A little privacy please!?

If you're pooped with post-Oscar talk, here's something nobody's talking about: Britney Spears. (That's sarcasm, y'all.)

This is my culture column that appears in The Kingston Whig-Standard every other Monday. It's also online under Opinion Columns.

Chat to you later, skaters.

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Gag me with a baby spoon

Anyone who's ever been barfed on by a baby knows that nothing in the world compares to the stench of the curdled juice.

Not even adult barf smells like baby barf.

Sometimes I try and pretend that Little Man hasn't just released a white glob onto his outfit but after awhile, the stench is too overpowering and I have to put him in a new outfit. Again. For the fourth time that morning.

The other day, I was burping Little Man and I was sure, absolutely sure, that I heard him do a little baby barf. I immediately checked my shoulder. You see, you're supposed to put a blanket on your shoulder so you don't get the goo on you but there's never one around, or I've taken them all downstairs to be washed, or it was one of those instant barfs that come out of nowhere so I didn't ever have the need for the blanket.

No spitup on my shoulder. "Strange," I thought. "I'm sure I heard it."

A few minutes passed. Now I also thought I could smell it.

I looked again.

Nothing on my shoulder.
Nothing down my front.
Nothing on him.
No drippies anywhere.

"This is exhaustion," I thought.
"I'm dreaming that I'm covered in baby barf."

I accepted that I was nutso and went on with my day - but the smell followed me.

It came with me to the laundry room as I washed dirty workout clothes.
It came with me to the bathroom.
It came with me to the nursery to change a diaper.
It came with me to the mailbox.

I was being haunted by the ghost of baby barf.

Until I wised up.

I was wearing this little blue sweatshirt - actually, as the cool kids say, a little blue hoodie.

I took off my sweater and there, inside the hood, was a pool, a pool I tell you, of baby barf. I'd been carrying it around all day with me.

I was like a Kinder Egg. I had a surprise inside.

That was lame. Oh barf.

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Was it a lovefest?

So, it's Sunday night. Almost time to get ready for the new week to begin, which means that your man has run out of time to right his wrong of forgetting to call you on Valentine's Day, send you flowers, take you out for dinner, or surprise you with a little mirrorball hanging above your bed so that your world is full of stars.

To give you hope that there are romantic men out there, I thought I'd share the card the BF got me for Valentine's Day.

"When I met you, I wasn't planning on falling in love. I wasn't planning on feeling so attracted to someone ..."

You know what? This is too hot and heavy. Click on the link below and I'll let you read the rest.

Sorry guys. In the end, I decided the card was too XXX-rated for the blogworld to see. You'll just have to trust me, it got a 10/10. I do suggest however that if you royally screwed up, you make this Wednesday Valentine's Day instead. Can I give you a suggestion? Play James Blunt's Goodbye My Lover and dance with her in the livingroom. She'll love it. I promise.

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Sorry, Mama

Mothers, I am now one of you.
I’m overworked and underappreciated.
But that’s not the worst of it.
Now that I am overworked and underappreciated, I understand how overworked and underappreciated my own mother was for the 23 years I lived under her roof.
So to you, mom, and to all mothers out there, let me say this: I’m sorry for all the times, the hundreds and hundreds of times I didn’t help you.
I’m sorry. Let me count the ways.
(Why does it take having children of your own to realize just how much of a scumbag we are as children, teens and 20-somethings to our parents? I know Little Man is only five and a half months old but I can already feel this bad behaviour coming on …)

1. I’m sorry for always vanishing whenever it snowed and it was time to shovel our driveway. My hardworking father would nicely ask me if I could help out a little. “Sure,” I’d say. And then I’d do everything possible to not have to touch a flake of snow. I’d go look at photographs in our crawlspace. I’d start a conversation with my mother. I’d pretend to do schoolwork – anything to get out of helping my father, who was in his 50s when I last lived at home.

2. I’m sorry for never turning off the lights when I left a room. When I was a teenager, I honestly felt like if I had to reach up and hit the light switch, I’d just die. It would be too much exertion. I’d just die, I tell you.

3. I’m sorry for always leaving my wet towel on the bedroom floor. Hang it in the bathroom on a towel rack? The exertion! Again! It was just asking too much.

4. I’m sorry for all those times I’d get home from school and watch Geraldo, The Young and the Restless and The Ricki Lake Show and then gallingly look at you, mom and dad, as you walked in the door at 6:30 p.m. and ask: What’s for dinner?

5. I’m sorry for always leaving just a dribble of milk in the pitcher so that I didn’t have to change the bag. Exertion. Again.

6. I’m sorry for all those times you made me a nice lunch, even when I was 18 and 19 years old in high school, and I’d pitch it out once I got an offer to go out for lunch and buy a slice of pizza with friends. Waste of money. Waste of time. But it wasn’t my money or time so it never really bothered me.

7. I’m sorry for all those times you asked me to help pick up the hedge clippings as dad was shearing it. I just couldn’t help. It would have been, like, totally embarrassing for someone to see me doing yard work. Can you imagine? Oh my god.

8. I’m sorry for always leaving the table and never, once, offering to load the dishwasher or put away the leftovers.

9. I’m sorry for bringing the car home when it was basically running on empty.
10. I’m sorry for always making you wait up for me. But I was never late, right? You said my curfew was 1 a.m. and I was home, every time, at 12:59 a.m. That’s early! I should have been rewarded, no?

11. I’m sorry for making fun of your veal parmigiana that night you were just trying to make us something new, something different.

12. I’m sorry for all the times I left a room and left the TV on. It’s a lot of work, you know, having to take the remote control and press the OFF button.

13. I’m sorry it took me almost 30 bloody years to say I’m sorry.

Oh lord, this list could go on forever – but I can’t end on number 13 because my mother is superstitious and it would scare her to see a list ending on 13, so one more.

14. I’m sorry for all those times you called me when I was at university because you were missing me and I was too busy on Sunday nights watching The X Files to take your calls.

Love you.

I really do.

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Run, Sarah, Run!

If you had asked me anytime from 1996 to 2004 - the formative years I was a student at Queen's University and a new reporter at The Kingston Whig-Standard - I would have boasted that I loved smoking and I never regretted indulging in my habit.

I smoked off and on from the time I was 14 years old until the time I was 27.

I quit for good about two and a half years ago.

But when I was a smoker, especially when I was in my young 20s, I'd drive past (because I was a smoker I always drove, never walked) people running in their snazzy leggings and running jackets and would always secretly wish that I could run, too.

I would never have said it out loud but I secretly longed to be able to go back to those days in high school when the insecure part of me chose to take up hardcore smoking instead of pursuing team sports that I'd played all my life. Something in me back then thought it would be much cooler to be a party girl than an athlete.

And I never looked back.

Until my 20s when I lived in Kingston.

The thing about Kingston is that there are bloody runners everywhere. Runners around Queen's. Runners downtown. Runners in Portsmouth Village. Runners on Bath Road. Runners. Runners. Runners.

I tried running once when I was a super smoker. The very athletic ex-boyfriend could attest to the fact that I was a sad sack of poo that day just trying to run around the block. He ran behind me, singing Jennifer Lopez songs, trying to propel my fat ass up the hill. By the time I got home, I was wheezing so hard, I thought my lungs were going to implode or explode - basically disintegrate.

I'd decided over the past few years that I could be a nonsmoker but I was never going to be in shape. I could be a skinny size 10 but in shape? Not going to happen.

Then I got pregnant and gave birth.

Once you give birth - yes, it is miraculous - everything else seems unbelievably easy. Run a half marathon, you say? Hah! Bring it on.

I also decided I wanted the best for my baby and that means eating well and exercising so that when he is five, 10, 15 years old, he will also eat well and exercise. I want him to live the fullest, happiest and healthiest life he can.

I started running in the beginning of January with Tracie Smith-Beyak's Learn to Run group. Her company, Body Now 4 Mums, gets new mommies going - and going hard. We run seven or eight kilometres every week together.

And now the big news: Today, without the support of my running mamas, I took to the streets in Kingston's Twosome 5K race. It was the first time I've ever pinned a number to my chest. It's a high.

I had three goals today:

1) Not to come in last place;
2) To run in less than 35 minutes. Two weeks ago, I ran five kilometres in 36 minutes so I was hoping to shave off a minute;
3) To run, not walk once.

I can proudly say, today was a great day in my life - no, not nearly as exciting as giving birth, but nothing will ever top that. With just half a kilometre to go, I picked up the pace and passed a couple of people. I didn't come last.

I ran a good 33-minute race - two minutes less than I was hoping for.

And, I ran the entire thing.

Sure, I got my butt kicked by 99 per cent of the runners but I still did it.

Today, I was not that out-of-shape smoker staring at the runners from my car.

I was (am) a runner.

Next race: The 10-kilometre run in April.

And then maybe the half marathon this fall.

I know many of you don't actually believe I did it: So click here and check out number 123.

It's the new weight-loss-fitness secret no one has ever written about: Have a baby.

(Thanks, Little Man.)

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Would you like a bookmark with that?

There are a few things that terrify me:

Number one is always snakes.
Number two is failure.
Number three is becoming a suburban mommy who wears elastic waist pants with a matching sweatshirt that has pictures of Adirondack chairs painted on it - complete with a dickie underneath. And a perm. We can't forget the perm.
Number four is becoming one of those couples.

I'd rather get divorced (um, if I was actually married) than end up like one of those couples I see every time I go out for dinner. So, if you read this, and you are one of those couples, explain to me why you live like this...

The other night I was out for dinner with my girlfriend. She was late for dinner so I was spying on all the other people at the restaurant. There were only three or four tables of people and not much to look at until I saw them - my fear of my future.

He was a handsome older man. Maybe in his mid-50s. He had a lovely mess of charcoal grey hair and a kind face. He was looking around the restaurant, too. He seemed very inquisitive, very interested in his surroundings. Every few seconds, he'd look across the table to his wife, look at her kindly, and then start looking around the restaurant again.

The wife.
She's another story.
She looked older than her husband and it was harder to get a really good look at her - because she was reading at the dinnertable. Five minutes, 10 minutes passed and the whole time her nose was in her book.
The server came and asked if the couple wanted tea or coffee.
They did. The server left and returned with two teapots.
"Surely," I thought, "she's going to put her book down and talk with her husband."
The woman looked at her steeping tea, poured a little into her cup, sipped it, and went back to her book, leaving her husband to stare into his drink and then start looking around the room again.

Why?
Why bother going for dinner - getting dressed, leaving the house, using the gas in your car, going over a menu, eating a taco salad, or a filet mignon, or blackened salmon, and paying a bill plus the tip - if you're not actually going to converse the entire time?

Every time I've ever gone out for dinner I've seen one of these couples. The man looks left. The woman looks right. The man stares into his French onion soup. The woman spins her wedding ring around her finger. The man talks nonstop on his cell. The woman picks at her manicured nails, scraping off the last few flecks of Candy Apple red polish. The man pushes rice around his plate. The woman picks something out of her teeth. And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes.

I'm terrified of becoming one of these couples. I assume their relationship, their partnership, their marriage, has totally broken down and now they're just going through the motions of happiness.

I've watched many couples sit, sip and dine in silence but watching someone read a book during a dinner out was a new one for me.

Riddle me this: Is it better to dine alone or dine with a reader?

Oooh I know! Neither of the above. Find someone who wants to share creme brulee topped with ripe raspberries with you. And talk to you.

Wow. Talk about a hot concept: Dinner conversation.

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Crosbiemania in The Vancouver Sun

It has been years, years I tell you, since I connected with someone instantly.
The last gal I really fell for was a sweet little blonde thing, very pixie like, named Amy.

Amy and I instantly bonded.

I knew I liked her, and we'd be BFF, when she told me she'd just farted - just a day or two after meeting her.

Well, that was five years ago.

Today, she's a reporter, music reviewer and columnist at The Vancouver Sun.

She's a talent, I tell you. Someone give the girl a National Newspaper Award already, would ya?

Anyway. This week, on Tuesday, she wrote about blogging (and me) in her column, Match Point.

Here you go.


Headline: Humour, writing blogger's gift to all
Section: Arts & Life
Byline: Amy O'Brian


There was a time when bloggers baffled me. Not that I gave them much thought or felt compelled to either like or dislike them.

It was just that I didn't know any personally -- at least, none that I was aware of -- and I was a little confused by those who felt the need to post their venomous rants or details of their daily activities on a website for the world to see.

So it was with significant curiosity that I first ventured to my friend Sarah's blog. We'd been doing some sporadic

e-mailing while she was pregnant last summer, but after she had the baby and I asked for photos, she directed me to www.sarahcrosbie.com.

I was initially slightly offended because I wanted to think I was special enough to warrant a specially e-mailed photo.

But once I discovered her blog, I became hooked. I checked for updates almost everyday, feeling weirdly guilty, as if I was cyber-spying on her, even though she'd put all these rather intimate details of her life out there for the world to see.

I never bothered asking her why she did it. Before going on maternity leave, she had a weekly column in the Kingston Whig-Standard, where she wrote about the BF (boyfriend), wrote about her pregnancy, and shared light stories about love and life's annoyances with her readers.

But then, last week, I saw an article about a new book by University of Calgary Prof. Michael Keren, who argues that bloggers live in an isolated, lonely and mostly make-believe world filled with superficial relationships.

The not-so-positive assertion prompted me to finally insist on a live phone conversation with Sarah, rather than e-mails and blog updates. I was curious to see whether she agrees with the good professor.

"This is why I do it. This is the honest answer," she said in her ever-coy voice from her home in Kingston.

"Because there are people who can do great things in the world, like my mother, who's a genius teacher, or doctors who can save people. Other than being really good at being in love and baking a great banana bread, I don't have a lot of talent.

"But I think I'm sort of funny and I think I can write fairly well and so that's kind of my thing that I can do and give to people. Even though I get accused of being egotistical or full of myself or I just want to see my name in print, I actually think maybe there's a couple people who it makes them laugh, it makes them smile."

There are more than just a couple of people reading Sarah's blog. According to blog-tracking website Technorati, hers is about the 2. 6 millionth most popular of the approximately 55 million blogs out there. Pretty impressive.

But Sarah modestly says it doesn't matter how many people read her blog, as long as it brightens the day of one person.

One of her favourite e-mails was from a woman who wrote to thank her for making her transition to Kingston a little easier.

"She sent me an e-mail saying, 'This is going to sound quite silly, but I just wanted to thank you for your writing because you made me feel a little less lonely in Kingston because your life always seemed a little bit crazier a little bit more outrageous than mine.' "

She gets plenty of nasty comments too, but deletes most of them -- only posting the more moderate ones that she can respond to.

"I don't know if they hate me, but they dislike me strongly.

"Some of them are so ridiculously snotty and mean and depressing that I just delete them because I don't think it's doing anyone any good to put them out there. The misery on blogs just fuels more misery."

Luckily for Sarah, the interactions she has with her readers do not form the foundation of her social life. She writes when her boyfriend is at work and her baby is asleep, knowing that she has plenty of meaningful relationships outside of her blog.

But for those who don't -- for those who use a blog as a means to connect with others, why not? Why judge them when all any of us want is to be heard?

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Duh. We dumb.

There's not a tremendous amount to do when breastfeeding.

Sure, I just ate a grilled cheese sandwich overtop of Little Man but I also dropped salsa on his forehead as I was trying to stuff the cheese into my mouth.

(Love grilled cheese? Try salsa instead of ketchup on it. Just call me Rachael Ray.)

So, while I'm breastfeeding I watch an awful lot of TV. An awful lot. A lot. Lots. I can just sit there and let him suck while I zone out. Sometimes I feel like the boob tube is sucking my brains out but this week was a new low. A very new low, I tell you.

Scenario No. 1:

Every morning on Live with Regis and Kelly, they have a trivia game and if the home viewer guesses the answer correctly then she wins a trip somewhere fabulous like Jamaica. One day recently, Reg and Kel, asked a viewer: "Recently Dylan McDermott was in Canada, in Regina, filming a movie. In what province is Regina?"

The viewer was dumbfounded. Even though you have enough time to punch in "Regina" into Google, she took a random guess and said Quebec.

Um, OK.

Scenario No. 2:

Just because you're a bazillionaire doesn't mean you really know how to live. Last week on Dr. Phil, men were proclaiming their love for fat women. Apparently it has something to do with the waddle.

(Where were all these men when I was a chunky monkey a few years ago?)

One man gave Dr. Phil a list of all the things his wife liked to eat and drink. Dr. Phil started listing them off: Dark chocolate, chocolate-covered strawberries, caramel mehchetto.

"I don't even know what that is!" he said.
"What's a meh-chett-o?"

The guest looked at him in surprise and said, "Uh, it's a drink. It's a caramel macch-i-a-to."

Dr. Phil has never had a Starbucks Caramel Macchiato?
Oh the shame.

Still, it would have been funny if he'd ever tried to order the drink.
"Hi. I'm Dr. Phil. I'd like to order a caramel machete."

Scenario No. 3:

I'm not going to lie: I watch America's Next Top Model. I love when Tyra Banks gets all preachy at the end of the show, and in her whisper voice says, "Sarah, you're a fine young woman. But we see you struggling and girl, you've got to raise the bar. It's not enough to be pretty. You've got to have drive and recently, your drive has been waning. But we know you can do it. Congratulations. You're one step closer to becoming America's Next Top Model."

This week, I'd like to give Tyra the boot.

Recently, all the mags published unflattering photos of the former supermodel.

Well, the supermodel threw a tantrum and did an exclusive interview with People magazine saying that yes, she's bigger, and yes, she's 161 pounds, but she's not fat.

Then, she went on her own show, in the same one-piece bathing suit that caused all the ruckus in the first place to defend her honour. Tyra took it upon herself to stand up for every single rootin' tootin' girl in the whole wide world who's ever been made fun of because of her weight.

Then she cried.

And then she told all those big bad meanies they can "kiss her fat ass."

Oh, Tyra. Shut up.

Tyra is a multi-millionaire supermodel, who's done shows in fat suits to really understand what being fat is all about. Unless you've spent months or years staring at your stretch marks, sucking in your stomach, never knowing whether your jeans are going to do up or not, and asking your mother: "Do I look fat?" you don't get a say.

This is a woman who made her money as a MODEL, the profession that drives our young girls into eating disorders. You don't think that girls looked at her picture on the cover of Sports Illustrated - her flat stomach, her long legs, her huge perfect titties, and went on a diet?

You can bet your bottom dollar that Tyra - who has featured girls on America's Next Top Model who gain weight and then get their paunch pointed out TV - has caused girls to diet, throw up, exercise compulsively, take laxatives, eat SlimFast bars before they're even in high school and go to diet centres.

If Tyra was really a strong woman who wanted to fight the discrimination large women face every day, she wouldn't have America's Next Top Model. Instead she'd fund a show called:

America's Next Top Doctor
America's Next Top Teacher
America's Next Top College Student
America's Next Top Volunteer

I'll admit it. I've watched the show so I'm part of the problem. But I often tell the teenager who watches the show with me that the girls are too skinny and boys like girls with some curves. Besides, girls with a little booty and some boobies look better in dresses. It's true. I've got pictures to prove it.

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