“I am so perturbed right now, Ali, I’m going to sell you to the gypsies.”

“Do you know how many hours I have to work to pay for this closet full of clothing that you never wear?”

“I have been working like a slave all day!”

“Do not make me pull this car over!!!”

“Were you raised in a barn?”

“Because I said so!”

“If [insert friend name here] jumped off a bridge, would you do that too?”

“I have had it up to HERE!”

“You cannot go out with wet hair—you will catch a cold!”

—Ali’s mom, circa anywhere between 1978 and today.

I always laugh about the go-to Momisms. My mom isn’t just the person who fixes my bra straps, you know. She was the queen of the one liners!

Apparently, I was a cold-catching wet-haired ragamuffin who was getting sold to the gypsies. Also, I never wore any of my clothes—and I was clearly raised in a barn.

Sold to the gypsies?

Really?! Is that a thing? Did people actually get sold to the gypsies? I remember that once my mom told me that I had to change my outfit because I looked like Omar the Tentmaker, and I’m still—to this day—scratching my head over this one.

Omar? Is that you?

So, I laugh.

And yet.

I found myself sending Miss Isabella to school this morning in a green sundress, a pair of purple-flowered sandals, a giant orange headband, a too-small white cardigan, and a too-large polka dotted hoodie. Of course, at age 6, she is allowed her freedom of wardrobe, and so I don’t make too much of a fuss over what she chooses to wear.

And then, it just poured out of my mouth.

“I can’t believe I’m sending my child to school dressed like a ragamuffin!”

I guess I better brush up on my one-liners.

And figure out who the heck Omar the Tentmaker is…

Because, well, apparently I am my mother.

Right now, though, I will be blowing it up as big as I can before it starts to lose its perfection and I will be hanging it in my son’s room as a reminder of why he is off of sugar this week (He choose no sugar for a week over no screens for a week—wise choice, if you ask me. The girls disagreed. They’d rather have the sugar, because they are crazy people.) and how he managed to ruin the only thing I asked of my family for Mother’s Day: 45 minutes to do an outdoor shoot.

Someone—I’m not naming any names—decided that getting touched by girls was unacceptable and warranted actual tears.

“We’re not GIRLS, Josh. We’re SISTERS. There’s a difference, you know.”

Apparently, he did not know.

He does now.

Me: Oh my heavenly days!! All I wanted was to peel a stupid carrot and somehow—I don’t even know how this happened—but I managed to pull off the nail on my middle finger and it hurts like a bitch. OWWWWWWWWW!

Him: Hmm.

Me: This should probably be some sort of torture—ripping fingernails off one by one.

Him: You’d never survive.

Me: I totally wouldn’t. WAIT! I swear that this happened before. On TV. Maybe LOST? Someone had his fingernails ripped off, one at a time. Or maybe someone just threatened to do it? It had to have been LOST, right? Oh wait…I feel like it may have been George Clooney? Yes. It had to have been Clooney. But now I can’t remember a single movie he was in except for that staring at goats travesty and when he was the bad Batman.

Him: {shrugs}

Me: Can you imagine being a WORSE Batman than Michael Keaton?

Him: {shrugs}

Me: Well, now I obviously have to look it up.

Him: Awesome. (Insert sarcasm font.)

Me: Well, it’s inconclusive. I’m going to pretend it was on LOST. But, OHMIGOD. Obviously I could never ever ever be an astronaut.

Him: Was that in your 5-year plan?

Me: Well, I like to keep my options open, you know.

Him: So, being John Glenn was one of those options?

Me: Well, IT WAS. But, listen to this. According to this article…many astronauts actually RIP THEIR OWN FINGERNAILS OFF.

Him: On account of the space crazy?

Me: No! Their gloves are obviously poorly designed and apparently, their fingernails actually get torn off by the gloves and so instead of letting it happen on its own, astronauts preventatively rip off their own before going into space. Astronauts are crazy.

Him: So I don’t have to worry, then?

Me: All I wanted was a stupid carrot, and now ALL OF MY DREAMS ARE CRUSHED.

Him: I don’t know how we’ll move on from this.

Me: I don’t either. Sigh.

This whole delayed gratification thing is something I am trying desperately to teach my children, but at ages 6, 9 and 11…no dice. I can be all, “You can have this here peanut butter M&M right now, BUT! If you wanted to wait until tomorrow morning, you can have whole bags of M&Ms, in every kind, including the coconut ones that we thought we wouldn’t like but really ended up being delicious.” And guess which option all three of them go for? The single M&M. I shake my head and kind of laugh to myself—I could offer them the moon, and they’d still take the single M&M because it’s OHMIGODIWANTITNOW. And, of course, I get it. I do. And if you have ever been with me inside of an anthropologie or a Henry’s Camera or, well, if we are being honest, any grocery store in the history of ever, I want everything now. Also, I have been known to stay up until the wee hours of the morning (night?) (morning?) because I simply lack the skills it takes to WAIT until later. Also, cookies rarely make it into actual, baked cookies.

Mensa candidates, we are not.

Also, I’m thinking that Sting would be really disappointed.

My kids would totally never ever pass that stupid marshmallow experiment. I would totally pass it, by the by, because someone once told me that marshmallows are made with, like, animal parts. Or something. So, I am kind of anti-marshmallow—most of the time. I am so not strongly convicted in my convictions to be able to never eat marshmallows. (I mean, have you ever had a S’more?)

It’s funny, that.

Once upon a time, my oldest daughter decided that she wanted to be a vegetarian. She made it an entire week. And then we hit Friday night—the night we eat a Shabbat meal together. And the meal includes wonderful Jewish delicacies, including chicken soup. And then Emily just sort of lost it. “I’M OUT!” she exclaimed, and proceeded to eat four bowls of said soup. Everybody has a price. My price would not be chicken soup. I realize I should probably have my Jew card taken away from me, but, if we are being honest, I cannot eat chicken soup. I make it every single week, but while I am doing so, all I can think is “Hey! You know what chicken soup really is? DIRTY WATER.” As I watch a pot of water mixed with boiling chicken parts and vegetables turn into a pot of soup, I can’t help but try to tame my gag reflex.

I have always had a somewhat like/hate relationship with meat, and at a pre-teen, I dabbled in the art of vegetarianism and spent several years eating not much more than cheese and peanut butter. On my pediatrician’s request, I started adding meats back into my diet. But here’s the thing—I don’t even *like* meat. And here’s another thing—the ick factor with meat is HIGH. Anyone who has ever had to cut up a whole raw chicken knows about that smell, that texture. I am particular about the meat I will eat—it has to not resemble an animal of any kind. Flattened, battered and fried? Good. Still attached to bones? NOT good.

But they say that everyone has a price, right?

Well, for some reason, I will eat chicken wings.

I don’t even know either. 

So, I guess I fancy myself a FLEXITARIAN.

I eat marshmallows, when it suits me just fine. I eat meat, when it suits me just fine.

But you can sure as heck know that I would choose to wait until tomorrow to have the bags of M&Ms instead of just the wee single M&M.

Because I may be, somewhat confused about delayed gratification and about vegetarianism.

But one thing I am most definitely not confused about? M&Ms.

Also, in case you are also a little confused about delayed gratification, I’ll give you a little sneak peak:

Don’t say I never give you anything. 

UPDATE!!! Now you don’t have to wait…which kind of makes my whole post pointless, but I’m okay with it. GO HERE! Now!

That’s pretty sweet, if you ask me.

(See bloggers…it can be done!)

This space right here is not currently a money maker, unless, of course, you count the coffee money I get from running the two ads you might see on the top and in the right rail. In the interest of full disclosure, I take home a couple hundred dollars a month from those ads. Worth it, obviously, since there’s absolutely no work involved save for providing some prime real estate on my beautifully designed space on the web, and you get to see some lovely ads for Hidden Valley Ranch. Or something.

So, I don’t make money over here, per se. BUT, over the years I have cultivated some amazing relationships that have led to three jobs doing THIS—working in the world of blogging, online editing, social media, writing.

Dream come true, if you ask me.

Some other bloggy folks are living the dream as well, and some are making money the same way I am. But some are doing it differently—with online writing gigs, or freelance editorial jobs, or speaking engagements, or book deals, or writing product reviews, or being brand ambassadors, or writing advertorial. Here’s the thing: There’s no right or wrong way.

This is what works for me.

And it works so well. I get to continue to have this space to ramble on and tell my stories and continue my non-SEO friendly Seinfeld-ian way of writing—writing about nothing. And then, at the same time, I get to edit the work of other amazing and talented writers. I get to create relationship with unbelievable people. I get to hire fabulous bloggers. I get to research and create helpful resources, and I get to create great escape content, depending on the day.

But what I didn’t expect—and this is actually what the original point of my post was—was to spend so much of my day with a giant goofy grin on my face. I didn’t expect to just fall so in love with A CAREER. HighSchoolAli would have thought that a job was just a job. You know, something to GO to. But, then again, HighSchoolAli wore denim on denim and a lot of Doc Martens.

I mean, just yesterday, one of my lovely writers sent me A POEM that just had my peeing-in-my-pants laughing. I was trying to critique Rachel Berry’s prom dress (in the end the consensus is that YES, I absolutely love it) but I had to pause my television so I could read this poem out loud to get its full effect.

And I mean, just today, the email exchanges between the people I work with had me sitting in front of my laptop laughing OUT LOUD like a damn fool in front of no one but my dog and my husband’s bad taste in music. Because, you guys, somehow a conversation about a resource I am currently working on for Mother’s Day—a celebration of Canadian Mom Blogs—turned into a conversation about Jesus and about Mary being the first mom blogger and about how she didn’t need frankincense and myrrh—what she REALLY needed was a damn Diaper Genie.

And I mean, now I am going to use stencils and make myself a fancy rug because I really want to be HER when I grow up.

This is my life. It’s a really, really good one.

And I have this space to thank for it. I’m sure my family members who were like WHAT ON EARTH IS A BLAAAAAWG are kicking themselves for mocking me so much. See also: the friends who still don’t understand. But really, what I’m saying is, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re reading. I hope you’ll still continue to read my drivel. Because there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now.

And yet.

Asking my jaw to not click and pop when I chew?

Obviously overstepping because good lord, I’m now officially on an elderly person’s diet, minus the boiled chicken. Soft foods + painkillers. Oooh, my life is all thrills, I tell you.

I’m being punished for something, I know it.

SO, what is it?

Watching Degrassi without shame? Having inappropriate dreams about David Boreanaz? Not flossing enough? Looking at too much real estate porn? Letting my kids watch Dance Moms? Coveting Kelly Ripa’s dresses and arms and hair? Not liking chocolate? Watching Mad Men episodes three times to make sure I get every single tiny bit of subtext? Having too much rage again Zack and Cody? Having not enough rage against iCarly?

Embarrassing my children by singing my indie folk music—loudly—with the car windows rolled down? Going to bed too late? Mocking 50 Shades of Grey? Believing the radio when they told me that LOST might be returning to TV? Only learning how to pronounce acai this past week? Wanting the whole “ALL THE THINGS” thing to die and whining about it too much on social media?

Being too jealous of all of the old men driving MY Alfa Romeo? Not owning an umbrella? Not knowing how to dance? Owning a pair of jorts? Loving Cher? Wanting to grow thick Brooke Shields eyebrows? Quoting too many ’80s movies? Not liking the park?

WHAT IS IT?

And while you’re at it, you may as well pass the pudding. And the oatmeal.

Or, you know, I could do what normal people do and go to the dentist and get this stupid jaw looked at.

Or I could just eat soft foods forever. And whine on Twitter. 

I haven’t been on a bike since I was twelve years old—a red schwinn ten-speed. The “it’s just like riding a bike” expression? Well, it’s an expression for a reason. You really DON’T forget how to ride. So, John the bicycle guy has a house full of bicycles. I’m not even exaggerating, not even a little bit. According to him he had “bikes in every single room of this house, except the washroom.” And he wasn’t lying. Basement, office, dining room, living room, family room, kitchen. Bikes were everywhere. He sized me up really quickly and started racing around each room, looking for what I needed and wanted.

Unfortunately, this is what I needed and wanted.

Perfect, isn’t she? 

As I described Big Blue to him, the cogs started turning.

“I HAVE IT,” he said with a smile.

She’s not blue.

But she’s kind of perfect.

A copper CCM Sunsport, not of this era.

Just like me.

I’m a little bit obsessed in love with her.

She may not be Big Blue.

But she is GINGER. And she’s wonderful.

She is the kid who still cries every Sunday night when the babysitter shows up, even though she knows that this happens every single week and she is fully aware that we are not abandoning her. She asked a friend to teach her how to tie her shoes because, well, we forgot that shoe-tying is one of those skills we needed to teach her. She and I have a ten-minute long cuddle before I help dress her every morning while her brother and sister are self-sufficiently getting themselves ready for school. She laughs off bumps and bruises—she falls down, she gets back up, dusts off her tutu and keeps going. She is the kid who willed a tooth out of her head—one that was not ready to come out—just so she could have a tooth fairy like her siblings.

Dependence and independence. At the same time.

She’s such a little girl, still. She plays with baby dolls and barbies and likes to sit and do arts and crafts and snuggle. She still thinks light-up shoes are awesome. She loves the park. Fart jokes are always funny. She always has holes in her socks and she’s always covered head-to-toe in something messy. He hair is always unbrushed. She still would prefer a twoonie to a $5 bill, because the twoonie is more special-looking. She is terrified of ants.

But then, sometimes, I look at her, and I see her arms and legs getting longer and leaner—there’s not an ounce of baby fat left anywhere on her, not even on her cheeks. I see how her taste in television has matured from cartoons to iCarly. She rides a two-wheeler with no fear and complete gusto. She swims in the deep end of the pool. She skipped over two levels in figure skating. She adds and subtracts. She reads chapter books. She knows every word to every song on the radio right now.

WHO LET THIS CHILD GROW UP?

And how do I make it stop?

What I’m saying here, folks, is that I get the ENTERTAINMENT FACTOR. I get that some people will have read the 50 Shades of Grey series for entertainment purposes alone. They may have ignored the BELLA SWAN FACTOR (I did not) and they may have ignored the horrific attempt at WRITING (I did not) and they may have enjoyed the sex (I did not) and hey may have enjoyed the relationship between the principal characters, Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele (I did not) and they may have found it exciting! (I did not) and they may have ignored all the things I am about to talk about, and they don’t care. And I respect that. I’m not judging you.

The only person I am judging here looks an awful lot like, well, ME.

Truth be told, I was ready to throw in the towel about 45 pages in. But, in the name of research, obviously, I made it all the way through the three books. I needed to read the entire series to give a thorough review. And now I am done. And I am celebrating the fact that I will never have to read the phrases FAIR POINT WELL MADE or LATERS, BABY ever ever ever ever ever again.

Ever.

For those of you who have not read the books, here’s a little synopsis for you:

Meet Bella Swan. I mean, Anastasia Steele. Don’t let her life-on-the-pole name fool you, this chick is inexperienced. So inexperienced, in fact, that she spends an entire book telling you. Over and over and over again. Get used to this, though. Anastasia’s inner goddess is only slightly less annoying than her inner REPETITIVE LADY. Bella Swan Anastasia Steele is very clumsy and meets Christian Grey by falling down in front of him. Of course she does. She also, interestingly, is shocked that she has an email address.

Beware: Christian Grey is the most beautiful person on the face of the planet to ever exist ever. He is so beautiful, in fact, that Ana can only look at him THROUGH HER LASHES, as if that’s a thing. Also, he wears jeans a lot, and Ana makes sure to talk about his jeans. All the damn time. Especially the crushed and faded tight ones that hang on his hips. (what?) Christian, obviously, was in a boy band in a former life. In 1996. 

Bella Swan Anastasia Steele reminds us this on every page. At least twice. Casting for the movie version of this is going to be a problem, methinks. Because guess what? People like this do not exist. Lest you think that Christian is perfect, alas, he is not. While women are fainting at his impossibly gorgeous feet and legs and arms and face and hair, Ana is aware of his deep, dark secret. HE IS A CRAZY LUNATIC.

He has had a rough childhood. Surprise! HE IS DEXTER, basically, only he doesn’t kill people, he just makes brown haired women SIGN NDAs AND CONTRACTS and join him in his “playroom” for some “kinky fuckery.” ooooooookay. So, Bella Swan Anastasia Steele isn’t down with being slapped so she sets out to CHANGE HIM, because that’s always a good idea, ladies.

Christian spends every page trying to feed Ana. NO I AM NOT KIDDING. “Have you eaten?” “What did you eat today?” “Dammit, Ana, why haven’t you eaten?”"Let’s fuck…but first let’s eat peanut butter and jello sandwiches!”

Christian is rich. Very, very rich. Ana, apparently, doesn’t like money. Because Ana is stupid.

Also, just for fun, Ana refers to her special lady place as HER SEX. A lot. This gets old, quickly.

Instead of being able to change crazy controlling Christian, Ana spends three books trying to figure out how these two people can co-exist, even though I’m pretty sure this entire series spans over, like, six days. What happens, though, since they are both INSANE, is this:

Christian: I am so mad at you, Ana.

Ana: Don’t be mad at me. I want to work even though you make $100,000 an hour (WHAT?)

Christian: I am so mad at you.

Ana: Don’t be mad at me. And don’t buy me computers. I don’t want them. (I’LL TAKE THEM.)

Christian: I am so mad at you, I want to PUNISH YOU.

Ana: Don’t be mad at me, you are scaring me.

Christian: Stop biting your lip. Stop biting your lip. 

Ana: {bites lip}

Christian: Okay, let’s pretend we aren’t mad at each other and just have lots and lots of sex right now where you have the most amazing orgasm yet (It’s like straight out of The Bachelor. Up next: the most shocking rose ceremony yet!)

Ana: My sex forgives you, even though you are a crazy person.

LATHER RINSE REPEAT.

So, here’s the thing. I know you are probably thinking, “Wow, Ali, just ignore all the stupid stuff and just sit back with your vibrator and just enjoy the sex.” Now, here’s where I tell you that I ENJOY porn and sex and I dig this kind of stuff on a regular basis. (Not really the whips and stuff that Christian likes, including describing PERIOD SEX IN DETAIL, but, you know, the garden variety stuff. In other words, my sex life is healthy.) I did not enjoy this. I didn’t find the scenes hot in any capacity. Not even a single one. I was pretty bored by them, actually, and thought there were far too many. WE GET IT, CHRISTIAN AND ANA—YOU DO IT A LOT. Every page, it seems. At least every chapter.

So, even though they threw a DRAMATIC PLOT POINT into the book, including missing helicopters and kidnappings and blackmail, I was mostly bored to tears throughout the entire book.

Bonus thing that will make you laugh:

Easily the most unintentionally hilarious line in the book: “I can tell from his accent that he’s British.” Oh really? Amazing!

I am off to read something that doesn’t make me want to stab myself in my own eyeballs, which, incidentally, wasn’t in Christian’s contract.

It wasn’t like that one time when I lost her in a Target—when I saw my entire life flash before my eyes in the few seconds she was out of my sight. No. This was different. There was panic, sure, and that weird barfy feeling in the pit of my stomach. But, it was different. Even though my kid is loud and feisty and can be incredibly nerve-grating and I was absolutely certain that no one was going to want to snatch her, and even though we were the only crazy people who were out in the rain at 7:30pm at an arts and crafts store, I panicked, just a bit.

Okay, maybe kind of a lot. 

But, this time it was different.

Because I knew exactly where she was. 

Fondant. Icing bags. Gum paste. Cake stamps. Candy molds. Tips. Fluted pans. Edible glitter. Food coloring.

Of course she was there.

Because my kid, Isabella, she’s an interesting one. Sure, she enjoys riding her bike and playing with melty beads and Barbies and Full House and iCarly and going to the park. But, there is nothing in this world that my child likes more than Buddy Valastro.

Yes.

This Buddy.

She is a baker snob it seems—she refuses to even give Duff Goldman a chance. “He can’t possibly be as good as MY Buddy,” she says. It’s not even funny. She will not even sit through an episode of Ace of Cakes—she doesn’t want any part of it.

She watches episode after episode of this show, sometimes while wearing her apron. She has DVDs. She has episodes DVRd. She googled youtube clips. She knows the entire Cake Boss family. She knows what the cake decorating tools do. She knows the terms. Hoboken, New Jersey is an ideal family vacation destination for her.

She talks about the bakery she will have when she’s all grown up, and all of the cakes she will make.

She has already decided on a Barbie mermaid cake for her 7th birthday—that she wants to make ALL ON HER OWN.

No joke.

My kid wants to be a professional cake decorator. She wants to be Betty Crocker and, obviously, to her, Betty is a dear friend.

So, of course, that’s where I found her.

Drooling in the cake decorating aisle.

Researching.