Wednesday, March 10, 2010

I have finally surfaced after having been buried under the weight of assignments and exams and family...specifically the weight of my boys. A boy with frontal lobes that will not be firing for another 10 years, if we're lucky, and a boy who's hair is so curly that it seems to interfere with reasoning and hearing and understanding and also encourages a general dislike of good hygiene. Oh wait, non-firing frontal lobes also discourage cleanliness as I'm finding out.

I just had a thought that the writing geniuses behind a dummies guide to virtually everything under the sun would do well to write a book on managing a household of boys while staying sane and at the same time perfecting the recipe for the french martini.

Outside of drinking cocktails, I managed to escape the role of motherhood for one evening and went to an art show where I purchased a small painting by the Canadian artist Beverely Hawksley ( and also went to a fabulous bar on Queen St.W/Toronto called BarChef ( where I developed an addiction for their Vanilla Lite cocktail. Thank you Eve for expanding my little world!

But then it was back to reality and the pain of reading chapters on typography. Don't get me wrong - I love type! I would probably qualify as a type geek. But oh my god, the chapters are drier than my mother's blackened hamburger balls (and not blackened because of some fabulous Cajun seasoning, blackened because she would throw round balls of meat into a frying pan and cook them on high until they were black because at least that way she knew they would be cooked to some degree inside) in the 1970s when she went through her I hate cooking and frankly all of you phase. Actually it was just me that fell under that category. But that's a whole other thousand or so posts to devote to the special mother/daughter relationship we have and I'm kind of sorry I touched on it and peeked your curiosity. And I completely understand why my brother has been a vegetarian most of his life.

So where am I going with this post? I think to sum up: don't shape your hamburger patties to resemble golf balls and fry them up on high even if you are Tiger Woods. Your child will openly blog about it 30 years later.

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