Literally.

So. New York lawyer Dude, married to New York lawyer Dudette, get divorced. Hardly rare. But they did their settlement a couple of years ago, when some guy named Madoff was diddling with people's money. Seems Dude and Dudette decided on how to separate their wealth, and he pulled some millions (lord, how removed am I from this story?!) from his Madoff account to pay off her. Dudette decided not to invest with Madoff, and made off with her money and did her own thing.

Fast forward. Like some backassed Dickensian fairy tale, Dude is pleading, "please, sir, I want more." Seems he is prepared to argue to the Supreme Court that the divorce should be reopened because he (waaaah) lost all his money. The fact it's climbing up the justice food chain is ridiculous to my 'really? really??' mindset. He's saying that the asset didn't actually exist, therefore, ergo and whatnot, it is not real. That account that he withdrew from. Yeah, that one.

There is a reason people lose sleep and sanity over divorces. They are hard and wrenching and horrid. 'Amicable' is often a code word for 'medicated', and until you are long years out of it, you can't look back with any peace. I can't imagine being rich and getting divorced; being poor and getting divorced was crappy enough. Frankly, if you're rich and want to stay that way, I suggest you never get married. If money matters a lotttttttttttt to you, I suggest you don't get married. Feel free to ignore my advice. Most do.

The thing is, a divorce - especially in recent turbulent economic times - is like those machines at the bowling alley where you try to nab a stuffed animal with the metal claws. You choose the best position you can imagine, and plunge the hook down. And you get what you get, and you'll like it, to quote Christer when he was about 5. Seems our New York Dude wants a Mulligan.

If you've ever been divorced, you will be familiar with the Lottery Scenario. Be quiet. You know exactly what I'm gonna say. You imagine that the day after it's final, you win the lottery. Take that, sucka. And then in about 5 seconds, you reverse that thought, and get a little bit quiet.

You may not have to share in What's- His- Name's costly schemes anymore, but nor do you get to cash in if one of them actually works. You hear that, Dude? She didn't pick Madoff. You did. You lose. Suck it up.

Should you let your underage kids drink at home?

I've already addressed this in Blame it on Lorraine, so my take won't be all that mysterious to you.

But calling other people out on their parenting is always fun.

Join us at 5:30 on CHCH Square Off.

I considered writing about this, but my friend Scott Shpak has done it for me. And he nails it.

When I heard the post office was considering going on strike, I blinked a little. I now buy a pack of ten stamps a couple of times a year, and I swear the only time I use them is to send a cheque to Webgod Jeff. DO YOU HEAR ME, WEBGOD??. Yes, he hears me. And he hates me. So I usually just arrange a meet up and we go to Apple Annie's for lunch and I order breakfast and I give him a cheque and we're all good.

And I don't need a stamp. Anything I order online (hello, Aldo shoes?) is delivered by a man who will soon be switching to shorts. I might order more while the weather holds. I do not have a fax, but I have learned to scan and send without making one of the boys do it. Yes, the document you requested will no doubt be upside down, but surely you can navigate the little arrows and not pester me.

Anyhoo. Scott nicely sums up my thoughts on this, and in such a lovely way. Boy can write.

Dinosaurs really shouldn't stamp their feet.

Labels: post office strike, scott shpak, what's a post office?

I finally went to one of these last week. I've managed to avoid it all these years of writing about this stuff. They were calling for rain, which meant I really thought I might get to dodge it. And the next Friday the 13th isn't until next year, in July. THAT will be enormous.

This guy is here every year. His name is Thong Man, or something like that. He has a real name. I didn't ask. It looks like I'm smiling; I'm actually saying 'don't touch me!'. Seriously.

Oh, and you like the darling new Harley Davidson jacket? I have a bunch of bike things to do this year. It only seemed right. I love you, Deeley HD.

What, you're still staring at his ass?

Labels: deeley, friday the 13th, harley davidson, port dover

I'm cutting the lawn with Ari. He keeps getting peeved because the grass is up to our ears and it's clogging the mower. I of course, have the patience of a saint and am willing to move forward a few feet, hike the thing up on its back wheels, and let the wet, soggy grass blow free. He of course, is not. My method also gives the toads a fighting chance at avoiding a tragic fate like that actor in that movie who got his head made gone by chopper blades. Sorry. But that's what I always picture.

Speaking of movies...go read this review of the new Pirates of the Caribbean. I'm still laughing. And these days, that's a nice thing.

Back later. I just heard the mower stop again.

Labels: bitchileaks, lawn mowers and headless toads, pirates of the caribbean

I know. Don't say it.

I'm behind on everything you can name. Blogging, archiving, writing for the new site, sleep, work, cleaning, gardening, mail, phone calls, sleep, laundry, sleep, sleep...well, you get it.

It's raining outside, and it's raining inside my head. 'Nuff said.

I'm packing for a quick trip to NYC tomorrow, trying to guess how the weather is going to turn, whether the convertibles will be top up or down, trying to get every consideration into one carry on, and remembering to wear as little as possible because they make you strip down to go through customs.

Maggie just saw me bring my suitcase up, and promptly turned her back on me. Sulky little thing - though I think she's the only one around here who misses me when I'm gone.

I tried to call Rogers to set up a package to add on a roaming package. Their systems are down. I'm not in the mood to hear that. I don't want to call back FOUR hours from now, along with the rest of the country, in order to give them even more money for their crappy service. I put on a package when Ari was in Virgina last month. My bill? Over $75 charge on it for his roaming. AFTER I added the package. Some days, I quit before I even start.

So. What else? Finally got the paper guy to start putting my paper in my mailbox. Such a small thing, wanting a paper that's not a soggy mess. I try to be nice, really. I'm a reasonable woman, really. But do not muck with my paper. That's like finding the milk bag empty in the fridge in the morning. Midnight cereal thieves forget Mom needs her tea.

Jeez, I'm grumpy. Sorry.

Onward.....

Oh. That's my new screen saver this week. Some pics just speak to you.

It's a cute campaign to boost breast cancer research. But apparently Durham region thinks this is something our kids just aren't ready for. Really?

Join us on CHCH Square Off at 5:30....

I'm going to put this up for Mother's Day. It was originally published in March, 2006, but it's one of the few columns I still go back to and reread. This one's for you, Mom.

I don’t like ice cream. A couple spoonfuls a year is enough for me, which works out well because No Frills puts these little containers on sale for a dollar about twice a year.

We open them one at a time and sit there holding spoons and watching television passing the tub around because family cooties don’t count.

Our home is a dictatorship, and Czarina Lorraine doesn’t buy ice cream any other time. The boys quit asking for it years ago, because they knew if they did I’d just find whole- wheat ice cream somewhere.

I was driving with Ari, 11, the other day. Out of the blue, he turned to me.

“I liked ice cream with Grandma,” he said quietly.

Mom died six years ago this month. Her last months were spent in and out of the hospital, and Ari spent most afternoons after kindergarten playing in her hospital room. He would draw pictures, comb her hair, charm the nurses and give her innocent baby kisses. And eat ice cream.

My mom would save him little tubs of ice cream, those single servings that come with that silly little wooden paddle. Ari loved that paddle. I would watch my mother watching my son, he so intent on enjoying the ice cream, she so intent on enjoying anything. Anything at all.

My mom had one of those Queen Elizabeth hairstyles, the kind achieved with something called a roller set. The problem was if you brushed it, all the curl came out, and you had to have it set again. She loved it if we brushed her hair, but only the day before a hair appointment.

She would let Ari brush to his heart’s content while she was sick. I would shore it up before we left, but she knew she was measuring her time in moments and was going to let no opportunity for love go by her. It’s funny how you have all the time in the world when you find out you really have none at all.

My children spent a great deal of their lives in their Grandma’s arms. They say it’s about quality, not quantity. I say they don’t know what they’re talking about. It was her grandchildren who kept my mother alive so long, and they miss her fiercely to this day. My niece, who was just 2 when mom died, has constructed a whole relationship with her from pieces of memory, photos, stories and wishes.

When my dad died, he did not go gently into that good night. He thrashed and railed and raged. There was no TV movie dénouement, just anger. My mother swore she would be graceful and calm, to make up for Dad. Always the gracious hostess, she did just that. I know I am my father’s daughter, and will choose fight over flight. But I will share my ice cream.

Ari used to look forward to going to the hospital to visit. He would colour stick figure boys with balloons, telling Grandma to get well soon and come home. There was hope in the heartbreak, but only if you were five and thought ice cream could cure cancer.

Geez. I just got off the phone with Roz, she of the divine sister comment on the blog down there (put little down arrow here) about the bull. 'Aren't you ever gonna blog again?' she asks. Nothing like a little pressure from the family.

Yeah, the election pissed me off. No surprise there. Well, actually, I'm still surprised that any women could vote for this bunch of Reform party knuckledraggers. Seriously. I look around at women of all ages, and I'm aghast. And that's without getting into the whole law-breakin' stuff. Oh, and can I just say this once? BEV ODA??? SERIOUSLY??? I'll meet you all back in here in 4 years. The one thing I did like was people seemed more engaged. If nothing else, I'll take that.

Had an awesome interview this morning with a young lad who is a mechanic. He's blind. What a kid. Story will run in the near future. Just like that, my faith is restored.

If you wear contacts, check out on line prices. I just saved a hundred bucks.

Been busy with workish things lately, but not too busy to grab the latest Vanity Fair. The one with Rob Lowe on the cover. Shirtless. Boy has aged well. Very, very well. Sorry. Where were we?

Finally got hold of Deadwood. This is making me very, very happy. I'm meting out the episodes like a little kid hording Halloween candy. When it's gone it's gone, though something tells me I'll be watching this over and over.

It's a gorgeous day, and I'm finally home. Gonna go dig dandelions. That was always my job with Dad, so it seems about right. I was moving big rocks around a few days before the election - my hand is sort of fixed; I quit when it started bleeding again - and had a good conversation with him. Considering he's been gone 15 years, you can imagine the catching up we do when the dirt thaws each year. Now I have to go out and tell him what happened. I think he'll be as peeved as I am that this crew in Ottawa is masquerading as his beloved Progressive Conservative party.

Even a dead man knows that's just not right.