My Boobs and BlogHer

I'm back baby. And never happier to be here. Not because I didn't enjoy my virgin trip to the states. No, quite the opposite. I loved it. Looooooooved it. Those Yanks certainly know how to be an accommodating host. After all, they put up with us rowdy Canucks almost shutting down the hotel and trying to overtake the conference with boob pasties and Canadian chocolate.

(Note how I'm including myself with the rowdy Canucks. I was totally sleeping like a pathetic, ageing loser and avoiding all the phone calls for the Redneck to come out and play. But it sounds cooler when I say I was a rowdy tourist instead of a sleepy one.)

Turns out, I'm NOT the tourist you want to be rooming with. I had a small problem with my bowels. As in I decided to spray the insides of that Yankee bowl with some good ole Canadian shit. My poor room mate. She couldn't escape the foul smells I emanated.

I tried to make it up to her by being her sherpa for the rest of the trip and packing her schwag bags around, but I started getting funny looks. Turns out I was less Paul Bunyon looking like I had hoped, and more 'greedy schwag stealer who can't keep her hands off others bags.' People were starting to see me as a clepto, wandering around, helping myself to any unattended gift bag. I swear, I was just toting Ms. Chicky's crap. Honest.

I knew before ever having set foot in the hotel, this trip was going to be a good one. I had an easy flight, seated beside an American businessman who was more interested in his spreadsheets and the occasional look down my shirt than actually making conversation. My type of guy.

When I made it through the vast and never ending O'Hare and managed to find a cab for my tired ass to sit in, I knew I had hit the jackpot. My cabbie was a handsome fella, with an easy smile and went out of his way to show me some Chicago landmarks on our way to the hotel.

The people I was sharing a cab with were a little annoyed with the cab driver and myself, we were loud and brash and we completely ignored them. But it was like sharing a cab with two people who had sticks shoved up their asses and pinched expressions. Dammit, this was AMERICA. The land where I can be FREE.

Apparently, I may have been a little too free. After dropping off the Yankee party poopers, the cabbie set off to take me to my destination. It was a short distance and we chatted comfortably about our opinions of President Bush. (Don't ask, I ain't telling...) Imagine my surprise when he hopped out of our cab at the hotel, got my luggage and then handed me this:







That's right. 45 minutes on foreign soil and I had my first phone number. Apparently, Mark had high hopes that I would need his, um, services sometime during my trip. Because what the husband doesn't know won't hurt him. (Sadly for him, I was not interested in his offer. He may have been cute, but he was no Boo.)

If that wasn't enough, he refused to accept my cash. A free cab fare and a phone number. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love America???

I learned some stuff at the conference, mostly that we Canadians truly know how to party, and that the marketers of Oops wine really might want to rethink their branding strategy.

I learned if you put a lot of women writers in a large room and provide free booze, bad things will happen. And boobs will be grabbed. By me. Frequently and without apology.

I learned how much I love my blogging pals, more so in person. They are tremendously talented, funny and beautiful. Not a cheap bimbo in the lot. Well, except me of course.

I learned that the biggest bloggers, the 'A-listers' are just like you and I. Ready for a good time and a cheap feel. Even Mom-101 and HBM.

I learned I am more than willing to accommodate those women. A lot of boobs passed these palms and I'm okay with that. I was squeezing for all you daddy-bloggers who couldn't be there. Or get away with it.

I also learned, if you put me in a children's museum, have meat on a stick and free wine, my dignity will fly out the window.

For those of you who actually saw my boobs, I apologize. I don't know how it happened. The girls were just dying to be free. After all, it was the land of America. What better place to gain their independence?

I may have lost some dignity there on the Navy Pier, but I gained some wonderful friends, a free dildo and memories that will carry me through my loneliest hours.

All for the cost of a flight, hotel room and a random body search at U.S customs.

I can't wait to do it again.

Crazy B!tch

"Where's my iPod?" Pillows are flying, cushions are being tossed, and I'm growing increasingly annoyed.

"Frac!! Fric!! Where the hell is my iPod?"

The silence was ringing in my ears. I was expecting a chorus of "Not me's and I Don't Know's." Hmmm. Could it be? Could my children be ignoring me?

I stopped ransacking my house for a moment and walked into the kitchen where they were both sitting looking remarkably angelic. (They sure didn't get that trait from me...)

"Hey! TweedleDee and TweedleDum! What did you do with my iPod?"

I find it's not so easy for my darling children to avoid you if you stick your sharp, pointy nose in their faces.

There were definite signs of squirming. I knew it. They knew where my music machine was.

"Fess up and I promise not to hang you by your toes from the ceiling fan. But the offer of clemency only lasts for thirty seconds. The first one who rolls on the other wins. I shall not be so merciless to the other..." I warned, using my scary policewoman voice.

Fric and Frac eyeballed each other, their solidarity wavering as the ceiling fan silently swooshes up above them.

"Dad told us to hide it!" They both cried in unison. (It was impressive, really. They should become sychronized swimmers. I'd make a fortune. Bwhaahahahah!)

"What do you mean 'Dad told you to hide it?' I don't think so. He loves you. He wouldn't knowingly put you in harm's way." And anyone who stands between me and my fix of B.B. King deserves harm.

"He told us to put it away until he came home. He said that it wouldn't hurt you to listen to the radio like he has to every day." My poor kids. They looked miserable. But who's scarier? A dad who is out of town or a momma who's eyes are starting to bug out of her head while her skin goes a scary red shade?

"He's just jealous that he doesn't have a cool toy like I do." I say, in a sing song voice.

Very mature. Both of us.

"Um, Mom," Fric reluctantly starts, while trying to avoid eye contact with the foaming beast of a mother standing in front of her, "I don't think it's that. He says he's trying to protect us."

"PROTECT YOU? FROM MY IPOD?" I screech. "What in blue blazes for?" That's it. I don't care if he's some fancy bigwig on the site up there. Screw professionalism. I'm gonna call him and give him a piece of my mind....

"Not from your iPod, silly," she continues, "from YOU."

"Me?" Now I'm totally mystified. After all, I am the parent model of decorum, grace and dignity. Why would my children need protection from me? I make sure to place pillows beneath them every time I have to string them by their toes to the fan. Just in case the duct tape slips. I am thoughtful like that.

"He says you have inappropriate music taste and-"

"If he thinks I'm going to listen to an hour worth of radio commercials every time I have to travel to the city, he is out of is ever-loving mind," I mutter as I'm hunting for the phone.

Suddenly, it hits me. "Innappropriate musical taste? What is he talking about? What is he, my mother?"

Frac had scampered to his room by this time, happy that Fric was taking the heat. He's a pansy like his daddy. Fric rolled her eyes and starts explaining to me like I am like her mentally challenged sibling. "He thinks some of the music we listen to in your car is not for kid's ears and he told me to hide your iPod and tell you that."

"How would your father know what we listen to in my car when he's out of town? Hmmm?" Who's ratting on who here?

Suddenly, Fric looked guilty as hell.

"He overheard me singing Crazy Bitch the other day while I was in the pool, playing with Frac." Her angelic look was starting to be shadowed by the horns she started growing out of her head.

"Oh." Shit. Bad mommy, bad.

"Well one song isn't the end of the world. Right?" I can see the silver lining in every cloud. It's a gift.

"Um, it wasn't just one song. When he heard me singing that song he asked about all the other music I have heard. I couldn't remember all the names but I did remember Nickelback, Bif Naked and uncle's band...Spawned Something."

The colour drained out of my face. My daughter just told my husband that not only do I allow her to listen to sexually inappropriate songs and music by angry, sexually frustrated lesbians, but that I on RARE occasion play my brother's death metal rantings while my virgin-earred children are trapped in a vehicle with me.

Fuck me.

"Well, next time remind him that I also shove B.B and Aretha down your throats, will ya kid?"

Later that day, while in my car to drive to the city, I looked in the rear view mirror and asked Fric and Frac if there are any requests. I am D.J. Mom after all.

In unison, while their devil horns grew proportionately, they both yelled "CRAZY BITCH!!"

Ya, that's what their dad thinks too.

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I'm off to my first trip to the U.S, and leaving the kids in their Christian-music-loving grandparent's capable hands to reverse all the musical damage I have subjected my children to. I will see you all Monday.

Until then, be good. Or be naughty. Just make sure to tell me about it.

Big Dreams

As a young girl growing up in the city, waiting for my fairy prince to rescue me and biding my time until I was rich and famous, I never once thought my life would turn out the way it did.

If you had told me, as the geeky, basketball playing - track and field running - staight A student that I was, that I would be slinging popcorn in a movie theatre, knocked up, unwed and poor by the time I was twenty, I would have laughed my ass off.

And then ran screaming into my bedroom, only to emerge for final exams and potty breaks.

I dreamt of becoming a doctor, specifically a neurosurgeon, and no boy, especially the big lipped, bad haired blonde from the sticks who followed me around and left carnival teddies that he won (while on dates with OTHER girls) on my front stoop to remind me of his existience, was going to deter me from that dream.

And then I hit puberty. And suddenly those big lips were very useful for things other than annoying me. Especially when strategically placed.

Ahem.

Sure we lived on ketchup chips, chocolate milk and popcorn for the first years we were married. Yes we argued over what type of music to listen to while rocking our rapidly expanding family to sleep. I was of the mindset that rock music was not for sleeping infants. He was of the mindset that he would shoot himself if he had to listen to the twang of a country guitar.

My dreams of becoming a peace-prize winning doctor slowly dissipated with the squealing laughter of small children and have been replaced with loftier goals. Keeping my daughter off of the stripper pole and out of the back seat that I was so fond of, while steering my son away from street racing, and prison cells.

My hubs and I struggled through school, to try to make something of ourselves and to support our family. He's had better success. His ticket actually earns money. The only thing I do with mine is talk dirty on the ole inter web.

It no longer matters to me how much money I make or how famous I will never be, as long as I never have to eat movie theatre popcorn again and my children grow up to be well-adjusted, happy adults.

Of course, I still worry what I look like, if that extra roll of lard around my middle will ever disappear, will my hairy toes be noticeable in my slippers and if Mrs. Chicky will be freaked out by my extremely pointed Spock ear. But I'm vain like that.

These days, the only things that matter to me is the fact that I have finally trained my husband not to touch the knobs on my stereo, my children are healthy, my gardens are blooming from the veritable green thumb I inherited from my granddaddy, and my husband still pesters me for sex every damn day he sees me.

Now, as I watch my children grow, I try to pass along my wisdom and my skills. I want them to be able to see the good in people, value hard work, identify clarkia and monkshood from stinging nestle and poison ivy, and be able to kick ass in a three-legged race. Of course, if they inherit my skill on the unicycle or adroitness on a pair of ten foot tall stilts, well, that's just gravy.

I am a woman of many talents after all.

Life is good. Even if it isn't the candy-coated dreams of a naive little girl.

These dreams are better.





Like their momma, they love a little nudity.

***Hop on over and go check out Racy Red. She's all about dressing it up this week.***