Generation Exhausted

I'm A Hit!

We've already established I'm not good with technical things. Hence the move here, right? But now I have three...count 'em, THREE...different site traffic reports. Admittedly, two of them are counting the old blog, but a lot of people seem to be arriving here via there. The thing is, each of them (the two, and then typepad here) give me different numbers.

My non-technical approach to this is to add them all up, dived by three, multiply by two in the interests of my ego, and voila! I'm getting lots of traffic. About 150 hits a day, by typepad's reckoning.

So, the question is this: Who are you people? From whence did you come? Are you all different, or are the members of the luuvv thang simply checking in 15 times a day each?

Plus, for ages now (ok, more like six months), some people have been nagging me to add a comment feature. Now there is one - by all means, use it! Experience it! Enjoy it! (but no nasty stuff please)

In other news...

I have made a decision. Or, perhaps, adjusted a previous decision. I'm going to stick with my strengths. I'm going to write pithy, moving, sometimes humorous slice-of-life essays, the kind that have brought me the most success and the most satisfaction. I'm good at it. (yes, I said it out loud) So I'm going to get better, and try harder and reach further. In some ways, it's more work, but it feels less like work than the other stuff.

And I will see Generation Exhausted published. Really. Jenn PB and Kim already said they'd buy it, so I have to.

Swept Away

Apparently, I did not have enough to worry about.

I'd already begun to fear that my well-meaning friends might sing me up for public embarassment on What Not To Wear. And I shunned the idea of writing to Trading Spaces, because, well, sometimes they paint things orange. (orange being a colour that should be reserved for pumpkins and...well, oranges) That and I was afraid they might put me on sewing detail. And While You Were Out didn't appeal to me because I hate to go out.

But now there's a new demon to lurk in the back of my head. (which is where I tend to store my fear of things that are entirely improbable, but still, somehow, possible)

It's called Clean Sweep. And the gist of it, I gather, is that they come with a crew and make you get rid of your stuff.

You know...your stuff. The stuff that clutters the basement, and clogs the closets, and litters the shelves. Like the old manual typewriter (circa 1950) that I picked up at a rummage sale for ten bucks, figuring it might make a good conversation piece if I could ever figure out where to display it. And the picture frames I bought on sale that will someday - really - have pictures in them.

I don't want anyone messing with my stuff. Because, well, it's MY stuff. And I keep it for reasons that may only make sense to me, but that's the point - they make sense to me. I have a perfectly logical justification for every dust collector I've collected.

I'm not crying out for help - I'm a packrat, but it doesn't ruin my life. And I haven't gotten to the point where I have to rent offsite storage for my things. So those of you who have seen my basement and my closet, and yes, even my attic, can just get the thought right out of your head - there'll be no sweeping clean here.

Meddle with someone else's mess. My stuff is staying.

Ooops, I Did It Again

Sigh. Cate has now been added to the list at the left. I swear to heaven it was an oversight. Anyone else? Might as well tell me now while I'm eating crow.

It's Crysty's Day!

Happy Birthday to Crysty! Rumor has it that she's 23 today. Whether she's 23 or 103, I'll always think of Crysty as 'Handymom". Thanks to Crysty, I know how to waterproof a basement.

Hugs to Crysty!

Just Shoot Me

Ok, I knew the flake had an agent, but ohmygod. This from a July press release of The Bukowski Agency:

Popular National Post columnist, Rebecca Eckler, has sold Canadian rights to her first book chronicling her pregnancy to Maya Mavjee and Martha Kanya-Forstner at Doubleday for release in time for Mother's Day 2004. In Knocked Up: Confessions of a Party Girl on Perrier, Rebecca Eckler reveals how this modern girl lives the pregnant life, ripping off the rose-coloured glasses of most pregnancy books and with brutal honesty hilariously revealing the highs and lows of finding herself unexpectedly expecting.

The F***ing baby isn't even born yet!

Oops!

All this time and I didn't realize until now that I'd left Kira's name off the list of must-read blogs. Sorry Kira!

I Can See Clearly Now

For months now I've been trying to figure out what the heck the problem is over at The National Post. When the Post made its debut, I loved it - used to pick it up on Saturdays especially, when it was nice and thick and interesting. It even lured me away from the Sunday Detroit Free Press, and that's hard to do in a town that's right next door to the Motor City.

My opinion of the Post in those early days was not shared by many that I knew. Their loyalties lay with the Globe and Mail, Canada's next-best-thing to government-run media. I found the Globe stuffy and pretentious, and irrelevant. Reading the Globe felt like what I imagined High Tea with the Queen would be. The Post was more like the corner coffee shop (where everyone knows the true solutions to a nation's problems can be found).

But over the last six months, my infatuation with the Post has waned. At first, I thought it was due to my sudden realization that Rebecca Eckler, who used to be amusing, was, in fact, not a 22 year old party girl, but a thirty-something mother-to-be. Eckler's antics and Barbie-doll infatuation with herself (this is my water-skiing outfit and this is my dancing dress) were understandable - even entertaining, on occasion - when I thought she was a college-age party girl. Imagine my shock - nay, horror - when I realized that the most self-involved and shallow personality on the national media scene was actually a grown-up. And that she was going to have a child.

I've followed Eckler's writing since the spring, and if she has one thing going for her it's that she never ceases to amaze. I'm not quite sure who the Post is targeting by keeping Eckler on - surely to God it can't be Generation X, who realized long ago that the apathetic slacker mentality was best left behind. While the rest of us fret about RESPs and RRSPs, and whether or not Junior has ADD, she's counting her shoes and fussing about facials.

If the Post is wanting a columnist that real Canadians can identify with, perhaps they should look for someone who's greatest concern this week is a little more serious than whether or not Mercury is in retrograde. As it stands, they're missing the mark entirely. One can only hope that when she does give birth, she doesn't regale us with tales of how hard it is to find someone to style that baby's hair.

But through the spring and summer, I read and I wondered. And then Steyn disappeared, and more recently Blatchford went walking too. And they, aside from my scene-of-the-car-crash attraction to Eckler, were my favourite columnists.

Steyn finally explains his departure on his Web site, and it's obvious I should have read the business pages more closely. His rationale makes sense, but it's just one more example of how much of Canadian society and culture - be it government, media, book publishing or academia - is based on what an elite group believes we should want rather than what we do want.

Side note: Eckler appears to have ended up with egg on her face after a recent column, and true to her Valley Girl soul, she wears it with pride. Thus verifying that the Post has gone too far in giving this "My pretty little head can't handle the serious stuff" columnist virtual carte blanche. The next thing you know, they'll be placing the Post next to the Enquirer in the grocery store.

Perhaps I'll go back to the Freep.

Carried Away

I really shouldn't be allowed in stores. Particularly stores that carry a wide variety of merchandise to meet a variety of my needs. Particularly on the day when I get my first ever kill fee for my first ever national service article that will not become my first ever published clip of a service article in a national magazine.

I took their blood money, and did what anyone with a battered ego and shattered self confidence would do:

I went to WalMart.

My intention was to get two gallons of exterior paint and perhaps peruse their selection of jeans. My intentions were good and worthy, and eminently justifiable.

But while hubby went to fetch the paint, I found the perfect brown suede jacket. It was just the thing I was looking for to reinforce the feel-good comment someone had made to me earlier in the day: "From the back, you look about 12. From the front, 25." I'll take it.

So I tried on the jacket, and it's not exactly me, but it's very much the me I want to be - young, stylish, and very "right now". It's hard to be "right now" when the last time you splurged on a fall jacket, the year started with a 19. I swept away my usual inner protests of "what do you need a fall jacket for? You'll wear it a month, and then it will be too cold, and it will sit in the closet for the next 11 months. Be sensible - put on a sweater." And I put it in the cart.

I also found a pair of jeans that fit, glory hallelujah! Well, they fit ok. Pretty good. Not perfect, but hey, it's an imperfect world. And they were only $17.

And the fitting rooms were right next to the sock department, and the girls have developed a nasty habit of stealing my socks. Which wouldn't be so bad, but apparently it is no longer cool to wear socks that cover anything more than your foot (like part of your lower leg) so they've been folding them back over the bottom of their feet and stretching the dickens out of them. In short, they've been wrecking my socks, because although we could clothe quadruplets with the amount of fashion in this house, we were seriously lacking in bobby socks. So I bought them some bobby socks. Six pairs each. Stay outta my sock drawer!

Back in paint, the hubster had gathered the two gallons and some tubes of caulking and some window putty, and was ready to go.

"Maybe since we're actually in the same place at the same time, we should think about that paint for the living room we talked about," I suggested. So we picked out a colour (we didn't argue!) and got two gallons of it, and a gallon of white for the trim.

Upon seeing the mixed paint, I got nervous. "That's the same green the living room was 25 years ago," I insisted. He thought not. But this is the first time we've ventured beyond the beige/cream/peach that's normally on the walls - it was a real step for us. Trading Space we are not, but we're trying to be.

I was so nervous about how the paint would look on the walls, ("maybe it's too much green") he suggested some new table toppers for the end tables. And then as long as we're here, do they have a piece of mirror for the medicine cabinet? (which now has a door, by the way) Ok, no mirror, but look at these nice picture frames that we need for those two prints you picked up at Art In The Park in June.

And we need to get that cabinet. And don't forget a can of coffee, some toothpaste and some bar soap. Oh look, the Halloween candy is out. Mommy needs to restock her office chocolate.

Total price of a trip that started out as two gallons of paint: $424. It was the Snickers bars that put us over the top, I know it was.

But I have a new jacket. And maybe by the time a month has passed, it will really be me, instead of just the me I want to be.

Blogs In Motion

Just a note to alert regular readers that In Over My Head and Musings From Behind The Maytag have both moved house in the last day or so. The links at the left have been changed to reflect their new locations.

Gee, maybe I started a trend?

By the way, Miss Maytag has posted a picture of her new house, and I just want to say, "Wow!" I think my entire humble abode could fit in her garage.

Road Weary

I. Am. So. Tired.

There are times when I enjoy being the only driver in our family unit. No fighting over the car, no trying to figure out who had the keys last, no moving the driver's seat back and forth to accomodate different heights. It can be good.

However, it's very wearying when you have a trip to take, and there's no one to share the driving with. Last night, hubby was gently nagging me to get to bed, and I said, "that's ok, I plan to nap on the way tomorrow."

Not.

It also appeared that all those Mercedes drivers of yesterday moved to the city of London overnight and started driving other cars. I swear, we weren't inside the city limits five minutes when the madness started. Sudden starts and stops, cars turning into my lane without warning - and the pedestrians! (the other kind) Darting across busy thoroughfares, causing me to jump on the brakes, lest I maim or kill someone.

But the country driving was nice, and even though it took us twice as long as the 401 would have, I was more relaxed. Until, that is, I started considering jumping on the 401 after all. The van chose that very second to have its thermostat indicator start behaving suspiciously. If I'm risking a breakdown, I'd rather be on the quiet roads, thankyouverymuch.

Had lunch with Kim. When I arrived, I suddenly realized that this year, unlike last year, we had SARS issues to contend with. Half the hospital entrances were locked, and the rest had huge signs saying STAFF ONLY. However, we wandered in and weren't accosted by any screeners. I was a little disturbed by that, in hindsight. I stopped at a local hospital two weeks ago and couldn't get three feet in the door without being asked to sanitize my hands and answer a questionnaire.

Nice response from an editor this morning, even though it was a no go. She liked it, please send more. I think I'll do that.

And now, I'm going to do the Daily Jigsaw, and head for bed. There's a day's worth of work to make up for.