Half of my household uses the lavatory in the way it was intended: get in, do your business and get the heck out. The other half uses it like a relaxing think tank that requires a considerable array of entertainment options.

“Mom, can you bring me another book, please?” hollered my eight-year-old daughter the other day after being in there for over half an hour.

Without hesitation I fetched a book from her bedroom. Hey – don’t judge me. She was asking for a real book for heaven’s sake. That beats her preferred activity of surfing YouTube or playing video games while on the throne.

“You shouldn’t let her monopolize the bathroom for such long periods of time,” one of my childless friends counseled me. Really? I should give up that peace and quiet? It’s not like we don’t have two other toilets in the house.    

“It’s her private time and she likes it,” I explained. “Some people are just that way.” One of those people is her dad. Another was a boss I had 26 years ago when I was a manager-in-training at McDonalds.

“I used to work for a guy who would spend 45 minutes in the bathroom every afternoon beginning at 2 o’clock sharp,” I said. “Like clockwork he’d roll up the newspaper, smack it against the counter and tell me to hold down the fort while nature called.”

Being a quick in-and-outer myself, I found his scheduled escapes fascinating and a welcome reprieve for the staff and me.  But my boss’s boss saw it as a theft of time when he discovered his employee’s well-known routine. Once he realized the daily breather was in addition to extended lunch and coffee breaks, Mister Two O’Clock Sharp was fired. I lost track of his bathroom habits after that.

Curious about others’ trips to the loo, I asked some people how long they usually spend there. Similar to my family, about half were speedy like my son and me, and half were as slow as molasses.

“It’s the only time I get to be alone,” a mother of five replied. “I’ll stay in there as long as I possibly can.”

“It’s my sanctuary,” my yoga instructor friend said. “And I come up with my best ideas when I’m on the can.” Ah… how Zen.

The bathroom has certainly evolved over the years and the wonderful invention of the toilet has given people a comfy place to hang out. I doubt many people were lingering in the smelly outhouses of years ago.

Nowadays bathrooms can be the nicest rooms in a house, and it’s rare not to find a magazine to browse or something else to do while in there.  One of my friends has magnetic poetry on the wall beside the toilet to help pass time.

“My mother thinks it’s unsanitary,” she said. “But it’s no different than holding a book. After the task at hand is complete and toilet paper has been used, people generally wash their hands and leave. If they don’t, there are plenty of other things in the house she should worry they’ll touch.”

Fortunately slowpokes on the toilet tend to be slowpokes at the sink too. And why not? Lavatories are so much more than what they were once intended. 

To watch my video this week please click below. It has absolutely nothing to do with toilets, but it does involve a couple world leaders who use them just like the rest of us. 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=m00KgcBE8vQ

The most magical moment of my life was holding my first child right after he was born. The only other moment that can match that happened three years later when I was blessed with my second child, a beautiful baby girl.

Would I want to repeat that experience and have a third? No thanks, I’m happy with two, and my husband is as well. Our children, on the other hand, want more.

“I don’t see why we can’t have another baby,” our eight-year-old daughter pleaded recently.

“Yeah,” her 11-year-old brother agreed. “We’ll do all the work, we promise!”

Right. I’m pretty sure I heard them singing that tune a couple of years back when they were begging for dogs. That time, I caved. This time, I won’t.

I loved the baby stage and every time I see a baby, precious memories come flooding back. Yet I never have that longing desire to have more because my family already feels complete. I also don’t want to be outnumbered.

“Why don’t you babysit instead?” I suggested to the kids. “I have friends who have babies. While I visit with the mommies you two could play with their little ones.”

Thinking that was a grand idea, Daisy handed me the phone so I could make instant arrangements. If only I could have been this clever when they were asking for puppies.

One of my best friends has a BBB rating for her current mood in motherhood and I’ll never forget when she first told me about it.

“I find myself feeling either blessed, burdened or buzzed,” she said sipping her glass of wine after dinner. Slurping back a Baileys and coffee at the time, I completely agreed.

Being a mom is the most glorious, rewarding and joyful gift imaginable. Yet it can also be the most challenging, frustrating and overwhelming job ever. Alternating between these mindsets is just part of the gig. If you’re a mom and this never happens to you, you must be a saint. I am not.

I’m just a typical busy mom trying to strike a balance that works well for me and my family while doing my best to feel blessed way more often than burdened or buzzed. Some days are easier than others, but Mother’s Day should be a breeze.

On that day I’m likely to receive wonderful homemade gifts and be showered with love and affection. If I’m really lucky, the kids will pick up their stuff lying all over the house, figure out where it goes, and put it away.

In honour of my inspiring grandmothers, my loving mother-in-law and my beautiful mother who brought me into this world when she was still just a child herself, I thank all the mothers out there who are also doing their best. Whether we’re rich or poor, working or not, married or single, all good moms want the same thing: to raise healthy, happy people who feel loved and love life.

Isn’t that what we wished for them the first time we held them in our arms?

To watch my son interviewing kids for Mother’s Day, please click below: 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoJIKt1UnNE

After three days of driving my kids all over town to their different activities this past weekend – squinting from the sun as I did so – I finally found the sunglasses I’d misplaced. It wasn’t until late Sunday afternoon that I unexpectedly caught a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye, as I was driving home with my eight-year-old daughter. 

“Look,” I said, pointing at them. “There they are!”

Perched directly below the windshield wipers in the groove between the hood and the front window were the sunglasses I’d been looking for. I was worried they would blow off the car until I realized they’d been there for days.

As soon as I was able, I pulled over to the side of the road and Daisy excitedly jumped out to retrieve them. I grabbed my camera to take a picture of where they’d been all weekend, amazed they were still there.

This wasn’t the first time I’d found an item I’d been searching for wedged somewhere on my car after driving around for awhile. It was a huge relief the day I found my iPhone in virtually the same spot as my sunglasses.

Not everything I’ve put on the top of my car has managed to survive though. Over the years various items and several cups of coffee have bit the dust on my absent-minded drive-a-ways. The worst was the time I backed up over my laptop computer which was sitting on the ground waiting to be put in the trunk.

Despite the reminder “Don’t forget to put your briefcase in your trunk,” from a helpful stranger who saw me herding my kids into the car one day in a rush, I did exactly that: I forgot to put my briefcase in my trunk.  And inside that briefcase was my brand new laptop.

I didn’t remember until minutes later, when I was driving down  the road, and heard it being dragged along underneath my car. Panicked, I pulled over to the side and desperately tried to free it from the firm grasp of the undercarriage of my Beetle.

“Our mom drove over her computer,” the kids explained to a lady walking by with her dog. I said nothing as I laid on the ground grunting and pulling at my bag which I eventually disengaged.

The briefcase, which was actually a computer bag, was badly ripped and had to be thrown out. And the underbelly of the car needed a bit of attention from the mechanic. But I felt very lucky that the computer still worked, even with the gravel and soot in the keyboard.

“Why are you so forgetful?” my 11 year old son asked after we told him about the sunglasses when we arrived home.  

“Yeah, Mom,” my daughter said. “What’s up with that?”

Good questions. I guess I’m just trying to do too much, too fast,  as usual. Doing less and slowing down would make a ton of sense, so that’s what I’m going to do. If I can remember.

(PS: No, I haven’t forgotten to post the video this week. Slowing down the production of videos is part of my vow to slow down. Wish me luck!)

Eleven years ago, when I was running my own family daycare and supervising seven children aged three and under, music was my saviour.

No, I didn’t put my headphones on and crank my iPod to drown out the sound of the kids. I’d put a CD in the ghetto blaster, announce to the crew it was party time, and play some of their favourite tunes from musicians like Raffi, Fred Penner and Norman Foote.

Watching the little ones prance around in their own unique ways was an instant delight and a welcome reprieve, even in my most frazzled moments. Their CDs weren’t background music in my home, they were special, and reserved for carved-out blocks of time in our day when we all needed a break. Most of all me.

So when I recently had the opportunity to meet one of my musical saviours who unknowingly helped me keep my sanity all those years, I had two words for him: Thank you.

Norman Foote was on the receiving end of those words and was about to put on a show to entertain a lot more than just seven youngsters and me. He’d be playing for hundreds of folks, ranging from babies to seniors, and delighting them all. On top of that, he would be managing about 100 elementary-aged children up on stage with him who would be serving as his backup singers for their very first time.

I felt like I was meeting a superhero. A superhero with no cape.

“The most important thing to me is that these kids have a blast,” he said pointing to the excited students who were standing on stage ready to entertain the audience. “And,” he added, “to put on a great show for everyone out there.”

He succeeded on both counts.

As I watched from my seat in the theatre I couldn’t help but notice what a fabulous time we were all having, particularly my eight year old daughter, Daisy, who I could barely keep my eyes off of. 

She wasn’t sitting beside me, she was one of those students on the stage. Singing, laughing and gesturing dramatically, she was clearly having the time of her life. For months she and the other back up singers had been learning Norman Foote songs and the movements to go along with his lyrics. They’d obviously been paying attention.

After the fun, funny show was over, the energy in the place was high and I wanted to bottle it and sell it for millions. Not knowing how to do that, I waited until the beloved musician finished signing autographs and swooped in with my video camera to capture Daisy conduct her very first surprise interview him.

As he graciously answered her questions it dawned on me that his writing style is similar to mine. His songs, like my columns, are about the everyday. He writes about grandfather clocks and family pets and things like the crazy colourful shirt he fell in love with at a consignment store.

Of course, the comparisons end there. Light years ahead of me, he’s a Juno Award-winning musician while I can barely carry a tune. He’s also a brilliant family performer who makes entertaining for all ages look easy when I know the opposite is true.

Norman Foote is a superhero alright. He might not have a cape, but he’s got one heck of a nice, new second-hand shirt.

To watch Daisy’s interview with him please click below:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Md1ekEFNAc

I already wrote my column earlier this week, and it was brilliant. The problem was, I wrote it in my head while I was sleeping and when I woke up I forgot my incredibly detailed dream within seconds.

This is why I have a pen and paper on my nightstand - so I can immediately capture these subconscious ideas before they fly out of my head. But even if I didn’t have a stack of magazines covering my notebook this time, I wouldn’t have been able to write it down quickly enough. It was as if the thoughts in my brain wanted to get away from me as quickly as possible.

Why they were in such a hurry to disappear on this occasion, I’m not sure. Other times the thoughts linger around long enough for me to jot down a few words, which helps tremendously. That is until it’s time to look at the chicken scratch later and try to decipher what it actually says. I could wallpaper my office with all the little pieces of paper I’ve collected over the years with words I wrote, but couldn’t figure out what they actually said.

I don’t just do this when I’m half asleep either, it often happens when I’m awake. A great thought might pop in my head or my kids might say some nugget of gold I never want to forget, so I’ll quickly grab a pen and write it down. But if I don’t write it down legibly I could be left feeling like I just let go of a million dollar idea. It’s similar to that feeling you get when you find an expired lotto ticket.

Last week I discovered an old wallet with a bunch of expired lottery tickets and scratch cards. I didn’t realize they were dead until I got them checked, but each and every one of them was gonzo. What a strange feeling to hold a pile of tickets that may or may not have been winners.

I don’t imagine my husband would ever allow that to happen. He’d understand that lottery tickets expire and if you don’t transfer them to your new wallet when you first get it, chances are they’ll be forgotten until it’s too late.

“You should always check them right away,” he’d probably say if I told him. “Maybe that unclaimed prize of ten million was in there the whole time, but now we’ll never know.”

And he’d be right, now we’ll never know.

But soon we’ll know if my application was accepted for Canada’s Greatest Know-It-All, a reality TV show I couldn’t be less suited for.

“My husband would be good on a program like that,” I told my friend when he suggested I send in an application video. “He watches tons of shows on the Discovery Channel and Knowledge Network and always wins any trivia game he plays. Next to him, I know nothing.” 

I made a video application displaying exactly that and sent it in. I had to. It was a “brilliant” idea that came to me from an incredibly detailed dream that actually stuck around long enough for me to write it down. Legibly. 

To watch my silly application for Discovery Channel, please click below: 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fx19JdC1pY4

After easily avoiding every single episode of the Real Housewives of Anywhere, my curiosity was piqued last week with its latest franchise, primarily because it was filmed in Vancouver where I was born and raised.

I figured I’d tune in at least once to catch some of the beautiful Vancouver sights, and maybe see a few familiar faces. I watched the first two episodes while I worked out, and surprisingly, my time in the gym whizzed by.

“Did you like it?” one of my girlfriends asked excitedly. I had to admit: I did.

I can’t say why exactly, but I recognized instantly that it was a guilty pleasure comparable to eating grilled cheese sandwiches made with processed Velveeta and white bread. I knew it wasn’t great for me and there were much healthier alternatives, but it wasn’t going to kill me either.

The five gorgeous housewives featured in the show live very different lives than I do. They live very different lives than almost every woman I’ve ever known. But it wasn’t their extreme wealth and privilege that I found interesting, it was the inane dramatic situations

that I got a kick out of, even knowing how staged they were.

“It’s not real,” one of my male friends said. “Two of them aren’t even from Vancouver. They’ve been transported from Toronto and the shows are scripted.”

Who cares, I thought after I saw it. It was funny.

“But it’s not intended to be a comedy,” he said. “I don’t get how you could like that crap.”

I understood his frustration with me. After years of voicing my dislike at the mere idea of reality TV, I must seem like a complete traitor to him. Especially for a show obnoxiously  celebrating meaningless excess and aesthetics. 

“Didn’t you find it amusing how that one woman would bully her friends and when she was confronted, she’d turn it around and tell them to get over it and get therapy?” I asked. “Or the woman who said that her primary source of income was two divorces. Full stop.” 

“No,” he replied. “They were contemptible.”

I couldn’t take it as seriously as that, though. It reminded me of the days when I watched Joan Collins and Linda Evans scrapping it out in their glitzy shoulder-padded ensembles on Dynasty, a popular ‘80s show.   

But, like Dynasty, is the Real Housewives of Vancouver a must see? Is it going to add value to my life? Are these the kind of women I would choose to hang out with in real life? No, no, and you never know.  

Unlike the queen-bee bully of the show who preached the importance of not judging others and then proved to be incredibly judgmental herself, I refuse to judge these women because I don’t know them.  As far as I’m concerned, they are just playing exaggerated caricatures of themselves for the sake of entertainment.

Sure, their job is easier than an actor’s because they don’t have to learn lines. But their job is also harder because people assume they are the personas they represent since it’s supposed to be “real.”

True or not, it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to feel less empty about my new guilty pleasure, so I’ve decided to only watch it when I’m working out. I can justify doing so if it makes my workouts whiz by.

To see how others felt about the Real Housewives of Vancouver when I asked, please watch my streeter interview below:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2KrJxN3Mvg

Like every Easter weekend of my life I will be doing one of two things this year: eating chocolate or trying not to. 

Since Easter replaced Valentine’s Day, which replaced Christmas, which replaced Halloween in the holiday section of the grocery stores, I’ve been indulging in chocolate treats for the last several months. But with summer fast approaching, I’ve decided to give up the junk.

“I’ve heard that before,” my husband said in response to this latest declaration. He’s right. He has.

In my defence I would just like to point out that it’s not easy being a chocoholic. I tried hypnotherapy last year, thinking I could by tricked into believing chocolate tasted like dirt, and I would be cured from my cravings. However, it was a little more complex than that, and I stopped going.

Since I’m still addicted to chocolate and find it irresistible, I’d like to suggest another solution. Why not change the Easter Bunny’s treats from chocolates eggs to carrot sticks? Bunnies eat vegetation, so this makes perfect sense.

Imagine how much more exciting Easter egg hunts would be for children if we replaced all the chocolates and candies with items from the produce aisles instead. Kids could race around collecting carrots and celery, and completely freak out when they find something as extra special as a big head of purple cabbage.  

And if it worked for this holiday, why wouldn’t it work for others as well? On Valentine’s Day we could treat ourselves to artichoke hearts; on Christmas Day we could eat figgy and skip the pudding; and on Halloween we could trick or treat for pumpkin seeds.

Okay, my kids wouldn’t go for any of that either. But maybe if I’d started doing that for them as toddlers, they would.

“Can we get this, Mom?” my eight year old daughter asked, holding a huge chocolate bunny at the store last night. “Please?”

“Maybe you’ll get one for Easter,” I said, envisioning a much smaller version.  

“How about this, then?” she said picking up a bag of jelly beans. “They’re fat free.” Like me, she’s a sucker for clever packaging.

Managing to get past this section of the store without any candy, she was pleading once again when we got to the check-out.

“Can I have one of these?” she asked, pointing at the Kinder Surprises that were positioned perfectly for her height. “Please, Mama?” 

“Sure,” I relented. With its thin layer of chocolate and the little toy inside, it seemed almost healthy in comparison to the pounds of sugar we just avoided. And I knew from experience that denying children treats could create a rebellious habit when they’re old enough to buy it themselves.

After years of struggling with my weight when I was younger, I remember discovering one day as an adult that dark chocolate was actually good for me. It was a glorious day indeed. But “only a little bit,” according to the famous Dr. Oz, who recommended eating one small square a day. Good grief. That’s as unnatural as eating one measly potato chip and then closing the bag. 

Whoever first said “everything in moderation” should be given a giant chocolate bunny and a huge bag of potato chips this Easter. I, on the hand, will be feasting on a big head of purple cabbage. Yum.

To watch my Easter video and find out how the Easter Bunny lives the rest of the year, please click below:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjAX1KTq1hs

Ask me what kind of food I’ll eat and I’m open to almost anything, but ask me what kind of movie I’ll watch and suddenly I become picky.

“We used to go to action movies all the time,” my husband said recently while reviewing the current theatre listings. “Now you’re only into the chick flicks.”

Well, if you call dramas, comedies, documentaries and foreign films “chick flicks,” I guess that’s true. And he’s absolutely right that we used to go to action movies way back when and now I never want to.

Even if the movie is starring my favourite actors I won’t be interested if it’s full of car chases or violence. But I realize that I was never interested in that particular genre; I was just less selective about how I spent my free time and watched almost anything if I could call a big tub of buttered popcorn dinner.

What happened to change that? I believe it was becoming a parent.

“I don’t want to go to the trouble and expense to see a movie I have zero interest in,” I’ve explained. “You see the shoot ’em ups with one of your bro friends and I’ll see the rom-coms with one of my girlfriends.” But guess what? Nine times out of ten he wants to see the romantic comedy too.

So off we’ll go to another chick-flick that I invariably fall asleep in immediately after polishing off my unhealthy snacks, which leaves my husband trying to keep me awake so I don’t miss anything, or trying to keep me awake so I can regret the bad movie I selected.

But, to me, a bad comedy is still better than a good action, just like a bad drama is still better than a good horror. Normal people with less discriminating tastes would disagree.

“Why don’t you choose the movie one time and let him choose the next time?” our pal suggested one day.

“Or… “ I said. “You two could see the boy movies together and I’ll do anything else.”

But it’s rare for my husband to go to the movies with his guy friends, and if he does, they’ll always sit with an empty seat between them. If I sat a seat away from my girlfriends they’d ask me why I was doing that. And one of my friends would ask me loudly.

“Shhh… “ I whispered to Jen at the last movie we went to after she erupted into an obnoxious cackle during a quiet, serious scene. “People are giving us the evil eye.”

“Oh who cares?” she said chomping on her ice. “This movie’s lame.”

So even a bad drama with a loud friend is better than a good action with a quiet husband. Of course, the down side of seeing a movie with someone that noisy is not being able to sleep.

“Were you just snoring?!” she asked elbowing my shoulder when I began to nod off.  And then her obnoxious cackling returned.

To watch my video about theatre etiquette please click below:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0fBdDLGX0k

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m a Canadian and I don’t love hockey.

So why am I writing about Hockeyville for a second time? My only explanation is this: community spirit is contagious.

Believe me, if it wasn’t, I’d be writing about something else entirely. I’d be writing about a topic that any North American could identify with since my column publishes beyond my hometown and I don’t want to bore my readers with articles they can’t relate to.

But who hasn’t at some time been caught up in the frenzy surrounding a special event in their own city, whether it be a festival, a parade or a sporting event? And who hasn’t known someone who’s miserable about all of it in the face of other people’s joy?

As thousands of my fellow residents have banded together in the last five months, writing letters and logging countless hours in an effort to win the bid for Kraft Hockeyville, there are a few who spend almost as much energy complaining about the whole idea.

If you’ve never heard of Hockeyville, it’s a contest sponsored by Kraft that gives smaller communities across Canada a chance to win $100,000 in arena upgrades, gain national exposure and receive the exciting opportunity to host an NHL game at their very own rink.

At this final stage of the contest, my hometown of West Kelowna is one of the five finalists and the frenzy here has hit impressive heights. And while it might appear that it’s because of the prizes being offered, I believe it’s because of the strong camaraderie being felt in a community that once felt very divided.

In my mind it’s proof that positive energy and working for the greater good can affect people in powerful ways. But not everyone.

“I think it’s stupid,” a grumpy gal told me one day. “It’s a huge waste of time. People need to get a life.” Oh well, you can’t please everyone.

For fun I went out and conducted interviews with people and public officials channeling her grouchy attitude. While I wouldn’t want to live my real life that way, she was a fun character to play for a few hours.

Being negative is tough. I know this because I get that way from time to time and it’s physically and emotionally draining. Switching gears to a more positive attitude isn’t always easy, but it’s definitely worth the effort.

And the effort so many people have put into winning this contest has been worth it too. One of the things that divided our our new municipality a few short years ago was deciding on our name. That resolved, there’s now an overwhelming majority of us excitedly united and hoping to be called Hockeyville. Win or lose, that wonderful solidarity is an amazing prize that’s already ours.

To watch the video of me being a grumpy grump reporter, please click below: 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ssm_7Rc-4yU

Two years ago I proudly watched the opening ceremonies of The Winter Olympic Games as it was televised from my home town of Vancouver. As one man took center stage from a towering pedestal platform, I heard “We are More” for the first time. His poem started out with the words “Define Canada,” and it ended up doing just that in an electrifying way I wasn’t expecting.

For two and a half minutes, Shane Koyczan dramatically recited his powerful words to me and roughly three billion other people around the world. The performance was a refreshing and brilliant surprise, but what was equally amazing was that this unknown poet was given the opportunity in the first place.

“When I was first invited I thought I would be performing for people as they were walking into the stadium,” he said. “And I thought that was a great opportunity.”

With a belief that it’s the same show whether he’s performing for two people or 2000, Shane got through his performance feeling more anxious about the height of the stage than the massive size of his audience. Yet nerves weren’t about to stand in his way. As he spoke about Canada being the true north strong and free, he himself appeared true, north, strong and free, as he unleashed an art form onto the world that doesn’t get the recognition or exposure it deserves.

“Poetry has never been an easy sell for people who want to see a live show,” he said. “I personally love a lot of poetry from old text books, but it’s not always relatable. I think the Olympics gave people a glimpse of what poetry can be, and in that way it’s been very positive.”

An admirer of his work, I was excited to meet and interview him last week. When he arrived at my studio I told him that I wanted to interview him in an unusual way, one that he was probably not accustomed to. He surprised me yet again with his immediate willingness to play along with my favourite childhood poet, Dr Seuss and I.

Later on I found out that he also had a favourite artist from childhood when he revealed one of his biggest influences was Charlie Chaplin.

“My grandfather and I had been watching his movies in chronological order,” he said “They were all silent films at first, but eventually sound was added, and when I heard Charlie talk and deliver the final speech in the Last Dictator, I felt my life change in that moment.”

The power of words and their remarkable influence stuck with him and ended up serving him well as an adolescent. After years of being bullied and feeling ill-equipped to connect with his peers, he started writing down prepared responses for the times he was spoken to. This expressive outlet, combined with a newly discovered knack for performing, brought out the artist in him.

Often referred to as a slam poet, or a spoken word artist, Shane has written a book about being bullied and has another new book of poetry, a CD and is now doing shows across Canada with a band that he brought in to add another level of entertainment value to his fans.

I’m looking forward to seeing him take center stage to give an electrifying performance once again.  For his tour schedule please visit: ShaneKoyczan.com

To watch our weird, awkward interview please click below:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKZsNI8ng3Y