I made up a shocking amount of words in this post. See if you can find them all!

I am recovering from a wonderful weekend of Stagettery on the mainland.  I find the whole stagette culture so interesting (slash bizarre).  For starters, I feel like stagettes are just a response to stags.  And stag nights are just opportunities to act like sneaky douche canoes.  The whole point of some of these parties is to see what you can get away with- from your spouse-to-be and from members of the opposite sex you encounter that night.  Anyways, I wiki-ed stagettes.  Because it's summer and there's nothing on tv:

The bachelorette party is modeled after the bachelor party.  Despite its reputation as "a sodden farewell to bachelor days" or "an evening of debauchery," a bachelorette's party is simply a party, given in honor of the bride-to-be in the style that is common to that social circle.

 I was right!  We started stagetting because guys did it.  And I hate doing something just because men do it (except for voting.  That's pretty cool I guess).  It does say however that "its cultural significance is largely tied to concepts of gender equality".  Good, so it's decided.  We all have equal opportunity to act like douche canoes.
This particular line I find hysterical:
"Bachelorette parties involve displays of sexual freedom, such as trading intimate secrets, getting drunk, and enjoying male strippers".  Can we just take a moment to note how formally they are discussing this topic?  It reminds me of myself teaching Sex Ed ("Well Susan, I'm glad you asked.  Because the excretory and the reproductive systems are in fact NOT linked, there is no way for the seminal fluid to gain access to the fallopian tubes to fertilize the ovum.  It is indeed, therefore impossible to get pregnant from anal sex").  I also love how in the actual wiki, 'male strippers' had a link attached.  In case you need clarification on what 'male strippers' are.

I also learned that the different names for these types of parties stem from different countries.  For example, 'Bachelor/Bachelorette' are the American terms, and 'Stag/Stagette' are the Canadian terms.  Two things:   1. The opposite of 'stag' is 'doe', not 'stagette' and 2. I like how we, as Canadians, always need to reference wildlife.  Our Canadian 'brand' is the wilderness, so we need to remind people at every turn.  These reminders are an economic stimulus.  In the UK they use the term 'Hen Party', while in Australia and New Zealand it is a 'Hens Party'.   I can only assume that the difference in names indicates that in Australia and New Zealand there are generally more Hens in attendance.  Other English-speaking countries- South Africa in particular- refer to the party as a 'Kitchen Tea'.  I think this is my favourite.  Maybe because it is the most antiquated and overtly sexist, or maybe because it most closely resembles the stagette I attended last weekend.  Though we didn't drink tea, we spent a lot of time near the kitchen and we didn't approach either soddenness or debauchery.  And our bride-to-be was far too sensible and mature to cave in to peer pressure to do anything foolish or embarrassing.  At one point we reflected on her wisdom as we watched another bride-to-be stagger down Granville St. post-barf, pulling at her extremely uncomfortable-looking costume and straightening the check-list of embarrassing to-do items in her back.  Someone remarked "God it sucks to be her right now".  And this is another excellent point.  Why, if we are putting on a special party for someone we love, do we insist on embarrassing them and forcing them to get so drunk they get violently ill?
Anyways, at that point I was actually also reflecting on the fact that it was midnight on a Saturday and not only was I not in bed sleeping off my Saturday night potato chip binge, I was downtown in heels.  Success! 

The other thing I find interesting about these parties is that it is the only time when  interesting and self-respecting adult women engage in activities that may or may not include phallic objects and frequent references to sex.  I am, of course, not really referring to myself.  I constantly make penis jokes.  I think it is as a result of teaching teenage boys (though at work obviously I'm all "that is totally inappropriate for the classroom Steven.  We don't model penises with our algebra tiles.  Do I need to speak with your mother?".  Even when I'm all "Man!  Creative use of protractors for testicles!" in my head).   On the other hand, this might actually be the reason I am able to teach teenage boys.  I can really understand them at their level.

So, for our particular weekend we had penis swizzle sticks for our sangria, and a purple penis garter for the bride-to-be.  That was the extent of the penisness, but keep in mind we are educated 30-year-old women.  I was the penisness purchaser (I hope the effort I am putting into alliteration for this penis paragraph is being appreciated) and I was suffering from an episode of a persistent paranoia I've picked up since moving to the island.  Now that I live in a smaller city, I am positive I am going to bump into people I know ALL THE TIME.  Especially when I haven't washed my hair in days and am yanking my petulant child out of a mall.  For this reason I won't even play in my pj's on the front lawn with Ann for fear that that guy I knew from high school is going to saunter down the street and yell "Aha!  I knew it!  You have let yourself go!".  I recognize that this is a totally disproportionate fear given the actual size of our province's capital, but still.  So as I walked back to my car I was cursing that ALL of Adrian's family lives on this island, and preparing myself to explain to his conservative grandmother (who does live around the corner) why I- the mother of her great-grandchild- had purchased veiny and engorged pink plastic penises with which stir my sangria.

Our weekend was not without its casualties though.  During one over-stimulated afternoon, we drove past a monkey tree and I punched the driver with perhaps more gusto than was necessary.   She claims that she has never heard of the 'punch buggy' game applied to monkey trees, and to make her point that I was out of line she has text messaged me twice daily with photo updates on the progression of the monkey bruise (right arm).  Thank goodness for the iPhone: rubbing in guilt through instantaneous multi-media messaging since its debut.

This is my 'Unnecessary Gusto' face.

Isn't that how the saying goes? Vomiting in every room christens a new house?

Today was Ann's second birthday.  It started off great.  We reviewed whose birthday it was ("Moin") and how old she was (a varying assortment of fingers) and toddled ourselves off to the indoor playground to meet her cousins (there was some confusion about whether it was their birthdays too, but I feel confident that we got that sorted out).  To be clear, indoor playgrounds are hellish, but this one has a bouncy castle, numerous slides and a bubble machine, so it constitutes Special Event material.

If this photo gives you vertigo, picture it in reality...

A sticky, germ-filled and never-ending hour and a half later, we excused ourselves to Boston Pizza, where Ann promptly barfed all over her highchair.  And this is the TSN turning point of the day.

In Ann's short life, every single time she has been pukey, Adrian has been away.  To his credit, he is mostly away for work and hates it.  It happens so often it would be funny if it it didn't suck so effing much.  The first time, I was visiting my parents and flew home after the first night of Ann's puking.  The lady beside me kept commenting on how delightfully well-behaved my child was.  I obviously couldn't tell her that she had Norwalk and didn't have the energy to lift her highly-contagious head, so I just smiled.  I can remember clearly that awful, awful moment when I finally crawled into bed at 9pm that night and realized that I felt nauseous, with Adrian not due to return from his fishing trip for 20 more hours.  It was probably the lowest moment of my parenting life, matched by that actual night, when I woke Ann and helplessly had to listen to her cry every single time I puked (I'm a King, we're loud pukers).  Fortunately for me, I have nice friends that call in sick to their nursing jobs so that they can come over at 7am, watch my kid, and deliver suppositories (to the house, not actually to the affected area).

Anyways, so here Ann and I are again.  The poor thing is finally asleep and I can get to the fun part of picking barfy spaghetti pieces from the washer.  And scrubbing vomit out of her favourite teddy with my hands.  I thought that at this point in the evening I would be sipping a glass of red and reflecting on the experience of her birth and the first two (mostly) wonderful years of her life.  Instead, I am reflecting on our lunch (as the faint spaghetti aroma now permeates the house and will have to be exorcised later.  Damn you, BP.  I'll never eat bolognese again).  Ad is due home in 45 minutes, I'll have to be sure to save some of the laundry for him.

Everyone argues over meiosis on dates, right?

So Thursday was date night.  And by date night I obviously mean that I ate 2 pounds of wings, had several beers and then got belligerent.

Over said amazing wings, we discussed our respective days.  Ad says: "So this guy at work was disputing the validity of site-specific spawning locations!" and I was all "Whaaaaat?" and he was like "I know, right?".  Except that I meant "What?  I don't get it.  Please explain."

So from there- a light fisheries management conversation- we somehow devolved into a discussion on the evolutionary strategy of dating meatheads when you are a 20-year old female (there were meatheads at the table next to us.  And 20-year old females).  How can it make evolutionary sense if Meatheads aren't good providers and aren't as likely to stick around as Nice Guys are?  Did we not clearly get here by evolution?  Should we not be observing the rules that govern natural selection?  How does it further the human race if we choose to date idiots who- were we to have kids with them- would make it more difficult to raise successful children?  Women should be saying things like 'Gosh, that guy has a public pension.  That is so hot', instead of  'That guy is currently not paying his alimony, and he gets in bar fights.  I should probably date him.'  At least, a few women other than me (I can clearly recall gushing about an ability to use 'intermittent' and 'asymptote' in conversation).
Though we haven't been observing natural selection for some time.  I mean, how many peacocks say 'he's got that genetic defect, but he's got a great personality'?  I guess we are just constantly making our own rules.

Anyways, I suppose that's not very romantic, but then again neither is shoving your date in front of a phone pole as he walks (seriously- that joke does NOT get old.  Except for Adrian.  He had several beer as well and he didn't recover in time to miss the pole and after that he had his cross face on).

Another date night success!

She meant that OTHER chubby guy.

I finally changed the comments settings (I tried earlier, but couldn't fix it because it was sooo complicated.  It was hidden under the link labeled 'comment settings').  Now all the peasants can comment too.  Though, keep in mind that this blog doesn't speak Neanderthal.  Only comment if you have something intelligent or witty to say (that's a lie, I am open to any adult interaction).

Speaking of language, the joy of being with a two-year-old is that it's like learning a new one.  You have a 60% chance of understanding if the unintelligible word in question is being pointed at, but if it so happens that she's asking for something not in sight, well- good luck.  Just hope it's not important.

Yesterday we passed this amazing specialty food store (read: fancy cookies) twice, and each time she pointed at it and yelled "Chubby-bear!" numerous times.  It turns out she meant 'Strawberry' (I know, I think the missing phonetic link is straw-bee-berry), which we bought there the day before (with our fancy cookies).  It was suuuper awkward though, as each time she yelled it she pointed at the doorway, where the portly and stern South African store owner was standing.  Sorry Sir, great cookies by the way.

Weepiness: Worst Ice-Breaker Ever.

Today Ann and I woke up and set off to make ourselves some friends at kindergym.  I put us in our best 'You-probably-should-be-friends-with-me' outfits: casual, but with enough flair to say 'we're interesting, come talk to us!' and enough effort to say 'we totally just threw on whatever was clean, but since all our clothes are fashionable, we look well put-together'.  Since it was early, I didn't bother doing my hair.  It's important not to overthink these things.

We arrived at kindergym and were instantly hit with the ripe smell of patchouli.
Let.  Down.  My superficial, materialistic lifestyle often doesn't jive with the that of the holistic artsy types.  My quick scan of the crowd revealed nobody who appeared to be like-minded.  Meaning A. sarcastic with nerdy flair, or B. athletic.  I suppose this would give me an opportunity to sit back and catch up on my judging-from-afar.  As I critiqued the Birkenstock wearers, I watched my little girl go about smiling sweetly at all the potential new friends (I had hidden Alligator in the stroller, so the territorial rage was contained, for now).  She parked herself at the bottom of her favourite thing- the slide.  She can be very polite and graciously let many kids go ahead of her ("Oh sorry- you go ahead.  No, no, I wasn't sure if I wanted to anyways.  Love your shoes by the way!  All right, my turn now...oh, no please, you first- I'm in no rush!").  As I watched my child try to get someone to interact with her I began to feel desperately awful to have moved her from her amazing daycare and her amazing friends and her entire network of adults who loved her (she does have a network of adults that love her here too, but still).  And then I started to feel bad for myself.  It took me 7 years to make the incredible friendships that I had in Vancouver, and it was hard work!  And I was considerably peppier and more well-rested back then!  The thought of being perky, bubbly and cheerful to every potential friend for conceivably the next year was an exhausting thought.  There are so many intricate formalities and social courtesies that need to be observed.  It's like a mating dance (though, I love mating dances.  Birds, they're just like us!).

Just then Ann pointed to another kid's water bottle and said "Alexa's!  Alexa's water bottle!", referring to her friend from daycare, whom I'm sure she misses.  Sure Ann, salt in the wound right now.  I watched her sidle on up to that grubby little girl and loiter, hoping to strike up a conversation.  The little monster pushed her.  Hard.  Ann looked so bewildered and disappointed it pushed me right past my emotional threshold.  I felt so lonely for both of us, and so sad for her.  She had had no say in this move and was trying so hard to adjust to this new environment we had forced upon her.  My eyes started to well (galldangit!).  All of a sudden I was like an awkward teenage boy called to the front of the class at an inopportune time, trying to quell his excitement (Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!  Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!).  I tried to think of something else, something cheerful and positive, but as we all know, trying just makes it worse.  And then... Ya.  You're doing it.  You're crying in a gym full of people.  Not the ugly, blubbery crying, but I was certainly that awkward sniffly person by herself in the corner, trying to discreetly wipe her nose.  And sure enough, just at that moment, a super cool-looking mom and her equally cool-looking mom-friend came in with their well-groomed and cheerful kids.  Cool Mom was scanning the crowd and busted me trying to subtly wipe my eyes.  She did a double-take and definitely slotted me away for all eternity as that weird woman crying at kindergym.  Of course Ann immediately ran over and starting playing with their kids, lending me the perfect ice-breaking moment to make friends, were I not already known as Weird Mom, crying in the corner.

Anyways, we recovered by eating cookies and playing who-can-spot-the-most-cats on the walk home, and now I'm off to youtube bird mating dances to cheer myself up.

This is me, trying to be witty for new friends.

Can I get some perfume with that clay?

The weather so far has been amazing here.  It's so hot and sunny, but not that putrid, sticky, headachey kind of a hot that makes you want to lay on the floor and moan all day.  It's cool indoors and toasty in the sun.  And cloudless.  This means sun protection is key.  Even if i wasn't so concerned about me and her getting cancer and burns, I fortunately have Adrian to remind me numerous times a day about it.  Like I would risk the wrath of Adrian by giving Ann her first burn.  And it's not the sort of thing you can fudge later, like; "No Adrian, we totally had veggies with lunch".  If I forget, her lobsterness will telegraph 'I have a bad mother' to the world.  Except maybe to Adrian, he's colour blind.  We sometimes have to play that fun game of "Is that flashing light yellow or red?" when we drive. 

So we have this extremely pricey sunscreen from Whole Foods called 'Badger'.  It's very safe, no endocrine-disrupters blah blah (seriously do you know what is in your skin care products? Check out this website: http://www.ewg.org/skindeep/.  But be warned, you will waste hours on it and be horrified by what you read.  It's very "Soylent Green is made of people!  Soylent Green is made of people!!" (Have you seen that movie?  Great one).  But when you take out all the colour and fragrance out of sunscreen, you are essentially left with clay.  And it takes, like, 20 minutes to put it on.  It's like rubbing mud on your face.  Especially on a snot-faced moving target.  Anyways, so obviously I use it on Ann (I'm SUCH a good mother).  I'm not going to risk disrupting her endocrine functions and make her uterus develop inside her intestine or something (can you imagine what birth would be like?  And what Adrian's wrath would be?), but I figure it's too late for me.  My reproductive system is fully formed, Ann is a testament to my overexuberant fertility, and any cancer damage has been done.  I may have to go back to using my fragrant, easy-to-apply, moisturizing sunscreen or we'll never make it out of the house again.

And Another Thing...

Listen!  I am writing this blog because I'm bored and lonely.  If my friends actually end up contacting me LESS because they have all my news already, I will off myself.

May your Tuesday be poltergeist-less and your footwear blessedly bug-free!

So my blog tracker tells me that my blog- Now, when I hear 'blog' I think 'webpage with a large and devoted following.  One in which the author has many interesting and intelligent things to say'.  So maybe I should call this my bl-email.  Or perhaps my blogette.  That would make me a dabbling blogger- a blabbler.  Anyways, so my blog tracker tells me that my page views are up to 30.  We can safely assume that 15 of those were me, but that means that my 6 friends checked it at least twice.  Keep up the good work peeps!

Today was our first weekday in our new city.  This means it was my first day alone with Ann in our new house.  This doesn't sound like a big deal, but due to either our move or her entry into an obnoxious stage of toddlerhood, she has become a monster.  Just last week I was commenting on how delightful she was to be around.  Sweet, funny, and constantly surprising me with new skills, words and interesting thoughts, I was (almost) looking forward to being with her 24/7 until she turned 5.  Or until my EI ran out.  Something has clearly happened since then.  She kicks, she bites, and she willfully defies me ("GASP!  Not willful defiance!"  It sounds tame until you tell her to stop walking towards traffic and she willfully defies you).  And every time I tell her 'no' she shakes her finger aggressively at me and yells "NO!" right back.  Then she tells her father I'm being bossy.  Other times she telegraphs her deviousness in advance.  When I say 'no', she looks down and to the right and her supermodel eyelashes flutter as she smiles devilishly.  One eyebrow twitches and then she does something truly obnoxious.  It's almost like she's momentarily possessed when she does this.  I actually had a nightmare about her being possessed the other night and had difficulty making eye contact with her yesterday as a result.

So anyways, as Adrian left the house this morning I felt a little bit like I'd just been locked in the cellar with a wolverine.  And, sure enough, it was like celebrity rehab here today.  Things were thrown, feelings were hurt...  So we tried to get out a lot.  3 long walks to be exact.  For each one, we had to bring Ann's new bestie- her alligator.  He's been around for a while, but now that we have more room to run around and mainly wood floors to do it on, he's a lot more fun.  

I think this is Bastion Square.  Some square near the Unemployment Office anyways.  Alligator went to Service Canada too, but the Agents were displeased enough with his noisy entrance that I didn't stop to capture the moment.

Alligator is afraid of heights.

In this photo he was devastated that Ann wanted to get away from him badly enough that she would jam her head between the posts.  This is actually a blatant lie.  She loves him so much that when we see other children on the street (or the other side of the street) she does her aggressive finger jab and yells "NO! MINE!" at them.

Ann and Alligator out for another walk.  While she was stomping earwigs the other day, one crawled in her shoe.  This traumatic event means we have to conduct regular and lengthy bug checks of her feet and footwear.  It is progress though, yesterday I couldn't even get her to put her shoes on.

...toes are cleared!  No bugs!

Anyways, happy Tuesday (or Monday, for those of you that are followers and will get an update about this tonight.  Namely, my Dad)!

My only source of news is related to my move, so...

Day 2 (3?) in Victoria: our stuff arrived, praise be. Air mattresses belong in storage, never to be used by civilized folk, and certainly not for 3 nights in a row. Met neighbours today. They are very friendly (and interested). One of them asked "Beth says you are sleeping on the floor?", which is true, but I've not yet met Beth and am not sure how she is getting her intel about our sleeping arrangements. I also keep forgetting we have no blinds up in any windows yet, and remember only AFTER I start changing. Perhaps tomorrow will bring Beth's thoughts on my bra size.

And so it begins..

Before you read this blog you should know:
1. I'm not as funny as I think I am
2. There will (obviously) be incessant talk about my daughter.
3. I am writing this for my family and besties, whom I miss desperately and do not have the time to email constantly (my boss is very strict).  Even my father probably won't read it- so don't get your hopes up that it will be interesting (though in my defence my father is a very busy man).
4. I occasionally swear, and I talk badly about my daughter behind her back.

I have been thinking about starting this for a while, but have been hesitant because:
1. I'm not as funny as I think I am
2. I have always felt that it is a bit arrogant to think anybody actually wants to read what you have to say.  Which is mainly whining anyways.
3. Often when I write I am talking badly about other people.  This does not translate well to the public domain.

So we shall see how it goes...