Remember the magazine cover of 2006? And how I said I’d love to do one every so often, like a series?

You know why I love my man? He shares. He shares his candy. He shares his love and wit. And he shares his cold viruses – which is why we are all down with yucky noses, lying on the floor, wishing for Venti helpings of Airborne. Even the Princess got it this time. (But not the Bear. He is his usual active, kretunculous self. Oh joy.)

But Mr. MG also shares his technical brilliance, which is how I finally got a Bluetooth widget that will get the pictures from the last year and a half off of my phone without e-mailing them. Woo-hoo!

That’s how I rediscovered this long lost treasure – a really crummy video of a very cute two and a half year old Bear.

Because I am so NOT a leader – I am a worker bee, not a queen bee. The rest seems pretty spot-on, though. (You can scroll over the colors to see what they mean.)

Thanks, Lawanda!

My Personal Dna Report

Got an e-mail from my aunt today, and it so awesome I just have to share. My 17-year-old cousin testified before her state Senate subcommittee on baning abortion in Colorado.

I haven’t been back to my home state in years, but growing up I remember praying for Chelsea as she endured years of surgery to correct her spina bifida. The steely strength that got her through that has also given her the strength to stare down senators.

Warne, who also has a second spinal disorder that will likely leave her a quadriplegic by age 40, said most babies with her conditions are diagnosed before they are born, and 80 percent are aborted.

She said she couldn’t understand how people could support her rights under the Americans With Disabilities Act, but not her right to be born.

“If I have no value nestled in my mother’s womb, how can I have value in a society that views me as broken, somehow less?” she said.

What the article doesn’t mention is the standing ovation she received.

When you hear some one slagging in today’s youth, think about my amazing cousin. She’s proof that all is not lost.

Ferry boat goes boom
Meredeth drowns unnoticed
I smell dream sequence

Go on – ask me why I’m happy. Why I’m walking around, whistling a happy tune. (Okay, besides the new horn…) I found and joined a natural food buyer’s co-op, that’s why. Oh, my monster’s going to looove this!

We used to be members of a bona fide brick-and-mortar crunchy co-op, the kind where you walk in and breathe deep the essence of patchouli and organic self-righteousness. I adored that place! I perused the beautiful silk skirts, consulted the naturopath, and sighed over the broad selection of heirloom produce. The deli was one of the Princess’ favorite lunch stops. It’s 45 minutes away, but we’d head there for this or that, just to soak up the atmosphere.

But then there was 9/11. That day changed more than the country at large, it ruined my co-op shopping.

Suddenly, it wasn’t a place of universal acceptance, it was us-versus-them on every level. And I found myself shoved over to the “them” category. Now I wasn’t only an odd duck to the world at large, I was on the outs with the other odd ducks. We tried to ignore it for a while – the snide whispered comments about Mr. MG’s old Promise Keepers t-shirt, the dirty looks we got as we piled out of our van with its W sticker. I was prepared for all the No War merchandise in the aisles (Hey, we can all agree to disagree, right? Right?!), but not the personal attacks. After a clerk’s boisterous lecture on the US troops’ supposed systematic poisoning of the Afghani populace, we finally called it quits. Buncha knobheads.

But where to go for my beloved gingersnap granola? Or for organic peanut butter? Or…or…anything! I felt kind of at loose ends. I cobbled together various places to get what I needed but it wasn’t the same. And it involved a lot of shopping around. Hauling three kidlets through multiple stores is not my idea of a good time, especially in the rain and cold.

Then I found this new co-op and yea, verily, I am at peace. It’s not a store, so I can’t bask in the crunchy atmosphere, but the pick up spot is ten minutes away and is run by another home schooling mom, so that makes up for a lot. It’s also waaay cheaper, and offers a huge variety – any natural food, beauty product, or lifestyle accessory, they can get it. Not to mention organic, locally grown produce and snobby, funky cheese from around the globe. And all of it in bulk! I can hoard food like a madwoman, and all in the name of thrift and earth-friendliness!

That tappity-tappity-tappity sound? That’s my monster doing the happy dance.

You know what Mr. MG got me? He got me this. For my chipped blue ’94 Dodge Grand Caravan. I wanted it so badly, and he’s even going to install it for me.

I have been walking around, laughing out loud at odd moments, thinking of the possibilities. People will never see it coming.

The man obviously loves me.

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
he’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for french fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

- Margaret Atwood