It's not like I'm Mary Louise Parker peddling a bag of weed or anything.

I’m getting pressure to join the PTA at my son’s school. Now that the Hubby is a teacher he has decided that all the GOOD families have parents (read: mothers) on the parent council and, you know, participate in some way. He is also feeding me some bullshit about there being a conflict of interest about him joining the parent council.

I’m not sure how that works exactly since he doesn’t teach at our son’s school, but he swears to god that is some kind of rule somewhere and he needs to follow it.

Here is the problem – we moved about five years ago to the other side of the city, and it’s kind of the wrong end of town.

For people like us.

Our neighborhood has three types of people:

1. Stay at home moms who are always draped head to toe in Lu Lu Lemon and can go grocery shopping at 2:00 pm on a Wednesday afternoon;

2. Families who love baby Jesus; and

3. Super old people with gazebos in their backyard who have lived in the neighbourhood since Kennedy was assassinated.

We do not fit into any of the above categories.

I make the Lu Lu Lemon moms super uncomfortable because not only do I have to work, like, everyday, I’m fat. Fat, working moms are not on their radar. At. All.

I make the baby Jesus families uncomfortable because I deliberately fuck with them whenever possible.

See, I have this ‘multi-faith’ calendar at work which alerts me to the various holidays being celebrated around the world on any given day. For example, today is the first day of Ridvan, the Bah’i festival that commemorates the 12 days that Baha’u’llah spent in the garden of Ridvan during his exile in Baghdad.

I know, right?

Now if I happen to see one of the Jesus families walking their dog while I’m playing with the kids outside after supper tonight, I’ll call out to them, “Happy Ridvan!” and wave fanatically.

As for the super old people – I irritate the shit out of them because aside from the standard mow now and again, I don’t really give a crap about the state of my lawn. The old people, however, will mow their grass, rake up the mowed grass, get this crazy looking contraption out and, I shit you not, VACUUM their lawn. They average about 3 hours a day on that mo-fo. It’s actually a nice wind down to the day watching them go through all that effort for a patch of grass. I just sit on my stoop and eat freezies.

Where was I originally going with this? Oh yeah, the PTA.

I have been avoiding joining the PTA because in my neighbourhood I’m the crazy fat chick with the brown lawn who worships satan.

Nobody wants that chick on the PTA.

But, apparently at some point in the not so distant past I indicated on some shitty little form I wasn’t really paying attention to that I would be willing to volunteer for school special events. Really? I’m pretty sure the Hubby suckered me into this one somehow, because I totally do NOT remember signing on for that. However, I got a call today, from the president of the PTA herself, inviting me to a meeting Thursday night to discuss planning the annual ‘Hoe Down’ the school throws in June.

I told her that she’s lucky the meeting wasn’t scheduled for tonight because it’s Ridvan, and work is traditionally suspended on days 1, 9 and 12 of the festival.

Then I told her I’d see her at the meeting and to keep an eye out for me - I’d be the chubby one in the WalMart 'George' label yoga pants with with blue freezie stain dripped down the front of her tank top.

Blue is the best freezie colour, hands down.

They’re going to LOVE me.

A hundred bucks says he has the nazi symbol tattooed on his forehead. There just can’t be any other explanation for that hair.

Who the fuck is Justin Beiber? Seriously, where did this kid come from? He interrupted my Juno awards last night (Canadian music’s version of the Grammys) with some horrible ‘Baby Baby Baby Baby’ song that included this kid with no forehead leaning over the stage singing to screaming 10 year-old girls while surrounded by huge black dudes trying to rap to this ridiculous song. Why is this kid even performing on the Junos? Shouldn’t he be guest staring on the Hills or dry humping Miley Cyrus or something?

Holy shit, is he….Canadian? No! He can’t be. Surely I would have heard about him before now if he was Canadian. I already feel bad enough about inflicting the world with Celine Dion, I’m not sure I could handle the shame if this twerp was Canadian.

And where is his mother? We ALL know how this will end – good ol’ JB will livin’ la vita-methamphetamine by the time he’s 21 and his ‘fan base’ is old enough to realize he kind of sucks.

I mean, here is the picture that was on MY wall when I was 13 years-old.



That didn’t really end so well.

I just googled him. Yes, Justin Beiber is Canadian. So was Corey Haim, as it turns out.

Attention Canadian mothers of cute, yet somewhat talentless children!!

Don’t whore them out for profit, okay? We get free health care; you don’t need the money that badly. Their mediocre singing and preposterous haircuts will eventually be discovered for what they are – a quick fad to bilk tweens out of their allowance and introduce them to the showerhead nozzle at an early age. Instead of sending your child on a self-destructive path that ends with dating Lindsay Lohan, how about you leave it with Junior taking the lead in the school musical and getting blown by a cheerleader in the backseat of his 1996 Ford Topaz.

Gonorrhea is way easier to treat than a heroin addiction.

You’re welcome.

Random Tuesday Thoughts - the best day of the week 'cause I don't have to think too much or come up with a witty post title.

I have the BEST piece of gossip ever, but it’s impossible to share with anyone who would really care because then I would appear petty and….. well, gossipy. Which, we will know I am, but I’m still too new at my workplace for the rest of my coworkers to realize that. I’m still rocking my ‘I am a PROFESSIONAL’ vibe. Although I have finally abandoned wearing the heels everyday. Baby steps, people.

It was so windy here last Friday that they actually evacuated the tallest building downtown because it’s parkade was separating from the building and it wasn’t considered safe to be in any longer. The building in question is the government-run auto insurance place (the Canadian equivalent to the DMV). I wonder what percentage of people who work there were actually rooting for it to fall over?

I have to register my youngest for kindergarten this fall. Unlike the first two children, I can’t WAIT to unload this child on to the school system. She is the kind of kid school was made for, which is pretty remarkable because as far as I can tell the public school system only works for about twelve kids total, but Lena is one of them. I know EXACTLY the type of kid she’s going to be in school. Lena has a better than average attention span, she is smarter than the average bear, she is extremely manipulative and LIVES for being right. She’s pretty much going to be Reese Witherspoon from Election. But more importantly, she’ll be my little revenge for the school system totally and completely fucking over my other two children. How do you like THOSE apples, Matthew Broderick?

I love how the contestants on the Amazing Race speak Spanish to the people in Singapore.

My 16 year-old daughter is going on a six day school trip to Ottawa and Montreal tomorrow. There will be 90 students, and 8 adult chaperones. Anyone want to lay bets on how that’s going to go? 2 to 1 she looses her ID, 3 to 1 she gets caught sneaking out at night, and even money I get a call from one of the chaperones that starts, “Mrs. Fon? I have your daughter J with me…..”

My new coworkers are adorable. They are just so happy and good. Once one of them got upset about a problem with the database and swore at his desk (he sits within ear shot). He came and apologized to me later for “dropping the 'F-bomb'”. Isn’t that cute? Dude, I came from television and the Gaming industry. My delicate ears are okay with the ‘F-bomb’. I’m in HUGE trouble if these people ever find this blog.

Okay, I think that’s it for me. I don’t want to over do it on the RTT after such a long absence. Go see Keely at the Un-Mom to dig on some more scattered blogging. It's fun, you should try it.

Some say 'Controlling', I say 'Proactive'

I decided when my children were born that I didn’t really want them to get married. I was not prepared to share any of them with some other random family who might eat mutton or open all their gifts on Christmas Eve.

I mean, what if my kids ended up with a skinny mother-in-law? She would be in the wedding photos all beautiful and thin and wearing a tasteful Marc Jacobs dress with open-toed sandals and a silk scarf just barely covering her arms because she’s so beautiful and skinny that she can go sleeveless and it’s July so it’s warm outside so she doesn’t even have to wear her scarf/wrap thing that much and then she’s on the dance floor with my son and everyone is smiling and clapping because it’s just such a beautiful wedding and “Wow, doesn’t she look great for her age!”?

That’s just not okay.

For obvious reasons.

But, the idea of grandchildren kind of appeals to me, and then there is that whole thinking around my kids being happy and in love and having a nice life with a partner who loves them and scratches their back before going to bed at night because it’s always easier to sleep after a good back-scratch.

So I’ve decided to arrange all my children’s marriages and force them to marry the children of my friends.

The only problem I see with this plan is that all my friends are really beautiful and shit so I would end up with the Marc Jacobs-sleeveless-dress-skinnier-than-me-in-the-pictures problem anyway.

But I could deal with it better if the skinny and beautiful MIL was one of my friends because then I would feel okay about sneaking my arm around their back and giving them bunny ears in every wedding picture.

No matter how gorgeous you are, no one can pull off bunny ears.

Problem solved.

So! Who to match up with whom? The first one is easy. My son Jake is betrothed to Politica’s daughter Mara. Mara is about four and a half years younger than Jake, but that’s only a problem now. I won’t make them start dating for another 20 years, which will make them 28 and 24 respectively which is far less creepy. They will date for three years and then they will get married.

I have only recently shared this news with Jake. He took it like a champ.

Me – You’re going to help me clean up the house today, okay Jake?

Jake – What!!? No way! Why do I have to help clean the house?

Me – You need to learn how to clean the house because I expect you to be a good husband to Mara.

Jake – I’m NOT getting married!!

Me – Well, not right now you’re not, but when you’re 28 and finished college and have a good job you’re going to start dating Mara. Then when you’re 31 and she’s 27 you’re going to get married and Aunt Politica is going to wear a really nice sleeveless Marc Jacobs dress to your wedding.

Jake – Okay. Whatever. I’ll marry Mara, but then you have to buy me a light saber.

Me – I’ll buy you a light saber, but only as a wedding present. You have to marry Mara first.

Jake – No, I need the light saber first.

Me – No deal. Marriage, then light saber.

Jake – Well MOM! I have to have the light saber first because I’ll need it to save Mara’s life because that’s how she’s going to fall in love with me!!

Good point, son.

I hadn’t thought of that.

I wonder what he’ll want when he finds out he’s going to have to convert to Judaism?

A retarded kid and a raging bitch walk into a bar.....

Around the end of October this year my eight-year old son was diagnosed with Aspergers, which is a ‘high functioning’ form of Autism. He is on the ‘high functioning’ end of the autism ‘spectrum’.

Every time someone says that to me it feels like they are comparing my son to the newest technological equipment used for pap smears.

This diagnosis wasn’t totally out of the blue; there have been signs something wasn’t quite right since my son was a baby. He didn’t really communicate at all until he was two (he wasn’t even gesturing), and he didn’t use speech as his regular form of communication until he was three.

And then there was the tantrums. Holy good Christ, the tantrums. Four to six full-on, screaming screaming freaking out with the screaming tantrums per day. For any random thing.

He was kicked out of three daycares by the time he was three and a half years old.

For the most part, all of his behaviour problems were contributed to the fact that I was just a shitty mother. My son looked perfectly normal, therefore if I didn’t suck so tremendously at parenting him, he would just know better.

That was the position of my extended family, the daycare(s), the doctor, and even some of my friends. I was subjected to endless parenting tips because clearly, based on the behavior of my devil child, they were desperately needed.

But, deep down….I knew better.

My boy was not experiencing the world in the same way the rest of us were. He wasn’t just a spoiled little shit disturber, he was kind of ….stuck. What he saw, felt, heard and tasted was just different than the rest of us, and although we couldn’t see ‘it’, ‘it’ was often unpleasant for him.

I started calling for help, and found a fantastic organization called the ‘Early Childhood Intervention Program’. They are small and have no money (as evidenced by the fact they don’t even have a website I can link you to), but they are wonderful people who COME TO YOUR HOUSE and help teach you ways to play with your child that will stimulate learning and help remove communication barriers. And not once did any of my interventionists give me the, “wow, what a little bastard you have there” look.

I also was lucky enough to finally find a daycare that was up for the challenge my son brought them. They never considered the idea of cutting him lose because he was just too much of a pain in their ass to deal with. If they came up against a problem, they tried to fix it. Sometimes it would work, and sometimes it wouldn’t. But they didn’t give up on him and consequently, he had a place to go everyday where he felt safe and happy and was surrounded by people who didn’t just tolerate him, they loved him.

I look back at that time now as the two years of cease fire. We coexisted in this world without having to do battle.

Oh, how I wish I knew then what I know now. I would have enjoyed that peace a lot more that I did.

My boy had to leave that wonderful daycare to start school. I knew it wasn’t going to go well, so I tried to meet with the kindergarten teacher prior to school starting to debrief her on the ways and means of Jake. I wanted to give her a little history, and possibly pass on some ‘lessons learned’ from the daycare regarding how Jake needs to handle group situations.

The kindergarten teacher poo-pooed me and chalked me up to a nervous mom who was apprehensive about her son starting school.

Her - Oh, Mrs. FoN, I’ve been doing this for many years now, and they eventually adjust.

Me – Um, maybe….but…Jake has some communication and sensory issues since birth, and….

Her – You don’t have to worry about it now! He’ll be in great hands.

Me – I don’t doubt you are the most kick-ass kindergarten teacher since the chick from Romper Room, but there are a few behaviours you should be prepared for. The daycare….

Her – Really, we will do just fine. Have a good day!!

*hustles me out of the room*

Predictably, that same teacher called me four days into the school year. It wasn’t going that well. No shit? Hmmm.

Who would have thunk it, huh?

It was that phone call that started the fight I have had to wage and will continue to wage for the foreseeable future.

I knew Jake was on the autism spectrum, but I was really scared to be given that news.

Officially.

From someone with more credentials than Dr. Google.

But, I was repeatedly told from many sources that once a diagnosis was made all kinds of wonderful doors would open and a flood of services would be available at my finger tips and we would all live happily ever after. Just like all those autistic kids on television who are charming and oh so smart and who have families who learn a wonderful lesson about love by having their lives enriched by the unexpected gift they were given of their autistic child.

So I did it. I finally pushed for a diagnosis and I got one. Aspergers.

My biggest fear of all was that once my son was given that ‘autism’ label he would immediately turn from the rotten little kid who just has a shitty mother who never taught him manners, to the retarded kid who doesn’t need to learn to read anyway so let’s just teach him how to mop up the place. You know, a skill he really needs.

Unfortunately, I was right.

Since that faithful day in November we received the official news of Aspergers, I have been battling my son’s school in an effort to get them to focus on ANYTHING other than just his behavior. He is in grade three, and suddenly the focus is not learning cursive writing or times tables, but how to put up his hand before asking a question instead of just blurting something out. A useful skill, sure, but so is READING.

I would do anything to go back to people just assuming I’m a bad parent who indulges or ignores her son and that’s why he sometimes acts like a little asshole. I would have happily taken that bullet for the rest of my life if it meant others would be required to hold my son to the same standard they hold the ‘normal’ kids.

Now I fight. Every single day. To insist my son learns the same thing the other kids are learning. LEARNING is not his problem. Learning while surrounded by 25 screaming children, colourful posters, bells ringing, music playing, that sickly glue/vomit/lunchmeat smell schools have, and the teacher yelling over all of it….that’s his problem.

So he tries to deal. He tries to deal by putting his hoodie on and wearing his hood over his head.

Not allowed in school – it’s considered disrespectful.

So he crawls under the desk to escape.

Not allowed in school - what if ALL the kids wanted to crawl under the desk?

So he puts his arms around his ears and starts banging his head on the table.

Retarded kids do that kind of thing. What are you going to do, huh?

Why don’t we back it up a few steps and just let him wear the fucking hood? There is a big difference between wearing a hood in class as a way of coping and telling Mr. Vernon to Eat. My. Shorts.

And after you let him put on the fucking hood, teach him to read, would ya?

So, here we are. No longer little bastard with the shitty mother, but the concerned mother and the poor little retarded boy who lights up the world with his smile and has a wonderful future ahead of him greeting people at WalMart.

Fuck that.

So, the fight wages on. Now we have some new goals. Jake is going to get an education, and I am going to make that happen. And hopefully stay out of prison in the process.

If I go a super long time between posts you’ll know why.

No Lifetime movie moment ending here. Sorry about that.

That American Pie song is going to be in my head for weeks

Remember summer camp?

Where everything was kind of extra fun, even the regular stuff that you would do all the time at home anyway?

And you felt like you had this little secret place that only you and your fellow campers knew about and only you and them understood what it was like to be at camp?

And even the kids there that were really odd and you would never consider hanging out with in real life were still cool to be with because they were part of the chosen few that understood your special camp world?

Even that girl with the back-brace and inhaler who picked her nose and started crying because her s’more fell in the fire?

The provincial government decided to close my summer camp yesterday.

I know I have bored the shit out of you with tales of my career woes of late (the new one is going very well, thanks for asking), but prior to April 1, 2008 I had a job that was so awesome it was like being at summer camp. For four years. I worked at a provincially owned broadcast station that helped tell the stories of my province, provided e-learning opportunities for students living in the north, helped emerging film producers launch careers and just generally kicked all kinds of ass. I loved the work, people, management, purpose, working environment..…..it was all just awesome. I even had a killer nice office over looking a garden.

I met people who I will be friends with for life working there. I also worked with serious weirdos, and I loved them too. I left my summer camp job for greener pastures in April of 2009, but that place and those weirdos are still really important to me. I consider myself one of them.

They were all laid off yesterday. Every last one of them.

The conservative government running this province doesn’t attach value to anything that doesn’t earn a dollar, so they decided to shut down my summer camp yesterday.

It was a cultural massacre, and my camp buddies were the casualties.

I don’t know why conservatives can’t support things that exist only to provide beauty and comfort. I don’t know why they want to destroy an industry that is full of enthusiastic young people who want to make a career out of telling stories and sharing our province with the rest of the country. I’m going to blame their parents. Clearly they were all raised by Joan Crawford because this fucking government represents everything that is soulless and wrong.

They took away my summer camp. In a few short days it will exist only in my mind, and my friends will be left scrambling to pick up the pieces and try to stay afloat.

Now my beloved camp will be just a story that will eventually fade away. Just like the broadcast network will.

I hope they don't go quietly, though. This fucker is on the air for another few days, so I am expecting some seriously funny shit to suddenly make it to my television set.


Heh.

This is totally accurate and EXACTLY what happened.

I ran into an old friend at Wal Mart the other day. We’re ‘facebook’ friends, but we haven’t actually seen each other in real life in at least a decade or more. When I knew her she was very tall and strikingly beautiful.

She looks exactly the same.

Of course since it was just a quick Saturday trip to Wal Mart I looked like a homeless person.

This is how the conversation went:

Me – (cautiously waves)

Her – Smiling politely, waves back and stops in the isle, “Wow, I would have NEVER recognized you if we weren’t ‘friends’!!”

Me – “Ha, ha, How’s it going? These are my youngest, Jake and Lena.”

Her – “Oh, they are so cute! Where is the Hubby? Working?”

Me – “He’s at home, probably grading papers. He’s a teacher now”

(she didn’t know that because the hubby is super paranoid about putting anything on facebook and refuses to even acknowledge he’s my husband on there. So I started a blog. Heh.)

Her – “Oh, that’s nice. Your oldest seems like quite the firecracker from what I can tell from facebook!”

Me – “Yeah, she sure is.” So what have you been up to? Moved back, I see?"

Her – “Yes, moved back a while ago. It’s been great.”

Me – “It’s nice to see you again”

Her – “You too! Your kids are so cute. Better run. Bye!”

Me – “See you later!”


Isn’t that nice? Not really. Here is the sub-text transcript of this conversation:

Me: Ah, shit. There she is, looking striking and she’s coming my way. Doesn’t ANYONE else I know ever get fat? Fuck. I’m going have to acknowledge her.

Her: Why is that fat homeless chick waving at me? Oh, god! Is that,…..FoN?

“Holy SHIT! I could tell from your facebook pictures you put on a few, but I had NO idea! Is this for real? Seriously, are you really this fat or did Tyra Banks put you in a fat suit and hide a camera in your folds so you could record how people react to how totally HUMUNGOUS you are????”

Me: “Fuck you. Life hasn’t been a cakewalk and I eat my feelings, okay? Not everyone can be seven feet high and fifteen pounds you know.”

Her: “Yeah, I bet. I assume those two kids fighting over who gets to hold the mango are yours? Yikes. Good thing they’re cute. I assume you and whats-his-face broke up by now?"

Me: “As a matter of fact we got married and bought a nice little house in the south end. We both have great jobs and make a LOT more money than you. So, you moved back in with your parents after your marriage broke up, I assume?"

Her: “Yeah, but at least my kids aren’t saying ‘fuck’ every five minutes on facebook. You should be totally ashamed of your daughter. It’s too bad she can’t be like my kids. I’ve taught them to love Jesus and they are perfect in every way."

Me: “Well, your kids are 10 and 7, so call me when they’re teenagers and we’ll talk."

Her: “Hey, I gotta run and call everyone we knew from high school to tell them you’re a WHALE!! Bwwaaaahahahahahaha!!!!!"

Me: “Whatever. You’re divorced and poor”

THE END.