November 19, 2010
Saturday morning.
8.10.
For me, that's sleeping in.
I would still be in bed, now, had it not been for Cry Baby Pants.
AKA Frankie.
Whining, crying, yipping, all because he wanted me awake and up and moving.
Whether I wanted to be or not.
And I didn't.
Believe me.
It's now 4.49 and I am just getting back to my computer.
"How come?" you ask.
Emily
And Frederic Chopin.
Because school projects due Monday trump blogging on Saturday.
Apparently.
However, as I didn't emerge from my bedroom until 1.30, she had already laid claim to my laptop, and she was working on school work, I didn't feel I was in the position to pull rank and tell her to get off my computer.
If I'm not working, I find myself discombobulated.
Disoriented
Unsure of what to do with myself.
Keith was working on colouring for his Forensic Anthropology class, Stephen, who is also feeling miserable, was attempting to hold back the mating of the dust bunnies and vacuum. I am having a problem with my right ear, leaving me physically off balance, so I was of no use to anyone.
Keep your comments to yourselves, thank you very much.
Stephen directed me to the livingroom.
Said I should sit on the loveseat, drink my tea and watch television.
Watch television.
I cannot remember the last time I watched tv on a Saturday afternoon.
I'm usually working, getting groceries, running errands, anything but watching tv.
I don't even know what's on tv on Saturday afternoon.
I do now.
Nothing.
But I am in such a sick induced haze I just sat there in my pj's having finally gotten my zebra striped bottoms from the laundry, remote in one hand, red tea in the other like a lazy couch potato.
Bons bons and a soap opera, and I would have been a cliche.
I watched the last hour of Rush Hour 2.
The beginning of Beverly Hills Cop III.
I then channel surfed until I came to something I had never seen before.
Parking Wars.
I thought Billy the Exterminator was pushing the limits of believability.
And while I do enjoy it, and see many similarities between my self and Billy's mother, Don-eh, I do find myself feeling guilty about watching it.
I know that just by watching, I am facilitating negative stereotypes about people from Louisiana.
It's even worse when I do my Don-eh impression.
I am fully aware of the fact that there is nothing to be gained from watching this program, except unwanted pounds.
But for some reason I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
However, Parking Wars is a low I just cannot allow myself to sink to.
People getting upset over parking tickets they received because they didn't have the common sense to read the signs.
Or that their cars were towed because they didn't have the common sense to not park them in alleys, and the nerve of the parking authority to want money.
I had a run in with a parking authority last spring.
In Brantford, Ontario.
While we were attending the Qualitative Analysis Conference.
When the sign says two hour maximum in Brantford, that is what they mean.
I was more embarrased than outraged.
Paying the $30.00 parking ticket wasn't a problem.
Finding the small, obscure parking authority in the midst of one of the craziest parking garages I have ever seen outside a major metropolis. . .
. . .that was a problem.
Brantford isn't that big. But for some reason they have a parking garage that rivals Jim Henson's Labryinth.
And believe me, there was so King of the Elves David Bowie in the middle waiting for me.
Of to the side of this maze of concrete twists and turns, there is a little shack like thingy.
But this wasn't where we paid our ticket.
That would be too simple.
We had to then find our way into a building that was actually attached to the labryinth, until we were able to locate someone who was willing to take our money for a parking ticket.
Honestly, you'd think that if Brantford wanted their money, they'd made it a hell of a lot easier for people to give it to them.
I did contemplate not paying the ticket.
I won't lie about it. As it happened, however, we were driving a rental car, and I knew in future we would want to rent another car, like when we head back to Brantford in May for another Qualitative conference. It seemed to me, then, that paying the ticket was in our best interest.
It took us another 30 minutes to find our way back to our hotel.
I expect to be addled when driving in Montreal.
But Brantford, Ontario?????
In spite of being sick and unfit for public consumption, I am going to dinner tonight.
Swiss Chalet.
Hoping against a hope that a new cast of characters will eliminate the possibility of a repeat of our last trip to Swiss Chalet.
There are lots of other places we could go, however, Swiss Chalet had items on the menu I can actually eat.
And afford.
It isn't that we're feeling flush, or have won the lottery.
My dear friend Joshie is in town until tomorrow morning and this is the only opportunity I'll have to see him before he leaves tomorrow morning.
He was my research assistant/TA for two years.
After grad school, he went to India.
I haven't seem him for a while.
So since I am not allowed to go to the nursing home for fear of being escorted out by nurses wearing Hazmat suits, I am taking my sick self out to see Joshie.
Only someone of Joshie's calibre and importance in our lives could drag me out when I feel like this.
And the idea of getting a meal I don't have to cook.
A meal I wouldn't make at home, cause that is the number one Dawne rule of eating out.
Never order something you can make yourself at home.
Otherwise, what's the fun of going out for dinner?
If tomorrow there is a mass outbreak of whatever I have, I'll take responsibility for it.
But right now, chicken is calling my name.
Joshie is waiting to hug me.
And I am too weak to resist.
Title Lyric: The Parking Ticket from Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
My shoes on fire, my clothes on fire. . .
November 19, 2010
Riddle:
A sick, conjested, sneezing, coughing, feverish woman, a sick, conjested, sneezing, coughing, feverish man, a lively and vibrant 21 year old woman and a rosy-cheeked and lovely 16 year old adolescent are in the mall returning a coat. The 16 year old adolescent then goes to work. What do the other 3 people do?
Well, if the woman and the man were normal, they would haul their sick and miserable selves out of the mall, aided by their caring, loving and mature 21 year old woman.
But, since neither Stephen or I can be categorized as anywhere near the right side of normal, and Mer, while she can be caring, loving and mature sometimes, wasn't at this particular moment, we did not haul our sick and miserable selves out of the mall.
How come?
Because Meredyth works her first shift at the theater on Saturday, and she was in need of all black sneakers and a pair of black pants.
And because she was Mer, she was, as usual, under funded.
Actually no funded is closer to reality.
Therefore, instead of going home and crawling into my warm, inviting, please-come-and-rest-so-you-can-get-well-bed, we spent the following hour and a half wandering throughout the mall in search of the most elusive of species.
The all black, non-leather soled sneaker.
You would think at such a time in our history, a time when sneakers of every size, shape, colour, price exist, finding an all black non-leather soled sneaker would be a simple task.
It would have if you were a male wearing size nine shoes.
We hit every shoe store in the mall, save three.
Aldo, because they just don't seem to carry anything for a female foot that resembles a sneaker.
Spring, because they're just a far less expensive and "cheaper" version of Aldo.
Naturalizer, because Mer made it clear that she wasn't buying anything from a store that caters to people 80 and above. (Yes. I know. She's a brat).
But every other shoe store was graced by our Mer dragging her sick parents in to look for the rare and evasive black, non-leather soled sneakers.
Finally, an employee at an overpriced store suggested that we go to West 49, because they carry junior sizes.
In men's shoes.
Mer does not have big feet.
Not at all.
My careful analysis of women's sneakers from my trek through the mall last evening had lead to me conclude that an all black, non-leather soled sneaker has not yet been made for women.
But everything else has.
Neon colours, checked patterns, gold designs, black with all white soles and laces, black with neon coloured soles and laces, pinks, purples, greens, yellows. . . .
But no all black, non-leather soled sneakers.
At West 49, we were finally able to procure a pair of suitable sneakers.
Almost all black.
Definitely rubber soles.
Almost reasonably priced.
Just when I thought I was hearing strains of the Hallellujah chorus slipping through the raucous and obnoxious music piping into the mall, leading me to believe that we were walking towards the car which would then take me home, which would then lead to me putting on pjs and crawling my sick and miserable self into bed, I heard the words that made me contemplate throwing myself onto the floor of the newly renovated Food Court and having an all out, fist pounding, feet kicking, as much as my sore throat would allow screaming temper tantrum.
"Now I just need to get black pants."
I hate shopping with Meredyth.
She hates shopping with me.
The only reason we had made it this far was because I was simply too sick to put up any resistance.
And Stephen was with us.
I looked at her and said, "One store. I will go into one more store that happens to be on the way to the car. If you can't get black pants there, I am sure you have a pair of black pants, in fact I KNOW you have a pair of black pants that will suffice until I am in possession of all my faculties enough to manage another shopping foray with you. One. Store."
Thankfully, my monotone expression managed to permeate the membrane of shopping selfishness that surrounded Meredyth's brain, because she was able to find a reasonably priced pair of black pants at American Eagle.
I know, I know, overpriced American Eagle with the heavily scented air and equally heavily scented clothes.
But when you're operating at almost no capacity, you take whatever will get you into the car and home the fastest, with the least amount of resistance.
Cause Mer is all about resistance.
And I am all about paying Mum back, so I have the receipts for her two purchases.
Eventually, I will get my money back.
Eventually, we managed to get home.
And the first thing I did was to walk upstairs in search of pjs.
For reasons unknown to me at this time, I seem to be bereft of pajamas.
At least warm, winter ones.
My favourite zebra striped pjs and red long sleeve shirt were in the laundry.
I actually debated about whether or not I should burn them, given I lived in them for three, germ filled, fevered, coughing, sneezing days.
But, nostalgia and common sense combined to prevent such a rash move, and I put them in the laundry.
Laundry I will eventually get to.
This left me in a quandry.
What the hell am I going to wear to bed? until its time to go to bed.
Nothing came immediately to mind, which left me no choice but to scavenge through my closet in an attempt to locate something suitable and non-offensive to wear to bed.
I started in the pile of stuff located on the shelf in my closet.
The pile-of-things-that-still-have-some-wear-left-in-them-but-should-never-be-worn-outside-the-house.
Remember, I hate throwing anything away.
So this was a fairly substantial pile.
Standing on my tip toes, because the shelf is taller than I am, digging through the pile on the shelf I managed to locate bottoms that were neither holey or torn.
Just not necessarily the most attractive when called to cover my abundant ghetto bootie.
Gray tights.
Leggings is probably closer.
I paired my gray leggings with the top of my zebra striped pjs, threw on some wool socks to keep my feet warm, slipped into my slippers and went downstairs for supper.
As soon as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, providing Meredyth and Keith with a profile view of my evening attire, the chiding began.
Actually out and out laughter.
Even a facebook comment from one rotten, ungrateful child to the other rotten, ungrateful child.
I ignored them.
Had my chili.
Went to bed.
Because my bed doesn't give a damn what I wear when I am in.
Just that I wear something.
Because somethings, me especially, shouldn't even be contemplated naked.
It was a long day.
Two classes, an unplanned and painful trip to the mall, an errand downtown to pick up more pages of the never-ending-proofreading-of-my-manuscript-project, and home.
I am spending the next three days, until my presence in front of a classroom full of students is again required, sleeping.
To some extent, this saddens me.
No volunteering at the 10,000 Villages Sale tomorrow at Wilmot United Church.
No serving at the Community Kitchen this evening, because I can only imagine how excited people would be to see me serving them food, while sounding like I have tampons shoved up my nose, fighting, unsuccessfully to control he uncontrollable coughing and sneezing all over their food.
Cause sneeze guards are on the outside only.
Perhaps missing my usual Saturday evening fare of baked beans and homemade bread at the nursing home.
Nothing keeps you out of a nursing home faster than being sick.
Nurses transform instantly into bouncers who escort your sick and tired body out of range of the elderly residents.
In other words, I am in for a boring, uneventful weekend.
Well, boring.
Uneventful isn't a part of the vocabulary around here.
Title Lyric: Burning Down My Sanity by Moth
Riddle:
A sick, conjested, sneezing, coughing, feverish woman, a sick, conjested, sneezing, coughing, feverish man, a lively and vibrant 21 year old woman and a rosy-cheeked and lovely 16 year old adolescent are in the mall returning a coat. The 16 year old adolescent then goes to work. What do the other 3 people do?
Well, if the woman and the man were normal, they would haul their sick and miserable selves out of the mall, aided by their caring, loving and mature 21 year old woman.
But, since neither Stephen or I can be categorized as anywhere near the right side of normal, and Mer, while she can be caring, loving and mature sometimes, wasn't at this particular moment, we did not haul our sick and miserable selves out of the mall.
How come?
Because Meredyth works her first shift at the theater on Saturday, and she was in need of all black sneakers and a pair of black pants.
And because she was Mer, she was, as usual, under funded.
Actually no funded is closer to reality.
Therefore, instead of going home and crawling into my warm, inviting, please-come-and-rest-so-you-can-get-well-bed, we spent the following hour and a half wandering throughout the mall in search of the most elusive of species.
The all black, non-leather soled sneaker.
You would think at such a time in our history, a time when sneakers of every size, shape, colour, price exist, finding an all black non-leather soled sneaker would be a simple task.
It would have if you were a male wearing size nine shoes.
We hit every shoe store in the mall, save three.
Aldo, because they just don't seem to carry anything for a female foot that resembles a sneaker.
Spring, because they're just a far less expensive and "cheaper" version of Aldo.
Naturalizer, because Mer made it clear that she wasn't buying anything from a store that caters to people 80 and above. (Yes. I know. She's a brat).
But every other shoe store was graced by our Mer dragging her sick parents in to look for the rare and evasive black, non-leather soled sneakers.
Finally, an employee at an overpriced store suggested that we go to West 49, because they carry junior sizes.
In men's shoes.
Mer does not have big feet.
Not at all.
My careful analysis of women's sneakers from my trek through the mall last evening had lead to me conclude that an all black, non-leather soled sneaker has not yet been made for women.
But everything else has.
Neon colours, checked patterns, gold designs, black with all white soles and laces, black with neon coloured soles and laces, pinks, purples, greens, yellows. . . .
But no all black, non-leather soled sneakers.
At West 49, we were finally able to procure a pair of suitable sneakers.
Almost all black.
Definitely rubber soles.
Almost reasonably priced.
Just when I thought I was hearing strains of the Hallellujah chorus slipping through the raucous and obnoxious music piping into the mall, leading me to believe that we were walking towards the car which would then take me home, which would then lead to me putting on pjs and crawling my sick and miserable self into bed, I heard the words that made me contemplate throwing myself onto the floor of the newly renovated Food Court and having an all out, fist pounding, feet kicking, as much as my sore throat would allow screaming temper tantrum.
"Now I just need to get black pants."
I hate shopping with Meredyth.
She hates shopping with me.
The only reason we had made it this far was because I was simply too sick to put up any resistance.
And Stephen was with us.
I looked at her and said, "One store. I will go into one more store that happens to be on the way to the car. If you can't get black pants there, I am sure you have a pair of black pants, in fact I KNOW you have a pair of black pants that will suffice until I am in possession of all my faculties enough to manage another shopping foray with you. One. Store."
Thankfully, my monotone expression managed to permeate the membrane of shopping selfishness that surrounded Meredyth's brain, because she was able to find a reasonably priced pair of black pants at American Eagle.
I know, I know, overpriced American Eagle with the heavily scented air and equally heavily scented clothes.
But when you're operating at almost no capacity, you take whatever will get you into the car and home the fastest, with the least amount of resistance.
Cause Mer is all about resistance.
And I am all about paying Mum back, so I have the receipts for her two purchases.
Eventually, I will get my money back.
Eventually, we managed to get home.
And the first thing I did was to walk upstairs in search of pjs.
For reasons unknown to me at this time, I seem to be bereft of pajamas.
At least warm, winter ones.
My favourite zebra striped pjs and red long sleeve shirt were in the laundry.
I actually debated about whether or not I should burn them, given I lived in them for three, germ filled, fevered, coughing, sneezing days.
But, nostalgia and common sense combined to prevent such a rash move, and I put them in the laundry.
Laundry I will eventually get to.
This left me in a quandry.
What the hell am I going to wear to bed? until its time to go to bed.
Nothing came immediately to mind, which left me no choice but to scavenge through my closet in an attempt to locate something suitable and non-offensive to wear to bed.
I started in the pile of stuff located on the shelf in my closet.
The pile-of-things-that-still-have-some-wear-left-in-them-but-should-never-be-worn-outside-the-house.
Remember, I hate throwing anything away.
So this was a fairly substantial pile.
Standing on my tip toes, because the shelf is taller than I am, digging through the pile on the shelf I managed to locate bottoms that were neither holey or torn.
Just not necessarily the most attractive when called to cover my abundant ghetto bootie.
Gray tights.
Leggings is probably closer.
I paired my gray leggings with the top of my zebra striped pjs, threw on some wool socks to keep my feet warm, slipped into my slippers and went downstairs for supper.
As soon as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, providing Meredyth and Keith with a profile view of my evening attire, the chiding began.
Actually out and out laughter.
Even a facebook comment from one rotten, ungrateful child to the other rotten, ungrateful child.
I ignored them.
Had my chili.
Went to bed.
Because my bed doesn't give a damn what I wear when I am in.
Just that I wear something.
Because somethings, me especially, shouldn't even be contemplated naked.
It was a long day.
Two classes, an unplanned and painful trip to the mall, an errand downtown to pick up more pages of the never-ending-proofreading-of-my-manuscript-project, and home.
I am spending the next three days, until my presence in front of a classroom full of students is again required, sleeping.
To some extent, this saddens me.
No volunteering at the 10,000 Villages Sale tomorrow at Wilmot United Church.
No serving at the Community Kitchen this evening, because I can only imagine how excited people would be to see me serving them food, while sounding like I have tampons shoved up my nose, fighting, unsuccessfully to control he uncontrollable coughing and sneezing all over their food.
Cause sneeze guards are on the outside only.
Perhaps missing my usual Saturday evening fare of baked beans and homemade bread at the nursing home.
Nothing keeps you out of a nursing home faster than being sick.
Nurses transform instantly into bouncers who escort your sick and tired body out of range of the elderly residents.
In other words, I am in for a boring, uneventful weekend.
Well, boring.
Uneventful isn't a part of the vocabulary around here.
Title Lyric: Burning Down My Sanity by Moth
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Grapefruit diet. . .I gotta decrease my derriere. . .
November 18, 2010
Whether I want to or not, it's back to work today.
Still sick.
I sound like I'm talking with tampons shoved up my nose.
My throat hurts.
Coughing, sneezing, general aches and pains.
Is it my overwhelming commitment to my students that is the driving force behind this assinine move?
Nope.
Is it the knowledge that the longer I stay home the further behind we get in class?
Maybe a little.
Is it guilt knowing that Stephen has been in charge of cooking, chauffering, shopping, tending to me (and there is a lot to tend to, believe me!) pet care, etc?
Not even close.
I'm off to work today because sick or not, two days in bed, three days in my pj's is my limit.
If I don't get out of the house now, I many never leave again.
Which is an interesting thought.
Last evening, while lying in bed feeling sorry for myself and having just finished a very good book, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie and therefore wondering what I was going to read next, Stephen comes upstairs carrying a book in a plastic bag. . .the kind of bag you'd bring home fruits and veggies in from the grocery store.
I save those bags.
I love it when other people save them, too.
He says he found it in the mailbox.
I knew immediately what the book was, and from whence it came.
And I was very excited.
What a lovely treat for someone who has been stuck in the house since Sunday.
In this bag was a book.
But, not just any book.
This book is the perfect book for me.
It has been vetted by the critics and managed to come out of that scathing process almost whole.
I have several books in my bookshelf that look just like it.
No dust jacket required
Missing cover.
Gnaw and chew marks on the corners and the spine.
And because Frankie immediately recognized a kindred spirit, he leapt onto our bed, which is normally a no-no, but methinks I was too tired to doth protest too much, and gave that bag and book the once over.
At least the bag at first.
He was so concerned about my health and well being, he even tried to unknot the bag on his own.
What a little muffin he is.
And so helpful, too.
I gently eased the knot and bag out of Frankie's mouth, and removed the book from the bag.
He went crazy.
Wild.
Sniffed the book all over. . .front, back, spine, he would have sniffed each page had I not let him know, firmly, that his sniffing for kindred spirits was over.
I hid the bag behind my back, under the covers.
Not to be deterred by something as silly as me hiding the bag, he went on the hunt until his sniffer-cum-GPS located it, and he hauled it out from underneath me.
No mean feat for dog or bag.
He had that look on his face.
The one that says, "I know I'm not supposed to have this, and I don't care. I want it. It's covered in the scent of book chewing kindred spirits and you will not take it from me."
Really.
Hum.
I looked at him and he knew what the look on my face meant.
"Give me that bag before you choke yourself you silly dog."
I won.
But not before sustaining a couple of wounds.
Because Frankie mistook my wanting the bag as a sign that I was interested in a game of tug of war.
Victorious, I put the bag in a place I knew he'd never find it.
Don't ask.
And get your mind out of the gutter.
And don't ask the obvious, which is how come I just didn't get out of bed and put the bag in a drawer, or give it to Stephen to take to the kitchen and introduce to our collections of plastic bags?
Because sick people don't think logically.
They think through their over-the-counter-cold-and-flu-medicated brains.
Case in point:
Last evening, after enjoying a lovely chicken stir fry and quinoa, I had a hankering for some vitamin C.
Actually, I was just feeling bad because there were three grapefruits on the counter waiting for me to enjoy their citrusy goodness, but I hadn't been doing so because cutting the grapefruit in half was just too much effort.
That is how sick I am.
However, fortified with chicken and veggies and quinoa, I felt that cutting and preparing a grapefruit for eating was something I could manage at that moment.
Em was standing at the kitchen counter beside me, and I asked her if she wanted the other half.
The look on her face said it all.
Funny how much you can ascertain from a human or canine or even feline face for that matter.
Em suggested I eat the grapefruit half the Homer Simpson way: dip it in sugar. Lick the sugar off. Dip it again. Repeat as many times as desired.
As tempting as that was, I didn't succumb.
Since Em didn't want the grapefruit half, I put it in a plastic container.
Which I promptly put back in the plastic container cupboard.
I know Em watched me do this.
What I don't know is how come she didn't say anything to me about it.
About a half hour later, Stephen is digging through our plastic container cupboard (I actually have a story about our plastic container cupboard, Stephen's mother and our wedding day. Remind me to tell you about it later.) looking for a container for his leftover chicken stir fry.
I am at the kitchen table trying to muster enough brain power and motor abilities to input the grades for the seeminly never ending infernal intro papers.
There were times when I felt like those damned papers were cursed. As in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows cursed. Remember, when he and Ron and Hermione and some ugly elf were in this room and every time they touched something a whole bunch more of those somethings appeared.
Everytime I touched one paper, twenty more appeared.
Anyway, Stephen is squatting low to see if he can locate a container with a matching lid for his stir fry.
Finding both is quite a challenge, believe me.
When he exclaims, "Why the hell is there a grapefruit in the plastic container cupboard!"
I took it to be a rhetorical question.
The book, right, the book I was so excited about.
Room by Emma Donoghue.
Written from the point of view of a 5 year old boy, born in captivity.
His mother was kidnapped at 19.
Impregnated by her captor.
The boy has never been out of the Room.
I'm already half way through.
And chances are, I'll need to read it again, because its one of those books you read once to figure out what happened.
And then again to figure out how come what happened, happened.
I'll keep you posted.
Title Lyric: Grapefruit Diet by Weird Al Yankovic
Whether I want to or not, it's back to work today.
Still sick.
I sound like I'm talking with tampons shoved up my nose.
My throat hurts.
Coughing, sneezing, general aches and pains.
Is it my overwhelming commitment to my students that is the driving force behind this assinine move?
Nope.
Is it the knowledge that the longer I stay home the further behind we get in class?
Maybe a little.
Is it guilt knowing that Stephen has been in charge of cooking, chauffering, shopping, tending to me (and there is a lot to tend to, believe me!) pet care, etc?
Not even close.
I'm off to work today because sick or not, two days in bed, three days in my pj's is my limit.
If I don't get out of the house now, I many never leave again.
Which is an interesting thought.
Last evening, while lying in bed feeling sorry for myself and having just finished a very good book, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie and therefore wondering what I was going to read next, Stephen comes upstairs carrying a book in a plastic bag. . .the kind of bag you'd bring home fruits and veggies in from the grocery store.
I save those bags.
I love it when other people save them, too.
He says he found it in the mailbox.
I knew immediately what the book was, and from whence it came.
And I was very excited.
What a lovely treat for someone who has been stuck in the house since Sunday.
In this bag was a book.
But, not just any book.
This book is the perfect book for me.
It has been vetted by the critics and managed to come out of that scathing process almost whole.
I have several books in my bookshelf that look just like it.
No dust jacket required
Missing cover.
Gnaw and chew marks on the corners and the spine.
And because Frankie immediately recognized a kindred spirit, he leapt onto our bed, which is normally a no-no, but methinks I was too tired to doth protest too much, and gave that bag and book the once over.
At least the bag at first.
He was so concerned about my health and well being, he even tried to unknot the bag on his own.
What a little muffin he is.
And so helpful, too.
I gently eased the knot and bag out of Frankie's mouth, and removed the book from the bag.
He went crazy.
Wild.
Sniffed the book all over. . .front, back, spine, he would have sniffed each page had I not let him know, firmly, that his sniffing for kindred spirits was over.
I hid the bag behind my back, under the covers.
Not to be deterred by something as silly as me hiding the bag, he went on the hunt until his sniffer-cum-GPS located it, and he hauled it out from underneath me.
No mean feat for dog or bag.
He had that look on his face.
The one that says, "I know I'm not supposed to have this, and I don't care. I want it. It's covered in the scent of book chewing kindred spirits and you will not take it from me."
Really.
Hum.
I looked at him and he knew what the look on my face meant.
"Give me that bag before you choke yourself you silly dog."
I won.
But not before sustaining a couple of wounds.
Because Frankie mistook my wanting the bag as a sign that I was interested in a game of tug of war.
Victorious, I put the bag in a place I knew he'd never find it.
Don't ask.
And get your mind out of the gutter.
And don't ask the obvious, which is how come I just didn't get out of bed and put the bag in a drawer, or give it to Stephen to take to the kitchen and introduce to our collections of plastic bags?
Because sick people don't think logically.
They think through their over-the-counter-cold-and-flu-medicated brains.
Case in point:
Last evening, after enjoying a lovely chicken stir fry and quinoa, I had a hankering for some vitamin C.
Actually, I was just feeling bad because there were three grapefruits on the counter waiting for me to enjoy their citrusy goodness, but I hadn't been doing so because cutting the grapefruit in half was just too much effort.
That is how sick I am.
However, fortified with chicken and veggies and quinoa, I felt that cutting and preparing a grapefruit for eating was something I could manage at that moment.
Em was standing at the kitchen counter beside me, and I asked her if she wanted the other half.
The look on her face said it all.
Funny how much you can ascertain from a human or canine or even feline face for that matter.
Em suggested I eat the grapefruit half the Homer Simpson way: dip it in sugar. Lick the sugar off. Dip it again. Repeat as many times as desired.
As tempting as that was, I didn't succumb.
Since Em didn't want the grapefruit half, I put it in a plastic container.
Which I promptly put back in the plastic container cupboard.
I know Em watched me do this.
What I don't know is how come she didn't say anything to me about it.
About a half hour later, Stephen is digging through our plastic container cupboard (I actually have a story about our plastic container cupboard, Stephen's mother and our wedding day. Remind me to tell you about it later.) looking for a container for his leftover chicken stir fry.
I am at the kitchen table trying to muster enough brain power and motor abilities to input the grades for the seeminly never ending infernal intro papers.
There were times when I felt like those damned papers were cursed. As in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows cursed. Remember, when he and Ron and Hermione and some ugly elf were in this room and every time they touched something a whole bunch more of those somethings appeared.
Everytime I touched one paper, twenty more appeared.
Anyway, Stephen is squatting low to see if he can locate a container with a matching lid for his stir fry.
Finding both is quite a challenge, believe me.
When he exclaims, "Why the hell is there a grapefruit in the plastic container cupboard!"
I took it to be a rhetorical question.
The book, right, the book I was so excited about.
Room by Emma Donoghue.
Written from the point of view of a 5 year old boy, born in captivity.
His mother was kidnapped at 19.
Impregnated by her captor.
The boy has never been out of the Room.
I'm already half way through.
And chances are, I'll need to read it again, because its one of those books you read once to figure out what happened.
And then again to figure out how come what happened, happened.
I'll keep you posted.
Title Lyric: Grapefruit Diet by Weird Al Yankovic
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I am just a microwave. . .
November 17, 2010
Home again, home again jiggety jig. . .
Okay, so I'm not doing any jigs.
I'm not doing much of anything, really.
Not even sleeping.
Which is starting to cause problems.
Irritability.
Forgetfulness.
Lack of co-ordination. . .
I'm possess these qualities 99.99% of the time.
Being sick just makes them more exciting.
The one thing that makes the life of a sick person more bearable, more manageable, more livable, is the microwave.
One minute and the leftover spaghetti from the night before becomes your healthy, warm, mouthwatering lunch.
Lukewarm tea is revived to its full restorative powers.
Soup is hot in your hands within seconds.
No chopping, cutting, hauling out of pots and pans, scraping of burnt bits of the bottom of the pot that was on a too hot burner because you're son is so hungry he can't wait.
But, sadly, not for me.
Our microwave, the stainless steel wonder of quick, easy meals and snacks, which had only been gracing the corner of our counter since April, kicked the bucket.
Bit the biscuit.
Cashed in its chips.
. . .when it was called upon, again, to heat hotdogs for my famished children.
Oddly, no one thought to share this information with me.
So, Monday, after spending the morning marking those infernal intro papers, I stopped for a lunch break.
Left over haddock, no sauce, no nothing, and stir fry veggies.
Plate it, stick it in the microwave for a minute and start washing dishes.
The annoying beep signals lunch is ready. I open the microwave door and put my hand on the plate.
Anticipating the always hot plate.
Only to be greeted with a cold plate.
Because the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over anticipating a different result, I tried again.
Same result.
It took one more time for it to sink through my consciousness that the microwave wasn't working.
I actually had to stop and think for a minute about how the hell I was supposed to heat up my lunch.
That is how accustomed I am to having my microwave at the ready.
I mentioned this to Stephen, who checked and sure enough, the microwave wasn't working.
When I brought up to the kids that the microwave was out of commission, their response?
"Yeah. We know. We tried to make hotdogs last night and it didn't work."
Well, thanks for telling me.
Kids.
Perhaps they thought they could go outside and pick another one off the microwave tree in our backyard.
So, Stephen packed up the busted microwave and took it to Sears for a refund or replacement.
Normally I tag along on these little junkets because if Stephen meets any resistance, he tends to fluster, preventing him from obtaining the desired result.
Case in point: a Canadian Tire weedwacker.
Our backyard was looking like an Amazonian rain forest, and a mere lawnmower wasn't able to tame it on its own.
We had been tossing around the idea of purchasing a weedwacker for a while, and thought that Canadian Tire would be a good place to procure one.
That was our first mistake.
Bought it, brought it home, I put on my workboots, shorts, gloves, put my hair back, and I was ready to rock and roll with the weedwacker.
Gas it up.
Pull the cord.
Nothing.
Nada.
Try again. . .that whole definition of insanity thing rearing its ugly head.
After 20 minutes, we were thoroughly pissed off, and knew that another trip to Canadian Tire was in our very near future.
That evening, Stephen drops me at the hospital for my nightly visit with my mother.
And he heads to CT to deal with the wonky weedwacker.
When he returns two hours later, the weedwacker is in the backseat of the car.
And we went back to CT.
They refused to refund our money.
Stephen looked at them and said the following fateful words:
"Wait until my wife gets here."
I walk to the counter, weedwacker in hand.
The cashier looks at me and the weedwacker and then my husband.
She knew what was coming.
I asked her how come she refused to refund the money to my husband, and because she wouldn't do a simple and expected procedure for a ineffective product, I had to leave the hospital, where my mother was convalescing from hip surgery, to come here and deal with a weedwacker refund that shouldn't be a problem because it didn't work, not once, and I want my money refunded without any problems, issues or concerns and if she couldn't do this could she please find someone who could?
We got our money back.
So, I was justified in my concern that Stephen was going to encounter some difficulty returning the microwave.
I envisoned him coming home, microwave in tow, telling me that I was going to have to haul my sick and sorry, zebra flanneled pj'd butt, complete with slippers, wool socks and torn t-shirt to the appliance counter at Sears and demand a refund or a replacement.
Imagine my relief when he came home and said everything was fine.
They took the microwave back and even gave us a replacement.
But, of course, because it is our microwave, and there is no replacement because this was a discontinued model, we have to wait until next Tuesday for a new microwave to be shipped in from another city.
A week with no microwave.
I am actually going to have to plan what's for dinner because I won't be able to just pop something in the microwave to thaw out.
The injustice of it all!
Sick.
No microwave.
I'm afraid to even contemplate what could be next.
Because there is ALWAYS a next.
Title Lyric: The Microwave Song
Home again, home again jiggety jig. . .
Okay, so I'm not doing any jigs.
I'm not doing much of anything, really.
Not even sleeping.
Which is starting to cause problems.
Irritability.
Forgetfulness.
Lack of co-ordination. . .
I'm possess these qualities 99.99% of the time.
Being sick just makes them more exciting.
The one thing that makes the life of a sick person more bearable, more manageable, more livable, is the microwave.
One minute and the leftover spaghetti from the night before becomes your healthy, warm, mouthwatering lunch.
Lukewarm tea is revived to its full restorative powers.
Soup is hot in your hands within seconds.
No chopping, cutting, hauling out of pots and pans, scraping of burnt bits of the bottom of the pot that was on a too hot burner because you're son is so hungry he can't wait.
But, sadly, not for me.
Our microwave, the stainless steel wonder of quick, easy meals and snacks, which had only been gracing the corner of our counter since April, kicked the bucket.
Bit the biscuit.
Cashed in its chips.
. . .when it was called upon, again, to heat hotdogs for my famished children.
Oddly, no one thought to share this information with me.
So, Monday, after spending the morning marking those infernal intro papers, I stopped for a lunch break.
Left over haddock, no sauce, no nothing, and stir fry veggies.
Plate it, stick it in the microwave for a minute and start washing dishes.
The annoying beep signals lunch is ready. I open the microwave door and put my hand on the plate.
Anticipating the always hot plate.
Only to be greeted with a cold plate.
Because the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over anticipating a different result, I tried again.
Same result.
It took one more time for it to sink through my consciousness that the microwave wasn't working.
I actually had to stop and think for a minute about how the hell I was supposed to heat up my lunch.
That is how accustomed I am to having my microwave at the ready.
I mentioned this to Stephen, who checked and sure enough, the microwave wasn't working.
When I brought up to the kids that the microwave was out of commission, their response?
"Yeah. We know. We tried to make hotdogs last night and it didn't work."
Well, thanks for telling me.
Kids.
Perhaps they thought they could go outside and pick another one off the microwave tree in our backyard.
So, Stephen packed up the busted microwave and took it to Sears for a refund or replacement.
Normally I tag along on these little junkets because if Stephen meets any resistance, he tends to fluster, preventing him from obtaining the desired result.
Case in point: a Canadian Tire weedwacker.
Our backyard was looking like an Amazonian rain forest, and a mere lawnmower wasn't able to tame it on its own.
We had been tossing around the idea of purchasing a weedwacker for a while, and thought that Canadian Tire would be a good place to procure one.
That was our first mistake.
Bought it, brought it home, I put on my workboots, shorts, gloves, put my hair back, and I was ready to rock and roll with the weedwacker.
Gas it up.
Pull the cord.
Nothing.
Nada.
Try again. . .that whole definition of insanity thing rearing its ugly head.
After 20 minutes, we were thoroughly pissed off, and knew that another trip to Canadian Tire was in our very near future.
That evening, Stephen drops me at the hospital for my nightly visit with my mother.
And he heads to CT to deal with the wonky weedwacker.
When he returns two hours later, the weedwacker is in the backseat of the car.
And we went back to CT.
They refused to refund our money.
Stephen looked at them and said the following fateful words:
"Wait until my wife gets here."
I walk to the counter, weedwacker in hand.
The cashier looks at me and the weedwacker and then my husband.
She knew what was coming.
I asked her how come she refused to refund the money to my husband, and because she wouldn't do a simple and expected procedure for a ineffective product, I had to leave the hospital, where my mother was convalescing from hip surgery, to come here and deal with a weedwacker refund that shouldn't be a problem because it didn't work, not once, and I want my money refunded without any problems, issues or concerns and if she couldn't do this could she please find someone who could?
We got our money back.
So, I was justified in my concern that Stephen was going to encounter some difficulty returning the microwave.
I envisoned him coming home, microwave in tow, telling me that I was going to have to haul my sick and sorry, zebra flanneled pj'd butt, complete with slippers, wool socks and torn t-shirt to the appliance counter at Sears and demand a refund or a replacement.
Imagine my relief when he came home and said everything was fine.
They took the microwave back and even gave us a replacement.
But, of course, because it is our microwave, and there is no replacement because this was a discontinued model, we have to wait until next Tuesday for a new microwave to be shipped in from another city.
A week with no microwave.
I am actually going to have to plan what's for dinner because I won't be able to just pop something in the microwave to thaw out.
The injustice of it all!
Sick.
No microwave.
I'm afraid to even contemplate what could be next.
Because there is ALWAYS a next.
Title Lyric: The Microwave Song
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Glad I'm a man, I'm on this side. . .
November 16, 2010
It is 5.20 am.
The dogs have been out and fed.
I've had breakfast and am drinking my coffee.
I cancelled my classes for today.
I rarely cancel classes.
Only when I'm so sick I can't imagine how I'll make it through the next five minutes, let alone the entire day.
That deafening roar of joy you'll hear before 10.00 am and then again before 1.00 pm will be my students once they realize that class is cancelled for today.
Only.
So, if you're reading this, don't get your hopes up for Thursday.
I'll be there even if Stephen has to put my bed on wheels.
I hate being sick.
Some people may look on being sick as a time to rest, relax, spend time focusing on themselves.
Not me.
I obsess about how much being sick will put me behind in my classes, my marking, my writing, my editing.
Worry about getting the kids to school, meal preparation, treating the latest adolescent trauma, treating the latest Stephen trauma. . .
Agonize over if the dogs have been out, if they've been fed, and do they have water?
Stephen has to keep pumping me full of over the counter stuff that will make me sleep just to ensure that I remain unconscious long enough to begin feeling better.
Meredyth is faring no better.
I prepared a care package for her yesterday: grapes, clementines, Lipton chicken noodle soup, juice boxes, chicken breasts, and a pound of butter.
I know my child.
Even so, when Stephen was ferrying Keith to his night class, and making his restorative run to the grocery store, I called her to see if she needed anything else.
And being Mer, she did.
Cough drops.
And. . . . .
. . . .personal lady products.
That's what Em calls them.
I balked when she told me this and wondering how I was going to approach Stephen about finding and then purchasing this particular item.
On more than one occasion, I have witnessed men trying to negotiate their way through the vast array of personal lady products.
Standing in front of what seems like minute variations of the exact same thing, they look down at their list, with the name of the product in bold printing, and a picture drawn to lessen confusion, looking as if they are trying to translate Latin.
And if the fact that a man is standing in front of a wall of women's products isn't enough of a tip off, the glistening sweat on the brow, and the picking up and putting down of the goods-no-man-should-ever-have-to-face-or-think-about-let-alone-have-to-purchase is a sure sign of complete and utter confusion.
If men needed personal lady products, there would be one kind, one brand, one size.
That's it.
None of this scented and unscented, plastic or cardboard, regular or super absorbent to the point where the wearers must consume liquid continuously for fear of dehydrating, 20 pack, 40 pack, multi-pack, maxi, the diaper for women, or mini, tampax or kotex or exact or always.
Just one.
When confronted with the sweating, nervous, confused man facing the wall of women's products, it is very important that you move slowly.
Carefully.
You want to avoid spooking them.
Because if they run off, they're going to have to either come back or face the woman needing the product.
And I suspect that the facing the wall is much easier than facing the woman.
Once I have established contact with the skittish man, and he warily accepts that I am friend and not foe, I will ask, gently, if I can help him with anything.
"I need this" he will say, pointing to the bold printing and the picture.
If they are too traumatized to speak, they just thrust the paper at me.
In seconds, I locate the requested product and hand it to him.
Relief floods their being.
Quickly followed by embarrasment.
And then there will be a hurried thanks, while they are running to the cashier to get outside in the fresh air.
Once home, I suspect these men lock themselves in their man cave until they have sufficiently recouperated.
But I have no empirical evidence to support this.
Stephen didn't seem to have any problem with Mer's request for her favourite brand of personal lady products.
Had all my synapses been firing, and not dulled and worn down from marking intro papers, I would have realized this.
How many times have we perused through the health and beauty aisles of the Superstore, procuring shampoos and conditioners, razors and shaving cream, hand creams and butt creams, toothbrushes and toothpaste, only to have Stephen exclaim, in his outside voice:
"DAWNE ARDITH DO YOU NEED ANY PADS OR THOSE LINER THINGS?"
How I ever came to the conclusion he may be nervous about personal lady products, I'll never know.
So today will be a difficult day for me.
I'll ask Stephen or Keith or Em to rifle through the piles on my desk for peices of paper I have to have in order to be able to work at home today.
And be annoyed when they can't find them, wondering what's wrong with them that they can't find a couple of peices of paper.
The infernal and seemingly never ending pile of intro papers will be finished, and I will yell a weak, but nonetheless joyous Hallellujah! when the last graded has been entered.
But for now, me and my sick self are going to attempt, again, to try and sleep.
Perchance to dream.
Preferably about Christoph Waltz.
Title Lyric: Its Menstruation by Malcolm Higgins
It is 5.20 am.
The dogs have been out and fed.
I've had breakfast and am drinking my coffee.
I cancelled my classes for today.
I rarely cancel classes.
Only when I'm so sick I can't imagine how I'll make it through the next five minutes, let alone the entire day.
That deafening roar of joy you'll hear before 10.00 am and then again before 1.00 pm will be my students once they realize that class is cancelled for today.
Only.
So, if you're reading this, don't get your hopes up for Thursday.
I'll be there even if Stephen has to put my bed on wheels.
I hate being sick.
Some people may look on being sick as a time to rest, relax, spend time focusing on themselves.
Not me.
I obsess about how much being sick will put me behind in my classes, my marking, my writing, my editing.
Worry about getting the kids to school, meal preparation, treating the latest adolescent trauma, treating the latest Stephen trauma. . .
Agonize over if the dogs have been out, if they've been fed, and do they have water?
Stephen has to keep pumping me full of over the counter stuff that will make me sleep just to ensure that I remain unconscious long enough to begin feeling better.
Meredyth is faring no better.
I prepared a care package for her yesterday: grapes, clementines, Lipton chicken noodle soup, juice boxes, chicken breasts, and a pound of butter.
I know my child.
Even so, when Stephen was ferrying Keith to his night class, and making his restorative run to the grocery store, I called her to see if she needed anything else.
And being Mer, she did.
Cough drops.
And. . . . .
. . . .personal lady products.
That's what Em calls them.
I balked when she told me this and wondering how I was going to approach Stephen about finding and then purchasing this particular item.
On more than one occasion, I have witnessed men trying to negotiate their way through the vast array of personal lady products.
Standing in front of what seems like minute variations of the exact same thing, they look down at their list, with the name of the product in bold printing, and a picture drawn to lessen confusion, looking as if they are trying to translate Latin.
And if the fact that a man is standing in front of a wall of women's products isn't enough of a tip off, the glistening sweat on the brow, and the picking up and putting down of the goods-no-man-should-ever-have-to-face-or-think-about-let-alone-have-to-purchase is a sure sign of complete and utter confusion.
If men needed personal lady products, there would be one kind, one brand, one size.
That's it.
None of this scented and unscented, plastic or cardboard, regular or super absorbent to the point where the wearers must consume liquid continuously for fear of dehydrating, 20 pack, 40 pack, multi-pack, maxi, the diaper for women, or mini, tampax or kotex or exact or always.
Just one.
When confronted with the sweating, nervous, confused man facing the wall of women's products, it is very important that you move slowly.
Carefully.
You want to avoid spooking them.
Because if they run off, they're going to have to either come back or face the woman needing the product.
And I suspect that the facing the wall is much easier than facing the woman.
Once I have established contact with the skittish man, and he warily accepts that I am friend and not foe, I will ask, gently, if I can help him with anything.
"I need this" he will say, pointing to the bold printing and the picture.
If they are too traumatized to speak, they just thrust the paper at me.
In seconds, I locate the requested product and hand it to him.
Relief floods their being.
Quickly followed by embarrasment.
And then there will be a hurried thanks, while they are running to the cashier to get outside in the fresh air.
Once home, I suspect these men lock themselves in their man cave until they have sufficiently recouperated.
But I have no empirical evidence to support this.
Stephen didn't seem to have any problem with Mer's request for her favourite brand of personal lady products.
Had all my synapses been firing, and not dulled and worn down from marking intro papers, I would have realized this.
How many times have we perused through the health and beauty aisles of the Superstore, procuring shampoos and conditioners, razors and shaving cream, hand creams and butt creams, toothbrushes and toothpaste, only to have Stephen exclaim, in his outside voice:
"DAWNE ARDITH DO YOU NEED ANY PADS OR THOSE LINER THINGS?"
How I ever came to the conclusion he may be nervous about personal lady products, I'll never know.
So today will be a difficult day for me.
I'll ask Stephen or Keith or Em to rifle through the piles on my desk for peices of paper I have to have in order to be able to work at home today.
And be annoyed when they can't find them, wondering what's wrong with them that they can't find a couple of peices of paper.
The infernal and seemingly never ending pile of intro papers will be finished, and I will yell a weak, but nonetheless joyous Hallellujah! when the last graded has been entered.
But for now, me and my sick self are going to attempt, again, to try and sleep.
Perchance to dream.
Preferably about Christoph Waltz.
Title Lyric: Its Menstruation by Malcolm Higgins
Monday, November 15, 2010
Pent up in your bedroom. . . .
November 15, 2010
All week Keith has been sick.
Again.
Thanks to Emily, who has always taken my edict, we share in this house, literally.
So last week, her brother camped out on the couch, computer, tv remote, school books, and X-Box within arm's reach should he feel inspired to do anything more than just lay there, and moan about being sick.
By Wednesday, Stephen was complaining of a "tickle" in his throat.
If I was a better wife, more astute, paying more attention to the almost imperceptable signs, I would have realized this was a Stephenism for "I'm getting sick."
Since then, except for a bout of Superman-like strength on Saturday when he just *had* to wax the car, he has been in bed. Hot and feverish one minute, flinging off covers, turning down thermostats, opening windows, causing the cats to turn blue, and the dogs to burrow under the couch cushions; chilled the next, closing all the recently opened windows, turning up the thermostats, and burying himself in every sweater he owns and the covers, and forcing the cats and hounds to seek out the farthest, coolest corners of the basement for respite.
Em, who brought this discombobulation into our house, worked all weekend.
Avoiding the kvetching and moaning that accompanies sick men.
And the argument, via text, I had with Keith Saturday evening.
He finally drags himself off the couch to work Saturday.
After missing school, and Thursday's double-time-shift-because-it-was-a-stat-holiday.
While driving him to work, he tells me he'll be "in" that evening because he had school work to finish.
I looked at him and asked him what made him think he was going out anyway?
Cause he had just spend several days on the couch and as far as I was concerned he wasn't going anywhere.
At all.
Unless he wanted to take me on.
Happy in my ability to restore order among my little chicks, I went about my day, doing my thing, and while sitting down to my dinner of baked beans and homemade bread with my parents, our first time together since the birthday dinner from hell, I get a text from my son telling me he's going out that night.
I knew what was going on.
Keith was caught in the middle between two impenetrable, unswerving, motionless, stationary forces.
Me on one side.
Mer on the other.
Keith in the middle.
Mer encouraging him to come out and spend time with his friends; after all he's been in the house, on the couch for several days, and some time out of the house would do him good.
Me, waging war through text, telling him he isn't, under any circumstances, going anywhere.
Reminding him of my maternal authority; my authority in matters pertaining to his health and well being.
Him reminding me that he's 19.
And suffering from cabin fever.
After working a 6 hour shift.
Really?
After several texts ending on no one making any headway, he says we'll talk about it when I get home.
After grocery shopping.
When I arrive home, car laden with groceries for my always hungry family, ready to wage war with my son because I really don't think he should be out cavorting and carousing with his friends when he is still not feeling well.
But no war was to be had.
Because Pookie was AWOL.
Gone.
Left.
Absent.
No forwarding address.
Well, maybe not. . .I knew where he was.
Luckily for Keith, I was just too tired to engage any more.
If he wanted to be out and about, drinking and revelling, I wasn't going to stop him.
Sometimes you just have to let people learn the hard way.
I had my weekly session at Simply for Life, pouring out my heart and soul regarding my never ending food fray.
Convinced, assured, persuaded that I had gained those hard lost pounds.
I stepped on the scale, staring intently at the wall directly in front of me, waiting to hear those fateful words, you've gained. . .
But, the Lady Luck of weight loss was on my side, and I lost another 3.2 pounds.
12.2 in total.
In spite of the shit storm week I had lived through; the tantalizing tastes of birthday cake, Swiss Chalet fries, the beckoning of Bulk Barn bins full to almost overflowing with chocolate in every possible shape and form, peanut butter cups, chocolate covered almonds, foil wrapped chocolate mint squares, icy squares, peppermint almond bark, dark chocolate almond bark. . .
I wanted it all.
To take away the crazy crap that was going on, much of it beyond my control, the result of long standing, deeply entrenched family dynamics that I was not going to be able to change now.
I settled for almonds, salad, stir fry veggies, chicken, fish, whole wheat English muffins with organic peanut butter, herbal tea, apples, grapes and the odd square of 85% dark chocolate.
Intellectually, I know I am making the right choices. I feel better, I look better, I am sleeping better.
Emotionally. . .well, let's just say that is coming a long slower, but I think it'll catch up.
It better.
Or I'll just remain emotionally stunted for the rest of my life.
Wouldn't THAT be something new!
The Emily-introduced virus has slashed and burned its way through most of my family.
Mer and Tim are suffering it's ill effects and they don't even live here.
One victim remains for its finale.
Me.
A tingling rawness in my throat.
Coughs where no coughs were before.
A hint of flush on my cheeks. . .the beginnings of a fever, perhaps?
I can't wait to see if this will hatch into a full blown-cancel-classes-because-blinking-my-eyes-hurts-too-much-in-bed-for-three-days-leaving-me-more-behind-than-I-was-to-begin-with-incident.
And if it does, the child who invited in this malady will be making meals, marking papers, teaching classes and handling all other Dawne-duties.
Because if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
Title Lyric: Learning the Hard Way by the Gin Blossoms
All week Keith has been sick.
Again.
Thanks to Emily, who has always taken my edict, we share in this house, literally.
So last week, her brother camped out on the couch, computer, tv remote, school books, and X-Box within arm's reach should he feel inspired to do anything more than just lay there, and moan about being sick.
By Wednesday, Stephen was complaining of a "tickle" in his throat.
If I was a better wife, more astute, paying more attention to the almost imperceptable signs, I would have realized this was a Stephenism for "I'm getting sick."
Since then, except for a bout of Superman-like strength on Saturday when he just *had* to wax the car, he has been in bed. Hot and feverish one minute, flinging off covers, turning down thermostats, opening windows, causing the cats to turn blue, and the dogs to burrow under the couch cushions; chilled the next, closing all the recently opened windows, turning up the thermostats, and burying himself in every sweater he owns and the covers, and forcing the cats and hounds to seek out the farthest, coolest corners of the basement for respite.
Em, who brought this discombobulation into our house, worked all weekend.
Avoiding the kvetching and moaning that accompanies sick men.
And the argument, via text, I had with Keith Saturday evening.
He finally drags himself off the couch to work Saturday.
After missing school, and Thursday's double-time-shift-because-it-was-a-stat-holiday.
While driving him to work, he tells me he'll be "in" that evening because he had school work to finish.
I looked at him and asked him what made him think he was going out anyway?
Cause he had just spend several days on the couch and as far as I was concerned he wasn't going anywhere.
At all.
Unless he wanted to take me on.
Happy in my ability to restore order among my little chicks, I went about my day, doing my thing, and while sitting down to my dinner of baked beans and homemade bread with my parents, our first time together since the birthday dinner from hell, I get a text from my son telling me he's going out that night.
I knew what was going on.
Keith was caught in the middle between two impenetrable, unswerving, motionless, stationary forces.
Me on one side.
Mer on the other.
Keith in the middle.
Mer encouraging him to come out and spend time with his friends; after all he's been in the house, on the couch for several days, and some time out of the house would do him good.
Me, waging war through text, telling him he isn't, under any circumstances, going anywhere.
Reminding him of my maternal authority; my authority in matters pertaining to his health and well being.
Him reminding me that he's 19.
And suffering from cabin fever.
After working a 6 hour shift.
Really?
After several texts ending on no one making any headway, he says we'll talk about it when I get home.
After grocery shopping.
When I arrive home, car laden with groceries for my always hungry family, ready to wage war with my son because I really don't think he should be out cavorting and carousing with his friends when he is still not feeling well.
But no war was to be had.
Because Pookie was AWOL.
Gone.
Left.
Absent.
No forwarding address.
Well, maybe not. . .I knew where he was.
Luckily for Keith, I was just too tired to engage any more.
If he wanted to be out and about, drinking and revelling, I wasn't going to stop him.
Sometimes you just have to let people learn the hard way.
I had my weekly session at Simply for Life, pouring out my heart and soul regarding my never ending food fray.
Convinced, assured, persuaded that I had gained those hard lost pounds.
I stepped on the scale, staring intently at the wall directly in front of me, waiting to hear those fateful words, you've gained. . .
But, the Lady Luck of weight loss was on my side, and I lost another 3.2 pounds.
12.2 in total.
In spite of the shit storm week I had lived through; the tantalizing tastes of birthday cake, Swiss Chalet fries, the beckoning of Bulk Barn bins full to almost overflowing with chocolate in every possible shape and form, peanut butter cups, chocolate covered almonds, foil wrapped chocolate mint squares, icy squares, peppermint almond bark, dark chocolate almond bark. . .
I wanted it all.
To take away the crazy crap that was going on, much of it beyond my control, the result of long standing, deeply entrenched family dynamics that I was not going to be able to change now.
I settled for almonds, salad, stir fry veggies, chicken, fish, whole wheat English muffins with organic peanut butter, herbal tea, apples, grapes and the odd square of 85% dark chocolate.
Intellectually, I know I am making the right choices. I feel better, I look better, I am sleeping better.
Emotionally. . .well, let's just say that is coming a long slower, but I think it'll catch up.
It better.
Or I'll just remain emotionally stunted for the rest of my life.
Wouldn't THAT be something new!
The Emily-introduced virus has slashed and burned its way through most of my family.
Mer and Tim are suffering it's ill effects and they don't even live here.
One victim remains for its finale.
Me.
A tingling rawness in my throat.
Coughs where no coughs were before.
A hint of flush on my cheeks. . .the beginnings of a fever, perhaps?
I can't wait to see if this will hatch into a full blown-cancel-classes-because-blinking-my-eyes-hurts-too-much-in-bed-for-three-days-leaving-me-more-behind-than-I-was-to-begin-with-incident.
And if it does, the child who invited in this malady will be making meals, marking papers, teaching classes and handling all other Dawne-duties.
Because if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
Title Lyric: Learning the Hard Way by the Gin Blossoms
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Big Mac, Filet o Fish, Quarter Pounder, French Fries, Icey Coke, Thick Shakes, Sundaes and Apple Pies. . .
November 13, 2010
My new eating regime has elevated grocery shopping to a whole new level of ugly.
Prior to my commitment to shedding pounds, I would grocery shop with such speed and intensity it surpassed rude.
And crossed the line into bad-mannered and loutish.
In other words, get out of my way.
I've often thought of making my own grocery cart, complete with horn and buffers to move people along if they are blocking my path to the finish line.
If you want to stand in the middle of grocery store aisles and talk to your next door neighbours as if they are your long lost cousins three times removed, sharing with them every single event in the history of your life, that's not my problem.
If you want to pore over every.single.grapefruit looking for the one perfect example of citrusy exquisiteness, don't do it while I'm standing there looking for three okay looking grapefruits to accompany my morning whole wheat English muffin and organic peanut butter.
If you insist on perusing the in-store flyer, while standing in front of the $1.27 a pound red grapes, don't give me the stink eye when I ask you to move.
Unfortunately, the grocery store has become even more of an exercise in patience for me than it has ever been before.
Because now I am so limited in what I can eat, I actually have to slow down, and take the time to look at what I am purchasing.
And it is beyond the boundaries of annoying.
Heading directly toward vexacious.
Not to mention time consuming.
Every Saturday evening, after my meal of baked beans and homemade bread, and a visit with Mum which usually means watching the news, we head to the sixth circle of hell.
The grocery store.
It was after ten o'clock when we got home last night.
Which is later than I ever want to come home.
But especially from the grocery store.
Grocery shopping, then, is taking considerably more time, because there are considerably more stops to make.
After dropping Keith at work yesterday morning, I went to the Bulk Barn.
Now, the Bulk Barn most days is busy but accessible.
So long as you don't make the mistake of going in there during a weekday lunchhour.
Literally a stone's throw away from the highschool, the Bulk Barn is transformed from 12.15-1.00 pm into a sanctum for sugar deprived, hormonally charged adolescents.
Older Bulk Barn employees, usually between the ages of 50-65 patrol the store with cinnamon stick batons ready to strike at the first sign of tomfoolery, chicanery, highjinks or shenanigans that may result from sugar devoid synapses firing in dangerous directions as the sugar seeking teenage denizens survey the bounty of sugar, salt and carbohydrated goods before them.
The only other place even more psychotic than Bulk Barn at lunchtime is McDonalds, which is within spitting distance of the highschool.
If you have the misfortune of being struck by a Big Mac combo craving during noon and one pm on any weekday, you may want to seriously reconsider how important it is to feed that craving.
Because walking into McDonalds at lunchtime, the McDonalds within spitting distance of the highschool, is like walking into the seventh circle of hell.
Hoards of hormonally charged teenagers pack the serving space.
A deafening cacophany of churlish chatter is thick in the air.
Frazzled McDonald's employees are running hither and yon, to and fro, like leemings looking for the edge of the cliff so they can hurl themselves into the abyss and escape the teen-hunger inspired chaos.
If you manage to get your food with minimal scarring, but lack the common sense to get take out, you then have to make your way through the masses to try and locate a table.
Every table is filled to capacity with ravenous youth slavishly gorging themselves on the mouthwatering delectability that is the Big Mac. Shoving fingerfuls of those gloriously decadent McDonald's french fries into their mouths, instead of savouring them, dipping each one methodically into the equally divine Heinz ketchup.
The only scarier place than Bulk Barn and McDonalds is any Tim Hortons between 7.00-9.00 am every morning.
So I just don't even go there.
Because if I did, I'd have to verbalize my burning frustration with the Timmie's drivethru.
The one I MUST pass each and every weekday morning to deposit Em at school.
The one where the line is so long, and the employees so slow that the drive thru line spills out onto Prospect Street, backing up traffic because half the city wants their caffeine freak on.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Bulk Barn.
Walnut halves, raw, unsalted, blanched, the life sucked out of them peanuts, almonds that have nothing on them except their skin, unsalted in the shell sunflower seeds, $21.00 worth of wild rice, and organic orange tea in unbleached tea bags.
Woo. Hoo.
I did purchase far more delectable goodies, but those are for the elves to bring to the Advent calendar.
The treats that my children, aged 21, 19 and almost 17 insist on still having each morning from December 1-24.
You'd think, given the effort I'm putting into weight loss, they'd be willing to forego the advent calendar ritual.
But apparently not.
Wretched swine.
First post-nursing home stop was Victory on King because that's where we get our meat, and most of our vegetables.
Kolach buns, if they've been brought in from Montreal and there are any left.
And the Globe and Mail, because the odds of getting the G&M at the Superstore after 10.00 am are nil.
Nada.
None.
I like Victory. The prices are reasonable and unless its the end of the workday therefore just before supper, or anytime on Saturday until 6.00 pm, it isn't busy.
We are in and out in 20 minutes.
Then, because it can be put off no longer, we go to the grocery store.
Two hours.
That's how long it took for us to get what had to be got.
To read labels.
Bicker.
Look longingly at all the meals that come in boxes and just need to be plopped in the oven, no effort required.
Browse slowly through the tantalizing baked goods, beckoning me, pleading with me to bring them home because they would be oh so good with a nice, hot cup of coffee.
Bitch because the store is being renovated and nothing is where it's supposed to be.
And what are the rewards for this torture?
This insanity?
One, the knowledge that I'll have to do it again in one week's time.
Two, having my children dig through the cupboards, excavate the freezer and mine through the fridge only to then look at me and state,
"There's nothing to eat in this house!"
Wretched.
Ungrateful.
Salt, sugar and carb loving.
Swine.
Title Lyric: McDonalds Girl by the Barenaked Ladies
My new eating regime has elevated grocery shopping to a whole new level of ugly.
Prior to my commitment to shedding pounds, I would grocery shop with such speed and intensity it surpassed rude.
And crossed the line into bad-mannered and loutish.
In other words, get out of my way.
I've often thought of making my own grocery cart, complete with horn and buffers to move people along if they are blocking my path to the finish line.
If you want to stand in the middle of grocery store aisles and talk to your next door neighbours as if they are your long lost cousins three times removed, sharing with them every single event in the history of your life, that's not my problem.
If you want to pore over every.single.grapefruit looking for the one perfect example of citrusy exquisiteness, don't do it while I'm standing there looking for three okay looking grapefruits to accompany my morning whole wheat English muffin and organic peanut butter.
If you insist on perusing the in-store flyer, while standing in front of the $1.27 a pound red grapes, don't give me the stink eye when I ask you to move.
Unfortunately, the grocery store has become even more of an exercise in patience for me than it has ever been before.
Because now I am so limited in what I can eat, I actually have to slow down, and take the time to look at what I am purchasing.
And it is beyond the boundaries of annoying.
Heading directly toward vexacious.
Not to mention time consuming.
Every Saturday evening, after my meal of baked beans and homemade bread, and a visit with Mum which usually means watching the news, we head to the sixth circle of hell.
The grocery store.
It was after ten o'clock when we got home last night.
Which is later than I ever want to come home.
But especially from the grocery store.
Grocery shopping, then, is taking considerably more time, because there are considerably more stops to make.
After dropping Keith at work yesterday morning, I went to the Bulk Barn.
Now, the Bulk Barn most days is busy but accessible.
So long as you don't make the mistake of going in there during a weekday lunchhour.
Literally a stone's throw away from the highschool, the Bulk Barn is transformed from 12.15-1.00 pm into a sanctum for sugar deprived, hormonally charged adolescents.
Older Bulk Barn employees, usually between the ages of 50-65 patrol the store with cinnamon stick batons ready to strike at the first sign of tomfoolery, chicanery, highjinks or shenanigans that may result from sugar devoid synapses firing in dangerous directions as the sugar seeking teenage denizens survey the bounty of sugar, salt and carbohydrated goods before them.
The only other place even more psychotic than Bulk Barn at lunchtime is McDonalds, which is within spitting distance of the highschool.
If you have the misfortune of being struck by a Big Mac combo craving during noon and one pm on any weekday, you may want to seriously reconsider how important it is to feed that craving.
Because walking into McDonalds at lunchtime, the McDonalds within spitting distance of the highschool, is like walking into the seventh circle of hell.
Hoards of hormonally charged teenagers pack the serving space.
A deafening cacophany of churlish chatter is thick in the air.
Frazzled McDonald's employees are running hither and yon, to and fro, like leemings looking for the edge of the cliff so they can hurl themselves into the abyss and escape the teen-hunger inspired chaos.
If you manage to get your food with minimal scarring, but lack the common sense to get take out, you then have to make your way through the masses to try and locate a table.
Every table is filled to capacity with ravenous youth slavishly gorging themselves on the mouthwatering delectability that is the Big Mac. Shoving fingerfuls of those gloriously decadent McDonald's french fries into their mouths, instead of savouring them, dipping each one methodically into the equally divine Heinz ketchup.
The only scarier place than Bulk Barn and McDonalds is any Tim Hortons between 7.00-9.00 am every morning.
So I just don't even go there.
Because if I did, I'd have to verbalize my burning frustration with the Timmie's drivethru.
The one I MUST pass each and every weekday morning to deposit Em at school.
The one where the line is so long, and the employees so slow that the drive thru line spills out onto Prospect Street, backing up traffic because half the city wants their caffeine freak on.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Bulk Barn.
Walnut halves, raw, unsalted, blanched, the life sucked out of them peanuts, almonds that have nothing on them except their skin, unsalted in the shell sunflower seeds, $21.00 worth of wild rice, and organic orange tea in unbleached tea bags.
Woo. Hoo.
I did purchase far more delectable goodies, but those are for the elves to bring to the Advent calendar.
The treats that my children, aged 21, 19 and almost 17 insist on still having each morning from December 1-24.
You'd think, given the effort I'm putting into weight loss, they'd be willing to forego the advent calendar ritual.
But apparently not.
Wretched swine.
First post-nursing home stop was Victory on King because that's where we get our meat, and most of our vegetables.
Kolach buns, if they've been brought in from Montreal and there are any left.
And the Globe and Mail, because the odds of getting the G&M at the Superstore after 10.00 am are nil.
Nada.
None.
I like Victory. The prices are reasonable and unless its the end of the workday therefore just before supper, or anytime on Saturday until 6.00 pm, it isn't busy.
We are in and out in 20 minutes.
Then, because it can be put off no longer, we go to the grocery store.
Two hours.
That's how long it took for us to get what had to be got.
To read labels.
Bicker.
Look longingly at all the meals that come in boxes and just need to be plopped in the oven, no effort required.
Browse slowly through the tantalizing baked goods, beckoning me, pleading with me to bring them home because they would be oh so good with a nice, hot cup of coffee.
Bitch because the store is being renovated and nothing is where it's supposed to be.
And what are the rewards for this torture?
This insanity?
One, the knowledge that I'll have to do it again in one week's time.
Two, having my children dig through the cupboards, excavate the freezer and mine through the fridge only to then look at me and state,
"There's nothing to eat in this house!"
Wretched.
Ungrateful.
Salt, sugar and carb loving.
Swine.
Title Lyric: McDonalds Girl by the Barenaked Ladies
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