All you needs are logs; Logs are all you need

My husband and I aren't big on celebrating the Hallmark celebrations imposed on us. The worst one is Valentine's Day. I honestly think it's a Get Out Of Jail Free Card for men who behave badly.
Husbands, boyfriends and partners can act like schmucks 364 days of the year and then, on one dreary day in February, boom! All of a sudden, they're Enrique Iglesias: "I can be your hero baby. I can kiss away the pain. I will stand by you forever. You can take my breath away."
Oh barf.
You see, a real man is someone who deals with the real crap of life.
The shit.
The dirt.
The logs.

It's Friday night, the day before Valentine's Day, and my husband is tired from a long day at work. And I'm pooped from being laid off. (Being laid off is tiring, but that's another whole post.) My husband is downstairs on the couch snoozing and I'm upstairs in our bathroom giving our two-and-a-half year old son a bath.

We're playing with his fishies and fishing rod, his Little People boat and he's having a blast blowing bubbles in the water and splashing me. I'm wet so I turn to get a towel when I notice there's a magazine on top of our toilet tank. The magazine is promoting a contest to win a trip to Texas. This looks interesting ....

I swear I looked away for two seconds. Three seconds tops.

"Mommy!" my son yells.

"There's dog poo in the bath!"

I turn to look at my son and he is holding – I'm gagging just writing this – a log of poop in each hand.

"Look! Dog poo!" he squeals.

For a split second, I'm horrified. How did dog poo get in my ..... oh nooooooo.

For the first time in two and a half years - the first time in his life - my son has gone to the bathroom in the bath tub.

And now, he's holding it. Scrutinizing it. Studying it. Squishing it. (Insert more gagging here...)

"Oh my god!" I scream, which has its intended effect. My husband comes running up the stairs.

"Look, daddy! Dog poo!"

My husband shakes the logs out of my sons hands while I head out of the room. It's leave the room or throw up.

My son stands wrapped in a towel cutely trying to explain to both of us how the doggie doos came to be while my husband, god bless his soul and god help me I hope he really scrubbed his hands, picks up all the bits from the bathtub. He then scrubs the tub. Sanitizes it. Scrubs it again. Sanitizes it. And rinses it all away – while I stand with my son and run dirty towels and bathmats down to the washing machine.

Would I have done the cleaning if I had been home alone at the time? Absolutely. But, without complaining or asking for help, my husband took on the "jobs."

Now that's a gift.

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Next Valentine's, let my husband write you a card

My husband and I don't really do Valentine's Day. I think it's a day created for all men to make up for the other 364 days of the year they've been forgetful, unappreciative, "Women-are-like-shopping. I-can-go-window-shopping, I-just-can't-touch-or-buy" dinks.

My husband and I do, however, give each other a card.

Here's what he wrote: (Short but sweet and true and real)

"Feb. 14, 2009: I don't need anything for Valentine's Day as long as you're near."

I guess I could have done better than: "You're, like, totally hot and smart and stuff."

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How he proposed and 99 other Sarah secrets

On the right-hand side of this page, there's a little button called 100 Hot Things to Know about Sarah Crosbie. It's pretty old. Item No. 100: "I think the baby is a boy. My husband thinks it's a girl." Well, I now have a two-and-a-half year old – who likes to ask questions, many questions like: "Mommy, what are nipples? Do you have nipples? Does daddy have nipples?" – which shows how outdated that list is. (And, yes, I did have a boy. Ha.) Some of the items still hold very true though:

31. "I love pineapple on pizza."
82. "I love my knee-high black leather boots. I wear them every day in the fall and winter."

For 2009, here is a new 100 list:


1. First thing I read Saturday morning: Corey Mintz's restaurant review in the Toronto Star's Living section. We once had a little chat on his blog. I tried to compliment him. He took it as a criticism, I think. So, we didn't end up pals. I still read it.
2. Ran my first half marathon in Picton in October 2008. Everyone should do a half there. It's beautiful. It took me 2:21.
3. My husband and I have committed to running the half in Ottawa in May. In October I could run 21 kilometres. Now I'm back to the five-k. Need to pick it up starting this week.
4. Love Dexter.
5. Love actor Michael C. Hall who plays Dexter.
6. Love Jennifer Carpenter, who plays Dexter's sister on the show.
7. Find it creepy Hall and Carpenter are married now.
8. It's insane Hall has never won a major acting award (like a Golden Globe) for his Dexter work – and yet Boston Legal and William Shatner have? Houston, we have a problem.
9. Speaking of marriage, I got married in 2007. The BF is now The Husband.
10. No, I didn't change my name. (So on Facebook, I look like I'm still single; I refuse to fill in details like "Married. Looking for friendship." I think that's weird.)
11. Not sure why any woman still changes her name. It's 2009.
12. Speaking of Facebook, I just joined last week. I've been holding out, but now that I have more free time on my hands (keep reading to find out why), I decided to give it a try.
13. Thanks to more free time, I just finished a Canadian novel called A Week of This by Nathan Whitlock. I've been reading it since April. I used to work so much that by the time I crawled into bed at midnight, I'd read one page and then pass out.
14. Watched Oprah for a few minutes a few weeks ago. Will Smith said something I really like and am trying to live by: "I'm tired of wasting my time. I'm tired of other people wasting my time." (I added it to my Facebook profile.)
15. Though I should read more books, I'm about to renew my subscription to Canadian Living. No, it's not the hippest magazine, but damn, they have good recipes. How do you think I learned to make chicken paprikash and spinach strata?
16. Got married at Planet Hollywood in Las Vegas. Best idea ever. No planning. One fax to confirm our reservation, one e-mail to confirm what colour I wanted my bouquet to be and it was done. Seriously.
17. Our wedding dinner took place at Spice Market Buffet at Planet Hollywood. I had nachos with guacamole and chocolate covered strawberries for my wedding meal. It's always ranked the No. 1 buffet on The Strip. Best wedding meal ever.
18. Have a worm-like scar on my left knee from having cyst removed when I was five years old at Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto. That scar made me a little bit of who I am since kids used to make fun of it when I was little. It gave me some inner strength. This one was in the first list, but I like it so it's here, too.
19. I always buy a Lotto 649 ticket if the jackpot is over $10 million. Ten million is OK. Nine million? Oh, so not worth my time.
20. Love going out to Kingston's best restaurants: Grecos, Aqua Terra, Curry Original. And don't forget about our city's best-kept secret: Amadeus Cafe.
21. 98% of the time I'll order fish when I'm out. The other 2%? Filet mignon, done medium rare.
22. Appetizer always has to be escargot.
23. I originally wanted Hillary Clinton to be the president of the United States because I wanted a woman to win, but Barack Obama's charisma, love for his family and wife, and strength during crisis won me over.
24. Obama did a really interesting interview in Men's Health a couple of issues ago, where he said he works out five days a week and was sometimes criticized for it on the campaign trail, since people thought that time could be better used – which is insane. I'm tired of people, bosses, coworkers, anyone, really, thinking you're only good at your job if your butt is glued to your desk. People who are healthy, who have a life, who are interesting, who get out and do stuff (anything!) are more interesting and, therefore, better employees.
25. Someday I'm going to be a boss and I'm only going to hire interesting people; Interesting people who go to The Screening Room at least a couple of times a year.
26. The Screening Room, along with Amadeus Cafe, is one of Kingston's best-kept secrets. Instead of going to see Marley & Me (does the world really need more Jennifer Aniston?) go to The Screening Room, pick one of the two movies screening there and sit through an independent, foreign, possibly subtitled film. You may not love it, but it will be better than Marley & Me. Or Mall Cop, which is the No. 1 movie in the country. We're in a recession and people have money to go see Mall Cop? Help us, help us now.
27. I was laid off from The Whig-Standard on Dec. 16, 2008.
28. I still read The Whig-Standard.
29. I exercise with a rockin' local company, Body Now 4 Mums and Kids. (See bikini pic in Flickr photos. A few years ago, I never would have done that.
30. My two-year-old son can skate as well as I can.
31. When I was 12, the big thing to do was to go public skating. There were two songs that looped over and over again all night long: Aerosmith's Janie's Got a Gun and Love in an Elevator. I still can't listen to those songs.
32. Just heard a great old song at the grocery store this morning: Back To Life by Soul II Soul. I was buying my bran buds and dancing.
33. One of my old Whig columns was turned into a cartoon by illustrator Ron Lindsay and published in the Ottawa Citizen. I wrote about my son wanting a bucket load of hockey gear.
34. Because I used to be a little bit chunky (fat) I'm addicted to watching The Biggest Loser, even though I know it's absurd to lose 32 pounds in one week.
35. Last time I was at home visiting my parents, my mother showed my son a picture of me taken about eight years ago, when I was at my heaviest (about 50 pounds more than now). "Who is that?" my mother asked my son. "I don't know," he said. He didn't recognize me! (I carried a lot of it in my face.)
36. That being said, coworkers used to tell me: "But you have such a pretty face, Sarah!" Ah, thanks. So my butt? Nasty? Thighs? Make me wanna barf. Arms? Swinging in the wind. But my face looks nice.
37. I once auditioned for a hair commercial in Toronto.
38. Seeing as I am not in magazines, I obviously didn't get the gig.
39. I once auditioned for a TV show in Montreal, Guy Stuff with John Moore.
40. Seeing as I had to watch myself on reruns on Global the other day while working out at the gym, I obviously got the gig.
41. I also got the gig when I was seven months pregnant, so, no, my breasts do not look like that in real life. Sorry guys.
42. My son calls the two moles I have on my face "meatballs." No idea where that came from.
43. He also calls zits the same thing.
44. I just finished reading a piece in The Globe and Mail about what Barack Obama needs to get done in his first 100 days in office. One of his friends said one problem with Obama is he doesn't necessary succeed instantly. He needs time to get his feet wet, assess the situation and get a groove before he's rockin' it. I'm the same way. I need to get warmed up before I can really dig in. Then I'm OK, but at first, I'm quite shy.
45. I was once Tasered by Kingston Police. True story. (For a Whig story, but still true.)
46. I look back on that story now and am mortified at its cheesiness, but you live and learn and become a better writer.
47. I think I like the new U2 song Get On Your Boots that was released today, though at first I thought Bono's voice sounded thin.
48. I laughed really hard in the SNL skit when Tina Fey (Sarah Palin) says she met Bono, The King of Ireland.
49. I saw U2 in concert in Toronto when I was 16.
50. But even better, I saw Depeche Mode in Toronto.
51. My first CD ever was Depeche Mode.
52. My first cassette tape was Fleetwood Mac.
53. No, I still don't own my own iPod. I borrow my husband's all the time though and make him put pop songs on it for my running music. It Takes Two by Rob Bass and DJ EZ Rock is a fave.
54. Jet is also good, though, I admit.
55. Queen is also good for running.
56. You know what's not good? Trying to run and seeing yourself on TV on Guy Stuff With John Moore with massive pregnancy boobs. It's distracting.
57. My combo for my lock from grades 7 to OAC: 57, 31, 9.
58. Can I remember any of the combos for locks we have now? No. But I can remember one that I haven't used in 13 years.
59. My husband's blog is Cancrime.com. No, it has nothing to do with a sexy daddy living his life under the stars. It's about crime. It's really good. We're like Best Buy and Future Shop. We compete but we're related. *Currently, I have more readers. But he has better legs, so we're equal, I guess.
60. I've been to the K-Rock Centre probably more times than most people. Let's count: The Wiggles, The Hip, Avril Lavigne, Sesame Street, Thomas The Train, two Kingston Frontenacs games.
61. I always get the nachos with the orange glue cheese when I go. It's a treat.
62. OK, I also get a soft pretzel.
63. And a Diet Coke. Don't judge me.
64. I love PerezHilton. Yes, I know it's crap, but I'm a former entertainment reporter and editor. I needed to be up on my crap.
65. I also like TMZ. Don't judge me.
66. I got my start at The Queen's Journal in 1999. Ten years later? Laid off. Hmmm. That's not exactly how I thought the decade would end. Let's check back with me in 2010 - or 2009 1/2. Give me a few months.
67. I recently saw one of my ex-boyfriends at a Starbucks parking lot and, I'm not sure why, I hid by slouching down in my seat until he drove away.
68. Maybe it was because I had bedhead and no makeup on. Just saying.
69. Want a REALLY good Thai meal? Try Pat's Restaurant on Division Street in Kingston, just before the 401 exit in Kingston. He was open, god bless him, on New Year's Day. I didn't want to go out for New Year's Eve, but I didn't want to have to cook on the first day of the New Year. His pork dish with spring rolls was delicious. My son loved it too. No, it's not downtown, but the food is great.
70. My car once broke down on Highway 401 near Toronto. For an hour, no one would stop to help me and I didn't have a cellphone. (This was in 2000, before everyone, including six year olds had them.) Finally, a nice guy who said he was from Port Perry, Ont., stopped and let me use his phone. An hour later, on his way back from wherever he had gone, he brought me muffins and bottled water while I waited for a tow truck. Thank you. Seriously. I lost some faith in humanity that day until that guy showed up. (One tow truck driver would only let me use his phone if I gave him my service, even though I was covered under CAA.)
71. You know who else is from Port Perry? Jayde Nicole, the Playboy Playmate of the Year. Who, btw, is dating reality TV star Brody Jenner.
72. I love Harveys because they have veggie burgers and now whole wheat buns.
73. I once flew to Europe to meet a boy. Didn't really tell my parents about that one.
74. Hi, Scott. Sarah :)
75. Have a fear of the dentist because years ago (not in Kingston) I had my wisdom teeth out and I'm not kidding, it hurt more than child birth. Seriously. Even though people always say: "I had my wisdom teeth out and then I ran a marathon the next day, got married and flew to Hawaii on my honeymoon. It didn't hurt a single bit." Good for you. Liar. (Sorry, my mom hates that word.) Fibber.
76. As kids when we were little we weren't allowed to say "liar" – nor were we allowed to go to movies on Sundays but that's another story – so we used to say Fibber Magee and Molly. Who are Magee and Molly?
77. We also used to say "Lord love a duck." Don't know where the duck came from, either.
78. I have asthma.
79. I smoked for 10 years.
80. I'm dumb.
81. In my first 100 list, I said I wanted bubbles at my wedding. I didn't get them. I did however get a mirror ball in my bouquet.
82. My husband proposed in our house. With a mirror ball. (I've never told anyone that before.) (And after a dinner at Amadeus.)
83. For a treat, I like extra hot, low-fat, decaf lattes.
84. Since I'm laid off and all, I might start going to the theatre by myself to see potential Oscar nominees. (They have nachos there, too).
85. Speaking of fun, I recently went to Chuck E. Cheese. I really had a good time.
86. My son went up in a tunnel there to poop. We're working on potty training. He likes to have "privacy." Seriously. But then, again, don't we all?
87. I don't get the Jonas Brothers.
88. I don't get Taylor Swift.
89. I like Duffy.
90. I cried in Dr. Seuss's Horton Hears a Who on the weekend. (I'm a little sensitive these days when it comes to themes like fitting in and having a place you're meant to be.)
91. I have four people I'm deciding whether I should be friends with on Facebook. It's not that I don't like them - it's just complicated, is all.
92. I love the doctors and nurses at the Hotel Dieu Children Outpatient Clinic. Twice I've taken my son there and both times they've been fabulous. (Thank you!)
93. My son is interested in nipples. You can thank his stepbrother and sister for that one.
94. My son can sing the words to Britney Spears' Womanizer. It's wrong, I know, but it's sooo cute.
95. I know all the words to the Wonder Pets: "The phone. The phone is ringing. The phone? We'll be right there. The phone. The phone is ringing. There's an animal in trouble."
91. Backyardigans is also catchy.
92. I think I'm the only person in Kingston who thought the Avril Lavigne concert was Horrible with a capital H.
93. I scored one of the first ever Canadian print interviews with Avril. It was the time she talked about Napanee's La Pizzeria, which became a staple in interviews over the past few years.
94. I once had dinner with Avril Lavigne's mother in Amherstview at Nostalgia Station, the restaurant Ryan Malcolm's family owned and ran.
95. I love Oreo blizzards. I might go get one.
96. I voted for Peter Milliken in the last federal election. I know the Greens and NDP can't win without votes, but Conservative Brian Abrams was good and I couldn't risk having a Conservative MP in Kingston.
97. I once planted a flower basket with Kingston Mayor Harvey Rosen.
98. I can do 15 pushups on my toes. (That's down from 25 last year.)
99. My husband thinks I'm colour blind.
100. I'm not.

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A different kind of threesome

In England, the word "brilliant" has a different meaning than here. If Canadians say Dexter is a brilliant show, we mean it's smart. If we say, "that Sarah Crosbie is quite brilliant" we mean I'm smart and stuff. But in England, if someone says "that show is brilliant," it means wonderful, fabulous, perfect.
I have a "brilliant" British friend who I've known since we did a band exchange (no, not like band camp) when we were in high school. (Little known fact: I played the oboe for five years.) She recently sent me an e-mail about what's going on in her life. I read it quickly and was happy to know she was doing well and 2009 was going to be the year of her life when she found herself a nice man.
Then, two days later, I reread the e-mail. We only communicate a few times each year, so I read it again to see if I had missed anything. It's funny how your eyes skim over something and don't get the real meaning.
I thought she said: She was going to find a man. But that's not what she said at all.
What she actually said was: "My new years resolution for 2009 is for a man to find me ( i have written that correctly, as i have no time or interest in speed dating, internet dating etc...)."
I realized in my 31 years that I've never heard a woman say that before. It's always "I'm gonna find me a man!" But anything is possible – maybe more men will start declaring, "I'm gonna find me a nice woman!" (And actually mean it.) Anything seems to be possible these days. After all, America elected a black (and scrumptious) president, Mr. Barack Obama, Mickey Rourke has made a comeback*, and despite the fact that American Idol continues to produce super flops (Taylor Hicks, Katherine McPhee, Rueben Studdard, Fantasia Barrino) while voted-out losers like Chris Daughtry and Jennifer Hudson score big-time, a new season of the show debuts tonight.
Of course, not all women are ready to hurry up and wait. Sometimes women have to take it into their own hands and I admire the gusto of three local ladies who are doing it together. Yes, we girls like to go to the bathroom together. Now, we're banding together to find love together: "Attention gentlemen: Are you footloose and fancy free? Three professional, single women, EACH wanting a kind, considerate, single, unattached male between the ages of 55-75 years for companionship, travel and to share life's adventures. Please send a note with your age and phone number."
The ladies placed the ad in Kingston's daily newspaper, The Whig-Standard.
Note, too, that all they want is someone between the ages of 55 and 75. It's not like when men place ads that say, "Seventy five year old gentleman seeking lady, 24 to 27, with blonde hair, svelte figure, high income, love of nature, fishing, Alaska, beer, bacon burgers who is happy, loving, perfect, kind, and smokin' hot."
What do you think? Should women sit back and let the men find them, or should women be proactive and go get 'em. Half empty or half full? Desperate or keen? Pathetic or driven? I say you go after what you want, or do what feels right for you so you'll never have regrets.
One last thing: You're never too old to get hitched. And that's brilliant.


*Looking for a hot night with your lady/man? Rent 1986's 9 1/2 Weeks with Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger. It's a hot movie, but not one that you have to go through saloon-style doors into a creepy back room to rent. Know what I mean? ...

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Nothing says Happy Anniversary like Chicken Paprikash

December 21st (or is it the 23rd?) was my one-year wedding anniversary.
We got hitched at Planet Hollywood in Las Vegas last year with some of our family, but not everyone could make the trip, so we decided this year to do it up and invite some of our friends and family we would have liked to have at our wedding.
Now, logically, a good place to hold a party would be our home.
Yeah, um, there's a problem with that. You see, I hate cleaning and my husband does most of it (I kid you not, and no, you may not have him.) But what always ends up happening is that the night before the party, I'm up until 3 a.m. madly scrubbing, throwing things in closets and blowing dust bunnies back under the couch so that it seems like I'm helping. And then I'd have to bake and make snacky snacks ... and then it would be more work than fun.
So, we decided to rent a room and throw a little party at a restaurant.
Where to go? We have so many favourites in Kingston, but then I had an "A ha!" moment: Amadeus Cafe on Princess Street.
It always shocks me when my husband and I talk about Amadeus (also known by some as the Schnitzel Haus) and someone will say they've never tried it.
It is one of Kingston's best kept little secrets, I think.
We asked for their back private room and I selected a menu of three entrees for our 25 guests: chicken paprikash, cabbage rolls and, for the youngins, a cheese quesadilla. (Though many people, including my mother, chose the quesadilla and it looked incredible.)
Our little back room was decorated by the restaurant in garland covered in twinkling white lights and our stockings were hung with care. (OK, jackets were hung with care. Twas the night before the night before Christmas you know, when I was writing this.)
The food was divine. Everyone loved the chicken paprikash - "I didn't think I was going to like it, but I loved it!" proclaimed one diner (my dad).
And the drinks were delicious and good on the budget for anyone who's trying to save some money in these trying times. (A frothy hot chocolate piled with whip cream is just $2.95 and a Coors Light $3.50. How about a glass of Shiraz for just $5.25? The same glass of wine would run you $8 in other local restaurants).
Our little soiree ended with everyone sharing homemade crepes stuffed with peaches and accented with whip cream. (Can you ever have too much whip? Well, maybe. See my previous post about my S&M Christmas outfit.)
Amadeus is a sweet little restaurant where my husband and I shared one of our most romantic meals when we were just lovebirds dating. And now that I have this wonderful anniversary dinner to remember, I'll get it in my brain that my wedding anniversary is the 21st and not the 23rd. (Truly, I swear I'm the girl and my husband's the guy, even though he's the one who cleans and always remembers the date).
Thinking of booking a little do? Crosbiemania gives Amadeus four stars. Call Brian there. He'll take good care of you.
And do try the chicken paprikash. It's warm, soft and red – just like love.

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A Little Man's love for Ga-ma

After I gave birth to my son, mothers of sons all told me the same thing: There's a special bond that exists between mothers and sons; a special kind of love.
What no one said, was that my 21-month-old son would be willing to kick me to curb with his size-5 Velcro runners, if it meant he got to be with grandma, or as he calls her "Ga-ma."
It all started when he was three months old. The Husband and I decided to go away for one night, but one night, when you have a baby, feels like a million nights. As a mother, you so desperately want a break, and then once you're gone for half an hour, you want your baby back.
After our 24-hour rendezvous, we returned to my parents' house the next morning to pick up our son and take him home. I expected him to smile and reach out to me. Yes, I realize he was only three months old, but I was his existence. Or, I had been until that trip away. He clung to my mother, ignoring the fact we'd come to get him. That was the night she cleverly planted the idea, I'm sure, that he could come live with her. And live happily ever after.
My parents live a couple hours away, so when we go for visits, we often stay the whole weekend. The second we get in the house, my mother whisks away her grandson. First, she shows him all the new clothes she's bought him. Then, she shows him the toys. Sometimes it's just a ball or two. Sometimes it's a dump truck, a bubble lawnmower, sandbox shovels, a Backyardigans colouring book and a play fireman's hat.
Next, my mom takes her grandson up to the kitchen to show him all the food she's made him: There are his favourite homemade bran muffins, his favourite chicken noodle soup and his favourite coo-coos (cookies). Plus, she's made him Jello. And bought him a new sippy cup for his milk. And did we see the new magnetic letters on the fridge she bought him, too? (He'll sit with her for half an hour and sing the alphabet while lining up the orange, purple and yellow letters, but here, at home, he'll use them only as hockey pucks.)
Sometimes it breaks my heart when we're all together and I need some mother-son time and I'll ask him to come hug me.
"No!" he'll bark.
"Ga-ma!"
"Sweetie," I'll say, tenderly.
"Who's the one who carried you for nine months, gave birth to you, breastfed you at 1, 3, 5, 7 in the morning? For a year? Who takes you to daycare every morning? Who gets up with you every morning at 6 a.m.? Who loves you the most?"
He'll pause and look at me and smile. Then, he'll tentatively take a step toward me and –
"Ga-ma!" he'll shriek with joy.
While I feign being distraught (OK, I actually do get upset) I love that he loves her so much, but it also breaks my heart.
Last weekend, my parents came for a quick visit on Sunday afternoon. They used to like visiting me. Now they come to see their grandson.
"Oh, hi," my mother will say, as she bolts through the door, shoving me aside, her eyes darting around the house searching for her grandson.
In the few hours my parents were here, grandson and Ga-ma picked rhubarb out of the garden together; watched MVP: Most Valuable Primate, the greatest movie ever made for a toddler; a story about a hockey-playing monkey!; ate crackers and hummus and read his new Thomas book. Then, it was time for his afternoon nap. When he woke up two hours later, Ga-ma was gone.
"Ga-ma!" my son called in his sweet sing-song voice.
"Ga-ma! Ga-ma?"
But Ga-ma was gone, back to her home, two hours away.
Lucky are you, the grandparents who live in the same city as your grandchildren.
There's a special bond that exists between mothers and sons; a special kind of love.
But the love between a Ga-ma and her boy? It's true love.

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Sex and the City and refried beans

I remember five years ago when my best friend popped by my apartment for a visit.
I’ve always been messy – (but it’s an organized mess) and I never know where anything is (I would, my husband and my mother tell me, if I’d just put things back in their proper place) - but I’d sunk to a new low.
I’d become a prisoner on my own couch. In a semicircle surrounding me were 10, 15, maybe 20 cans of opened refried beans with a fork stuck in them. Yes, I’d been eating the beans out of the cans. I’d washed the beans back with a case or two of Diet Coke. I’d eaten myself into a corner.
“Oh, Sarah,” my friend said, surprised, shocked, saddened at what my life had become.
A few weeks earlier, my live-in boyfriend had left our “love nest” and me. About half a day later he had a new girlfriend. The one-two punch gutted me. The days that followed were about survival. Wake up. Shower. Go to work. Come home from work. Cry. Eat dinner. (The only thing I could eat that didn’t make me throw up was refried beans and Diet Coke.) Cry. Go to sleep.
My friend lovingly scolded me and told me it was time to pick myself up and get outside and do something.
“Yes!” I told her.
“I’m going to go do something!”
After she left my home, I had an epiphany: I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.
I lost myself in that relationship. I did what too many girls do: I made myself all about my relationship and I’d become one-dimensional.
I did really need something to do – but what? When I wasn’t working, I’d been a girlfriend and now that I wasn’t a girlfriend, I had nothing to do when I wasn’t working.
I stood on my apartment balcony and looked out at Kingston. The sky was licorice black that night and the stars were sparkling. And in that night sky, I saw it. I saw a sign. It was a sign from the heavens.
OK, it was actually a sign from Blockbuster.
I lived just a few steps from the downtown video store on Queen Street. It was there I found something to pick myself up. It was there I found four new friends. It was there I found Sex and the City on DVD.
I didn’t get HBO so I’d only seen bits and pieces of the cable show when I was visiting my parents’ house but every time I turned it on there, one of the show’s star’s breasts were on display and I didn’t want my parents to think I was into porn, so I always quickly turned the show off.
Here, in the comfort of my own pigsty, I could watch the sordid adventures/affairs of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte without feeling guilty. In fact, I could watch the episodes over and over and over again.
Soon, my routine changed. For the better. Wake up. Shower. Go to work. Come home from work. Watch Sex and the City. Eat dinner. (I started buying my dinners at Blockbuster when I picked up the DVDs – convenient or what? – so I was now on to nacho chips and the bright orange plastic cheese nacho cheese dip and Diet Coke.) Watch Sex and the City. Go to sleep.
Truly, I credit the show for pulling me out of my slump.
These four friends did cool things: Charlotte hung out in art galleries. Miranda ran a marathon. Samantha did yoga. Carrie wrote newspaper columns – for a living.
Like millions of women, I’m dying to reunite with my girls now that Sex and the City: The Movie is in theatres.
Carrie and company always celebrated with Cosmopolitans.
I’ll have a Diet Coke and maybe some nachos.
For old times’ sake.

(This column appeared in the May 31 edition of The Ticket, inside The Kingston Whig-Standard)

And here is the rest of it.

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I now pronounce you ... who?

It's a wonderful thing to be a teenager and a 20-something and know everything.

I vowed as a young girl that I would never, ever have a baby. I was a career woman.

My mother would tell me that one day, when I was older, when I met the right man, I would change my mind.

"Never!" I swore.

Well, OK, she won that one. I do have a babe now. I think it's a good way to tell if you're with the right man or not. If you meet him and instantly want his baby, it's a good sign. I have lots of girlfriends who said they weren't sure they could call their honeys their soulmates, or they weren't sure they wanted to marry them, but they were sure, 100 per cent, that they wanted these men to father their children.

But now comes yet another dilemma that one reaches when you're 30 and engaged.

To change your name or not to change your name. That is the question.

The feminist in me wants to keep my name.
The romantic in me wants to change my name. There's something wonderfully romantic, sweet and dedicated about having the same name as your man.

So, what to do?

I know women who changed their maiden names to their husband's name and then, years later, after spending a lifetime regretting it, changed it back.

I also know a couple of women who decided not to change their names when they got married and then, years after being married, decided they wanted the same name as their husband and children and so they took their husband's name years into their marriage.

Hyphenation seems to be the hot style these days but I'm just not into it, purely for aesthetic reasons. If I had the kind of last name that rolled off the tongue when paired with another, then maybe, but I don't. So that option is out.

Of course, I could take his name and have a professional name and a personal name.

At work, I'd go by Sarah Crosbie.
In the grocery store, I'd go by Sarah MacBarah.*

Oh, decisions, decisions.

What to do?

* Name has been changed to a silly name that rhymes with "Sarah" mostly for fun, but also not to out the Fiance totally. :)

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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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Yes, they're real

Sorry, I've been too busy to write fabulous posts the past few days. The BF whisked me away for the weekend. Sordid details to come in a day or two. But I can say this: This is me and the girls, all dressed up for a romantic dinner.

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy - Pt. 2

Are you lovin' it?

Here he is! The BF in his full glory.

He's my Mac Daddy, er, Big Mac Daddy, I guess is the correct phrase.
He's no small fry.
I guess I should feel flattered that he's with me: He knows his buns so I guess mine are alright.

What? Don't you see him?
He's the smiling guy; the cute one.

This picture was taken in March, 1975 at McDonald's where the BF worked for six years and worked his way up to assistant manager. (Yes, back in 1975 I wasn't even a sperm yet. I was just a glint in my parents' eyes. I didn't come into this world for another two years.)

And don't tell him I told you but the BF also had a Dodge Monaco back then - and, get this, - he had the words BIG MAC put onto his car by a professional sign company.

If you see the BF around town, ask for a smile.

After all, they're free!

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy

So, my inbox has been bombarded with requests for me to post a picture of the BF.

I've been hesitant until now mostly because he's so HHOOTTT that I fear if you log on to www.sarahcrosbie.com, your computer may, in fact, melt.

But, because there are so many requests, I can no longer ignore the basic concept of supply and demand.

So, tomorrow morning, Tuesday, I will post a pic of the BF.

As Nelly says: It's gettin' hot in here. So take off all your clothes ...

And on Monday: Is it safe to feed your two-month-old Advent calendar chocolate?

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A Letter to All You Second-Time Around Daddies: You're Bootiful

I fell in love with my man all over again tonight.

Thank you, Halloween.

I've never been a fan of the Oct. 31 spooktacular. Stupidtacular, was more like it.
I love playing dressup, but adding warts, lumps, bumps? Not my thing.
Usually I put on a miniskirt, some fishnets, some bangles and tell everyone who asks: Yes, I'm Pat Benatar.
Really, I'm Sarah Crosbie in a miniskirt, some fishnets and some bangles.
Yesterday though, was different.
The BF is Halloween obsessed. Is there a clinical term for someone consumed with the orange and black holiday, I wonder?

For weeks, he's been buying bits and pieces for our house: A furry black spider. A fog machine. A skeleton. A baby black spider. A tombstone.
Weeks ago, he came home so excited I thought we'd won the jackpot. Ah, no. He merely wanted to tell me how we were going to have sound effects at our home - thunder and lightning.

Yesterday, in Kingston, it rained almost the whole day. I was sure it was going to thunder and lightning for real and it would ruin the BF and all the kiddies' excitement, but the rain held during the precious hours from 5 to 9 p.m.

So much work went into decorating our home, I'm sure it was the best one in town.
The BF had a million wires running from the inside of our house to the hedges outside which concealed lights and speakers so he could simulate thunder and lightning.

A giant spider hung from our house - and controlled by the man, the wizard, behind the curtain.

A skeleton spun around our front porch - created from two oscillating fans.

Would, could our little display weather the storm?

But it didn't matter to me if it rained all night and no one showed up; just seeing the BF put it altogether was worth all the money, time, energy and sweat that went into the project. He says he does it because he loves scaring the kiddies. I think he also did it because I'd never seen his haunted house. I also think he did it because his children love it. And because his new son, though he's only two months old, had never seen anything like it.

Which brings to me what I really want to say: Our elaborate Halloween setup made me realize just how hard and demanding it is to be a second-time-around daddy.

Us younger gals who fall in love with these men (and there are many of us) demand that:

A) They love us;
B) They commit to us;
C) They stay faithful to us;
D) And, if we want them, they have children with us - even though if they're in their 30s, 40s or 50s, they've likely already had children.

Sure, it's a compliment to these guys that we want their children.

Many of us want their babies because we have the privilege of already seeing what they're like as fathers.

The BF is already an outstanding father. I saw that the first time I had breakfast with him and his son. We were sitting at Dennys, eating pancakes and eggs, and the BF kept his arm around his son's shoulder the whole time.

It was then that I knew he was a stellar father.

So, these guys fall in love with younger women and they instantly know they have to make a huge sacrifice. Instead of living the stereotypical life of an older man - sleeping in, visiting the kids at university, wining and dining, travelling and, I need to say it one more time, sleeping in, these guys are doing it all over again.

Waking at 4 a.m. to help with feedings. Buying baby toys. Talking about what kind of day care we want. Being thrifty while we survive with one less paycheque while I stay at home for a year. Waking at 4 a.m., 5 a.m., 6 a.m. Changing mustard poo diapers.

Decorating another house for Halloween - and now knowing you'll be doing it for the next 17 years. When you're 64.

To all of you who are brave enough (crazy enough? maybe you're senile already?) to do this all over again, thank you.

What would our lives be without you?

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