I am watching Oprah on PVR as I write this.  I tried Sex and The City but I’d already seen the episode, A Woman’s Right to Shoes.  Why am I watching Oprah after trying to watch Sex and The City?  Because my incredibly hot wife-to-be is away and I miss her.  She left last Monday, our four kids in tow, for a 2 ½ week sojourn to island time. We were in a rough patch before she left.  It wasn’t terrible at all, it never is between us, but we weren’t navigating seamlessly the way we normally do and we needed to shift gears.  I give thanks often for what our relationship is – communicative, sexy, fun, – but I give thanks and praise for its functionality.   We decided together that we needed a little solo recalibration.

So I’m on my own and when I post on Facebook and via Twitter that my family is gone I begin getting messages that read:

• Shitshow tonight!  You in?
• Have you hurt yourself yet?
• Call me, we’ll dine.  And wine.  Or maybe we’ll just wine and wine.

…and my own personal favourite:

• Are you being good?

What the hell does that even mean?   This one, for sure, had more to do with the asker than the askee.

That said though I am curious about what people think a male solo-recalibration (insert joke here) looks like.   Why is it assumed that the boys go hard when the cat’s away?   We are older now, y’know.   I live with four excellent kids, one old dog, a little – but excellent – prick of a cat and my love and the last thing I want to do when they split en masse is give ‘er.  I’d rather bunker in and work every minute I can.  Then, when I’m sick of working I’ll make excellent meals and/or do a fun, happy thing. That’s all this guy needs, a little health and happiness walkin’ hand in hand.

And a little help from my friends.

Friday was Highday cause it rhymes with Friday and it was a high day; an island of guy time in the middle of it all.  I want to thank my Tennis Husbands – Ed, Dan and Mark – for the chillax.

Yes I have Husbands.  That’s what my wife-to-be refers to them as.  I have a Hockey Husband and four Tennis Husbands and a Coffee Husband and about a dozen Cycling Husbands.   These guys are all real contributors and participants in and to my life but none of them are talk-every-day-friends.  We don’t have dinner, all of us, with wives and girlfriends and we don’t think of one another when we want to see a flick.  There is no qualitative assessment to be made here,  these guys aren’t less friends than the ones I do go see movies with.  It’s just that Husband time is a little different and it’s key for helping me back to center.  From a daily letter I write my love taking her through my day.

Lover –

Tennis first.  I woke early , suited up and drove the rounds to pick up the boys in the family truckster.  Last night I thought about my Tennis Husbands and I old, our day-a-week ritual of wake-and-bake tennis still going strong.  Today, when we took to the courts, there was a foursome of septuagenarian men playing a slow, fun game beside us.  I’m not sure if they were lit or not but I can guarantee they’re all a bunch of Husbands.

Anyhow…after the pickups we drove to the courts, making fun of Dan the whole way because my chosen route made him nervous.  When we got to the bubble Ed, in the minus 20-degree crispness, sparks up a cannon and we puff daddy before entering the ‘club’.  This place is so right on it’s wrong.  Picture a posh tennis club?  It’s not that.  The Pro Shop/Office is a double-wide, one side all window looking out over the courts.  There is an old jovial guy behind the desk – it’s likely he came with the trailer – wearing a ball cap with some department written on it.  Dan has on a longshoreman’s cap and there is a gaping hole in his right shoe and I’m wearing my hipster toque, my ‘ping-pong’ shoes and a tight-white v-neck t shirt.   I looked like a modern day Kenickie.  Anyhow….Dan’s registering to play in the club’s Davis Cup tournament becomes an interactive experience for the 7 or so people inside with us.  Counter man wants to know what country Dan wants to play for and we start riding Dan about being from The Country of Handsome and could he play for them?  I fell into stand-up mode, Ed fell into tears, the lady beside Mark – who is so cooked all he can do is stare – tried not to laugh.  Dan sports a big, goofy smile like he’s wearing the moon under his nose and the old man is so happy he should have been playing the tuba.

And I took a second amidst all this mayhem and reflected on how charmed my life is at times.  It’s difficult and you and I both work hard and the stuff we are trying is risky but with that comes great opportunity.  And, for my bit, I have a wife-to-be and four kids who adore me, all of whom I love and adore more in return.  How lucky am I that each of them lives a big life and invites me in to engage in it?   I love my work.  I get baked on Friday mornings with four guys I love spending time with and we play mean games of tennis.

Blessings.  Our relationship has taught me their value and I have grown adept at checking out whenever I can to give thanks.  Just a quick little 3 breaths with not a thought in my head but ‘Thanks.’  Not sure to whom or what it is addressed but I do it anyhow because you taught me how lucky we are to have what we do.

Tennis was fantastic but the Benetti Brothers (Mark and I) fell 6-1 in the first and were up 5-4 in the second when time was called.   We’ve put 6-month-long matches into effect.  We’ll keep a running total of sets and whichever team is down at the end of the 6 months treats the other to a dinner at a restaurant that, as Dan put it, you would propose at.  I said that it couldn’t be an ironic proposal place though – like the sandwich counter at the corner of Bathurst and Dupont.  We all agreed though everyone likes said sandwich counter, the Vesta Lunch.  We should go there sometime.  I think you’d like it.  Maybe we should get married there?

On the way home we stopped at Haliana’s, a polish cafe on Annette.  We sang songs while the lady made us veal sandwiches and pierogies.  We were there not just for the great food but also because Haliana’s daughter is a beautiful Polish lady and Dan is single.  She ignored us and were all fine with that.  We ate our sannies outside in the sun listening to Dan extolling the virtues of LuLuLemon pants.  It was his opinion that Polish girl’s ass looked different this week that than it did the week before.

This of course reminded me of you.  I miss your ass.  Your beautiful, beautiful ass.

So yeah, there it is.  We men are probably a little bit like what you think we are like when you’re gonzo.  We do talk about the Polish lady’s posterior and we wake and bake every once in a while to let the force be with us but we also have deep conversations and gain insight from one another’s experiences.  We process this when we go to sleep early at night and we’re ready to put a fresh day into Drive when we wake refreshed 9 or 10 hours later.  We guest-write blogs and we watch Oprah and we miss you.  We don’t just sign up indiscriminately for all manner of pre-conceived carnage.

I miss my wife-to-be and my kids but I’m going to turn back into the work so I don’t feel bad taking a break later on to watch Oprah.  And I’m looking forward to Highday, just 4 short sleeps away.

She’ll be home soon and I’ll be so recalibrated she won’t know what to do.  I can’t wait.

Christopher Bolton gets to do what some people only dream about. He writes and people read, he produces and people watch, he acts and people notice. He is also my friend. And my friend is currently making a giant leap from the Canadian TV scene (if you haven’t seen Rent-a-Goalie, you should probably put the mouse down and make that happen) to bigger, badder, and braver pastures. I can’t wait to see where this new journey takes him, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride too. Expect him to be back in this space soon, too. He’s got lots to say.

See, Ali asked me to guest post on her blog while she is gone to the Conference That Shall Not Be Named.  I don’t know if you’ve seen Ali in a bikini or not, but I have and, damn, who can say no to her hot lusciousness?  

So here I am.

Speaking of The Conference That Shall Not Be Named – the one that causes me to turn into a gianormous green monster?  The conference so popular with female bloggers that it’s sold out? The parties start tonight, as if you other Incredible Sulks who are also not going haven’t heard all over the blogiverse.

Maybe you are like me and your head explodes each time you read about other people going, even if you love them to pieces and don’t really resent that they are going.  It’s just that you are not going and not attending parties, not meeting people, not getting swag bags with $100 vibrators in them and no drink tickets for you.  And that makes your head explode in envy.

Well my fellow pity-party-goers, I have found a cure for the Incredible Sulk. You only have to Reach Out.

What?  You aren’t subscribed to BlogHer’s conference announcements because you fear permanent brain damage from repetitive head explosions?  Me too.

If it weren’t for BlondeMom asking me if I’m going to the BlogHer thang in Nashville, I would have continued to live under a rock of sulky ignorance, possibly with a football helmet on my head to contain the mess of numerous cranial explosions. 

It turns out BlogHer is doing six mini-conferences in October and four out of the six are in the South.  When I found out about these conferences, I went from this…

to this.

See how I’m almost completely back to normal?  I have only a tinge of green envy left, but other than that, I pretty much look normal.  I’m sure this almost complete return to normalcy is because I’m not going to one BlogHer conference, but two.  That’s right, two!  I’ll be attending the conferences in Atlanta and New Orleans.  

On top of that, Megan from Velveteen Mind and I are traveling together to Atlanta. So now all of you out there who think the illustrious, awesome Megan only farts sunshine and daisies can be jealous of me.

Ha!

Shhhhh, I’ll be in a car with her for 10 hours round trip.  I just bet I’ll be able to verify if her farts do indeed smell like sunshine and daisies.  Because who can go 10 hours without farting?  Not me!  At least not without my ass exploding, and since I just got my head to stop exploding, I don’t want to start with the other end.

And now that I just wrote that mental thought out loud, I bet you are ALL SO JEALOUS of Megan riding with me. 

Double ha!

While I still hate missing the big party this weekend in SanFran, these mini-conferences do make up for it just a bit.  In fact, this could be a really great thing!

These small conferences will be like dipping a toe into the BlogHer pool.  I’ll learn the ropes of BlogHer conferences on a smaller scale so that when I go to the big summer conference next year (and I am going, even if I have to sell photos of Ali in a bikini to inappropriate magazines), I will be super cool!  I’ll know exactly what to wear, how to style my hair, what shoes to take, and the best practical jokes to pull.  

And I have more time to lose weight.

Triple ha!

I can see the headlines now…

The bloggers formerly known as The Incredible Sulks take Reach Out by storm!

(This is where you former Incredible Sulks like me stand up and say you are going too.)

Yeah, me too.

And I’ve had to guest post for two of ‘em in the last two weeks. It’s like rubbing tequila, a little lime and a whole lot of salt into the open wound that is the Midwest in winter.

But alas, tomorrow I too get to go on vacation. 48 entire hours on the waterfront of an iconic little town known as Chicago. The windy city, maybe you’ve heard of it.

And dude, they ain’t kidding when they say windy.

So let’s do a little math… 

Ali + St. Lucia + Warm Sunny Beaches to the Seventh Power = Loveliness.

Casey + Windy City + Freezing Temperatures – Wind Chill Factor…

nevermind. Let’s not do math.

Let’s just say I won’t have to deal with wet sand in my underwear.

Stick that in your fruity cocktail and drink it.

(Do I sound angry? I’m really not, just seethingly jealous. No biggie. Heh.)

Second of all: hi!

Some of you may know me. Most of you probably don’t. So– hopefully this first impression thing is going well. My name is Becca, and I run DasBecca.com right down the road (two streets on the right, can’t miss it). I was really nervous about writing this entry. I’ve never done a guest post before and had no idea what to talk about. Ali told me the sky’s the limit, so she was basically no help at all. Heh.

I decided on a topic I’ve been struggling with a lot personally, and something I think every person can relate to: family size. So get prepared– it’s going to be An Oprah Episode Kind of Post. Right now we have two children, a four year old boy and two year old girl. They’re AMAZING. Love love love. Our plan all along was just to have two, and we’re there. Add to that, our daughter had an extreme scare when she was born– an intercranial hemorrhage– and while the possibility of it happening with another pregnancy is slim, there still is a possibility. We’re finally slowly getting on top of finances. Things are great. We’re happy and we have our hands full. So, when my husband brought up the idea of getting a vasectomy in a few weeks– something we’d even discussed in the past– I should’ve been totally cool with it. But– I’m not. I’m in this weird gray place.

Getting pregnant right now with all the risks involved scares the crap out of me, but in five years there could be a medical answer for and prevention of the problems we had with Addie. We should be debt-free minus our house. I could really want another baby. Or I could be working part-time while the kids are at school, carting them all over to soccer and ballet, and spending time with my sister (who is supposed to move down here and have babies of her own in the near future). I may be thrilled we stopped at two. I just don’t know. I don’t even have, like, a gut instinct.

I’ve heard that little adage about people knowing that they’d always regret the children they didn’t have more than any children they did. That’s my biggest fear. What if we go on to become a five-person family and it’s a mistake? I know I’d love a new child regardless, but I also know there are moms out there who moved from two to three, and it just about killed them. I’ve also heard about mothers feeling complete after the birth of their last child, but I don’t know if I feel that, either. I’m just– neutral.

I know there are people who feel like I shouldn’t have to make a permanent decision at 25, but I really can’t stress enough the timing issue of a future pregnancy. I really feel like I can’t responsibly get pregnant until I know our money and the baby’s health would be in good standing. I don’t want even a small possibility of an accident. Birth control has failed several women in our family, myself included, and I feel like I wouldn’t be sure unless we did something like the vasectomy. If we chose to keep going with over the counter methods, it just seems like it’s a matter of time until I wind up pregnant again, and I should be okay with that, and I’m not.

I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. This is why the Internet is such a nice place: because we can meet for the first time, and I can tell you all this drama. If we were sitting in a Starbucks, and I sat down next to you, like, “Should my husband get a vasectomy or not? I’m going to need to tell you all the details so you get a feel for the situation,” most of you would probably politely move a few tables away. And then write about me on your blog. Heh.

I’m not really looking for answers. It’s a personal decision, and I need to figure it out for myself. What I’m hoping to get from you guys is your family situation. How did you decide how many children to have, or if to have children at all? Did you/do you have an idea of what your ideal family looked/looks like? Is that what you have? What was the hardest transition for you (zero to one, one to two, two to three, three to six, etc.)? Did you feel done at any point? Do people ever feel really sure about how many children they have?

You see, I can’t think of anyone more suited to sub in for the illustrious and gorgeous Ali. We have a tonne in common. In fact, we’re soul mates.

Ali is American by birth.  I’m Canadian by birth.  Oh wait, that’s not the same at all.

Ali has three children.  I have four.  Actually, besides having more kids than we know what to do with, I have one more and thus no self control.  That’s not the same either.

Ali works for an awesome company that makes working on the set of High School Musical look like selling office supplies.  I work at the Post Office.  Huh? Well, I guess that’s not right.

Ali lives and works in the fabulous and bustling city of Toronto – on the edge of Canadian culture and fashion.  I live on a farm in the tiny town of of Almonte, Ontario where our biggest claim to fame is that the inventor of basketball was born up the road.

Wow.  I guess we’re not the best match on paper.  But that’s fine. I’ll continue.

The best part about a guest post is that I can maintain a decent amount of anonymity here.   I’ll surely direct any of my readers here to read and discuss, but in the future it’s mostly unlikely that the subject of my post will find this.

Over at my place, the main subject is, like most other ”Mommy Bloggers”, my kids.   Like I said, we have four children. Three girls and one very active and basically insane little boy.  Our oldest is a girl, in her twelth year.  Not only is she tall, gorgeous and athletic, but she’s just on the cusp of all those things that make twelve years old awful and amazing.  Pretty soon, things are going to start happening for her.  Puberty, boys, friends, drama.  Stuff that I’ll want to share and write about as a release, because that’s what I do to work things out. Write.

However, it’s occured to me recently that she might not want me to share all this stuff with you, dear internet.  Just like any girl her age, she’d probably prefer that I zip it.  If my own upbringing is any indication, and I’m thinking of the time my mother basically took out a personal ad when I started my period, she’ll be mortified if she finds out I’ve been blogging about whether or not she is ready for a bra.

She’s a relatively easy-going and level-headed girl, but she’s still only eleven. We all know what happens to a girl when she hits about twelve or thirteen. They basically lose all reason for about four to five years.   I think her privacy, and the privacy of her sisters after her, is probably going to be something she takes very seriously.

Until now, my blog posts have features funny anecdotes about wiping asses, what I’ve made for dinner and how my kids have reacted to me going back to work.  Still though, I’ve occasionally blogged about their state of mind, their inner turmoils and some of their struggles or triumphs.  Nothing like what will be headed our way though.   I think I might have to reign it in.

I’m sure I’ll find a whole bunch of things to write about.  Like the state of Chelsia’s eyebrows from Big Brother 9 (I’m obsessed with how insanely plucked they are!).  Or keeping watch on Angelina’s adorable baby bump. (I look like that after eating one taco too many!).

I’m curious.  What are your guidelines for blogging about your older children?  Do you draw the line somewhere?  Or is it something you haven’t really thought about?  At some point the children of Mommy Bloggers might find these blogs, no? 

_____________________________________

If you want to see how this all pans out and how much I do share, feel free to stop by at Bread Crumbs In The Butter.  Thanks, Ali!

BTW, WordPress is smarter than me, I couldn’t figure out how to upload an image to save my life! Bummer, you know how I loves me images, and I had some good ones (yes, I Photoshopped them)!

But Ali? She’s just so freakin’ CUTE! Oh. No. I mean HOT. She’s definitely a hot mom. That’s why she lets her kids wear stuff like this.

[Plus, I don't know if there's family that reads this blog. Though, I suspect they don't the way she always goes on and on about them making her drink herself into an early grave. *waves* Hi Ali's family!!!]

This would be the perfect opportunity to spill some dirt, don’t you think? I wish I had dirt on Ali. Even a morsel of something to share. But alas, nothing.

Utter. Stinkin’. Perfection.

She makes me sick.

I crave dirt on people. I am one of those people that has to know every last detail of that torrid work place affair, or a fight/disagreement between co-workers or even personal life stuff.

Bad. I know.

But I crave information. Gossip.

I am a Gossip. I’m not really ashamed of the fact I enjoy gossip. I tell people, yet they still feed me with information.

They encourage my gossiping ways. That’s not my fault.

I couldn’t even tell you when this started. I can remember as far back as elementary school at our first ever boy/girl parties when the rumours would start. I wouldn’t start them, but I listen very tentatively to what information was being divulged. I remember going home and thinking up all these scenarios and drive myself batty with “Whatifs”.

Then I realized the even more tantalizing world of Sharing Gossip. Wow.

Who would have thought that gathering all this information and sharing with other people like myself (Gossips) would help get the pieces together so much faster!?
It’s funny how gossip can being people together. Yet. Sometimes be so dangerous.

Like celebrities. Dangerous. Some have even faced the demise of their careers because of the pressure put on by our (read: gossip and celebrity obsessed people, like moi.) need for irrelevant information. Britney Spears is a prime example me thinks. The girl is followed incessantly, having every single move photographed and scrutinized by the public eye. Her life is in shambles and most of that, I think, can be owed to the paparazzi and some poor life decisions and bad parenting by Lynn.

I’m just sayin’.

But really, who am I to say anything at all?

Just another gossip hound weighing in on a tarnished career which will one day lead her to a spot on The Surreal Life.

What were we even talking about?

Oh! Ali and how I have no dirt on her.

You got any to share? Feel free to give us a glimpse into the life of exploit our favourite blogger if you’ve got something!

This is Sam from Temporarily Me, and I’m out.

I wanted to share some things with you about my neighbor, because we can all relate to crazy people.

I’ve written about my neighbors before on my blog, but I thought I’d give you some insight into my neighborhood. Since Ali is from Canada and for all I know her neighbors might be very normal, so I want to spread the craziness around.

We’ve lived here for about 6 1/2 years and in that time we’ve experienced a lot of weirdness on the block, but the majority of it has come from the old lady next door. The houses on our street are built fairly close to one another so privacy is hard to come by. When we first moved in there was a short chain-link fence dividing our backyard from her driveway.

Yes, had she been a hot twenty-something my husband would have enjoyed the view of her laying out in her bikini from our patio….but she’s a wrinkly 80 year old! (Shortly after losing our vision we put up a tall wooden fence.)

It seemed like every time we had guests over to grill-out she would pull out the leaf blower and clean their driveway. Every single time. It was frustrating because we couldn’t hold a conversation over the noise. Even during our son’s 1 year old birthday party she found it necessary to blow every leaf and stick off her drive. Common courtesy would have waited. Right?

Then there was the time my husband’s family was visiting and we were all outside enjoying a fall afternoon when suddenly the old lady started beating a broom against the bottom of an oak tree in her backyard. She was attacking the tree! We could hear her muttering something about a squirrel. The next morning we awoke to find she’d covered the tree trunk (about 10 feet) with aluminum. It provides a nice shiny reflection on sunny days.

We’ve almost gotten accustomed to the Christmas decorating that takes place right after Thanksgiving. She places this very old Santa and sleigh wood cut out in the front yard and has a large red spotlight directed at it. The problem is that our bedroom is at the front of the house and our window faces her house and absorbs most of the red light.

I can remember the first time the light came on and we were laying in bed. My husband and I both jumped up thinking something had to be on fire from the glow on our walls. Turns out we just live in the red light district. It wouldn’t be too bad if she didn’t have the light timer set to stay on until 6 a.m.

For the most part she provides a large amount of entertainment. She mows the dirt grass sometimes 2-3 times a week. Since she’s basically just blowing up dust she’ll wear a mask, bandanna, sunglasses and gloves. Our son asked me if was a bank robber!

See that was painless. Just be glad I didn’t write about diaphragm’s! Come visit me (FENICLE) sometime!

and how it’s so very, very true. come by and say hi.