Somebody loves me. Someone out there decided that it was a great idea to make a lunch kit/purse sized bottle of hot sauce. To me this is like Robert Downey Jr. riding up on a pink unicorn and handing me a million dollar check while (obviously) naked. Seriously, it’s like tiny acid tripping fairies dancing on my tongue.

Witness the glory people. Look how adorable it looks with my lunch kit. Like they were made for one another. Can I have an AMEN from the back row??!!

Now- for those of you that are confused by the Thanksgiving part of the title, you are obviously not Canadian. Our society sanctioned fest of over indulgence is Monday. I’m not really big on these floating holidays. If it doesn’t have a dedicated date then I am likely to forget it. However, I do believe in long weekends and I do believe in turkey. Lots of it. With gravy and cranberry stuffing. That’s right my Yankee Doodle Dandy friends. On Monday while you are fighting traffic or sitting in your office or trying not to stick a letter opener in a co-workers eye, I will be lounging on my couch in front of the fireplace in fuzzy pants, wool socks and a belly full of bird.

Gobble gobble to all.

I’ve gained a few pound of late- I will admit it. Nothing major, mind you. It’s not like I now have to buy two airline seats or shop at a tarp store for clothing, but I’m not my usual trim self. It’s not really my fault- I blame Keith. Alexander Keith’s India Pale Ale to be precise.

So the other night Steve and I are in the front yard with the dogs and I am sitting on the single step at the front of the yard. I start doing sit up/crunch things with the extra room that the step allows and I’m thinking “Holy crap! This works great!”

Me- “I think I want one of those step thingies for Christmas so that I can do these inside in the winter. This is a totally kick ass ab workout!”

Steve- “Christmas? You don’t want one before that?”

Yeah. I’m pretty sure he just called me fat.

Don’t worry, I am writing this from a secret hideout with ample security and I am wearing a helmet. I’m sure you wouldn’t expect anything less given that the childless one is doing a post about parenting.

Yup. I got balls. Big ones apparently.

After watching a doc about kids today and the things that they are exposed to/pressured into etc, I had an interesting conversation with Steve about what we think societies role is in regards to kids. Let me be really clear here people- I am talking kids with a home, kids with food in their bellies and clothes on their back. I am not talking about the homeless and hungry and the desperately poor as that is an entirely different post that would start off by giving society a big fat fucking FAIL. I’m talking about the kid that your kid goes to school with or the one down the block, or maybe even your kid.

I am tired of hearing people blame others for the problems their child may be facing. They didn’t have a supportive enough teacher, they had “bad” friends, Madonna told them that it was ok to give a guy head in the backseat when they were only 13 years old. I’m not saying that those influences aren’t relevant- I’m just saying that when the foundation is strong, they don’t have to be detrimental. Parenting is hard. Even though I don’t have a child, I know this to be true. Kids face shit today that we would never have even dreamed of. My point is, I think that it is the parent’s job to teach kids right from wrong, safe from dangerous, real from fake. I know that a parent can do the very best job possible and shit can still go sideways. What I hate are the parents that don’t know their kid’s friends, have no idea what they do online, where they go, or even what they like, and then spout off that music or TV or movies turned their kid into a little asshole. If you put nothing but the bare minimum in, why would you expect any better back? At the end of the day, no matter who you want to hold responsible, the parent is the child advocate. You can hope for outside support, you can even fight for it, but it never replaces the parent, it supports them.

Most of you already know that my mother is more than a little left of center, and by that I don’t mean she’s a conservative. I mean she’s kind of off her rocker but in that aging hippy, crazy person that you love sort of way and I was raised in a manner that most would find shocking. If I wanted to light a joint in the living-room, I did. If I wanted to go to a friends house at 3am, I did. And hey, what is this word curfew that my friends all speak of? Back in the day my mom was a single parent, dirt poor, suffers from debilitating chronic depression, had 3 jobs and put herself through night school. Despite all of that, she knew every single one of my friends. She knew when I lost my virginity and where I was at any given time, and with who. Even when she was wasn’t around because of work/school/illness, she was still always there. (Sorry- I briefly morphed into Oprah Winfrey and that was my grandiose “cut to commercial” statement.)

I guess what I am trying to say in my ridiculously convoluted way is that it isn’t Madonna or Rhianna or Brittney Spears or what’s her fucking name’s job to not talk about sex or sexuality or drugs for fear that your kid might see or hear it. I still, despite all of the crap that is rammed down the throats of children, think it’s the parents job to parent. You won’t always get it right, but rather than blaming society, doesn’t it make more sense to look for alternative methods?

Kids grow up so fast today and of all the jobs in the universe, I think parenting is probably the most difficult, and the most important. I honestly don’t know how my mother did it- I don’t know how all of you do it. I am in awe of you.

Now that my great spiel is over, I will remain hidden and protected by large men named Bubba just in case any of you feel the need to hunt me down and carve profanities into my stretch mark free belly.

It’s ok if you hate me now, plenty of people already do.

Susin & I sat up nights talking and laughing. Cold beers and stories from our youth, like the time we went to the theater to see a horror movie and brought a wig. During a particularly scary part, we pitched it into the rows ahead of us. Imagine watching a freaky movie and having a giant clump of hair land in your lap in the dark.

Yes. There was screaming. Yes. We were assholes.

There was also a visit with my crazy mother in which the 3 of us laughed until we almost peed because she says the most ridiculous things. It is impossible to sit with my mother and NOT be laughing within a minutes or two. A visit with her is always good, except for the fact that she always steals my fucking lighter when she leaves. Considering that years ago she once stole us kids a turtle from the zoo, I probably should be surprised.

And then there was Baby Gray.

Holy fuck do I love that kid. He can now say “Auntie.” In fact, according to Susin, after I left he brought her a picture of me from the office and said “Auntie!” which thrilled and shocked me to no end. I say “shocked” me not because he isn’t clever, but because the picture of me (there are many in their house) was an old one. A very dark close up of half my face back in the day when I had very short hair and very tiny black glasses. Susin likes to refer to it as my Lesbian look. I can’t wait until he’s just a little older and stringing together sentences. The first one that I intend to teach him is “Don’t persecute me!” For whatever reason I find it hilarious when little kids bust out stuff like that to adults when they’re getting in shit for something.

As if the weekend wasn’t yet great enough, upon my return home on Sunday, Steve and I had dinner that ended with this plate of shrapnel.

Seriously? A weekend with my best friend, a visit from my crazy mother, hanging out with Baby Gray and perfectly cooked lobster……….. It really doesn’t get better than that. Actually, it does, but Steve has forbidden me from talking about our sex life on this blog. Feel free to use your imagination.

I’m heading out to Kelowna tonight to spend the weekend looking after my Baby Gray while Susin is at work. Her husband is on a fishing excursion and Steve will stay home to watch over our daughters that some people actually refer to as dogs. How fucking rude!

So what do best friends of 30 years do when the men are no where to be found? We drink wine or beer or both and laugh uproariously all night. Actually, it’s the exact thing we would be doing if Steve and Stan were around but this time we don’t have to waste precious drinking/gabbing time by having to explain why we’re laughing. It will be a glorious weekend and I wish all of you psychos the same.

Ps- Check us out back in the day. I’m pretty sure that it was Susin that convinced me that a perm was a good idea. I’m also pretty fucking sure that I still owe her for that one.