The First Read

Finally home and safe from Canadian angst. Spent most of the day re-meshing and kissing up on Mr. M. Got some new books and DVDs. The Xmas faves are out already, so the household is now studying the dance moves of Sir Heat and Cold Miser.

Little guy also enjoyed his first read of Where the Wild Things Are. Seemed quite smitten. You could smell the soup and sandwich coming off the last page.

Momma just returned from a similar location, where she was wildly rumped and sent to bed without supper.

Viva la resistance, Max!

Rotary Whacked

Wow, angry Rotarians are a lethal force. Presentation (to those of you that know what I'm talking about) went great. But the dinner was nasty. Canadian nasty, so not really nasty. Not Texas nasty, which is a whole other ball of nasty wax. And mind you, it was actually an American in the group that really led the nasty charge. They were pissed off at the Foundation, I was wearing the Foundation mask, so became the obvious target. I think I involuntarily put my head down on the dinner table at one point. I don't hide disgust very well - though I did take it for the team. Felt like I worked for the IRS. What can you do? Put on the armor and plan for the future.

For those of you who don't know what I do or talking about, here it is in a nutshell: I'm the economic and community development specialist for The Rotary Foundation - yeah that Rotary, Rotary clubs, polio Rotary, your father's Rotary. The Rotary Foundation is trying to revamp its grant structure and fund larger more sustainable projects in specific areas of focus, one of those is economic and community development. Microfinance was the theme of this conference. I talked about how the Foundation will fund microfinance and other economic activities in our new grant structure. Some loved it, some thought it sucked. I ducked when the latter group took aim and barfed out their grief on me. At some point, someone put a glass of wine in front of me, I don't know who, but clearly a kind Canadian comrade. Now I'm back at the hotel, and I think safe. I may need armed escort to leave the country. Who knew I could cause such scandel in such a seemingly kindhearted place. It's like I pissed off Hello Kitty.

Here is my Canadian-played evil avatar for the night. "And strategic partners will cost.......$1 million dollars...wahhha.wwaaahwhaaaaaaa....(evil laughter continues on). This is clearly an inside joke for my Rotary comrades.



And Abby, if you're out there, I received the "back rub." Ewww.

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.