Monday, December 26, 2011

Sometimes People are Cool


And sometimes, they’re really not.

Last week, a friend of mine unknowingly dropped her phone in a parking lot. Upon realizing what must’ve happened, she tried calling the phone, but it went straight to voicemail, so she assumed it died or had broken somewhere in the fall. But when she called her husband to tell him what happened, he said that he had called her earlier and someone picked up. When he asked who was speaking, they hung up. Being that she had retraced her steps through the parking lot and the store, this likely means that someone found the phone after she dropped it, and kept it for themselves. That’s a pretty sucky thing to have happen at any time, but especially at Christmastime. It’s an unfortunate reminder that not everyone in this great, big world of ours is, shall we say, honest or kind. But that’s not the kind of post I’d like to write about today.

In the spirit of the holidays, I’d like to tell you some stories that have happy endings.

The first tale is about a man named Albert. I had served Albert only a few times but I remembered him because he always drank Stella, ordered a pound of wings with extra celery and used a double Airmiles coupon. Plus, he was a really sweet old man; just someone that was polite and always struck up a harmless, friendly conversation, which, when you work in a sports bar, is not always what you get when serving an older man who dines alone. I hadn’t seen him in quite a few months, so Albert was surprised to come in one day to find that I remembered him and his order, and that I was six or seven months pregnant. So we chatted for awhile; turns out his daughter was also pregnant at the time. And after he paid his bill, which included a gratuity, he handed me a $20 bill. I assumed he just needed me to break some change for him, so I started to do so, but he stopped me and told me to use that $20 to start my baby’s college fund. I cried. Not an ugly cry, but a shocked, misty-eyed, could-not-believe-this-actually-happens little moment. Can you imagine? This almost stranger, someone whom I barely knew anything about – just his preference in beer and wings, was selflessly handing me money to put towards my unborn baby’s future. I tried to refuse the money, and when that didn’t work, I tried to be as gracious as I could. How could I tell this man how much his simple gesture meant to me? I didn’t have the words then, and I don’t have them now either. I just know that what he did was the kindest, most pure thing anyone has ever done for me. I promised him that my daughter would know where her first twenty dollars came from, and when she’s old enough to understand, we will go to the bank together to deposit the money that Albert gave to her, the money I’ve kept in a special place since that day, and she’ll know all about the man who likes to drink Stella.

The next story also takes place during my stint as a pregnant waitress. This one involves Steve, one quarter of a group of regulars that I had been serving for years. One day while talking about my pregnancy, Steve made a comment, something to the effect of him offering me the crib his youngest son had just vacated. I don’t really remember what was said but I know that even though I agreed, I brushed the exchange off and didn’t take it seriously because well, people don’t just give other people cribs, let alone to your friendly, neighbourhood bartender, no matter how good she makes your mild Caesars. But then a few weeks later, Steve brought it up again, asking when would be a good time to bring the crib by. Again, I don’t really remember the conversation, just that I was still unsure if this was actually happening or not, because this kind of stuff doesn’t really happen to people, right? And then one day, Steve showed up with a pretty, white crib in the back of his truck; a crib that made its way into my car, and then my daughter’s nursery. For free. Again, I was shocked and dumbfounded that people this nice do exist and I’m still overwhelmed sometimes when I think about Steve’s gift. If you remember, Dawson and I hadn’t exactly planned to have a baby, so it’s not really a stretch to say that we were... scrambling a bit to get everything in order before our monster princess’s arrival. In giving us the pretty, white crib, Steve not only gave our baby a place to sleep, but he lifted a huge weight off our shoulders and, like Albert, reminded us there is good to be found in this world.

I remember once during college, while paying for groceries at the self-checkout, I used the cash back button to take out $20. Like an idiot, I forgot to take the money with me, even though that automated voice reminds you every time to please take your change and your receipt. FYI, I did manage to take the receipt with me. Anyway, I didn’t realize what happened until I got home, and since I lived a five minute walk from the store, I raced back to see if the money was still there. It wasn’t, of course, and I felt so stupid for having forgotten it in the first place. As I walked home, again, I decided that instead of being mad about the situation, I was going to believe that my money had found its way into the hands of somebody who desperately needed it, somebody who was now able to afford some extra groceries for their family or somebody who was having a string of bad luck, who thought that finding $20 might just be a sign of good things to come. Maybe none of that was true, but I think that believing in something positive, however improbable it may be, is always more powerful than thinking the worst.

So instead of assuming that some punk found my friend's phone and took it in a selfish act, we’ll choose to believe that whoever found it needed an iPhone more than she did. Because that’s what Christmastime is all about -believing in the good, the magic, that kindness exists and that strangers can give each other money or cribs simply out of the goodness of their hearts. Merry Christmas to you and yours, and if you don’t celebrate Christmas, well then Happy Hanukah, Happy Kwanza, or happy holidays. Or happy whatever. We hope that whatever you celebrate or don’t celebrate, that your days are filled with joy and love. And iPhones.

-Alice

Monday, December 19, 2011

Goodbye Money


It seems like just yesterday that I made the 30 second decision to go back to work (as a waitress, not a hooker). But alas, it’s been eight months. Eight months of spending two to three days in another city, away from my husband and only seeing my monster princess in the a.m. And while those circumstances are certainly not the worst case scenario by any means, it was still not ideal. So, as much as we could definitely still benefit from me bringing home some dolla dolla bills y’all each week, we made the decision that I should quit. That way I can be home full-time with Thumper again, and hopefully the lack of bills flowing in my bank account will scare me enough to kick-start my freelance writing career. Seeing as I did legitimately go to college to become a freelance writer.

And that’s the thing. Even though it was totally my decision to quit, and even though Dawson fully supports me, I am freaking out. I started working again to help sustain our finances while we saved for the wedding. When I look back, had we not had the extra income, well, I’m literally almost in tears thinking of the debt we’d have accumulated only in those few months. And even though we no longer have a wedding to save for, we still have every day expenses that I fear one income might not be enough for for too much longer.

I know that I just finished saying I hope this is enough to make me start working independently as a writer, but do you know what statement I heard most often from my teachers in college? That writers make shitty money. Seriously. (No wonder my class of thirty was down to eleven by the time graduation came around.) And there’s no guarantee that anybody ever wants to read what you’ve written, let alone publish it. So I can work my little butt off and create these grand stories and articles until my fingernails fall off but that doesn’t mean I’m guaranteed to ever make a single cent off of it. And that’s fucking terrifying.

The reason why I’m blogging about this is because I’m hoping to hold myself accountable. By putting this goal of mine out there (to actually at least try to be a “professional” writer), I’m hoping that the fear of debt and the fear of not succeeding after having told the whole blogging world that I’m gunna be a rock star writer! will be enough to help me get over the fear of potentially sucking at writing and just do it.

So yes, this week will mark the end of my waitressing career (again) (and hopefully for the last time). But hopefully it will bring about the beginning of something better, maybe not something more financially lucrative, but something that will have more passion than me listing off what beers are on tap for the rest of my life. Goodbye money. Goodbye serving uniform. Goodbye noises everywh—

Oh wait. Wrong story. My bad.

Maybe I should stick to my day job.

-Alice

Monday, December 12, 2011

Good Days


Sometimes motherhood is exhausting. Sometimes, you get so tired of the never ending line of eardrum shattering tantrums, uneaten meals, and mountains of laundry that you swear you’d give up your own boobs if it meant you could have some peace and quiet.

But other times, motherhood is fulfilling and fun and all of those heart warming things they talk about in the baby books. You know, all the stuff your pregnant self dreamed about but then realized was BS when you brought your screaming, pooping, nocturnal bundle of joy home from the hospital. But seriously, those days you long ago dreamed of do exist. I promise.

I know because today was one of those days for Thumper and I. I don’t know why, but we had the simplest, most fun day ever. We didn’t do anything extraordinary; we just did some errands and went to a play group, but Thumper decided that today would be a good day to listen to everything I asked of her and to share toys with other kids. She also did her first real craft, with my help of course, but still. I don’t even like doing crafts but I had so much fun with her I might even try another one. She also willingly went down for a nap, which automatically makes any day a good day.

It also helped that I was in a good mood too. That’s the one thing I too often forget- that positivity is a two way street. It’s not just up to Thumper to share, I’ve got to have the patience to play with her and show her how to do things and actually let her do them on her own. For whatever reason, I did that today and it reminded me how well things go when I do. It’s something I’ll need to start doing more of.

I’m sorry that this post is so boring. I know you guys count on me for a weekly story of awkwardness and parental failure on my part but there just hasn’t been much happening for us since Thumper renamed herself El Dorado. (Update, we did see those girls again today and although Thumper knew who they were immediately, they didn’t remember her. I have yet to decide if that was influenced by their mother who probably still thinks we’re crazy or not.) But I promise that soon enough, I’ll have some interesting stories for you. After all, Thumper is moving to a big girl bed this weekend and we’re going to start potty training in a few weeks. God help us all.

My point, however vague or boring it is, is that you can survive even the most harrowing days in Mommyland. You have to, because the days when everything goes your way are so sweet. The days when you and your kids quietly and happily colour together, or snuggle under a blanket watching a movie, or make paper reindeers for the Christmas tree are what make those hellish days so worth it.

-Alice

Monday, December 5, 2011

Backfire Story of the Day


Thumper’s new favourite question to ask (instead of what’s that?) is what’s your name? It started innocently enough; one day when another child approached Thumper at the library, I could tell Thumper was about to unleash her paranoid fury on the kid for infringing on her toy territory, so I encouraged her to ask the child his name, and then tell him hers, and then they’d be friends and could play together. It worked at the time, and quickly, it became her signature line. Except that instead of asking other kids, she asks Dawson and I. All. The. Time. And there’s only so many times we can answer honestly, so we started being silly about it and saying things like Cinderella or Buzz Lightyear or Tina Fey. Obviously, my two year old thinks it’s hilarious.

The backfire comes into play earlier today when I took Thumper to a local playgroup. She was approached by two sisters who actually asked her, before she could ask them, what her name was. The mom asked if Thumper would be able to reply on her own, and we engaged in a little chit-chat about how Thumper could answer, and how funny this was because she is always asking other people the same thing. Then one of the girls turns to her mom and says, “Mommy, that little girl’s name is El Dorado.”  

If you don't get it, it's because you don't know that The Road to El Dorado is Thumper's favourite movie to watch at her grandparents' house.

The mom looked back at me with a half-smile of bewilderment and a loss for words as I laughed and tried to explain that my daughter is not, in fact, named after the real nor the Disney version the lost city of gold. Either she didn't believe me, or was judging the fact that my two year-old watches The Road to El Dorado because our daughters did not become friends after that exchange.

I tried to explain the Thumper that the game is only funny if the person she's talking to actually knows her real name. An hour later while at the library, I overheard her asking another little girl what her name was. When the shy girl wouldn't answer, Thumper offered up "My name is El Dorado." Needless to say, she didn't understand the concept of the game. Or become friends with that little girl.

I guess the moral of the story is, pretty much anything you do as parent will come back to haunt you. Even the stupid stuff.

-Alice

Monday, November 28, 2011

Tips For Surviving a Hawaiian Cruise


You may or may not know this, but my last two posts have come to you from Hawaii! Okay, not exactly. I was in Hawaii, and left my pre-written posts with a friend so that I wouldn’t have to worry about putting them up while I doubled my weight in cheesecake consumption during my honeymoon cruise. The point is, I was gone, and now I’m back, and you didn’t even know the difference. Shabang!

Anyway, as with all my vacations this year, I came home with a list of helpful tips and advice for those of you who may be about to embark on a similar adventure. I also came home with a burn mark on my leg, and sans luggage. But more on all that in a minute.

The walls of the Queen Mary hotel are very thin. We arrived in California the day before our cruise left, and thought it would be very cool to stay at the Queen Mary, the ocean liner turned war vessel turned hotel, docked in Long Beach. Before you get ahead of yourself and assume that I play the (embarrassed) fool in this one, I’ll tell you that Dawson and I were the ones woken from a wonderful, much-earned sleep by the young, adventurous couple in the room next to us. Several times in one night. And in the morning. It seems that although the legendary ship was able to survive World War II, its walls cannot contain the sexual exploits of its passengers. Luckily we never ran into our neighbours. And I mean, lucky for them, because Dawson undoubtedly would have made a comment.

BYOD. Bring your own drugs. And I don’t mean the kind that will get you stopped at the airport or thrown in a foreign jail. I mean the ones to stave off motion sickness. Even if you’ve never had motion sickness in your life. Even if you are 100% sure you won’t need them. Because the truth is, you might. Your ship might sail through a storm, a mild storm yes, but one still able to rock your ship so much that at least 50% of the passengers have their heads in the toilet. And when that happens, you don’t want to be stuck buying drugs from the ship pharmacy because they will charge you eleventy-million dollars for eight cute, little, itty-bitty tablets. Even though the packaging box looks like it could fit seventy more pills in there.

Where applicable, rent mopeds. This was the most fun thing we did on our vacation, and potentially the most fun thing I’ve done ever. It even beats the time I touched Timbaland’s arm.* We tried to rent them in Hilo but a local woman advised us that Hilo’s many highways weren’t the best place to be with a souped up bicycle. Then we were going to try in Honolulu but I chickened out after seeing how busy the streets were. It turns out Kauai is the best island to moped around, as they have no major highways and no real metropolises. So Dawson and I hopped on and made our way through the mountains of the island where they filmed most of LOST, swam in a secluded fresh water pond, and found the best burger joint on the island. Possibly the best anywhere. It. Was. Awesome.

But don’t touch the muffler. Seriously. Don’t touch the muffler. Especially after you’ve been riding the moped mostly non-stop for five hours because it’s hot and will burn the shit out of you. Not literally of course, but it will leave a triangular shaped burn mark on your left leg when you accidentally skim it while trying to refill the gas tank. Which was nowhere near the muffler. 

BYOMK. Bring your own medical kit. Again, because you don’t want to be stuck getting your over sized band-aids and antibiotic cream from the ship’s medical office because it will cost you $60 just to meet with them. Also? When another passenger offers you a package of (sealed) antibiotic cream, thank him graciously and use it, but make sure to ask him if he’s a doctor. Because if you take the cream and assume he’s just being friendly and trying to help, eventually his comment that your leg looks inflamed will haunt you in your dreams until you break and decide it’s probably best to book an appointment with the ship doctor just to be sure, only to find out after you forked over the $60 that the friendly passenger dude is actually a legit doctor who gave you some medical supplies for free.

Always bring your ‘A’ game. Because you never know when a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons cover band is going to pull you on stage to serenade you with “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” Your heart might be pounding, and you might not be able to see anything past the first two rows because of those blinding stage lights, and you might end up shaking for at least two more songs after your moment is over, but it’s okay. Just smile, and play along. Make faces, dance a little, sing along. After all, most of the audience is 60 + and they will love you hamming it up, and will tell you how great you were afterward. Except for the die-hard fan sitting next to you who asks you through gritted teeth if you even know who the band is (yes I do, thank you very much!), and the woman you run into a few nights later who pretty much tells you that you only got picked because you’re young.

Disneyland might not be a great idea on Thanksgiving. We disembarked from our cruise ship pretty early in the morning and had a whole day to kill until our flight home that night. We did what any reasonable person would do, and drove a rental car to Disneyland to kill some time. Smart, right? Except that that weekend was the American Thanksgiving. The three rides we went on took us over three hours, and by then we decided we might as well cut our losses and focus on dropping a small fortune on shopping purchases. Instead of buying tickets to the theme park, we should’ve just stayed in the shopping area located at the entrance. That’s where we bought most of our stuff anyway. At least we know now for the next impromptu trip during a major American holiday.

Airlines suck. This one isn’t really a tip; it’s just me ranting. Firstly, I don’t understand why airlines get to charge passengers extra money for checked bags. Isn’t that partially what we pay them for to begin with? And secondly, I don’t know how they lose people’s luggage all.the.damn.time. How freaking hard is it to send someone’s luggage on the correct plane? When I have a connection to catch, I manage to do it. Why can’t someone make sure my luggage does too? And when it doesn’t, why can’t people at the airport be nice and understanding about it? Why do they make it sound like it’s our fault for trusting and expecting airlines to do exactly what they said would do? Why? WHY, AIRLINES? WHY DO YOU SUCK?

Despite the airline fiasco, the burn mark, and not getting to meet Cinderella at Disneyland, the trip was amazing. I got to sleep in and take five hour naps, I saw a ton of waterfalls and walked where Sawyer, Kate and Jack walked before me, and I got to eat all of my meals without having to convince any other tiny humans to please for the love of God eat something. Speaking of, Thumper was reportedly well-behaved for all of her babysitters and didn’t seem to miss us at all. We called my mother in law from the airport to check in before coming home, and heard Thumper yell from the background, “I AM HAVING A GREAT TIME!” Of course, that didn’t stop her from breaking down in tears when we picked her up. After a fifteen minute scream/cry-fest, I asked why she was upset and she said she forgot that she missed us until right then. She’s been asking for a lot of hugs and kisses since then, and we’ve been milking it.

-Alice

*Okay, maybe not. Touching Timbaland’s arm while he walked past me at a Justin Timberlake concert was pretty cool. 

Monday, November 21, 2011

Things That Piss Me Off on a Good Day...


...and makes me crazier than a Real Housewife at some whacked-out dinner party on a bad day.
Pet peeves. We all have them. Oh yes, even you, Perfect Mommy. Stuff that even on the happiest of days makes you want to punch someone in the head. And it’s those same things that, on the unhappiest of days, make you want to rip off your own arm to use to bash someone in the head. Such as...
Honking your horn instead of going to the door
I’m not going to pretend I’ve never done this. I get that sometimes you’re in a hurry, or maybe you’ve got kids buckled in the back and don’t want to undo them all, nor do you want to leave them unattended. But here’s where I draw the line: if you pick someone up daily, or even weekly, and never once get out of your car to tell them you’ve arrived, you are an impolite prick. (Especially if you are about 50 years old and picking up your 75+ mother every day. Ahem! Neighbour of mine!) Why don’t we make a rule? You can honk once. Wait a little bit, say, one minute. Time it, if you like. And if the person hasn’t come outside, you need to get out and go get them, because if they didn’t hear the first honk, they are probably not going to hear the next eleventy-seven-thousand. If by the time you are out of the car, the person is already coming out, don’t be mad about “wasting time” having to get in and out of your seat. Chances are you will both be buckled into the car at the same time, in which case, you haven’t “wasted” any time; you’ve just done something with that time instead of sitting on your ass, taking your rage out on your horn (that’s what she said).
When clothing stores don’t have mirrors in the change rooms
Again, I understand the thinking behind this one. They want people to come out of the change room while trying on clothes partly so they can offer their services and advice but mostly so they can be assured that you’re not shoving 30 pairs of designer jeans into your purse. And that’s cool, I guess, except that sometimes I choose clothing that looks better on the hanger, or on someone that has perky boobs/a belly button that hasn’t been over-stretched/is nineteen, and don’t want to exit the dressing room before consulting a mirror. And you might argue that I have no business wearing anything that involves the word “mini,” and you might be right about that, but this is Canada, and I reserve the right to at least try it on. I would also like to reserve the right to try it on, look in the mirror, and take it right off without having to do a walk of shame in front of nineteen year old retail associates with perky boobs and perfect belly buttons.
Children repeating the same question seventy times
We haven’t quite entered the “why” stage yet, so I don’t know which one is actually more annoying. But for right now, I’d say Thumper asking “where the fruit loops go?” all morning takes the cake. There are only so many times I can give the same answer (“in your belly”), and then there are only so many other responses I can come up with (“they’re sleeping,” “at the grocery store,” “they’re working their way through your body and eventually they’ll be in your poop”). It’s also frustrating when the repeated question is “what’s that?” because, again, very limited response and also, when the question is being asked while in the car, it’s pretty hard to even know what the hell my child is referring to. Which reminds me...
Children who don’t accept that ‘I don’t know’ as an answer
Again, I don’t know how this will stack up against the inevitable “why” phase but I will say that I think getting clocked over the head at one of those insane dinner parties I was talking about would be less painful than having Thumper continually ask “what’s that?” while I’m driving because she won’t accept that “I don’t know. I can’t see it, I’m driving” is a valid answer. Despite what I might say when Thumper is a teenager, I don’t actually know the answers to everything. And I promise that when my child is old to enough to be asking real questions, if I don’t know something I will at least try to look it up and find an answer. Or make up something that sounds real enough. But for now, sometimes “I don’t know” is going to have to do, or else I’m gonna have to take myself out with the chair just to avoid the incessant question-asking.
Now because I would prefer to end this post on a positive note, let me tell you a few things that always make my days better.
-When I don’t have to beg Thumper to cuddle with me when we watch movies
-Reruns of Saved by the Bell
-Having an automatic car starter in the winter
-Waking up to my daughter singing the lyrics to “Marry You” by Bruno Mars
-Sleeping in
-Wine
And those are just a few of my favourite things! But seriously people, if you take anything away from this post, please remember the one-honk rule. Every extra honk you make earns you an extra punch from a disgruntled neighbour. Just sayin’.
-Alice

Monday, November 14, 2011

God Loves Shoulders too. I Think?


Before I get into this, I should say that I’m aware that I’m about to stick my foot in my mouth. It’s not that I want to offend anyone, but it’s pretty much inevitable when speaking about religion in any capacity. So this is my official disclaimer. I’m going to tell you a story, and that story takes place in church. I am in no way trying to piss anyone off so I apologize in advance if that happens. You have been warned.
About a month ago, I started taking Thumper to church. I grew up in Catholic family where, like most of the people I knew then, we went to mass every Sunday. And although when I was young, I didn’t really enjoy it, I happen to actually like mass as an adult. Of course, that doesn’t mean I go every week, or, ever really, because I’m also one of those people who thinks that being busy and sleeping in are (kinda) valid excuses. Also, I’ve been afraid of taking my child to church because I can’t stand the thought of other people staring at me and judging my parenting skills because my offspring can’t sit quietly through mass. Whatever. The point is, I finally felt it was time for us to give it a try and it turns out Thumper is pretty good at sitting (kinda) quietly during mass.
So there we were one Sunday, waiting for mass to start - sitting at the back of course, in case we ended up in need of a hasty exit- when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see an older female church-goer pulling the sleeve of my off-the-shoulder shirt back onto my shoulder. She leaned in close and said in a voice that can only be described as scary, judgey and condescending, “Do you mind to cover up?” Except that, of course, it wasn’t a question at all. It was a you-had-better-not-show-that-shoulder-in-these-here-parts-again statement. Except that she was Italian, not country western. Whatever.
Even though pretty much no one else could have seen or heard what had happened, I still felt embarrassed. And angry. And baffled. So I ended up not paying much attention to mass and trying to figure out what the hell actually happened, while wearing my off-the-shoulder shirt like a smock.
There are so many angles to this situation that I almost don’t know where to start. Obviously I don’t really know how she intended her comment to sound. Was she actually judging me and trying to make me feel like an unwed hooker? Or did she think she was being helpful and polite by asking me to be a little more conservative? Was she asking me to cover up for her sake, or for the sake of other sensitive church-goers? Or was it on behalf of God and for the sake of wearing your Sunday Best in His house? I’m only left to speculate.
If I hadn’t been sitting in a church where my grandmother and aunt are well known, I might’ve dropped the sleeve right off my shoulder again. But considering my aunt had introduced me to the woman who asked me to cover up the very week before, I figured that I should continue to wear my shirt as a smock/moo-moo for the duration. It was a decision I made out of respect for my aunt and grandmother, but it begs the question, why does everyone else wear their Sunday Best?
My first instinct is to say the idea was born out of society’s need to impress and outdo each other. The idea of us wearing our fanciest clothes to church reminds me of the first half of the 20th century, where, it’s my impression anyway, most families were taught to project an image of perfection, up to and including having the best clothes, immaculate hair and the most well-behaved children. And so, as much as I can’t blame that woman for thinking it was inappropriate to show some shoulder skin in church because it’s clearly just what she was brought up to believe, I feel that the notion is a bit out dated. It’s now the 21st century where our society, or maybe it’s more accurate to say the younger generations, at the very least, are trying to be more accepting of each other, where imperfections, whatever they may be, are okay, and where being different, be it coming from a blended family, having a different sexual preference or not wearing the “best” clothes, doesn’t automatically have to be a death sentence.
That’s not a totally fair assessment of the situation though, because there are people who believe that wearing your nicest clothes to church is a sign of respect to God. And while I do understand this belief, I can’t say that I agree with it. I think that the basic teaching of any faith is to love your neighbours and be kind to one another, and I think that your clothing has no bearing on your ability to follow that lesson. In the end, I believe that whether you’re in your own house or God’s house, being a good person is more important than the clothes you wear while doing so. Wasn’t Jesus friends with prostitutes and outcasts? Something tells me that Mary Magdalene didn’t have the best clothes in Jerusalem, but is that what Jesus asked of her? No. He didn’t ask her to cover up her shoulder. He asked her to treat others as she wanted to be treated, with respect, kindness and compassion.
I know this topic is not as simple as I may have made it seem. I know the teachings of the Catholic Church have their roots in ancient times and traditions and are so much more complex than I have given them credit for. No matter the comments and opinions that this post is going to inevitably gather, both from friends and strangers, I’d like to continue believing that the God I believe in doesn’t care what I wear to mass, as long as I’m there.
So will I be wearing my most conservative best dress to church next week? Nope. But I’m probably also not going to ever wear my off-the-shoulder shirt there again. Not because I believe that woman was right to ask me to cover up or because I think I should have to cover up, but because I believe that respect is a two way street.
Also? That chick was scary and I’m actually very passive aggressive and will do just about anything to avoid awkward confrontations. Plus I can stick it to the man in many other ways. I did have a baby out of wedlock and live in sin for two years. And I don’t wear pantyhose when wearing skirts and dresses. Take that, big scary Italian broad!
-Alice

Monday, November 7, 2011

First Comes the Baby Carriage, Then Comes Marriage...Wait, What?


I’ve been married now for a week and two days! I promise that soon I will stop talking about it. Not because I want to stop talking about it, but because I know that even here on the Internet, I’m turning into that friend that everyone hates because she won’t shut up about her wedding. Soon, it will end. Just not today.

Last week, shortly after the ceremony ended, my grandmother came up to congratulate me. She said that when the Reverend announced us as husband and wife, he said “for the first time,” but she thought it would have been more appropriate if he had said “it’s about time.” If you knew my grandma, you wouldn’t think that was mean. She is hilarious, really. Because although she is ninety-four and totally traditional and Catholic, she feels that she’s been on Earth long enough to be able to say whatever she wants. And even though she always does say whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and usually repeats herself, she is a very loving woman.

Despite her awesomeness and how much she loves me, she made it her mission during my pregnancy to always list off the reasons why Dawson and I should have gotten married the minute we found out we were pregnant with Thumper. I believe the phrases “legitimate children,” “not living in sin,” and “why in the world would anyone choose to be an unwed mother” were often used. Now that we are actually married, I’ve found out the real reasons why it’s a good idea to get married and then have babies.

The number one reason is that planning a wedding while caring for a toddler is not fun. Or productive. You’ll either need a super awesome blog partner who can watch your child while you try on dresses/meet with the florist/practice one of your many dance numbers, or you need to bring that child along while you “search for reception venues.” I have the phrase in quotation marks because it should really say “desperately bribing your child into behaving while trying to appear capable of functioning at an adult level.” And you might think that being a stay-at-home mom will give you an advantage in getting things done well in advance before the big day, you know, because you can work on the little things while your child sleeps. But let’s face it. If you so much as whisper while that kid is sleeping she’ll wake up, so making phone calls is out. And cutting paper is also too loud a task to undertake during this time. And when she’s awake, she’s scribbling all over your millions of lists and trying to play with the My Little Pony and Optimus Prime figurines that you’re using for cake toppers and doing anything she can to make you wish you’d have followed Grandma’s advice and opted for a shotgun wedding.

The number two reason is that executing said wedding while caring for a toddler is not easy, because everyone you would normally ask to babysit will be at the aforementioned party. And bringing a toddler to a wedding is also not a good option. Although, I did hear a story once about a couple who set up two playpens in the corner of the reception for their little boys and the kids just slept away amidst the festivities. Good on ‘em but that never would’ve worked for my party animal child. You already know that Thumper’s turn as a flower girl didn’t exactly go as planned. Well, maybe it did go as planned, if by “as planned” you meant that she would run up the aisle screaming and crying. And though I was adamant that she not be present for the dinner portion of the reception, Thumper did make a brief appearance during the tail end of speeches and the beginning of the dancing, where she proceeded to run amuck with the ribbons we had used for one of the dance numbers, which included poking one of the bridesmaids in the eye with the baton end.

Having babies before your wedding will also make planning your honeymoon trickier. Not only do you have to find someone crazy enough to want to your offspring around 24/7, but you have to spend ten extra hours packing for your child. And you end up looking like a crazy person because not only have you packed everything your kid owns in four over sized bags, but you’ve included several different lists (I told you- the lists never stop.) The ironic thing is, you’re only packing so much crap and making so many lists because you are trying to make life easier for the babysitter by anticipating any and every possible thing they might need, but really, you’re probably making it harder because they have to keep track of all that shit you packed. So...sorry to the family members and friends who are watching Thumper over the next two weeks. I’m sure if you chuck an empty shoebox at my daughter, she will be amused for at least three days, so you don’t really have to bother with the bag of books and toys I sent.

Really though, I shouldn’t complain too much because I do have an amazing network of family and friends who are always willing to step up and help when they can. So thank you to everyone who watched Thumper during the planning process or who is about to watch her while Dawson and I get to go away for what will probably be the only vacation we’ll ever get sans kids for at least the next twenty-five years. And the truth is, as crazy and hectic as it was having a baby first, then the wedding, I really wouldn’t have had it any other way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the amazing photograph of Thumper about to enter the ceremony venue, clutching her stuffed rabbit and bawling her eyes out. A photo that no doubt will resurface on the day of her own wedding.

-Alice

Monday, October 31, 2011

Things They Don't Tell You About Weddings


Yes, it’s true. I am finally Mrs. Dawson Leery! The wedding was a ravishing success, if I do say so myself. We managed to pull off three, count ‘em, three choreographed dance routines. One of the dances was during our wedding party introductions, and we stole all the moves from Glee. If you saw the episode where Kurt’s dad marries Finn’s mom, you know what I’m talking about. It went like this. When I watched that episode, I wasn’t even engaged yet but I knew those dance moves were going to make it into my wedding one day. 
Now, if there had been a way to get my wedding party to agree to it, I would’ve had them to do this dance instead. Alas, they never would’ve gone for it, as it was hard enough to get them to do the first one and also would've required extensive dance practices for all of us.

As I said, everything went really well, but as with anything, I learned a thing or two from the whole process of planning a wedding. And just like with motherhood, there are a whole slew of things that no one ever tells you about beforehand, things that you’re left to figure out the hard way. Things like...

You will never make so many lists in your life. I’m a list person. If I don’t make a list, things don’t get done. And in the beginning of this planning process, I was all like, hell yeah I am going to own this because I make LISTS, bitches! But the week before the big day, I think I made so many that I pretty much never want to see a piece of paper again. You think you only have to make a guest list once, but in reality, you need to write that list in at least seven different formats and seven different orders. Like, alphabetical guest list for parking, guest list by meal selections, guest list by table, and so on. You also need to make very specific to-do lists every day, usually several times a day, because otherwise, something will be forgotten or someone will go unpaid. And don’t forget about the lists of things to pack for the big day. It’s unrelenting and never ending and so unbelievably necessary.

Don’t host your own rehearsal party. Because quite frankly, you are planning one party, and it will be the very next day, so why bother planning a precursor? Let someone else take that headache. Dawson and I would have been sitting pretty had it not been for our stupid idea to have the party at our house. All the wedding stuff was finished on Thursday, and so we spent all of Friday cleaning and cooking for the rehearsal. Then after it was all finished and I made a hasty exit for my hotel, Dawson was left to clean up the mess instead of working on his speech. Which brings me to my next point.

Send your child to be babysat at someone else’s house. Dishes and vacuuming are two things you don’t want to be doing the night before or the morning of your wedding. Dawson probably wouldn’t have had to clean so much if it weren’t for the fact that the next day we had babysitters coming to stay over to watch Thumper during the reception. I’m sure our (wonderful and super awesome sauce) babysitters wouldn’t have minded a dirty dish or two, but I feel confident that had they walked into a kitchen full of pots and pans with caked on food, none of which they even got to eat, they would have turned around and walked out without a word.

Don’t schedule your ceremony and reception five hours apart. You might think this one goes without saying but here me out first. We chose an 11 am start time for our ceremony and a 5 pm reception time for two reasons. One being that I didn’t want a mid-afternoon ceremony to land in the middle of my daughter’s naptime, or any of the other seven children under three attending my wedding, and the second being that the venue we wanted for the ceremony was significantly cheaper in the morning time slot. And though part of me wants to stand by those reasons and say that I’d do it the same way again, wearing that heavy and tight fitting wedding gown for over ten hours was pretty painful. I started my day with tears in my eyes because I couldn’t believe I was finally getting to wear a princess gown, and I ended the day with tears in my eyes because I couldn’t wait to get that fucking thing off. And yet as badly as I wanted out of it, it broke my heart to take the dress off. So maybe for my next wedding, I’ll screw over Thumper’s nap in favour of being able to wear my dress all night without wanting to set fire to it.

Do your nails the night before.  Because otherwise, you won’t have time to do damage control when one of your bridesmaids accidentally drops the whole bottle of nail polish on the floor two hours before the ceremony. I had hoped she dropped the clear nail polish, but of course, it was the bottle of white spilled everywhere, so there was no French manicure for this bride. Luckily, I realized that if that was the worst thing that happened on my wedding day, I should consider myself lucky. At my brother’s wedding, his mother-in-law slipped on the dance floor and broke her wrist. So not having my nails done was okay by me. I just feel bad for the nail polish. Like the Titanic, it was cut short during its maiden voyage.

Of course, that wasn’t really the worst thing that happened. The worst was that a different bridesmaid scratched the side of her car on a cement beam in the parking garage the night before. But even that was kind of funny, because it wasn’t my car and because she was so flustered that she drove off into the next level before remembering that she left the bridesmaid who had gotten out to assess the damage behind.

And the best part of the day was the fact that I married my very best friend and the love of my life. I also really enjoyed the part where he cried more actual tears than I did. Oh, and also the part where my daughter ran up the aisle screaming her head off, my one niece sat down in the middle of the aisle, my crying nephew wouldn’t let go of my brother and walk by himself, and my other niece walked up the aisle with a look of I hate you all mixed with I don’t really know what’s happening mixed with Gimme that candy bag Auntie Alice promised me if I made it up here. The chaos was oddly charming.

-Alice 

Monday, October 24, 2011

I'm Basically the New Oprah


Before I begin, I have an announcement

I want to call to your attention that this Saturday is my wedding. MY WEDDING! (I needed to say it twice and in caps in case you missed it the first time.) Yes, that's right. The next time I post I will be a married woman! I'll also probably still be wearing my wedding dress the next time I post because, well, I will never, ever, ever, take it off.

And now onto my real post. I am part of a book club - okay, right now it's more of a book quartet, really - and I just picked our latest read, so I thought maybe I should share a list of interesting reads for anyone out there looking for a new book. I'm like the new Oprah, bitches. What? Someone had to take over.

Room by Emma Donoghue -Obviously I had to start with a tearjerker. That's what Oprah would do, right? But seriously, this book is captivating from start to finish and I don't think my heart has pounded so hard while reading a book since the first time I read Seasme Street's Grover and The Monster at the End of the Book. (Spoiler alert: Grover is the monster at the end of the book. Seriously though, real page turner.) It's the story of five year old Jack and his "Ma," who are held in captivity in a tiny little room by a man Jack refers to "Old Nick." The interesting part is that the entire book is told through Jack's eyes, so he has no idea that his mom has been living there against her will for seven years, or that life exists outside of their room. It's a pretty heavy subject matter, but a lot of the more "gruesome" details are a bit sugar-coated, since it's all from the point of view of a five year old. Just be warned, if you have a heart, it will break, and you will cry. A lot.

Behind the Bell by Dustin Diamond - That's right, hookers. Screech wrote a book! But don't get too excited. I wouldn't so much call this book "good" as "interesting." Or "ohmygawd this boy has unresolved issues but he just mentioned Zach Morris so I can't stop reading." Diamond advertises the book as a tell-all, but most of what he does is try to paint his former co-stars, especially Mark Paul Gosselaar, Tiffani-Amber Thiessen and Mario Lopez, as sluts, fame-whores, divas and big fat stupid-heads. All of the stories he uses to discredit them may be true, but in trying to make himself sound cooler than his image made him out to be, he ends up painting himself as a slut too. There is actually a chapter called "An Open Letter to All the Chicks I Banged." As painful as it sometimes was to read the words of someone who obviously hasn't gotten over being the outcast on set, it was so baffling and all "did you seriously just write that?" that I literally couldn't stop reading it. Also, he mentions Zach Morris. So...yeah. Good book.

Bossypants by Tina Fey - Did you honestly think I wouldn't mention her? Even Wendy thought it was funny, so it's not just me being biased because I have a girl-crush on her and my ultimate dream is to just hang out with her. All the time. Also with Amy Poehler. Also! She mentions a few stories about Amy, including one where Amy tells Jimmy Fallon off at the height of his SNL career, so seriously how can this book do wrong?* I don't even know what to say the book is about. It's kind of just Tina talking about her life (and yes, we're on a first name basis), but it's also sometimes her telling you ways to be successful. Like the fact that if you want to work for Lorne Michaels, for the love of God, do not finish his sentences. He hates that. I literally made a mental note of that because, honestly, what if I run into Lorne Michaels someday? The point is, every single fucking thing in this book is funny and every minute you spend not reading it is a disservice to yourself.

*I want the record to show that I also love Jimmy Fallon. I just think its awesome that Amy (yes we're on a first name basis) felt like she could say whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. Girl power. Fuck yeah!


I'm going to pause the list here because A) you should be reading Bossypants and I refuse to continue posting until everyone in the world has read it! Or until next Monday. Whichever comes first. And B) it's late, I'm tired and I still have seventy trillion things to do before Dawson finally makes an honest woman out of me on Saturday.

To be continued....

-Alice

Friday, October 21, 2011

More Nothingness From Alice


Remember when I said not to expect anything well written or well thought out from me until after my wedding? I've thought about it, and in telling you that I would write crap, I basically promised to write crap and I feel like I should keep that promise. It's just good karma, you know?

So I'm sorry. But you're welcome.

All I can offer you today, Mommyland, are the two funniest music videos I have ever seen.

Start with this one and then move on to this one. Then die of laughter.

You get a bonus point if you can spot Hawk from So You Think You Can Dance (Season 3) and a virtual high five if you can spot Wilder Valderama.

Sending you all my love as I drown in wedding-related things,

Alice

Ps. WEDDING IN 8 DAYS! WOOT WOOOOOOOOT!

Monday, October 10, 2011

Let's Get Real


Dear fellow mommies,

You may have noticed that my recent posts have been, how shall I say, shitty. And infrequent.

For this, I am sorry. But you have to understand, I still love you dearly even though my wedding has been a huge time-suck lately. I guess it’s my fault, considering that A) I’m the one who demanded a princess wedding, which will be held in a castle no less— oh hells yes you read that right. A castle! Fist pump! And B) I am a procrastinator by choice and nature, which is doubly bad for productivity.

But the thing is, I am smartest in the morning hours. Not the “wee” hours. No, no, those are for burrowing underneath your blankets and dreaming about a world where soap operas don’t end. I’m talking about after 8:30 a.m. but before 2 p.m. I don’t know why my brain works best then; some people say it’s because of a little thing called a good night’s sleep, but I remember a time not so long ago when I was a fully functioning person well into the night and into those precious wee hours and was able to pump out glorious and epic essays and short stories for school. Well, those days are over now. And you might think that doesn’t sound too problematic. Except that I have a toddler. A toddler who won’t sleep during naptime if I don’t tire her out in the morning. So mornings are bit crazy between trying to make storytime at the library before it fills up and trying to make one billion phone calls (and yes, that is an accurate number) and rearranging the seating chart for the seventeenth time since yesterday evening. Once all that is done, it’s naptime. And I don’t just mean for the child. And after that, I’m pretty much a write off. All this is to say that there’s no power left in my brain for good blog posts. I am sorry.

I knew I’d been slacking but two things happened to really make me realize it. One is that my close friend called to ask if I still wrote for the blog, and the second is that I went back and re-read my very first post on the site. Then I re-read last Monday’s post. And then part of my soul died.

I will do better soon, I promise. Just...maybe not today. Or next week either. Once this wedding is over, I will go back to my clever self, regaling you with tales of my epic parental failures. But for now, if you want some Alice, you’re going to either have to deal with my lazy, distracted, late posts, or go back and re-read all the posts from the beginning. (I would highly recommend the latter.)

Anyway, I am sorry for my poor blogging skills as of late, and once my wedding and honeymoon are over, I will come back to you. This is I promise you.*

*Double fist pump for an N*SYNC reference!

I will leave you with some random thoughts on life:

I think all weddings should be a Ke$ha-free environment.

That new sitcom with Zooey Deschenal is ah-mazing. Everyone go watch New Girl! There’s just one thing confusing me; did they replace the token black character with another token black character who looks really similar to the first guy? Seriously, where did Coach go?! Also, I didn’t know that a two-line theme song could get stuck in your head for weeks at a time. (Who’s that girl...it’s Jess!)

Thumper tried some turkey on the weekend and liked it, and then asked for more. And she started eating peas again. I think the world is ending.

Angry Birds does not help blog and wedding productivity. But it is so much fun!

Remember how women warned that you would have re-occurring pregnancy nightmares? And remember how they were right? It turns out the same is true for weddings. In the last week, I’ve nightmares of losing a stone in my engagement ring, and being dumped on my wedding day. Gee, I can’t wait to go to sleep again.

Dawson is leaving for his bachelor party today. It’s in Vegas. I would like you all to pray with me that he makes it home safely with all body parts intact, not married to a stripper, and without a sunburn from a prank that left him on the hotel roof for 24 hours.

That’s all for today. If you need me over the next few days, I’ll be in the corner rocking back and forth, trying to avoid thinking about the shenanigans my fiancé is currently getting into.

-Alice

Monday, October 3, 2011

In the (Mother) Hood


When I first found out I was pregnant, I was scared sh*tless. And it’s funny how I had never really paid attention to pregnant people before, but when I became one, I started seeing preggos everywhere I went. It was strange, but I felt a silent kinship with all those women I came across. Sometimes we’d stop to trade pregnancy details but sometimes it was just a small smile that we shared and that was enough to make me feel like I was part of something. There were other women who knew exactly what I was going through, even if Dawson or my size 0 friends didn’t.

At first, motherhood felt the same. I’d pass by another mom with her kids and we’d share a knowing smile. It felt really nice to be a part of something that was so much bigger than anything I’d ever been in before. It was just this automatic connection that I suddenly shared with every woman who’d ever been a mother.

But like any relationship, after awhile, the cracks began to show. And in this case, the cracks came in the form of other moms who narrowed their eyes or turned up their noses when the following topics came up: breastfeeding, TV time, pacifiers, sleeping habits, junk food, going back to work and discipline. Or pretty much any topic where their opinion differed from mine. Because obviously they were right and I was wrong. Any mother who gives her children non-organic food is obviously a monster.

Wait. What?

I don’t know why or how it happened, but it seems there is a sub-sect group of mommies sent to Earth to try and ruin our merry band of mothers by beating the rest of us over the heads with their I’m better than you sticks. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you soon will. These moms are the ones who will snottily tell you that “breast is best” when you casually mention that you bottle feed your child, or who loudly and rudely balk when you bring up the fact that you let your daughter watch Cinderella.

Before I continue, let me get one thing straight. If you’re the kind of person who believes that your baby should be breastfed for X amount of time, that’s cool. If you believe that your kid should never own a Barbie or watch a Disney movie, that’s cool too. There’s a saying that in the mom world that I whole heartedly believe – you have to do what works for your family. So if that means your kids will be breastfed until they’re six months, or five years old, well then go on with your bad self. It may not be a choice I’d make, but who cares? You have to do what works for you.

What pisses me off is when moms use their parenting styles as a weapon to make other women feel bad about theirs. I breastfed Thumper for about .05 seconds before I realized it was not going to work out. She watches an hour or two of TV most days. Up until her second birthday, she had a soother. We eat processed foods. Am I going to hell for all of this? No. Maybe I will go to hell for some drunken shenanigans I got into in college, but certainly not because I fed my baby through a bottle. Do I worry that I’m ruining my daughter with every choice I make? Of course I do. But worry and guilt are as much part of motherhood as dirty diapers and scraped knees. So I’d worry about screwing up my kid no matter what choices I make.

And I have enough mom friends to know that I’m not the only worrier out there. Which is why I try to make sure my tone isn’t condescending when discussing parenting strategies with other moms. I don’t want to be made to feel bad about how much TV I let my daughter watch, so in turn, I’m not going to make anyone else feel bad about not letting their kids watch any TV just because I do. There’s no need for us moms to perpetuate each other’s guilt. That’s what scientific studies are for.

My general rule of thumb is this: if kids aren’t being beaten and there is food and water on the table, it’s all good in the hood. One mother shouldn’t get to be better than another just because her child doesn’t use a soother. Or because she chose to stay home fulltime. Or because her family eats all organic food and wears clothes made from recycled garbage.

So let’s all agree to be nice to each other from now on, okay? I know sometimes it’s hard to keep our mouths shut when we run into an Octo-mom type, but let’s just call a spade a spade, and be glad we’re not the ones with seventy-two kids running around, mmmmkay?

-Alice

Monday, September 26, 2011

So Long, Pine Valley


For many people, Friday September 23, 2011 was a regular day. But for me, it was the end of an era. Part of me knows this is silly. The other part of me knows I am dead serious is being un-ironically sad about the end of All My Children.

It was on television for 41 years. It gave us the greatest daytime diva in history in the form of Susan Lucci and her alter ego, Erica Kane. It gave us Tad and Dixie, Angie and Jesse, and Haley and Mateo. Some of Hollywood’s prettiest people started out as residents of AMC’s fictional town, Pine Valley—Sarah Michelle Gellar, Josh Duhamel, Amanda Seyfried and Kelly Ripa. It was the first soap to feature storylines about rape, abortion and transgender persons. And although many of its other storylines were topics overdone by many soaps, AMC did them so well. I still get goose bumps thinking about when Paul switched Babe and Bianca’s babies at birth or when Gillian was shot and Ryan painfully chose to donate her heart to save Laura.

I know. This all sounds so over dramatic. Talk about first world problems, right? But seriously. This show was a daytime legend, part of television history, and now it’s just been buried six feet under and ABC barely fronted money for the funeral. Thanks for airing a commercial of the stupid new show you’ll be replacing AMC with during the soap’s finale episode. Really? You think all those die-heard soap fans are going to watch that? I don’t know if you know this, ABC, but soap fans are loyal. We seriously can’t be friends with people who think Jamie and Babe are meant to be if we are rooting for J.R. and Babe. I can’t even look people in the eye without being a ball of rage if they tell me they like The Bold and the Beautiful the best. Because I’m all like OMFGhaveyouevenseenGeneralHospital? BEST. SHOW. EVER! Soap fans are nothing if not devoted and mental about our favourite shows and characters. In other words, no, we will not be tuning in to your dumb cooking show. If we did, we might as well be stabbing Susan Lucci through the heart.

TV shows are meant to end, I know, but it’s still sad to me. It’s like saying goodbye to a close friend. And yes, most successful primetime shows only make it roughly six to eight seasons, so technically 41 years is over staying your welcome on the airwaves, but soaps were always different. They were meant to be around forever, cycling characters and storylines time again, trying every combination of romantic pairings, turning babies into teenagers in a matter of days and bringing people back from the dead until the end of time. That’s just the way it was. I took comfort in knowing that my soaps would be around forever. Then they just started dropping like Lindsay Lohan on a Friday night. Four years ago, there were nine soaps on the air. Passions was first to go (and I admit that its cancellation was a relief. It did nothing good for soap operas’ image). Then CBS cancelled Guiding Light- which had been in production for seventy-two years....SEVENTY-TWO YEARS PEOPLE!- followed by As the World Turns, and then this year ABC announced it was getting rid of AMC and One Life to Live. That leaves only four soaps still in production. How are we supposed to continue the Daytime Emmys? It won’t be an awards show anymore, it will just be like little league baseball. A shiny ribbon for everyone! Hurray!

I understand that most people don’t like soaps because the storylines are slow and clichéd. But for us fans, none of that matters. We understand why writers do what they do. Story arcs move slowly so that we can tune in from time to time and still know what’s happening. And killing characters off only to bring them back later is done all in the name of an interesting story twist. We don’t care how many times you bring Dixie back from the dead; we will still be excited every time. Because it just means we get to see her again, and gosh, who knows what she will do this time! Okay, we know there will be a love triangle involving Tad and David, and her loving maternal side will help to pull her son J.R. out of another tailspin, but who cares? It’s Tad and Dixie. Together Forever! Again! Anyway, the point is, everyone is entitled to their opinion and it’s okay that not everyone likes soaps, I guess. But I just don’t want them to become extinct. Because despite how many people hate them, there are still so many fans who love them and count on them and are still waiting for Luke and Laura to be reunited. Networks don’t cancel all of their sitcoms when one or two don’t work out. Why can’t soaps be like that? I’d feel less sad about the death of my shows if I wasn’t shitting my pants thinking that General Hospital is next and that in another four years, soaps will be gone forever. If you’re going to get rid of a medium, it should probably be reality TV. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t “dislike” reality TV, but if I’m being honest with myself, it doesn’t add anything to my life. If I want to see young people getting drunk and fighting, I can go to a college dorm. And if I want to see rich people being rich and having dinner, I can watch The Golden Globes. All I’m saying is, when was the last time Snooki brought someone back from the dead? Or gave birth to a baby who four episodes later turned into a brooding teenager with daddy issues? At least soaps offer story twists that real life can’t. And you know what else? Soaps may take months when it comes to big story reveals, but at least they don’t wait seven full seasons (and potentially two more) to tell us who the freaking mother is.

But alas, all of the crying and whining and petition-signing in the world couldn’t change the fate of these beloved shows. The light finally went out, the world stopped turning, and now all the children will be put to rest. Soon, there will be no more lives to live either. But we’ll take this one day at a time. So, so long sweet, dysfunctional, incestuous Pine Valley. Thanks for the memories. But most of all, thank you for sharing the many wardrobe changes and marriages of Erica Kane.

-Alice

Monday, September 19, 2011

Tips For Surviving a Bachelorette at Camp


Let’s start with the obvious. I know that a month ago I went to Miami for my bachelorette, but this month I went to camp for my bachelorette. Yes, I had two parties! You could say it’s because I am doubly awesome so I needed double the parties, and that would be nice of you, but the truth is that most of my friends couldn’t come to the party that was being held in a whole other country, so we decided to have another one closer to home and much easier to afford.

You’re probably wondering why I would spend my second bachelorette party at a camp. It’s not because I like the outdoors, because although I wouldn’t say I fear the outdoors*, I definitely do not like the outdoors. But this camp offered real toilets and beds, showers that didn’t require you to leave your cabin, and all meals were provided for you. Plus they were offering a bunch of extra activities, you know, stuff that outdoors-y type people love, like an aerial park, hikes, horseback riding and so on. All things I was too busy sleeping or drinking to do, but was impressed that they offered nonetheless. And obviously there were no kiddies at the camp that weekend (women's retreat only!), so drinking wasn't exactly encouraged, but let's just say it wasn't discouraged either.

*I do not fear the outdoors per say, but I am very, very afraid of things in the outdoors that move. Things like, but not limited to, spiders, snakes, ants, and raccoons. What? Raccoons look cute, and yeah, the 80’s cartoon made them seem both polite and approachable, but when you’re sitting at the campfire and one of those fuckers starts sniffing you, you’ll realize they are not, in fact, polite or approachable and they do not respect personal space.

This time I brought along four friends, three bridesmaids, and one Social Caterpillar. We brought the house cabin down, and now these are the golden pieces of advice we’d like to pass onto you:

It’s okay to take your sleeping bag into the bathroom. You know that when you’ve got nothing else good to puke in, a fishbowl will come in handy. But what about when you’re back at the cabin, trying to pass out in your bunk bed and feel the pukes coming on? Just hooker up, and take that sleeping bag into the bathroom. I know it sounds gross but let’s be honest. You’re going to end up sleeping on the floor by the toilet anyway, so you might as well be comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can be while puking for the next 24 hours.

Don’t freak out if you lose a shoe in the cab. If the kick-ass but slightly inebriated bride accidentally leaves one of your shoes behind in a cab, don’t fret. A quick call to the cab company, using your most sweet and sober voice of course, will not only locate the missing shoe but a morning recovery mission will be arranged. In small towns, people are nice and actually care if you lose something. This of course differs from bigger cities like, oh I don’t know, Miami where I’m fairly certain that had the same situation happened, my sweet and sober voice would have been met with a ‘so what?’ and a dial tone. P.S. Sorry to anyone reading this that lives in Miami, but it’s true. P.P.S. Sorry that I temporarily lost your shoe, Wendy.

Don’t let the Caterpillar be your guide. As I mentioned, having your bachelorette at a camp means that there are various cool activities happening throughout the day. Your friends may sign you up for one without your knowledge, and it might be called Low Ropes. It might involve using a carabineer to attach yourself to a rope and be led around a mini-maze/course/thing while blindfolded. If this occurs, you should probably make sure that the Social Caterpillar is not your partner. The girl is charming, sure, but she will accidentally guide you into a tree. Twice.  

Costumes are the key to everything. If your friends are already awesome, there is only one way to make them more awesome. Dress them up in 80’s clothes. It is a sure-fire way to increase your ability to have fun by one thousand percent. ONE THOUSAND PERCENT! With those statistics, you can’t afford to not dress up 80’s. So get out the leg warmers and bright tights, hot pink scrunchies and your crimper, and tease the shit out of your bangs. Your hair might hate you but even the next morning’s rats nest won’t make you regret it. By-standers may even clap when you enter a room. That’s how awesome you will be.

Always assume there is a person behind you holding a tray of shots. When you’re at a bachelorette, it’s a pretty safe assumption that there will always be someone near you holding liquor. If you’re with the Caterpillar, it’s safe to assume at least 25% of every drink she has will end up on her clothes, your clothes, the floor, or all of the above. So between these two things, you should try to always be on guard against spillage. But when you’re at the bar, it’s best to kick that up a notch, and perhaps assume that not only is there easily-spillable alcohol everywhere, but there may be someone carrying a tray of shots right behind you at any given moment. So when you’re fist pumping, try not to flail around too much so as to not punch a tray of Porn Stars into the ground. This is especially true when the tray of shots is meant for you and your friends.

Don’t go to Dollarama if you want to find an over-sized wine glass. If you and your friends agree to all find some sort of novelty glass to use for the weekend, and you are trying to copy Jules from Cougar Town by using an over-sized wine glass and calling it Big Joe, don’t go to Dollarama. Or Wal-Mart. Or the Great Canadian Super Store. Or JYSK. Or any of those little party shops. Because they do not have what you’re looking for. All they will have is vases that do not resemble wine glasses and wine glasses that resemble wine glasses. Boring! And over priced for something that has a high rate of being dropped over the course of the weekend. Also, don’t leave this task until the last minute because instead of an over-sized wine glass, you will end up bringing along a pink flask that, while pretty, is not as efficient or time effective at getting the job done.

Avoid sad people at the bar. Listen, I understand that shit happens and sometimes you just need to go get your "drank" on at the bar, even when you might be well over the typical or appropriate age to be at a bar. However, it’s in everyone’s best interests to avoid these people unless you came with them. If you do come in contact with them, you might find yourself privy to the intimate details of their life and though you sympathize with them, your drunken self will likely not know how to respond when someone congratulates you on your upcoming wedding and immediately tells you his wife asked for a divorce that day. And then this sad person might get a little grabby with your friend, and things will have quickly escalated from hella-awkward to oh-hells-no. I repeat, it is in everyone’s best interests to avoid sad people at the bar.

“Will you have sex with me” is not an acceptable pick-up line. This one is for the boys. I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. You should also not repeat this line to nine consecutive girls who are all friends and not afraid to call you out on being sleazy, creepy, disgusting, and a host of other adjectives that even I won’t write on this blog. However, if you’re lucky, one of these girls may take pity on you and try to be your wing man. If this happens, try to stop being a douchebag. Otherwise all of her efforts to help you pick up are in vain.

There. Now you are fully prepared to drink your face off at camp and party on the beach in the middle of nowhere til the break of dawn. 

-Alice

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Ordinary Days


It’s amazing how one day can change your entire life.

September 13, 2008 was a regular day. I don’t even remember what I was doing or where I was. It’s not that particular day that is interesting; it’s that in the months to come, my whole life was going to change and on that day, on September 13 2008, I had no clue that any of it was going to happen. I had no idea that in two months I would come across my future husband after coming to work for what I thought would be just a regular Wednesday shift. I had no idea that in four months I would be in my best friends' bathroom peeing on four different pregnancy sticks in order to fully believe that I was pregnant. I had no idea that in exactly one year, I would be in the hospital giving birth to a baby who would grow into an adorable, hilarious and rambunctious little girl. I had no idea that those three days, those three ordinary days, would turn out to be three of the most important days of my life.

Now it’s September 13, 2011 and that itty bitty screeching baby I gave birth to has become a walking, talking, jumping little blonde two year old. She is a girl, people, not a baby. This is insane. She pees in the potty (sometimes), she climbs the ladders at the park without falling (most of the time) and she knows the lyrics to five different pop songs (at least). This time last year, she was just figuring out how to say her first word. Now her sentences have a four-word minimum. 

Besides wishing my daughter a happy birthday (Happy birthday, Thumper!), what I’m trying to say is that life is fucking crazy. Sometimes it’s crazy-good, sometimes it’s crazy-bad, sometimes it’s crazy-awkward, like the time this regular came into the restaurant when I was six months pregnant, and being that this was the first time he’d seen me since I got pregnant, said “Holy sh*t! What happened? Did you fall on a penis?”* The point is, today might be a day that you’ll never really remember. But maybe in a few months or years something will happen that will turn everything upside down and you’ll think about today, about how you watched seventeen back-to-back episodes of 30 Rock, or went to work like you always do, or treated yourself to an extra-large Starbucks on the way home, about how you did whatever it is you do without knowing all the things the universe was planning for you. Hopefully when that day comes, you can pour yourself a drink and think about what used to be and what it all became, and know that whatever it was that happened ended up just the way it should have.

So here’s to cute strangers who leave their numbers on napkins, and here’s to best friends who will gently but firmly tell you that four pee sticks is enough proof that you’re preggers. And here’s to all the future September 13’s, where I’ll sit around thinking about how it all began.

Happy birthday, Thumper.

-Alice

*If you’re wondering how I reacted to this ridiculously awkward question, I think I tried to laugh but was so horrified and embarrassed (because he said it in front of three other regulars who weren’t in his party and were just as mortified as I was, which meant I couldn’t even pretend it never happened) that it sounded more like a hyena crying while being beaten to death. And then I went to sit in a corner to rock in the fetal position.

Monday, September 5, 2011

More Adventures in Doctorland


Remember when I gave you advice on finding a new family doctor? I should have added “ask if the doctor plans on leaving the country any time soon” to the list. You may wonder how in the world I’d think of a question like that. Well, when your fiancé calls up the doctor’s office to make an appointment and the receptionist says your doctor no longer works there, and your fiancé asks why, and the receptionist says it’s because she moved, and your fiancé asks where, and the receptionist says out of the country, then suddenly the far-fetched piece of advice “ask if the doctor plans on leaving the country any time soon” doesn’t seem all that far-fetched anymore, does it?

I know what you’re thinking. “But Alice, didn’t you get rid of Dr. Suckypants? Didn’t you replace her with the greatest doctor in the history of ever?” Yes, I thought so too but as it happens, the greatest doctor in the history of ever’s husband got transferred out of the country and she went with him. Pfft. So much for doctor-patient loyalty.  It also just so happens that the notification letters went out to patients during the mail strike, which for some of us apparently meant we never got them. Hence our surprise on the phone this morning. Hence why I have the over-whelming urge to punch the mailman*.

*I’m kidding. I know the rules. Don’t punch the messenger. BUT STILL!

I know that this is not a tragedy. I know it’s not the worst thing that could ever or will ever happen to me. I know that we still have it pretty good because even though we  don’t have a family doctor anymore, we still have free health care and can go to any walk-in clinic if need be. But this still sucks.

I know that there are good doctors out there. I know that I will find another one eventually. I know that this could be a blessing in disguise, or at the very least another lesson learned. But this still sucks.

It sucks because the new doctor I have to try and find will be the fifth doctor that Thumper has had since her birth and she isn’t even two yet. Here’s a quick recap of my adventures in doctorland: Doctor One retired so we were automatically transferred to his replacement. We left Doctor Two because we moved, which led us to Doctor Three, a.k.a. Dr. Suckypants. And when she turned out to be a grade A moron, we did some searching and found Doctor Four, formerly known as the greatest doctor in the history of ever. Now that she’s peaced out, I’m on a search for Doctor Five. This series of events doesn’t sound all that bad but keep in mind, this all happened in under two years. Plus Dr. Suckypants was, well, a disaster to say the least – she didn’t receive her name for nothing. So to say that I’m tired of meeting new doctors and even more tired of having to sit through handfuls of crappy interviews in order to find even one doctor I feel comfortable with is the understatement of the year*.

*It’s probably not the understatement of the year. The understatement of the year would be “Justin Bieber fans are sorta crazy” or “This economy sucks” or even, “That girl from Twilight is awkward**.”

**That girl from Twilight is hella awkward.  

Alas, whether I’m being overly dramatic (which there is usually a 50% chance or higher that I am) or not, the simple fact is that I have to hooker up suit up and find a replacement. In preparation for this, I’ll have to review both my list of advice on finding new doctors, as well as dealing with the shitty ones because let’s face it, there are some crack pots in this world and a bunch of them have medical licenses.

I had better start practising my stick drawings. Wish me luck!

-Alice

Monday, August 22, 2011

Tips For Surviving a Bachelorette in Miami


Last weekend I was lucky enough to go on a trip to Miami for my bachelorette party. I was accompanied by one sister, two sister-in-laws, one bridesmaid, and three friends. It was awesome. Before embarking on our journey, we were given advice from friends and family, most of which were things like “don’t die” and “don’t lose the bride.” While helpful, there were other things I would've liked people to have told me so that I could appropriately prepare. So I decided to make my own list of tips and advice for those of you who may be visiting Miami in the near future for a bachelorette party. So get our your stilettos and a pen. You will want to write this down because once you arrive in Miami, you will be too hammered to remember any of this.

Make friends with the flight attendants (and pilot, if possible). This generally always works in your benefit (don't bite the hand that feeds you), but it's especially helpful when you tell them your friend has never been on a flight before. (Yes this is a true story and yes she’s twenty-six years old.) It may result in receiving a “My First Flight!” sticker, as well as a trip to the cockpit (that’s what she said!) for some photos post-landing.

Buy everything at Walgreens. Whether you’re looking for Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, bottles of wine, pop tarts or sunglasses, Walgreens has everything under the sun and then some. And it’s all for super cheap. This is how it should be. (Shoppers Drug Mart, take! a! NOTE!). It’s also open 24 hours a day. Winning!

Eat at Nexxt. I’ve heard the rumours that portion sizes are larger in the US, but hadn’t experienced it until I experienced Nexxt. I still drool when I think about this restaurant.

Make friends with the bell-man. (Also known as a bell-boy, bell-hop or the oft-confusing, bellmen. “Why are you saying it like it’s one word? It sounds like a type of sweater. Or a sex position.”) But seriously, these people can tell you about all the best clubs and restaurants, advise you on the best floors or rooms in the hotel that are not under construction, find you spoons for your ice cream at 3 a.m., and help you to stay calm when you temporarily loose all your friends.

Don’t forget travel insurance. Because even though there may be jellyfish swarming the beach, you may still want to risk it and go swimming in the ocean. Chances are, if you get travel insurance, no jellyfish will come near you. But you know that the laws of the universe state that if you forget to buy insurance, those suckers will automatically sting you out of principle. (NOTE: I didn't go in the water because I am well-versed in the laws of the universe and know how backwards and stupid they are. Which is good, except that I'm sad because I didn't go in the water. I hate you, universe.)

Bring earplugs. In South Beach, construction workers don’t work on weekdays. That would be silly. Instead, they prefer to work on hotel renovations between the hours of 7 and 11 am on Saturday mornings. That makes sense, right? WRONG. This is South Beach, bitches. DID WILL SMITH TEACH YOU NOTHING? Party in the city where the heat is on. All night on the beach til the break of dawn. Apparently the sacred song ‘Miami’ means nothing to the construction workers of Miami. So I repeat, bring your earplugs.

Make friends with a group of Aussie boys. Because there might be some times where you need a male buffer to ward off other creepy males, or hordes of creepy males. Just make sure that your Australian buffer is not also creepy, or else you will be drowning in creepiness with no escape route.

Have fishbowls handy. If you start to feel sick while at a club but know that you can’t make it to the bathroom, then just give ‘er into a fishbowl. It doesn't matter what’s in the fishbowl prior to your puke. Just use it, put it back on the table and try to stumble out of the club as subtly as you can into a cab and go back to the hotel like it never happened*.

Pack your suitcase the night before. This is in case any unforeseen events happen the morning of your departure to delay such important activities. Things like excessive puking, not waking up until 10 am even though you need to leave at 11 am, and spending an hour fighting with the manager over her unwillingness to honour her promise of waived hotel fees.

There. Now you are fully prepared to drink your face off in Miami and party on the beach til the break of dawn. Happy puking!

-Alice

*While this sounds like something that I would definitely do, it was not me, in fact, that puked in a fishbowl. It was one of my sister in laws. I will let those of you that know them guess which one it was.