The Valium Chronicles: My Family Hates Me

I love my nanny

My family officially hates me.  And, I was only trying to do the RIGHT thing. To be a KIND person.  To SAVE money. To be a GROWNUP.

But apparently, what I did, was ruin their lives, and be the WORST MOTHER EVER!

This is what happened.

My sister has a baby. He’s one of the totally cutest babies ever. He’s one year old, so it was time for her to go back to work.

She suffers, like me, from the Housework Allergy (it must run in the family, although our mother doesn’t have it, so it must have skipped a generation). Therefore, for her back-t0-work plan, she chose to sponsor a nanny as opposed to putting her baby in daycare.  Except, her nanny didn’t arrive in time and the boy went off to daycare anyways.  He promptly got sick a lot, which was very stressful for her, since the baby doesn’t sleep at the best of times.  When he’s sick or teething or even its Monday, his sleep is even more disrupted.   The situation came to a head when had a breakdown one morning after  realizing she hadn’t done laundry in two weeks.   Needless to say, my baby sister was on her last nerve.

She finally heard from the nanny who said she had her interview booked, and she’d be able to come soon. Like really soon.  Sis was ECSTATIC.

Then, the bad news came.  The nanny got declined.  She didn’t have the right credentials. AFTER ALL THAT!!

My sister called me, so upset.  She’s my baby sister.  I’m a fixer.  What did I do?

‘Oh Sister, you can take my nanny.’  I offered this without thinking of the aftershocks that Luisa leaving would have on my life.  All I knew was that I was SAVING THE DAY!

I AM THE SISTER OF THE YEAR

Now, my nanny (well she’s really a housekeeper as there’s nobody to nanny around here) is the goddess of all nannies. No family has ever been taken care of better.  She is far beyond a cure for my housework allergy.  She is MY WIFE.  The downside to being cared for like this, however, is that we have all become a big pile of slobbypant layabouts.

I told my family (This is the point where they started to hate me, if you were wondering when I was going to get to the point):

‘Sara needs Luisa, so Luisa has agreed to go work for her.  We’re all going to pitch in to take care of ourselves.’

My family was not pleased:

‘No way, forget it. Tell her she can’t go.  Who is going to do everything?  And who is going to section my grapefruits for me?’ (The husband)

‘Pleeeeeeze no!!!  I love her. And she makes me BACON every morning.  Plus, the dogs love her. Noooooooooo.’  (Little J)

‘Oh.’  (Diva).  (Then I reminded her that she’d have to pick up after herself now, and help out around the house.) ‘Oh. Are you going to be mean to us now?’  (she’s 17, what did I expect?’)

‘Can I have her room?  ManCave in the BASEMENT!! YESS!! (Bubba) (Ok I guess he doesn’t hate me. But he’s so sweet, he’d never hate me.)

Grrrrr.. Wooof. GGrrrrr (the dogs, who sit at her door and cry all weekend when she’s not there)

Ban Housework Everywhere

Then, as I started to think about it, I realized:

  • I’d have to get up and make the kids breakfast and the lunches in the morning.
  • I’d have to do the laundry, which includes learning how to use the Soap Nuts. And fold it. And put it away.
  • I don’t know where anything goes.
  • I don’t even know what the kids like in their lunches.
  • I’ll have to clean up after myself when cooking.
  • My beds wouldn’t be all fluffy and made and stuff unless I did it myself.
When I kept thinking about it, I came to a very important conclusion.  I’m a spoiled brat, and that’s why my kids are spoiled.
Being a loving sister is probably the best thing that will ever have happened to my  family.
This truly is TOUGH LOVE PEOPLE.  Its CHICKY BOOT CAMP!  And you’re all learning how to do laundry!
And, ps. I don’t care if you hate me!
PPS, in case of flare ups of the Housework allergy, please send valium.
editor’s note:  I will still not be doing the cleaning as a flare up of the housework allergy could result in serious complications such as my children applying to the courts for emancipation, divorce, and the risk of my own nervous breakdown.

Two Sisters & a Kings of Leon Concert

So, my sister and I went to the Kings of Leon Concert.  Ford Canada gave me the tickets because I’m obnoxious such a Ford Lover.

This was what we heard when we walked in

I said to my sister, ‘Oh, that’s for me. Its because I’m here. I’m an important blogger, and we are in Section 108 because of it.’ She looked at me like I was impressive pathetic, and said, ‘I think its for The Kings of Leon.’

I shoved my hotdog in my mouth (which was a bad idea as I was getting over the stomach flu) to avoid snapping back a witty, yet cutting retort to her attempt at dashing my delusions of grandeur (plus, she was correct).

This hotdog was pretty darn good with pickle slivers on it

The opener was a band named Sheepdog (from Saskatoon). They were kinda groovy, being a cross between The Grateful Dead and some other bands I hear on the radio but can’t remember the names.  Sort of grungy, yet hipster, I guess you’d say. Anyways, check them out.

Then, while we were waiting for The Kings of Leon to come on, we were bored:

and took 50 pictures to get this one:

Two sisters at a concert

While the concert played, I drank my diet coke (due to the aforementioned stomach flu), and she drank her beer. And we listened to the music, pretended to sing, ate salty popcorn, and waited for our song.

Tickets:  FREE (because I’m me)

Parking: $30

Two hotdogs, one popcorn, one giant beer, one watery diet coke:  $40.00

Hanging with your sis:  PRICELESS

Forget the Royal Tannenbaums, I will always be a Rubinoff Girl

My sister (Sis#1, see Appendix A below), who blogs at Running and Recipes, tweeted this to me earlier today:

@ChickyMara great Rubinoffs think alike. Are you also growing tomatoes? or just teenagers and dogs?

I will aways be a Rubinoff girl.  That’s my maiden name, and even though I’ve been married for 18 years, I still think of myself as a Rubinoff.   There are four of us Rubinoff girls (plus one brother) and growing up, someone always knew one of us.

When they heard my name, they’d say:  ”Oh, are you related to _____ Rubinoff?”

And I’d reply:  ”Yeah. She’s my sister.”

Their reply, “Really?  You don’t look anything alike.  Oh my god she’s so (funny, fun, crazy, loud, etc…) ”

I used to make my Dad cringe when I likened us to The Royal Tannenbaums, the movie about the extremely offbeat Jewish New York Family (see trailer above).  And then one day, after a particularly interesting family dinner, he looked at me and said, “You know what?  You’re right?”  And then he laughed.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with growing up in a family like ours.  The genetic material is strong.  We are quirky, and revel in our alikeness as well as our difference. Much of the time, we vacillate between wanting to kill each other and loving each other beyond redemption.  The funny thing is, we didn’t even all grow up in the same house. (see Appendix A for a further elaboration)

What makes one a Rubinoff girl? Well, there are some important qualities and behaviours.  These are some of them:

  1. Engage in extremely loud and contentious conversations that sound like arguments to everyone else
  2. Talk over everyone else in the room
  3. Interrupt constantly
  4. Have at least one tantrum during a family dinner and run out of the room crying
  5. Participate in several automobile …um..its not really my faults (bad driving really is genetic)
  6. Love food either by cooking it really well or eating it even better
  7. Make plans very last minute, and then quite possibly forget about them anyways
  8. Have many children very easily (we are very fertile so there goes Natural Selection), often by accident
  9. Be extremely smart but in a way that most people don’t think you are. This can be demonstrated by losing everything, staring off into space for hours.
  10. Be given an interesting and often embarrassing nickname by your Daddy, such as mine, ChickyMara, and give your kids equally embarrassing nicknames
  11. LOVE FEROCIOUSLY
This post is dedicated to my sisters (the three Rubinoff girls Sisters#1-#3), plus the one Spencer girl (Sis#4)  who is forever in my heart even though she’s not nearly as crazy as the others.  Its also dedicated to our Daddy, Arthur Rubinoff, who taught us how to love, and who would be celebrating his 71st birthday at a party full of items 1-7 and would be loving every minute of it (even though he would act like he wasn’t).

Appendix A:

My mom and my Dad got married. They had me and Bro#1.

They split when I was 1 1/2.  My Mom married StepDad #1 and had Bro#2 & Sis #4.  They split up, and my mom married StepDad #3.

My Dad remarried as well, and had Sis #1, Sis #2, and Sis #3.  To make things even more complicated, Sis#3 & Sis#4 are one month and one day apart.  So, I actually have two sisters who are the same age. Dad & StepMom#1 split up, and there followed StepMom#3 (who didn’t like kids and was with a man with FIVE); StepMom#4 who was 8 years older than me and who I delighted in calling ‘Mommy’ in public; and finally, StepMom#5 who was able to tame the beast and kept my Dad very happy until he passed away.  (additionally, StepMom#2 remarried and he has a daughter who is continually confused with me and no one can understand why we aren’t related.)

The ages, at the present time, are 44,43 (me), 38, 37, 36, 35 & 35. Do not ask me all of their birthdays. I could be off by a day or two, particularly because along with, and including mine and my in-law kids, there are 23 spawn.

I know that’s thoroughly confusing.  But, I’m quite poor at math,and I can keep it all straight, and therefore, it is quite possible. Just reread.