Meal Ticket Mommy

I thought I would do the kids a favour this summer and hire someone to come to the house so that the kids could relax and recharge their batteries. After all, who would have the heart to wake such a cute little bunny from her beauty sleep . . . (read-in a tone of sarcasm).

It was great. The kids were relaxed and well-rested. The house was orderly and they loved staying up late and sleeping in, and staying their pajamas. There was no need to worry about preparing lunches and snacks, or whether their yoghurt tube had burst and gotten all over their lunch kit. Daniel could ride his bike and Janet could pick raspberries. An added bonus was that when I arrived home each night, our super babysitter would have cleaned my house. It was heavenly.

As it turns out, I've set a dangerous precedent and it's causing issues. I could deal with the guilt that comes with your kids asking not to go to daycare or summer camp. However, Janet no longer asks that I stay home with her. Rather, she has made it abundantly clear that she wants to stay home, rather than go to pre-school, and she doesn't really care if I'm here or not. Motherhood services can, in her view, be contracted out.

"Can you hire a nanny, so I can stay home?"

She actually said these words. This child has been in full-time daycare since she was nine months old. I don't think that either of her father or I have ever suggested the possibility of a nanny in her presence.

"Why do you want to stay home?", I ask.

"So I can watch cartoons in the morning and stay in my pajamas", she replies, looking at me like I am from another planet.

I tell her she's too smart to stay home - she must to go to pre-school. Naturally, she doesn't buy it.

"It's too long of a day for me", she says. "It would be better if I just went in the afternoon".

Where is she getting this stuff?

Hey there all you old boys, fix up those corporate profiles!!

Let's call this guy Skippy, and assume he's some kind of professional, trying to sell me his services.

It's common now for firms to post biographical sketches of personnel on their websites or to include them in proposals. From time to time, we all have reason to read these things, when we are seeking retain such services. For the most part, I find this a relatively painless exercise. There is, however, one thing that makes me grind my teeth. This is the irrelevant subclause. For example:

"An avid skier, Skippy is married with three children".

How does Skippy's skiing ability relate to his family status? Did he get some ski bunny pregnant in between hitting the slopes one spring break from law school? Or, perhaps, his wife agreed to marry him and bear his children only because of his athletic abilities?

Further, exactly who cares? If I am going to retain Skippy's firm to do anything other than give me ski lessons, I am going to be concerned only about his professional qualifications and his professional experience. I really don't give a hoot about his athletic endeavors or if he is a "well-rounded" person. That can be reserved for the personal resume, to be submitted with a job application (should Skippy choose to include it). I want a (insert the appropriate term: lawyer, doctor, accountant, IT dude) who can perform that services for which I have retained him or his firm. I am neither going on a ski trip, nor looking for playdates for my own kids. Similarly, I do not wish to invite his wife to coffee.

So, corporate communication gurus, think about your audience and whether they care about this stuff. I think you will conclude the most of us are looking for the bottom line: can Skippy do the job? As well, think about your grammar and go back to the "parts of speech" unit that you might have glossed over in grade eight. If you must include this kind of personal information, try something like:

"Skippy enjoys skiing and spending time with his family".

Or at least make it interesting:

"An avid skier, Skippy and his partner, Jon, have three children through surrogacy. It's a beautiful thing".

Little Miss Know-it-All, I dedicate this to you.

War on Basement Monster Continues: Fear Grows Among Troops

When I was six, I came home at lunchtime one day close to Hallowe'en and turned on the television. The Flintstones had been pre-empted for an ancient film about a vampire - presumably Count Dracula or one of his close relatives - and I had tuned in right when some poor maiden (who had foolishly agreed to stay the night in a dark, stone castle with a rather oddly-dressed host) was about to be bitten as she slept. A chill went down my spine, yet I could not turn away. I watched as the vampire leaned over her and inserted his long fangs into her slim neck. When he pulled away, there were two little holes and presumably, the fair maiden was dead.

That moment changed my life for a very long time. I became instantly terrified of vampires, creatures of which I had no knowledge until that day at lunchtime. I slept with my neck covered up, regardless of temperature or season, until I was about twenty. I was convinced that there were vampires inhabiting every place we lived. At one point, we lived in an old farm house that had a black dirt floor in the "basement". I was certain that something very evil lived there. There are still times when I pull up the covers to avoid exposing any major arteries to opportunistic blood suckers.

So, I note with great interest - and a little bit of concern - that the kids are convinced that there is a monster in our basement. I actually have no idea what brought this on and at first, I thought that they were just playing a game. From my perspective, it was only a game, but I fear that they have come to believe that there is, in fact, some type of creature who lives down there.

I'm not sure how this happened, as we have never talked about a monster or suggested that we have one in our house. I think this is the same kind of hysteria that led to the Salem witch trials. The little room I set up for them so that they could play games and build forts to their hearts' content, sits empty most of the time. They will go downstairs all together, but only if all of the lights are on and only to retrieve something and come right back up.

Thankfully, Arnold, faced with escalating fear, spied the Tikis in each of the kids' rooms. These are souvenirs that the kids brought back from Maui. Arnold is a master story teller and can spin a plausible yarn out of thin air. You see, the Tiki is able to protect kids and others from evil forces that may lurk about. The Tiki's eyes are perpetually open, so it can constantly scan for these things. (When does it sleep, you ask? When everyone is out of the house, of course) When it detects a monster or other unwelcome being, it emits a sphere-like force field that will contain and, consequently, immobilize, the monster. It's a very effective tool and, apparently, the best $6.95 Daniel and Janet ever spent!

It's a pretty good story, if you ask me, and its effectiveness was demonstrated over the weekend. I went downstairs to retrieve some laundry. While down there, Janet called for me. I told her I was on my way upstairs. I heard her run down to the entry way and as I rounded the corner to come upstairs, there she was, reaching for the Tiki that she had placed at the top of the stairs. She said she was bringing it down to me so I would be safe.

It's good to be loved.

The Value of Things

Some people collect coins. Others collect stamps. Still others collect automobiles. Me, I like things that bring back memories or a good story. One of my colleagues used to send personal letters to invite his friends out to lunch or just to say he was thinking about them. I received a couple of those letters and kept them, just because they made me smile. My colleague passed on, and now when I run across one of his letters in the disaster that is my desk drawer, I pause and think of him. Similarly, I exchanged correspondence with my grandmother, Rose, from the time I was eight or nine years old, until shortly before she died, when I was in my early thirties. I kept lots of the letters, moving them from one student apartment to the next, up to Edmonton, back to Calgary and then to where I live now. Reading them makes me think of her, and all of the wonderful times that we shared.

This is a favourite piece of mine. It was a gift from the first teenage babysitter that I remember. Her name was Colleen and when I was six, she went to Ireland on a trip with her family. She brought it back for me. I still remember what she looked like, how she spoke and how much she loved to study!

When I first started working, I had a heavy debt load, a high cost of living and a relatively small salary. So, I had to save up for things. I spotted a little yellow teapot in the Gourmet Cup and fell in love with it. It was, unfortunately, very expensive, so I saved up my money, hoping each week that it wouldn't be sold. I finally purchased it, along with the cream and sugar set. My best friend at the time had just had a baby, however, and I couldn't seem to find a decent gift for her. I wound up giving her the teapot. I wasn't sad about it - it made her very happy and I could go over and look at it anytime I wanted. My roommate, Jamie, was the only other person who knew how much I loved that silly teapot. My birthday came along and he presented me with a brightly wrapped box. In it was this lovely teapot. He had ordered just for me. Everytime I look at it, it makes me happy and I think of all the great times Jamie and I had as classmates, roommates and colleagues.


I like jewelery that has sentimental value, too. I'm not interested in owning rings and other pieces that have no meaning to me, and frankly, I think expensive diamond rings are boring (really!!). I like stuff that has a story and belonged to someone I love, or which reflects something that I love. My grandmother had a ring made for me out of her own engagement ring. I never take it off. Similarly, this cameo was the perfect gift - a surprise from someone who knows just how much I love angels, and I wear it virtually everyday.

Lately, though, I have been spending a lot time thinking about the story of my favourite mug. Years ago, I used to meet a very good friend of mine and her father for breakfast at a popular spot on Saturday mornings. One of the best things about it was the coffee, and the fantastic mugs that seemed to keep it hot for a good long time. I was lamenting one Saturday that I just couldn't find a good mug like that. We finished up our breakfasts and walked over to the mall to buy newspapers. That's when my friend's dad seemed to be passing a wadded up napkin to me. To be frank, I thought this was a little odd, so at first I pretended not to notice. Finally, he opened up the napkin to reveal a mug, which he had taken from the restaurant (I'm sure he asked the waitress if he could have it!!). That was ten years ago, and I've had it ever since. It, too, has traveled with me to many offices and buildings. No one else is allowed to use it and I drink my tea or coffee, as the case may be, from it every single day, and everytime I drink from it, I think of my friend's dad. The story still makes me chuckle and, indeed, I think others have been at least somewhat amused by it.

My friend's dad is now very sick and had surgery this week. I'm praying that he pulls through and my thoughts are with him and his family. The mug makes me think of him and smile, and think about how lucky I am to know and be friends with both him and his daughter. It's not just a mug. It's a treasure, and it's priceless.

More Awkward Moments: Bathroom Reading Material

Is it well-mannered to take reading material to the bathroom at the office? Are there guidelines one can follow?

I've wondered about this for years and I have looked for answers. Many years ago, I had my own copy of Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette. It did not have anything on this subject. Similarly, I was unable to find any answers in the business etiquette books I purchased to prepare me for the high-powered world of work. I've searched etiquette sites on the internet. While there is some advice offered on whether you should ask the person in the stall next to you if you can borrow their newspaper (the answer, by the way, is "no"), the question of whether you should blatantly transport reading materials to the bathroom at the office in the first place remains unanswered.

What a person does to encourage gastrointestinal harmony in the privacy of their own home is their business. I'm all for settling down with an edition of Vanity Fair and seeing how things work out, so let it be known that I have no objection to the concept of bathroom reading. What I find awkward, however, is running into a co-worker in the hallway outside of the bathroom and seeing the office copy of the morning paper or the Journal of Public Sector Procurement in their hands. It's not the fact that they're taking the materials into the bathroom that bothers me - it's the fact that it removes my ability to be willfully blind about what is going to happen next. You see, when a person goes into the bathroom empty-handed, the business that they're about to conduct still remains a mystery. It could be anything from combing their hair, to washing to their hands, to . . . But when they walk by you urgently with the Globe and Mail, and push open the lavatory door, you know they're going in for a "movement" and, well, it makes for an awkward moment.

What would be the solution? I don't think that people will ever stop reading in the bathroom. Indeed, those people who publish the Bathroom Reader series are likely very rich right now. So, why not design office washrooms with magazine racks on the backs of the doors? That way, the need to read could be accommodated discreetly, and everyone can happily go about their business.

Awkward Moments: Four Dates and a Funeral

I had a discussion with a friend today about my love of "awkward" humour, and it got me thinking about awkward moments in dating. Read on.

Let's say you're dating someone hot and it has the potential to develop into something regular. You haven't really sat down to think about whether the two of you have anything tangible in common, other than a love for the Saturday Globe and Mail crossword and a good Denver omlette. There has been no discussion of "feelings" and you're not known about town as a couple, but come the weekend, the two of you are inseparable. Tuesday night he calls and says that there's been a death in the family. The funeral is Saturday. You don't know the relative who died. In fact, you haven't really thought about the whole "other people" - that is, family and friends that pre-date you - angle. As he gives you the details of time, place and name of the deceased, however, it becomes clear that, well, you're invited.

Unlike being someone's date for a wedding, a dance or a dinner party, where there are social precedents and your role is generally very clear, being someone's "date" at a funeral is just plain awkward. For one thing, if you're there as a date, you're probably at the stage in your relationship where there is a bit of an identity crisis. You may not yet be considered his girlfriend, so how are you defined? Are you his colleague, his friend (ouch!) or (bigger ouch!) just some chick he's "seeing"? Although it's probably the most descriptive, you can't very well tell people that you're "lovers" - it's too weird to do that in any situation, let alone a funeral.

The identity crisis leads to practical problems. How should you act? Should you be doting and attentive? Or should you stand in the shadows, out of the way, but ready to "be there" when the emotion runs high and tears flow? What do you say when you're inevitably asked how you knew the deceased or, worse, if you knew the deceased? It's not as easy as answering the question of how you know the bride or groom. Chances are, you'll only be able to smile weakly and say "no", but that you heard he was a great guy. That, in turn, will lead to a puzzled look and, unless you're able to explain that you're here with so-and-so, there may be pointing and whispers. At least you can drink wine at a wedding. At a funeral, you're pretty much limited to coffee and sandwiches.

In the event that you decide to be doting and attentive, just what do you do? Should you hug him and tell him that you understand, knowing full well that, not ever hearing of the deceased and knowing absolutely nothing about your "date's" prior life and family, you couldn't possibly understand?

What happens if, notwithstanding the fact that you don't know the deceased, the eulogy makes you cry? That has actually happened to me (not at a date's funeral, but at one where I knew the husband of the deceased). People will look at you like you're some kind of grief stalker, crying at the drop of a hat about people you've never met.

And what about your outfit? You know that he loves that little black number you wear with spike-y boots and it's really the only good looking black thing you own. Yet, if you wear it, you'll probably look a bit too wanton for both the funeral and the tuna, deviled ham and egg salad sandwich fiesta that inevitably follows.

It's an awkward situation all round.

Exclusive: Alien Being Found in Basement of Middle Class Home!

Daniel and Michael have been hanging out in the basement. A lot. In addition to playing video games down there, they play cards and pretend they are Spartan warriors, with shields and swords that they have constructed from duct tape (and entire roll of it) and cardboard. Generally, girls are not allowed, although Janet can go by herself and join the boys, because she lives in the house and it's easier than listening to her continually ask to come and play with them.

Yesterday the boys started building a rocket ship, again, with duct tape and cardboard. They were determined to finish it, but then got off track. You see, it seems, that the monster that used to live in my parents' basement when I was a child has followed me and and now lives in my basement, terrorizing my children. It now lives in a dark cave just off the family room. The mess in the room pictured below was apparently the work of the monster (which is how I know it's the same monster that was around when I was young!):


Fortunately, Daniel and Michael, who have become the very best of friends and who communicate telepathically, have had some time to study the monster. While they are unable to destroy it at present, they have armed themselves with weapons that will allow them to keep it at bay. Spraying the floor of the furnace room with a mixture of dish soap and water will, apparently, repel it. It doesn't like to get its feet wet. They thought about using the spray bottle defensively, spraying the monster in the eyes in case of an attack, but whether or not the monster has eyes has not been determined, so spraying the floor is the preferred course of action. The arsenal also includes a golden lariat, just in case it gets close enough that they need to subdue it (I haven't the heart to tell them that it was Wonder Woman who used a golden lariat).

Knowing that communication is key (I think this comes from Michael's side), the boys have code words to use over their walkie-talkies, which they test. When one of them goes into the basement, the other stands by, ready to fly into action if the proper code word is spoken. They check in at regular 1-minute intervals.

Finally, as you can see, they're a couple of tough dudes, ready to defend their turf, so I can rest easy.


I love the endless imaginations of children. Keep on stalking that monster, boys! You have no idea just how much it warms my heart.

Out of the Shadows . . .

Two summers ago I read The Bear's Embrace by Patricia van Tighem. Ms. van Tighem was the victim of a serious bear attack while on a hike in the early 1980s. It left her her terribly disfigured and worse, it left her with post traumatic stress disorder and serious depression that went undiagnosed and untreated for many years. Through all of that, she worked as nurse, raised children, including one with Down's Syndrome, and was active in her community. She started a chapter of "About Face" in Calgary, a group for people with facial disfigurement, and was involved in "Ups and Downs", a networking group for parents of children with Down's. My sister met her once and said she was an utterly remarkable person. The ending of The Bear's Embrace leaves you thinking that she made peace with what happened to her and was "moving on". Sadly, however, she killed herself in the early 2000s, years after she published her book.

Services and support for those with mental illness are, frankly deficient, and vary sharply across the country. Combine this with the stigma and shame of mental illness, along with outdated beliefs about the causes and cures ("just buck up and get over it"), and the results can be lethal. So, I'm thrilled about the initiative of the Harper government in setting up a mental health commission, composed of individuals who have first hand experience with mental illness, either because they have a loved one affected or they themselves suffer from a mental illness. The story about the commission chair, Michael Kirby, that ran in the Globe and Mail last weekend left me feeling confident that the commission has the direction it needs and will do meaningful and effective work. What leaves me puzzled, however, is the criticism that this has attracted. There have been suggestions that the motivation to set up the commission was votes, as opposed to to a sincere desire to explore how we can treat mental illness more effectively. All I can to that is who cares? So long as the commission is effective, the motivation is irrelevant. Besides, what government actions are not motivated by a desire to increase popularity? Who is naive enough to think otherwise?

I hope that this commission gets the support and respect from Canadians that it deserves. It should be supported and promoted. People with mental illness need a voice so that they can move out of the shadows and seek treatment, and get the same kind of respect that we give to people with cancer, diabetes and ALS. They all deserve our support and understanding and if they get it, maybe movers and shakers like Patricia van Tighem won't feel that ending their lives is the only way out.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby . . . Or Have You?

I used to love the Virginia Slims cigarette advertisements that appeared in magazines when I was a girl. In fact, I think that is what attracted me to smoking cigarettes in the first place: images of female farm wives, sneaking cigarettes behind the backs of their domineering husbands, with '70s supermodel Cheryl Tiegs in the foreground, looking beautiful, confident and, above all, independent, with her stylish outfit and elegant, long cigarette. I imagined myself as a high powered journalist, working on a story late into the night in a smoke-filled office somewhere. Cigarettes were a manifestation of my independence and my desire to be able to rely upon myself to get through life, socially, economically and emotionally. The cigarettes are long gone (thank goodness), but the need for self-reliance has never waned.

My parents separated and then divorced when I was in elementary school. We started off as the typical 1960s suburban family, with mom at home and dad at work. We lived on a street with other, similar families. The marital breakdown brought that to a sudden end, however. I think that my parents tried their best to minimize the impact on my sister and I - and they did a fine job - but nevertheless, for my then stay-at-home mother, the Betty Crocker days were over. Enter Mildred Pierce. Both of my parents were suddenly less affluent and we went from a house in the suburbs to a close-to-inner-city apartment.

So, I was raised in a home with working parents. Out of economic necessity, (there is only so much money to go around after a divorce) my mother went to work and, shortly after I went to live with my dad, my stepmom went back to university, finished her degree and also went to work. I knew that was somewhat unusual for the times, but as I made my way through high school, university and law school, I thought perhaps that economic freedom, most likely acquired by working, would be the norm for women of my generation. Indeed, having parents with careers left me with the impression that working and raising a family was the only way to go. Alas, practicing family law opened my eyes to the fact that there are people - mostly women - of my vintage and, indeed, some even younger, who cling to the whole "handsome prince/provider" dream, without stopping to really consider the social, economic and emotional consequences of dependency that goes with that. Traditional family values and all sound really great and, indeed, there are days when I look at my kids and wonder if I should have given it all up years ago and let their dad be the breadwinner. But then, reality kicks me in the head.


For the record, I respect the choices that others make and, in fact, I have a number of friends and acquaintances who stay home with their kids. What disturbs me is not that they have made this choice, but rather, that they may not have made informed choices. Do they fully consider what might happen if the breadwinner, by reason of illness, death or marital breakdown, no longer provides, or cannot provide, at the same level? In most cases, there are significant economic consequences and despite the best intentions of the couple or, where necessary, judicial pronouncements on the right of dependent spouses and children to be maintained in a suitable manner, the fact is that the resources simply do not go as far and the standard of living invariably goes down.

Personally, I have always feared the power imbalance that this type of dependency creates. Having economic resources of your own means that you have choices: you may choose to stay in your relationship or you can choose to leave. While you may stay for reasons that are not, to outside parties, particularly compelling, at least you are not staying in a bad relationship just to have a roof over your head or to feed your kids.

The breadwinners in these relationships need to wake up and smell the coffee, too. When I practiced family law, it drove me crazy when I had to explain to a client that, yes, if you have had someone dependent on you for the last 20 years or so, stoking the home fires and raising the kids whilst you advanced your career, you need to honour your end of the bargain and contribute accordingly.

So, raise your kids to make informed choices. That will give them more choices, and that way, if your daughter's husband comes home and announces that they are moving to Guam, she can choose to take part in the adventure, or she can simply hand him the sunscreen and say "have a good time"!

Embarrassing Moments

Miss Teen South Carolina had a doozy of an embarrassing moment last week. I'm sure everyone has, by now, heard about her answer to a question about how so many Americans (or "U.S. Americans" as she called them) cannot find the United States on a map. In her "personal opinion", the reason had something to do with South Africa and "the Iraq". Yes, she's blond, and it appears to be her natural colour. I note, however, that she is now doing the daytime talk show circuit and seems to see the humour in the whole thing, and this suggests, to me, at least, that despite this, well, mind fart, Ms. Teen South Carolina, or Lauren Caitlin Upton, as she is otherwise known, is probably a pretty smart cookie and has a health sense of humility. Indeed, I find myself laughing with her, and in fact I feel a bit of a connection to her, having had, oh say, a few embarrassing moments myself.

Now, you may be thinking - why is it always all about Karan? The answer is simple. It's my blog. So, I am now posting one of my most embarrassing moments. It took me awhile to decide which one to write about, because there have been many. In the end, however, I decided that none have been quite so memorable as this one.

Picture this: It was 1979. I was 15 it was the first week of school. I was in math class. That summer, I secretly purchased and then transported to school a pair of Candies mules, a sub-type of "come f**k me" shoes designed, I think, specifically for trailer trash. I had a pair on my feet. In my world, the cool girls wore them, with rolled-up jeans. I so wanted to be cool. They were all the rage. Catherine Bach sported them with cut-offs and tube-tops in the Dukes of Hazzard (okay - my age is really showing now). My parents remained blissfully unaware of my foray into skankiness, happily believing that I was walking around at school in my canvass Nike tennis sneakers.

I felt very cool with my footwear and despite my inner geekiness, I turned to the very cute dude behind me and asked to borrow his pencil sharpener. Ordinarily, I would not have done this, him being a member of the football team, and a grade ahead of me, and, naturally, very, very cool, but the magic shoes seemed to instill instant confidence. I was suddenly desirable, at least in my own mind. Then, before he could answer, came the beginning of the end.

"You there", boomed the math teacher. I knew he was talking to me. My face burned.

"If you're going to talk while I'm talking, I want you at the front of the class so everyone can hear you". He pointed to a desk in the front row.

I gathered up my books, paper, pencils, erasers, geometry set, calculator and binders, and prepared to walk like the sexy model I was, to the front of the room.

I stood up and started walking to the front of the room. All eyes were upon me. I felt proud at the clack, clack, clack of my mules. Then, it happened. There was a "skid" instead of a "clack," followed by the banging and clanging of the aforesaid materials all around me. I had tripped and taken a giant nose dive onto the floor. The classroom erupted into laughter. To make matters worse, the heal of my shoe was caught in the artfully rolled-up cuff of my jeans, with the result that I was left writhing on the floor of the classroom, trying to get up.

I eventually got up and took my seat at the front, waiting in agony for the class to end and preparing to face the inevitable rumours that would fly around about my mishap. The bell rang and I went to my locker and changed back into my Nikes. I remained in the front row for the balance of the year. The football player ignored me for the rest of hight school, and wound up dating someone more his type - a cheerleader who had several different colours of Candies and who, I presume, could walk in them as well.