LA WOMAN

I've wanted to go to Hollywood since, well, forever. As a little kid I'd sing songs from Annie, hoping to be discovered... in the privacy of my bedroom. If anyone came even close to my door I'd immediately clam up. Broadway, Hollywood - it was all the same in my 9-year old mind. When I finally got to Hollywood it was the Florida version. And even a 9-year old knew it was pas la meme chose.

And then, I wet my feet in Show Biz, where all roads lead to Hollywood. Except the one I was taking. It went directly to Toronto instead. Yeah, yeah, Hollywood North (or is that Vancouver?). Whatever. I wanted the real deal. And finally, this past weekend, I got just that. My Man took me away from all this and we headed West. To Los Angeles. Hollywood, California. Sun, Sand, Sea...

Stars!!!

Yes, kids, I went on my very own private Celebrity Safari!!!

Everyone who's anyone knows that when you're on safari it's all about the acommodations, the food and of course, the animals. Wildebeest and giraffes are cool as hell, but it's the Big Five that count. Lion. Leopard. Rhino. Elephant. Buffalo. And when you go to LA it's no different. It's about where you stayed, where you ate, and who you saw. With a side of where you shopped.

Off we went, eyes peeled, looking for stars and pretending not to. Which is, of course, the Canadian way. Except in the end we may have been a little too nonchalant. We came, we ate, we shopped. But the celeb sightings? Few and far between.

Our safari began almost immediately, with a sighting of Tanya Kim. I know, I know.... Who? OK, she's not technically a star, but she is one of the hosts of an entertainment show and, as such, counts as a celeb. A local one, sure, but she was in business class. In full makeup. At 11AM. On the safari equivalency test, we'll say vulture.

We landed at LAX, rented our love machine, and hit the road. First stop, Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. A vision of loveliness by the Pacific, it would've been even more idyllic had we not arrived at the same time as June Gloom. Never heard of it? Neither had we when we booked our trip. And, apparently, neither had The Weather Network. But it's the annual cold front that reaches LA at the beginning of June. Accompanied by grey clouds. Lots of 'em. And blustery winds. Especially by the beach. Still, it was perfect walking around weather. Except we were in LA, where everyone drives everywhere, and we'd rented a car. A convertible.

But we wrapped ourselves up in our new scarves and jackets - that's right - and hit the town. We were on a mission: to relax, eat well, see friends and shop (in no particular order). And of course we presumed we'd see stars on every corner. Because that's what people do in LA right? Right?!

My Man decided it'd be fun to play a little game where he tells me about the various actors he's spotted while my head was turned. Kind of like those annoying Euros on African Safaris who claim to have been chased down by rhinos, faced off with leopards etc. Only the Hollywood stars were far more elusive than the Big Five. And my husband was way funnier. Except he actually did see Silver (real name unknown, and unimportant) from 90210 while I tried on outfits. And he did work out with Dennis Leary in the hotel gym while I was sampling free chocolates at See's Candies. Harumph. I saw Atom Agoyan at LAX. From behind. But my guy didn't think that counted. And it probably didn't. Too locally accessible. Raccoon.

Strange thing is, all the locals know that all the visitors are looking for the stars. They know where they hang out, what they do, and no one's shy about telling you where to go to find them. The watering holes they like, the best season to find them. They're starf&cking and we're star-hunting. And everybody knows it. It's weird.

So it became all about where we ate and who we saw. Ivy by the Shore - pas de. Apparently all about the one on Robertson. We shopped and idled a bit but no sightings. But food at the Shore was awesome. And massive. Seriously. Too big even for us. And for those in the know, that's saying something!

Next day was a local spot to start- Cora's. Perfect for breakfast. Not so much for movie stars. Followed by Robertson shopping a cruise down Sunset and lunch at Mel's Diner. Because it's funny. And it was en route. Mel's Diner! Hilarious (tho' the real one is in San Fran....But you make do with what you've got, right?) Out with friends for the food and the vibe at STK. Both very good.

But where were all the movie stars?

We headed to Joan's on 3rd. A guaranteed celeb hangout. Just not while we were there. But incredible food, and hung out with an old friend who happens to be married to an actor who we actually recognize - by face. We imdb'd him on the spot and shared an "I love that guy" moment. So that was kinda neat! Especially since our pal invited us over to meet him in person if our celeb safari turned out to be less than fruitful. We never had to take her up on it - tho we would've loved to, had there been more time....Stopped in at that great Los Angeles equalizer, In 'n Out Burger and went animal style. Bun for him, lettuce for me. Incredible. All they say it is - and less. No frills, no fuss, lots of muss (mess) and deeeeeelish.

It was Saturday night. That's the equivalent of mid-day on safari. You see nothing. Still, Katsuya held some promise for us. Food was incredible, and the place was crawling with paparazzi - and loads of loser civilians with cam-corders at the ready. According to the bartender, some Lakers were coming. Whatever. Sports stars don't count. For me. My Man was on the edge of his seat. But no luck. No shows. We were then befriended by a wacky makeup artist who, I was convinced, was looking to grift us in some way. Told us she was working the red carpet the MTV Movie awards the next night and could get us in to all the parties. Even offered to do my makeup. Thought she was just some freak (until we got home, checked out her website and learned she was totally legit. Ooops. Too late.) As we waited for our car, the gawkers whipped themselves into a frenzy....Over Zach Braff (not that any of them knew who they were looking at. The just knew he was "Someone") . And yeah, he was. He is. But I don't watch Scrubs. On the safari scale? Impala.

Where were the Lions? The Elephants?

There's nothing remotely elephantine in LA, despite it being the land of good food. And also, presumably, the land of pukers, druggies, exercise fanatics. Or probably some sort of combo platter. Chateau Marmont showed us the most magnificent creatures we'd ever seen. Ever. One stunner after the next. Had no idea who they were, but it didn't matter. They just were. Magnificent to behold, fun to watch in their natural habitat, and interesting to witness life behind The Bubble first hand. Breathtaking. Migration of the Wildebeest.

Sunday was the day of rest for us. No safari. Biking in Venice instead. Carney boardwalk. Drum circle that managed to walk that fine line between between cheesy and cool. Freakshows left, right and center. And the laid back hipster vibe of Abbott Kinney. Which I LOVED. Ate quite well at 3 Square Cafe and spotted what looked like Hank's wife, Karen, from Californication. Which is kinda funny 'cuz we were in Venice, it's set in Venice...And it ended up being her! Natascha McElhone. At last! Someone we knew (not personally) from something we'd seen (and pvr'd!). How exciting! How thrilling! We even ooh-ed and aah-ed over a puppy together, cooe'd over her baby together, and acted like we were really cool and didn't know she was a star of stage and screen (even tho we did) together. We had a moment. A brush with stardom. More a giraffe than a leopard, but still...

Ended our Celeb Safari in Malibu. At the impossibly romantic (yet borderline geriatric) Geoffrey's. Which they pronounce "Joffrey's". Strange. But tasty. And host to two wedding receptions and many dates. Fun fun fun!

On the very last day I drove. By myself. In our car. It was a bit warmer, the sun poked its head out and I realized I'd fallen in like-a-lot. Despite the dearth of sun and stars, my Man and I had the best time. Amazing what 4 nights in a hotel sans kids can do. And who knew LA was such a perfect destination for a long weekend getaway? Definitely beats Buffalo.

As the good guv says, we'll be back.

TWOFER

At long last, they got it right. They really truly got it right. On Idol that is...

SURPRISE!!!

What? You didn't think I'd let the entire season slip by sans commentary, didya?

Those calls and emails keep coming in - let's discuss idol. And I do. A lot. But I've had some issues.

First off, I've been reading some seriously funny commentary. If you haven't already, you mst check out dlisted.com and ew.com. Their idol chatter is awesome. Hi-larious. Because it's all true. Yes, Homer, the old adage "it's funny 'cuz it's true" kicks in every time. So all the pet peeves (and pet names) are already out there. I can't even claim to be scooped. It is what it is: Matt G's mole... Adam as kd lang... Lil's wigs... Anoop's sweaty upper lip....And of course all the freaky families.... I mean, gosh - who hasn't noticed and discussed all that, and more?

Aside from those hold outs who still refuse to tune in. You know who you are.

Anyhoo, another issue was Blind Scott. There. I said it. The whole affirmative action element of his being there stressed me out. 'Cuz he sucked. He was Bruce Hornsby week after week after week. And for those BH fans out there, if there are any, let me add: not in a good way. Sure he was funny but hello? This.....is American Idol. Personality takes a back seat. And sometimes doesn't even get to come for the ride. I felt I couldn't discuss openly and honestly until poor old Scotty was given the boot. He was holding me back. Until he finally got the boot....

And still I held back.

Maybe because of Adam. The guy is so above and beyond the rest of the kids. Fat tongue aside, he kills it every time. Not only are the others not in his league - they're not even playing the same game. The boy's a pro. The rest, wanna-be's. He's Annie Lennox in drag... but not... mixed with kd lang and Elvis, add a sprinkle of Scissor Sisters. A pinch of Mr Bowie. And run the gamut of references that don't make any sense and let you know I'm zonked. But you get my drift. I think.

As for Frat Boy Anoop Dog and Wiggy Lil - as in "Lily" (why is that so hard to get? Silly Yanks.)... now that they're out of the picture - at last - we can focus on the rest. And for the first time evah, none of 'em really really bug me!

Which also makes it hard to care too much. Because at this point it's all good.

Tho' not perfect.

I still think Alexis Grace's early boot was a crime. Remember her? The little blonde sexy sprite? She should've stuck around - more so than the rubbernecker and flitty chick. And I must admit - I'm bored of Hokey Gokey. One friend called him "the high school friend who you can't get rid of" and I fear she might be right. His Robert Downey Jr looks and widower status had me at hello. But now? I'm ready to say goodbye.

Unlike Not Hot Kris. Over the past few weeks I find myself looking forward to his performances. And not just to watch those thin lips of his dance across his face - because they do y'know - but because he's really, really good!

Like Alison Iraheta. At first I found her to be....how shall I say this....somewhat unappealing. That's putting it mildly. She's got a real face for radio, that one. Repeated fashion crimes, that terrible lid. Don't get me started. I know she's only 16 but what's wrong with using a stylist like everybody else??? Yet that voice... Heart-esque tho it may be, it is wicked. She's completely won me over. Which is why I can't for the life of me understand how week after week she ends up in the trash heap. At least she climbs out.

Like my man Matt G. I don't know why, but he's been my main guy from the start. Yes, even from the audition shows. I think it's because he's a duelling pianist in real life. Love that! And the whole Vince Vaughan Timberlake thing? Can't beat it. Sure he's somewhat misguided when it comes to genre and song choice. And yeah, he can be a bit of a sour puss - personally I think he should get over it and let the tears flow. America loves a cryer! The judges are very hot and cold with him. But I think its's their strategy. 'Cuz everytime they bash him, he gets votes. And when they sing his praises, he's a goner. Almost. The judge's save would've saved whoever was out last week (timing and all - they had to use it, right? And too obvious to do it on the final day, right? ). Still, I'm glad the ass they saved was his. I'm a sucker for a pianist. All those lessons....

That said, I do think my boy Matt will be the next to bite the dust. Followed by Rouge Iraheta. And Flappy Hands Gokey. Leaving us Kris and Adam duking it out in the final. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Unlike Archie Archuleta's performance ce soir. Same earnest spit smile. Same insipid song choice. Could've been worse. Could've had no pvr....

BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

A few weeks ago, my eldest son looked up at me and told me I was ugly.

Suddenly I flashed back 30 years, when I met my father's then-girlfriend for the first time. I came home and told my mom all about her, stressing that while the girlfriend was much prettier, my mom was much nicer. As if that were a god thing! How could I have been so dense? And so blind? As it was, this chick wasn't nearly as attractive as my mom. And I'm not just saying that in hindsight. (Or because she's my mom. And there's a family resemblance.) No, I'm saying it now because it's true. The girlfriend's long gone now, but memories of her tiny mouse-like face and curling-ironed hair still remain...

As does the fact that my 5-and-a-half year old thinks I'm ugly. UGLY!!!!!! I may not be a supermodel but I've been known to turn a head or two. And with 3 babes and 40 years under my belt I may not be at my peak but I can say with certainty that I am not, I repeat, NOT ugly.

Or at least I wasn't.....

Maybe this is some kind of intergenerational, cosmic payback. According to my eldest, I'm a hag. What the f&ck?!?!?!?! Aren't your children supposed to see you as the epitome of all that is good and beautiful in the whole wide world? When my second son socked him for insulting me (yeah, he does that), my bigger boy explained through his tears that I looked ugly because my skin looked a little bit green. Green!

Now I know I'm coming out of a pasty-faced winter, but I tend to be more peaches and cream...OK, white... rather than green. Hence the sunburns. If I were green...olive... I'd bronze like a goddess. Or my husband. But no, according to my five and a half year old, I was green. Ish. That said, he did watch the Wizard of Oz recently....

Coincidence?

Perhaps. Or not. Maybe I am green. Maybe I do look the wicked witch of the west. Or maybe I'm just, gulp, getting old?

There's been a lot of talk about aging lately. "Lately" meaning I'm the one talking about it with my people. Is that what happens when you enter your 40's? Suddenly, I find myself checking out the surgercized chicks with more wonder than cynicism. I've been contemplating growing out my bangs but think that maybe now's the time to keep 'em. That or botox. I've become invisible at the cheap 'n trendy shops, yet a star in the pricey ones. All these older women keep checking me out. Or are they older at all?!? I notice that I don't often spot people my own age in the streets and on the town....because maybe, just maybe, all those oldsters ARE my own age?
YIKES!

But it's what's on the inside that counts, right?

Right?!

Luckily for me, my second son thinks I am all that. He likes my toes - painted or plain. Doesn't mind me in glasses, and likes pony tails. And when I wear red. Which I never ever do, but that's what he says. I'm thinking it's 'cuz Elmo is red, but I'll take it. Anyhoo, he tells me I'm beautiful. Daily. And that he's going to marry me when he grows up. OK, so maybe he's the kinky one, but still. They all seem to know what they like. Or like what they know. Whatever. My biggest boy cried when I got my hair cut ("you don't look like my mommy anymore!") My middle one likes jewellery. The more the better. Even my 9-month baby seems to have a fetish for high heels. Literally. He sits in my cupboard and sucks on them. So the particulars and preferences obviously start young. And they tell it like it is.

Which can be a god thing too...Because I got all spiffed to go out the other night and both of my big boys looked at me like I was a movie star. They actually gasped. Told me I looked nice. Reeeeeally nice. A princess-y dress would be better, but in bad-guy, Darth Vader black, I was beautiful. It made my night. Even coming from the under-6 crowd, hearing you look good never gets old.

Unlike the rest of me....

SSSSHHHHHH!!!!

To call or not to call... that is the question.

Yes kids, I feel the need to revisit that little thing called "mobile phone etiquette". It seems that many of us our lacking it. Big time.

I'm not anti-mobile. Not by a long-shot. I love my iphone. Can't/won't leave home without it. I quite liked my old flip-top too. Hello Moto? Hello! I've never been a crackberry head - but only because I went Mac instead. So, no, I'm not some throwback who thinks we'd all be better off landed. Au contraire. I'm all over cellular telephones of all shapes and sizes....

Except, of course, when used inappropriately. Then, I have to temper the rage I feel bubbling up inside me. The anger that wants to march over to the offending phoner, smash their cel, and walk away. Without uttering a word. Smash. Leave. Silence.

Time and place, friends....Time and place.

I was at the gym today and I had The Rage. I was sweating to the oldies, ipod blaring, in The Zone. Suddenly I found myself inadvertantly listening to a conversation. A phone conversation. The woman next to me had received a call, and proceeded to talk for 18 minutes. I know because I timed her on my elliptical machine. I concentrated on pushing with my arms, she talked. I increased speed, she talked. I changed directions, she talked. Finally, I began the cool down...Yep, still talking. 18 minutes of discussing whether or not her friend should move in with her new man.

On the one hand, it could've been kind of entertaining. On the other....the ol' Time 'n Place thing. At the gym? Shoulder to shoulder with other people? Hello? Inappropriate!!! You see, I could hear her through my headphones, over the sound of the loudspeakers and the hum of the machines. You know when it's summertime and you're trying to sleep and a mosquito buzzes right in your ear??? It was all I could do to slap her away....I moved on to the free weights, but she kept on going. From the elliptical, to the inner-thigh machine, to the mats. Is it me? Or is that weird? (It's also quite impressive. She must be in spectacular shape if she can carry on a conversation while workin' workin' workin' it...)

Later this afternoon, I went to pick up my 3-year-old from nursery school. There were parent volunteers manning the parking lots because there have been issues with cars, preschoolers, and blind spots. I was standing with my son, talking to one of these faux-wardens, when another parent turned her SUV into the driveway, and headed straight for us. I promise you without any spice that she stopped about a foot from my friend's chest. I banged on her window but she was too busy chatting. Exasperated at the lack of parking spots, she finally rolled down her window to start bitching. When the parent volunteer pointed out she'd almost hit her and the young child next to her (mine!) the woman shrugged and said she hadn't noticed BECAUSE SHE WAS ON THE PHONE.

Well. I. Never.

Is it me? Or are these people, erm, challenged? Who drives through a preschool parking lot without noticing that there might be, oh I dunno, PRESCHOOLERS in it! I'm all for using your phone in the car...If you can handle it. Is talking in the car phone like having good taste? Y'know, everyone thinks they have great taste, but most people don't. It seems everyone thinks they can talk and drive at the same time...But can they?

Time. And. Place.

There's a time and place for talking. I know because I'm a chatter. If you need to talk, do what you must. But ask yourself - does everybody else need to hear? NO. If you're late for picking up a carpool, do you have the right to stunt drive? NO. For those too dim to figure it out, here are some examples of places wherein you may want to turn your ringer off - or get outta dodge:
restaurants, spas, theatres, performances of any kind....The list is endless.

So next time you're in your doctor's waiting room, or having a pedicure, or in any other close-quarter situations, think about sending a text before you answer that call. Not only is it rude to subject the rest of us to your convo, but, in a town such as ours, it may be hazardous to your social life. The person next to you pretending to read the Us Magazine is, in fact, listening in. Because he or she has no choice.

Time. And. Place.

So please....a little self-retraint, a little etiquette, and a little quieter up front....for all our sakes....

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

I've been getting over a breakup. A professional break-up, that is. With our vet.

We have many animals living at our house. Children and husband aside, there's the dog, the cat and a revolving door of fish. We - or should I say, they - have had the same vet for as many years as they've had this owner. But after repeatedly bumping into an old friend and animal doctor, I realized it was time to take the plunge and switch over. Sure "our" vet was kind, capable and convenient. But our soon-to-be-new vet was all those things too. And a personal friend.

And then one night our dog lost a fight with a jagged wooden spike that embedded itself in his paw. It was late at night and we were at a loss. Our friendly vet was closed. But our friend-the-vet was always open. At least he said he would be if we needed him. We needed him...

And he was there! He talked us down, helped us out, and metaphorically held our hands. I knew the time had come to take the plunge and switch vets. He told me all I had to do was make a couple of calls: one to his office to register my pets, and one to the old vet to ditch him.

Huh? I had to actually call the old vet?! Couldn't we just not rsvp to calls for flea meds and rabies shots?

Apparently not. Like all medical specialists, the new vet needed records.

Professional break-ups are tricky. I'm not talking hiring and firing, tho' those can be pretty brutal too. I'm talking about the professionals you - or your health plan - pays. Doctors, lawyers, contractors. Agents, teachers, dressmakers. When you tell a lover "it's not you, it's me" it could be true... sure.... uh-huh. But with a pro, it's a bold-faced lie. Of course it's them - otherwise, why would you ditch?

Unless you've reached some sort of "goal", it's usually the pro's failings that make you wonder if you could do better. Like your waxer. Right, ladies? If you're moving on, unless you've gone laser, it's because they're too pricey. Or too rough. Or too booked. Or there's someone way better/cheaper/gentler on the horizon.

Question is: do they care about being dumped?

I had the same GP for years. I thought she'd see me through to old age. Until I got pregnant. Suddenly, she bugged me. Her old-school advice wasn't what I wanted. I knew it was time to move on to a younger, newer, model. And I did. No muss, no fuss, no phone call. I'd absconded, and it was over...until I bumped into her a couple of years later. It was out of context and I hoped against hope she wouldn't recognize me. But of course she did and she couldn't have been nicer. I felt awful.

I ditched my contractor too. Thought he was ripping me off and being an overall cheeseball. He'd worked for everyone in my family for years. I was outraged that he'd try to cheat me. I vowed never to work with him again. Until my roof started leaking and my kitchen ceiling looked ready to cave. Then I came grovelling. He sent one of his minions to fix the problem. For a hefty fee. Sure, I paid the price. Maybe it was payback. But it was well worth it.... We were back together.

I've changed schools, swapped swim instructors, moved camps... always for the sake of my children. Well, almost always. But scapegoating them was OK. No one was offended, and everyone was happier.

But the vet? What'd he ever do to me? Or my pets? Aside from care for them?

Well, he charged a lot, for one. Convinced me to go gourmet - pet food - for another. OK. So he never did anything "to" me? But what did he do "for" me? A whole lotta nothin' that's what! I was right to dump him. Out with the old, in with the new! I called and announced that our pets would be moving on. There was a pause. Would they beg me to reconsider? Convince me they were the best vets in town? The silence was deafening.....Were they even there?!

Once the receptionist came back on the line, she sweetly asked for the name of the new clinic. And with a "have a good day", our relationship was over. Quick 'n painless. I was devastated. Because it wasn't them. It was me!

I just hope they don't recognize our dog on the street.

GAME ON

Many moons ago I bought my then-boyfriend a PlayStation for his birthday. I remember shopping for it; salesmen would light up at the mere idea of their lady-loves buying them a video game. One friend of mine warned me I'd rue the day that I handed over the PS2 - it'd sound the death knell of our relationship. Once my man plugged in, he'd never be back.

But I knew better. Those days were the early days of our romance. The days when "staying in" meant, well, you know...wink, wink, nudge, nudge... And I knew no playstation could ever come between me and my man.

That man is now my husband. And after many nights of, ahem, staying in, we have three children. Which of course gives the term a whole new meaning. Now "staying in" means staying home, catching up with our beloved pvr, going to bed early, or all of the above. Or at least it did...

Until last week.

Last week was my beloved's birthday once again. And I revisited the idea of the gadget gift. No more sweaters, bags, or, erm....sweaters. I was going for fun this time. We were ipodded-out and the PS2 was looking a little sad in its new role as basement dvd player. So I went for it... and bought my man a Nintendo Wii.

Well, my old pal was right. I have created a monster.....ME!

I'm completely obsessed. My man is too, don't get me wrong. In fact, we now spend our evenings on a World Tour. RockBand, that is. He's drums, I'm guitar and we vie for the mic now and then. To get to the songs you love (and know!) you need to get past various levels. It makes it difficult, or some addicts may say, impossible, to leave the band hanging without reaching just one. more. level. And while you're at it, you learn to love songs you never in a million years thought you could even stand. Bon Jovi - where have you been all my life?!

But it's not just about Rock Band. My five-year old son has a thing for the bowling. And the air hockey. My 3-year old likes to watch the tennis. And my 5 month old likes nothing more than to lie on his playmat, rolling around to the sounds of gunfire.

Yes, gunfire. Loathe as I to admit it, I'm hooked on the shooting game. It starts with balloons, followed by targets, skeet/clay pigeon thingies, and cans. Finally, it ends with a group of characters running around a field being abducted by aliens - which you have to shoot down. And I can't get enough of it. My oldest and I played for over an hour yesterday. Me, the mother who resisted buying water guns, is now channeling my inner Sarah Palin and going hunting with my child. Sick!

But oh so much fun! And I've barely broken the surface of the world of Wii!

The prime demographic for videogames is male, aged 13-25. But not anymore. Teenage boys, move over for Mama. There's a new gamer in town and she's looking for action!

GAME ON!

COLOROSO FOR DUMMIES

SPOILER ALERT: THIS BLOG IS ABOUT PARENTING. NO RANTS, JUST RAVES....

For real.

But if you're still interested, read on. If not, a bientot....

Now, where was I? Aaaah yes. The trials and tribulations of parenting. The love. The joy. The pain....in the ass. It ain't easy so I take any help I can get. And then I discard what I don't need. Or want. I've read loads of books, been to a handful of courses. Some last several weeks, others a few hours. I pick 'n mix and hope against hope that something someone said somewhere will stick by the time I get home. And that I'll remember what it was and whether it worked. "Siblings Without Rivalry" is an awesome book. Ditto "How to Tame your Spirited Child". Alyson.ca is good news. And Sarah Chana Radcliffe's not bad.

And then there's Babs. (Can I call her Babs?). Talk about a maven!!! Parent. Teacher. Author. Genocide expert. Ex-nun. Comedian.

OK, she's not officially a comedian but she's hilarious so I'm taking liberties. It's my blog.

Last night was different. Different from the other gurus. Different than all other nights. Free coffee and two-bite brownies aside, it was amazing. It was Barbara Coloroso talking about everything from bullying to Rwanda to sibling rivalry. She was smart. She was funny. She was inspiring. I'm not one to prosthelytize - well, perhaps I am (Magic Bullet...American Idol...Piller's Turkey Bites... oops did I really admit that? Moving on...) - but she was brilliant. I left her lecture feeling moved, energized, and confident. And tempted to shanghai her back to my house to hang out with me 'n mine for a week or three.

But since that's illegal, and undoubtedly expensive, I shall humbly attempt to paraphrase some of her better thoughts. Yes, I took notes. And it's a good thing too. I've been asked to pass them on. Yes, the people have asked. And while there are no perfect answers, there are some damn good tips to help find them...

* Tattling vs. Telling...Tattling gets somebody INTO trouble. Telling gets someone OUT OF trouble. When in doubt, discuss.

*Bribes and Rewards are THE SAME THING. We've become a nation of gold-star earners. Doing The Right Thing shouldn't be something that you get paid for. It's something you just DO. It feels good because it is good. And that's reward enough.

*Natural consequences: if it's not life-threatening, or moral threatening, let it happen.

*Discipline. Don't punish. Punishment doesn't work - it sends 'em underground. Discipline is learning.

*Think in terms of US, OURS & ENOUGH....rather than me, mine and more.

*Teach your children HOW to think, not WHAT to think.

* Save the "no" for when you really mean it. Alternatives include "later", "let me think about it/give me a minute" and (my fave) "convince me". There is a time for "no" - used sparingly it'll actually mean something. "No." It's a complete sentence.

*Don't tell your kids what they already know.

*Mistakes happen. Own it, fix it, learn from it. And move on. Give your kids ways to problem solve while leaving their dignity in tact. And it doesn't have to hurt.

*1,2,3...timeout. Doesn't work. However, time out to fix a problem does, whether in a rocker, a room, or a lap. The goal is to calm everyone down and to let your child figure out a solution. Or to teach them how to fix what needs fixing.

*Teasing vs. Taunting: Teasing is two-sided, between friends, and gets both people laughing. Taunting is one-sided, laughing AT someone.

*"I'm sorry" doesn't make something right. Instead, try fixing it and making sure it doesn't happen again. Heal with the person you've hurt.

* Discpline doesn't work for the under-3 crowd. Instead try one of her 3 D's: Distract. Disorient. Disengage.

* Mean what you say and say what you mean.

* Conflict is inevitable. Don't punish. Don't rescue. Most of the time kids can sort stuff out on their own. And when they can't, step in as a backbone, not an enforcer. Or enabler.

* Helping out is not a job. Chores are not paid for. Money is for saving, spending, or giving to others. Not for being a responsible citizen of a household.

* You can't control someone else's will.

There. I don't need to write all this out 99 more times to make it stay in my head....Do I?! I was hoping just this once would get it to stick. Maybe it will. And maybe it won't. But here's hoping.

Good luck fellow freaks.....

LULU'S FOR LEMONS

Check out the following statement:

"Look at your cute clogs...I remember when you only wore high heels, were dressed to the nines, and had your hair cut 'n coloured by that rip-off guy....Now you're all comfy and relaxed...."

How would you interpret this?

a) that you're fabulous and chilled; mellowed with age.
b) that the person speaking has a secret ladies' shoe fetish
c) that you've let yourself go

If you said anything other than (c) you're a moron. Or a man. Same same sometimes. "Comfy"? Tere's not a whole lot worse you could call a person, without being straight-out rude! Fact is, lululemon is the best - and worst - thing to happen to a girl since the invention of lycra.

Lulus, and all their knock-off compatriots, have definitely helped the humble sweat pant grow in leaps and bounds. (Excuse the phys ed refs.) But when once they were seen as a somewhat chic way of dressing shlubby (in my mind that is) they've now become the ubiquitous uniform for stay at home moms, exercise fanatics, and those of us who need to shed a few.

In other words, they're the new Fat Pants.

They're black. They're flattering. They suck you in in all the right spots. We all wonder how we lived without them...And yet...they let the world know you're got nothing to wear, something to hide, or both. Outside of the gym, that is. I have one friend who refuses to wear her yoga pants after 12 noon. Another who will only wear them once she's inside the actual gym. And then there's me, who (until the clog/relaxed/what happened comment) refused to wear anything but!

Erm, "butt" being the operative word here.

Having a four-month old baby should be excuse enough for kicking back a la lemonata. And yet, it's not. With my other kids I always knew another pregnancy was on the cards, so never really invested. Sure, I joined a gym (or two) but rarely went. And of course I'm a Weight Watcher lifer. I always got back down to the starting line, give or take 5 lbs. But this time, it's done. No more babies to be born from this body. It's time to get back on the horse. The clothes horse that is.

But with an unforgiving, post-partum, 3-baby body it's easier said than done. Hence the yoga pants. And now it seems they're no longer an option. Or are they? Sure I remember the days of yore: not necessarily skinny, but definitely stylish. I was the chick who was dressed and blown dry on Sundays. In my apartment. And now? Jeans are my fancy pants. What happened? Have I let myself go? Is the most stylish thing about me my beloved iphone?

It is pretty stylish...

But I digress. Someone suggested I don't care as much now about how I look.

WHAT?!?

I straighten my hair for god's sake. I may colour it myself now, but I still straighten. With products. So I must care. Right?

Let's set the record straight.

I'M.NOT.GOING.ANYWHERE.

Or anywhere exciting. It's a short drive from my home to my kids' schools. Throw in a couple of detours for food 'n sundries and I'm done. For that I should dress up? How? Back in the day when I did get styley, I was also getting paid. Most of my money went towards feeding my shopping habit. Nowadays, my money isn't really mine. It's "ours". (Well, actually...my money is mine, his money is ours... but I don't really have any...And that's another story...) Either way, it's spoken for.

But not anymore. I'm turning over a new leaf. Or reverting back to an old one. I'm packing up my yoga pants. Putting away my sensible shoes (albeit high-heeled ones). All dressed up with no place to go? That'll be me. Suited and booted and rarin' to go. Nowhere. But in style.

At least for this week......

Hello Gorgeous!

The Palm Pilot is dead.

Long live... the iPhone!

That's right kids. I went for the beauty along with the brains. And now, I am a woman in love. Completely and utterly besotted. With my new device, the new and improved iphone 3G. At last, after years of watching my man develop crackberry thumb, I have a syndrome of my own - iphone finger. And I couldn't be happier.

Palm who?

Aaaah iphone. It's a phone. It's a walkman....I mean, ipod. It's a filofax. It's on-line shopping.

It's a bloody computer and it's fanf&ckingtastic.

I know it's not perfect, of course. But I'm deeply entrenched in those early days of the love affair - where everything's perfect. Or as close as it gets. Apparently these babies break down. Erm, ever hear of "reset"? And they've been known to re-send the same email. Over and over and over again. But I say, look on the bright side - it can make the recipient feel ever-so-popular. And don't even get me started on all the apps! No, really. Don't. Because I'm not quite sure what apps are, how they work or why I need 'em.

All's I know is I scream you scream we all scream for.... iPhone. Ok so I'm appropriating a slogan inappropriately. I can't help it. I'm positively giddy about the whole thing.

And it's not just me. I swear. Fellow iphoners are equally obsessed. We're like those loser Jeep drivers who cruise the streets, honking other loser Jeep drivers. Remember those? When I see another person playing....er, working, on an iphone, I feel the need to discuss. And they do too!How fab it is. Which cool shortcuts we've learned. Which apps we've downloaded. (Or not, in my case. But I play along).

The crackberry mob is quick to naysay: it's hard to type (not once you've practised); it breaks down (it does?); it's not good for business (huh? what business?)...The list goes on, as they check out the iphone. Many of them have opted for the itouch - iphone sans phone. But I like one-stop-shopness of it all.

I checked out the Blackberry. Curve, Pearl and Bold. I really did. I couldn't type on it, could barely see the screen and thought it was clunky. In other words, I hadn't been converted yet. I figured if I had to start fresh, I may as well go for the hot young creative over the staid, ubiquitous business sort. Artistic temperment, and cheesy metaphors, be damned.

And best of all, unlike the other creative types I've known, with one touch of a button, I can turn my iphone off!

TOO MUCH INFORMATION

It's a sad, sad time for me.

As many of you know, I lost a trusted friend yesterday: my Handspring Visor. Though referred to it as a Palm Pilot, it was actually an offshoot. The unrecognized bastard child of the Palm's creators. Born sometime in the late '90's to compete with the Palm, the Visor was supposed to be The Hot New Thing: a PDA (or, as it was once known - the electronic organizer) that could turn into (gasp!) a phone! Or even (gasp!) a camera! No, no it wasn't merely another palm device - this was the be-all-end-all in devices. This was gonna blow the old Palm Pilots out of the water.

Or so I was told. And I bought it - the device, the hype, the whole nine yards.

Many moons ago I went on the search to simplify. Being au courant, I figured I'd ditch my beloved filofax and go electric. Afterall, my Filo was getting so heavy and I yet couldn't bare to edit or (god forbid) tear out old pages. Just in case. Also, it was fun flipping through the calendar and reminiscing. It was a good-looking book too, way nicer than my original rubber one. This one was leather, from that store Bree. Remember that place? Another relic where everything - everything - was light beige leather. The idea being that you'd have their wares forever - bags, suitcases, erm...filofaxes. And the longer you owned it, the more worn and tanned the leather got. It was stunning. At the time.

But practicality prevailed and I ditched it for a Psion. Remember those? The little keyboards that could? It was love at first sight. Until I got sick of it. I figured after several years it was time to upgrade. And thus the search began. First I checked out the old Blackberry - mostly because I liked the name. I friend of mine had one and it looked like a pager. And he was all thumbs. Why would I want that? Besides, I really just wanted an organizer.

So the Visor won. And I lost. Everything. All because I neglected to back it up.

Gone, 10 years of good times and bad. Adios friends, neighbours and services. The only folks who are keepers are the ones whose emails I happen to have. I suppose those are the only folks worth keeping anyway, and yet.....I liked having the numbers of restaurants, florists and my local GP from London. So what if I'll never use any of 'em? Or if some have closed down? I could still go through, and reminiscent about my old life. Ditto having the address and phone number of my old boss, a hot shot film director who, tho' we worked together for 5 years, I haven't heard from in nearly ten. Still, it was nice to have, even if he never answered the last out-of-the-blue Christmas card I sent. Old boyfriends, old hairdressers, old haunts....see you never.

Many of you thought it hilarious that someone who thinks she's so hip 'n happening would be caught dead with something as passe compose as a palm pilot. It is, after all the '00's. Call me old fashioned, but I loved that quaint ole thang. 'Til it lost my life. Now I'm over it.

Out with the old and in with the new.

But new who? Do I join the other addicts and go crackberry? Apparently Blackberry's new Bold is gonna be all the rage. Or do I go for the lifestyle and looks of Apple? And if so, i-touch or i-phone? I've consulted with some of my pals, boys who like toys and they seem to like both. Sadly, that's not an option. Not in these unemployed days. But what to buy? And what to do in the meantime? The Apples may not be as practical, but they're attractive, cute, hot. And the Blackberry? Well, it's just...not. Tho' I've no doubt I'd learn to love it. Especially the whole v-card thing....

The Bold or the Beautiful? Or back to paper? It's a big decision. And I can't even call my advisors....I've lost their information....

WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING

A funny thing happened on the way to the gyno....

Stop me if you've heard this one before. You probably have. It's the one about the pregnant woman? The fat one, who looked like shit and was huuuuuuge....

Sisters, you wouldn't BELIEVE the things you hear when you're knocked up.

Too big, too small, too fat, too tall. OK, not really too tall. Although "you're wearing those shoes" seems to be acceptable. It's not. Neither is "are you having twins?" Or "your face has changed". Or "you're carrying in the back"....

"I liked your hair longer" is never OK. Pregnant or otherwise.

And then there's the age-old question: "do you know what you're having?"

I'm guilty of it myself. Sometimes I ask out of genuine curiosity. Or for lack of something else to say. Either way, when asked myself, I couldn't believe some of the comments. Especially for this last pregnancy. When I knew what I was having. But didn't tell. It's kinda funny when someone asks and you know but they don't know you know. And then they get all cocky 'cuz they think they know. But they're wrong. And it's a fun kind of smugness. Y'know?

Girls don't steal your beauty. Or make you puke more. And boys don't make you hairier. Or give you heartburn. Some of 'em do. Some of 'em don't. It's all one big crapshoot.

When you have two boys like me, people assume you're going for girl. And you know what they say about ass-uming, right? I heard it all. And knowing what I had and what I was having, I can tell you people can be downright offensive!

No we did not try for a girl - we tried for a baby. We didn't think pretty thoughts. No specific timing or tricks were involved. It's easy to theorize about gender. But you get what you get. And we counted ourselves lucky with our boys. A girl would be great. But so would another boy. I had one stranger tell me it'd be nice to have a girl, "for when you're old". Huh? Talk about pressure on that poor daughter. Besides, who needs to have a daughter for when you get old? You can hire someone else's daughter to wipe your geriatric ass!

The Boy People don't like girls. They like to tell you mean things about their own daughters. That they're moody. Or bitches. Or cost a fortune. I heard one freak-show tell me her daughter was hormonal. At 2?? There aren't too many of these types around -which is a good thing, because they're rather off-putting.

Chinese horoscopes, ring on a string, mathematical calculations...It all means nothing. Only one thing does: H-E-A-L-T-H-Y B-A-B-Y

So please kids, next time you see that pregnant lady, offer her your seat. Carry her bags. Bring her a sandwich. By all means, ask her what she's having....but leave it at that. No stats, no verbal makeovers, no presumptions. And never, ever, EVER play the name game. Admit to nothing. You like 'em all. Congratulations are welcome. As are good wishes. May the labour be quick. And the weight loss be quicker. Leave it at that.

As a wise sage once said: Smile 'n wave, boys; smile and wave.

MOAM BOOK CLUB

It's official - summer has begun with a bang: a clap of thunder and a barrage of hailstones.

Woo hoo!

School's out, the livin' is easy, and it's complaining time (see: outside your window all afternoon if you're local ). Too hot. Not hot. Road works. Traffic. Smog. Air con. And the list goes on. To go away or stay put isn't the question but rather, can you afford it? And do you need to? Or should you just wait for winter?

TV of course is a non-issue - nothing's on. I don't know about the rest of you but, soundtrack aside, Swingtown ain't doin' it for me. Movies are a crap-shoot: ie. most are crap. Unless you're in the 13-19 boy demo. And I am not. Before y'all get up in arms, I know there are exceptions, but the traditional summer blockbuster usually sucks. Unless you're in cottage country or at a drive-in, in which case it matters not what you see - only that you're seeing something at all.

Which is why every mag, paper and website puts out its annual summer reading list. And MOAM is no exception (erm...except that it's not annual...)

And so, without further ado, I bring you the Mother of All Mavens All-Season Book Club: reviews short 'n sweet of some books that deserve it. (In no particular order)


THEN WE CAME TO THE END by Joshua Ferris. This book is hi-larious. Especially if you've ever worked in an office - and who hasn't at one point or another? It's not the most brilliantly plotted novel, but it's one of the most brilliantly observed. You'll laugh out loud. A lot. The it's-true-it's-funny-cuz-it's-true laughs. Are there any better kind?

THE EVERY BOY by Dana Shapiro. Author is a film guy so no suprise that this baby's coming soon to a theatre near you. Or at least that's the plan. This one's a black comedy about 15-yr old Henry. And his many issues. You know the type - thinks he's a freaky geek, but is actually just smart 'n funny. In a dark and ultimately tragic way. Ok, his life's more than little f&cked up. But look where he comes from... Grab this one quick - it's sure to be better than the movie, as good books almost always are. And it's short too.

Speaking of short, ON CHESIL BEACH by Ian McEwan is a one-dayer. Seriously. A weekend, max. I am a huge Ian McEwan fan and will read anything he writes, so I have to include this. Is it his best? Erm...no. Does it come close? Maybe not. But it's Ian McEwan. And you can read it in one sitting, so why not?

RUN by Ann Patchett. Did anyone read The Magician's Assistant? And Bel Canto? If not - lucky you, you can read 'em now. They're awesome. If you have, then this book may already be on your radar. While not quite as good as Bel Canto, I still rank it. Family drama, secrets kept and exposed....And no, it's not at all cheesy. It's a fast and furious read, appropos of its title. The fact that I happened to buy it in large print by mistake made it an even faster read but still...

A SHORT HISTORY OF TRACTORS IN UKRAINIAN by Marina Lewycka. Strange title, strange book. Oddly compelling. Elderly widower falls for big-boobed gold-digger from the old country. Daughters can't deal. Q-u-i-r-k-y. Loved it.

ARLINGTON PARK by Rachel Cusk. Set in an affluent suburb of London, where the smart, capable, men go to work and the smart capable women.... Well, let's just say some of us may have over identified with some of these characters. Not me, of course. At least not with all of them anyway... (And if you like this one, you may also like THE TORONTONIANS by Phyllis Brett Young. Published in 1960, set in the 50's. Not quite as good, but resonant and modern, with a lot more smoking.)

THE BOOK THIEF - by Markus Zusak. This is one of my favourites of the faves. It's WW II. Death is everywhere. It's even the narrator. It is. The story of a young girl and her family - the ones that were lost, the ones that were found, and the ones that found her. Sad, smart, funny - it's even got doodles. What more could you ask for?

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BRIDGE by Mary Lawson. Again, if you haven't read her first book, Crow Lake, you should. And if you did, you'll like this one too. A little bleak, a little depressing, a little tragic. Totally compelling. Canadiana to be sure, but in the best possible way.

THE ABSTINENCE TEACHER - Tom Perrotta. Funny + timely+ clever, clever, clever? It's gotta be Tom Perrotta. And it is - very Tom Perrotta. Whatever he's writing about, he gets it. he just does. So who wouldn't want to come along for the ride?

So there you have it. No plot outlines, no spoilers, no hard covers. Just some damn good reads. Winter, spring, summer, or fall.

NANNY DIARIES - THE FLIP SIDE

Weird things have been coming into my head lately. Lines from movies, books, songs...The latest is the refrain "no brains, no heart, he's much too shy...But never mind you 3, there's a wizard as you can see....he'll fix it 1-2-3..." Remember that old Wizard of Oz cartoon? You don't!? Then you're soooo not my demo. (But you can check it out and fake it 'til you make it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjyv_i0tBSk) ('K? Read on)


Now is that song stuck in everybody's head? Are you curious as to why I'd do that to you?

I've been looking for a new nanny, that's why. And it's been a bloody nightmare. No shows. No return calls. No luck.

No brains, no heart, they're much too shy....See???

I'd heard the nightmare stories. The whole "good help is hard to find" complaints. But I never believed them. Sure, I've had my fair share of duds - at home, back in the olde days of office life, on a production, and even when I was a waitress. Oh no wait... that last one was me.

I had one friend who was in the caregiving business. A nanny pimp, if you will. For a small fee, she'd find you the perfect person. Except after several months of dealing with high maintenance clients on both sides she realized her sanity was worth more than the gig was paying.

Then there was the friend of a friend who, after 4 months of hunting for help, finally gave up and put her kids in daycare instead. Pricey, but apparently worth every penny for the peace of mind. Mind you, apparently she's now back in the market for a nanny too.....


I've had a nanny die get sick and die (it was awful, actually). I've had the perfect nanny who would've bankrupted us 'cuz she was a fortune. I've had the one who, when we said it was time to part ways, said her prayers had been answered - oh, and would I give her a reference. The latest one's been off sick for weeks and finally admitted that she's been diagnosed with a heart condition.

Bad luck, Chuck.

I don't need Mary Poppins. I'm not looking for Maria von Trapp. And I don't think Mrs. Doubtfire would last the week. But is showing up too much to ask? Is acknowledging my children with a simple hello an outlandish request? My phone's been ringing off the hook - yet if I call back, they don't want to talk. Except to ask me about my "offer". I feel like I'm on-line dating: everyone's looking to get laid without any commitment. Well, call me old fashioned, but a nanny booty call ain't what I'm after. Sure, a one day trial's OK - clean house, change of pace, possibility of escape for an hour or so. But I need the relationship.

And I need the help.

Apparently, I'm somewhat undesirable: 2 kids plus a baby coming any minute now. A dog, a cat, and a man who works late. Oh, and worst of all: I'm home. My old neighbourhood was run by the nanny mob. They knew who to work for, what to ask for, which moms were home. I definitely would've had black marks against me. But here in my new hood, we're one of the smallest clans around. We don't demand 12-hour work days. And we even pay extra for overtime! Should I pretend otherwise? Pull out the slavedriver routine instead? Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen?

Who has time? I have no help!!!

I feel like a bit of an ass complaining: after all, all our mothers and grandmothers coped without help....Or so we're told. But they had each other. And they started younger. Most of 'em didn't live a freewheelin' life on the other side of 25ish, so they didn't know any better. By the time they hit their 40's, their kids were in school all day long. And were (somewhat) independent - enough to be able to hop on a bus. And, in some cases, drive. Maybe they were on to something, those ladies. Or maybe they weren't. If I had children with the any of the men from my 20's, I'd be a very bitter divorcee.

But maybe I'd have a great nanny. Apparently times aren't the only things that have changed. The nannies of yesteryear -or babysitters, au pairs, mother's helpers or (cringe!)"help" as they were known by some - were a different breed.... Or so we're told. Loyal. Lifers. Part of the family. Today's caregivers want a job. And a life. And that's fine. Great. All power to 'em.

But I want a life too! And maybe even (gasp!) a job. Not this month, mind you, but one day. And so, call me a princess if you please - whatev. I need some help. Call her an assistant. Or him - I'd take a manny too. Pronto. The TV-as-babysitter novelty is wearing thin, even for my media junkies. And I think my man might lose it soon - happy wife, happy life, right?

So star search continues....

I have someone coming in for a test run this week. It's reached the point where, if they can understand me, the job's theirs. All they have to do is show up. Yes, that's part of the job description.

Is that really too much to ask?!

BOOB

What's in a name? Everything. BOOB!! You're up now, right?!

Boob is a newish (to me) line of maternity and nursing wear from Sweden. Yep, Sweden. Those crazy Swedes have gone and named nursing clothes Boob.

Genius.

In name and in nature.

I managed to get my paws on some of their duds and they're awesome. Pants stay up. In front and in back. Shirts don't touch where they shouldn't. In front or in back. And everything stays in its proper place. Properly. Better still, the Boobs at Boob are anything but - they know how to drop a neckline. I have a dress from their fall collection that's lightweight AND maternity AND, dare I say, kinda hot. And I don't use the term lightly. Cuz there's nothing hot about a gal about to give birth in a matter of weeks. Nothin' but hormones and tempers.

And the Boob neckline.

One thing about being knocked up - you sport a mighty fine rack. You may not always recognize it at the time, but in retrospect? Nice 'n high 'n perky. Even the jumbotrons. And for those of us who are somewhat, erm, challenged in that department, when we've got 'em, we like to flaunt 'em. And Boob gets it. Lots of other tops made for the mama-to-be like to minimize. High necks. Cheesy collars. Wussy V's. Go deep or go home, I say. Swing out sisters! Cuz once the babe arrives it's all downhill. In every way, boob-wise.

Or is it?

I'm pretty hard-core when it came to feeding my kids, whipping one out as and when. Was I strutting round topless? Of course not. But my feeling is, babies have the right to be fed. And if you don't want to watch? Well, don't look. It's possible to be subtle. And stylish too. I was never a believer in "nursing wear". Bras aside, o' course. But those weird shirts that you need a degree in aeronautics to open? Pas pour moi. And those godawful frilly nightgowns? Get real. I'd rather stretch out a perfectly good shirt and look somewhat decent in the hours between the feeds then strut around town like some Victorian. One friend of mine had an incredible nursing dress. It came from Victoria's secret. And she lost it and we've never seen the likes of it since.

'Til now. The Boob nursing tops - or singlets - have these strategic slots. Spots. Openings. Hard to explain. But easy to figure out - basically you lift up one side, drop down the other and you're locked 'n loaded. And, again, they're totally hot. In fact, you could wear these babies even if you're not nursing. You wouldn't, to be sure, but you could. Which, to a nursing mama, is nice to know.


I know I'm sounding somewhat evangelical. I swear it's not just hormones speaking. And if it is? So what?! I have a baby due in 3 weeks, it's my perogative. Between the hips and the hormones, it's hard to feel anything but frumpy. Or at least it was. 'Til I became a Boob girl.

Check out their racks: www.boobdesign.com

THERE AIN'T NO FLIES ON US - JUST OUR WALLS

I have this book I read to my kids - Thelonius Monster's Sky High Fly Pie. It's a rhyming one, funny and clever and illustrated by the guy who does stuff for The New Yorker. It starts off with this guy, Thelonius Monster, swallowing a fly - and deciding a fly would taste grand in a pie. Etc. And there's this one line in it that I can't get out of my head: "and now for the flies".

'Cuz we've still got 'em. Sewer flies. Still here. Only now they're bigger and, it seems more resilient. Maybe it's because we know what they are (and where they come from), but somehow they're getting harder to kill. Before, when they were just flies, we'd slap the wall and they'd be dead. We'd bat at them mid-air, they'd drop to their deaths. Now, we whack 'em. And guess what? They take a licking and keep on ticking.

I'm beside myself.

I've called the exterminators who tried to reassure me, telling not to panic....yet. I asked them when I could start to panic, and they said it takes a couple of weeks for them to die off. Now, I'm no scientist, but if they live for a day and their breeding grounds are gone - how can they still survive? It's Darwinism at it's purest form. A true survival of the fittest, 'cuz these mofos are big and bad and refusing to go gently into that good night.

We say goodnight, and their party starts.

Sickening.

So while my basement continues to lie fallow, the flies frolic. The insurance-approved demo team wasted no time in ripping it out (my basement, that is). All of it - floors are a mess of concrete and nails. The asbestos (yup) is gone so at least we're no longer the house in the plastic bubble. The walls don't touch the floor. No euphemism - it just means the walls hang there, not touching the floors. My garage is packed up - most of it upside down. All my kids' toys, in boxes, upside down in bigger boxes surrounded by enormous, near-impossible-to-move furniture.

And we wait. And wait. And wait. For the big rebuild. And yes, we'll probably look back and laugh. But that's of no comfort to me now. Even my baby tells everyone our basement is broken. My Big Boy tells people they can only come to play with him if it's nice outside because we have no toys in our house. And tho' it's not killing them, it ain't making them stronger either. This is no character building exercise. This is a bloody nightmare.

And so we play outside. Except when it's cold. Then we watch TV. And we read. And we keep coming back to that book, and that line:"and now for the flies". Which prompts someone to look around. And spy a fly. And try to kill it. Tiny corpses litter our walls. And the cycle starts again.

"And now for the flies".

I was told not to panic. So I asked when I could panic. The exterminator laughed and said a few weeks. That makes it June 1st. One week. Then I can really panic. So I'm trying to hold off and just rant a little until then.

And now for the flies.

Perhaps they'll die.

I'M UP NOW

Well, well, well. I stand corrected - and joyfully so. They got it right! They veered off the middle of the road and got, ahem, Cookin'!

David Cook is The American Idol. Duh - what rock have you been under??

Mouth breather out. Rocker in. 80's icons on. Now that's good tv. Just when you thought it was safe....It wasn't!

I actually loved the big finale. Despite the fect that, at the exact moment Ryan uttered the magic words, "the winner is...". Poof! (No, not Ryan...) (well, OK that too). But at that exact second -Poof! - the show ended. My PVR failed me. Again. Luckily I've learned from seasons of yore to record whatever's on next. So we switched over in time to see Fartchuleta's stage dad clapping insincerely. And that's when I knew, it was Cook time. Thank god, on so many levels. Can you imagine the stage dad's reactions had his dullard child won? Waaaaay OTT. And the press? Gee. Duh. Erm...

Instead we got tears. Lots of 'em. Betcha the word nerd wished he didn't choose this night to start wearing eyeliner, huh? Obviously he went for water-proof. I knew he was a smarty! And the brotherly love. And the mom trying to get in on the spotlight. A family affair.....How lovely.

But back to the show.....Graham Nash? Lucky Brookey. Donna Summer? Lucky ladies. Syesha - way to work third sister! Her skirts get shorter and her confidence grows. It just goes to show you, she really was the best of the girlies - mainly because of the meat, but still - can you imagine the nurse? She seemed embarrassed to be there. Unlike Chickezie - love, love, love.

It was 80's night (aside from the slew of youths that I fast forwarded). Showing my age, perhaps, but I'm about to turn 40, I can do what I like. ZZ Top, the Groover from Vancouver, Seal....yada yada yada. At the end of the day, the faux pips aside, for me it was all about George.

LOVE HIM.

All season long I've been wondering why they didn't do the George Michael/Wham songbook. He's on tour (at over 2 hun a ticket, sadly), has a new greatest hits album to promote, has been whoring himself out nicely across the small screen. The timing couldn't be any better. And he would've been perfect for Cookie and the Aussie. Still, waiting 'til the end was OK. Sure he sang a slow song. With a cold (and acknowledged it, bless him and his ego). Despite his fromagerie, his lady Loren shades, and his possible plugs, he's still awesome. And somehow reminding me of Christian Troy - anyone else getting that?

Simon apologizes. Archie loses. DC wins. And another season of Idol come to a close.

Happy endings to all, and to all a good night.

Now who's got tickets to the Top Ten tour?

FIX

So it was David v. David on the NOKIA stage. In the NOKIA theatre. N-O-K-I-A. Talk about product placement. Between Randy's repeated refrain of "you could sing the phonebook" and the mention of NOKIA it was enough to make a gal wanna hurl her salad.

That and the skewering of poor David Cook. Is it just me (and my Tuesday night AI viewing cronies), or did the whole thing feel like it was, erm....fixed?

First came Carly: stack her up and shoot her down. Week after week after week. Too shrill, too loud, too fat. She didn't stand a chance.

Then the diefication of Brooke. Somehow, that nanny could do no wrong. Oh wait, until she did. Over and over and over. Stumbling lyrics, false starts, lame dance moves. Was her longevity part of the overall plan? Part of the fix? Probably. But some things you just can't fix, and she was a goner.

The rest of 'em kind of made their own beds. Poor Chickezie - we know his name's Chickezie, baby! And hot Michael Johns. He was robbed. Then again, who's gonna remember his name, fame?

Syesha came and went somehow and is probably broadway bound already. But Archuleta... Somehow that boy with the flaring 'strils and mouth breathing grin could do no wrong...

Despite butchering Stevie. Despite the fact that his performances felt longer than singing the bloody phonebook. Despite the closed eyes and incessant trills...Despite it all the judges couldn't hold back from swooning.

Personally, I could barely hold back from snoring.

Sure he's only 17 but he's been on star search, junior idol and probably more talent contests than he'd care to admit. The guy's a seasoned pro, complete with stage dad. And yet...where on earth is his personality? Erm....aaahh....gee...shucks....thank you....

Wake me when his career fizzles, will ya?

But back to tonight....Mr Cook's swan song. Tonight, poor David Cook was well and truly, to use the judges' own cheesy boxing metaphor: KO'd. And to me it sounded plain old mean. How could they be so blatant? So obvious? That's not good tv!!! Tho' the tearing up post song 3 certainly was (and should be good for a couple million votes at least). Perhaps he's too much of an independent type for 19 Productions. Maybe the band he should be fronting is waiting in the wings to show up his predecessor and also-loser, Daughtry. Hmmmm....Chris Daughtry / Taylor Hicks. Who's the real loser? Sorry Silver Fox, but who are you again?

I was pissed at my man Simon tonight. I know AI is about as far from the edge as you can get, but still....To soooooooo wholeheartedly embrace the Middle of the Road, the morning office FM station, the Diva Ballad Covers as Sung By set that is Earny Archuleta was agonizing. Is it any wonder that the Idol numbers are down? Higher than the other shows, to be sure, but down over all. It's the Archuletas. The balladeers gone wrong.

So when Archie wins tomorrow, get ready for a confetti filled, heart (and stomach) wrenching version of That Cheesey Song. (which didn't sound unlike some gone-wrong, butchered version of an Indigo Girls tune; or a folksy harmonizer gone savage). The youngest youngsters and oldest oldies'll be screaming their tits off. While the rest of us will sadly cheer for the Word Nerd as we wait to hear about - and complain about - his first single.

Goodbye Combover Cook. Hello rock star.

And Fartchuleta? Wake me when he's over....

NO FLIES ON US

Irish eyes are not smiling. Carly's gone and I didn't even acknowledge. I know, I know...I'm terrible, Muriel. Believe me, I was as shocked as the next guy. But my shock wasn't Idol's white trash teenage fan base. Hell no. The minute she belted out those two magic words, "Jesus" and "Christ", she was a goner.

But whatever. This is not an I-can't-believe-it Idol post. I couldn't take in Carly's untimely departure because I was still reeling from the news that my house was infested with sewer flies and I'd need to rip up my basement floors.

S-E-W-E-R flies. Uh-huh. Exactly what you think they are. Flies. That breed in sewers. IN MY HOUSE.

Did I mention we've lived here all of 8 months?

Way back in the halcyon days of new housedom, there were these flies that would flit around and then pop-off after 24 hours of hurling themselves against our screens. We figured they were fruit flies. Except they had no interest in fruit. Hmmmm.....Strange. A quick call to an exterminator and we decided to heed their advice and wait until after the winter to investigate further. Maybe they'd just die off and never return.

Or maybe not.

After an insanely long and drawn out winter from hell, we welcomed April's (global warming) warmth....And The Return of The Flies. Pest control was called. And 45 seconds and $65 dollars later told me we had sewer flies. Also called drain moths, I learned that these non-biting, bacteria carriers are flies that breed in standing sewage. And then I learned that said sewage was, in all likelihood, standing under my dreamhouse.

Next stop: plumber.

I have to say, of all the housing trades, I do like a plumber. Contractors are cocky and I hate being at their mercy. Electricians are a bit odd. Some of them even more than a bit. And gardners, well, it's all such a cliche. Between the gardner, the poolboy, and any other scantilly clad maintenance man, you'd think every one of your neighbours is the next Lady Chatterly. But not plumbers.

So far, I haven't met a plumber I haven't liked. They all seem to be nice, funny, smart. And plumber butt? A total myth. Only plumber butts I see come with low-cut designer jeans attached to 'em. Anyhoo, I've recently learned that plumbers are also the highest paid of the trades. I guess they deserve to be, dealing with other peoples' shit for a living. And with these prices, they'd better be charming.

Anyhoo, Mike the plumber shows up to save my house. And hopefully, my sanity. SEWER FLIES. Hello? What could be grosser?

First came the residential colonscopy. Exatcly what it sounds like: the camera snake. Drain cam - down the drains and through the house. If your lucky. If you're me, it's drain cam down the drains, through the house, under oceans of sludge, and, finally, The Wall. No, not stones or bricks or mortar. A wall of "material". "Debris". Somethin' sticky. And vile.

Next stop: The Drainworks A Team.

They emerged from their trucks like Smith from the Matrix - only instead of black-suited, slick and trim, they were blue-t-shirted, bald and enormous. And they proceeded to rip up my floors, digging trenches in hopes of finding The Blockage. And then they struck gold. Black gold. A geyser. And not in a good way.

I wasn't home when it happened. Thank god. My delicate constitution would've failed me for sure. It had these burly he-men running for cover. And frsh air. 'Cuz 7000 uninsured dollars and thousands of flies later, when they finally found the culprit, my house was a no go zone. You could smell it down the street. My castle had become the pit of hell, with more than a hint of Dead Sea stink. Only difference being there were no anti-aging benefits to the sulphuric soil they removed by the bagfull.

Before you rush into the shower, let me reassure you (and myself): There is a silver lining. Ish. We get new basement floors. And apparently that part of this unwanted reno is covered by insurance. And I found an awesome plumber - Mike and Drainworks if anyone's interested. And next week is Neil Diamond week on Idol, so all is not lost...

You'll forgive me if I didn't give Carly her due. I was up to my eyes in flies.

Ell-eeee-ooooo-t

OK, I'll admit it: Idol, I am still into you.

Last night I was still on the edge. Mariah Carey? Could it get any worse? Uh, yeah, the Idols actually having to sing Mariah Carey songs. And us having to watch. As one sage put it: "this is the side of pop I cannot stand". Brutal. Hideous. And yet, like some sort of train wreck....I had to watch. Did I cringe? Yes. Did it make me a little uncomfortable? Uh - a lot. Loved the luau that was JayJay Castro. And David Cook rocked my world, as he always does (despite what some folks call his Hootie Voice).

Overall, however, it was a snore. I don't get Mimi. I really don't. All's I knew was the hotness had left the building. And it showed.

And then, tonight: redemption. Not just because, at long last, Kristy Lee was (ahem) cooked. Thank heavens for small mercies, as her fan base might say. And not just because the bottom three were the right bottom three. And definitely not because Carly said what we all think - Simon really is hardest on her. She's bringing the A and he wants the A+. I feel badly for her.

But whatev. Tonight, it was all about Elliot Yamin.

LOVE. HIM.

Always have, always will. New teeth, new look, new song. That voice! Awesome. And god bless him and his long silk scarf. I'll bet there were piano keys on the other side. Tonight, he wore his velvet blazer with panache, pulling off what it would take a much taller man to do. And then, the piece de resistance - the palm sign. This is obviously the latest and greatest of shout-outs. "We miss you mom"!?!?!?! Who's we? And when did his mother die? Mere days ago? And here he is, performing and acknowledging and looking to the ceiling....I mean, heavenward... Now THAT's good tv.

Sure, I wondered what a nice Jewish boy like Yaminsky was doing performing so soon. Doesn't he sit shiva? Was it really just days ago? Maybe he's a three-day mourner... I was a little surprised. And yet....he made me cry. As always. And I waited for him to well up too - as always - but it didn't happen. Maybe his tears mirrored his beloved mama, kvelling from the front row. Maybe, now that she's history, he's getting tougher. He's money, baby. No more tears.

Nah...No chance....No matter how much dental work, how shaggy his hair gets, and how cool for school he becomes, he's still the Elliot the Underdog. And he gets my vote everytime.

Not that it counts....

THE BREAK UP

Did you see the shock on his face? How he practically had to blink back tears? How he brushed off Carly's are-you-ok concern? Didja? Didja? Huh? Huh?

It was a bloodbath. A travesty. A real shocker. The booting of Michael Johns. Hot Idol, R.I.P.

Dev-ah-station.

And didja see when Ryan mentioned how they let the loser live last year - in the spirit of charity and Idol giving back and all? And he had that hopeful look for a second? And then...And then he whipped the rug out from under him? N-a-s-t-y.

Now that's good tv.

But really...was it?

Coulda been. Shoulda been. But wasn't. Not for me. 'Cuz I suddenly find myself not giving a rat's ass. Even about the contestants I thought I liked. Am I emotionally invested in any of these cats? Not a one; nay nay nay.

At this point I'm sick of Earnest Archuleta and his lip-licking ways. And Brooke with her knowing nods and sad smiles. I've grown to like Carly, furrowed brow and all. And of course the Crossword Combover is my new fave. But at the end of the day, do I care? Syesha the weak, Kristy Lee Snore, Stoner Boy Dread....

As a wise young virgin once said: "that's it?"

Seems to be. The publicity machine is spinning its wheels (see: return of idols of yesteryear). They've raised a fortune for charity (good for them). And for themselves (that's showbiz). All the power to all the people. But between the butchering of the Beatles and this evening's hideous Ode to Jesus, it's all become a little insufferable. I even found myself stalling for time before turning on and tuning in.

Where are the Elton John days? Stevie Wonder weeks? I thought Barry Manilow would be an annual thing. Wha happened? Sing, sing, sing: doesn't anybody promote themselves anymore?

Is it just me? Has anybody else lost that lovin' feeling for this no-longer-must-see tv? I really believed I was in it for the long haul. But I'm not so sure. Don't get me wrong - I'll still PVR. I'll still watch. I'll still have the post mortem chats - for all of 2 minutes. It'll be fun while it lasts.

I never thought I'd say this, but....American Idol, I'm just not that into you.