Monday, November 28, 2005

Franny Explains The Theory of Relativity

In science, relativity means a lot of stuff that I don't understand. But in practice, it's really simple. For example, "hell" to many is a hot place underground with lava and agony and a red guy with a pitchfork, but MY "hell" would be 2 purple crying babies and one (cold) bottle. (Oh wait - I've been there already!) So same place, very different experience. It's all relative.

Tonight I will take you to my home where "relativity" wreaks havoc on a regular basis.

Chapter 1: Relativity and My Marriage

"Just a minute" to me means "about 1/2 an hour", but only if I'm saying it. When I hear "just a minute", I expect it to be 60 seconds or less. This has caused much marital discord in my house.

I believe "dinner" to be a meal eaten at a table with condiments and forks, whereas my husband believes "dinner" to be whatever won't poison him.

When I take a "morning shower" I am in and out in under 6 minutes. My husband's "morning shower" involves the Saturday Spectator, 4 towels, a roll of toilet paper, hair everywhere and the setting of the evening sun.

To me, "let's go somewhere nice" is a trip for a latte at Starbucks, or to a pricey inn in Niagara-on-the-Lake. To my husband, "somewhere nice" is Fast Eddies, or The Maple Farms Motel next to the Walmart.

Chapter 2: Relativity and My Kids

"Sharing" to my son is a sacred charity, but only if he wants something that someone else has. If he has the sharable object, "sharing" is akin to torturous punishment of the most heinous kind.

"No more TV" is good for mommy's mental health, but if mommy gets an important phonecall, "no more TV" becomes suicide.

To me, "OH MY GOD! For the last time DON'T TOUCH THAT!!" mean Danger! Death! Imminent Peril! To my kids, the same command means "ooh, that's GOTTA be good!"

Chapter 3: Relativity and My Neighborhood

A squad of policecars parked in front of the neighbor's house is a great evening's entertainment. But, if they're parked in front of my house, then "what the hell is everyone staring at ya nosy bastards!?"

If someone's cat wanders onto my verandah and eats my groceries, it's annoying. But if my kids wander onto someone's verandah to eat their groceries, it's SO CUTE!

The kid who pushes my son down is a poorly-raised-lowlife-futureless-bastard-child, but when my son does the pushing... "that kid had it coming!"

Thursday, November 24, 2005

File Under "Blackmail"...

I've been tagged - no I don't have cooties, but this means I have to answer some questions, which is good because I LOVE to talk about myself. Here goes:

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was going to Mac, and I was a nervous wreck and single because my jackass-bastard boyfriend had dumped me on my ass. (I later married this man)

What were you doing 1 year ago? Soothing crying babies, not sleeping, eating a lot of takeout.

Five snacks you enjoy: chocolate cake, chocolate cake with icecream, chocolate cake with whipped cream, chocolate cake with hot chocolate...oh and chocolate cheesecake.

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
Try, by Blue Rodeo (because it's about me)
Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton John (a karaoke favorite)
Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield (see above)
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (in FOUR languages!)
Mr. Jones by the Counting Crows

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire: pay for my house, get my family members out of debt, buy a brand new but sensible car, hire a nanny, hire a maid.

Five bad habits: worrying, overactive imagination, talking too much, listening too little, blog addiction.

Five things you like doing: I like to eat goumet, take hot bubble baths, nap in the afternoon, make people laugh and drive with no destination in mind.

Five things you would never wear again: My Dominatrix costume from Halloween 1999, my maternity clothes, the green dress I wore to prom, the purple dress I wore to prom, the red dress I wore to prom, and tassels (nuff said).

Monday, November 21, 2005

Blog Bonus Features

I thought today I would share with you the magic that goes on behind the scenes here at Franny's Fables.

The Crew:
We have a hardworking crew of one, and that's me, unless you count my husband who occupies the kids while I write. Then that's two.

The role of Franny was originally going to be played by Catharine Zeta-Jones, but I was chosen as I had significantly more experience in the role.

Raisins, Vodka, Diet Pepsi. It's gotta be Diet Pepsi...give that primadonna (me) Diet Coke and I'll storm off to my trailer!

When I blog I usually start with a topic, write the whole damn thing with extreme care and then delete it all. The reasons are usually among the following:
1) It was too racy for my audience
2) It would put my mental health/fitness to raise children/or ability to operate motor vehicles in question
3) It was stupid
Usually it's #3. So then I'll rewrite, change the topic, tone, etc. This is where my gemini duality/schophrenia really shines. I hope you're happy with the results!

Deleted Scenes:
From"Something Wicked...": "OH MY GOD! IT'S HUGE! I'M SOOO IMPRESSED! CAN I TOUCH IT?"
From "4 Wailings and a Funeral": "And I'm still breaking out from the bloody clown makeup!"

Snobby British Director's Commentary:
"You see, blogging is an artistic medium, much like mashed potatoes. You can just eat it, OR you can play with it, and change it's shape, you can add flavoring and sculpt it. You can even keep it as a documentation of who you were, but a blog will smell better after two or three years behind the couch."

Blooper Reel:
"Holy fucking piss-ass freaking shit! I can't fucking believe those kids will not stop screaming for one fucking second so I can friggin-what? Oh, we're blogging? Oops. Ha ha."
"Honey, not now...honey, not now...hee hee...can't you see? I'm trying to...! Well, okay, just let me type at the same time..."

Friday, November 18, 2005

Four Wailings and a Funeral

Imagine being at a funeral out of town when the gaunt, creepy funeral director comes up to you and says:

"There's a phonecall for you."

That can't possibly be a good thing. Turns out it was my mother-in-law, at the hotel with my kids, calling S-O-S. My son had decided that she wasn't entertaining enough, and began screaming for his mother, and soon his sister had realized it was a good idea as well.

So I fly from the funeral home to the hotel in FREEZING RAIN and in the dark to rescue her and my kids. I get everyone settled down and tuck my daughter in bed with my mother-in-law, and the boys with me.

And then it was quiet.

Too quiet.

My sixth sense was prickling.

Sure enough, my son was trying to escape undetected. He had seen the vending machine in the lobby, and assumed you could help yourself - as long as mommy didn't know about it. I get the escapee back into bed with whispers about psycho clowns that roam hotel halls looking to eat stray children at night or something like that.

And then it was quiet.

You guessed it...

Too quiet.

Suddenly, shrieks pierced the night when my daughter fell out of my mil's very high bed. I scooped up the shaking, frightened child and soothed her to sleep in my arms, silently cursing I would never let a toddler roll out of MY bed! You have to be some kind of idiot to #*(%&*^ be that &*^%%^$ stupid! Finally my daughter fell asleep in my bed and all was quiet.

Until my daughter fell out of my bed. Yelling, screaming, betrayed "how could you let this happen to me again!?" looks. This time she has a bump on her head. So, I put on a robe to make a dash into the hallway to get some ice. That is until my son attacks me, grabbing my ankles and shrieking "NO MOMMY! DON'T GO OUT THERE! THE CLOWN IS OUT THERE! DON'T OPEN THE DOOR!"

My mother-in-law is asking "what clown?", my daughter is yelling like a banshee, my son is being dragged around the room attached to my ankles, and I suddenly understand why padded cells and straight-jackets were invented.

After peeling off my son, icing the daughter, bs-ing the mil and getting everyone to sleep, it's all quiet once again. As I lay there waiting for the next disaster, I hear my son breathing in the playpen. Not clown-phobic son, but the other one, the one who slept soundly through this evening's ordeals.

And I am renewed.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

That Girl Could Sell Anything

I want to talk about those radio announcements in which people are yelling at you to buy a car. Sometimes they're on TV too, with balloons, also yelling at you to buy a car. Does yelling at your viewership really work? Does anyone sit around, not wanting to buy a car, and then this loud, overweight jackass starts screaming about the TIME LIMITED CHEVY CLEAROUT, and the viewer gets up and says "Wow, it must really be a good sale! The guy is yelling at me to get down there now! Gotta go honey!"

Anyhow, I don't think it works that way. But if it did, could you imagine the ads we'd have to contend with? Some chilling ideas:

Armageddon Camp - "Are your kids ready for the apocalypse? Though the world may be ending, the fun fun FUN never does! Kids just love to practice rejecting satan and judging each other in front of the campfire & brimstone!! Arts & Crafts include creating papier mache swords for the 4 horsemen, and painting 'Welcome Judgement Day' banners! Armageddon Camp offers a loving environment in which everyone is welcome except sinners, homosexuals and non-whites! So come to our camp or burn burn BURN!"

Desk Toilet - "Is your office just too far from the bathroom? Are you terrified of having to severly misuse the bathroom at the same time as your boss? Well help is here! With the desk toilet, you can go while you're on the go! Turn making timesheets into making time for sheet! Why piss away the hours when you can piss every hour? Why whack off emails when you can simply- never mind! Call now and for a limited time you'll receive a bonus Desk Vending Machine and Desk Lunchtable with every Desk Toilet purchase! Remember, your business is our business!"

Jugs for Men - "Hey Don, why are you smiling? Did you just get your own boobs!? I'll bet you got tired of women telling you to get your filthy hands off of their breasts! Well, now you too can have your own jugs, available for fondling 24/7! No more bras to unclasp, no more messy relationships or expensive call women! Just glue 'em on, and you'll be the envy of every man on the block! These knockers are made of a spaceage material that mimics the feel and bounce of real breasts, but without the woman! Available in sizes DD, E, F & Holy Shit!"

Man, that was fun!

Monday, November 14, 2005

Something Wicked This Way Comes...

Hello everyone - do you like my *temporary* blog renovation? Been swept up in the 'arry Pohtta mania, I 'ave! The Goblet of Fire starts at the end of the week, and I can't wait to see it. My son has been asking about Harry, and I am pondering reading him the first book, but skipping some of the scary parts. I know, censorship!
Speaking of my search to find some appropriate backgrounds for this site, I came across some cool, and some truly terrifying images. I am going to post a link to one of them.
I WARNED YOU! Why the heck did you open it? As Albus Dumbledore says in the Goblet of Fire: "Curiosity is not a sin.... But we should exercise caution with our curiosity... yes, indeed."

This was one of those cases.

Anyhow, once you regain consciousness, join me in cheers to the new movie. Harry lovers will agree that the trip to Hogwarts is worth the wait.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Cuff Me NOW!

When your daydreaming at work is suddenly interrupted by two LARGE cops addressing you by name, it's hard to stay cool.

Large Cop: "Are you Francesca?"

Me: "Umm, no, I mean, yes, I mean, I didn't do it, ha ha ha!"

Of course, this was nervous laughter because I was frantically going though my mind to figure out what they had finally caught me for. Did I take that Sharpie by accident or on purpose? Did anyone see me ding that car in the parking lot in May? OMG, they know about that thing I did with my cousin in her garage last Christmas! So, while I was blubbering and trying to remember the name of my lawyer, they decided that I was insane and just took a map. Apparently someone had told them to ask me for directions.

This is GUILTY CONSCIENCE SYNDROME. I am afflicted, as well as millions who don't even know they have it. GCS is a debilitating condition in which you feel paranoid about things you did and didn't do, as well as things you perceive you did wrong and didn't do right. GCS can be chronic, like when your life of crime is getting sloppy, or acute, as demonstrated by my run-in with the law. Take this simple quiz to find out if you too have GCS:

1. Do you often find yourself wondering who ratted you out? Y/N
2. Do you often say things like "You can't prove a thing!" Y/N
3. Is eating an extra piece of cake enough to make you believe your jeans no longer fit? Y/N
4. Do you imagine you hear sirens when you are speeding? Y/N
5. Do you feel personally responsible for the failure of your children/company/government? Y/N
6. Are you excessively nervous around authority figures and people with handcuffs? Y/N

If you answered YES to 3 or more questions, then you have GCS. There is no cure, but treatment involves silencing your stool-pigeons, sleeping with one eye open, buying stretchy jeans and hiring a thug/British nanny.

Because sometimes, being bad is worth it.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Franny and the Killer Cuticle

I am magnetically attracted to BMWs. This is not a good thing, especially when you're driving 30 kph over the speed limit and you're not paying attention to the road. One more millisecond picking at my stray cuticle and well...they'd be calling to tell my husband his insurance rates just tripled and oh, by the way, your wife is dead. Luckily this cuticle was a quick fix.

So I've realized that every near miss was with a beemer. I don't know why! I don't particularly like or dislike them. Maybe their brakes are better than mine so I inevitably nearly smash into them? Maybe my car is in love with BMWs? Maybe there are too many beemers out there for me to almost hit? Why can't I almost hit a cheap, disposable car, like a Kia or a Festiva? You rear-end a klunker, you laugh. You rear-end a BMW, you cry. I actually did rear-end a car once. My fine friends at The Cooperators know all too well whose fault that was.

I also backed into a construction vehicle when I was a teenager. Smashed the whole back end of my dad's car. Instead of going straight home, I went to Tim Hortons to ponder my contribution to this world and how it had been a good run. That was the only night I ever smoked. Figured it didn't matter anymore anyways.

I'm not the only accident prone member of my family. I once talked my sister out of running away from home after she smashed up my dad's car (same car) twice in two weeks. I remember telling her it wasn't that bad, and that dad wouldn't be mad, just relieved she was not hurt. I was actually thinking "OMG you are SO dead!" And my brother totalled his car by driving it under a flatbed truck. Sheared the roof right off. You probably read about it in the paper.

So, I guess I'd better be more careful. For the safety of my fellow drivers, I'd better get a manicure, so I don't have to worry about those cuticles distracting me. May as well get a pedicure too, just to keep my braking foot in prime condition. Maybe a massage, to soothe my stress, cuz afterall, those damn beemers are everywhere, just waiting to jump out and make me hit them! Ooh, and a scalp treatment because I am thinking too much...

Monday, November 07, 2005

What We Say vs. What We Mean

After 3 weeks, I was pretty tired of the new washing machine rumbling the whole house and lurching and jerking itself across the floor during each spin cycle. I was determined to get to the bottom of the problem. First stop, the manual. Second stop, the installer...

Me: "Honey, are you sure you took the shipping bolts off of the washing machine?" (Honey, is it YOUR fault?)

Hubby: "Yes." (Probably...)

Me: "Ok, cuz it says right here in the manual that's the first thing you have to do..." (Look, me read eeenglish!)

Hubby: "I know what it says! I did it! Geez!" (Does she think I'm stupid?)

Me: "Fine." (That's it, I'm gonna check.)

Hubby: "Good." (Is she actually checking?)

Me: "Umm, honey, can you come here and see this..?" (I KNEW IT! THE SHIPPING BOLTS ARE STILL THERE!)

Hubby: "Oh oh." (Oh shit)

Me: "I thought you said you took them off." (I'm smarter than YOU are!)

Hubby: "I thought I did, but James was actually supposed to do it." (Ha ha! Pass-ing the buck! Hoo-yeah! I'm da MAAAN!)

Me: "How many times did I ask YOU if YOU took the bolts off?" (Oh my God, I've married a toddler!)

Hubby: "Like, once!" (Or twice or several times.)

Me: "Why the hell did you keep saying you did it already!?" (ARGHHHH!)

Hubby: "Umm...I think...hey wait! I said JAMES was supposed to do it!" (I think she's mad.)

Me: "Now you're just pissing me off!" (Crucify him! Crucify him!)

Hubby: "Are you mad?" (I think she's mad.)

Me: "You could have destroyed the machine! You could have flooded the basement! It's the FIRST THING IN THE MANUAL!" (Of course I'm mad!)

Hubby: "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." (Please make it go away, please make it go away...)

Me: "*Sigh* Well, I guess I better take the bolts off then." (HE'D better offer to take these *&%^@#$ bolts off right now!)

Hubby: "Ok, great!" (Yay, I don't have to do it!)

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Thank You Phil

Thank you Phillip Morris for making my godfather sick. Thank you for making a spirited 50 year-old man look like an anorexic 98 year-old man. Thank you for committing him to bed until he dies. Thank you for the nicotine he needed everyday, and the tar, carbon and particulate he didn't. Thank you for the image you marketed to him, and the brand loyalty you inspired. Thank you for hiding behind your political buddies. Thank you for making tens of thousands off of his addiction.

Thank you for smashing his dreams of retirement. Thank you for having your product available in every corner store and grocery store. Thank you for the warning labels that mean nothing to an addict. Thank you for making sure you have young smokers to replace him when he dies. Thank you for letting him pass his addiction on to his children.

Thank you for taking away a good man. Thank you for keeping a man from ever meeting his unborn grandson. Thank you for breaking the hearts of three children, two little girls, one little boy, a wife, a goddaughter and a best friend. Thank you for taking away his human dignity. Thank you for making me fear a slow, painful death.

Thank you for your variety of brands for every taste, sickness, age and addiction.