Canada...it's like another country

Hello American Comrades! Woo has crossed the border, invaded the hordes of the north, landed in the land of flannel - and whatever other stereotype one could drop in this sentence. That's right, I am in the friendly confines of Toronto. Here to present at a conference and investigate these peoples I've heard so much about and whose couch I threatened to sleep on at various points during the 8 years of the Bush administration.

Now here's the problem. I have alot to say about Canada. It fascinates me. Canadians fascinate me. The accent, so like our own yet not, distracts the bejesus out of me. I have to sit on a panel and entertain questions about microfinance, with all the "aboots", and "oots", and the other stuff. I'm at the hotel tapas bar and the "aboots" are flying through the air. I don't even know what's politically correct to make fun of or talk about. I feel like I should have been given a manual on what to say and not say in the presence of our more civil north american brethren.

They look like us. You could almost swear you were in Chicago. But, instead of the lighthearted fear of random crime, there's this heavy feeling of niceness, civility, and safety looming over the city. It's actually downright threatening in an innocuous kind of way. I feel like I could possibly even relax. Walk naked down Bloor Street and not be given a howdy-do. One more martini, and we'll see.

I've traveled to Syria, Angola, East Timor and Ethiopia, yet I am befuddled by the slightly different, but not really, culture of Canada.

Aww. They just brought me mayonnaise with my frites. Would they freak if I asked for ketchup? Where's my American to Canadian manual!!!???

Until tomorrow, I'm going to bed to the sweet soothing sounds of Canadian cable.

Below, some of my favorite Canadian men.

Squeezed Dry and Stomped Out

It's day 11 and things in the brain have screeched to a crawl. I just did one hour of yoga, followed by more than an hour of flamenco. The feet are throbbing. Not much left of the old gal. A trip to Toronto is on the docket this weekend, so perhaps the land of Kids in the Hall will shake free some musings.

So, as invaluable filler until the return of my brain, for those of you that are not acquainted with the beauty, the eff-you, and attitude of flamenco, here's a small, good looking tidbit. Obviously not me. She's about a third of my size, horizontally and vertically.

Flamenco is a gorgeous dance form. It speaks to my inner diva, my personal Gaga, my drag sensibility. It's satisfies my hidden drama puss. Well, not that hidden.
Enjoy.

Oh Ed Earl...

Some business first. Many squishies and love to Big D for hacking into the Big Woo and responding to my request for response to his preferential treatment from Little M.

Love. Warm. Heart.

Secondly, thanks to those on Facebook and other whereabouts who responded to my call for feeding advice. Tender and wise you all are. I've written down a list and am trying it all out. Description of results to come. I particularly like the ice tray suggestion. And those sickos who suggested an IV. Or maybe, that was just me.

But now...I've got nothing. I'm stuck between a place of wanting to write about real day to day stuff, and not wanting to become a one note wonder. Hmm. It's like high school journaling all over again.

Life in the Woo is solid. Let's just leave it at that. Day 11...you're killing me.

Here's something fun. Burt Reynolds AND Dolly Parton.



She gets him. She leaves the whorehouse and goes to the legislature.

Shelby

Mamaaaaaaaaaaa...ooooohoohooohooooh

Let's see. Day 10. Hmmm. When Misho calls for me across a crowded room, he emits a very familiar tune, especially if I don't hear him the first time around. He repeats. The crescendo builds.

It's day 10 people. Time for Queen.



I would like to believe I'm mothering the reincarnation of F. Mercury.

Fingers crossed.

Eat. Please eat. A Big Woo cry for help.

It's official from "The Board of Toddler Eating Habits." Misho is the world's pickiest eater. For years, I thought I owned the toddler title. He doesn't like bread. Bread? Who doesn't like bread? I'm about to lose my mind. Mac and cheese? No can do. Are you serious? Most children would bathe in mac and cheese if they could. Tonight, I threatened to duct-tape him to the high chair until he at least licked a chicken nugget. A simple meat in nugget form. He likes NOTHING in nugget form. Who can't get on board with a nugget? Was this child sent from PETA as a propaganda tool?

We've tried all the methods: feed him what he wants at all times, plan to introduce new things at least 1000 times before he likes it (myth), don't force it on him or appear in anyway coercive or he'll never eat again, buy the most expensive thing from Whole Foods because then he's sure to like it, sit back and let your child starve.

I know. I sound like a rookie mom. And I am. But this is above and beyond. I've fed, cared for, and dealt with kids, toddler to teen for most of my life. I'm not quite sure where to go on this one. I pulled out the "you're killing your mother" chant for the first time. Well, the first time in a serious, involuntary manner.

Oh and by the way, his likes: pistachios and capers. The pistachio and caper jar was empty tonight.

Remember this face from blog entry past?




This is what I look at every night at dinner. Help me.

Re: Nov. 7, 2009 Post,Sub-Point #5

Mama,

Do not be deceived. I am of little consequence. Not a serious contender. The boy isn't blind. He knows I am just a larger, even more reckless version of himself. An over-sized peer. This is fun and good to have around, especially for getting away with stuff, or getting candy after 7 p.m., or teasing the dogs for a laugh, or learning that not every bump is a disaster, because that big bald guy never seems to notice when I fall down unless there is blood. But he knows, as every boy knows, what side of the parental unit really butters the toast. He knows who is the fearsome (meant in that kind of she-cat "what what what?1" way) don't touch my baby unless you're giving out magic dust guarantor of his remaining and ever-becoming one of the good ones. That's all you mama. And thank goodness, 'cuz I couldn't handle the pressure. So don't fret, you're a boy's mama and he's a mama's boy. That's the way it's always been, for as long as there's been boys and mamas. Now, I'm off to steal some more of the boy's Halloween candy, because I can.

xoxo,

Dada

Let's just say your child eats a rock. Maybe two.

A small rock. Not even a rock, a pebble at best. What happens?

Let's just say that a very attentive (fictional) mother did her best to retrieve the aforementioned group of (two at most) rocks from the gullet of a very beautiful (fictional) child but came up empty. Is that a problem? An emergency room visit? Or a "wait to see what happens later" kind of situation?

As a former mental health gal, I wouldn't slap this hypothetical situation with a diagnosis of pica: it hasn't happened more than once in a month and no pattern of eating nonfood material has been expressed. Additionally, in this hypothetical scenario, there has been no obvious discomfort or avoidance of regular food. In fact, a perfectly normal hypothetical bowel experience occured quite recently. Hypothetically, I think this child will survive.

Hmm. Just a passing Sunday scenario that wafted through my brain. Thought I would share.

Plus, this hypothetical child has bigger fish to fry: staring down some street performing weirdo in a cheetah suit.



Meow.