The Mentos Incident

While on holiday, the kids were let loose with the video camera.  This is what they produced.  Not bad!

The dog is my dad's and when Daniel put the Mentos role on the ground, the dog, who loves anything that is "stick" shaped, stole them.  It seems that he kind of stole of the whole show . . .

Golden Oldies - And Lessons Learned

While on holiday last week, I found a number of treasures in a CD bargain bin, including compilation entitled The Best of 1976. Priced at $6.97, I couldn't resist buying it just to see if my memories of "the best" of that year matched those of Universal Music.  I am not disappointed.  Among "the best" are "The Rubberband Man" by the Spinners, "Muskrat Love" by the Captain and Tennille and, of course, "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart" by Elton John and Kiki Dee (the woman who led some of us to think, oh so briefly in the mid-1970s, that Elton had switched teams).  For me, however, the song on the compilation that really takes me back to 1976 is "Beth" by KISS.  

"Beth" reminds me of the first real party that I ever attended. There were no parents until at least 11:00 and we had a magnum of Baby Duck to share amongst 12 young adolescents. It also brings back memories of the heartbreak of my first real crush.  Contrary to my hopes and dreams, my feelings were not shared by my crushee and I watched helplessly and with an ache in my gut at the junior high dance as the object of my affection awkwardly groped his own heartthrob with "Beth" ringing out from the DJ's sound system.  Sigh . . .

Today as I faced mountains of laundry and other domestic chaos, I put my new acquisition on the stereo and soon found myself crooning along with KISS.

"Do you like this song, Mommy?" Janet asked.

I smiled back at her.  "I love this song, Janet".  I went back to singing along wistfully.

Janet raised on eyebrow.  "What's he singing about, Mommy?"

I opened my mouth to explain and then I closed it.  What is it about, anyway?  It seemed so simple back in junior high, but if we strip it down to the basic elements and take away the romantic melody, it's kind of ugly.  It's about a guy who is trying to make it in a band.  He and the boys are playing, but unfortunately, they just can't find the sound.  He needs more time, but he has pre-existing plans with Beth.  He is torn.  The poor bunny - what can he do?  Ultimately, it seems that he decides to just tell her to quit being such a demanding bitch and advises her that he will not be coming home at all that night.   

And millions of adolescent girls in the mid-1970s sided with him and his band mates, manipulated into thinking that Beth should just suck it up and count her blessings when he finally did come home.  We never asked ourselves if Beth had, perhaps, chosen a very special wine and then spent the day preparing a lavish feast for her beau.  In all likelihood, she took the afternoon off of work to do it, and spent at least some of the time cleaning the house so it would be just right for the evening.  Then, she sat there, waiting with the candles lit until the telephone rang.  She was probably pretty pissed, and justifiably so.

What would I tell Janet?  I figured that she's a little too young to appreciate the finer points of a discussion about "Beth" from the feminist perspective or even a Cosmopolitan-esque lecture on the Top Ten Warning Signs that Your Boyfriend is a Wiener.  I did, however, feel compelled to tell her something and in the end, I decided to turn it into an etiquette lesson.  It's a song about a guy who had missed his play date with Beth and he was really sorry.  He did not have good reason to miss the play date, though.  He missed it because he wanted to play with other friends instead.  That is just plain bad manners, so Beth was pretty mad and probably didn't invite him for any more play dates after that.  

Still, the guy's pretty good.  Have a safe trip back to 1976:

Pandora's (Lunch) Box

I've been in the law game for more than twenty years in one capacity or another.  Law, and more particularly, litigation, is not for the faint of heart and certainly not for those with thin skin. It's a world of judgment.  Other lawyers send you nasty letters, challenging your analytical abilities and the path you've chosen for your client.  Clients second guess you, and sometimes fire you and tell all of their friends what a crappy lawyer you are.  Judges remind you (usually quite justifiably) that they are smarter than you.  Eventually, you accept that you are the not right lawyer for everyone, that some lawyers are just really aggressive and that judges will sometimes suggest that your arguments are specious.  All you can do work hard and try your best. 

So, I should really be able to handle being judged.  Most days, and in most circumstances, I can handle it.  On Sunday, for example, I wound up driving Arnold to the golf course in the sweat pants and grungy tee-shirt that I slept in the night before.  On the way back, I figured that I might as well stop at Canadian Tire and buy bedding plants.  Who would be there at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday anyway?  In the moment, it mattered not that I was bra-less and, while I had brushed my teeth, I had not brushed my hair.   It is apparent to me now, however, that most everyone goes to Canadian Tire on Sundays at 10:00.  And most of them are wearing bras, have changed out of their PJ's and have brushed both their teeth and their hair.  

Still, I was unconcerned.   This is because the judgment that follows being caught bra-less and unbrushed in a retail store on Sunday is nothing compared to the stress of having the contents of your child's lunchbox scrutinized by the Nutrition Police. 

The Nutrition Police is  comprised of a group of  parents (mostly moms, but I suspect that there also some uptight dads) who are, apparently, highly trained in nutrition and as a result, are the definitive authority of what should properly be included in a lunch, and what is verboten.  I'm not sure where they are trained but, damn, they're good!  Typically, they work under cover, so you may actually know one or more members of the Nutrition Police without being aware of it.  Be careful.  This can lead to inadvertent confessions of sending the occasional mini-Pepsi, Kool-Aid Jammer or Dunk-a-Roo snack to school in the lunch box.    You might even blurt out that for 102 of the 105 "lunchable" school days, your child took Zoodles for a main course, and heated them up in a plastic bowl in a microwave.  

If this happens, you will be judged immediately, and forever.  And you will know it.  Although the members of the Nutrition Police Squad are highly trained, upon hearing that you feed your child processed food or, occasionally let your child ingest pre-made icing from the tin, they will instinctively recoil in horror and take a step back from you.   They cannot help it.

If it does happen to you, you can take some steps to mitigate so that your child is not forever shunned from play dates with his or her classmates who are being raised by people who are obviously much smarter and more caring than yourself, at least when it comes to food.  You can try pretending that you were "just kidding" and laughingly say that you would never buy that crap or allow it in your house.  For greater effect, slap your knee lightly as you say this or, better, lightly touch your fingers to lips, as though you are trying to stifle a very hearty laugh.   Note that if you use this strategy, you should refrain from placing the forbidden items in your child's lunch box for at least ten school days.   

Another strategy you can use to cover up a lunch box deficiency is simply blame your husband.   Again, make light of it and perhaps combine it with some joke about how your family would simply fall apart if you were not there to supervise, among other things, lunch preparation.   Do exercise caution, however, if you are using this strategy with a male member of the Nutrition Police.  He may not be quite so accepting of your explanation.

Personally, I have had very good luck with the "weasel words" strategy.  This is where I suggest that everything is just fine in moderation and that, in our house,  sugar is the exception, rather than the rule.  To make this a little more believable, I usually throw in some bullshit story about how Janet ate a whole bag of carrots, or how Daniel enjoys a fully-loaded Greek salad.   It does not always work, but usually I find that by the time I start bragging about the vegetables that my kids have eaten throughout their lives, the Nutrition Police officers are nodding in agreement that refined sugar and white bread do, indeed, have a place in our diet.  You may even succeed in getting them to question their own abilities. 

Take heart.  Officially, there are three more days of school and, consequently only three more lunches to go. 

Failed Mommies:  Be careful out there.

 

Head Games

Last weekend I was in the drug store (ostensibly to pick up some toothpaste and deodorant and certainly not just to get away from the chaos of my house) when I noticed something in the shampoo aisle that piqued my interest.  It was a man.  He was middle-aged and appeared physically strong, yet he seemed dazed, confused and maybe even just a little bit sad.  His head was cocked slightly to the left and his hand went up to his chin and stroked his beard as he squinted at the labels on the shelves.  I recognized his problem then and there:  his wife had sent him to buy hair products.

There are many jokes and urban myths about men being sent out with marching orders to pick up contraceptive foam or tampons. Most such stories include tales of inconvenient and very public "price checks" on these very sensitive items and personal embarrassment that inevitably ensues.  These are nothing, however, compared to the challenges that present when a straight man is unleashed amid a sea of complex hair products.  

Feminine products are basically divided into three categories, namely, light (crabby), medium (bitchy) and large (murderous).  Indeed, even if the product purchased is from the wrong category, whatever he does  purchase is usually useable and will do the trick until you can make it to the drug store yourself.  The same does not hold true for hair products, however.   My drug store devotes an entire aisle to hair products.  There are shampoos, conditioners, hair masks, hair moisturizers, anti-frizz treatments, gels, mousses, pomades and sprays.  Each of these are divided into several sub-categories, like shampoo for coloured hair (does she or doesn't she?), shampoos the include conditioners, medicated shampoos, shampoo that doesn't sting the eyes and conditioners to make curly hair curlier or straighter.   Then there are the price differences.  Women know instinctively that the cheaper the hair product, the crappier your hair will be.   Middle-aged guys with brush cuts,  on the other hand, don't really get this. 

Just as women should not be imposed upon to prepare food on a barbeque, I firmly believe that, with few exceptions, men should not be asked to buy hair products.  I know first hand what the results can be.  I think my father washed his hair with a bar of Zest until I was finished university and I expect that if most men had their way, there would be one - and only one - product used to clean dishes, toilets, clothes and hair.   

As for the poor man in at the drug store, he moved from reading the labels on the bottles to actually opening them and sniffing the contents.  I watch him surreptitiously, while feigning interest in coal tar shampoos.  Ultimately, he settled on a bottle of  something pink and funky-looking and headed to the cashier.   All things considered, he probably did okay.

Hip to the Groovy Scene

Many years ago, when I was an articled student, one of senior partners was extolling the virtues of one of the firm's young associates.  He thought highly of the associate and expressed that the young man had the makings of a master litigator.  Indeed, the partner predicted that nothing, would ever stand in the way of the young man's success, not even the fact that he was  "a little light in the loafers".    

I choked a bit on my coffee right then.  In case you haven't figured it out, "light in the loafers" is an antiquated - and terribly derogatory - way of saying  that someone is gay.  Feigning a cough, I put my hand up to hide the corners of my mouth, which were turning upwards, and I tried to narrow my eyes back from the temporary saucers they had become.  Then in my early twenties, I had heard that these "generation gap" moments would come but still, I was taken aback.  This was a fellow who was open-minded and modern in his thinking, but his language just hadn't kept pace.  What unintended faux pas was next?  Would he introduce his wife as "the little woman" at the next firm/client function?  Or refer to Oprah Winfrey as "negro" in some casual conversation?  I vowed right then and there that I would always be careful to keep my language current.

Some expressions, though old, are timeless.  I worked for a delightful man for years who used golden oldies like "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" or "We need to make sure our powder is dry".  He also used to the term roger, which always made me chuckle and which, in my view, made him seem all the more well-brought-up.  

I thought I was doing all right, until I had a discussion with Daniel about his birthday part. His dad and I planned a scavenger hunt and skills games for the party.  Although we could give him some general information, we had to keep the details to ourselves so that all of the guests would be on a level playing field.  I assured Daniel, however, that  his party would be "a rockin' good time."

"Mom", Daniel chastised me.  "Don't ever say that!  It's cave man language".

What??!!!  I was horrified.  I use the terms "rockin' " and "rock" all the time.  I've been using those words for years . . .  I also use "awesome", "beauty" and "hoser" all of which are, I now understand, out of vogue or non-existent. 

Yet, I couldn't accept that I was uncool (I've checked - "cool" is still used in common kid parlance). Daniel was surely mistaken.  My friends use "rockin'" all the time, and they're cool.  Of course, they are also in their mid-forties, like me, and trying desperately to connect linguistically with their kids and the younger crowd generally.   Could I be wrong?

Feeling guilty for doubting Daniel's "coolness" but nevertheless needing to find out for sure, I consulted our summer student, who in his twenties and, currently, the hippest person I know. He was very diplomatic, but, in the end, had to come down in favour of Daniel.  It was devastating.  As hard as I try to be "hip", I fear that my language may be antiquated and I will no doubt become one of those "groovy" parents whose kids roll their eyes and make faces at their friends whenever their parents say something.

These darned kids today . . .    

 

Happy Birthday, Daniel!

Nine years ago today, it was snowing.  I remember looking out the window of my hospital room, holding my new baby in my arms, and not really caring all that much that it was snowing in June. After all, I had my little guy and at that moment - and even today - that is all that mattered.

Now he is nine.  He doesn't like to snuggle all that much anymore and he won't kiss me goodbye (or even acknowledge me, for that matter) when I drop him off in the morning.  Still, every once in awhile he grasps my hand or comes and sits beside me on the couch, quietly.  

Daniel has once again decided to raise money and awareness for a charity in lieu of gifts.   His charity of choice this year is the Schizophrenia Society of Canada.  Schizophrenia is a mental illness which, even in this day and age, is largely misunderstood.  It often strikes people in their teens and early adult years.  It's hard to acknowledge and therefore, hard to treat, and there is no cure.  That said, over the last few years there have been great strides in research.  Someday, there may even be a cure.

Way to go, Daniel.  I'm so proud of you.

Speaking of . . .

Besides being a mom and spending seemingly endless hours writing about my kids, I like to spend time thinking about the English language and, particularly, the use of it.  I love to flip open a dictionary and just read words randomly, exploring their origins and various meanings throughout the ages.  Although I do not consider myself among the great orators of the world, I also love listening to colourful and eloquent speakers who can use words to make any idea come alive.  Similarly, I love to read great writers, whose words dance off the page and connect with me.  These things are to me what listening to a great orchestra is like for a music lover.   I can lose myself in the words and be carried off to an entirely different time and place. 

Alas!  The world is also filled with literary poseurs, who, for reasons unknown, use words and phrases that they obviously do not understand or, worse, make up new words or phrases.  Here are the six that make me cringe the most:

1.  Impacted:  This is, indeed, a word, but it is never used in the right context.  My friend, Karen, has a particularly passionate response to the incorrect use of this word.  This is an adverb that, when used in relation to a tooth, means "wedged between another tooth and the jaw.  It can also be used in describing a fractured bone, in which case, according to the Oxford Dictionary, means "having the parts crushed together".  Finally, it can be used in relation to a bowel problem.  It should not be used to describe the effect that something may have on something else.  In that context, the proper use is to state what the impact is.  The rule, in short, is that "impacted" applies only to teeth and bowels (and sometimes, bones).  Thank you, Karen!

2.  Flush out:  This refers to using water or other liquid to clear something out.  For example, "Georges had an enema to flush out his impacted bowel".  It is wrong to use this phrase when referring to the need to consider an idea in further detail.  For this concept, the proper phrase is "flesh out".  The difference is only one letter, but the impact is significant.

3.  Pass mustard:  It makes me cringe to hear this used to describe the state of being accepted as satisfactory.  The phrase is "pass muster".  It would be correct, however, to use "pass mustard" in  other contexts, such as "Although Joe's bowel was impacted on Tuesday, he was able to eat a hotdog on Wednesday and by Thursday, could pass mustard, among other things".

4.  Linkage:  This is actually a word, but I hate it.  My theory is that people use this word because it is one syllable longer than "link", and even though "link" is, in virtually all cases, adequate, that extra syllable somehow denotes a deeper level of analysis.  Moreover, I theorize that many of the same people who see "linkages" between intelligence and additional syllables also  use "impacted".  

5.  Fulsome:   This word has made its way into business parlance and is taken by many to mean "detailed" or "abundant".  I often hear people speak of the need to have a "fulsome" discussion on a particular topic and when I do, I cringe.  According to the Oxford Concise Dictionary,  " . . .though the earliest sense of fulsome was 'abundant', this is now regarded by many as incorrect; the correct meaning today is said to be 'excessively flattering'.  This gives rise to ambiguity:  the possibility that while for one speaker fulsome praise will be a genuine compliment, for others it will be interpreted as an insult".  I think hate this word more than I hate "linkage".

6.  Irregardless: Is it necessary to say anything about this?

So what is the point of this post?  There probably isn't one, although I do hope that somehow, I will deter some young person from using any of the above.  After all, regardless of how smart you are, misusing words and using words with superadded syllables will just leave others with the impression that you have an impacted bowel and are, consequently, full of shit.