30

Apr. ’11

The Dress! That Ass! Harry and Pippa Sitting in a Tree!

Well it really was perfect, wasn’t it?  No flies on this lot of royals.  There were many memorable moments but for me, my two favourite supporting characters that have captured my imagination are Brother Harry and Sister Pippa.  While Kate was ravishingly beautiful, blah blah, Pippa was actually sizzling hot in her white dress.  The twitterers were in a frenzy over her and as my #twittercrush pointed out:  “She not wearing knickers!”  Prince Harry was so cute, he always looks like he’s up to something.  Some deaf person read his lips when he mouthed out “Wait til you see her” to Prince William when Kate was walking up the altar.  I think he might have said, “I’m going to bang her sister” but we may never know.  Look at him grabbing his crotch while he stares at her ass.  Anyway, I feel like I can’t enough of this and I want a sequel.  Harry and Pippa:  Let’s get it on!

Other than that, I predict and I’m no Nostradamus, that hats will be big this summer.  In fact, I may go down to my basement where Hoardy McHoardington left all his crap and start making fascinators out of all the debris.  I’m sure I can come up with something like this:

I’m not actually joking, I have the crafting gene and a hot glue gun.  The sky is the limit literally.  These things distract from bad hair days which is perfect in the summer when nothing goes right.  This is not the mimosas talking:  Watch out for these on eBay.

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20

Apr. ’11

Royal Love: Don’t Try This At Home, Folks

By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is,
Infinite, undying.
Lady make note of this —
One of you is lying.”
— Dorothy Parker

I don’t mean to put a damper on this whole royal brouhaha, William and Kate taking the plunge next week, but chances are this is doomed.  I think they are both lying!!!!!   Before you dismiss me as some jaded old cougar, I will tell you why:  I may not be an expert on love, per se, but I know about marriage.  It’s simple science.  For one thing, we live too long to expect a union between two people to last a lifetime, less their age at the time of their wedding.  In olden days, the woman often died in childbirth and Farmer Dickhead would marry her 12-year-old sister.  He`d die when she was 20 and she`d be referred to as the Old Widow Dickhead.  Her ovaries would rot quicker than a dingleberry off a donkey`s ass and by the time she was 30 she would be a spent, useless commodity.   Now we live longer, thanks to better health care.  But it doesn’t help that modern times are not conducive to life long relationships.  The internet has turned us all into ADHD, twittering, porn loving rat people, clicking and scrolling the days and nights away.  It turns out there is a whole sub-culture, more common than you think, whose lives are based in cyber space and not actual human interaction.  I think this is stunting our emotional growth and I will discuss all this further in my upcoming book, The Art of Modern Living.  By upcoming, I mean I haven’t written it yet.  But I will.  Tweet.  Oh look, a YouTube video of a kitten stuck in a box!

Back to William and Kate plus Fate.  The subject of the monarch and royal anything normally gets the glaze over my eyes  but I have to admit I’m getting excited over this one.  The girlie girl in me wonders what she will wear, what her bridemaids will look like, et cetera but the jaded old cougar is in a tizzy about having a Royal Wedding party at 4 o’clock in the morning, complete with Mimosas and live twittering!  And maybe a banger or two!  Last night, I watched a Barbara Walters special, click here for bits,  about the story of William and Kate, and how they met and courted.  Let me tell you, the red flags went off!  For one thing, they broke up not once but twice.  Kate was known as Katey Waity basically because she was a “rules” girl.  She lured him in by wearing some see-through garbage bag in a fashion show but then played the good girl card, that whole Madonna-Whore thing.  They dated.  He got bored at some point and dumped her, they got back together, and he dumped her again.  An American tacky mall skank factored into the play.  For some reason, British people see Americans as representative of `what could be`if only they had better dentists.  She lured him back by dressing like a ho again and having the paparazzi get her picture in a sequined garbage bag looking insanely, maniacally happy. “She played the game and got her man,” said British commentator.  That`s the key thing:  Wearing dresses that barely cover your mash will always bring in the banger.  Red flag:  this will soon get tiresome.  Madonna, whore, madonna, whore, madonna, whore…get me a drink.

And then Barbara Walters showed some photos of Kate wearing those demure outfits with wacky hats, looking `strikingly similar` to Princess Diana, William`s mama.  Another red flag:  William is marrying his mother.   If I`ve said once, I`ve said it a million times:  When a man is actually eager to marry you, it`s only because you remind him of his madonna, not his whore.  So if Kate wants to continue to play this tedious `game of love,` she better hone her bulimia (check!  The  British press never lies: she`s lost a stone since the engagement announcement) and keep her seatbelt on at all times.  But I bet she she won`t.  The monarchy is just too oppressive and she will soon find out that it`s not her game anymore. She is just a pawn, a lady dressed in white in a revolving a door.  All they need is a good pre-nup, and after, a really good song to sing to:

 
Posted by . Categories: go girl, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , . 1 Comment

14

Apr. ’11

Nice and Sleazy Does It

I have lots to say.

First of all today is Pink Shirt Day, which is an anti-bullying awareness campaign, click here for more information, and a topic of which I can relate from my own and my classmates’ experience.  In my high school, there was a boy, who kind of looked like Bender from The Breakfast Club only he was freakishly short.  He always wore that ubiquitous white trash red plaid lumberjacket,  otherwise known as the Kenora dinner jacket, and Kodiak boots with the tongues hanging out and the pants half tucked.  He would hold court over the other teenage boys, who tried to emulate his exquisite style but ended up looking awkward zit-faced henchmen.  Somehow he owned his stumpy diminutive frame and it made him seem even more menacing, like he could crawl through your legs and breath fire up your privates.   This boy, let’s call him Ron Trottier (not his real name…..JOKES!  Yes, totes his real name!  Come and get me now, tiny man!) had a sinister Grinchian smile and he would stare you down with his bloodshot eyes and then call you by your nom du jour.  They were bad names for some kids which I never want to hear again.  And like every other bully, he also got violent and did some creepy night stalking.  For me though, I just got the verbal business.  My first name was “Bean.”  I don’t get either but maybe it was for “string bean,”  I was 5’9 and he might have been 4’11.  No biggie there.  The second one of my names was “SLUT!”  Said super loudly in the hallway.  Incessantly.  Daily.  For four years.  Who calls a virgin a slut?  A pig, that’s who.

And speaking of pigs and sluts, let’s segue into that event a couple of weeks ago in Toronto called “The Slut Walk.”  It was a protest that was inspired by a police officer who intructed the female students from York University not to dress like “sluts” so that they don’t tempt the rapists.  A shit storm ensued, of course.  A lady has the right to dress like a ho, said the righteous female spirit.  By the way, I have to change the word “slut” to “ho” from here on in because my Pavlovian reaction to that word is to wince, and I cannot afford crows’ feet.   And I agree with those bitches, take back the word, take back the night.  While I didn’t bother going to Queens Park on that day to strut, it was only because I hadn’t anything to wear!  Which is the dilemma of the LOCA (lady of a certain age), what is appropriate and what is not?  I have a tendancy to think “less is more” but what does that mean?  I think over a certain age, the less part means skin and more cover.  Damn.  My ho days are over.  Here is a video of the protest that day.  Check out around the 1:00 minute mark:  I HAVE THE SAME SKIRT!  Only mine fits longer so I guess I’m okay.

And by the way, kids:  It does get better, just be strong.  Karma has a way of kicking a bully’s ass.  I notice they took the premium cable package away from the federal prisons.  Sleep tight, Ronnie!

Posted by . Categories: go girl, LOCAs gone wild. Tags: , , , . 2 Comments

08

Apr. ’11

My So-Called Nervous Breakdown

Let’s play a game called “Guess This Sound” and here it goes: 

“Drip.  Drip.DripDrip.DripDripDrip.  Drip”

A) The sound of my incontinence as I put my key in the door when I am not wearing any underwear.

B) The sound of the water leaking into the pot on the stove from the crack in the roof.

C) The sound of my adrenal glands injecting a steady stream of stress hormones through my veins

D) All of the above!

Correct answer is D)  All of the above!  I am a Lady Of  A Certain Age (LOCA) undergoing a nervous breakdown.  It’s just a phase really.  And nobody hates inspiration quotations more than me, so don’t get any ideas and send me a  “Don’t worry, be happy” emoticon.  It’s occurred to me I must be pretty happy worrying because I am not just writing about it, I am planning my wardrobe around it.  I want my nervous breakdown to be glamorous, like something the late great Elizabeth Taylor would have had in her heyday.  I purposefully pack on the mascara so when I cry, it runs elegantly down my cheeks like two little black streams framing my quivering mouth.  I slightly tease my hair so it puffs in the back and sweeps dramatically in the front like I was caught in a hurricane.  I am smoking Chesterfield cigarettes and drinking gin and tonic in the morning.  My white silk robe (no stains!) has come undone and underneath is a lavender slip, slightly ripped from the last time I was manhandled in 1967.  My nail polish, Revlon’s Fire and Ice, is chipped but my pearls are in tact, as is my diamond tennis bracelet that I clutch in between swigs and drags.  Finally, in my perfect nervous breakdown fantasy, I have a rotary telephone that I dial with a calloused finger that shakes between the numbers as I call the pharmacist for my prescription.  I’m popping pills, too, but I’m not sure what kind or how they go down but the minute they start bunging me up, this fantasy is over.

Really though, as my house turns into Grey Gardens and my nights turn into sleepless Twitterpalooza, I am coping by keeping my car nice and clean, going to yoga, and planning my future step by step.  As Robertson Davies once tweeted (yes! quotes are now tweets):  “Only a fool expects to be happy all the time.”   And once you dissect it, the anatomy of my nervous breakdown consists of the perfect storm of fear, anger, despair, a hormonal imbalance, a series of unfortunate events caused by weather, a leaky roof, a lawyer with an insatiable appetite for money who can’t seem to add with a calculator, an ex-husband holding a bucket of black tar, and an impending birthday that requires a new drivers license.  It’s simple stuff really, just a big middle-aged pimple ready to pop.  Tomorrow is another day!  Mani-pedi-Botox!

Posted by . Categories: LOCAs gone wild. Tags: , , , , . Leave a comment

31

Mar. ’11

The Boy, The Butcher, The Burger, The Bomb

Last weekend was Freddy”s 15th Birthday.

Me:  What do you want?

Freddy:  Nothing.

Me:  New shoes?

Freddy: No I like my old ones.

Me: What about a bike? A jacket? A day at the spa? A party? A cake?

Freddy:  Nah, no, NO, no, I hate cake.

So pretty much nothing it was!   The evening before was that dreaded Earth Day where you have to turn off your lights for an hour.   Evangeline was at a party so he and I spent the night in the dark, secretly watching television with the volume on low so the neighbours couldn’t hear and judge.  We watched 127 Hours which was the most riveting movie I’ve seen in like, 127 years.  Maybe because the first hour was watched on the down low which made it more compelling.  Anyway, I forced Freddy to watch it even though he didn’t want to but he ended up liking it, so that was my gift to him.  Happy Birthday, Freddy!  Enjoy your right arm!

The next day was his birthday, which by the way, was exactly like the day he was born:  Cold, crisp and sunny with some snow on the ground.  I always remember that morning, looking out the window of St. Mike’s Hospital while I was in labour at the KFC billboard and thinking:  ” Lunch, please be out before lunch.”  And sure enough, as soon as I hunkered down on all fours, out he came like a rocket.  My little Freddy had a bullet shaped head and he didn’t even cry.  And right away, after I manoeuvred myself over the birth goo and umbilical cord, he clamped on to my tit and began his feast.  And the rest is history.  Freddy is off the boob (at least mine) currently a burger aficionado, hence all the burger blogging I have been doing:  The Burger’s Priest, The Burger Shoppe, The Great Burger Kitchen and now my own glorious creation:  The Giant Mother Burger Cake!

Ever since The Righteous Teenage Daughter made the declaration four months ago that she will only eat meat from happy farm animals, I have been hunting butcher shops all over the city.  I found my favourite, The Friendly Butcher, on the Danforth just east of Broadview.  I’ve said this before, butcher men are hotter than oyster shuckers or firemen so make sure your bra is on tight and you don’t have lipstick on your teeth because the testosterone in that shop could cause spontaneous pheromone eruptis, if you know what I mean.  And they are helpful.  So when I decided to make a Giant Mother Burger Cake for Freddy Birthday I went there and got two pounds of ground beef and some Tamshire bacon (and the range of bacon they have from Perth Pork, click here and check it out,  is pretty interesting).   So here is what I did:

Wove all the bacon (Tamshire)  from the package into a square and broiled it until the fire alarm  went off (true….but until it looked done)

Made a giant beef patty out of : 1.5 ground beef, 2 eggs, Italian bread crumbs, Worcestershire sauce, frozen placenta (haha, kidding, but occurred to me had I the wherewithal back then), then fried it over the stove, salting both sides with coarse sea salt.  Fried up burgers are the best, keep all the juices in, I learned that on The Food Network.  You know, that Bobby Flay could probably take someone’s chopped arm make a burger out of it.  Sigh.

Cut open a sourdough loaf of bread, put the burger on it, the bacon weave on top of the patty , and some grated sharp cheddar!  Finally, I dug some holes in the bread for candles and Happy Birthday to You, Freddy!  Bon Appetit!  It took 4 days to eat that burger!  XOXO

Posted by . Categories: Eat & Drink, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

24

Mar. ’11

Sh*t On A Wet Tar Roof

 

This post is segued by the sad passing of Elizabeth Taylor this morning.  She was a true Hollywood legend and humanitarian and although her heyday was when I was a tot, I do remember the first time she came into my awareness.  One day she appeared on the Mike Douglas Show which I used to love even as a child.  He was on in the morning and later, Merv Griffin would come on in the afternoon.   I thought Mike put on a wig and became Merv, then put on another wig and became Phil Donahue!  Ah, the stupidity of youth.  Anyway, Elizabeth Taylor was on the Mike Douglas Show and my mother told me who she was:  She was Cleopatra, don’t you remember seeing that in a drive in?  No (it turned out I was an infant rolling around the back of the station wagon).  She is married to Richard Burton and he gave her a giant Krupp diamond!  Who, what?  She has violet eyes!  She is wearing purple eye shadow!  Her eyes are blue!  Don’t mess with me, Mom, I have 64 Crayola crayons, I know what violet looks like!  As a youngster, I may have thought Mike, Merv, and Phil were the same man, but I was not buying into hype of Elizabeth Taylor.  It turned out, she was an acquired taste for me.  It wasn’t until I was a full-fledged adult did I start to appreciate all her shenanigans:  her tragic widowhood from Mike Todd, her husband stealing that weasel Eddie Fisher, marrying Richard Burton  twice!  That is hot.  Her movies with him were the best, especially Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.  They say there wasn’t much of a stretch between George and Martha’s boozy volatile relationship to the real life Dick and Liz.  That film, to me, was not just hot but the ultimate in romance.  I like things high strung.

Speaking of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (ok, whatevs, it’s another iconic Elizabeth Taylor movie), I have been moaning for the past couple of weeks about my leaky third floor roof.  Unfortunately, it is a flat roof with a wooden deck on it.  The deck must come down before a roofer can even assess the situation.  Who better for the job than my buddy Bob?  Which brings me back to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.  Bob and I, although strictly platonic, have that kind of George/Martha relationship…to a degree of course. Since 1999, we have had some major ups and downs.  We’ve done all kinds of things, had adventures and misadventures, taken road trips, drank beers galore, cottaged (that story remains sealed in a vault) and had a few fights and falling outs where we didn’t speak for as much as a year.  Currently he has a girlfriend, the kind that keeps him on a short leash and sneakily sews in a GPS system in the seam of his briefs (which ha! ha! is why he goes commando).  Anyway yesterday Bob came over to dismantle the third floor deck and I was his helper.  It was a pretty big job, and back-breaking especially for him because he was doing most of the work.  His girlfriend texted him a few thousand annoying times and at one point when I was sweeping the sludge debris into a pile, he barked at me and said I was doing it stupidly with one hand when I should be using two and he called me by her name!  Oh how I laughed, he thinks I am his girlfriend when I am doing something boneheaded.  I ended up picking the gross sludge up with my bare hands and dumping it into 5 big plastic garbage bags.  And then I remembered the raccoon that took over that deck one summer and slept in its own fecal matter all day, barricading the door so we couldn’t open it.  Probably all that sludge was actual shit!  Panic ensued, just like the time I visited a co-worker and went into his bathroom and accidentally touched his butt plug which was sitting right there on the counter, I ended up washing my hands countless times for days(weeks)  afterwards.  Raccoon shit is poison, but another person’s butt plug residue is just unspeakably disgusting.  Oddly, I found the idea of the raccoon shit far less disturbing so I finished up, washed my hands once, and got us a bottle of wine at the liquor store and we had a pleasant and civilized after-work drink and he went on his way.  Leaving a pile of wood in the backyard.  Not quite a heap of diamonds but that’s the kind of lady I am.  And to that I say, farewell sweet Liz, may you fool the angels with your violet eyes!

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19

Mar. ’11

Sleepless in Toronto

The first rule of Insomnia Club is do not talk about Insomnia Club.  The second rule is whatever you do when you are tossing and turning in the middle of the night, DO NOT go on Facebook and check out the green dots and see who else is on-line.  But you will anyway.  Third rule, DO NOT start chatting with the green dots, they could be in a different time zone and will not understand your middle of the night psychotic ramblings.  If they are in your time zone, unless they are up waiting for the limo to take them to the airport, they are also insomniacs and you should never fraternize with someone who can’t sleep when you can’t sleep.  The conversation will be pointless and will create even more anxiety and before you know it, you will be cyber-poking each other to death.

The collective energy in the air these days is so angst-ridden, I’m surprised anyone can sleep through what’s going on.  The world has become smaller because we are constantly bombarded with world events and tied to social media like it was an umbilical cord.  Not that long ago,  we would have watched the news on tv at 6 o’clock, clucked and tsk-ed while we had our cocktails, then turned it off and had dinner with our families and chatted about what happened in our day (ok, not really that idyllic, but that’s how it should happen).  Now we are living with a tsunami (and pardon the metaphor) of information during our walking hours.  We all  know what Charlie Sheen is doing right NOW because if we’re not following him on Twitter, the media is and reports all his rantings.  He is the poster child of a modern anxiety disorder.  And we all have an opinion and I have just this to say:  Wait until he wakes up from his sleepless delusions and has to chew off both his arms when he realizes his “goddesses” are merely garden variety mall skanks.  I can hardly wait. 

But how do you deal with all the anxiety?  I asked around and somebody told me B vitamins.  Oh how I laughed.  In earnest, I think the best way has been to practise yoga.  I go on Bikram yoga binges but on the most part I do Hatha yoga at the gym.  Yoga teaches you how to detach which as a concept seems maybe counterintuitive when it comes to honing your self-awareness.  But the fine art of detachment is the best way to deal with those pesky thoughts in the middle of the night that keep you ruminating and obsessing about things that don’t really matter.  Buddha says that attachment is the root of all suffering so yeah, try to free your thoughts and sleep will come.  Eventually.  And stop following Charlie Sheen on Twitter (note to self).

Posted by . Categories: an inconvenient truth. Tags: , , , , , , . 3 Comments

11

Mar. ’11

You Can’t Hurry Lube

I usually ignore the door unless I am expecting a pizza.  It’s almost always some trickster trying to sell you a new furnace so he can get in your basement and check out how big your tv is.  But the other day, the doorbuzz made it’s obscene sound and Betty started barking like an actual working dog (her day job is bed warmer) and I couldn’t ignore it.  Ironically, it was The Dog Catcher.  It turns out they randomly check and see if people have licensed their pets.  This is just me fear mongering, it’s not really true but the back story is too long to tell and ends with bad neighbour relations.  Anyway, the man at the door was there to remind me that I owe the city of Toronto $25 for a dog license.  After he informed of this, here is how the conversation went:

Dog Catcher:  I like your skulls! (pointing to the two skulls on my front porch chaise lounger)

Me:  Oh, they are still there from Halloween…

Dog Catcher:  Well I really like them.  A lot.

(awkward silence as he pulls out his registration form)

Dog Catcher:  What’s your first name?

Me:  Kristin, with a K

Dog Catcher:  Kristin!  I love that name!  Kristin!  I’ve always loved that name, Kristin, Kristin, Kristin!

Me:  Stop saying it!  It sounds so….crispy!

And it went on like that until he got all my information.  You should have heard him stall when he got to putting down my postal code.  He pretended to be the Amazing Kreskin and tried to guess every number and letter.  I gave him twenty-five dollars in cash and he apologized profusely, “I’m so sorry to take your beer money.”  And I shut the door.  A couple of days later, it dawned on me:  Was he flirting?  Am I so out of the game that I don’t recognize the signs?  And then I thought, am I going to die alone, a single skull on my front porch? 

5 years ago, I tried on-line dating.  I went on that one site that colour codes what you are looking for:  relationship, dating, or intimate encounters which was orange.  I went straight for the chase (orange)  because knowing what I know about menfolk, they like to cast a wide net so they have their profiles on all three playgrounds.  I think my first handle (you have to pick a name) was “Girl Afraid” and much to my delight “Mr. Shankly” gave me a poke or a wink.  It turned out he was gay and just liked my Smiths reference so I changed my handle to “Drive, She Said” and got the straight men’s attention.  I went out on 3 different dates and they were all quite nice and funny but that summer I turned into one of those ‘rules” girls and decided to lock up the vagina until I was good and ready.

Yes, that was years ago and I’m still a single lady.  All the men “have moved on” which is what they do.  Once in a while I get a fleeting crush that amounts to nothing because he has a personality disorder(you know who you are) or lives in my tv (Dr. Drew).  And is it wrong to actually like being alone?  The other day, on Twitter, #change love to lube songs was “trending”  I like how grown people participate in these things.  My twitter crush, whose handle is “arseburgers” went crazy on it.  ” Silly Lube Songs” “Lube Hurts” et cetera.  And I thought, you know:  love is like lube, it’s good at first but then it gets sticky and messy and you just can’t wait to wash it off. 

Oh, and Dog Catcher:  If you’re reading this, call me!

Posted by . Categories: This Charming Man. Tags: , , . 2 Comments

03

Mar. ’11

Guess What, Chicken Butt? I Got A New YouTube Sensation

I don’t really enjoy children that much.  Yes, I have two of them and I can say from experience that the old adage is true.  Children are basically like farts, you can stand your own but others cannot be tolerated.  And who am I kidding?  Even when my own kids when were little, I wanted to hide from them and light a match.  In my previous post, I described my daughter as ‘Satan’s spawn.”  My son was no cake walk either , he had some piss and vinegar running through his veins.  His tantrums were legendary, ask any crossing guard in the East End.  You could never get him from Point A to Point B, but when finally got him to Point B, he never wanted to leave.  He’s going to make a difficult husband for some poor woman, I just know it.  Anyway, now both are teenagers and you’d think they be even worse but they are totally cool.  They are actually people that I want to hang out with (but not necessarily together because they squabble like an old married couple). 

Yesterday, Oprah featured a show on young “talent.” and I am using that word loosely in particular with Willow Smith, who was her cohost.  She has a new song out and you can see her perform it here (but why would you want to?).  Her best trick is swinging her head around like she is giving herself shaken baby syndrome.  Do it.  And it seems like there’s a new child YouTube sensation every week that we avid television viewers must contend with.  They are like pimples on the face of media.  The Bieber aside (because he is awesome),  most of these “sensations” need to just do their homework and wash their hair (I’m looking at you, Simon Cowell’s latest cash cow).   And Lady Gaga needs to get out more is all I will say about her little mini-me. 

And speaking of kids on YouTube and parent pimps, here is my son, Freddy’s latest short film entry for The Sprockets Children’s Film Festival this Spring….he won first place last year in his age group (mama pride!  It was just like he won an Oscar).  He is the future Quentin Tarantino (they have the same birthday).  Enjoy:

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25

Feb. ’11

Marilyn The Mother Whisperer

The fridge remembers everything

Last week I slipped on my friend, Lorraine’s, icy driveway trying to pull a will-not out of her dog’s butt.  This is not the story I will talk about but I will tell you that my hip is bruised and my shoulder is not moving quite right.  There are also weird decrepit  noises when I move my legs.  My teenage daughter can hear it even with her headphones on, “Stop it!”  Okay, child, I will just lay still then.  I’ve noticed with age, my whole skeletal system is starting to feel like flimsy toy put together by a crazed, impatient  prepubescent girl.  I am Barbie’s Dream Osteopathic Bodyworks Exhibit.  I only use this as a metaphor because this past week has been all about the memories of when my kids were little.  Because of my ice injury, my usual A.M. fitness routine has been thwarted and instead, I’ve been watching morning television.  I could get used to it.  Regis is on his last hurrah and the ladies at The View are always entertaining.   But the best part is that Marilyn Denis is back with her own show on CTV after leaving Cityline a few years ago. 

17 years ago, when my daughter was born, there was no specialty cable, the internet was unknown territory for civilians so no Facebook, Twitter, or funny gin-soaked mommybloggers to help us through the day.  On tv, Regis had Kathie Lee as a cohost (need I say more?) but luckily we had Marilyn Denis in the morning and then repeated in the afternoon.  She was a mom learning to parent just like us and her expert guests were our guides to modern living.  I watched her every day, I really felt like she was friend or a sister.  I wasn’t a crazy shut-in, I also had real life.  I joined a new mothers’ group at the Beaches Rec Centre.  We were a motley group of 12 sleep deprived women dealing with fresh scars, brown stains,  and other grossities.  We met once a week for a couple of  hours.  It’s all a blur now but back then but I remember most being fixated on this one baby whose head was encrusted with yellow cradle cap.  I was itching to reach over and dig in to pick it off.  What was wrong with his mother that she left it alone?  She obviously had no mama gorilla instincts and after weeks of letting it grow to the point that  was medical-book grotesque, I asked her:  “Why aren’t you picking that crap off his head?!”  I think I shamed her.   

Looking back, the whole group probably thought I was a bitch, I was pious and righteous with my cloth diaper service and my personalized Furber method (10 minutes of letting a baby cry can easily be stretched out to a half an hour when your baby sounds like a kitten).  At home alone though, I was losing my mind.  My baby girl, Evangeline, was the spawn of Satan.  She made my nipples bleed with her razor-sharp gums.  She screamed with her raw cat voice as soon as she woke up.  She did abdominal crunches on her change table, and her legs were so frantic, it was almost impossible to put a diaper on her.  She was a good sleeper but when she was awake, I couldn’t wait to put her in her playpen, aka, “Shawshank” or her swing, dubbed the “neglect-o-matic.” 

Anyway, it turned out the one thing the mothers in our group had in common was our love for Marilyn Denis and one day we all got tickets to attend a taping of her show.  It was a family episode and afterwards, her super-cute cameraman, Emilio, asked us if he could do a taped segment with us moms and our one minute parenting tips.  A few weeks later, Emilio, came to my house to film me and another mother from the group, Lorraine, demonstrate our skills.  Lorraine lived down the street and was also a stay-home mom and by then most of the other women in the group were back at work because their 6 months maternity leaves were up.   Lorraine’s tip was put a Mr. Freezee on a boo-boo instead of ice and the wounded child could eat it after he/she finished wailing.  For the life of me, I can’t remember my parent trick.  I used to make purses out of duct tape, maybe it was a diaper bag???  Whatever, Emilio, filmed us and was gone before noon.  It was the first time Lorraine and I were alone without the other hags and we just looked at each other and I said, “Beer?” and she said:  “Fuck, yeah!” and we cracked a couple open and 17 years later, we have been best friends ever since.  And we can thank Marilyn Denis for that.  

Lorraine and  both had our second babies 3 years later.  I had a boy, Freddy, who had cradle cap for 3 years that I would lovingly and gleefully pick off while he sat on my lap as we watched Cityline.  I’m so happy Marilyn is back and with modern technology, I can access her any time I want with Rogers On Demand.  I’m a single mama now and I also wonder, whatever happened to the cameraman, Emilio?  Call me, I’m on Facebook and Twitter!

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