Birthday Smackdown

Today is my birthday.

I am now officially one year older.

I was going to let this year, this anniversary slide by with nary a thought, but someone had other ideas.

A certain someone named Shawn Burns, otherwise known as Backpacking Dad.

Shawn got it in his head that my birthday needed to be celebrated. So he wrote a very lovely post dedicated to me and paying tribute to the friendship I have so generously bestowed upon him this last year.

While I love the fact he obviously has nothing better to do with his time other than to write odes to random mommybloggers on their birthdays, I feel compelled to set the record straight.

I am not FORTY.

I am in fact, 33. A young 33.

I would also like to point out that I do not have six double chins as the picture he posted of me implies.

Just so y'all know.

Harumph.

My Geekiness and a Giveaway! Freebies!

I am not a people person. I know. You are shocked. Heh. Let me clarify. I love people. All people. Just not when you stick more than three of them in a room with me all at once.

Crowds freak me out. I start to sweat and twitch and my left eye develops a nervous tic. I generally end up standing alone in a dark corner, with my eyes squeezed shut and my arms hugging my body while rocking back and forth humming soothing lullabies to myself in order to block out the chaos.

I tend to be a LOT of fun at weddings and parties. Ask my husband. Heh. That's me, the life of the party.

For this reason, I do my damndest to avoid large crowds. I don't go to fairs, I don't enjoy public sporting venues and parades? Well, they just freak me right the fack out with all the partying people and blow up balloons dancing in the streets.

There is one thing that can draw me out of my private little sanctuary and entice me to brave the crushing throng of a crowd and ignore the hordes of people around me.

That one thing is a good concert. Which is now only slightly ironic, since I'm technically half deaf and can't hear the actual music over the din of roaring fans.

Still, music is a passion of mine and it's the one thing guaranteed to pull me off my arse, off the couch and into a stadium.

Not that I've been to a lot of concerts. I have to be really enticed to get off said arse, shower, slap on the ole war paint and elbow my way through a packed stadium to pay disgusting amounts of money for the pleasure of being jostled, stepped on and hollered at to attend a concert.

There have been some memorable concerts though. The very first concert I ever attended was with my mother. It was a folk/country artist playing at a small venue. There was no screaming fans, no tossed panties. But the intimacy of being able to reach out and touch a live performer while he wove his magic with song and music for the audience charmed me and forever cemented my love for live music.

My first real rock concert didn't happen until I was 14. My best friend and I twisted our parents arms into buying us tickets to watch Janet Jackson thrust her pelvis all over center stage. I don't remember much about the actual concert, I just remember the intoxicating feeling of feeling grown up enough to sit in a packed stadium without our parents and watch this famous chick shake her little booty around the stage.

There have been other equally memorable concerts I had the pleasure of attending. Each one magical in their own way, each one knitting their magic into my subconscious and leaving behind sweet memories after the lights are turned up and the crowd slowly exits from the building.

One concert will always mean more to me than all the rest, one concert alone will always captivate and enthrall my memory. I had been waiting more than half my life to see this person live and in person and I began to despair that it would never happen.

Just when I was about to give up hope, life nudged me, winked and tossed me a bone.

Elton John was coming to town. I tend to be a laid back type of gal, but let me tell you, when I managed to get a hold of two tickets to his concert in a nearby city, I squealed like the young school girl I once was, discovering the magic of Tiny Dancer.

My parents were equal parts amused, ashamed and slightly horrified by my teenage crush on a flamboyant 70's piano man. While other kids my age were rocking out to New Kids on the Block, I was sitting alone in my room belting out the chorus of Bennie and the Jets.

What can I say? Sequins, big glasses, small hands and a piano do it for me.





Dear Elton. I love you. In a totally inappropriate and probably slightly creepy way.

Since my discovery of Sir Elton, no other musician has been able to hold a Candle in the Wind next to him. (Sorry. Couldn't help myself.)

His music has coloured the tapestry of my life like no other artist. So the excitement to see him perform just mere meters in front of me was well worth the annoyance of fighting the throng of traffic, getting raped for parking, having my feet stepped on, enduring the people behind me kicking my seat repeatedly and smelling the manly odour emanating from a rather large man sitting next to me who very obviously was unconcerned with the length of his ear and nose hairs.

It was a sweet moment in my life, those two hours and forty minutes I caterwauled along with the crowd while trying not to spill my beer. While it may not have been the flashiest concert I've attended, it will always be the best concert I had the privilege to attend.

The only thing that could have made the evening more enjoyable, other than Sir Elton gazing out into the audience, locking eyes with me and dedicating his entire play list to his number one fan Tanis, while beckoning for me to sprawl out on his piano as he pounded out the tunes, was if I had remembered to bring my damn camera.

(Hey. Everyone has a fantasy. Don't knock mine.)

I own four freaking cameras. All very expensive cameras, including one highly coveted and worth more than my life, DSLR. Yet, did I remember to bring even my tiniest point and shoot?

No. Did I remember to even bring my damn camera cell phone along? No. I blame this on the panic attack I had shortly before leaving for the concert and realizing it wouldn't just be me alone listening to the sweet crooning of my favourite piano man. Damn you other Elton fans for not allowing me the luxury of a private serenade. Daaaaammmmmn.

But because I am thoughtful, and I know people who know people, I want to make sure my blog readers never experience the same crushing disappoint from realizing they forgot to smuggle a camera past concert security thugs and come up empty handed when reaching for a camera to immortalize a magic moment for themselves.

While I can't guarantee you will remember to bring the damn thing, I can provide you with one. Drop me a comment, tell me about your favorite concert moment or simply just say hi and you will be entered to win one brand spanking new, never been out of the box, Canon PowerShot SD1100 IS digital camera. Retail value approx. $199.00 USD.

*Accessories, battery and memory stick not included. Sorry folks. You're on your own for that.*





Drop me a comment and this could be yours!

The contest will remain open until Midnight, mountain standard time, Sunday, September 21, 2008. After such time I will randomly draw a name out of a hat and ship the camera, which has been sitting on my coffee table for a week now, off to the lucky winner and out of my damn house.

Please note, I will not be held responsible for any dirty photos or badly angled shots exposing double chins or nose hairs taken with said camera.

But I wouldn't mind if you showed them to me. Wink.

Good luck! And don't forget to include your email address so I can contact the lucky winner!

Cellphones, Teenagers and the Art of War

As my daughter so charmingly pointed out last night, she's more than half-grown and already has one foot out the door.

"Only six more years to freedom, Mom!"

It's hard to take her eagerness to grow up personally, (although I will admit to a fleeting desire to help move her a little quicker out of the nest by firmly planting my foot in her arse and giving her a shove,) when it doesn't seem so long ago that I, myself, was chomping at the bit to shuck my parent's constrictive reigns and get my first real taste of grown up freedom.

I dreamed of sweet adult freedoms like no curfews, the ability to listen to my music as loudly as I wanted without my father yelling at me to turn that racket off and being able to take a shower without my sister pounding on the bathroom door whining about how I was hogging all the hot water.

But like most adults, the crash of reality came tumbling around my ears when I realized I'd have to cook my own dinners, the fridge didn't magically restock itself and the bills would just keep arriving no matter how many times I swept them under the bed.

Suddenly, the savory freedom of adulthood was no longer as palatable as it once was when I was dreaming of it while under the cushiony comfort of my parent's roof.

That's a lesson Fric and Frac have yet to learn and while I look forward to watching them taste their first bite of grown up independence, I'm in no hurry to wish away what little remains of their childhood.

I now understand that time is a finite thing and all too quickly I will be puttering around in my empty house, calling them a million times a day while wondering why they never come to see me anymore.

Still, trying to explain this to my children so they understand is like trying to understand what it is my husband actually does for a living whenever I bother asking.

All I hear is blah blah blah Tower three blah blah blah tools blah blah blah. I end up tuning him out while imagining doing sexy times with Daniel Craig much the same way my kids tune me out and dream of sugar plums and fairies when I tell them not to rush growing up.

While the sands of parenting are quickly shifting around my feet with every step they take closer to adulthood, I find myself enjoying my kids even more than I did the day before. They are becoming little people; people whom I have molded and twisted and formed into little mini Tanis's.

It's rather cool, I thought to myself, smiling as I watched my children whine about how no one else's parents make them eat brussel sprouts for dinner.

"What's so funny?" Fric asked while noticing my goofy grin.

"Nothing," I covered, not wanting to be busted for my sudden sappy mood. Better they think I'm a hardened prison warden, capable of no mercy. It makes growling at them much more believable when I need it.

"I was just wondering how you enjoyed your birthday, Fric. I was wondering if all your birthday wishes came true." Nicely done, Tanis. Totally turn the tables and her attention back to herself so she doesn't realize you are really a big ball of gooey mush when you think of your spawn. I mentally patted myself on the back.

"Well, I really liked the party you threw for me. It was a lot of fun to have all my cousins play with me over the weekend. I didn't even mind that you burned supper and dropped the cake. The cool presents made up for that," she graciously offered.

Geez kid. Thanks. You try cooking supper with 13 small children tugging at your apron strings and you sister-in-law pouring wine coolers down your throat until you can no longer see straight. Let's see how well you cook cross-eyed. Everyone was damn lucky I bought a veggie platter so at least something was edible as I slurred and stumbled around like a drunken fool.

"But I didn't get the one thing I really wanted," she sighed heavily.

"Oh really? And just what was that?" I asked curiously, hoping she wouldn't tell me she wished for her brother's resurrection or something just as miraculous.

"I didn't get a cell phone," she moaned.

"Oh puh-leeez," I drawled. "What in the world do you need a cell phone for when you are TWELVE years old? You are picked up and chauffeured around in a bus and spend all day at school surrounded by your friends. And if you aren't there, you are at home with me, where we have not one but three phones. I think you can live without a cell phone for now," I firmly told her.

"But MOOOOM. Everyone in my class has one. Even my cousin! I'm like the only kid in school who doesn't have one," she whined.

"Your brother doesn't have one and he goes to the same school," I pointed out.

"Fine," she rolled her eyes. "We are the only TWO kids in the entire school who aren't cool enough to have a cell phone. It's embarrassing."

I looked at her and the image of me having this same conversation with my mother when I was twelve flashed before my eyes. Except substitute cell phone for acid washed jeans. Trippy.

"And if everyone jumped off a bridge you would too? I thought I raised you to be an independent thinker?"

"MOOOOM." Eye roll. Good thing I'm getting used to seeing the back of her eyeballs. It doesn't freak me out anymore. Suddenly she switched tactics. "If I had a cell phone I could be even more of an independent thinker. I would be able to have intellectual debates with my friends via text messages."

Not bad. At least she swung at the pitch even if she completely struck out.

"You mean if you had a cell phone you could flirt with the boys and gossip with the girls while you are supposed to be doing your math studies." I'm no fool. You are busted kiddo. Your momma ain't that old.

"You just don't get it," she sighed heavily.

"Oh I get it. But you aren't getting it. A cell phone that is. Not until you start working and driving. Then we'll talk," I told her as I pinched her adorable pouting little cheeks.

"What about negotiations! You always say there is room for compromise. Where is the compromise here?" she half whined, half argued.

Damn. I hate when they actually listen to me, twist my words to their benefit and toss them at my feet. Clever devil spawn.

Looking at her, I could see she wasn't going to give this up any time soon. I had two choices - play her game or put my foot down and be forever remembered as the mean mommy.

"Fine Fric. Here's your compromise. Your negotiation," I finger quoted. Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. (Dear lawd it can be fun to torture your offspring sometimes, I thought to myself as I could see the hope suddenly blossom in her mind.)

"You can have a cell phone -" Fric squealed with glee and clapped her hands while I spoke. (Such an amateur. She has much to learn still. Heh.)

"Or you can have a year's supply of toilet paper. One or the other. Not both. And that is my final answer. There is your compromise. YOU decide which is more important. And keep in mind there won't always be leaves on the tree for you to use," I grinned.

"MOM!" She wailed.

"Take it or leave it kid. Those are your options. You decide."

She looked at me and tried to decide if I really would deprive her of teepee for the year. I could see the battle wage within her.

"Fine. You win. Toilet paper," she whispered broken-heartedly.

"Wise choice, kiddo," I winked at her. "Better to be the only kid in class without a cell phone than the stinky kid. Now go do your homework."

Fric shuffled off, defeated by her wily mother, and muttering obscenities under her breath.

I may have won that battle, but I know the war is only beginning. I better keep an eye on her closet and make sure she doesn't start stock piling toilet paper any time soon.

After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.