well be in Turkey, because we get all our magazines way after the rest of the county...or at least Toronto, the centre of the world. (Or Canada.)

"A full size picture of you!" my mother screamed into the phone. Immediately my heart sank. I knew it couldn't be good. I mean, I don't own any makeup. I never wear makeup. I found some lip gloss I put on before the photo. But, hey, there was no make up artist hanging around my house the day of the photo shoot.

Then it got worse. Another friend from Toronto said he saw the photo in the magazine.

"Just tell me. Do I look fat?" I asked, because I'm a girl and that's what we ask.

"No, you don't look fat. You look..."

"What??????"

"I'm not even going to say it," my friend answered.

Ok, I knew it was really bad. My friend couldn't even bring himself to lie to me and throw out even a, "Well, it's not your best picture. But it's not that bad."

At that point, I still hadn't seen the magazine.

I called my friend the next day, obsessed about this photo of me that seemingly all of Toronto was calling me about (Well, they were calling about the house) that I hadn't seen yet.

"OK, just tell me. Is it my nose? Does my nose look big?" I asked him.

"Well, in all the time I've known you," he admitted, "I never once thought you had a big nose. But it's the angle of the photo," he said. "Yes, you're nose looks big."

#(%&(#%(#!!!!!!

"Oh man!" I moaned. "Well, next month I'll be bird cage lining anyway."

Many of you ninepounddictator readers know I have issues with my nose. I mean, if I could be guaranteed to look like Ashlee SImpson post-her-nose-job, then I would do it. I would get a nose job.

Ok, I so would NOT get a nose job. Plastic surgery scares the crap out of me.

But still. I finally got my hands on a copy of the magazine. What can I say? It's a photo only a mother could be proud of.

There's me (and my honker) my daughter (Who looks super cute) and my dog (Who, actually, is the most photogenic of all of us.)

And my nose....my nose....my nose....

Then, yesterday, I got an e-mail from a woman who I went to hebrew school with about 20 years ago and haven't seen since.

"I saw your photo in Canadian House and Home. You look exactly the same!" she wrote.

Seriously. I know.

My big nose and I are going for a walk now. And I'm going to walk at a way better angle....It's the ANGLE, I swear!!!

A good idea gone bad?

2007-03-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have these brilliant ideas that just turn bad. I mean well, I do.

The Dictator is obsessed with all things birthday parties. Almost every day she wants to know if she's going to a "kid's birthday party today."

She's obsessed with icing and candles and cake and, well, parties.

So I thought it would be kind of fun to have a "pretend" birthday party. I invited three other couple friends and their children (A total of five) over for dinner (pizza and salad) this week.

I went to Safeway and bought one of those $6.99 birthday cakes with the icing so sweet that you actually kind of feeling like puking just looking at it.

We had a ton of paper plates, plastic cups, Dora napkins, candles, left over from The Dictator's birthday party in October.

I got home from work and the Dictator and I had a fantastic time setting up the table. (She's also obsessed with setting up tables.)

I love how she sets up the table. For five kids, there were about 20 plates, 30 napkins, and 22 cups on our table.

And, though I told her all the kids were around three, she wanted to put 15 candles in the cake. Whatever. It was cute.

All the kids came over and everything was going great.

I mean, sure, there was one 18 month old eating dog food from Ruby - our nine pound dog's - bowl. But whatever. It's really nutritional dog food. The healthiest dog food on the market.

So, there was Benett and North and Zen and Jada and Rowan, The Dictator, having a grand ole' time at the Fake birthday party. We were super impressed when Ben, kind of a shy little man, went upstairs on his own with Rowan to her bedroom.

I was thinking, "Hey, this is great. The Dictator is finally at the age where she can go off and play on her own with her friends! Yippee! I'm free!!!!"

That was until we heard this awful cry. We all ran upstairs.

Well, it turned out that my darling little Dictator slammed her bedroom door on her little friend's hand.

I thought it was super painful to see your own child get hurt.

But when your child hurts another child it's just as painful in a different way. I tell you, I haven't felt that bad about anything in a very long time. In fact, I'm not sure I have ever felt that bad.

It turned into mayhem. Poor little man was crying and perhaps a little in shock. The Dictator was crying because she knew something bad was happening and maybe she knew she was responsible. The Fiance was outside drinking a glass of wine (OK, that wasn't mayhem....) with another father. The 18 month old was still eating dog food.

I was calling my doctor to see if she'd come over to check out this little boy. I felt like throwing up. The little man's parents were debating taking him to the emergency room.

I was looking at his fingers trying to figure out if they looked different or crooked. I so did not want to be responsible for my daughter breaking another little boy's finger. And that's how I felt. Completely responsible for maybe ruining his little fingers for life.

So his parents decided to take him home, but the Little Man didn't want to leave because we hadn't had cake and he didn't get to blow out the candles at this Fake Birthday Party. It was nuts! All of it.

But I figured maybe his fingers weren't broken because he seemed to be able to move them and he wanted to blow out candles and he still wanted to stick around.

So then there was a rush to get the kids around the cake and blow out the candles. Which they did. But I was totally concerned still that his fingers were broken. And that MY CHILD was the one who did this to him.

Anyway, it turns out The Little Man was just fine. We called the next day and everything was fine and he could move his fingers and they weren't even swollen.

The point is I still feel awful about The Dictator slamming the door on his hand. The Dictator is SO NOT the Hostess with the Mostest.

Or maybe the point is that you should never let your daughter go up to a bedroom without parental supervision with a member of the opposite sex. Not at 15, and not at 3.

But...but...but...but...

2007-03-07T09:31:00.000-08:00

The Dictator's new favorite two words are "But Mommy..."

I swear, I might have to start putting the Dictator to bed at 4 p.m. because it now takes her so long to go to sleep. If I put her into bed at 7 p.m., she'll finally stop coming out of her room at about 9: 15 p.m. If I put her into bed at 8:15 p.m., she'll stop getting out of bed by 10:30 p.m.

I tell you, sleeping is my number one hobby, so I don't get why she doesn't want to go to sleep! I'm waiting for the day someone forces me to go to sleep.

"But mommy," she says, after I tuck her in, for the 8th or 9th time.

"Yes?"

"I want you to sleep with me," she says.

"Ok, you fall asleep first and then I'll come sleep with you," I'll say.

"But mommy. I have to go poo," she'll say. (And, unfortunately, she's always telling the truth about that.)

Then we go poo. And get her back into bed.

"But mommy, I want another book," she'll say.

"Not tonight," I'll say. "I already read you five."

"But mommy. My toe hurts," she'll say.

"Ok, I'll kiss it better," I tell her, and I do.

"But Mommy, I'm not tired," she'll say.

"Yes, you are."

"But mommy, I want to you to sing me a song."

And I sing her a few songs, say goodnight for the millionth time, say to her, "Do not get out of bed," for the millionth time, tell her I love her for the millionth time and then...

"But Mommy...."

Grrr. On and on the "But mommy" goes.

I can't be the bad cop. The fiance and I have talked about discipline, mostly if he tells her to do something, I'm to back him up, and if I tell The Dictator to do something, he backs me up.

But I...can...not...be...the...bad...cop. I just can't. I know it's probably (most definitely) bad. But I just can't yell at her. I make the Fiance do it.

"You have to go yell at her now," I'll tell him, after the Dictator has come out of bed a dozen times.

The thing I've recently learned too, is that the fiance can't really be the bad cop either. We're basically screwed, I figure.

"I'm going to go up and yell at her now," he'll say. "I'm going to be the bad cop."

But when he goes up, all I hear is laughter and singing. The fiance is the nicest bad cop ever. Yup, we're pretty much screwed.

Who is the bad cop in your relationships? I think it's different if you have more than one child, when you have to keep the ship tighter. But I do wonder how many mothers can be bad cops?

Part of the problem is I just even when she won't stay in bed, her excuses are too funny. "My toe hurts," kind of just makes me crack up. It's kind of hard to yell at her when I'm trying not to laugh.

On another note, check out urbanmoms.ca for a review of my upcoming book Wiped! Life with a pint-size Dictator. It's a good site too, for all you hip mothers to know about anyway, and features some really fun columns.

Immaturity Rocks! So there!

2007-02-23T13:46:00.000-08:00

The one thing I'm totally enjoying about being a mother right now is how it allows you to be a kid again.

I swear to god, I hadn't eaten an Oreo cookie in ten years, before about a month ago, when The Dictator decided she liked them (or at least the icing part.)

Here are my top five reasons why-I-Love-LOVE-LOVE!! having a three year old best friend (I know. I know. It's happened. I now consider my three year old my best friend -- hey, it happens to the best of us!)

1) I now eat Oreo cookies with her just like a kid again. I take off the top cookie, use my fingers to lick off the icing. And then finish off the rest. How fun is that? I also love the fact she loves bubblegum ice cream. I mean, when is the last time you ordered bubblegum ice cream?

2) I actually laugh out loud when she says silly things like, "Bed farts." She has no idea what she's talking about, and neither do I, but it's super fun to just be silly sometimes and make up words.

3) I did my first summersault (how do you spell summersault???) in about 15 years the other day with The Dictator. It was fun. And who knew that I could still do those things? I even tried a cartwheel!

4) I love her imagination. I love the fact I can tell The Dictator that if she takes a sip off water, she'll turn purple with pink polka dots. And then she tells me to drink my water and says, "Your'e turning orange!" I love that she believes in magic. I love that I can draw with a marker eyes and a mouth on my pointer finger, and tell her its my "special Tickley Worm" who likes to slither up her stomach and keep warm. I love when she asks me every day, "Where's Tickly Worm now? Can I see him?"

5) I love that she loves to be tickled and laughs so hard. Then she says, "I want to tickle you!!" And she does. And you know what? It completely makes me laugh.

Oh, and I'll add how she now is completely obsessed with Strawberry Shortcake. I remember being obsessed with Strawberry Shortcake....and how she'll often say to me, "You can do it Mommy!" (When was the last time someone told you that??)

Ahh, the memories...

There is something to this thing called immaturity....

Bad Reviews....

2007-02-22T09:13:00.000-08:00

So, the first bad review of Wiped! Life With A Pint-Size Dictator has come in. It's shocking, I tell you. S-h-o-c-k-i-n-g! Of course, I'm joking.

(I promise this is not a sales pitch to buy the book, although you can pre-order it now at amazon.ca, or amazon.com....)

Anyhoo, getting reviewed is a, well, it's a tricky - make that make-me-want-to-put-my-head-over-the-toilet-and-puke - kind of thing.

It's also kind of a funny and very surreal experience (after that feeling of wanting to puke phase passes. Luckily it does after a good run on the treadmill. Then it does become funny.)

I called The Fiance at work. "Well, I probably got one of the worst reviews EVER," I told him, as I changed into my gym clothes. The Fiance asked what magazine the review was in. I told him. His response?

"Um, what magazine? Is it Canadian?" he asked. The Fiance, a very smart and well read man, had never even heard of the magazine. Which I thought was super cute.

"Are you surprised?" The fiance asked. "Please tell me you're not suprised that you got a bad review?"

"No, I'm not surprised," I said. "I just wasn't expecting it for another month."

And that's the truth. I expected bad reviews but since the book doesn't officially hit book stores until the end of March, I was kind of hoping I had another four weeks before I had to think about any of it.

I am friends with a handful of authors, all who of course, upon publishing a book, have dealt with the "bad reviews." In fact, even in a glowing review, if there is one line that criticizes something in their book, that's the part they fixate on. FOREVER.

Getting a book review is kind of, well, it's like life.

You could have abosolutely everything going for you - a roof over your head, a job, even a beautiful, healthy child - and you end up fixating on the things you think suck in your life - like you weren't invited to a party, you think your thighs are too fat, that that guy didn't call you when he said he would.

Canada is a very small country. Most writers know each other, or at the very least have shared a cocktail or two.

One author I know, who is very much into the literary scene and has been for years and years, always ends up getting reviewed by friends, which is what happens when you live in Canada.

Or you get reviewed by people who hate you, even though they don't really know you, which is just as unfair (I know, I know, LIFE is unfair.) But that really IS unfair. (I know, I know, Life is really unfair.)

Anyway, this author I know ends up getting mad at his friends (even in an overall glowing review) if they criticize one little part. Which I get. I mean, friends are the ones who are always supposed to support you, right? Then again, book reviews are supposed to be objective, right?

Anyway, this author decided to stop reading all his reviews. Or so he says. Maybe he really doesn't read his reviews.

Generally though, writers are a very insecure bunch and our egos bruise easily and we're sort of self-destructive and nothing is more self-destructive than reading reviews, especially if they're bad. Hey, it gives us something new to moan about to our friends for a couple days. And writers really like to moan, because it's a way to procrastinate.

It's very wise, I think, not to read reviews of your own book. But how do you not? You need will power, which is something that the empty box of Oreo cookies I ate last night at midnight will tell you I just do not have.

Anyway, do you mommy bloggers read book reviews?

I'll admit the only book review sections I really read are in the New York Times and also People magazine. I think that's how I found out about Heather O'Neills book, Lullibies for Little Criminals, which you should definitely pick up. It's a great read.

Here's what it comes down to.

You get a good review and you get good sales.

Or....

You get a good review and have bad sales.

Or...

You get a bad review and have bad sales.

Or...

You get a bad review and have good sales.

You may as well go to Vegas and put that $100 on red. Books that have gotten slammed do amazingly well. And books that get raves sell like shit.

I think to find a reviewer who would "get" and be open to someone like me would be very hard indeed. I mean, how many other writers in Canada write openly about getting knocked up in a drunken state? (Trust me, I know a lot of babies are made that way.)

I mean, middle-age men wouldn't exactly get where I'm coming from (My obsession, which all women go through while pregnant, about their growing ass, and then my obsession with getting back into my pre-baby clothes) neither would anyone who takes life too seriously (Hey, if you can't laugh at yourself...)

And, my god, if I have to read one...more...time...about how I think I'm the only woman to have given birth....(Don't all women who get pregnant for the first time kind of feel like they're the first ones to ever have gone through it? That's why, when you get pregnant for the second time, you're so much more relaxed.)

Wiped! Life with A Pint-Size Dictator is my experience going through the first two years of life with The Dictator. There are some serious issues, how people at work treat you differently, post-partum, how your relationship changes, along with some humourous moments (cheerios stuck on my ass, my hair falling out.)

Wiped! is not meant to win any nobel prizes or awards for writing. And I didn't write it with reviewers in mind that's for sure.

I wrote it for modern gals who are thinking about having a baby, who already have a baby or toddler, who can laugh along with me at the good times and bad times (of which there are many,) those who wonder what they're missing out on (or not missing out on) and who would enjoy a light read in the bath, on the beach, on the bus, in our constant sleep-deprived states.

It's meant to be light-hearted and fun and hopefully people will walk away thinking, "I so know what she means." Or, "I've so been there, done that." Or, "Oh, no! Is this what's really in store for me????" Or, "I told you honey, I'm not going crazy. It happened to her too!"

Life is too short to worry about reviews, good ones or bad ones. Luckily, I have a tredmill at home. And a never ending supply of Oreo cookies. After fifteen minutes of running, or Oreo-binging, I feel just fine.

Scaring the #@)%*# out of me...

2007-02-14T12:42:00.000-08:00

It's funny, as mothers, how we always wait for moments. Like I couldn't wait for The Dictator to start walking, for example.

Until last night, that is....

I'm not saying The Dictator is, um, slow...but she kind of is. Like it took her more than three years to realize that she could just get out of her bed anytime she wanted. There were no sidebars, no gates.

In fact, I think she's been in her Big Girl Bed now for a year and a half....

Ok, I used to watch SuperNanny. And I saw how many times parents had to put their bratty kids back into bed. There was this one show, I swear, that this kid got out of his bed 46 times before finally going to sleep.

The Dictator only recently realized she could get out of her bed. Which has turned bedtime into, well, it's turned it into an hour and a half, um, "experience."

Meaning, the teeth have been brushed, the face has been washed, the pjs have been put on, we read a few books.

Thank god, The Dictator is such a bad negotiator. At least I can say that. She's like, "I want you to read me ten books." Then I'll say, "I'll read you four books." Then she'll say, "No, I want you to read me two books." (Man, I hope she doesn't end up being a lawyer...She's just plain bad at negotiating.)

Anyway, after all that, and aftere three hundred hugs and kissess, and figuring out what animal she should sleep with, I feel like my day is done...I just want to vedge out in front of the TV.

But, as I've said, recently she's FINALLY realized that she's not in lock down. She gets out of bed and tells me, "I'm not tired." (Throw in tantrum to show that she really is overly-tired.)

But I can deal with that at her bedtime. She's not gotten out of bed more than three times. So I imagine I'm quite lucky. But then....

Last night at around 3 a.m. I felt someone staring at me. I swear to God I had no idea where I was, who I was, what was happening. I honestly thought maybe I was having a nightmare. Or getting robbed.

But, nope. It was The Dictator who told me she didn't want to sleep in her bed. Somehow, she had made it down the long hallway, in the dark, walked around to my side of the bed, and found my face - all in the pitch black.

She basically scared the crap out of me. I just pulled her up and we fell asleep. That was until The Fiance lost it, because apparently he only had two-inches of bed. He stormed out sometime around 5 a.m. and headed somewhere else to sleep.

So, basically, I guess what I'm saying is that, well, I hope this isn't the new routine. I mean, I've just managed to stop sleeping in her bed..but now she's in mine....

Happy V-Day!

Tears and Tissue

2007-02-09T15:01:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what's wrong with me.

After I had The Dictator, I've become a super emotional person. I swear, I NEVER used to cry. Not at movies, not at those long distance phone calls, not even when a boy said something that hurt my feelings.

But once that kid came out of me, well, it was water works all the time. A lot of it had to do with Post Partum after her birth, which, thankfully, I got through.

But, she's now three years old and things that NEVER would have made me cry, now make me cry. Or at the very least tear up.

Take for example American Idol. I swear, it's like an emotional rollercoaster for me. When the contestants are thrilled, I almost cry. When they are so disappointed, I also tear up. I mean, for godssake, it's American Idol. (I also get sad thinking about how many millions of people actually believe they have talent...But that's a whole other issue.)

When I read certain books, I now tear up. Movies too. Oh, and weddings. I seriously teared up at my cousins wedding recently. What the fuck is going on?

There are certain things, of course, that come with age. Like, when I turned 30 I actually had to start working out to get those love handles to go away. Which bites.

And now, my period has also gotten worse. I wonder if this has to do with age, or because I had a baby. Last period, I could barely walk I was in so much pain. And, um, talking about emotions, well, let's just say I was a disaster. You so did NOT want to be around me about two weeks ago.

Ok, every woman hates it when a guy says to them, "Are you on your period?" when you lose it on them.

Well, last time, I was complaining and bitching and crying about something and The Fiance said, "Is this because you're getting your period?"

To which I started to lose it even more and started to yell, "NO! THIS IS NOT BECAUSE I'M FUCKING GETTING MY....ok, maybe it is."

I know I've always been the type of person to wear my heart on my sleeve. I think I've always been the one to say "I love you," first. But the tears? Man, oh, man. There are so many commericals that make me tear up too. THEY ARE COMMERCIALS!!

I just got back from a three day trip from Toronto. I snuck into my daughter's room at 1 a.m. and kissed her on the cheek.

"Mommy!" she screamed and gave me the biggest hug ever. EVER. EVER! I cried. I did. Even thinking about it now is making me tear up.

So, if I'm this emotional now (And, no, I'm not on my period, or getting it any time soon) what the hell am I going to be like when I'm 50?

I don't know. But can you please pass me a tissue?

Sleeping Logistics with Toddlers....

2007-01-26T13:33:00.000-08:00

Last night was the first night I slept in the marital bed for two weeks.

We just got back from Maui, where we enjoyed two glorious weeks. Things have changed. Not here, but on vacation.

How do you parents work it when you travel with your kids?

I slept with The Dictator for two weeks, while The Fiance slept in a cot. I know. I know. But we could not figure out the logistics of sleeping in a hotel room, with The Dictator.

I remember being a kid and traveling with my parents and my three brothers. We all shared one room. That's right. Six of us somehow managed to share a hotel room. And we're all still alive.

My parents would bring sleeping bags. I would sleep with my mother in one bed. My dad would share a bed with one of my brothers and two of my other brothers would sleep in sleeping bags.

I remember being put to sleep and my parents hanging out in the washroom, reading until they were ready to go to bed.

I've always been an awful sleeper. Seriously. I used to sleep walk.

Once, my father found me after I turned on all the lights on in the house and was making myself a bowl of cereal at 2 a.m. I was, like, nine. I told him, in my sleep, that I didn't want to be late for school.

I also used to wake up and jump up and down on the bed in the middle of the night, in my sleep. I also thrash around. A lot. I swear, the fiance has the bruises to prove it.

Once, on one of our road trips with my entire family (the six of us in a hotel room thing) I kicked my mother so hard in the middle of the night, that she kicked me right back. And it hurt.

After that, when we went on vacation, I slept on a sleeping bag on the floor.

Anyway. The way our room was set up in Maui was there were two rooms. One with the big bed, and the other room had a table, couch, and, um, cot.

The fiance and I like to go out for dinner on vacations. Nice dinner. And by nice, I mean I have dessert. You know, leisurely dinners, where we don't eat at 4:45 p.m. in front of the television like we do at home.

So we'd get a sitter to come almost every night so we could go for dinner. But the way to room was set up was that the entrance went into the room with the cot.

Obviously, THE MOST IMPORTANT THING is NEVER TO WAKE THE CHILD. She couldn't take the cot because when we walked in, she'd wake up. Plus, a gal needs to watch American Idol. And The Dictator was going to bed at 6:30 p.m.

So, The Dictator was put to sleep in the bed, where we could close the door, and we could come into the room without watching her and I could watch American Idol. And because the most important thing is NEVER TO WAKE the child, I'd sleep with her and the poor fiance had to sleep in the tiny cot.

I told him he could sleep with The Dictator, and I'd take the cot, but he refused.

"I slept ok, but not great," I'd tell him in the morning. "She always wants to share my pillow with me and she peed all over the bed!"

Then The Fiance would give me a look and say, "I slept in a cot!" And, he's not a small guy either. So I couldn't really complain that much about sleeping in a wet pee bed with two inches of space. I mean, at least I was in a real bed.

We got in at 1 a.m. last night. I slept with The fiance. It was nice to have my own pillow. It was nice not to wake up in a puddle of pee.

Another Year....

2006-12-19T14:05:00.000-08:00

I envy people who don't make New Year's resolutions. At this time of year, I always ask people what their New Year's resolutions are.

I'm always amazed when people answer, "I don't make any." I think these people, for some reason, are just happier than me.

They don't make resolutions and, thus, can never let themselves down. I envy them.

I always make resolutions. Though, if you asked me what my resolutions were last year, I couldn't tell you. I could venture that they had something to do with eating healthy and keeping in shape.

I failed. I always fail.

But it will soon be a new year, and yet again I will make resolutions. I suggested to the fiance last night that we actually write them down and put them in a drawer so we can pull them out and remind ourselves what they were.

But it seems easier to blog about it. That way, it will be there, and whenever I feel like I'm failing, I can just re-read what my resolutions were. I'm sure this is the dumbest thing I'll ever do.

Like, January second when I'm eating french fries from Macdonald's watching re-runs of Grey's Anatomy, I'll be like, "What were my resolutions again?" And then you'll all say, "Duh. You just blogged about them. You said you were going to eat healthy and not watch so much television."

But, hey, it's worth a try. So here are my resolutions. Then you write to me about yours. That way, you can throw my resolutions back in my face, and I can throw yours back in yours. Aren't resolutions so much fun?

1) I am going to eat healthier. This is not to lose weight (Although, I'm always wanting to lose three to five pounds.) It's because I feel like shit every time I eat junk food, which is a lot. I am going to learn to love salads. And soup. Starting in January, I am no longer a burger and fries girl, I am a soup and salad girl.

2) I'm going to work out regularly. This, again, is not to lose weight (Although, I'm always wanting to lose three to five pounds.) This is because I feel better when I do work out and I sleep better. I'm not going to say I'm going to work out 7 days a week, because I know, from experience, this will never happen. But I think four days a week is reasonable and manageable.

3) I'm going to not take on so much. I swear to god, this has been the hardest thing for me since having The Dictator. And you know what? It does feel good to work a lot, but I don't want to work so much anymore. And when I take on too much, everything suffers. So I'm now going to do good work on a couple things, not mediocre work on a lot of things. If that makes sense. Because doing bad work makes me cranky.

4) I'm going to appreciate things. This is another thing I've failed at miserably. I get so caught up in everything that needs to be done, that I don't just sit back and enjoy life. So I'm gonna! I get so caught up in the negatives in my life, that I don't remember all the positives. So I'm gonna!

5) I'm going to send out, to a stranger, once a week a nice e-mail. This will be to an author I like, or a blogger, or someone who I think deserves to hear something nice. No one does this that much. I often read something and think, "Hey, I should send a nice e-mail to that person." But I never do. So I'm going to.

6) I'm going to get back into yoga. Because I love the mindset. I really do. And it makes me feel better.

7) I'm going to spend more time with The Dictator. Because I want to. And I want to always be in a good mood when I do. Which will be easier because of resolution number 3.

8) I'm going to be a better blogger. Not on my blog, but reading other people's blogs.

9) And I'm going to read more books. I love to read, but I'm so usually burnt by the end of the day, that I just watch shitty television. Of course I'll watch Grey's Anatomy. But reality television, good bye! (That will cut down about 18 hours a week.)

10) I think I've managed to get rid of all the toxic people in my life. So this year, now that that's finally accomplished, I'm not going to let anyone in who may be toxic. I'm now at an age where I know who is good for me and who is not. And I'm not going to feel guilty about it.

So, there you have it. Basically, I guess it comes down to less work, more play, appreciating life and spending time with people I enjoy and my family, and overall being a happier person.

Happy New Years all! See you in the New Year. I'll be the one slurping soup and munching on lettuce.

(I am so going to regret this...)

Disturbing Phone Call(s)

2006-12-15T09:14:00.000-08:00

I was in Toronto last week for a couple days.

My daughter can finally call me on the phone! Well, she needs Nanny Mimi to dial for her (Rowan, The Dictator, is not some crazy genius) but she liked to call me - and often. I loved it.

But I received a very disturbing phone call, while I was away, from Nanny Mimi one afternoon. "Rowan really likes this hat that she saw on another classmate and she wants it," Nanny Mimi told me.

I immediately felt my stomach drop. I knew it was going to happen, but I didn't think it would happen this soon. I mean, Rowan is only three! She's not thirteen!

I get that 13 year-olds may want to dress like their friends. But a three-year old?

Ok, I admit, I missed Rowan a ton while I was gone and I do, like every mother, want my child to be happy - at any cost. Well, almost any cost.

This did not sit with me well at all. I do not want Rowan to want to wear what other girls wear. Especially not so soon.

But because I had mother guilt for leaving her and apparently Rowan really really wanted this hat and it was only a hat from Old Navy, I told Nanny Mimi to go forth and purchase the hat.

Well, i got a phone call back that Old Navy was out of these hats. Nanny Mimi had went and she couldn't find them. She asked me if I would go to Old Navy in Toronto and find this hat.

To which I said, "I so don't have the time." (Really, I barely had time to eat lunch while I was there and there's not an Old Navy just down the street. Anyway.)

I told Nanny Mimi that Rowan doesn't need the same hat as Other Girl in her Nursery school, but she could take Rowan anywere else to buy any hat she wanted. (Which also made me a tad sick, because Rowan already has 8 hats.) But mother guilt. It will kill you.

I got off the phone and thought, "Hmmm. Maybe I should call my mother and ask her to go to the Old Navy near her house and buy Rowan the hat." Then I thought, "NO!!!! This is so not a precedent I want to start. I do not want Rowan thinking this is all ok."

So I forgot about it. Until Nanny Mimi called me again the next day to tell me gleefully that she finally found the hat. "Oh great!" I said.

"Yes, Rowan is so happy," she told me.

"Great!" I said again, thinking, "This is not sitting with me well at all."

Rowan called me later. I asked her if she liked her new hat. And you know what she said to me?

She said, "I love my hat. It's the same one as Rebecca's and Gabriell's at my school."

"Great!" I said, thinking. "Oh, god, no!!!"

Honestly, it's too young for this to all start. It's. Too. Young.

But how do you explain to a three year-old that it's not cool to want something just because her friends have it? I swear, I thought I'd have another 8 years before this all started.

Experienced mothers, please share....

I Blame Britney...

2006-12-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

Everyone and their dog has probably seen the crotch shot of Britney Spears. And everyone is talking about it.

Just this morning, in fact, I was e-mailing with a friend I'm going to meet for drinks next week. I have a party to go to after we meet, as does he (it's that time of year....)

I told him not to worry. I'll just jump in a cab and go from there. He wrote back, "Remember, if you're hopping in and out of cabs all night, wear underwear."

Now, I could go on about how fame totally screws people up, and makes them think that to remain famous they have to go underwear-less and get that crotch shot that went around the world.

But, no. This is about how when I saw the crotch shot of Britney, I immediately was reminded that I needed a bikini wax. I swear, that was my first thought.

Because it's that time of year, most places are booked solid. But I walked by a new spa place the other day. Because they are new, they had openings. I made my appointments.

I was quite enjoying talking to the 26 year-old owner of this new funky spa, while she did my manicure. She was gorgeous and fun and really into fashion. She told me all about her ex boyfriend and the sordid details of their relationship. It was all good.

Until she said, "I have someone else booked to do your waxing." Let's call the waxing girl "Donna." That's not her name, but let's call her that.

Donna walked into the room and the owner said, "Donna, I have booked you to do some waxing."

Donna was very excited and clapped her hands. I knew immediately that she was new. No one gets that excited over waxing someone, unless they rarely have done it. Donna walked out of the room to prepare the waxing room.

I asked the owner if Donna had ever done waxing before. The owner said, "She's new but she's taken all her courses."

I admit, I was worried. I mean, it's one thing to have the Barista at Starbucks be new on the job. Yes, it's annoying to have to wait longer to get your latte, but it's something you deal with. But having someone give you a bikini wax who is new?

I found out it's not a good thing to have a new person do your bikini wax. Let's just say, help was called in. Yes, that's right. Donna had to call in for reinforcement, after the wax got stuck in an area that wax should not be stuck.

I'm pretty good about being naked in front of other woman (That's what years of overnight camp teaches you.) However, my face blushed flaming red as TWO people took scissors to an area where no scissors should be near. EVER.

Don't worry. I was too mortified and scared to even complain. I just smiled a lot and said, "Don't worry. It's just wax. It'll be fine." Donna looked even more embarassed, I'll say that.

Plus, one never wants to make a fuss when someone has a pair of scissors down there. That's for certain.

Will I go back? The scary thing is, probably. But I won't be asking for Donna. I mean, I know she has to practice, but I was already her guinee pig. I'm more than willing to deal with cashiers new on the job, or servers new on the job. But when it comes to my crotch? Nope.

But I don't blame Donna. I blame Britney.

Runny Noses and Nosey Mothers

2006-12-04T14:57:00.000-08:00

Let me ask you, all mommies who send their kids to school or day care, how you decide when your child is too sick to go to school or daycare?

Here's what happened. About a week ago, The Dictator caught a cold. And she had a bit of a cough. She had no fever. And she was in great spirits, laughing, playing, you know, happy. Thus, she wasn't THAT sick.

All was fine. Then, a couple days later, Nanny Mimi picked The Dictator up from school. She told me that one of the mothers was quite concerned about The Dictator, telling Nanny Mimi that her husband had dropped of their child a couple days earlier and had mentioned to his wife that "Rowan was coughing. A LOT! A LOT!"

Nanny Mimi kept stressing that this mother kept stressing that her husband had told her how much Rowan was coughing (Rowan is The Dictator, my daughter)

I felt instantly annoyed. I mean, maybe this mother really was concerned about my daughter's cough. But, frankly, and I know I'm lucky, I have a nanny. Which means, even though I have to work, I don't have to send my child to school if I don't want to. She could just hang out with Nanny Mimi all day.

In fact, because I'm a writer, I can pretty much work my own hours. So even if I didn't have a nanny, I wouldn't have to send my child to school, especially if she was sick. I'm lucky that way.

I'm also not a mother who thinks that my child can not miss a day, or three weeks, of nursery school. Come January, we're yanking The Dictator out of school for a couple weeks, so she can learn about life in Maui and the beauty of the ocean and the Four Seasons smoothie.

The point is, I'm not one of those mothers who will send her child to school at any expense, and I certainly wouldn't send my child to school if she was sick.

I soon realized that the only thing more annoying than parents who send their truly sick children to school (come on, we all hate that, just like we hate when people come to the office when they're super sick) is the parent who thinks you're the type of parent to send your child to school when they're sick.

Two days later, just after The Dictator was dropped off at school, and I mean 20 minutes later, I got a call from her teacher, saying that "Rowan was just not herself. She's pale and fell asleep on the floor and was coughing A LOT."

Which I thought was very odd, considering I had just spent an hour laughing with her, playing in her bed (She likes to talk to my finger - Mr. Ticklely worm) and my child did not cough once.

So I was amazed, that in twenty minutes, my child not only fell asleep at school, but was coughing a lot. It takes me 2 hours to get her to go to sleep. And, yes, she's pale. That's what happens when the weather turns to minus 30. We're not exactly getting outside in the sun that much here in balmy Calgary.

In my gut, and sometimes your gut is right, I felt that one of the mother's mentioned something to the teacher about my kid coughing and then the teacher got all concerned because another mother spoke up and complained.

Here's what I think. I think that every time my child coughs, she has me and Nanny Mimi asking her a million times a day, "Are you sick? Poor baby." So The Dictator has learned that she gets attention when she coughs, even fake coughs. Smart kid. If I could get away with that, I would.

But, still, the morning the teacher called, I immediately called our doctor and got her on the phone. "My daughter has been sent home from school. The teacher says she has a bad cough, but I haven't heard it very much."

"Does she have a fever?" The doc, asked.

"Nope. But I need you to come over and check her out."

So, the doctor came over, and checked her lungs, throat, ears. Voila, she had no fever. She was fine (And, as always, adorable, which has nothing to do with this story, but is important to mention.)

I still kept her home from school the next day, not because she wasn't in good spirits, but for fear she'd just be sent home again, or that the teacher wouldn't believe me that she was just fine, or that a mother would be all like, "Your child is coughing all over mine!!! Gaa!!!"

The truth is toddlers get colds, especially in winter, and those colds last forever. And if I kept the Dictator home every time she had a cold, well, she wouldn't be in school for months. Colds last for, like, three weeks, when they are kids.

Why? Because kids carry germs. I swear, the other day The Dictator was playing catch with a little friend of hers, who took the ball and wiped his snotty nose on it, before tossing the ball back to her.

Gross? Yes. But normal? Yes. And I don't freak out about those kind of things, because kids catch colds. In fact, they need to catch colds so they can build up their immune systems. You can't have your kid living in a bubble.

Then again, maybe everyone really was THAT concerned about my child. Maybe I should just shut up and be grateful that so many people seem to care about the health of my child.

But no one knows their own child as much as their mother. If she's sick, I'll be more than happy to have her stay home. I would not send my sick child to school, ever.

I kind of envy the mother who may have complained about my daughter. I mean, I just would never have it in me to complain about another person's child - unless of course it was serious.

I mean, there's this one kid in her class that always is hitting The Dictator. I know, because I've witnessed it. Have I said anything? No. Why? Because, frankly, that's kind of how three year-olds act. I would NEVER say anything to the teacher or mother, mostly becuase I don't think it's that serious. I trust that the mother, who has also seen her kid hitting, knows it's wrong and will deal with it herself. I would never tell on her.

However, my friend whose son keeps coming home from day care with bite marks, that I would complain about. But another kid with a cold? Um, no.

So, when do you keep your kid home from school? And when do you speak up? And when the heck do you just keep your mouth shut, trust that a mother does want the best for her own child, and buy some Kleenex in case your kid catches a cold?

Which they will.

My Fear of Gas....

2006-11-30T09:57:00.000-08:00

Stations, that is.

I have always had this completely irrational fear of gas stations.

I used to drive around for a long time in order to find a full-serve station, as opposed to a self-serve station. Why? Because I always feel like a complete idiot filling my car up with gas.

But when full-serve stations went the way of the VCR, I knew I would have to learn how to fill my car up with gas myself. I got the DVD player and I learned how to pump my own gas.

So I know how to fill up gas now. But, still I feel like the biggest moron at gas stations.

Ok, swipe my credit card. Ok, grab the pump. Ok, open the place (what the heck is it called?) where I put the pump into my car. Ok, hold it down. Ok, don't forget to close up the part where I just stuck the pump. Ok, put the lever down. Ok, did that all work? Ok, am I going to blow up now?

By the time I get my recipet, I'm completey sweating with nerves, thinking, "I'm so glad that's over with!"

I dread filling my gas tank up almost as much as going to the dentist. About two months ago, the fiance actually had to come rescue me, because my car died, because it was out of gas.

He was not happy. "How long has the gas light been on?" he asked.

"Um, about two days. But usually I can get three days out of it," I told him.

"Idiot," he said. (Ok, he didn't say that. But I know that's what he was thinking.)

Anyway, I learned my lesson. As soon as the gas light goes on, I'm supposed to fill up. Because sometimes you can get three days out of it, and sometimes, apparently, you can not.

Here's the thing. Even at full-serve gas stations, I get completely nervous. Yesterday, with my gas light on, I spotted a full serve gas station and pulled up, my heart pounding

Now, literally, I can interview anyone in the world, and not feel as nervous as I do talking to the guy (or gal) who fills up my gas tank.

"What can I do for you today?" the gas man asked me.

"Um, can you, um, please, um, fill it up, um, please, um, with premium," I managed to stutter out. I do not know gas lingo. I feel like an idiot saying, "Filler up please." I am always shocked when the bill comes to $78.

Gas man came back and asked me if I'd like an oil change. To which I responded, blushing, "No thanks."

I'm not sure why the people at gas stations intimidate me so much. But they do. Gas and I do not go well together.

I'm not saying that filling up gas is something the man should do in a relationship. I'm just saying filling up gas is not good for my stress level...

Please share your irrational fears...

I've Been Dumped!

2006-11-27T09:34:00.000-08:00

And didn't even know it!

I almost spit up my Special K this morning, when I picked up the Calgary Herald, and saw my named mentioned.

I've been eating Special K, because, apparently, if you eat Special K two meals a day, you'll lose a waist size in like two weeks.

Of course, that would mean I'd need to eat Special K two meals a day, which means I'd have to pack up a bowl, spoon, milk, and my Special K, and bring to the office, which ain't gonna happen. Maybe it will.

Anyway, back to being dumped.

A plug on the front page of the paper caught my attention. It was about friendships between mothers and non-mothers, and how having a baby ruins friendships if your friends have babies and you don't.

So I opened to the Real Life section to read the story, a topic which I find very interesting. I could not give a crap about politics in this province, because it is what it is, but friendships and mothering? Well, of course I'm going to read it.

I almost spit up my Special K when I got to the paragraph where the writer mentioned my name and how she broke up with me when I started writing about Baby Rowan and doing my Mommy Blogger gig in the Globe and Mail.

The writer didn't think we had anything in common anymore because I had Baby Rowan.

It was a really interesting story. The writer mentioned how her friend was pregnant and already there was talk about babies and how she worried her friendship would change. And the writer interviewed a bunch of non-mothers who moaned about changing friendships.

Anyway, first off, I'd like to say, while I love talking about my child, I don't only talk about my child. I also talk about other things, like, um, my Special K diet and why my body has, still after three years, not gone back to the way it was pre-baby.

I also still am obsessed with fashion. I can talk to you about my new Prada winter coat (Which I absolutely needed as it is minus 30 in this city today, and it was a fashion emergency. At least that's what I'm telling myself....It is one warm fucking coat, that's for sure.)

I can talk about my new obsession with Grey's Anatomy, a show I recently got into, so bought the first two seasons on DVD and watched all 32 episodes in a week. I'm in love, along with 23 million other people - not all of whom are mothers - with Dr. McDreamy.

The point is, I can talk about all the mindless things I talked about pre-mother. And they are completely mindless things, which, mind you, I still like to talk about.

I liked the story, even if I was dumped so publicly, without any warning, with someone I didn't even know I had a relationship with!

Here's the truth. The writer is right. Some of your friendships will change. I had this one really good friend and we stopped talking when I got pregnant. I was super busy. She was super busy. Blah blah blah.

She called when The Dictator was born. And I kind of yelled at her. It probably was the hormones, but I was kind of pissed too. I spoke my mind, which was something about her not calling me for the nine months I was pregnant.

Flash forward to today, and now we talk all the time. She now has a baby. But that's not the only reason. Friendships are always changing. Sometimes you grow apart. But true friendships last - even after breaks. I'm glad this one did.

Here's another truth. Friendships changing has more to do with aging, then it has to do with having kids. I think, even if I didn't have The Dictator, my friendships would have changed. People are busy with their own lives. People's interests change.

Yes, you have less free time when you have a baby, but I can't imagine that I would now live the life I led when I was in my twenties, now that I'm in my thirties. I mean, who the hell wants to be out at a bar every night? Certainly not me. And that has nothing to do with The Dictator. That's me.

Not that I ever liked to stay out past midnight, but now I rather curl up at home with Dr. McDreamy, then leave my house at 11 p.m. to head to a crowded bar in a tank-top in winter.

I don't really think I'm that different. Sure, I went to two birthday parties for three year olds yesterday and I'm worried about The Dictator who has a cough and I love her so much it hurts.

But I can also talk to you about my Special K diet...If there's a chance I can win you back.

Tell me your secrets....

2006-11-20T12:33:00.000-08:00

I'm going to ask you all a personal question, so feel free to respond anonomously...

I don't know, maybe it was about a year ago, but I read this article, I think in the New York Times, about how many husbands and wives do not sleep together in the same room. It was like some big hidden secret happening all over America.

I thought it was pretty fascinating, because I think the number was extremely high. It turns out that all these couples just got a better night sleep if they didn't sleep in the same room as their partners.

Now, I'm not saying their sex lives suffer because of this (You can always get laid and then move rooms, right?)

I just thought it was pretty interesting how many married couple's didn't actually sleep in the same bed, or the same room.

As a very light sleeper, I can totally relate.

But I'm not talking about husbands and wives not sleeping together, because one is a light sleeper and the other snores or gets out of bed to go to the washroom five hundred times a night.

It's just that, for the past couple weeks, I've been sleeping with The Dictator, in her bed, in her room.

So now I'm wondering how many mother's actually sleep with their children, as opposed to their husbands.

I know why I do it. Well, there are a couple reasons.

First, I'm a working mother. So any time I can get with The Dictator, even if she's asleep, I'll take it.

Second, after I put her to bed, I honestly start missing her about 15 minutes later.

Third, I love when I sneak into her bed at midnight and say, 'I love you,' and give her a kiss on the cheek, and she says in her sleepy voice, "I love you too Mommy. Give me huggies."

So I've become addicted to sleeping with her. I know it has to stop. I know I have to move back into the marital bed soon.

But, tell me, do you love sleeping with your toddlers or babies? Please tell me, I'm not the only one...

Three Page Report Card for my Three Year Old

2006-11-15T10:29:00.000-08:00

So, yesterday, The Dictator came home from, um, nursery school with her report card. A report card! A "first semester" report card. Who even knew there were semesters in nursery school?

I have mixed feelings about giving out report cards for three year olds. I mean, she just turned three! If I gave her the report card she would have taken her crayons and scribbled all over it. Which I kind of had the urge to do.

The report card was three pages long and let me check....yes, with 50, that's right 5-0 categories she was marked on.

The Dictator cannot even pronounce words like "Language and Emerging Literacy Skills" or "Self-Emotional Development," but apparantly she is sort of being grading on it.

And here I was, thinking that all she did, five mornings a week, for three hours, was colour pictures, sing songs, have story time and play in the playground.

Each category, which were titled everything from, "Shows pride in Jewish Heritage and background," "Understands and respects differences," and "Communicates to resolve conflicts," to "Makes increasingly representational drawings," "runs with control over direction and speed" and "Participates in group discussions," was marked with the words, "Not Yet," "Sometimes" "Frequently" and "Constantly.

Ok, we're talking about a three year old!

Isn't it normal to communicate to resolve conflicts by, um, crying, instead of saying, "I like you, dear, classmate, but it really makes me feel like you don't like me very much when you hit me in the arm. In the future, why don't we just talk it out and communicate our feelings."

As for her making "increasingly representational drawings", again, she's three. Not Jack Bush. She basically scribbles on a piece of paper, and I can tell you that those scribbles are friggen amazing, even though, according to her teacher, she only does this "frequently."

I guess "frequently" is a compliment.

As for showing pride in Jewish History, well, we are paying for her to go to the Calgary Jewish Academy.

My daughter is very shy in class, according to her teacher. I already know this, because I have spied on her from outside the classroom door. I do not think this is a problem. I think, frankly, that some kids are just shy.

My mother, who was a teacher, but more importantly raised four children, told me that generally speaking how kids act in nuersery school is how they'll act throughout their entire school existence.

According to the Dictator's teacher, my child likes to observe other kids first.

I was a type-A student, who if I got less than 85% on anything would consider it a failure. But that's just me. I will tell you that no matter how shy my Dictator is, I don't care. If she just wants to observe first, that's fine by me.

Here's what I want for my child inside the classroom. I just want her to be happy, that's it. And safe. Safe and Happy. There should be only one box on a three year olds report card and that is, "Having fun?"

But I will admit to you that I kind of want to take a peek at another kids' report card, to see what the teacher said about them and how they were marked.

Yesterday, after reading her report card, I bent down and gave The Dictator a huge hug and said she is a super star who got all gold stars. She asked me for ice cream and then showed me a piece of paper which she had put one green dot on and told me that was her frog.

I figure, you know, when she's in grade 10 or something, I might start to care about report cards. As for now, I'll let her scribble all over it - and then, as requested, I'll sign it and give it back to the school.

Is there an Ideal Man...anywhere?

2006-11-10T11:15:00.000-08:00

This is for the ninepounddictator.blogspot.com reader who wrote me a personal e-mail asking me about my thoughts on the ideal man, versus the thought that an ideal man does not exist.

With the recent wave of celebrity divorces - Reese Witherspoon and Britney Spears - and this e-mail from the reader who asked me my thoughts on the notion that perhaps an ideal man does not exist, I have been thinkinga a lot about relationships.

I don't actually believe an ideal man does exist. I know, this sounds bad. But does the ideal woman exist either?

I do have a number of single friends, in their 30s, who are still looking for that ideal man. Here's my problem with the people who hold out for that "ideal" man, or who don't believe an "ideal" man exists.

I love my friends. But, truthfully, out of all my single friends, there are only a couple who I'd like to be my wife, if I played that way. If you know what I mean. There are only a couple who I could actually live with day-to-day, without wanting to throw myself out the window.

Do I have an ideal man? Well, he is ideal for me. Together, we work.

Meaning, I am SO not an ideal woman. I am very selfish, I am very self-obsessed, I am extremely moody, and I probably suffer from never-ending depression. I am also very hard on myself and always feel that I'm always failing at my career, as a mother, and a wife. I don't know how to cook. I hate all chores. I leave my wet towels on the floor.

But my man, well, he puts up with it. In fact, he helps me through it all. Often I wonder if I were in his shoes, would I put up with me?

I am ideal for him because I keep him entertained and he likes to take care of me and if anyone ever says a bad word about him, well, I'd beat them up.

He is ideal for me because he's the only man I feel I can tell anything to and he won't judge me. He is my best friend. And if I'm going to be with someone for decades, it should be my best friend.

But he too isn't perfect. I hate that he is always on his blackberry, for example. It drives me fucking crazy. But, as I said before, I'm so far from perfect. So I don't say anything when we are at the movies and he's busy checking his messages. After all, I leave my wet towels on the floor.

So, yes, the ideal man sort of does exist - and that ideal man is the one who can put up with, and love to be with, us women who are so not ideal ourselves.

Once us women can admit we are not ideal ourselves, well, I think it will make finding an ideal man a heck of a lot easier.

The $100 Manicure...

2006-11-08T09:58:00.000-08:00

I went to the spa this weekend. It was quite a nice spa, in Scottsdale, Arizona. A bunch of girlfriends went too.

Now, as most of you know, I will spend a hundred dollars on a pair of jeans for my daughter, sometimes. And I recently bought a Jimmy Choo bag. Which I will carry around forever, to make it worth it. I figure if I carry it around for 7 years, every day, it really is only, like, $1 a day.

But that's not to say I don't have a problem with expensive things. Or, as I recently found out, I do have a problem. A big problem.

I really needed a manicure. I've been stressed lately, and have bitten off all my nails. That, along with playing in the sandbox at Adventure zone with The Dictator, well, let's just say my nails were nasty ass.

I made a manicure appointment at this spa. When I walked in, immediately I had to pay, which, you know, I never had to do before. Usually, you get the service first, and then you pay after.

I was also stunned that they had included an 18% tip already. I'm fine with giving an 18% tip - after I get the service, if the person is worth 18%. I mean, what if this manicurist sucked? But, I figured, it was a nice spa, so I'm sure they had good manicurists.

When the dude behind the counter, where I was checking in, asked me my method of payment, and gave me the sheet that had the cost of the manicure, I swear, my heart stopped.

The piece of paper, for the manicure, said it cost (with the added 18% tip) $105. Yes, that's right. One hundred and fucking five dollars for a manicure. And in American dollars.

I handed over my visa and said to the dude, "This is the most expensive manicure I have ever had."

He looked at me blankly, and didn't respond. In fact, he looked at ME like I was the CRAZY one.

Is it just me? Do you not all think that $105, American, for a friggen manicure is outrageous?

And the dude didn't even respond! Apparently, there is another world out there, another universe full of people, who don't think $105 for a manicure is outrageous. Because there were a lot of women getting manicures.

I went in thinking, "This better be the best fucking manicure of my life. They better put diamonds on my nails."

And you can bet your ass when they offered me cookies, an apple, and a bottle of water that I took all of them. In fact, I asked for another bottle of water when I was finished.

The manicure was, um, fine. It was nice. It lasted one hour. But, I tell you, when I was living in New York and getting manicures for $12, they were just as good.

And I had already booked, for the next day, a hot stone massage and a facial. I was dreading checking in the next day. I mean, if a manicure cost $105, what would be the cost of a facial and a massage?

I warned the fiance, because, well, I had to put it on our shared credit card, because if I put it on mine, I for sure would have had one of those embarrassing moments when the person says, "I'm really sorry. There seems to be a problem with your card. Do you have another?" (I don't. Except for the fiances, which I'm only allowed to use for our daughter and in case of emergencies.)

And, well, I suppose paying for a facial and massage isn't exactly an "emergency." Because of the 24 hour cancellation policy, I couldn't cancel it. So it turned into a bit of an emergency.

"My manicure cost $105," I told him. "I'm just warning you, because I have a facial and massage tomorrow, so who the hell knows what that will cost."

So I went the next day. I checked in again, before my treatments. The bill for the massage and facial. $585. So, I, of course, had to enjoy myself. I mean, I was paying $585 for two hours to enjoy myself.

But as they did my treatments, all I kept thinking was, "This is costing me $585! How the hell can I relax?" I swear, I was one breath away from having a panic attack.

In any case, I won't be heading back to that spa anytime soon. I mean, for the $700 it cost me, I could have bought the Dictator three pairs of Antik Denim jeans.

But I get why they made me pay first. Because not even the best manicure in the world should cost that much.

Solve This Mystery...

2006-11-01T09:27:00.000-08:00

Someone, in Toronto, is going around telling people they are my "assistant."

I feel totally violated, and most of all, want to say to this person who is going around telling people they are my "assistant" that they are doing a totally sucky job!

I had to get my own coffeee this morning! I had to set up my own manicure appointment yesterday! I had to buy my own Halloween candy! I had to book my own airline ticket for tomorrow!

Let me explain...

Yesterday, I was opening my mail at home and there was a letter forwarded to me from The Globe and Mail. It was adressed to: The Assistant of Rebecca Eckler, with that person's name, and it was marked "private and confidential."

I laughed, because, in reality, I don't have an assistant.

I need an assistant, don't get me wrong.

I have 250 unread e-mails, almost 1000 that need to be returned, a photo shoot happening at my house right now - My home will be featured in Canadian House and Home magazine in the Spring - dry cleaning that hasn't been picked up in months, snack day at my daughter's school tomorrow, and I'm supposed to get on a plane tomorrow at 7 a.m.

Not to mention newspaper deadlines, a book in its final editing stages, another book deadline looming, and a couple freelance magazine stories that I need to interview for and write, and a number of requests for people to interview me about various things.

Seriously, I feel as if my life is falling apart, I have so much to do, and my organizational skills, at best, suck.

Anyway, I opened the letter addressed to "Rebecca Eckler's assistant," even though it really wasn't for me. There was another name there, but since I am my own assistant, I didn't feel too badly, even though it was marked "private and confidential." Hey, I am my own assistant and you addressed it to Rebecca Eckler's assistant.

It was a handwritten love/apology letter.

Aparently, my "assistant" had taken someone out and that person (the person writing the letter) got drunk and acted like a "retarded brat."

And then my "assistant" called the letter-writer, but the letter-writer's cell phone died and they couldn't call back because they were at a friend's house. Then the letter-writer tried to call my assistant, but the person's sister hung up on them. Twice.

Anyway, the letter-writer to my "assistant" apologizes profusely and doesn't want to let a dead cell phone or alcohol affect what could possibly be a future relationship. Apparently, my "assistant" did something very nice for this person, that no other person had done before.

This all, apparently, happened around Thanksgiving weekend, when I was in Arizona.

To which I'll say, if you were on a date around that time in Toronto, and the person treated you poorly, well, that person is sorry and is trying to get in touch with you - even if they are apologizing to someone who is going around lying about what they do for a living.

Now that I'm done trying to pass this information on, and getting a love-match going, I'd like to also say, that if you ever meet someone who is telling people they are "Rebecca Eckler's assistant," don't believe them. Or tell them to get to work.

I like non-fat decaf lattes.

Why Ex-Jobs are like Ex-Boyfriends

2006-10-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Ex Place Of Employment,

So, about - god, has it been almost a year now? - I was told by Human Resources at my Ex-Place of Employment that I would no longer be paid my salary.

For the haters, it was, 'Hey Eckler was fired!!!" I love the haters. (Trust me, if you are a writer and don't have haters, you are doing something wrong.)

Well, I suppose it was a firing - sort of - but I was also told that I could still write for them as much as I wanted, could keep my column, and would get paid per story and column as opposed to my (admittedly) large salary for what I did. (Same as was told to almost every other columnist who was also sort-of-fired-but-asked-to-stay-on.)

I suppose I could have stayed on to this day, as could have numerous other columnists. For some of them, who I remain friends, it was a point of pride. "They don't want me. I don't want them." Kind of like liking a guy who doesn't like you.

Why the hell would you want to be with them if they don't want to be with you? (Except this guy paid me many months of severance when he sort-of-ditched me, which paid for a new car, a trip to the Four Seasons Maui, and many pairs of designer boots.)

But, for me, for a long time, I was unhappy at my Former Place Of Employment.

It was like being in a relationship with a guy that's ok, but has no spark, and you kind of just coast along for months and months and months, thinking, "Isn't there someone better out there? I need to shake things up. God, I'm so bored."

Now, that's not to say I wasn't at one point in love with my Ex-Job. God, was it fun at the beginning.

We had chemistry. And, even two and three years into my relationship at the Former Place of Employment, I was still in deep-like, all through the changes, watching all my friends move on (get fired), and all the editors I loved move on to other publications, finding their own new loves.

It was kind of like watching all of your best friends getting married, while your stuck thinking, "When is it going to happen to me? It's never going to happen!"

Then there was that call, that day a year ago, where I was told I could stay on but we won't pay you as much, and I suppose there was a pride moment/issue for me too. I told The Fiance to cancel our subscription immediately, which we did.

Like getting dumped, you get rid of all reminders of that person. (Even worse, is to be dumped by someone you didn't even like that much anymore. You kind of want to yell, "Hey! I was going to dump you!")

The Former Place of Employment was also like a guy you break up with but keep in your life - until something (someone) better comes along. I kept plugging away for them - having break-up sex with them, you could say - while planning to sleep with someone else.

I knew what I wanted (like most girls know WHO they want) which was to work at the Globe and Mail.

Why? Because I had also grown up over my time at the Former Place of Employment.

I was no longer Single in the City girl. I was a mother. And there was a whole wave of readers that I feel I grew up with, and who grew up with me.

They, too, were no longer single, but mothers too. I had a new life - and while I wasn't going to get a new haircut, I wanted a new job.

I knew that I wanted to, and needed to, move on, which all women in relationships know is a very difficult thing to do, even if it is the smart thing to do. It is easier to just stay in a relationship, then find a new guy, right?

But there is nothing worse than listening to a friend moan for years about how she hates her boyfriend, but sticks with him. Likewise, there is nothing worse than listening to people moan about jobs they hate, when they can find another.

I thought it was a good break up with The Former Place of Employment, as good as any break up, after 7 years, can go.

When people asked why I wasn't writing for them anymore, I told them the truth.

When people who worked in the past at Former Place of Employment, or still did and do, complained about the Former Place of Employment to me, I would nod and talk about the good times. I didn't really care to talk about my Ex at all.

Like most breakups, there's a cooling off time, and then people generally move on.

To say I've moved on, is an understatement.

Do I miss the good times? Of course. Do I still think fondly of my Ex sometimes? Sure.

But everyone, in every type of relationship, eventually moves on and forgets the good and bad times and concentrates on their present relationships. You wake up one day and you think, "Hey! I haven't thought about my ex in months!"

Ahhh, but then today.....I heard from a colleague at Macleans magazine. She wrote, "Do not be upset about what they wrote about you today. They are stupid and mean and that's why they are going down."

To which I responded, "What did they write?"

I have not read the paper of the Former Place of Employment in a year. In fact, no one brings up my Ex with me anymore.

When I move on, I do move on. I sometimes will log on to the site to read Shinan Govani (Thanks to a password of a friend - I do not pay. You do not help your Ex find a new girlfriend, no matter how fondly you think of them.)

So what did my Ex write about me? - something about "0 published letters asking for the return of Rebecca Eckler."

While, for anyone who can read between the lines or has a brain, there is a difference between "published letters" - why the fuck would a publication publish letters asking for the return of someone who works now - happily - for their competition? - and letters they have received that have not published.

I have no idea if they've recieved letters or not. Ok, I do know they have. I do still talk to friends of the Ex - a woman will always have mutual friends with their Ex.

Personally, I have received letters too. But that's not the point. It does not make me feel good or bad to know that people miss me. (Ok, that's a lie. Like most women, even when we are over our exes, it's still nice to know they miss us.)

The point is, after so long, why is my Ex writing not so nice things about me? Obviously, someone has not moved on. I say this because I do not think, in my day to day, ever about my Ex (Place of Employment.)

I sent an e-mail to a former colleage at The Ex Place of Employment (who still works there) asking why they would bother. I mean, don't people in all relationships think about Karma - there's relationship Karma and there's Career Karma, both which will bite you in the ass.

Women know if they get dumped meanily by someone, it's usually because they treated someone else like shit at some point in their past. Women know not to talk bad about the Ex, if they want their next relationship to be a good one.

Our mutual friend's response (from someone who still works at My Former Place of Employment) "I know! That one was totally out of my hands. Another section did it - and it was gratuitously mean and just not classy. I apologize on their behalf....And I happen to know there were plenty of letters asking where you were."

So, dear Ex Place of Employment, write whatever you want, if it makes you feel better (Try cookie dough ice cream - it works too!). I have long moved on. In fact, I have to write something now for my present place of employment, a place where I am very much in love.

I still wish you well (ish.) And, maybe one day, we can be friends.

xoxox,
Rebecca Eckler

Who is THE ONE You Trust?

2006-10-24T11:34:00.000-07:00

The other day I starting to think about trust and who I trust completely and utterly. This post is about trust and love and how the two go hand in hand..

I started to think about trust because I told a friend something that was totally innocuous and she told someone else, because what I told her was so not important, but it got passed on and then got back to me.

I was in awe that, in a matter of two days, something I said in passing (trust me, it's nothing at all juicy. "Pass the salt please" would be more interesting.) actually got back to me - all the way from Vancouver.

Since it was nothing juicy or mean, it was just weird to me how people talk. It was more like, "I heard you were at..." one of things. Anyway.

Aside from my family (They don't count - because they are family, so of course I trust them) there is only one other person that I trust completely, 100 per cent, which is The Fiance.

This morning I was talking to a friend and I asked him the question, "How many people do you trust?"

He said, "Including family?" I said, "No."

He said, "It's interesting. Um, there is one person. Yeah, that's weird." The thing is, I don't think it's that weird.

I trust the fiance with everything. I can tell him anything and everything and know that it won't go anywhere, no matter how boring what I tell him is, or how juicy it is.

I mean, we all have friends who we know pass on things even after we say, "You can't tell anyone!" No one is that naive to believe that there's not always a change whatever secret you tell them, it will be passed on - maybe not immediately, but one day, months or years from now...

Also, a few weeks ago, someone asked me how the fiance proposed to me. I'm not going to say. But I am going to tell you why I love him. In fact, I invite all of you to share the little things your man does for you that makes you love him. Please do. Because it's nice.

When I was an advice columnist, people always asked how do you know when he's THE ONE?

There are big reasons I love the fiance, but it's the little things that add up, I think, that make him THE ONE.

1) If he picks me up from home, on his way home from work so we can go for dinner, and I get in the car, he always makes sure my station is already on. He turns it to MY station before I get in the car...how sweet is that? Even though he hates the top 40/hip hop/Sexy Back music I love.

2) He never makes me attend events with him that I don't want to go.

3) He will sit through watching the Gilmore Girls with me, though he hates it, just because he says he likes to "sit with me." He will also sit through Bachelor Rome with me, though he hates it, just to spend "quality time" with me.

4) He will always pick up my phone call - even if he's on the line with an important client or in a conference call.

5) When we go to a party, he will ALWAYS tell me after that I was the prettiest girl there, even though I know he's lying.

And these are only five of the many very little gestures that make me love the guy. Now, share your top five. Because I love these stories....

REWARD!!! If anyone is still reading this....

2006-10-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

Sorry, no, you don't get a reward if you are still reading this. Although, it's true, you deserve one because I haven't posted in like, um, a year...

Who would have thought - because I certainly wouldn't have - that throwing a 3 three-olds birthday party could take up YOUR ENTIRE LIFE?

In the weeks leading up to the party, it seemed I was constantly on the phone with caterers, balloon-makers, cake people, answering regret-only calls....It was never-ending.

One woman who's daughter I had invited called me to tell me all about her daugther's "pooping" issues at school. Seriously. Just because my number is on the REGRETS ONLY part of the invite, I really don't need to know about your kids potty issues.

The party was fun - but also kind of never-ending. I swear, the party started at 4 p.m. and 18 hours later, it seemed, I looked at my watch and, doh!, it was only 4:45 p.m.

But I'll talk more about the party at some other point. I think I have post-stress-birthday-party-disorder. In fact, we haven't even opened the presents yet.

I want to talk about rewards, because well, I was in Toronto the last few days (I was a presenter at the Gemini Awards - now THAT is a whole other post that will have you laughing your asses off....I swear, I'll post that one next week.)

Anyway, I was at the Toronto airport, heading back to Calgary, walking to my gate. In the middle of the floor was a black wallet, which I, of course, picked up.

I, of course, looked through it too. There was cash (about $60) a couple gold credit cards, some other cards for gas stations and the such and a driver's license.

I know what a pain in the ass it would be to lose all that stuff. So, nice me - yes, nice me! - spent 25 minutes trying to find a customer service desk so I could give this wallet to them so they could find the man who lost it.

While at the customer service desk, which I finally found, the dude there opened the wallet and found the man's card inside. He suggested I call the number on his card.

So, there I am, calling on my cell phone this guys office, to let him know not to worry because I have his wallet. He was from Calgary, so I could have easily brought it back with me.

I get a call back, five minutes later, from one of his co-workers, telling me this dude who lost his wallet is on the same plane as I am. Customer Service dude tells me to take it to the gate and give it to them.

Which I do.

Then I hear Gate Person calling this man's name out. I watch as Man With Lost Wallet goes to gate and is handed his wallet. I overhear him say he didn't even know he was missing it.

I suppose it was kind of nice that he asked Gate Man who it was who found the wallet, and Gate Man pointed me out.

So the dude, with his lost wallet now in hand, comes over and says, "Yeah, thanks. You know, my wallet was stolen from my car just last month so this would have been bad."

And that was it.

Then he leaves. Now, I'm not saying that I wanted a reward, but isn't that what people do when they find your wallet? Or do people not do that anymore?

I'm telling you that if someone found my wallet and got it back to me, I would at least offer to give them some cash. I would never have taken the cash, but I'm just saying....it's what you're supposed to do. Or ask for their business card so you can send them a nice little thank you note.

When I think about it, it cost *me* money, and time, to get this guys wallet back to him - long distance call to his office, incoming long distance call from his co-worker, and the fact that I spent 25 minutes of my time finding customer service when I could have bought US Weekly instead.

I once found a high powered CBC execs wallet in a cab. Not only did I get a hand written thank you note, but he sent flowers. That was nice.

I wonder if this dude whose wallet I found has ever seen the movie Pay it Forward. Since the dude, whose wallet I found, never Paid It Forward, I told the gate man while boarding my plane that maybe I should be upgraded because I did a very nice deed and now it's Air Canada's time to Pay It Forward to me.

Well, I'm not going to tell you how it ended for me on the plane. Let's just say it was a nice flight.

And let's just say if someone finds your wallet, with gold credit cards that they could have bought a shit load of expensive stuff with, you should maybe at least show a tiny bit of appreciation.

It's My Party and I'll Invite Who I Want To...

2006-09-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

Well, the preparations for The Dictator's 3rd birthday party are coming along. Slowly, but surely.

I was stunned to read a comment from a reader, a teacher!, who said it was pretty stupid to invite a TEACHER to one of their pre-schooler students birthday parties.

To which I say, "WTF?"

I mean, give me a break. First off, it's a party *I'm* throwing to celebrate my daugher's birthday, the greatest day of my life. Which means, I'll invite whomever I want to invite. If I want to invite my dentist, I'll invite my dentist.

The point is, just because you receive an invite, doesn't mean you are obligated to attend. Ever.

How easy is it to say, "Thanks! I'm out of town." Or, "Thanks! I have an appointment I can't miss." Or, "I'm sick." Or, "I have to wash my hair."

There are a million and a half ways to get out of going to a party. (Though, for some weird reason, I can't help but think someone who gets offended at an invite doesn't get many invites. Am I wrong?)

And, actually, I don't agree that all teachers wouldn't want to go to one of their kids parties. First off, there will be a bar and bartender. Second, it will be catered. Third, why wouldn't a teacher want to get to know parents out of class?

Also, I'm sorry, but hey, you get to see the inside of my house! And you could get your face painted! And maybe a lootbag!

Also, she's quite young this teacher. Why wouldn't she want to meet new people?

Heck, drop by for 20 minutes even. Heck, don't come. Whatever.

The point is, I don't think it's stupid at all to invite a teacher. My daughter likes her teacher. And why shouldn't I show appreciation by saying, "You're a part of my daughter's life. She loves you. I would like you to be a part of her celebration."

And, if the teacher doesn't want to come, well, the Regrets Only number is right there on the invite.

P.S. I pray that you are not my daughter's teacher who wrote that stupid comment. If you are, well, you're still invited.

Oohhh, Belinda....

2006-09-28T09:56:00.000-07:00

I feel I need to comment on the whole Belinda Stronach/Tie Domi affair.

Not that I even really knew who Tie Domi was. Nor do I really care about Tie Domi. Not that I really care about Belinda and what she does in her spare time either.

But I do have some thoughts on the whole matter. Male writers just do not get it.

And, yes, I've been following the story like I used to follow the good ole days of The O.C. when it was actually good.

Male writers just do not get what Belinda sees, or saw, in Tie. I completely get it. Maybe because I'm a woman. I can smell people like - make that women like - Belinda a mile away.

She likes Tie, or liked Tie, because he made her feel very smart and very pretty. It's as simple as that. He made her feel like the powerful one in the relationship. She was smarter about politics, she had more money, she was better looking as a woman than he was as a man. Women like Belinda like when they are made to feel that way.

Ok, now moving on to why I can't help but feel less respect for Belinda, even though I really do believe that there is a complete double standard, as Belinda says.

It's true. She's right. A man who was caught in an affair would never be put under such a microscope as Belinda is. No one would think a man in an affair would not do as well at his job.

And, of course, how come no one has really come down hard on Tie for the affair. Hello? As I said in the whole Tori Spelling affair, it takes two to tango. Why does no one just come out and say that Tie is the bad person?

Well, his wife (soon to be ex) kind of did that. And good for her. Obviously their relationship had major problems. And obviously she was pissed off.

Here's my problem with Belinda now. I kind of think she's not too smart. I mean, really. You know the dude is married. You know you're a public person. You know that, if you hang out with someone and walk hand in hand with them, it's going to raise eyebrows.

What was she thinking? I don't think she was. I actually think she didn't care. And that's what kind of disturbs me.

It also disturbs me because, for some reason, I think she likes the drama of it all. I don't think she's embarassed by this whole thing. I think Belinda likes seeing her face on the front page of the paper, no matter what the reason.

I don't really believe that this affair is the thing that's going to bring her down. I don't. People kind of have short memories. They'll be like, "Didn't she have that affair with that hockey player? Didn't she have that affair with Bill Clinton?"

I also believe that the only way to get out of this messy affair is for her to end up with Tie. If it's true love, well, you can't argue with true love.

I don't think it will last though. It's kind of one of those, "Becareful what you wish for," things.

Why isn't Belinda smart enough to see that?

Of course, this is what I'm reading into it.

Is the O.C. starting soon or what?

I'm back and happy and planning a party.

2006-09-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

I have a lot to write about today, since I've been so not a very good blogger lately.

After my shit couple of weeks, I feel good about life again. Things are falling into place again. And, you guys, well, you really made me feel a lot better. Thank you.

And the person from Tag, who offered me a new watch, after the nanny thief incident, well, I really love you.

There were some of you, whose posts I chose not to post, because well, you were kind of mean. I know - how could I not? - that a lot of people have way worse things they go through than I do and did.

But, come on, we all complain about our lives sometimes don't we? Complaining is what we do. It's a sport, a hobby. And if I can't complain on my own blog, who can I complain to?

I went to Arizona last week, because, well, I felt I needed to get away. It did it's trick. I feel rested and happy. And I'll write more about this tomorrow, but I honestly now can see that I could be happy not working at all. I think.

I went with The Dictator and The Fiance joined us for the weekend. It was so nice to spend all day and all night with The Dictator. She's turning into a real person who I can have conversations with - until a bee flies by. Or she sees an empty cup. Anyway.

I didn't feel guilty at all taking her out of school. I mean, she's three.

She now says things like, "Mommy, are we going to the club today?" I know. I know. But it's not annoying when it comes from the mouth of a three year old. It's adorable.

The Dictator is now also all about the pee-nuth. She walks around saying, "I'm a girl. You're a girl. Daddy is a boy. He has a pee-nuth."

When she sees The Fiance in a bathing suit, she figures it out. "I have two pieces. You have one. You're a boy. You wear nothing on top," she'll say to him. "Mommy has two pieces too."

The funniest was when The Fiance was leaving the Arizona house. He was being picked up by the driver. The Dictator and I were outside as well, waving good bye to him. We were leaving the next day. She called out, "Daddy! You have a pee-nuth?"

How's that for a goodbye? Even the driver was like, "What did she just say?????"

I'm also in the midst of planning The Dictator's third birthday party. We went to a birthday party a couple weeks ago for a boy in her class. It was quite the event. The mother told me she planned it for six months. She also sent out thank you cards afterwards. How can I compete?

I have two weeks to plan The Dictator's party. I'm going to shake it up a bit (Since how many times can one go to Adventure Zone without losing their mind? - well, probably a lot.)

I'm going to have it at the house. I'm going to invite all the parents and even The Dictator's teachers. I'm going to have it between cocktail hour (4 p.m. to 7 p.m. - would that be mocktails for the kiddies?)

I'm going to have clowns, face painting, a caricturist. Some dude is coming over to put up helium balloons everywhere. I'm going to have it catered too for the adults. (the kids will get pizza.)

Here's the thing. I've realized I need to make an effort in meeting the other parents of kids in The Dictator's class. I figure the birthday party will be a good place to start doing that. I figure, too, why shouldn't parents have fun at a children's birthday party? Is it wrong to have a bartender?

I'm going to pay for it all with a smile. And thank god birthdays only happen once a year.

Know a Spell?

2006-09-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

For changing my luck?

Seriously. I've been in a bad state recently. I can't shake it. Bad things keep happening to me.

Rather, people keep disappointing me.

The fiance always says, in not so many words, that I do not live in reality.

He's been saying this for years. Basically, that I expect to much from people and the world is a shitty place. Of course, he's a lawyer and that's a very competitive industry with a bunch of not-so-nice people who can argue very well. Maybe it is shitty to work in a law office.

But I work by myself...

Anyway, OK, maybe its true that I expect a lot from people, but I don't think so. And I'm still in a shitty state whether I have expectations or not. And I don't think they're high expectations just, you know, common courtesy.

So many little bad things have happened to me lately that I can't help but start to think it's me. It's me and my luck. Yes, these are little things, but they all add up you know? They all add up to me being in a shitty, depressed state. I hate being depressed.

First, the nanny-thief incident really affected me. I've been depressed about that for days. I know I should be happy that I got my stuff back, but still...I feel like I don't have a good grasp on humans. My judgement is all off.

Then a friend of mine was very rude to me, calling me and then basically hanging up on me when someone *more important* (more important than me? What the fuck?) walked up to him. It was so rude that I refused to take his calls for a week.

I mean, you can't talk, then don't call until you have time! Ok, I know this is all lame, but it disappointed me.

Then another friend disappointed me because I always thought they were so confident, so successful, had everything, but then they leave a message basically asking me if I thought they were awesome. Does this make sense? I mean, who asks a person if they think that they are awesome?

It disappointed me because, though I know everyone has bouts of insecurity, I just didn't see it coming. Is the whole world insecure? I mean, that sucks.

Then my friend is going through an awful break-up and I tell you, I'm stunned by human nature and how awful this man was to her. It depressed me too because my friend is so depressed and this guy was such a jerk. It depressed me, because I think I have a fairly good handle on men, but this story just freaked me out. I had never heard of a man being so mean.

Then, another person I know, I think is lying to me about something and I can't deal. Rather, it's not so much a lie as just not telling the truth and I don't know how to deal with people like that anymore. Do the games ever end?

So, in the past two weeks, I've had a thief, a rude person, a maybe-liar, a very insecure person. a sad friend, and I can't help but think that something has got to change...

So, if you know a spell where I have to cut off a chunk of hair and mix it with some spice and say a spell, let me know...

Nanny Thief

2006-09-14T14:24:00.000-07:00

Sorry, I've been away. I've missed you! I was covering the film festival for Maclean's magazine.

And a completely weird thing happened to me, and not in a good way. I'm still in shock.

I travel back and forth from Calgary to Toronto all the time. Nanny Mimi, who is like my sister, used to travel with me. But now she's getting married and it's unfair to ask her to travel so much. I mean, she wants to spend time with her future husband and plan her wedding.

So when I go to Toronto I have a part-time nanny, who lives in Toronto. Who I really, really liked.

She was friggen stealing from me!

I realized there were a few things missing, namely a Prada purse, a brand new Roots purse, a pair of Puma sneakers, in the last few weeks. But I thought, 'OK, this is weird. But maybe I really am that disorganized."

In my heart, I knew I wasn't that disorganized. I loved my Prada purse. It was new-ish, a gift from the Fiance. And I knew I left it *right* there on my bedroom dresser.

I'm pretty busy too. So when I'm running around and can't find something, I just don't have the time to really look for things.

But then there was a film festival party. I had just bought a new Theory dress two days before this nanny came over. The tags were still on the freaking thing.

As I was racing around to get ready, I suddenly couldn't find the dress. I knew, at that moment, that she was stealing from me. I mean, I had just bought the dress two days earlier. I had hung it in my closet. Like I said, the tags were still on it.

Even in my totally disorganized state, I knew that I wasn't that disorganized.

I called the service which had first set me up with his nanny. I felt awful, because I was 99 % sure the nanny was stealing from me, but there's always a nagging doubt left that maybe, just maybe, the things were somewhere in my place.

And I know people are hard off and I feel for people who are. And who likes to accuse people?

I wasn't wrong. The head of the nanny service called the next day after I told her things were missing. She had told this nanny that I had had a camera in my place and saw her taking things. The nanny gave her back my stuff. Thank God.

Not only did I get back three designer purses, I also got back my jewelry box. Yes, the nanny had stolen my jewelry box!

I wouldn't have even known it was missing until I was going to look for something, like, um, the pearl earrings that were in it, the gold bracelets, my grandmother's engagement ring.

I'm fucking pissed off. I treated this nanny so nicely. And I'm not just saying that. Really. I gave her a ton of extra money for her mother, who needed a heart transplant in the Philippines (Who even knows if that is true?)

If it was dark, I would pay her $40 cab rides home. I gave her a ton of clothes that were old. I really really liked her.

I actually not only feel completely used, but so fucking stupid.

The head of the service told me I have to decide if I want to press charges. Which I do not.

I just can't believe it. I mean, if someone wants something that bad, then fucking take it. Or at least that's sort of how I feel if I leave ten dollars lying around, or you take toilet paper, a box of Kleenex, some food. If it means that much to you, and you need it, than take it.

But I don't believe that now. I believe that people should NOT fucking steal. Also, this nanny lived with her sister in a house. She may not have so much, but she definitely has a lot more than a lot of people.

I just want my things back. The Tag watch, I want it back. And who knows if I will ever get it back. Who knows what else is missing that I won't realize for a long time? I mean, I don't exactly keep inventory of MY things.

The weird thing is, this nanny wants to talk to me, to apologize, I guess. I don't want to hear it. I just want to move on.

I want to forget all this badness. I'm so grateful that The Dictator is OK. I suppose, too, that just because this nanny was a thief doesn't mean she wasn't taking care of The Dictator. Or at least that's what I need to believe.

I still believe in the goodness of people. Because I need to.

First Day of Skool

2006-09-05T14:20:00.003-07:00

Ok, it's done.

School is hard. Not so much school for an almost three year-old, but the preparation in getting an almost three-year old to school on time.

School starts at 8:20 a.m. I know, 8:20 a.m.!

Which means in order for The Dictator to get dressed and fed and to school, we need to get up at 7 a.m.

I swear, it was like Grade 10 all over again. In my head, when the alarm went off this morning, I was like, "Um, really. Is it THAT important that I go today? I mean, we could miss this one day, right?"

I always knew, when I was a student and going to skip school, the night before. I remember one year, not that this is something I'm totally proud off, but the number of classes I skipped a few of the semesters was actually higher than my over all percentage.

It's only amazing because my average was in the mid-to-high eighties. I'm not bragging that I was an A-student. I'm only bragging that I was an A-student who skipped so much school.

I mean, my parents couldn't get THAT mad at me, because I was still getting the grades. It would have been really very wrong of them to be like, "You're only getting an 87 per cent!! GO TO SCHOOL!"

But times, I understand, are very different. And no longer is an 87 per cent good enough.

But I don't have to worry about that for a long time.

The point is, of course, we couldn't start skipping on her FIRST day of school, even if it was pre-school. No, that would have been kind of bad.

So we made it. And, you know, the teacher (Am I supposed to call her by her first name? Her two last names?) was very sweet and there were a few kids from The Dictator's camp there, so for all I know, The Dictator thought she was at camp.

The entire day I've been pretty emotional (And, no, I got my period last week.) It was all because my daughter is a girl now. A big girl. A big girl with invisible friends and invisible dog friends and invisible cat friends, but whatever. She's grown up.

And, she got her first birthday invitation today, handed to me by a mother who was very nice. I felt for the mother. Obviously, she didn't know any of the kids name's in class, so she just, I don't know really, gave out a few invitations.

I'm also sad too because I'm heading to Toronto for the Toronto International Film Festival. I will be blogging for Maclean's magazine daily on the party-scene. So check it out (Macleans.ca)

How can I complain about parties? Well, I can't really. But most of them don't start until 11 p.m. and, well, I'm now a mother.

You know how I know I'm a mother? Well, tonight, in order to get The Dictator up at 7 a.m. again tomorrow, I'll be going to bed at 7 p.m.

Hope your first day of school went well! Goodnight (Wait...it's only 4 p.m. I have to stay up a bit...snooze.)

Pre-Schooler Etiquette...Help????

2006-08-28T13:24:00.000-07:00

Ok, so The Dictator is starting pre-school in September.

And I'm freaking out.

First off, I had to *ask* when school starts. I know. I know. But, I've been out of school a very long time and I seriously couldn't remember if students start the Tuesday or Wednesday after Labor Day.

But what are the rules? I have to go to Toronto the beginning of September for work (I got my first professional blogging job. More on that later...) but there was no way I was missing The Dictator's first day of school. No way. Nu-huh.

I mean, she needs her mother there, right? Rather, I think the truth is, I need to be there. No matter what the job was, there was no way I was missing her first day of school.

So what exactly happens from all you mothers who've been there, done that?

You take your child (who is still, in your eyes, a baby!) and you walk with her into the classroom and then what?

Do you introduce yourself to the teacher? Do you let it be known what kind of mother you will be? (Do you stick around and spy?) Do you introduce yourself to other parents and immediately start setting up playdates?

And how long are you supposed to stay for? Until your child is settled? Or are you booted out? Does the teacher boot you out? Do you stick around, waiting outside?

What? What? What?

What if The Dictator is terrified and starts to cry? Is the first day too soon to yank your child out of school?

What should she wear? Do I have to pack extra clothes in case she has an "accident?" Do I need to pack lunch if it's only half days?

And should I be preparing her for "school?" Should I be explaining that it's just like camp?

I'm terrified. I have the first day jitters. I hate it.

Living out of my car...

2006-08-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

Ok, I'm so *not* going to say I'm "bored" with the "bored mommy" topic. Because we all know now what happens when we use the word "bored."

Today I felt like I literally drove around the entire day. I felt like I spent enough time in my car driving around the city that I could have drove to a cottage on a Friday on a long weekend. Yes, that's how much time I spent in my car.

Any other mothers feel, as their child gets older, that they might as well move into their car?

I drove The Dictator to camp. Then I picked her up. Then I drove her to get some lunch. Then I drove her here, then there, and everywhere.

I imagine, starting in September (Will blog about my angst about sending The Dictator to school for the first time on Monday) I will be driving a lot.

Because after school, there will be other classes - swimming, ballet, martial arts - to take her too. (Don't worry. I haven't yet signed her up for anything...)

I get "mall brain" when I'm in a mall too long, like after ten minutes (that very claustrophobic feeling when you just need fresh air..)

Now I think I have "car brain." Is that possible?

Have a good weekend.

Are you a Bored Mother?

2006-08-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

Ok, now that this topic has been beaten to death, I'd still like to contribute...

Yes, I did write the Bored mummies article in the Globe and Mail's Focus section last Saturday....

And ever since I wrote it, I've been asking myself, "Are you bored Rebecca? Does The Dictator bore you?"

See, here's the thing. Although *some* people somehow read into the story that Rebecca Eckler was a bored mommy, I never actually wrote that. I never once wrote, "I'm bored! My daughter bores me!" So re-read the story.

That being said, I can completely understand women who do find some aspects of motherhood boring.

I do.

Trust me, the minute I realized that I had four copies of Goodnight Moon in my home, in almost every fucking room, I knew that book was going to bore me to tears.

I'm sorry, good book or bad book, any book you have to read 1000 times DOES become boring.

Here's the problem with this *war* between mothers, those on the one side that do, courageously, admit that they find certain aspects of being a mother boring, and those on the other side, who think that every fucking second with their child is the best thing since....um, the creation of cookie dough cheesecake.

The problem is is that if you tell me that you think every second with your child is the most fun you've ever had, I'm not going to believe you.

Yes, no matter what you tell me, I'm going to either think you are a liar, have great repression skills, or that you are on some enviable drugs.

However, if you tell me that you refuse to do *anything and everything* that you find boring with your child, ever, than I am going to think you aren't a great mother and you probably shouldn't have any more children.

So, am I bored?

No. No, I am not.

You know why? Because I once had two jobs during the summer during university, one calling people out of a fucking phone book all day long, and another putting Q-tips in baggies for eight hours a day.

Both those jobs were friggen boring, so boring that I could honestly fall asleep at my desk while doing them.

I do not really enjoy reading the same book, night after night, nor do I love hearing, "Swiper! No Swiping!" 3000 times a day, but I've never fallen asleep while doing those things.

I plan well now to make sure I'm never bored.

For example, I will spend the entire day with The Dictator at Center Island, asking her every five minutes if she needs "to go to the potty" or putting suntan lotion on her 50 times a day at a cottage. And then I'll go out for a couple hours at night.

And, the thing is - and this is the main thing - no matter how tedious some of the things us mothers have to do, the minute I step out the door to do some "fun" adult things with friends or alone, I immediately miss The Dictator.

Is motherhood boring? Um, try putting Q-tips in baggies for 8 hours a day, for two months, and then tell me.

Tushies, Tattoos, and Truth

2006-08-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

So it's no secret (or at least not now) that I have two tattoos. One on my ass. One on my ankle.

The one on my ass I like. It has meaning. It's small. And, plus, it's on my ass so even when I turn 70 and am wrinkly, who the hell will be looking at my ass?

I like the one on my ass as well, because no one gets to see it unless I show it to them. I mean, it's completely covered by bikini bottoms and other unmentionables.

The one on my ankle, well, don't like it so much. For one thing, it's ugly. It was a bad tattoo job. I regret it. I will get it removed one of these days.

So, the other day, while I was taking a shower, The Dictator was peaking at me behind the shower curtain.

Now, she usually showers with me, but sometimes it's just easier, and quicker, for me to shower by myself. Now I can just tell her, "You don't want to shower with me because the shampoo hurts your eyes, right?"

Because that's what she always says, rather cries. Anyway, when we don't shower together, she usually hangs with me in the washroom (Even when Nanny is around) and we chit chat.

The other day, she was looking at me in the shower and said, "Mommy, what's on your bum?"

Which gave me a pause.

I mean, I always imagined myself as the type of mother who is all about the truth. You want to know what that is? Well, that's a nipple. Half the time, The Dictator walks around saying stuff like, "I don't have a bra."

But, you know, I really didn't want my almost three year-old knowing about tattoos. Funny how that happens. I think I'll be okay if, one day, she wants her belly button pierced. Like when she's 17.

But tattoos? Nu-huh. I mean, frankly, I don't mind the idea of tattoos. On other people who are not my daughter. The problem is one usually regrets getting them. And, you only start to regret them a couple years after you get them, when you're older.

I'm a complete mother now, thinking, "No way is The Dictator going to get a tattoo because she'll regret it. No way is my daughter going to mark up her perfectly perfect skin."

So my answer was, "It's a sticker!"

To which The Dictator responded, "I want a sticker on my bum too."

To which I responded, "OK, you can have a sticker on your bum."

Thankfully, she's only almost three, which means her attention span is like a fleas. She forgot all about the "I want a sticker on my bum too," when she saw one of my OB tampons.

I mean, thank god she didn't ask what that was. I'm so not ready for that conversation.

Cutie Patutie Ben Mulroney...

2006-08-15T08:02:00.000-07:00

That kind of rhymes, right? Cutie Patutie Ben Mulroney?

Well, sort of.

Anyway, this isn't so much about Ben Mulroney as it is about THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE in a long time.

Well, I went to Canadian Idol last night. I used all my contacts and my grand position in media to get media seats for me and two friends. (Ok, fine, I made one phone call, but still...)

I was actually embarrassed to tell one of my friends, who I had made previous plans with last night, that we "just had to make on quick stop somewhere," before really going out.

Her: "Where?"
Me: "Just somewhere. It will be fun."
Her: "Come on! Where? Where are you taking me now?" (OK, to give her credit, whenever she goes out with me, we end up doing something she'd never expected to do in a million years.)
Me: "Fine. We're going to Canadian Idol."
Her: "What's Canadian Idol?"
Me: "CANADIAN IDOL! DO YOU LIVE UNDER A ROCK?" (Ok, to give her credit, she is 33 and is very busy doing other stuff than watching television every night, like me.)

So I casually mentioned to another friend - let's call her Sophisticated Friend - that I was going to Canadian Idol, with another friend, under my breath (because you know, you're not sure how people will react when you admit you are a major Idol fan) while we were on the phone that afternoon.

To my utter shock, Sophisticated Friend said, "Oh, I want to come! Can I come?"

Let's just say I'd never in a million years imagine that Sophisticated Friend would be an Idol Head. She totally is!

So I got back on the phone and said I needed three tickets. Pas de problem.

Sophisticated Friend started to get cold feet.

Her: "Are we going to be the oldest people there?"
Me: "Of course we are! Everyone else will in the audience will be like 12! But who cares? I'm a proud Idol Head!"

So the three of us - Sophisticated Friend in a black pencil skirt and heels, me in ripped jeans and flip flops, No Idea Friend in skin tight jeans and kitty heels - hopped in a mammoth black SUV and headed to Idol.

Anyway, it was super fun. And, I will admit, I was the one leading the "booos!" when Zack Werner said something mean. I don't know. I get a rush from starting those sorts of things, while my friends looked at me like, "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

Still, they laughed. And I laughed. I mean, really, it was fun.

Ben Mulroney looked hot (the dude has lost a lot of weight!) all the contestants sound so much better live than on television, and they also look so much better.

I swear, on TV, dare I say it, well, let's just say that the camera does add a few pounds. In person, they're all like matchsticks.

I actually liked all of their performances. I had a new respect for Chad, and Ashley. And I always like Steffi D.

What really got me, and this is the mother in me, was watching the mothers of the Idol contestants. I swear, it would break your heart to see the pride pour out of these women. I couldn't even imagine one day having The Dictator up on a stage, in front of millions of viewers, and watch her perform. I don't think I could handle it.

After, with my voice hoarse, my friends and I headed to the Four Seasons for a drink and food. One of the Canadian Idol judges joined.

All in all, a great fucking night. Even my No Idea Friend is now a convert and swears she's going to watch from now on.

Oh, and we weren't the oldest ones there.

After all, the Canadian Idol contestant mothers were there. I ain't that old. Yet.

The "Real" Play Dates

2006-08-14T06:51:00.000-07:00

Ok, I'm the first to admit that I've never set up The Dictator on a Play Date. (She's turning three in October.)

This is because there were certain terms I hate after I gave birth, ("Putting her down for a nap," was one. I loathed when I heard people say, at nap time, "I'm just putting her down." Then again, I've had one too many pet dogs who had to be "Put down.")

Before, um, yesterday, I never understood the term Play Date. Really. Should I be calling my friend V., who has a child around the same age as The Dictator, and say, 'Let's have a Play Date?' when really, we both knew our children wouldn't ever "play" together, so much as each play with their own toys at the opposite end of the room and scream when one of them banged their head on the coffee table?

Up until yesterday, The Dictator, quite frankly, couldn't give a rat's ass about other children. At first, I was all like, "Hey, she's just independent. She doesn't follow the crowd!"

Then, as she got older, I was like, "Hey, I wonder what's wrong with her? Why DOESN'T she want to play with other kids?"

Show my kid another 18 month-old and she was way more interested in a stick. So I suppose I would "get together" with other mothers, but I never used the term "Play date" because there was no playing going on.

But, yesterday, we went to my Aunt and Uncle's cottage, where The Dictator's second cousin - no wait, um my first cousins daughter - does that make her a second or third cousin? - whatever. I think second.

Anyway, there was another 2 year old there. And I swear to good, they were bestie friends from the minute they met to the minute we left.

There's just something about the first time your child really, and I mean *really* plays with another child that makes so you fucking happy....and kind of sad.

For the first time ever, The Dictator didn't come up to me a million times a day, she didn't insist on sitting on my lap, or that I walk around with her.

I was like, "Hey Babe! I'm going on a boat ride," kind of expecting her to say, "I wanna come too!" or, "Don't leave me mommy! I need you forever!"

But I didn't get any of that. I got a, "OK, bye!"

Because The Dictator was too busy running around naked with her new friend to care about me going off.

She was so happy, which made me so happy.

Pretty soon she'll be putting on her own socks, and where will that leave me?

Why Do You Blog?

2006-08-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, a blogger needs a day of rest. Or sometimes three days of rest. Or sometimes a week of rest.

I was kind of bemused, you could say, to get a blog spanking from - of course - an anonymous poster telling me it's "rude" to not post everyday, that people "expect" me to post something everyday.

Well, ya know, sometimes I just have nothing to say. And, sometimes, I just don't feel like it. And sometimes, I like to watch the fifth season of Curb Your Enthusiasm (which I just bought!) instead of blogging. Shit, I think that makes me human.

And, sometimes, I go out of town. Like this long weekend (in Canada) I headed to Scottsdale where the house is finally ready!

I had a grand ole time, and didn't blog. Spank me! Harder! Ouch! Oh yeah, baby.

After getting technologically spanked, I started to think, 'Why do people blog?' I mean, really, tell me why you blog.

A lot of the time, I blog about The Dictator because I need advice or need to know that other people are in the same shoes I am in at present with her developments. (Has any other mother just been told, "When I grow up I want to drive a garbage truck so I can take away your poo?")

Other times I blog, because I am a writer and need to get my thoughts out. I suppose other times I like to talk about controversial things, to figure out human nature, and about things that piss me off. Because it's kind of like therapy.

And, sometimes I think, "Fuck, wouldn't it be nice for someone to actually pay me to do this? Hello? Anyone want to pay me to do this?"

But, honestly, I don't blog just to blog. And I don't want to blog just to blog.

I would blog, just to blog, I suppose, if someone said, "Hey Eckler! I'll pay you $500 an hour to blog every single day for an hour." I mean, most people don't love their jobs, but they work because they have bills to pay.

I love doing my mommy blogger column in The Globe and Mail, Canada's national newspaper.

But, trust me, I've had other writing jobs where it was fucking work.

I had to write because I was getting paid to write. And there was always a pair of shoes my feet just wanted to jump into. Thus, I would write just to write (and cash the paycheck) even when I wasn't fully into writing about whatever.

I'm in a better place now. My fiance says that I've squirreled my money away. And it's kind of true. I mean, for the first ten years of my working life, I would spend like I was a high roller. I wanted a Prada coat, I'd buy it.

But I was never saving anything. And it didn't really matter. As long as I could come up with rent money.

Then, along came The Dictator. And everything changed. I mean, I started to have paranoid thoughts like, "What if The Fiance and I don't make it as a couple and I have to support her on my own?" "What if The Dictator wants to go to an American College?" (or for that matter a Canadian one.) And, "What if she wants to be a professional skater and I have to buy those very expensive uniforms?"

So, yes, I've started to save. And I'm not even saving it for me. I look at Prada dresses now and I want them. But now I'm like, "Whatever." The coat I bought last year will be just fine.

Ok, that's kind of a lie. But now I'll see a coat for $400 and I'll think, "OK, that's so much better than $4000."

The truth is, I don't even look that great in designer clothes. I don't look good in make up and I look better in flip flops, ripped jeans and a plain white tank top when my hair is a mess. That's me.

But I'm getting off topic. I think the topic being I'm also in a better place because I want to like what I do now, even if I'm not making a ton of money.

One woman I know just left a high powered ad job, where she was getting paid a ton of dough, to become a personal trainer.

Other people can't believe this. I saw her last night and told her my thoughts, which were, "It is so fantastic!" I mean, she wanted to be a personal trainer, and she's going for it. I love that. Screw doing things for a lot of money. Do what you want to do, as long as you can pay the bills and give your child a great life.

I always tell The Fiance that the happiest time in my life was when I was living in an attic apartment (With a pet mouse) for $600 a month. Not that I'm not happy now, but the point is, money truly does not buy happiness.

It buys freedom to travel, I suppose. And, yes, I hear the argument, "You can only say money doesn't buy happiness if you have money!"

Well, as someone who suffered from P.P.D in a major fucking way, I know what it's like to be depressed.

And I know what it's like to be happy. I could have had all the medical attention I wanted and/or needed and had the money, I suppose, to buy all the Miu Miu bags a gal could want when I was depressed. But I still couldn't get out of bed.

The best thing having Post Partum Depression did was make me realize that life can be good, if you make it good. (Kind of like telling your children, "Only boring people are bored!")

I love to blog. But I want to blog when I have something to blog about. Or else you'd all be The Fiance and have to listen to every mundane thought that passes through my mind. Trust me, you don't want to be on that end.

And I don't want to make blogging a chore. What the fuck? I have enough chores to do. Blogging should be fun and helpful and entertaining and supportive. That's why I read blogs.

But, no, it should be anything BUT a chore. Like I said, I enjoy blogging. In fact, I love it. But that doesn't mean I got to do it every day (Hey I also like getting facials, but I don't do that everyday.)

So spank away. Oh yeah baby.

How to (Professionally) Thank People...

2006-08-02T20:40:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? Where have I been?

I'm sorry. Basically, life got in the way of blogging. Don't you hate when that happens?

I have two books coming out next year. Which I'm happy about. One is the follow up to Knocked Up. Another is the first in a series of teen fiction books.

But, basically, I'm editing both at the same time. Which means just as I feel, "Ok, phew, finished that edit!" in the mail arrives some more pages for me to edit from the other book.

And, then, once I finish those and think, "OK, phew, finished that edit!" well, the first book comes back at me again, like a boomerang.

In any case, I finished (this round) of both books, just in time to head to Arizona for the long weekend. I've learned from past long weekends away, that you can't really enjoy yourself if you're thinking about deadlines and things you should have finished before you left but didn't.

This is all to say that I wanted to go away without any work on my brain. And I've accomplished that. Except I just know something will be waiting for me upon my return. But I have a few days before that happens.

I'm not sure about other authors, but the least fun part for me of writing a book is doing the acknowledgments. I know, I know. How hard can it be? I mean, don't you just thank everyone who ever meant anything to you?

Well, when my first book came out, I kind of did just that. I thanked basically everyone in the world. (I even thank Peggy Atwood, who I love!)

This time, for Wiped! (the follow up), nope. This time I thanked those who actually mean something to me, or who meant something to me during the writing of it.

I thank the people who worked on the book, my agent, and then some friends and family.

I said to the fiance when I was done, "It's so weird to write out a list of people who mean something to me." Because it has changed - somewhat drastically, since when I found out I was pregnant, when I wrote the first one, to now.

First off, unlike the first book, I only thank those people who I have talked to at least once a week since giving birth.

Being a mother means making time for friends, because you don't actually have that much free time. So, I figure, if I made the time to call them, it means I like them and care about them.

Likewise, most of the people I thank this round have also called me often.

Being a mother makes you realize who your friends are.

A lot of my "friends" dropped off the face of the planet in the few months after I gave birth.

This could be because they probably weren't really "friends" but more work-related friends, and since I've mostly become a full-time book writer, I don't have as many "work friends."

Also, I'm older (and maybe being a mother has made me wiser) but I don't thank people who were only friends on the "party-circuit" this round. I so don't care anymore about being seen in the scene. I really do care about toilet training.

Sure, I love seeing my party-circuit friends, but, come on, they really didn't help me out with the book. I'll still buy them a drink or two, but, well, you know.

Then there are the bosses. At The Globe and Mail, where I write a weekly column in the style section, I thank two of my editors, because I've really enjoyed working with them. Also, they were technically around while writing this book. I don't thank any of my editors at Last Place Of Employment, because, well, they weren't around for this book.

I thank two or three of my freelance editors, who I talk to once a month or so. But I really respect them. So they'll always get thanks, for all of my books.

And I actually thank all the readers of ninepounddictator.blogspot.com. Because, when I thought about who really has gotten me through a lot of this thing called Mothering, it was you guys. (And hey, you guys made it, Peggy Atwood didn't! Doesn't that mean something?)

But, trust me, if you are a mother, don't write out a list of friends (which, basically, is an acknowledgement list.) Because you'll wonder what happened to some of your friends and that will depress the fuck out of you.

Then again, you'll look at your now smaller list and think to yourself, "This is what it's like to have real friends."

And that's kind of nice. It's actually kind of very nice.

Undercover Mom

2006-07-28T08:51:00.000-07:00

I'm about to go off and spy on The Dictator at camp - for the second time.

It's very uncomfortable. For me, for the counselors, for everyone.

Every morning at camp, swim time happens between 11 and 11:30 a.m.

So I will go upstairs, where there is a viewing area to the pool below, behind a large glass window.

So, I guess it's not *really* spying. I mean, it is a viewing window. You are supposed to *view* from it.

The first time I dropped The Dictator off at camp I realized I would have to learn to turn a blind eye. The Dictator has had one-on-one attention since the day she was born.

Nanny Mimi has really been at her beck and call, since the day I brought her home from the hospital. So when I dropped her off at camp, where the ratio is about four 2-3 year-olds for every counselor, I knew this would be different.

My friend also dropped her son off at the same camp with me one day. Her son too, has had one-on-one attention from a nanny, from the day he was born.

As we watched our little darlings climb a swing set, with no one really paying attention, after we dropped them off, I grabbed her arm and said, "We have to go."

"I would never have let him climb that thing alone," she said.

"We have to turn a blind eye. Let's go before we start to cry," I answered.

To a certain extent, I do believe children need their independence and need to learn how to hang like monkeys from swing sets. If they fall, they fall. They're kids.

I needed to learn, so did Nanny Mimi, that we had to let go of The Dictator to a certain extent. Sigh.

Nanny Mimi watches The Dictator swim every single day. I think this is wrong.

Because, I know, from the last time I joined Nanny Mimi at the viewing window, that the counselors started to pay way more attention to The Dictator, once The Dictator saw us and started waving at us.

The counselors were constantly looking up at us watching them. I was pathetic. Every time one of them saw me, literally, I ducked.

I don't necessarily want The Dictator to get special attention, just because Nanny Mimi is watching her every day. Then again, why shouldn't Nanny Mimi watch her to make sure she's having fun and is, um, as safe as can possibly be.

It's her job to make sure my child is alive and also happy.

"Why aren't they giving her The Noodle to hang off of," Nanny Mimi was screaming, when I stood next to her, watching The Dictator in swim. "She likes the Noodle. She likes the Noodle. Come on Guys!!! Give her a Noodle! Why aren't they giving her a noodle."

Of course, the counselors couldn't hear her. (The Noodle is one of those long tube-like things that float in pools. Also called Pool Penises. Or maybe that's just what I call them. Anyway.)

I knew at that moment that I had the best nanny in the world, one who cared about my child as much as I did. And Nanny Mimi has one thing that I don't have. Which is, she doesn't give a crap if the counselors see her spying.

I did. And I do. I can only imagine what they think, which is probably something like, "Rowan's mommy is so annoying. Doesn't she have anything better to do than to spy?"

But, still, I will go spy today because, really, I just like watching The Dictator swim. I mean, the gal now jumps off the side of the ledge (wearing a life jacket) and she can even swim without The Noodle now. (With a life jacket.)

The point is, you can call it spying. I'll call it being a proud parent, with a side benefit of letting other people who take care of my child know that I am watching. Bahahaha.

You say tomato, I say tomato.

Eeww...Boys!

2006-07-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

How is it that little girls decide boys are bad?

In recent weeks, every time The Dictator doesn't like something, like carrots, she says it's for boys.

"I don't like carrots. Carrots are for boys!" she'll say.

Or, "I don't like popsicles. Popsicles are for boys!"

Frankly, I find it kind of funny. I mean, what can I say? "You're right! Carrots are for boys!"

The house next door to mine has been torn down and is now being built up again. The other day there were workers hammering away on the roof. I sat on my front stoop and was pointing all the action out to The Dictator.

"Look! Look at that man on the top of the house," I told her. "Are you going to climb a house one day?"

"No," she said. "Only boys climb houses."

Ok, that annoyed me.

While it was true that there were only men (Every other word out of their potty mouths was, 'Fuck that! Fuck this! Fuck you!' But that's another story...) I certainly have never told The Dictator that only boys do certain things.

In fact, I'm so aware of gender and how I don't want The Dictator to grow up thinking she can only be and do certain things because she's a girl, that I've bought her soccer balls, and foot balls, and a scooter and trucks.

There has been absolutely no talk of "only boys can climb houses." So where the hell did she get that from?

"Girls and boys can BOTH climb houses," I told her, adding, "When you're bigger."

Yes, I have dressed The Dictator entirely in pink since the day she was born. A) I like pink. B) she was bald for the longest time. In fact, if she's not wearing pink, she still often looks like a boy.

I mainly dress her in pink so I don't have to hear what an "adorable son" I have.

But where do girls learn that boys suck and where do boys learn that girls suck?

Where do they learn that only girls do certain things and only boys do certain things (the only one that I for sure have told her is that she can't pee standing up...but she still has tried this, to disastrous results.)

Then, the other day, she asked for lipstick. And here I am singing out all the time to The Dictator, "Anything boys can do, girls can do better."

I never thought it would happen in this day and age, but it has...

If It Walks Like A Mother, and Talks Like A Mother....

2006-07-19T21:31:00.000-07:00

Then it must be...

Duh. A mother.

I was at Starbucks the other morning, in line with The Dictator getting a coffee before dropping her off at camp, when I overheard this conversation between a mother and her three year old.

Mommy: "Don't touch that!"

Mommy: "Don't touch that!"

Mommy: "Don't touch that!"

Mommy: "Don't touch that!!!!!!!"

Ok, it really wasn't so much a "conversation" as it was one mother, also with a baby in her arms, demanding every two seconds that her three year old stop touching things.

I mean, I totally got it. First, this mother had two kids with her. Second, she hadn't had a coffee yet. Third, her three year old was touching everything. Ok, I don't get that really.

I mean, it's Starbucks for godssake, otherwise known as stroller central. Starbucks is THE place for new mothers to hang out in, and bored mothers to hang out in, and, well, let's just say there's one Starbucks in Toronto, on Avenue Rd (you know the one I mean?) which, I swear to god, men go to oogle the all the yummy mommies who hang there.

Anyway, I got that this mommy had her hands full. But I was still freaking inside. I mean, do I sound like that? DO I SOUND LIKE THAT????

I NEVER want to sound like that. Of course, I know I do. But, mostly, it's when I'm trying to get The Dictator ready for bed, which is now a 30-minute or 50-minute process.

I sound something like this:

"Put your leg in this one! NO THIS ONE! Ok, now put the other leg in. NO THE OTHER ONE. Great. Now put the first one back in. NOW GET THE OTHER LEG BACK IN. Ok, we're going to start this again. First leg please! FIRST LEG! GIVE ME A LEG. ANY LEG DEAR GOD GIVE ME A LEG!!!!!!"

In public, where people have stopped me on the street to ask if that's "The" Rowan, I prefer the bribing method. You know, "If you come in here with me, I'll give you a present," so I won't ever yell at her.

No, I don't feel bad about this, because I can buy The Dictator off by handing her a straw, or giving her a cup or napkin. The gal comes cheap. And, really, like I've always maintained, I'll pick the big battles, not the little ones.

Plus, how do you reason with a two year old? The other day I tried to explain how mommy really needed to run into the magazine store, for five seconds, to get Vanity Fair so I could read about Hilary Swank. I tried to reason with her, but, quite frankly, she doesn't really listen to reason. (She came in with me, and her "present" was a free pamphlet.)

In any case, The Dictator is usually pretty good in public. So I don't have to always tell her, "Don't' touch that! Don't touch that! Don't touch that!"

But, who knows what the hell I sound like. The only way I would know is to carry around a tape recorder.

But I'm too afraid of what I'd hear.

Divorce! Kids in Executive Class!

2006-07-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

No, sorry, not me. My relationship is a-okay.

But me and Canada? Not so much. I'm divorcing Canada because of the outcome of Canadian Idol.

Imagine my surprise when I received a Blackberry from my Canadian Idol Judge friend that said, "Nancy Silverman has left the building."

I was still in Provence. I couldn't do a thing! I had all these thoughts like, "Oh mi god. What if she has left the building because I was in Provence and couldn't text message my 15 votes in for her."

To which I say, "I'm so sorry Nancy. I will never again go away during Canadian Idol. Ever."

Enough of Idol. I will still watch. I will root for Eva and Steffi D. But it won't be the same. Pout.

And while I'm in the role of being a spoiled brat, I'd like to share with you all the experience of my trip back from Provence. Or at least the first leg of it, from Nice to Frankfurt.

It turns out, that while I'm now a mommy myself, and so can empathize with any other parent traveling with small children, I still don't like it.

Sure, now when I see some little kids coming in my direction, I don't give them the evil eye. I do smile. I give that "Oh, aren't kids so precious?" look.

Because kids are cute. Until they are not so cute.

This is what Air Canada did to me. Pout. There I was sitting in aisle four. Well, another mommy and two of her kids, age one and three, were in aisle three. Right in front of me.

In aisle five, right behind me, was this woman's husband and their five year old. First off, what the hell is Air Canada putting an innocent bystander like me (and the poor fellow sitting beside me) in the middle of this mayhem? Pout. Pout.

Why didn't they put the whole family together?

I had kids pulling my hair from behind and kids looking at me in front and dropping their bread over the seat. Ok, for the first five minutes, I was cool with it. Then I really wasn't.

I asked the father if he'd like to change seats with me to be closer to his family and that way they wouldn't have to pass the one year old over my head. (Hint Hint. I can deal with either my hair being pulled from behind or being stared at and thrown bread at from in front, but not both at the same time!)

He very nicely said, "Thank you very much. But it's a short flight. I think we'll be ok here." (Which I think translates into, "Um, this is my free time away from my one and three year olds! I'm going to enjoy it!")

I know a lot of people who travel business class and hate when they see little ones up front.

I don't.

You know, there are a lot of very good kids out there, who will sit quietly, put on the free socks, and watch the damn video. I figure, if you pay for your seat, it's your seat. Have a toddler in there, have yourself in there. You paid for it. It's all yours.

Depending on my mood, when I travel back and forth from Calgary and Toronto, I'll sometimes book business class and sometimes economy.

Frankly, it's better with a toddler to travel economy because they can lie down on you and you somehow, which I'll admit is quite frankly stupid, feel less guilty when your child acts up.

Business class is always full of people with briefcases giving you the evil eye because, for them, flying is actually time out of the office and a time to enjoy the peace.

And it's hard not to feel bad when you, let's say, are traveling to Maui and you see a couple obviously celebrating their honeymoon and your kid is pulling their hair. I love The Dictator, but, yes, I wouldn't wish for anyone to sit behind her or in front of her, especially after someone paid $15,000 for the flight.

But, if I know the flight is during the time The Dictator will be wide awake anyway, I'll trade in my 5 billion points for business class seats. I have to use them up sometime. And, you know, that little glass of orange juice at the beginning makes it worth it. Not.

Still, I've realized the only thing worse than traveling with The Dictator is being stuck in a row in between a family, with three kids under the age of five.

Which is also why I may have to divorce Air Canada too. Again. Pout. Frankly, my relationship with Air Canada has always been rocky at best. But we always keep getting back together. It's, like, the worst relationship in the world. I swear, if Air Canada were a man, any therapist would say, "Cut your losses. Move on. Don't call him ever again."

And, yet, here I am, debating whether to pick up the phone, to book The Dictator and I tickets to Toronto. Pout.

Becky's Book Club, Blame, and Bribing...

2006-07-13T14:33:00.000-07:00

Ok, this isn't really a book club. I'm not the type of person who can commit myself to something like that. But here are the three books that I've read in Provence that I highly recommend.

1) Elements of Style by Wendy Wasserstein. I suppose one would classify this as "chick lit" but a very good kind of chick lit. Loved it. Not too taxing on the brain and wanting to keep reading.

2) Love in the Present Tense, by Catherine Ryan Hyde. Picked this up because author wrote Pay it Forward (which most of you would probably know from the awesome movie) I loved this book so much. Stayed up half the night reading it. In fact, will buy all of her books now.

3) Amy and Isabelle, by Elizabeth Strout. Another great book. Picked it up because it's about a mother/daughter relationship, but so much more. Amazing.

I just love when I pack three books and I love them all! It's the little things in life like that that make me happy, happy, happy. Pre-Dictator, I swear, my luggage would include, um, ten books or so.

But I do feel like my brain has turned to mush since having The Dictator. I thought three would be enough. It's not.

And, now, I'm out of books and still have a couple days left of vacation.

So I will be reading an autobiography by John Daly. He's a golfer, with a foul mouth and gambling issues. So maybe it's not really about golf (cross fingers, cross fingers.) I bought it for The Fiance. But, hey, you never know.

Now, I've been calling home to check on The Dictator, of course.

She started her first week of camp this week. Swimming camp. I was distraught, to say the least, when on her first two days, I heard she came home and refused to swim and her lunch hadn't been touched.

She loves swimming. The gal needs to eat! I didn't get it.

The Dictator is an October Baby, which means we were forced to make that decision to either keep her back or push her a bit forward. I chose to push her a bit forward. So, yes, some of the campers are a tad older than her.

And, yes, she actually can't really eat by herself yet (You have to open everything for her) and she's mostly toilet trained (but not entirely) and she can't swim on her own. (Someone has to watch her!)

So I freaked. And what does a mother who is so far away do when she hears something like this? Well, of course. I had to blame someone.

I was one second away from calling the camp, or sending a pushy e-mail saying, "What the hell is going on over there? She's not swimming and it's swim camp and she's not eating a thing. She's not even three! Someone should be HELPING HER!!!!"

If I were there, I'd have taken her in myself and had a little talking to the counselors. In a very nice, charming, flash my pearly whites way. (Then I would have spied on them!)

Yes, I will be VERY pushy. Especially when it comes to my child!

And, also, I hate to say this but we did buy the school a bus (or part of a bus, when they called telling me their bus for the school broke down and would I mind donating money.) I swear, I was so mad. I rather buy a couple of good counselors.

Sure, they'll call to ask me to donate for a bus, but when it comes to making sure my child is having fun at camp, where are they?

But, on her third day, my mother reported to me that The Dictator did swim and ate a couple Fruit Loops for lunch.

We had to send her to camp wearing her bathing suit (My suggestion, thank you very much...) and had my mother speak to counselors explaining she doesn't know how to open things by herself.

I didn't call or e-mail. I held back.

I learned that The Dictator does fancy one of the younger "counselors in training," who is 13, and will go swimming with her.

Then, after my initial, PHEW, I thought, "OK, THAT counselor in training will be getting a nice gift certificate to Lululemon, because she is taking care of my child!"

So, yes, maybe there does need to be some bribing involved. I'm not sure. But you can bet your bum that I will be getting that counselor in training the gift certificate.

And, also, when I get back, I will be spying when she goes to art camp. I know. But, have you ever spied on your kids from behind a tree?

This parenting thing, I swear, has so many layers. It's so political, isn't it?

How do you say LOSER in French?

2006-07-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

Help...yet again.

So I've been in Provence for three days now. The Fiance booked me a ticket that I could continue to Italy, with him, or if I decided that I miss The Dictator too much in Provence, I could come back to Canada and not go to Italy and he would go on without me.

I knew the minute I left my Canadian door that I would not be going to Italy. Which sucks, because I've never been. Anyway..

I love Provence. I love the food, the heat, the beautiful countryside. I am thinking about building a place here. (Or maybe I'm thinking about how cool it would be to run into Johnny Depp...)

I missed The Dictator as soon as we were being driven to the airport. I didn't want to break it to The Fiance that, as soon as we walked into our beautiful hotel, I wanted him to call our travel agent and make sure I get back on a flight to Canada on Sunday.

Am I a loser or what? How do you say LOSER in French? I mean, am I a LOSER for missing her so much?

I used to love traveling. Seriously. I could go away for months and be fine with it. I rarely got homesick. In fact, I knew The Fiance was the one for me, because he's the only person I could stand to be with (this was pre-Dictator) for more than 24 hours, without the urge to run out the door and never come back.

Though it seems like I confess my every sin, I'm actually a very private person. I do not like people knowing where I am (in fact, ahem, at my old job at the old place I worked at, I'd actually be far, far away without telling any of my editors where I was...Thank god for technology! I'd save up all my interviews, hop on a plane, and file from...well, a lot of different places.)

Anyway, I'm at the point in my life, where I still have a boss or too, but can now be an honest to goodness full time book writer, and can go where I want, when I want. And I've never wanted to be home so bad. Actually, I've never wanted to be with The Dictator so bad.

The only place I want to be right now is where The Dictator is.

It's the time difference thing. I can't deal with it. Every morning I wake up here, and wait until 4 p.m., to call The Dictator at 8 a.m. her time. And then I wait for a call from her at 1 a.m. this time, waiting up for her call.

I e-mailed with a male friend, who doesn't have children, who wrote to me that The Fiance would be pissed with me because I didn't want to go to Italy with him, and wanted to come home early to be with The Dictator.

I wrote back, after heading to Cannes, that it was a "mommy thing" and he couldn't understand. Even The Fiance doesn't feel the same type of missing I feel.

Though it is beautiful here, and I'm trying to relax. I can't. I have a knot in my stomach at all times. "Is The Dictator enjoying camp?" "Are the counselors making sure she eats?" "Is she wearing suntan lotion?" "Is she happy?"

I literally have thoughts like, "Well, Italy will always be there, but The Dictator will only be 2 years, 10 months, and 7 days just once!"

So, yes, I'm coming home after Provence. I've decided that there will be no more vacations, longer than 7 days, without The Dictator.

I'm not that person anymore.

Blog, Brag, Gush, Barf

2006-07-07T07:17:00.000-07:00

Like the urge to protect your child which is inherent, there's also an inherent urge as a mother to brag.

Bragging about your child is a tricky business.

When you brag about your child to another mother, you get into that competitive-parenting realm.

And, yes, even when my mommy friends brag about their children, one of my instincts is to start bragging about The Dictator.

I mean, hey, you're telling me your child is in twelve classes and can swim under water at age 4 months, so I'm going to tell you that The Dictator could sing Coldplay songs by the time she was two (Ok, this is a blatant lie.)

But if you brag too much about your child to other mothers, you do get judged as being a competitive parent.

And I don't want to be that kind of mother. Barf.

And, then, when you brag about your child to one of your single, non-mother friends, you can't help but wonder, "Do they care? Am I boring them? How much is too much information to share about your child? Should I stop?"

Because you don't want to be the kind of mother who bores your friends with constant child brag. You brag too much to your single friends and you get judged as being a boring mother who cares about nothing else but your offspring. Barf.

And, then, if you brag to mothers who have older children than yours, you just can't help but wonder if they think that you think that you're the first person in the world to have had a child. Which, of course, you kind of do.

You can't win. Ever.

So here's what I would love you to do. In fact, I'm begging you. Please brag to me about your child(ren.) Yes, that's right. I'm asking you to go all out and gush and brag and gush some more.

And, guess what? I will not judge. I will not think that you are bragging about how you think your child is a genius, nor will I judge you for only talking about your child. I will not think you are competing with me, nor will you bore me. I won't barf. I promise.

Blog Brag to your heart's content. Because...

Well, I'm about too.

That's right. I'm in the mood to gush and brag about The Dictator and what better way than to blog brag. (It's my blog and I can brag if I want to, brag if I want to, brag if I want to...)

First, The Dictator is the most adorable little girl in the entire world. I love her so much that it hurts. In fact, I love her more and more every day and each and every day she gets cuter and cuter. I lover her bum, I love her arms, I love her eyes. I love her cheeks. I love every inch of her.

Have I told you how smart she is? She gets things, my child. She does. I only have to explain things to her once. And she gets it.

And did I mention how creative and imaginative she is?

I swear, the kid makes up stories that are so brilliant. Just yesterday, she made up a story about a cat named Carlos and a horse named Midnight, who climbed up a tree. And The Dictator pulled a pretend ladder from her pocket to rescue them.

And she's funny. I mean, she loves to make jokes that crack me up.

And she's independent. She keeps telling me how much she wants to go to school. So I just know she's going to be smart, on top of being the cutest girl in the world, too.

I love her, love her, love her, love her.

Wow...That felt so good.

Now that you've probably barfed (and I don't care!) it's your turn. Brag away.

No judgment.

Nancy Silverman -Who Dat???

2006-07-05T12:44:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I love being a writer and journalist is not because of the perks or because I get to meet celebrities.

Sure, I get sent a ton of stuff (which I usually always give away to Nanny Mimi. I swear, I'm on this mailing list for a makeup company and I get sent 12 new bottles of nail polish every month!) and I can brag about meeting Nicholas Cage, Jennifer Lopez or an Olson Twin. (Actually, I met both twins. Aren't I so cool?)

I like writing because I like finding interesting people and helping them out. I do. Really. I love finding people who came up with an idea for a business and worked hard at that business and now are offering interesting products.

Last week, in my Saturday Globe and Mail Column, I wrote about these two women who founded a t-shirt company, out of Vancouver. Who knew about them? Well, Maddox's mommy, Angelina had (She bought some for Maddox.) But no one in Canada had written about them before.

Once, I wrote a piece about a cool company in New York, run by one woman, who did cute greeting cards. No one in Canada had heard about her before. She wrote to tell me how many Canadians ordered stuff from her after my story came out.

PR people e-mail dozens and dozens of story ideas for their clients. But my heart does lie in the individual business people trying to get some press, so people know about them, and they can make a success out of their businesses. Especially Canadians.

Thanks for all the free stuff BIG MAKE UP COMPANY, but you don't need any press. I love your stuff, don't get me wrong. But I like finding and helping the little people out.

By the end of my old job at my old paper I was literally saying, "I'll only do the story if no one else has done it before" to PR companies. That's because I'm also super competitive and I hate repeating stories that other papers have already done.

I'm so American in my competitiveness. I swear, when I read something in a Canadian paper that I know I read...just...last...week in The New York Times or Wall Street Journal, I throw down my paper in disgust. Why the heck are we always following America?

So how competitive am I? Well, let's just say when I hear about a story that is going to come out in an American paper, I always tell my Canadian editors, so I can do it first. I know, sad. But why shouldn't I want to beat the NY Times? I do want to beat The Times.

Plus, are we not good enough to find our own stories? Canada has a ton of interesting stories and people who need a little bit of help. Press helps their businesses out, so why not?

Anyway, at this point you're probably asking, What's up with Nancy Silverman?

Nancy Silverman is a competitor on Canadian Idol. I love her. I want her to go very very far in the competition. So I just wanted you to hear it here first. Of course, I didn't "find" her. However, I want to give her some sort of press. Nancy Silverman. Nancy Silverman. Remember the name.

Because I give her "props." Which is actually the real reason I love watching Canadian Idol. I get to use the word "props."

Aww...Isn't that so cute?

2006-06-29T14:51:00.000-07:00

Because I can't have my last post be about puke any longer, I'm moving on to Cute Things The Dictator has Said...I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I can't have my last thought be about puke. So, here goes.

You know how, before you became a mother, you'd hear stories of toddlers, and you'd think, "Yeah, that's cute. I guess." But now that you have your own toddler, or baby, you have a whole new appreciation of cute stories, especially the ones when they say cute things.

Here are a few cute things The Dictator has said in the last week. Please share yours. I now love to hear them. I do. Really.

1) Yesterday I asked her why Daddy works. Her answer: "Daddy works to buy me toys." Where did she learn that? Really?

2) Yesterday, I put The Dictator to sleep. Ten minutes later she got out of bed, walked down the stairs, and said to me, "My sleep was not so good." Which made me laugh. I said, "Your sleep was not so good?" And she responded, "No. My sleep was not so good."

3) The Dictator this week has decided she doesn't like carrots anymore. "Carrots are for babies. I'm not a baby."

4) She has started to call me "Rowan." When she does, I have to call her, "Mommy." It's "our thing" I guess. It goes on for hours.

5) I think it's the cutest thing when The Dictator says "Underpants." I don't know why. It just is.

6) She likes when I tell her "secrets" in her ear. I always say, "I love you." Now she likes to whisper secrets in my ear. She always, always says, "I like stars."

Now, over to you! I love these stories. I do.

Puke-a-Polooza

2006-06-28T09:02:00.000-07:00

If you have a weak stomach, do NOT read this. In fact, I'm getting sick just writing about it.

Out of the blue on Sunday, The Dictator started puking.

She'd puke, and then be fine and play around, and then she'd puke again.

I hate puke. Really. I hate when other people puke, I hate puking myself, and, it turns out, I really hate being puked on.

Unfortunately, The Dictator started puking while we were at a theme park. Now, The Dictator and I have been on merry go rounds and Ferris wheels before. She loves fast rides. So I knew it had nothing with the rides.

Plus, a couple days earlier, I had been puking. But I thought it was because I had taken The Dictator to the Dora The Explorer Concert and I ate an entire bag of candy floss....and pizza....and popcorn...and cookies. Then I had the chills. I figured Dora The Explorer basically gave me the flu.

But here we were at this theme park, a couple days later, and The Dictator started puking, out of the blue, while we were walking around.

The Fiance wanted to go home immediately. But The Dictator, aside from puking, seemed fine. She was happy, she didn't have a fever, and she had seen the Ferris wheel.

"I want to go on the Ferris Wheel!" she screamed, when I suggested to her maybe we should go home. "FERRIS WHEEL! FERRIS WHEEL!"

"She wants to go on the Ferris wheel," I told The Fiance.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said.

But The Dictator seemed ok. I swear. Also, I never listen to what is a "good idea." Which is why I ended up being puked on.

We got on the Ferris Wheel, all three of us squished together, and everything was fine. Then, I swear, two seconds before we were to get off, the Dictator puked - all over me, and the ride, in front of a ton of people lining up to get on the Ferris wheel.

I could hear them all, "I'm not getting on THAT seat," they were saying.

I felt so bad for The Dictator. Toddlers do not get puking. They don't understand what's happening. I also felt bad for the teenage ride operators who had to clean up the seat. (Being covered in puke myself, I couldn't really give them a hand. I would have just made it worse.)

Anyway, I told The Dictator that everything was ok, it's just a little puke (It was a lot of puke - in fact, how is it possible that so much comes out of something so small?) took her to the restroom and changed her (See? I have learned how to be a mother! I always bring TWO extra changes of clothes for her on big outings.)

Also, because I guess The Dictator got scared because she was puking, she also peed herself. (She no longer wears diapers during the day!)

I know. Lovely.

It was also lovely how The Dictator puked on me two more times on the way back to the car. When she pukes, she wants me to hug her. It's a hard thing to hug your child, while being puked on at the same time.

Anyway, I was reading this blog last night where a mother mentioned that mothers never appreciate the good things they do for their children, and we're always mentioning our faults as mothers.

It's kind of true isn't it?

Well, let's just say, I did a fantastic job taking care of The Dictator during Puke-a-Polooza. I never knew I had it in me. Yes, I didn't *like* being puked on, but The Dictator is my daughter and I love her and I felt awful for her.

So, of course, I hugged her while she puked on me. (Did I mention THREE times?) And I changed her. And I made her feel better. She even said, "I feel better now mommy." Cute huh?

But now The Fiance has the flu. I love him too. But, nuh-uh. He ain't puking on me.

Now...Canadian Idol Fans!!!! I love Nancy Silverman. You go girl! You have my vote. I'm putting my support behind you!!!

Regrets? Moi? Never!

2006-06-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

So do you all have a friend, or friends, who think they're being nice by telling you things that other people have told them about you, or what they think of you?

For example, "Well Pam told me she heard that Jane hates you because you told Todd you thought he was an idiot. And now she says she's never going to talk to you again and she thinks you're ugly and stupid and that she's never liked you anyway. I just thought you'd be interested to hear that. Because I care about you. Because I'm your friend."

I actually don't have friends like that.

Well I did, of course. In the past, circa the years Brandon and Kelly and Dylan and Brenda hung out at the Peach Pit, if you know what I'm saying. (Back in the 80s - the 90210 years. What's with me? I'm on this 90120 kick lately. Anyway....)

True friends, I believe, don't do that. Because it hurts to hear about people talking bad about you. So why would a true friend want to hurt you?

But while I don't have friends who do that, I often (or really, really often for some reason) receive e-mails from perfect strangers telling me that I'm being discussed on certain message boards and then they'll provide me the links to these message boards. (Really, once even a librarian at a major city newspaper did this.)

Of course I never look at these links.

Yeah right!!!!

Of course I look. (Any author who says they don't read the reviews of their book are lying.)

Someone yesterday sent me a very fascinating link to a message board that had been discussing my book, Knocked Up, and also my views on C-sections, after I wrote an opinion piece about having one in Chatelaine magazine.

But this discussion took off in other directions - how I smoked during pregnancy and drank and...

Ok, to set the record straight, because a lot of people who were discussing my book actually hadn't read it, I smoked maybe ten cigarettes in nine months and I drank maybe two glasses of wine during my entire pregnancy.

In fact, I was one of those pregnant women who couldn't STAND the smell of alcohol while pregnant (or salmon either. or the smell of a gas station.)

One person questioned if I would regret writing certain things I've written, not only in the book, but for the newspapers I have written for for the past 8 years. And, um, boy, this person really remembered things I had written five years ago, that I didn't even remember having written.

And that got me thinking. Do I regret columns I have written?

Here's the thing about writing. At least for me anyway. I don't regret writing (or "admitting") anything that I've ever written that has been published. Why? Because when I wrote it, it was how I was feeling at THAT time.

Writing is a very present activity.

When I wrote Knocked Up, that's what I was feeling while I was knocked up. Looking back, do I think all of the things I thought or did were perfect? Absolutely not. Would I feel different during a second pregnancy? Um, probably.

But it was how I was feeling at THAT time. So, no, I don't ever regret writing anything that I have written. I may regret some of my actions. I may have done certain things (or a lot of things) differently today. But I don't regret writing about them.

And it's the same with the blog. And maybe it is with yours too.

I mean, sometimes I write things and that's exactly how I'm feeling at THAT time, on THAT day, that I've written the entry.

Will I feel differently, would I change my views, in two months time? Or two years time? Or in two days time?

Maybe. Like I said, when you write, you are writing in the present.

So, regrets? Moi? Never! (Well, at least about writing.)

Plus, I'm a woman. A w-o-m-a-n. It's, like, in my DNA to change my mind, whenever I feel like it. That's the whole fun about being female, after all. Don't you agree?

Teacher's Pet

2006-06-23T12:58:00.000-07:00

Ok, so after three months, The Dictator "graduated" her Friday morning, two hour, "classes."

Parents were invited to hang out on the last day. So, of course, I went. I had too. I mean, The Dictator "graduated" her two-year old class! How could I miss it?

Anyway, as soon as I arrived (Fashionably late, of course - some things never change!) I noticed a counter in the classroom was covered in presents, and gift certificates for Starbucks and Chapters. All for the teacher.

I'm not the most on-the-ball mother. I'm not. But it's my first time BEING a mother, so how was I to know you were supposed to bring a present for the "teacher" of a two hour class, once a week, for three months, for a two year-old?

Of course, I remember being a kid in class and bringing my teachers a gift at the end of the year. But I was with that teacher, five days a week, all day, for ten months.

Anyway, I felt awful for being so stupid for not knowing that you were supposed to bring the teacher a gift. (And, to tell you the truth, The Dictator likes the teenage-assistants in class, better than the teacher.)

Thankfully, at The Jewish Community Centre, where the classes were held, there is also a gift shop. I ran into it, and bought the teacher a $75 gift. It was a pretty necklace. I think she'll like it. I know, I know. $75. But it was that - or a bookmark.

Of course, the gift, wrapped in the bag from the Jewish Community Centre, reeked of "This was a last minute gift. I'm so stupid I didn't know I was supposed to bring you a gift" gift.

When you buy a last minute gift, it has to be a good gift. Right? But things have certainly changed.

My best friend Robo, who has four children, said that, between all her children and all the classes they attend, she has to buy ten gifts. That adds up.

But at least I'm learning. Always bring the diaper bag. Always buy the teacher gift...This learning curve, I tell you. It's big.

And, now I still feel guilty for not buying the two assistants in class a gift too. So, I'm going too. But what? What do you get teenage assistants of a two-year old, once a week, class? Frankly, is it rude to hand them cash? Because if I were a teenager that's what I'd want. (It also makes life easier on my end.)

But, it feels too weird to do that...or is it? And now I have to find these teenagers too. Argh!

Tori Spelling...Mary Jo...Deany-boy...

2006-06-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

I'm probably an awful Canadian for not knowing who Mary Jo Eustace was before the news came out that she was a Canadian television personality who had been dumped by her husband for Tori Spelling.

Apparently, a lot of Canadians know who she is and love her. I hear she's drop dead gorgeous and very funny.

And, of course, she's made the news a lot in the past couple days.

Was she or was she not asked to leave the Much Music Video Awards by Tori Spelling? Oh my god! Will we EVER know what exactly happened?

I so don't care. Ok, I lie. I care a little, because I enjoy celebrity gossip. But I also care because I find the whole thing so fascinating and sad.

As a mother that is...

I could go on a rant about how I think it's stupid for scorned women to write a book, especially using the woman's name who stole their husband, in the title of that book.

Yes, "My husband left me for Tori Spelling" does sound funny and has a good ring to it.

But, seriously, why exactly does one want to bank off the fact she was dumped for a C-list celebrity? (And, trust me, she will never sell enough books to make it worth her while.)

Or I could go on about how stupid it is for people to only blame Tori for this marriage break up. I'm not sticking up for Tori, I'm just saying that, um, it takes TWO to hook up. Shouldn't Deany-boy also be blamed if blame needs to be placed?

I just hate it when women are always blamed entirely for a breakup of a marriage. Why do the HUSBANDS always get off scott-free? Please, I can't imagine Tori having that much power. Deany-boy should take responsibility for his own actions in his marriage break up.

Or I could go on a rant about why a woman would show up at an event, invited or not, knowing her ex and his new wife would be there, just to give her a look.

I mean, come on! They are MARRIED now. Giving an evil look will not change anything. When has given another woman you hate "a look" ever made any woman feel better about a bad breakup - for more than three minutes?

And, really, was it that important to go to the Much Music Video Awards?

But mostly I want to rant about why anyone - Tori, Mary Jo, Deany-boy - would say anything to the press, and do things in public, they know will end up in the press, knowing they have children? (This includes Tori who is now a step-mom to these children, like it or not.)

I always think that even if The Fiance and I break up, that I'd never say anything negative about him, because of The Dictator, especially in public. Even if he did something awful, he's still the father of our child. And he's a good father too. (I think you can be a good parent, if not a good partner.)

We all have friends, I'm sure, who have gone through bad divorces, who hate each other (for legitimate reasons) and the kids never benefit from two parents hating each other. Or at least hearing about how much their mommy hates daddy and how much daddy hates mommy.

Britney may not have chosen the best of husbands, but, to give her credit, she at least seems to know enough that talking trash about him in public will not be good for their child or soon to be second child.

Same with Tom and Nicole. At least, even if they hate each other, they stay united as parents.

When celebrities have bad break ups, I'm always grateful when they never had children. Hello? Who doesn't feel for Charlie and Denise's children, no matter who did what in that relationship?

The point is, these people are parents and they should be parents before being celebrities. If you know you are a celebrity (even a D-list one) and had a bad break up that people are interested in, don't stir the pot.

Sure, the public is interested (who are we kidding?) but that doesn't mean you need to make it more interesting for us.

Everyone in this Tori Spelling circle should probably take a look at the kids and watch what they're doing. I think it's called growing up.

Night Crawlers...

2006-06-20T14:29:00.000-07:00

It's all over for me. It's all o-v-e-r.

The Dictator has figured out that, hey, I can just get out of bed. I don't have to wait for my mommy and daddy to come get me. I can just hop out, just like this. Whoo-hoo!

The Dictator has been in her "big girl" bed for seven months. We had ordered her a custom made princess bed. Which is so fabulous that I, in fact, like sleeping in it myself. As soon as it arrived, the crib was taken out, the bed put in.

She had just turned two. I know many parents try and keep their children in cribs as long as possible, for exactly this reason. So they can't just get out whenever they damn well please.

Well, I'm definitely not saying The Dictator is "slow," because it has taken her seven months to figure out she can just hop out of her bed at any time. I just thought we were lucky for having a child who hadn't figured it out yet.

We didn't even put bars up so she couldn't fall out. Are we bad parents? Nah. She has never once fallen out.

Anyway, I hate to admit this, but my almost three year-old does still not sleep through the night. She screams out at least twice, between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. for "MILK. I WANT MILK. WHERE'S MY MILK? GET ME MY MILK NOW YOU ASSHOLES!" (Ok, she doesn't say that - I'm just paraphrasing.)

Which is why I always look like shit. Or at least that's what I tell people. (It has nothing - NOTHING I SAY - to do with the fact I TIVO every reality show on television, including the one with Hulk Hogan and the one with the dude from The Brady Bunch, and watch them until the wee hours of the morning.)

But the other night, after we put The Dictator to bed at the perfectly reasonable hour of 9 p.m., The Fiance and I heard a little pitter patter of feet upstairs. And then a little pitter patter of feet coming down the hallway. And then a little pitter patter of feet coming down the stairs. And then a little voice going, "Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY? MOMMY!?! ARE YOU DOWN THERE? WATCHA DOIN?"

On the one hand, how can you be mad at a little girl who looks so fucking cute in her little nightgown?

But, on the other hand, it was the start to a new stage that I knew would lead no where good (By that, I mean, for the past few nights, it's always the little pitter patter of feet LEADING downstairs, after we put her to bed. Sometimes TWICE!)

The only way to get over this, I think, is to buy her some more nighties. I mean, my god, she looks so cute in them, it's impossible to get mad at her for not staying in bed and ending back up on my lap.

That's the right answer for all of this, right?

Will and Grace, The Fiance and Me

2006-06-16T23:36:00.000-07:00

The other night The Fiance and I got into a "discussion" about the television show Will and Grace.

I use quotes around the word "discussion" because it wasn't quite an argument, but it wasn't not an argument either. What it was was a discussion with quotes around the word discussion. If you know what I mean...

And it wasn't so much a "discussion" about Will and Grace as it was a discussion over whether or not we've become boring.

Personally, I think every couple who becomes parents wonder if they've become boring. Haven't you?

This is how our "discussion" began.

I had just come back from a four day child-free jaunt in Toronto. My plane landed in Toronto at 4 p.m. on Friday. By 6 p.m. I was at The Spoke Club with two friends.

Saturday, I woke up, met my Canadian Idol Judge friend for brunch and we spent the afternoon shopping. Saturday evening, I went to a cocktail party at my agent's house, and continued partying with some writers, and my best friend Lou Lou, until 2 a.m. at The Drake.

Sunday, my parents came over and we went for brunch in Yorkville. Then I headed to Book Expo, which was a gathering of publishers and writers and editors.

Sunday night, um, can't remember what I did. Oh, right, I watched Curb Your Enthusiasm on DVD, because I was hungover.

Monday morning, I worked on my Globe and Mail column and then met with a television producer to talk about possible television shows to pitch to networks.

Monday evening I went to Margaret Atwood's home and out for dinner with a friend. (Ok, I'm sorry to name drop, but come on! It's Peggy, who is my Idol and I'm her stalker. Ok, I'm not her stalker. Let's just say I'm her number one fan - bahahaha.)

Tuesday, I met with an Academy Award nominated documentary filmmaker, who I may possibly work on a project with, then to my agent's house to discuss future book projects, then I finished my column.

Tuesday night, I went out to dinner with two of my best friends, Jasmine and Robo, to a sushi restaurant in Yorkville and then they came back to my place and we hung out and talked about boys and did our nails and braided each other's hair and had pillow fights until the wee hours.

That's all true, except for the doing our nails and braiding each other's hair and pillow fight part.

Wednesday, I left my house at 6 a.m. to catch a 7 a.m. flight back to Calgary.

It was a jam packed long weekend, half-business, half-fun, but all social. I was barely at home. It was anything but boring.

Hearing about my trip made The Fiance sad. Because in Calgary, aside from going out with him, and a few other couple friends, we mostly stay in.

And that's where Will and Grace comes in. Monday to Friday, at 10:30 p.m. I watch Will and Grace.

This disturbs The Fiance because he thinks I don't have fun in Calgary. This isn't entirely true. It's a different kind of fun.

In Calgary, I work hard during the day, take care of The Dictator when I get home, and I'm tired at the end of the day. I'm not saying that The Dictator is a job, because I love her more than anyone, but as any mother who has a job and then comes home to take care of a child (or children) it sometimes feels like having two jobs.

What I want to do at the end of the day in Calgary is vedge out and watch Will and Grace.

"I like Will and Grace," I told The Fiance. "What's wrong with Will and Grace?"

"It's not Will and Grace. It's the fact that all it seems you do here is watch Will and Grace," The Fiance said to me.

"But I like Will and Grace. What's wrong with Will and Grace?" I asked again.

"That's not the point, Beck," he said. "I wish you had more fun here."

"How can you not like Will and Grace?" I asked. "It's so fucking funny."

"I'm not talking about Will and Grace!" he said annoyed. "I think you should get out more here!"

"Why don't you like Will and Grace?" I asked. "Seriously. What's wrong with Will and Grace?"

I know it wasn't the point he was trying to make. But, you know, I like Will and Grace. And I don't really want to go out more.

The Fiance and I do go out. We go to restaurants all the time. We see movies all the time. What else is it that people with children do?

"I think this is what people do when they get older," I told him. "I think most people with children stay home most nights, don't they?"

"I don't know. Do they?" he asked.

"Can we talk about this later?" I asked. "Will and Grace is on."

I'm joking. I didn't say that.

But our "discussion" got me thinking. Have we become boring? I don't really find that. As I told The Fiance, I actually like hanging out with him at our house, with The Dictator, and Ruby, our nine-pound-dog-who-limps.

Sure, sometimes I do like to go out and party. But, after my four days in Toronto, I actually really appreciated the simplicity of staying in with The Fiance and doing nothing but watching Will and Grace. (I ran into gossip columnist Shinan Govani twice in my four day stay in Toronto. It was time to leave. Joking. I love that man.)

The fact is, I now like being boring. The Fiance just doesn't believe it. But it's true. Sure, maybe we have become boring, but boring can be nice, can't it? I like hanging out with him at home with The Dictator. I do. Because I don't find him boring. And, um, there's never a boring moment with The Dictator.

But tell me. Am I wrong that, once you have a family, boring becomes nice?

And, also, Will and Grace is funny, right?

PS: Thank you all so much for your Daddy Day gift ideas. There were three I loved, and I'm doing them!

Daddy's Day Disaster?

2006-06-14T22:43:00.000-07:00

The Fiance is the type of guy who has everything. And he doesn't have very many hobbies, aside from golf and listening to me moan about my problems, which isn't so much a hobby as much as it is his second job.

Anyway, Daddy's Day is coming up, as I just realized, and I need suggestions and fast!

Actually, I lie. The Fiance does have hobbies. One hobby is cars. And, no, I cannot afford to buy him a ferrari.

He is also very into art. And, no, I cannot afford to buy him a Jack Bush painting.

And he's very into wine (and by wine, I mean alcohol, not me going, 'My ass is fat! My ass is fat! Why is my ass so fat?") And he has a wine cellar that has hundreds of bottles of wine that I'm not allowed to touch, because once I by accident grabbed a bottle to take to a friend's birthday party, only to find out after it was worth about $450.

For his birthday last year, I bought him a treadmill and a cool stationary bike with a built in air conditioner, which he loved. Or so he said. Between the two of us, we've used each about, um, 6 times. But that gift took me about four months to come up with. And I have only, what?, three days before Father's day?

Men are the worst to buy for. The fiance is the kind of guy who pretty much doesn't need or want much, but when he wants something he gets it himself. Digital camera? He bought it for himself. Ipod? Got it for himself. All things to do with golf? Gets it for himself.

And since I am no longer 18, I can't very well make him up a "coupon" for "Sex, baby, any way you want three times a week for a year" or or buy him a pair of boxer shorts with lips all over them. You know what I'm saying?

Last Father's Day, I bought a cup from starbucks that you could put all these pictures in. So I cut out a bunch of photos of The Dictator, stuck them in the cup, and gave it to him.

I was pretty excited about it, because I love photos of The Dictator. But The Fiance looked at the cup I made him for about 12 seconds, said it was "nice," and went back to watching some car race on television.

Now I could go on a rant about how much I hate the word "nice" when you do something you think is very thoughtful for someone. What the fuck is up with the Fiance saying, "It's nice." I kind of expected him to say something like, "Oh, Beck. That was the best present I have ever received and I couldn't have asked for anything better for Father's Day."

But I won't go on that rant because I have bigger problems which is what the fuck should I get him for Father's Day.

He doesn't like jewelry. He doesn't wear cologne. He already owns two expensive watches. He's very particular about what he wears and I don't even know his size.

I'm telling you, The Dude is impossible to buy for. And, let's face it, buying a tie or a book on barbecuing is kind of lame.

Of course I'll get The Dictator to scribble with a marker a line on a piece of paper and sign her name and write out "I Love You Daddy," but let's face it. Men don't see the beauty in art work by two year-olds like mothers do.

So what do you get the guy who has everything? (And, no, he refuses to go to spas, he already has a personal trainer.)

So what are you all doing for a gift for Father's Day?

Because at this point, I may well have to make him a coupon for "Sex five times a week for the rest of your life."

But we all know that would be a big lie.

Suggestions? Anyone?

I Love You And Needles!

2006-06-12T06:54:00.000-07:00

I do. I really do. Thank you for all you advice on whether I should leave The Dictator for a two week vacation.

99 per cent of you nice and loyal readers of ninepounddictator have told me to go to Italy, and leave The Dictator in the 10 good hands of Nanny Mimi, The In-Laws and my parents.

So I feel a lot better about my choice to go for it and leave The Dictator for two weeks.

Apparently, I'm not the only woman out there who sees the beauty in the fact there is a Prada outlet in Italy. There is such a thing. Really. It is not a myth. So I've definitely decided to go.

Maybe...

I've decided to go to Provence - and thank you all once again for pointing out my spelling mistake - yes, I'm a complete idiot when it comes to spelling. Once there, I'll decide whether or not to continue onto Italy.

If, while in Provence (not Provance) and I'm missing The Dictator too much, then I'll come back and let The Fiance head to Italy on his own. It will be good for him. And by "good for him" I mean "good for his credit card."

Many of you have suggested that I take The Dictator on the vacation. And to that I answer, "Um, that would not be a vacation!"

Once you have a two year-old, you realize there is a major difference between a "vacation" and a "trip."

A "vacation" is fun and relaxing! Meaning, on vacation you can lie by the pool, ogle the hot guys who bring you drinks, nap, read actual novels as opposed to US Weekly (and, don't get me wrong, I love the US Weekly), stay out late, eat at nice restaurants, sleep in and also have sex morning, noon, and night. Also, you can pack just for yourself.

When you travel with kids, that's a "trip." Meaning, you have to take a carry-on bag that weighs 5000 tons to keep your child occupied on the plane. And you have to share a room with your child, and mine now likes to wake up at 5:45 a.m.

And, though The Dictator does have a shoe collection that can compete with Barbara Amiel (I swear, The Dictator has 42 pairs of shoes) I can't see her enjoying spending two hours at the Prada outlet or seeing an Opera in Verona.

But, mostly, The Dictator can't come along because The Fiance won't let her. I did suggest that we bring her, because I do want to bring her, but when I asked if she could come, The Fiance said, "No."

But we will go on a family "trip" in January.

Moving on....

I want to tell you all about my acupuncturist. I have had major health issues in the last three months, which I won't get into because I do not like pity. I mean, I like to pity myself, but I don't like others pitying me.

After getting a number of X-rays and an MRI (Which possibly was the most awful thing I have ever had to do) and seeing 12 doctors, none of who could agree on what was wrong with me, and after crying every day for six weeks because not one doctor could help me, I went to see an acupunturist. (Trust me, I am not liking the Canadian medical system at present.)

I told Dr. Zhao, my acupuncturist, what was wrong with me, or what I thought was wrong with me, based on the 8 different diagnosis I received, and he said something like...well, actually, he didn't speak English very well so I'm not sure what the fuck he said, but he told me to lie on my side.

He put a number of needles all over my body, from the top of my head, in my ear, down my back, and told me I should come in to see him 12 times. I've been to see him 8 times so far.

And guess what?

I feel better! I am almost entirely cured! I love the dude.

But the best thing, aside from no longer being in so much pain that I would cry out every night, was that I told him I still had cravings for cigarettes and asked him if he could do anything about that. To which is he said, well..I don't know what the fuck he said, because, like I said, he doesn't speak English very well.

But I suppose he understood me, because he put some more needles in my ear, and voila. I no longer have cravings. Not only for butts, but for everything bad for me! I don't crave chocolate anymore. I don't crave caffeine. I think I may have lost 5 pounds after seeing Dr. Zhao.

There's only one bad thing about acupuncture. See, it doesn't hurt at all. But, the other day, I made the horrific mistake of turning my head to see all the needles sticking out of me, and I freaked out. As you may know by now, I'm a big crier. So, of course, after seeing 20 needles sticking out of me, I started to cry like a baby.

It was all so pathetic. "Hello?" I called out from the room I was in. "H-h-h-hello????"

And Dr. Zhao couldn't hear me, which made me cry even harder. I was in a hospital gown and didn't know what to do. Do I walk out into the waiting room with needles sticking out of me and tears streaming down my face? Um, no.

So I called out louder. "HELLO!!!!!! HELLO!! HELP!!!!!"

That he heard.

He came in and looked at me crying and did some magic and told me to relax and I did.

Anyway, I really suggest anyone with any sort of problem, from insomnia to depression to chronic pain to wanting to lose weight, to see a good acupuncturist. I'm not sure how it works. Nor do I really care how it works. But it works.

I also had a really fun weekend. My weekend included having a wonderfully fun night partying with a blind man until 2 a.m. And also hanging out with a Canadian Idol judge who took me shopping all day Saturday. But more on that tomorrow. (Oohhhh can you wait???)

Thank you again for your advice. I owe you all a big one.

Help Pu-leaze!

2006-06-08T15:36:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how I now want to go to my blogger friends for advice?

I have a problem. And when you hear what it is, you'll be like, "That's your problem? If only I had that problem, you bitch!"

Still, it is a problem for me and I need your advice.

Here's what's what. The fiance and I are going to Provance for a week in July. The Dictator is not coming with us. I'm ok with this because I've never been to Provance and I'll only be leaving The Dictator for one week.

I've left The Dictator for a week before. Once when I went to Paris and another time when I went to Arizona. Both times I thought I would die, and got a feeling of what it's like to be a junkie heading to rehab.

Yes, My Name Is Rebecca and I'm a Dictator-aholoic. Even after one day, I start to shake without seeing her, and I need my fix. I tell you, quitting smoking was the hardest thing I've ever done, next to not seeing The Dictator for a week. (Oh, and I once hiked up that Grouse Grind in Vancouver and that was pretty fucking hard too.)

Anyway, The Fiance is going to Italy after Provance for another week to visit friends who own a Villa there. He wants me to come along too. I told him, "No fucking way. I can't leave The Dictator for more than a week."

But, I've never been to Italy. I've never stayed in a Villa in Italy. I've never been to the Prada outlet in Italy. And I want too.

Luckily I have Nanny Mimi who is more than happy to move into our home for a week, to take care of The Dicatator while we're gone. And The In-Laws will be around too, to help out. In fact, I think the In-Laws love it when we go away, because they can pretend they're The Dictator's parents. Anyway.

My best friend, Robo, who has four kids, has to plan three months in advance for people to take care of her children, when she wants to go away even for four days.

My parents, too, have offered to come stay at our house while we're gone. So, The Dictator will have four grandparents, Nanny Mimi, and a portable DVD player to keep her occupied while we're gone.

So that makes me feel a little better about leaving her. But, still. Can I really leave her for TWO weeks? Will I enjoy myself if I'm missing her so much, which I know I will?

So, do I stay for two weeks, or don't I? Is it too long to leave my baby behind? Or will it be good for her?

Help me please!

(Also, I'm sorry if I haven't posted your comments. It's not my fault. It's Mr. Blogger's fault. In fact, after yesterday, if Mr. Blogger was my boyfriend, I'd dump him. He's given me so many issues in the past few days. So it wasn't personal. Blame Mr. Blogger.)

I'll give you a hundred dollars if...

2006-06-06T12:59:00.000-07:00

The Dictator is a bad little girl.

And that's why I had to take a couple days off from blogging. It's because the baby I only very recently bragged about being such a nice little girl has...turned on me. Yes, she has turned on me!!

I'm exhausted.

How could I have been so naive to think that I could escape the Terrible Twos? I mean, The Dictator is now two..and a half!

I honestly believed I was lucky. (Of course, the only things I've ever won was $100 at bingo when I was 18, and a free pair of shoes from a store on Bloor street, which, I'll admit, was kind of nice.)

Literally, I can tell you the day The Dictator turned from good to bad. June 1st, 2006, I can even tell you the time. 9 p.m.

"Time to go to bed," I had said to her.

"No," was The Dictator's response. She had never said that to me before. She always willing went to bed. (At least she's living up to her nickname!)

"Yes, time to go to bed," I had said.

"No. WAAAAAAAA!!!!"

Argh.

Also, the other day she showed me she was eating a box of raisins. Then she dumped all the raisins on the floor.

Also, the other day she took a cup of water and then dumped it all on the floor.

Also, she's torturing Ruby, the nine-pound-dog-who-limps.

Also, when we had to leave the park she had a temper tantrum.

Also, she gave me a bloody nose. Don't ask. Don't even ask.

When I ask her to do something now, she just says, "No." And then I say, "Yes" and then she says "No." We can go on with this round of "yes" and "no" for twenty minutes.

I'm not good with people who say no. Actually, I'm not good with adults who say "no" to me. If any adult says "no" to me, then I'll somehow manage to get my way, either by begging and pleading, crying, or going to some other adult who will give me what I want.

I do not know how to get The Dictator to do what I ask. I mean, I can't beg and plead with her. I can't cry to her. I can't go and find another baby who will do what I say. I'm stuck with the one I have.

She's so bad, in fact, that I was planning to take her to Toronto with me next week, where I have to go for a couple cocktail parties and meetings, and I thought, "There's no way. She's too bad."

So I'm sorry I haven't been blogging. I've been too busy bribing. That's right. Bribing.

"I'll give you a piece of gum if you get into your car seat." And, "I'll give you your baby doll if you go upstairs." And, "I'll give you a bottle of milk if we get you into your pajamas." And "You can only shower with me if you be nice."

Bribing bites. Bribing is tiring.

The Gods are not looking down at me kindly. I think this mostly has everything to do with the fact that I had blog-bragged about what a nice baby I had.

The Dictator is bad, bad, bad. Do you hear me Gods? Can you make her good again now? I'll give you a hundred bucks...

I want to publish a book!!!

2006-06-01T12:44:00.000-07:00

About three times a week, I receive e-mails from people telling me they have a really good idea for a book and they want to know how to go about getting it published.

I am not an expert in the book publishing world. I only sort of kind of have a grasp on the whole book business. But, mostly, I don't get it.

I do know one thing for certain. It's a fucking hard business to break into. And even if you do break into the publishing world and get a book deal, it's still fucking hard. And then, even if you get a book published and into the stores, it's still fucking hard.

It's one of those businesses that if The Dictator ever said, "Mommy, I want to be a writer when I grow up," I'd say, "Um, really? Don't you want to be a pilot or an actress or, well, something, anything else, but a writer?"

Almost 99 per cent of the time, people who ask me how to publish a book do have a great idea for a book. I think. I mean, I would read the book if they get it published. That's the truth.

Unfortunately, there can only be so many books published. And I know most writers would hate me for doing this (then again, all writers hate all competition, because it is so competitive) but if people ask how to do a book proposal, I e-mail them an outline of how to do a book proposal.

Hey, I love reading. The more authors out there, the better. (rebeccaeckler@yahoo.com if you want a copy of how to do a proposal.)

One of the main reasons you will not get a book published is because you will not end up finishing the book. Writing a book is really fucking hard. So, yes, you may have a brilliant idea, but sitting down and writing it is a whole other story (Hey, that's a funny pun. The story part?)

In fact, I think it's funny that many people will read a book and think, "I could do so much better than that. What is that book published?" It's published because the author actually finished it.

These days, if you are a first time author, you pretty much need the entire book done, before anyone will look at it.

People assume that just because they have a great idea and write a proposal, that they're going to get a book deal. I, too, would absolutely love it if that were the case.

I have 5000 ideas for books, and I'm always thinking, "I should really do that." But, sigh, most of the ideas stay in my brain. I don't even do the proposals. Why? Because I can be seriously fucking lazy and I just found this new game show on television called "Deal or No Deal" and I rather watch that. (Hi Howie!!)

This is what I've learned (and, remember, I'm really not an expert. This is purely my experience.)

If you have an idea, and then write a brilliant proposal (basically, you have to argue why this is the best idea ever since the invention of tampons and that all the other books out there on the same subject - and there always are books already published on the same subject - suck and yours will be so much better) you need to get an agent.

I was once at a Christmas party at a publisher's house and she showed me her closet. I swear to god, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There was a stack of manuscripts, taller than me, by authors who sent her their manuscripts. This is called the "slush pile." I don't know why. But I do know there are a million hopeful writers out there whose manuscripts are in a closet.

I do also know that it's very rare that a publisher or editor at a publishing house has the time to read all the manuscripts sent to them. This publisher was nice. She did take all the manuscripts home and attempted to go through them all over her break. I had a new respect for her.

Anyway, the point is, you need an agent these days. Well, it definitely helps. Because publishers listen to agents. They respond to their e-mails - with good news, or bad. At least agents get a return phone call.

Sometimes writers become friends with their agents. I love my agent. I'm not sure I'd consider her a friend, like I wouldn't tell her for example that I'm PMSing and so am in a bitchy mood or anything. In fact, I think I've talked to her on the phone five times in my life. But she's done amazing things for me. And I try to keep our relationship business-only. That way, I can't get mad at her over anything, because I'm not emotionally invested.

I know a lot of writers who are super close to their agents. And sometimes it does not end well. Like, for example, if their agent doesn't sell their book to Turkey, they'll take it personally and blame their agent for not caring about their book enough.

Which is kind of ridiculous because agents make their money off the writer, so of course, selling your book to Turkey is in their best interest as well. (I think my agent takes 20 percent. But I'm happy to give it to her, because I do not want to deal with ANY business aspect at all. When I say I'm not about the money, it is true. Hey, money is great. But writers write because they have too, not for the money.)

So, get an agent. Google Canadian agents and lists will pop up. And then e-mail them.

Then, let's say your agent likes your idea and proposal and they take you as a client and you actually write the entire book and the agent sends it off to publishers and one actually bites and offers you a book deal (I think this is probably a 1 in 10,000 shot) But it does happen.

Do not be surprised when you are offered $7,000 for the book it took you four years to write.

You take the fucking deal, even though you may wonder how you are going to pay your rent. So you, of course, have an actual job as well. (oh, and you will be rejected by more than one publishing house before you may get the deal.)

I actually keep all my rejection letters. In fact, I am so used to rejections that I read the letters and go out for dinner.

Then, oh god, the editing process. I'm in the process of writing two books now. Both are in the editing process and I want to crawl under my covers and never wake up again. Actually, that's not entirely true. One book has been kind of easy to edit. The other one, not so much.

In any case, you might hate your editor and think, "What the fuck? I love that line! Why do they want me to take it out?" Or, "They hated that one character? So now I have to rewrite the entire book?" I actually love all my editors. After the initial, "What the fuck?" I think, "Fine. They're so right." Because editors do know better.

Blah, blah, blah...fast forward a year (yes, it takes a year to edit.) If you get a book deal in the year 2004, you'll be lucky to get your book out in 2007. That's how long it takes.

Then the fun part. Just when you can't stand your book any longer, because you've read it 1009 times, and it's been through editing three or four times, it is done. And they'll send you cover options for your book and you might tear up, because it is like seeing your baby for the first time. (That nine months of hard work being pregnant is nothing compared to popping out a book. Yes, that's right. Giving birth is way less painful then publishing a book.)

Fast forward another six months to when the book is actually ready to be released. The best thing to do is to leave town when the reviews come out, because unless you are Margaret Atwood, at least one reviewer in Canada, (or, actually, maybe almost all of them in my case) will find fault with your book.

This will sting. I actually think being a book reviewer is one of the best jobs around. I love to read. To get paid for doing it? Brilliant.

In any case, you must remind yourself that the reviewer is only one person. I always read book reviews. Not everyone does. In fact, most people don't. But I read them and ignore the criticism and compliments, because I just want to know the plot of the book. If the plot sounds good to me, I'll buy the book.

I mean, someone like Plum Sykes gets awful reviews. I love her books. It's one of those things like Britney Spears. What's good is read and what's read is good. You may not think Britney is talented but she sells. So you can argue that she must be good. That's my theory.

And you will want your book to end up on the bestsellers list. It will sting when it's not. (Of course, bestsellers list are hard to figure out. I understood a bestseller in Canada was 5000 books. I never made any bestsellers list in Canada and Knocked Up sold way more than that number. I know because authors get these pieces of paper that show sales.)

And then you will basically sell your soul and call every single person you know in the media in hopes they will plug your book. And you pray to god your publicist is a pitbull and will get you on every show on television. And they may, or they may not. In fact, getting publicity for your book and convincing people to buy your book is harder than writing it.

In fact, you actually do contemplate sending Heather Reisman a bottle of champagne, or a hot male stripper (joking) to be a "Heather's Pick."

Meanwhile, your agent is hard at work selling your book to the States, everywhere in Europe, Israel...anywhere. So you get rejections again, or you jump in glee when a country offers you a few thousand Euros to publish your book. (or a few hundred Euros.)

And all the covers change for every country. One country who bought Knocked Up put on the cover a baby, with its umbilical cord going into a martini glass. Fucking hilarious.

That's how you make money off your book. But 99.9 percent of writers will not be the next Dan Brown. You will not make a billion dollars from your book. You could blow your whole book advance on an expensive dinner and a new outfit.

And then....it's all over. Five years of work, your book is out, and the party is over. And then you have to start all over again with a new proposal for a new book, getting rejections, bad reviews....

So, you still want to write a book? Good for you! Because, after the dust settles down, and you forgive the book reviewers, and spend your book money on expensive footwear, it kind of seems worth it.

The best piece of advice I've ever gotten is that writing books is a career. Which means, your first one may not do well, maybe your second one won't either, but maybe the third one will be the next Harry Potter. Or maybe your first proposal will be turned down, and so will your second, but maybe someone will take the third proposal.

All I know is that I should be editing right now. But thanks for letting me procrastinate for just a little while longer. Oh, and buy books!

Dancing Queen

2006-05-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love the most about The Dictator is her dancing.

No, she's not a great dancer or anything. She doesn't have rhythm or anything. But I love the fact that The Dictator will dance anywhere, and at any time, she damn well pleases.

I just love that.

Yesterday, when I got home from work, I took The Dictator out for a long walk. We decided (or, rather, I decided, because I'm bigger than The Dictator and so she has to follow me) to buy some burgers and fries for dinner from The Burger Inn, about a 20 minute walk from our house.

Yes, The Burger Inn is one of those hidden gem take-out restaurants that has the cranky old smelly men flipping burgers. But so yummy. The burgers, I mean, are so yummy. Not the men making the burgers.

I put in our order and, as we waited for it to be ready, over the loud speaker the song Sweet Home Alabama started to play loudly.

And The Dictator's hips started to move. And she looked up at me with that look - you know those adorable eyes.

I knew what she needed. She needed me to say, "It's Ok. You can dance." So that's what I did. I said, "It's ok. You can dance."
And The Dictator started boggying and and galloping in circles and kicking her legs and, I'm not sure, attempting to do the splits in the air or something.

Whatever she was doing, she was dancing like no one was watching. But they were.

Even the two all-dressed-in-black Mod girls with eyebrow piercings who were also in line, who probably hadn't cracked a smile in two years, started laughing (not at her, but with me...at her.)

And The Dictator kept saying, rather, yelling to me, "Dance mommy! Dance like this! Shake your bottom! Like this Mommy! Like this!" as she shook her hips.

I almost cried tears of embarrassment. Joking. I almost cried because it was so fucking cute.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes I feel like dancing too. And I'll dance around my living room and put on bad strip tease shows for the fiance.

But if I danced like The Dictator dances at restaurants or on the street, I'd be taken away and institutionalized. Which would suck.

So The Dictator and I have started to have "dance parties," where I'll blast the radio and we'll dance around her bedroom. The only other person allowed to come to these parties is "Ruby the Dancing Dog," as The Dictator says.

I don't know. Sometimes a gal just has to dance. And, sometimes, I want to be two years-old.

Nanny Mimi's Getting Married!

2006-05-29T13:13:00.000-07:00

I had kind of planned on maybe getting married this October. I did. Really.

But then one of the fiance's best friends decided to get married at the end of August. And, then, two other of my friends, who had a baby last year, decided to tie the knot, finally, in September. (Their one year-old will, of course, be in attendance.)

I didn't want to ruin the excitement of the marriage of the fiance's friends, nor did I want to follow my two other friends who had a baby and then got married, because it would look like I was just getting married because they were.

And, trust me, one of my friends got engaged around the same time as another of her friends. And then my friend booked her wedding date a week earlier than her friends and...well, let's just say they are no longer friends.

But, mostly, I can't get married in October because Nanny Mimi is. That's right. Nanny Mimi is getting married on the exact same weekend I was maybe debating planning to get married. Well, I certainly couldn't steal Nanny Mimi's thunder, can I?

A couple months ago, Nanny Mimi and her boyfriend were over one evening to babysit. I was all ready to go out and the fiance was still in the shower.

"Rebecca, we have to ask you two something," Nanny Mimi said. Early that day, she had flashed me her amazing engagement ring and told me all the dets.

"Oh, do ask," I said.

"No, we should wait until he's finished showering," Nanny Mimi said about the fiance. "We want to ask you together."

"Oh, forget about him! Just tell me! Tell me! Tell me!!'

"OK, well, we want you too to be sponsors at our wedding!"

"Ok, great! We would be honoured too!" I answered. Meanwhile, what I was really thinking was, "What the fuck does a sponsor do?"

When the fiance came downstairs to join us, I said, "Mimi has asked us to be sponsors at her wedding!"

"Is that ok with you?" Mimi asked the fiance.

"Sure, we would be delighted too." he answered.

And then the fiance and I got into his car.

"Um, Beck. What the hell does a sponsor do?" he asked.

"I don't know. I think it's a Catholic thing," I said.

"Maybe it's a Muslim thing," the fiance said. (Mimi is catholic and her fiance is Muslim.)

"Do you think we just agreed to pay for her wedding?" the fiance asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. Is that what a sponsor does?"

"I have no idea."

Well, it turns out - thanks to our housekeeper who explained what a sponsor does - we just have to sign some papers and light some candles. There was nothing about paying for the wedding, which was good. You know, one day I might need the money to get married myself.

Now a lot of people have been moaning about being bridesmaids recently on their blogs. I wasn't moaning, because for all I knew, I just had to light some candles, and walk down the aisle with The Dictator (she's going to be a flower girl.)

In fact, I got really caught up in planning Nanny Mimi's wedding, especially since she really doesn't have that many girlfriends to go shopping with or get excited about her wedding. I don't know, but planning her wedding seemed more fun than planning my own.

I bought Nanny Mimi Instyle Weddings and gave her a six pack of bridal colour nailpolishes from Essie. I taught her how to use the internet to find venues and bands and even bought her a tiara and a matching purse that she loved that we saw in Scottsdale, Arizona.

I mean, someone should be excited for you when you're getting married, right?

But then....well, then....

"Rebecca? We were also wondering if you can make a speech at our wedding," Nanny Mimi asked last week.

Argh! For some reason, I'm asked to speak at weddings/anniversary parties/birthday parties a lot in my family. No matter how many times I say, "Just because I'm a writer does not mean I make a good speech."

Well, I say it a lot. But no one in my family ever listens to me. Ever!

Anyway, how could I say 'no' to Nanny Mimi? She's become one of the closest people in my life and takes care of the most precious person in my life.

Still, there's nothing worse than being responsible for making a wedding speech. Nothing. I tell you, I'd rather me a bridesmaid.

It means I can't get drunk before I speak. It means I have to be funny. It means now that not only do I have to worry about not setting the place on fire (because I have to light some candles) it means I have to speak to a room of people I don't know about a person I've only known for three years.

I'm completely stressed out - and it's not even my wedding!

And then there's the fact that I'm not sure how much longer Nanny Mimi will stay with us after she gets married. So I'm kind of sad about that. She says she loves to work, and she really loves The Dictator, but her fiance is a little old-skool and may not want her to work.

(When Nanny Mimi comes to Toronto with us, she used to make lunches and dinners and ironed all his clothes for the two weeks she'd be away from him.)

But, I think Nanny Mimi has learned a lot from the almost three years she's been with us. Like, no, you don't actually have to make dinner for your husband every night. (I sure don't.) And that it's ok to use tears when you really, really want something. (I sure do.)

And, sometimes when Nanny Mimi and her fiance are over at our place and the wedding comes up and he'll moan about something Nanny Mimi wants for the wedding, I always stick up for her and say something like, "It's her wedding day! Don't argue with the bride. Just nod your head and smile and show up on the right day at the right place at the right time."

I think Nanny Mimi appreciates this.

Who knows...maybe I can train The Dictator to speak full sentences by October and she could do it for me. Because, as I've said before, just because I'm a writer does not make me a good speaker.

What's the Etiquette...

2006-05-26T08:36:00.000-07:00

In tipping dog groomers?

Yesterday, the fiance took Ruby-the-nine-pound-dog-who-limps to the doggy salon early in the morning because he couldn't deal anymore.

Frankly, I like when Ruby-the-nine-pound-dog-who-limps long hair on her ears is matted (They look kind of like dreads.)

How did her ears get like that? Let's just say it involved The Dictator and a bowl of ice cream. Anyway, The fiance was adamant too that they cut Ruby-the-nine-pound-dog-who-limps toenails.

Apparently, the fiance doesn't like to get scratched by anyone's toe nails, including mine.

All day long, the fiance called to remind me, "Beck, you're going to pick Ruby up, right?," "Beck you're going to pick Ruby up right?" "Beck, you're going to pick Ruby up, right?"

How could I forget.? I walked into the doggy salon, just after 4 p.m. and said to the Dog Woman, "I'm here to pick up Ruby."

"She's not here," the Dog Woman said, with a straight face.

"Um, what?"

"She's not here. She left."

"Really?"

"She's gone."

My heart immediately started pounding. Where the hell was my Ruby-the-nine-pound-dog-who-limps? Was it possible, after the fiance reminded me 5000 times to pick her up, that he had? But he would have told me if that was the case, wouldn't he?

"Well-" I answered, trying to get to the bottom of where my dog was. I was starting to freak out. I mean, it's my dog!

"JOKING!" said the dog woman. "I was just joking."

"Oh," I said, looking at her. That was a JOKE? I didn't quite get it.

I mean, if I went to pick up the Dictator and someone pulled that "joke" on me, you can bet that I would never EVER bring her back there again.

Everyone knows that dogs are like children. For goodness sake, they make bridesmaids dresses for dogs and diamond collars. People spend more on their dogs these days than their children. And Ruby is my baby. I love her.

From that moment on, I was flustered. I couldn't get over the joke. But Dog Woman explained that everyone loved Ruby and didn't want to see her go. (So, I guess there was a reason behind the dog-knapping joke. I guess.)

Ruby-the-nine-pound-dog-who limps, I will admit, looked gorgeous. And she smelled all flowery (although I do like dog smell. I really do.) And her toe nails were cut.

Dog Woman-Who-Has-A-strange-sense-of-humour told me how much the bill was ($51) I handed her over $60 and then thought, "Oh, do I tip her for doing my dog's hair and nails?"

I mean, I tip my hairdresser. I tip my manicurists. I had no idea. So I said, "You can keep the change, or give it to the Humane society." (There was a can for the Humane Society on the counter.)

I left, happy that I had Ruby-the-nine-pound-dog-who-limps, still weirded out by Dog Woman's not-funny joke (Does anyone else see the humor in pretending that your dog is gone, when you go to pick them up?) and wondering if I should have tipped more, or less, or not at all.

Anyone know the etiquette?

Cat Fight Part Deux - Meow!! Scratch!!

2006-05-25T11:42:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago I wrote about a pathetic freelance writer, in Canada, who criticized me in a city newspaper for working and having a nanny. You can look at the post below called, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

It just keeps getting better and better. Or more pathetic. I'm not sure which.

I had all but forgotten about the freelancer whose name I've forgotten. Linda..Lydia..Nitpick....littlepick...littleprick. Whatever.

In fact, last night I was at a charity dinner, sitting beside an olympic gold medalist, having a grand ole time. I just love Olympians. To me, they are idols.

Whenever I get to meet one, I just smile and smile and smile. And I asked this Gold Medal winner important questions too, like, "How did your wife react when she saw you win?" (She bawled.) And, "Who are you rooting for on American Idol?" (He had the McFever.)

Then, this morning, I took The Dictator to her music class, and we had a grand ole time. (Because, yes, people with nannies still do take their children to class.)

And then....

I turned on my e-mail, only to find requests to be interviewed on television and radio. Oh-my-god-isn't-that-so-cool?

Ahhhh, I love when the true colors of people really come out. I knew it was just a matter of time before this dear Freelancer Writer's true motivation came through. I knew it would. The gal doesn't have an original bone in her body, so it's no surprise.

It turns out Freelance Writer has been telling all the producers she knows about her little spat with me. Because everyone loves a good cat fight, the producers would like me to go on air with her to debate the whole stay-at-home vs. working mother thing.

(The problem is, unlike Freelancer, I don't care what women choose to do. As long as they're happy with their choice, I'm happy for them.)

In fact, it was little nitpick whatever her name is, suggesting that this debate continue on radio and television.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

You want to step outside Freelancer? You want a piece of me? Oooh, I'm so scared. Actually, she could probably sit on me and I'd die.

(Plus, I'm more of a make love not war person...anyhoo.)

Of course I wrote back to the producers (some of whose shows I do listen to and watch) that even if they paid me a million dollars I wouldn't go on air with Freelance Writer whatever-her-name is.

Unlike you dear Freelance Writer, I don't need the publicity. Unlike you, I don't have to go to the media to prove myself. Why?

Because, unlike you, I am completely comfortable with my choice to have a nanny and go to work. I don't have to sell my side of the argument.

(So why do I blog about it? Because it's my blog and people can come visit or not. It's their choice. I haven't gone out begging people to read me, unlike you dear freelancer who is out begging to get some air-time...with me. Oh, by the way, HI FREELANCER!! I know you're here!)

I find it hilarious that this Freelance Writer, who professes that she's such a hands-on mother, not only has enough time to check her e-mail five thousand times a day (Are you feeling a little disconnected all there by yourself?) but also has enough time to tell anyone who will listen about her spat with me.

And then beg them to ask me on air with her and then find the time to do these shows. So, what you're saying Freelance Writer, is that it's not okay to work, but it's ok to go on television and radio shows? Pathetic.

Dear Freelancer, I like going on television. I love radio. But, sorry, no. You'll have to find another wagon to hitch your star to. (Or is that hitch your wagon to another star? Whatever. Stop using my name to get publicity, is what I'm trying to say.)

You see, unlike you, Dear Freelancer, I'm actually living my life, supporting worthwile charities, and meeting actual people who work hard for the pride of their country. Oh, and spending time with my child.

I will never go on air with you. Ever.

I know this is probably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to you. But I have to go wash my hair.

I want The Dictator to Fit In

2006-05-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

Do other moms obsess about their children fitting in with other kids?

I read a really interesting post by a blogger yesterday who was contemplating whether her child should wear Dora the Explorer clothes to school. It's not that this woman was opposed to Dora (How can you hate Dora with her big brown eyes? Plus, she teaches us Spanish! And, I'm sorry, Diego is kind of cute.)

It's just that this mother knew that other kids can be mean and may make fun of her child for wearing Dora to school. (Apparently, you will be made fun of if you like Dora after the age of 6.)

She was trying to think of a good way to suggest to her daughter that she might not want to wear Dora to go to school.

Anyway, I understood where this Blogging Mama was coming from.

How do you make your kid fit in, and dress not to be made fun of, without encouraging them to think it's ok to make fun of kids for what they wear? Because it's not ok.

Yes, it is a tricky problem. Tricky is what it is.

A couple weeks ago, Nanny Mimi came home with The Dictator and handed me a schedule for The Dictator's Friday's "class."

This Friday, I'm the mom responsible for bringing "the class" snacks. (I know, I never saw this ever happening in my life. But here we are...)

Anyway, I asked Nanny Mimi what I should bring. "The teacher wants parents to bring fruit," Nanny Mimi answered.

Um, fruit? Eeesh. Really?

Hey, I love fruit. But I'm an adult and wasn't the fun in getting snacks in class that they were a special treat?

What I definitely didn't want to happen was for my child to bring in fruit if every other kid was bringing in chocolate cupcakes for the class.

I tried explaining this to Nanny Mimi. "So all the other kids brought in fruit then?"

"Well, no. But the teacher wants you to bring in fruit," she said.

Yeah, I'm sure the teacher also wishes The Dictator was toilet trained. But that's not how it's going.

See, I care about The Dictator's well-being. It's these little things that can make or break your kid, and make or break them feeling liked or unliked in class. I know she will probably feel hated in class one day. But I don't want her feeling that yet. Or ever.

It's awful, yes, but true that these things matter. We all remember that one poor classmate whose mother made them bring in carrot/cranberry/bran muffins as their school treat for their birthdays, don't we?

Face it. Kids like chocolate cupcakes more than they like fruit.

"Ok, Mims," I said. "I know the teacher would like us to bring in fruit, but are all the other kids bringing in donuts?"

"The teacher wants you to bring fruit," she repeated.

The problem is is that Nanny Mimi is also a health food nut. She would want The Dictator to bring in fruit. So I'm being ganged up on by these two fruit-lovers. Unfortunately, I think of the class.

If I were a kid in The Dictator's class, I'd be quite mad at the girl whose mom brought in fruit for snack when every other mother sent brownies (with no peanuts of course!) in. I might even call her "Fruit girl" for the rest of my life.

So I've decided to buy a fruit plate AND cupcakes. That way, the teacher and Nanny Mimi will be happy, and me and the kids will be happy. And I've aided my daughter a tiny bit, maybe, in fitting in. I don't want her to be called "Fruit girl."

This way, everybody wins! (Especially me, who will make sure I get a couple extra cupcakes.)

I just have to remember that Friday is my day for snacks. Friday. Friday. Friday.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

2006-05-23T12:08:00.001-07:00

I think I just got into my first fight with a stay-at-home mother. I think.

This "Stay-at-home" mother is also a "freelance writer."

Anyway, this Freelance Writer did a Mother's Day column criticizing me for having a blog and also having a nanny.

Apparently, I'm not worthy of having a blog about mothering because I have a Nanny, so therefore couldn't possibly know what it's like to be a real mother. (If being a real mother means changing diapers and all that shit, as she suggests, well I've done that, many, many, many times.)

I had no idea this Freelance Writer even existed (and neither will most of you) until a friend of a family friend e-mailed me her story.

Usually, I don't respond when people write nasty things about me, because usually they are so wrong I laugh it off (No, I didn't yell at a former editor for buying me a salad for lunch. No, I wasn't wearing Prada heels when that didn't happen. No I didn't make the amount you said I did on my first book. I made more.)

But this writer really pissed me off because she was attacking my mothering skills. And she's a mother. And a woman. And, nuh-huh. I was sticking up for myself because I hate women like her.

I wrote her an e-mail, explaining that, just because I work and have a nanny, doesn't mean I don't spend time with my child. In fact, because I'm a writer, I can work anytime I want - so I usually work late at night, while The Dictator sleeps.

I also wrote she shouldn't judge me as she's never met me or my child.

And, fuck you too, I can start a blog about knitting if I damn well please, and I've never knitted a thing in my life. Ok, I didn't write that part, but it's true. I could start a blog about knitting if I wanted.

Then this Freelance Writer wrote me back, writing that she "chooses to be a stay-at-home mom" (Um, sorry, you fucking are "working" even if you tack on freelance - and my guess is, if someone offered you a book deal or a full time columnist position, you'd jump at the chance. Oh, really? You wouldn't? Liar.)

Then this Freelance Writer writes me that she has the "studies to back me up," that being a stay-at-home-mom is best for your child. Whatever. For every study you show me, I'll show you another one that says being a working mother is good too. It's a wash.

Oh, and also, this Freelance Writer wrote she has a "sister who gave up her six-figure job because she also believes a mom should be there during the formative years."

Ooooohh, you have a sister who gave up a six-figure job! Woweee!! You must be right then!! You have a sister who decided to stay at home, after all! How could anyone argue with that?

Then she writes something about actually enjoying changing dirty diapers (Oh, really? You actually laugh at a shitty diaper the day after your baby only ate peas for three meals and think to yourself, 'Oh this is so much fun!" I think you're lying.)

But the topping of the cake was this line: "I think it's really sad that feminists have brainwashed women into believing that they have to plug away at their career in order to be worthwhile."

No, dear Freelance Writer, it's so much better to attack me. Does that make you feel worthwhile? You can't come up with your own ideas, so you read ninepounddictator, even though no one forces you too, to find things to criticize? Does that make you feel worthwhile? Can my daughter please grow up to be like you? Please?

No wait.

There was another line she wrote that made me laugh my ass off. Which was something about me having a nanny when it doesn't "appear" I have to work at all.

I will say this only once: I choose to work because I like my work. It was this way before I had The Dictator and might always be this way, or it might not. But whether I'm making $20,000 a year, or making $400,000 a year, whether the fiance is a billionaire or if he's dirt poor, I work because I like it.

(And, to me, dear Freelance Writer, it "appears" you are a bitter woman, but that doesn't mean you have to be, does it?)

And if this Freelance writer thinks the way she thinks, then I want to tell her she should maybe leave her home once in a while, because obviously she's been watching too much Barney. (Let me guess, dear Freelance Writer, you also don't believe children should watch television?)

There are hundreds of thousands of mothers who need to place their children in day care and don't have the option of staying at home because they have to work. (Are they bad mothers too?)

And there are hundreds of thousands of women who go back to work because they do like it, and they may want to raise their children to believe that they can do anything they want. (Does that make a woman a bad mother?)

I want to make this clear. My very best friend is a stay-at-home mother. She got knocked up, the first time, right after graduating university and has never had a job.

She stays at home raising four children. We are complete opposites. I love her. She loves me.

The point is, I couldn't give a rat's ass if you want to be a stay-at-home mother. Do whatever makes you feel good.

I've never once judged my best friend for her choices, nor does she judge me for mine. Nor do I even blink when I meet a woman who says she stays at home. Why? Because I don't care. The Modern Woman should do what she wants.

So dear Freelance Writer, do not judge me for wanting to work. Do not think I'm a bad mother for having a nanny when it "appears" I don't have to work. Maybe I do have to work for my mental sanity? Did you ever think of that? Did ya? Did ya?

When it comes down to it, I don't think that this Freelance Writer really thinks I'm a bad mother. I think she's just a tad bitter about her life and the only way she can find happiness is to criticize people who are happy with their choices. At least that's the way it "appears" to me.

Let's just say this: I could say I'm really happy this freelance writer is not my mother. I'm not sure how I could live in a household where my mother was so bitter and judgemental over people she doesn't even know.

But I won't.