Huckdoll & Mr. Lady Productions presents:

Founded at San Rafael High School, in 1971, among a group of about a dozen pot-smoking wiseacres who called themselves the Waldos, who are now pushing 50.

The term was shorthand for the time of day the group would meet, at the campus statue of Louis Pasteur, to smoke pot. Intent on developing their own discreet language, they made 420 code for a time to get high, and its use spread among members of an entire generation.

I sat high above the city in my cozy warm office on a gloriously sunny Sunday. April 20.

I loaded 10 children, myself, and one grumpy dad with a credit card into a beautiful stretch limousine on a glorious, sunny Sunday, April 20 to celebrate the first decade of my little boys life.

The clock read 4:15PM when I heard the whomp, whomp, beep of the Vancouver Police department motorcycles. I looked down into the intersection to see them setting up street barricades and re-directing traffic.

I wondered who was in town or what was going on this time.

We wondered why traffic was still so backed up.

Was it the Queen of England again?

We thought maybe there was something going on, and seriously regretted not having opened the paper that morning.

Did a crane at the construction site across the street, fall again?

Perhaps it was the Prime Minister. But on a Sunday?

It's a Sunday for Christsake. There's never anything happening on a Sunday downtown.

I figured it must be the 2010 Winter Olympic Committee rollin' through town again. Those guys and gals seem to be more important that the Queen lately.

So, I headed downstairs to discover. It was 4:20. I stood in front of my building, in the crowd of people; quiet, peaceful, alive.

It was a little after half-past 4 when our limo came to a crawl through the city. We had purposely planned our party to just avoid the congestion from the Sun Run, but apparently, we misjudged. The streets were full of people; smiling, basking in the delicious weather, eating snacks. We passed building after building on our way through the city, and I imagined being one of those people standing on the sidewalk in front on them. Quiet, peaceful, alive. I looked at my limo full of squealing children and for a second, I wanted to trade with just one of them. The kids for the job.

I smelled it before I saw it...

We figured it was just a gorgeous day, and as we tooled through GasTown, as we passed the Olympic clock, as we headed for False Creek and our birthday cruise, we remembered why this is the greatest city on Earth. The people; the flood of people always outside, always on foot, always chill. We sat back, relaxed, and let it flow. In hindsight, maybe we had left a window cracked open....

A cloud of smoke gently rolled down the street and filled my lungs, followed by at least two hundred, happy, smiling, stoned citizens of this fine city.

Mark Feenstra Photography

Photo courtesy of the remarkably talented, local photographer Mark Feenstra. More captures of this event can be found by clicking on the above photo.

Mark Feenstra Photography

Photo courtesy of Mark Feenstra.

Mark Feenstra Photography

Photo courtesy of Mark Feenstra.

I watched and remembered my own presence every April 20th at 4:20 on a grassy patch of lawn at the art gallery, passing around joints with friends and strangers. I think that was the closest I'll ever get to my mom's generation.

On our way home, with a dozen kids in tow, we sat on the crowded train wondering who had lit a joint. There was definitely something in the air. Annoyed, we looked around to find the culprit. Slowly, we realized...everyone was stoned out of their minds. Even the kids, packed too close to the other commuters, starting to lick the handrails and eat their own train tickets. We are definitely too old for this crap.

A generation which founded this lovely 420 thing...

Freaking Vancouver, man. You can't even take your kids out for a day on the town without getting a contact high...

A generation filled with peace, love respect and unity. Something that is so very lost in today's society.

And then we remembered the smiles. We remembered the way the boat driver had nonchalantly relinquished his seat at the helm to our son, and let him pull the boat into port. The way we assumed his squint was from the sun bouncing off the water.

I smiled as I watched the Vancouver Police redirected traffic and allowed this peaceful event happen and my heart swelled yet again for this extraordinary city.

I smiled as I watched the other passengers wink at my kids, all ten kids, who were coming down from a sugar high, picking their noses, yelling a little too loud. I watched and waited for the eye-rolls and the huffs of annoyance, and they never came. What I saw was a mob of people, doing what they wanted to do, without fear. I saw a city that was swayed together, that opened its arms to everyone; police, hippies, business-women on street corners, ragged mothers, over-sugared children.

I'm still so in love with Vansterdam.

I'm still so in love with Vansterdam.

Just another Memey Monday

The always Classy OhMommy asked me a few weeks ago what the heck was in my purse.

Now, this is not the easiest of questions for me to answer. See, 10 years ago, you would have found my purse filled to the brim with binkies and Hot Wheels and bottles and organic, whole grain, not tested on animals, soy, fat free, flax seed snacks. And a shooter of Jameson for the teething. No, I am not kidding. Shit works, yo.

That, friends, was 10 years ago.

Today, I have three children. Today, those three children are more or less capable of packing their own bags/backpacks for any given outing. Those three children have a mother who ceased giving a rats ass exactly 6 years ago. Today, on the very best, most dire of occasions, you might just be able to dig out one stale jelly bean and 3/4 of a chopstick out of my purse for the kids. I think I just might have one size 2 diaper shoved in the back of the glove compartment in my car in case of emergency. An emergency that would have had to have happened 15 pounds ago, but still. It's there. Possibly. I haven't exactly checked in a while.

Since undertaking the ginormous task of Soccer Mom'n it up, I have had occasion to put more than a stale piece of bread and a pack of smokes in my bag. And I happened to snap a picture of it.


Wanted: Straight up martini, preferably Vodka with 3 olives, for candlelight tapas in hidden-away bars with leather coaches and live jazz. Sophisticated conversation, socio-political revolution and sneers at those fruity martini drinkers all included.

You Are a Chocolate Martini

You're an elegant drunk, who only likes the best bars and the most expensive drinks.
A bit of a cheapskate, you're likely to mooch ten dollar drinks off both friends and strangers. You should never: Drink and dash. You're gonna get caught leaving someone with the tab!Your ideal party: A posh celebrity party you crash, with an open bar.

Your drinking soulmates: those with a Classic Martini personality

Your drinking rivals: those with a Blueberry Martini personality

What Flavor Martini Are You?

I honestly cannot say I have ever read a more accurate description of myself. Thanks, MommyTime, for the link. Of course we had the same result.


I'll be updating more later, but right now I just wanted to let y'all know that in about 9 hours, Auntie N and Dunkie's plane will be landing somewhere in Vietnam, and shortly thereafter they will be holding of one very very beautiful, one scrumdiddilyicious little baby girl.


Those of you who are not on Twitter or Facebook or Cre8Buzz (and really, if you're not on Cre8Buzz, what exactly are you waiting for?) may not know that I got suckered into stepped up to the plate for my kid and volunteered to coach his Little League team.

There are just a few issues with this.

I hate other people's kids. Not all of them, mind you, but for the most part, people's kids are shitheads. Two of the boys on the team hate me. Well, women. They hate women. How do I know? When I pull them in to talk to them about respect, and how they talk to me, they say, "Um, where's our real coach?" Really? I am, dude. "No, you're the team MOM." No you little fucking cocksucker, I am the COACH. And I will sit your ass out in a motherfucking heartbeat if you roll your little womanizing eyes at me one more time. I Double Dog Dare you to try me on this one.

I hate other kids parents. What do the jerk-off dads of the asshole kids do through this whole thing? Stand there. Giggling. It's going to be a long season.

I have played exactly ZERO baseball games in my whole life. This gives me the slightest little handicap in the whole "teaching other people" department. Fortunately, I am a fast study. And they gave me a handbook.

I can't throw a ball for shit.

I am not quite strong enough to properly lock the equipment shed, which is 15,765 years old and made of lead and the eenciest bit warped. My angle for this? Get there early, earlier than ANYONE, and unlock it, set up my field, and play dumb blond when the other coach says, "But we're the home team. We're supposed to set up." Ooooo, I didn't know! Oopsie. (This is where the boobie shirt really pays off)

Me? In a Baseball cap? Like Britney without any makeup on. Like Jack Nicholson in the morning. Like the kid from Mask. Not. Cool.

I have three kids. One of which is two. Only one of which is on the team. Baby wearin' is frowned upon in the middle of a baseball field during play.

Did I mention that I've never played baseball before?

I have the tiniest little potty mouth problem. Just sayin'.

Since I am a girl, the moms of the kids on the team think it's totally okay to come up to me and ask about the baby, and tell me how proud they are of their son, and how though all the rest of the kids are total shits, well, see how good my boy is being and aren't I a great parent and my isn't that a low-cut top you have on and do you knit because I just got this new pattern and shut the hell up, woman. I'm busy over here.

I have a nasally voice. I can't help it; I was born that way and you try living in Philadelphia during your formative years. It's not exactly the hottest of accents. Point is, I don't exactly command attention. Maybe I should go for the Fran Drescher thing. NO ONE can ignore that evilness.

Really, I've only ever even once watched a baseball game start to finish, and I am pretty sure I was fairly intoxicated and quite possibly making out with someone through most of it.

And the biggest problem of all? The real kicker? I am, and please don't repeat this, I am kind of liking it. As in, enjoying it. Shitty kids aside (I have awesome stink-eye; that'll be nipped in the bud) it's kind of, well, err, um, fun?

Someone get me Chrysler on the phone. It appears I'll be needing that minivan after all.

See all the Thursday Thirteens here.