Two-faced Sarah Crosbie (Pretty Ugly)

Before I had a baby, I'd always look at the pictures of celebrities in the fashion and gossip magazines who looked perfecto just a few weeks after having their babies. Their stomachs would be flat, their skin perfect, their hair flowy and gorgeous and their clothes ripped from the runways.
"It's so easy!" I thought to myself.
Ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha. (That's me laughing at myself right now).
Monday to Friday, I do it up. I wear clean (sometimes even ironed) clothes. I style my hair and put on lipstick and mascara. (I dropped eyeliner earlier this year, since I think it saves me a couple of minutes each morning, which I can use to eat cereal or watching Toopy and Binoo.) But on weekends? Oooo, I'm ugly. Or "f-ugly" as the kids would say. No makeup. I don't do my hair and I'm always in runners. But some mornings, it's worse than ugly. Some mornings like in the pic above left, I'm that "Fat Celebrities Without Makeup, Caught on the Beach With Blubber and Celulite Hanging Every Which Way" mother. See this pic you young, unmarried, childless girls? This is what motherhood looks like. It's not pretty, but it's the truth.
However, please see what a little makeup, hair putty and sleep can do for you (right). I'm a freakin' supermodel. I'm just like that Evolution Dove commercial, really. Pretty on the inside, and on the outside? It depends – on the day, on the mood, whether or not I just happen to be posing for my wedding photos.
But know this mothers: We all have our good days and bad days.
I guess what I'm saying is, when you feel ugly? Think of me.
We all have our moments. Good and bad.

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Chivalry Alive and Well in Kingston

So, a few of us mommies ran 15 kilometres on Sunday just for the heck of it.

But this blog is not all about me, as my biggest fan/anonymous poster will be relieved. (But seriously, you're still reading this every day. Why, I ask? Why?)

After our run, we returned to the parking lot where we'd left our cars. Our legs hurt. Our bodies were tired. Our minds were relieved the route had come to an end and we were all dreaming about what we'd eat for lunch. And I was dreaming about air conditioning because it was dang hot on Sunday.

Then, one of the runners realized she locked her keys in the car.

Her back window and her sunroof were open a little and we could see her keys on the passenger seat.

Oh no! What were us helpless ladies to do?

I ran (yes, I actually put my sore legs back in motion and ran - tho it was just across the street) to a bar and asked for a coat hanger while the other girls found down a man who, luck was obviously on our side, worked as a taxi driver in Montreal.

Not only did the bar give me the coat hanger, they gave me a guy to come over and demonstrate how to retrieve the keys.

A plan was devised. The coat hanger was stretched out so that the boys could pull a MacGyver and hook the keys onto the coat hanger. Then, they'd lift them up, ever so gently, and pull them out the open window.

All this manly man work drew two more men who wanted to come over and help/gawk and by the time we were done and had the keys back, we had four men, one coat hanger, and a firecracker to help us get the keys. (Don't ask about the firecracker. We really would've needed Richard Dean Anderson for that.)

The guys smiled, went back to what they were doing, and we were free to go home to our families and honeys.

I'm feeling optimistic. These were nice guys. Maybe there are nice guys left in the world because, let me put it to you this way: we were looking hot, not HOT so they obviously weren't doing it cause we were all dolled up, looking like we were interested, or something.

So thank you, gentlemen. Chivalry isn't dead.

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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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Ridonculous, yet paradealicious boots

The next time my father's in town, I'm going to introduce him to Sharon Monson.
Many of you know her as Kingston Mayor Harvey Rosen's fiance.
I used to know her as the woman with funky hair. It's mostly red, with a sweeping wave of platinum blond in the front.
I will now refer to her as Queen of Kingston's Santa Claus parade.
The boyfriend and I took our two-and-a-half month old baby to his first parade on Saturday night to see his older sister strut her stuff down Princess Street.
First, we watched a man try to throw his child on top of two Bell Canada phone booths so that she could see Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen.
Then, we saw MP Peter Milliken and MPP John Gerretsen wave to the people.
Props to you Mr. Speaker, for your blinking Christmas lights necklace.
Next in the Christmas procession was our mayor. He was in the festive spirit, wearing a Santa hat with a jolly white pom-pom.
And, in a Tammy Wynette moment, Sharon Monson, was by his side smiling, waving, smiling and waving and more smiling and waving.
As the happy couple strolled past us, I caught a glimpse of her feet.
"Ha ha! She's one of us!" I thought to myself.
Sharon was wearing footwear that would horrify my father. Sharon was wearing pointy-toed, high-heeled boots.
Not comfy but ugly Uggs.
Not comfy but ugly Crocs.
She was wearing stylish boots that were completely inappropriate to walk the route - but they were paradealicious.
I'm a short girl. I'm five-foot-four and three quarters of an inch tall. I never made it to 5"5.
I've also battled the bulge most of my life. I've been 125 pounds at my skinniest and 178 at my largest. And 173.5 at my most pregnantest.
Wearing pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes makes me, and you, appear longer and leaner. It's true. Just ask Stacy London of TLC's What Not To Wear. (Hey, I've got a lot of time to pass while I'm breastfeeding the babe and watching The Learning Channel is pretty much like reading. It's educational, you know.)
I never, ever take my high heels off.
I wore four-inch heels up until a week before I went into labour.
And now that it's boot weather, I rarely take my knee-high suede boots off.
They're an appendage to me, no different than my arms or legs.
But as rapper-turned-Hollywood hero Will Smith once infamously said: Parents just don't understand.
Whenever I go home for a visit, the first thing my father says to me is, "Sarah, take your boots off!"
I wear them inside.
I wear them while I'm lying on a couch watching TV.
I wear them while I'm making dinner, doing laundry, expressing milk.
I wear them while I'm going clothes shopping, even though as my parents point out, out it would be easier and faster to try on pants if I just had to untie a pair of running shoes than roll up my pant leg, unzip the long boot, and slide the boot off.
I sort of see where my parents are coming from here. I must be losing one-eighth of a second every time I try on clothes. I'm losing years off my life!
And yes, call the bad parents patrol - I wear my boots when I'm out with my son, lugging him around in his carseat and in walking him in his stroller.
You'll probably remember the media frenzy that happened last May when Britney Spears almost dropped her son, Sean Preston, while she was walking to her limo. Tabloid magazines and parenting groups jumped on the boo boo.
"She could have cracked his head open!" they screamed.
Many of Britney's detractors pointed the finger at the pop star's too-high shoes.
Her shoes, they said, were inappropriate mommy footwear. Her shoes almost caused chaos.
Soon, magazines were running features on which celebs wore safe shoes while carrying their children and which celebs wore bad, evil, too-high shoes while carrying their babies. Newly married Katie Holmes got two thumps up for her white runners. Not sexy, but gosh, were they practical.
Can you just imagine the horrors Sharon could have caused with her pointy-toed, high-heeled boots on Saturday?
She could have tripped. She would have grabbed Harvey for support and then taken him down with her.
The sheep, yes, there were sheep in the parade, would have trampled them.
Mayor down! Mayor down!
The police, firefighters and paramedics would soon be called and they'd all have to lose their spots in the parade lineup to attend to the mayor. The walking chicken mascot from a downtown fried chicken place would end up in distress from all the commotion and start nipping at the children there to see Santa. To save their children from the killer chicken, stressed-out parents would start pelting floats with their canned goods that were meant to be donations to the food bank. And soon, the news of the pandemonium would get back to Santa, and he'd grab his reindeer and the wifey and high-tail it back to the North Pole without any of our city's wish list letters.
The whole parade could have been ruined because of Sharon Monson's high-heeled boots.
But, as the cool kids say, let's not be ridonculous.
Santa safely made his way down Princess Street and I'm sure Sharon made it to the end of the parade unscathed.
Sure, the big red guy is the heart of the parade, but for us mommies in the crowd, the ones who refuse to wear mommy jeans and mommy shoes to match, Sharon was the sole of the event.

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