November 27, 2010
Lately, an anger has been burning inside me.
A slow boiling, deep seeded anger.
Building since I started Simply for Life.
What about?
Food.
Everywhere I turn, food.
Dropping off and picking up Em from school, I am assaulted with the deceptively tantalizing smells of McDonalds and Tim Hortons.
Watching car after car after car pull into the drive thrus and parking lots in anticipation of their egg and bacon or egg and sausage filled breakfast sandwiches, their muffins and donuts, their breakfast pastries, hot drinks as simple as coffee or as complex as lattes with added flavourings topped with whipped cream and chocolate drizzles.
Leaving the high school for the university, I pass by Burger King.
Same morning line up at the drive thru.
An overwhelming smell of broiled meat infuses the morning air.
Inticing me to change direction and partake of their post dawn fare.
I don't even like Burger King.
Television commecials, food.
Coming home, looking forward to just being in my house, in my pjs, perhaps even watching a television program, I am assaulted with commercials advertising their taste tempting, eye catching, mouth watering merchandise.
Boston Pizza telling me give cooking the finger. Pizza Hut with cheesy bites surrounding the crust, or their buy one get another for $5.00. Dairy Queen with the headless mouth suggesting that I should consume endless blizzards, other ice creamy treats, or their chicken finger meal, complete with (and I never understood this) toast. Pizza Delight with their spaghetti and meatballs, alfredos, mouth watering pizzas. KFC with their marriage saving combos that provide spicy to her and orginal to him. McDonalds with their perfectly shaped Big Macs and gorgeously piled french fries. A&W and their manager-employee dialogue about their gratifying sirloin burgers, Wendy's with their fries and frosties, Quiznos and Subway with carb crazy creations, Taco Bell with its Mexican munchies (I have to admit TB makes me want to hurl). Restaurants not in Fredericton, like Red Lobster and Arby's teasing us with our tidbits, Olive Gardens, that mecca of insane Italian delicacies shouldn't even be allowed on grace our channels if we have not access to them.
Cable has further provided images of enticing goods from restaurants and fast food chains we don't even have in Canada.
At least as far as I know.
TGIFridays, IHOP, Chili's, Applebys, Boston Market, Chi-Chi's, Popeye's, Outback Steakhouse, Chuck E. Cheese, Friendly's, Hardee's, Papa John's. . .
How is this okay????
It's not just restaurants, either.
Kraft Dinner, Kraft cheese, McCain pizzas and french fries, Hamburger Helper (which also makes me feel nauseous) Campbell's soups complete with recipes for chicken broccoli casseroles, Breyer's ice cream, Lean Cuisine's, chicken, eggs, coffee, muffins, potato chips, chocolate bars, PC Christmas desserts. . .
Entertainment programs, food.
Emily has a new favourite program.
Brought to her by OLN.
Man v. Food.
A horrific and yet simultaneously mesmerizing 30 minutes of one man's foodstuff odessey across America (I am seeing a pattern here).
In every city he visits landmark restaurants.
Philly cheese steaks, hot wings, 116 ounce milkshakes, Sicilian pizzas, peanut butter pies, fish fry sandwiches, sandwiches with fries, onion rings, macaroni and cheese and pastrami; sandwiches with piles of cheese, turkey, ham, beef, coleslaw; triple meat beef sandwiches dipped in beef broth, burgers with more layers than a 100 year old tree, french fries of every size, shape and permutation, Hawaiian delicacies that include pork and fried eggs. . .
The list goes on, and on, and on, and on.
I had to stop watching it.
Everytime I did I had overwhelming cravings for sugar, salt, carbs and fat.
While I struggled with being nauseous and disgusted at the same time.
And outraged at how much food people in the western world consume, while people on the other side of the world are starving to death.
Programs for the purpose of entertaining people while they watch obese people lose weight.
The Biggest Loser for example.
Don't even get me started.
And more outraged because I feel I have been conned. Dupped. Frauded.
How can people lose weight, eat healthy when everywhere. we. turn. there we are assaulted, bombared, barraged, beseiged, harassed, hounded, pestered to eat foods we just should not be eating.
Foods that look so good. Taste so good.
But are so, so bad for you.
I can see a connection between food and men I've dated in the past.
How can people lose weight, eat healthy when McDonald's costs less than the ingredients for a veggie stirfry?
How can people lose weight, eat healthy when a chocolate bar costs less than an apple?
These thoughts have been inflitrating my consciousness, first gently, now incessently.
As a sociologist, I have some theories about how come obesity is now a politcal issue, and obese people are the new group of marginalized, discriminated people.
But I need a little more time to think things through.
While trying to dodge the overwhelming messages like a football player trying to cross the goal line.
Title Lyric: I'm Getting Fat by Furnaceface.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Grading: Deranged
November 25, 2010
I know.
One month until Christmas.
Don't remind me.
You don't have to.
For the world outside the ivory tower, getting excited about Christmas a month beforehand is in all likelihood, something to celebrate.
A good thing.
Joyous.
Exciting even.
For the world inside the ivory tower, getting excited about Christmas is still a long time coming.
Panic.
Fear.
Anxiety creeping upwards from the very depths of your soul.
At least for me.
Yesterday marked the beginning of the last two weeks of classes for this term.
And when I think about what has to be accomplished between now and the end of the term, and from the end of the term to December 24th, I want to get in the car, fill the tank and drive west until I run out.
Where ever I land is where I will stay until January.
Even if it means staying in a small, run down, unheated, unlighted fishing shack in the middle of nowhere Quebec, where the nearest neighbour is 50 kilometers away on either side, but it wouldn't matter anyway because I don't speak French, meaning there would be no conversation even if they were closer because the only phrase I know in French would land me either a slap on the face or an acceptance of an offer I didn't intend to make in the first place, and where the nearest grocery store is in Montmagny.
No worries, though, because you can buy liquor in convenience stores in Quebec.
Alas, such a fantasy is beyond my reach.
Not because I wouldn't want to stay in an unheated and unlighted fishing shack.
But the maternal ties connecting me to my children are simply too strong.
I can hardly believe I was even able to contemplate escaping without the anticipated telepathic electric cattle prod jolt, a result of their frightening Vulcan mind meld capabilities.
Further, Stephen would garner the collective power of the RCMP and the Surete de Quebec, rangers from some Canadian wildlife service, CSIS, FBI, CIA, the Secret Service and scariest of all, Frankie.
Guess who would find me first?
That's right.
Emily.
Because that child has a grip on me tighter than a too tight bodice reinforced with steel and duct tape.
She can find me even when I can't find myself.
In utero, she implanted some GPS tracking device to ensure she maintained her expert knowledge of where I am at all times.
Smart, really.
Cause who could possibly find it?
So it's useless for me to dream of running away and returning only when the madness-of-the-month-before-Christmas-end-of-term-Christmas-conspicious-consumption has ended.
But I can dream.
What is it about this time of year that is so overwhelmingly stressful?
The panic.
Sitting around the table of my seminar classroom yesterday, I noticed my four incredibly bright, overachieving seminar students are bearing an eerie resemblance to the zombies in The Walking Dead.
Although, and thankfully, without the gnashing of teeth and the desire to rip the raw flesh from bones.
And without that awful gurgling/moaning sound that is supposed to replicate communication.
But they were close.
Grey pallor, red rimmed eyes, eyelids fighting to stay awake.
They are suffering from an ailment that is overtaking students all over campus.
End of termitis.
Angst-ridden, overburdened, overworked students will populate the campus, mere shadows of their September anticipatory, excitement and wonderfilled selves.
All in the span of less than 4 months.
Gone are the carefree, jovial days of late summer/early fall.
Replaced by the cold, harsh days of late November, early December.
Far away is the deceptive "I-have-lots-of-time-to-do-this" axiom.
Changed to the all to real "How-the-hell-will-I-get-this-done-before-the-due-date" cry.
From this panic will sometimes emerge it's sister, breakdown.
Breakdown is piles of giggles.
It usually occurs when you least expect it, like in the middle of a meeting with your professor, when your asking benign questions about a forthcoming assignment.
And then it happens.
Eyes well up with tears.
Lower lip quivers.
They sit back in the chair.
The full fledged breakdown commences.
I just sit and wait for it to run it's course, providing tissue, which I always have an abundance of during this time of year.
Once it seems as if the tempestuous storm has passed, leaving in its wake the sniffles and a red nose, I remind the exhausted, overwrought student sitting in the comfy chair that they will prevail. They will finish. And whether they believe it at the time or not, they will want to come back in January.
But at this time of the year, its hard to convince anyone that they'll make it to tomorrow.
Especially when I'm not sure I'll make it tomorrow.
The marking.
Unfortunately, I have standards.
And these standards don't allow for the mid-term-final paper-final-exam formula that many professors use.
Which means that walking hand-in-hand with my high standards is a love of self-torture.
This can be the only logical explanation for syllabi that outline the myriad of papers and projects and presentations I have diabolically developed to make the life of my students a living, breathing, alive and present here on Earth, hell.
Right?
While the rest of the world bakes, visits, wraps, shops, decorates, travels, I will be underneath a mound of marking that rivals the heights of Mt. Everest.
And because I had the poorly timed misfortune to be sick near the end of the term, the marking has doubled.
Perhaps even tripled.
50 introduction to criminology papers, 10-12 pages.
45 introduction to qualitative methods participant observation assignments, app 20 pages.
45 introduction to qualitative methods final exams.
11 introduction to qualitative methods semi-structured interviews.
8 advanced qualitative methods semi structured interviews.
10 advanced qualitative methods final papers, 20-35 pages.
This does not take into account reading drafts of my honours student's thesis.
Or the book edits I have to complete for this coming Wednesday.
Or the Christmas baking I'm supposed to do. . .shortbread cookies, in particular.
And this year, my father has passed the reins of the gumdrop cake making to me.
Christmas shopping. . .not even a stocking stuffer has yet to grace my in house hidey holes.
The tree? Lights? Decorating?
Last Christmas, Em decorated the tree while I sat in the kitchen and marked.
At this point in my career, you'd think I would know better.
But I don't.
I keep hoping that through the assignments I develop my students will learn something and that nugget of knowledge will shine through in their paper.
I keep hoping.
Hence, the marking.
The search, the quest, the crusade. . .
For hope.
That I will get through this next month with some of my faculties in tact.
Or at least feign the appearance of in tact.
Title Lyric: Grading: Deranged by Decline of Conformity
I know.
One month until Christmas.
Don't remind me.
You don't have to.
For the world outside the ivory tower, getting excited about Christmas a month beforehand is in all likelihood, something to celebrate.
A good thing.
Joyous.
Exciting even.
For the world inside the ivory tower, getting excited about Christmas is still a long time coming.
Panic.
Fear.
Anxiety creeping upwards from the very depths of your soul.
At least for me.
Yesterday marked the beginning of the last two weeks of classes for this term.
And when I think about what has to be accomplished between now and the end of the term, and from the end of the term to December 24th, I want to get in the car, fill the tank and drive west until I run out.
Where ever I land is where I will stay until January.
Even if it means staying in a small, run down, unheated, unlighted fishing shack in the middle of nowhere Quebec, where the nearest neighbour is 50 kilometers away on either side, but it wouldn't matter anyway because I don't speak French, meaning there would be no conversation even if they were closer because the only phrase I know in French would land me either a slap on the face or an acceptance of an offer I didn't intend to make in the first place, and where the nearest grocery store is in Montmagny.
No worries, though, because you can buy liquor in convenience stores in Quebec.
Alas, such a fantasy is beyond my reach.
Not because I wouldn't want to stay in an unheated and unlighted fishing shack.
But the maternal ties connecting me to my children are simply too strong.
I can hardly believe I was even able to contemplate escaping without the anticipated telepathic electric cattle prod jolt, a result of their frightening Vulcan mind meld capabilities.
Further, Stephen would garner the collective power of the RCMP and the Surete de Quebec, rangers from some Canadian wildlife service, CSIS, FBI, CIA, the Secret Service and scariest of all, Frankie.
Guess who would find me first?
That's right.
Emily.
Because that child has a grip on me tighter than a too tight bodice reinforced with steel and duct tape.
She can find me even when I can't find myself.
In utero, she implanted some GPS tracking device to ensure she maintained her expert knowledge of where I am at all times.
Smart, really.
Cause who could possibly find it?
So it's useless for me to dream of running away and returning only when the madness-of-the-month-before-Christmas-end-of-term-Christmas-conspicious-consumption has ended.
But I can dream.
What is it about this time of year that is so overwhelmingly stressful?
The panic.
Sitting around the table of my seminar classroom yesterday, I noticed my four incredibly bright, overachieving seminar students are bearing an eerie resemblance to the zombies in The Walking Dead.
Although, and thankfully, without the gnashing of teeth and the desire to rip the raw flesh from bones.
And without that awful gurgling/moaning sound that is supposed to replicate communication.
But they were close.
Grey pallor, red rimmed eyes, eyelids fighting to stay awake.
They are suffering from an ailment that is overtaking students all over campus.
End of termitis.
Angst-ridden, overburdened, overworked students will populate the campus, mere shadows of their September anticipatory, excitement and wonderfilled selves.
All in the span of less than 4 months.
Gone are the carefree, jovial days of late summer/early fall.
Replaced by the cold, harsh days of late November, early December.
Far away is the deceptive "I-have-lots-of-time-to-do-this" axiom.
Changed to the all to real "How-the-hell-will-I-get-this-done-before-the-due-date" cry.
From this panic will sometimes emerge it's sister, breakdown.
Breakdown is piles of giggles.
It usually occurs when you least expect it, like in the middle of a meeting with your professor, when your asking benign questions about a forthcoming assignment.
And then it happens.
Eyes well up with tears.
Lower lip quivers.
They sit back in the chair.
The full fledged breakdown commences.
I just sit and wait for it to run it's course, providing tissue, which I always have an abundance of during this time of year.
Once it seems as if the tempestuous storm has passed, leaving in its wake the sniffles and a red nose, I remind the exhausted, overwrought student sitting in the comfy chair that they will prevail. They will finish. And whether they believe it at the time or not, they will want to come back in January.
But at this time of the year, its hard to convince anyone that they'll make it to tomorrow.
Especially when I'm not sure I'll make it tomorrow.
The marking.
Unfortunately, I have standards.
And these standards don't allow for the mid-term-final paper-final-exam formula that many professors use.
Which means that walking hand-in-hand with my high standards is a love of self-torture.
This can be the only logical explanation for syllabi that outline the myriad of papers and projects and presentations I have diabolically developed to make the life of my students a living, breathing, alive and present here on Earth, hell.
Right?
While the rest of the world bakes, visits, wraps, shops, decorates, travels, I will be underneath a mound of marking that rivals the heights of Mt. Everest.
And because I had the poorly timed misfortune to be sick near the end of the term, the marking has doubled.
Perhaps even tripled.
50 introduction to criminology papers, 10-12 pages.
45 introduction to qualitative methods participant observation assignments, app 20 pages.
45 introduction to qualitative methods final exams.
11 introduction to qualitative methods semi-structured interviews.
8 advanced qualitative methods semi structured interviews.
10 advanced qualitative methods final papers, 20-35 pages.
This does not take into account reading drafts of my honours student's thesis.
Or the book edits I have to complete for this coming Wednesday.
Or the Christmas baking I'm supposed to do. . .shortbread cookies, in particular.
And this year, my father has passed the reins of the gumdrop cake making to me.
Christmas shopping. . .not even a stocking stuffer has yet to grace my in house hidey holes.
The tree? Lights? Decorating?
Last Christmas, Em decorated the tree while I sat in the kitchen and marked.
At this point in my career, you'd think I would know better.
But I don't.
I keep hoping that through the assignments I develop my students will learn something and that nugget of knowledge will shine through in their paper.
I keep hoping.
Hence, the marking.
The search, the quest, the crusade. . .
For hope.
That I will get through this next month with some of my faculties in tact.
Or at least feign the appearance of in tact.
Title Lyric: Grading: Deranged by Decline of Conformity
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
As long as I'm payin' the bills. . .I'm payin' the cost to be the boss. . .
November 24, 2010
To all appearances, the illness that had plagued our happy family had passed.
However, appearances are deceiving.
Em was mentioning last evening that her throat has been "scratchy" and she hasn't been feeling well the last couple of days.
Just what I wanted to hear.
Because there is nothing to prevent this virus from boomeranging.
Bouncing off Em and back to me.
Seeing how good my luck has been lately, I think this is a legitimate concern.
One of my favourite films is Cool Hand Luke (1967).
Paul Newman.
Enough said.
Within this marvel of movie mastery is the oft quoted line,
"What we have here is a failure to communicate."
This phrase captures my relationship with Mer entirely.
Cell phones have proved to be the bane of my existence.
Empirical evidence gleaned from past experiences has lead me to conclude that if I am involved in anything to do with cellphones, trouble is just around the corner.
JUST around the corner.
And this time is proving to be no different.
Because Mer and I, and Mer and the Telus guy who outlined our phone plans, had a collosal failure to communicate.
Mer is bright.
Intelligent.
Astute.
Except when it comes to accepting the limits of cell phone usage.
And understanding the financial repercussions of refusing to understand and accept those limits.
I am meandering through the appliance section of Sears last evening, patiently awaiting the arrival of our new microwave, when my cell phone rings.
Only four people ever call me on my cell phone.
Emily.
Keith.
Meredyth.
Mum.
So imagine my surprise when I answered my phone and none of the above were on the other end.
It was the faceless, yet gentle-voiced Lady-from-Telus.
Inquiring about payment of my bill.
I was confused.
Addled.
Astonished.
Baffled.
Perplexed.
Completely thrown off balance.
The bill had been paid.
I know.
I paid it.
But it would appear that I didn't pay enough.
I know exactly how much our family plan costs, taxes included.
So that is what I paid.
If I have any responsibility to shoulder, it was in not looking at the bill.
And just paying what I expected the balance to be.
Imagine that.
It would appear that my cell-phone crafty daughter, while knowing how to use a cell phone, incredibly well, is not concerned with little things that are critically important to cell phone usage.
Like knowing, accepting and practicing staying within the 200 daytime minute limit.
As elusive to Mer as understanding quadratic equations is for me.
Drastic measures may have to be taken.
Removing said cell phone and holding it hostage until Mer learns the importance of staying with the boundaries.
An overall struggle for her, to be honest.
Cell phone daytime minute limits.
Means and money limits.
My patience and tolerance limits.
I know she'll get it.
Cause I'm going to make her.
Even if I must resort to drastic measures.
And I will.
I'm not afraid to take on the Kraken!
After a week of microwavelessness, we have been restored to our former microwave owner status.
Honestly, I didn't notice much of a difference without it.
Other than I had to remember to take something out of the freezer for dinner in order for it to thaw out.
In fact, I would have been fine to remain microwaveless.
People existed for millenia without microwaves.
They weren't introduced until 1967.
Before 1967, people cooked and thawed and warmed things up without relying on microwaves.
Unfortunately my family is unwilling to traverse back in time to learn to live with the presence of the always handy microwave nestled into the corner of our kitchen counter.
Waiting for Stephen to warm homemade soup, Keith to do something to hotdogs akin to cooking, Em to pop her popcorn in the anticipation of ketchup flavoured seasoning, Mer to heat whatever leftovers happen to be in our fridge waiting for to scarf them down.
So, while I was perfectly content to live without a microwave and just get my money back, I met with significant resistance.
Meaning that now we have a new Panasonic microwave.
With snazzy blue neon numbers.
Stephen likes the blue numbers.
However, if we encounter any further microwave related issues, I have put my foot down and said that we will live without.
We can do it.
We will manage.
I will prevail.
I.
Always.
Do.
Title Lyric: Payin' the Cost to be the Boss by B.B.King
To all appearances, the illness that had plagued our happy family had passed.
However, appearances are deceiving.
Em was mentioning last evening that her throat has been "scratchy" and she hasn't been feeling well the last couple of days.
Just what I wanted to hear.
Because there is nothing to prevent this virus from boomeranging.
Bouncing off Em and back to me.
Seeing how good my luck has been lately, I think this is a legitimate concern.
One of my favourite films is Cool Hand Luke (1967).
Paul Newman.
Enough said.
Within this marvel of movie mastery is the oft quoted line,
"What we have here is a failure to communicate."
This phrase captures my relationship with Mer entirely.
Cell phones have proved to be the bane of my existence.
Empirical evidence gleaned from past experiences has lead me to conclude that if I am involved in anything to do with cellphones, trouble is just around the corner.
JUST around the corner.
And this time is proving to be no different.
Because Mer and I, and Mer and the Telus guy who outlined our phone plans, had a collosal failure to communicate.
Mer is bright.
Intelligent.
Astute.
Except when it comes to accepting the limits of cell phone usage.
And understanding the financial repercussions of refusing to understand and accept those limits.
I am meandering through the appliance section of Sears last evening, patiently awaiting the arrival of our new microwave, when my cell phone rings.
Only four people ever call me on my cell phone.
Emily.
Keith.
Meredyth.
Mum.
So imagine my surprise when I answered my phone and none of the above were on the other end.
It was the faceless, yet gentle-voiced Lady-from-Telus.
Inquiring about payment of my bill.
I was confused.
Addled.
Astonished.
Baffled.
Perplexed.
Completely thrown off balance.
The bill had been paid.
I know.
I paid it.
But it would appear that I didn't pay enough.
I know exactly how much our family plan costs, taxes included.
So that is what I paid.
If I have any responsibility to shoulder, it was in not looking at the bill.
And just paying what I expected the balance to be.
Imagine that.
It would appear that my cell-phone crafty daughter, while knowing how to use a cell phone, incredibly well, is not concerned with little things that are critically important to cell phone usage.
Like knowing, accepting and practicing staying within the 200 daytime minute limit.
As elusive to Mer as understanding quadratic equations is for me.
Drastic measures may have to be taken.
Removing said cell phone and holding it hostage until Mer learns the importance of staying with the boundaries.
An overall struggle for her, to be honest.
Cell phone daytime minute limits.
Means and money limits.
My patience and tolerance limits.
I know she'll get it.
Cause I'm going to make her.
Even if I must resort to drastic measures.
And I will.
I'm not afraid to take on the Kraken!
After a week of microwavelessness, we have been restored to our former microwave owner status.
Honestly, I didn't notice much of a difference without it.
Other than I had to remember to take something out of the freezer for dinner in order for it to thaw out.
In fact, I would have been fine to remain microwaveless.
People existed for millenia without microwaves.
They weren't introduced until 1967.
Before 1967, people cooked and thawed and warmed things up without relying on microwaves.
Unfortunately my family is unwilling to traverse back in time to learn to live with the presence of the always handy microwave nestled into the corner of our kitchen counter.
Waiting for Stephen to warm homemade soup, Keith to do something to hotdogs akin to cooking, Em to pop her popcorn in the anticipation of ketchup flavoured seasoning, Mer to heat whatever leftovers happen to be in our fridge waiting for to scarf them down.
So, while I was perfectly content to live without a microwave and just get my money back, I met with significant resistance.
Meaning that now we have a new Panasonic microwave.
With snazzy blue neon numbers.
Stephen likes the blue numbers.
However, if we encounter any further microwave related issues, I have put my foot down and said that we will live without.
We can do it.
We will manage.
I will prevail.
I.
Always.
Do.
Title Lyric: Payin' the Cost to be the Boss by B.B.King
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
What if we could use our exercise machines to make electricity. . .we all would have the best shape of our lives. . .
November 23, 2010
Keith often regales us during dinner with odd little facts he has acquired through his university studies, most specifically his Forensic Anthropology class, or bits and peices of trivia he picks up hither and yon.
Last evening, while dining on some very tasty asparagus, he casually remarked, "asparagus makes your pee smell funny. Only about 10% of people can actually smell it though."
Guess what?
I am a part of that lucky 10%.
And Keith was right.
Asparagus does make your pee smell funny.
After much soul searching, pondering and discussions with my SFL nutrition counsellor, I have come to a major decision.
I am going to return to the STU gym.
This was not a decision made lightly.
One of the things I love about working at STU is that I genuinely get to know my students.
At least their faces.
Names. . .not so much.
But that small, tight-knit community atmosphere is definitely appealing, and most of the time, I quite enjoy it.
Except when I'm in the gym.
I've tried to use the gym three different times since it opened.
And each time I leave for the same reasons.
My students.
Whom I adore almost all of the time.
Except when they knock on my closed door.
Stop me when I'm already late for class.
And ask me questions that could definitely wait until later when I am trudging along and sweating on the treadmill.
Given that I keep leaving for the same reasons, how come I am going to put myself out there again?
Because while I risk being accosted while engaging in cardio, the STU gym offers something else no other gym in the city offers.
It's inexpensive.
It's convenient.
And this time I am armed with my ipod and I am just going to keep walking and ignoring all pleas to engage while I am working out to my overly electronic dance music.
So, to my students, if you see me on the treadmill, please don't engage.
Because like getting to close to the fence at the zoo, trying to lure your overweight, cranky, professor while she is in the throes of working out is just asking for trouble.
Lots of it.
Adrenaline pumping, endophins charging, I may say something I won't regret later.
But you will.
I have lost 15.2 pounds since starting Simply for Life.
I am starting to notice that my t-shirts are a bit looser, my pants are not hugging my ample booty quite as much and this is what has partially spurned my re-interest in going to the gym.
Also, I'm a visual learner.
So when Neil said to me that my 15.2 pounds is the equivalent to 15.2 pounds of butter, two pounds of which are sitting in my freezer right now awaiting their transformation into shortbread cookies, it all made sense to me.
15.2 pounds of butter is a lot of fat.
And while I am so pleased, I also know that there are many, many more pounds of butter to go.
Oddly enough, I have noticed that the cold is irritating me more than usual.
In fact, as someone with Grave's Disease, meaning I will wander around in a t-shirt and shorts when it's -35 degrees, being cold is something I'm not all that familiar with.
The reason?
Partially, its because I've been sick.
But, apparently, the less fat you have for insulation, the more likely you are to feel the cold.
Makes sense.
Which means I am VERY well insulated.
The other thought that crossed my mind while I was treading precariously across the ice providing a sheen of dangerous slippery-ness, I realized that losing weight means losing cushion.
Cause along with being very well insulated, I am mucho cushioned.
And given my frequent propensity for landing on my butt, or other parts of my anatomy when it's icy, losing cushioning is something I have to be concerned over.
I have fallen everywhere.
Embarrasing myself on multiple occasions.
Because sometimes having children is just not enough to encourage embarassment.
And I have to facilitate it all by myself.
Unfortunately, I have sustained some long lasting injuries.
Just ask my cracked tailbone.
Cause it has a story to tell.
But that'll have to wait for later.
Not only do we not have winter tires on our car,
. . .yet. . .
. . .we also don't have the brush-scraper thingy.
We had one.
I saw it lots last winter.
And as far as I knew, we still had it when winter ended.
However, the anal retentive clean freak who lives in my house,
AKA Stephen,
. . .took it upon himself to get rid of our brush-scraper thingy.
He does this alot.
It's annoying.
Especially when your car is covered in a layer of almost impervious ice.
So, guess what Stephen is buying today?
What is it with throwing things out?
I just don't get it.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe it's just because I can't.
I lack the most crucial, critical ingredient for understand the weird and wacky things my husband does.
Testosterone.
Title Lyric: Exercise Machine by Surrogate
Keith often regales us during dinner with odd little facts he has acquired through his university studies, most specifically his Forensic Anthropology class, or bits and peices of trivia he picks up hither and yon.
Last evening, while dining on some very tasty asparagus, he casually remarked, "asparagus makes your pee smell funny. Only about 10% of people can actually smell it though."
Guess what?
I am a part of that lucky 10%.
And Keith was right.
Asparagus does make your pee smell funny.
After much soul searching, pondering and discussions with my SFL nutrition counsellor, I have come to a major decision.
I am going to return to the STU gym.
This was not a decision made lightly.
One of the things I love about working at STU is that I genuinely get to know my students.
At least their faces.
Names. . .not so much.
But that small, tight-knit community atmosphere is definitely appealing, and most of the time, I quite enjoy it.
Except when I'm in the gym.
I've tried to use the gym three different times since it opened.
And each time I leave for the same reasons.
My students.
Whom I adore almost all of the time.
Except when they knock on my closed door.
Stop me when I'm already late for class.
And ask me questions that could definitely wait until later when I am trudging along and sweating on the treadmill.
Given that I keep leaving for the same reasons, how come I am going to put myself out there again?
Because while I risk being accosted while engaging in cardio, the STU gym offers something else no other gym in the city offers.
It's inexpensive.
It's convenient.
And this time I am armed with my ipod and I am just going to keep walking and ignoring all pleas to engage while I am working out to my overly electronic dance music.
So, to my students, if you see me on the treadmill, please don't engage.
Because like getting to close to the fence at the zoo, trying to lure your overweight, cranky, professor while she is in the throes of working out is just asking for trouble.
Lots of it.
Adrenaline pumping, endophins charging, I may say something I won't regret later.
But you will.
I have lost 15.2 pounds since starting Simply for Life.
I am starting to notice that my t-shirts are a bit looser, my pants are not hugging my ample booty quite as much and this is what has partially spurned my re-interest in going to the gym.
Also, I'm a visual learner.
So when Neil said to me that my 15.2 pounds is the equivalent to 15.2 pounds of butter, two pounds of which are sitting in my freezer right now awaiting their transformation into shortbread cookies, it all made sense to me.
15.2 pounds of butter is a lot of fat.
And while I am so pleased, I also know that there are many, many more pounds of butter to go.
Oddly enough, I have noticed that the cold is irritating me more than usual.
In fact, as someone with Grave's Disease, meaning I will wander around in a t-shirt and shorts when it's -35 degrees, being cold is something I'm not all that familiar with.
The reason?
Partially, its because I've been sick.
But, apparently, the less fat you have for insulation, the more likely you are to feel the cold.
Makes sense.
Which means I am VERY well insulated.
The other thought that crossed my mind while I was treading precariously across the ice providing a sheen of dangerous slippery-ness, I realized that losing weight means losing cushion.
Cause along with being very well insulated, I am mucho cushioned.
And given my frequent propensity for landing on my butt, or other parts of my anatomy when it's icy, losing cushioning is something I have to be concerned over.
I have fallen everywhere.
Embarrasing myself on multiple occasions.
Because sometimes having children is just not enough to encourage embarassment.
And I have to facilitate it all by myself.
Unfortunately, I have sustained some long lasting injuries.
Just ask my cracked tailbone.
Cause it has a story to tell.
But that'll have to wait for later.
Not only do we not have winter tires on our car,
. . .yet. . .
. . .we also don't have the brush-scraper thingy.
We had one.
I saw it lots last winter.
And as far as I knew, we still had it when winter ended.
However, the anal retentive clean freak who lives in my house,
AKA Stephen,
. . .took it upon himself to get rid of our brush-scraper thingy.
He does this alot.
It's annoying.
Especially when your car is covered in a layer of almost impervious ice.
So, guess what Stephen is buying today?
What is it with throwing things out?
I just don't get it.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe it's just because I can't.
I lack the most crucial, critical ingredient for understand the weird and wacky things my husband does.
Testosterone.
Title Lyric: Exercise Machine by Surrogate
Monday, November 22, 2010
I could tell she liked me from the way she stared . . .
November 22, 2010
One week from tomorrow the book edits are to be completed and the book sent to the publisher.
Problem: my proofreader has only proofread one third of the book.
Good thing I had all that rest last week. . .because this week is going to be a shit storm of epic proportions!
We didn't end up at Swiss Chalet Saturday evening.
Instead, we took our little dinner party to The Garrison on Queen Street.
Nice place, partly owned by friends, so I feel the need to share my custom with them when I can.
Plus, for some unknown reason, it was the only place in Fredericton where we could get a table.
I had the chicken stir fry with the sweet chili sauce.
Very tasty.
Keith, however, felt this burning urge to torture me and ordered a bbq pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries and. . .
. . .the biggest insult ever. . .
. . .a Picaroon's Irish Red ale.
Just cut my heart out with a butter knife.
Please.
It would hurt less than watching my 19 year old son sup on what I consider to be one of the best ales every brewed.
He just does not possess the ale maturity to appreciate such a fine blend of yeast and hops.
But, because he is the ungrateful swine of my loins, he happily drank his ale, taunting me while I sipped my Diet Coke.
Really, it was painful watching him. Like watching a former vegetarian eat a filet mignon rare.
They'll like it, but they have no idea how come they like it.
When I am able, I am going to drink a Picaroon's Irish Red.
Slowly.
Enjoying every. single. sip.
And Keith is going to be duct taped to a chair, watching me.
Last Thursday, when Meredyth was hauling my sick and sorry self through the mall in search of black pants and all black sneakers, I came upon a disturbing, and unfortunately familiar scene.
Outside of Empire Theaters, a long and twisted line of people were anxiously awaiting the midnight showing of the latest Harry Potter film.
I like Harry Potter.
All the books have been read aloud, by me to my children, complete with a poorly done British accent.
Each film graces our tv cabinet.
So I get the excitement.
Really.
I do.
What I don't get is the lining up for a midnight film as soon as the mall opens in the morning.
Or sitting on the mall floor all day, with enough provisions to last a small country for a month.
People brought lawn chairs and blankets, board games and decks of cards, bags of fast food littering these mini camp sites.
At least everyone who was in the line at the point I walked by them, fighting the urge to make the L on my forehead with my left hand, was between the ages of 16-24.
This past summer, while walking in the mall, I was greeted with, again, a long line up of movie mad campers awaiting the midnight hour to see the battle between Edward and Jacob over the always wishy washy Bella unfold.
What was more disturbing about this queue of quacks?
The number of middle aged women wearing Edward or Jacob t-shirts, sitting in their lawn chairs, in a circle, like a gaggle of giggling girls.
And this heinous site wasn't limited to just one groups of salivating middle aged women.
There were several.
Some tried to appear as if they were there for their tween daughters, but if you're sitting in the mall at 10.00 am waiting for a midnight movie, you are not there for your daughters.
So stop living in land of unicorns and jolly elves.
I was actually embarrased to be over 40.
Don't get me wrong.
I can certainly understand the appeal of the handsome Robert Pattinson.
Or appreciate the finely chisled abs of Taylor Lautner.
Em and I, last March Break, decided to see New Moon.
It was a toonie movie, and Em got me in for free, so I figured, why not?
Behind us was a married couple, and you could tell from their conversation that he was not the least bit thrilled about being in that particular movie theater.
During the scene where Bella wacks her noggin on a rock trying to become a female version of Evil Kenevil, and Jacob whips off his shirt to wipe her bloodied brow, the woman behind me gasps.
In pleasure.
And her husband says, loudly, "I hope that was worth a toonie!"
She replies, equally as loudy and in a breathy voice, "Oh, it was!"
Em just glared at me.
The don't-you-say-anything-or-I-will-get-up-and-leave-you-here-alone-and-never-bring-you-to-another-movie-again-look.
But I am not going to attempt to relive my youth by drooling over young men old enough to be my own children.
At least not in public.
What happens under the cloak of darkness of the middle of a movie theater is my business.
Meredyth starts a new job tomorrow.
Swiss Chalet.
Coupled with her job at Empire this means discount dinner and a movie for me!
Now I know why I had children.
Exploitation.
Title Lyric: Stacy's Mom by Fountains of Wayne
One week from tomorrow the book edits are to be completed and the book sent to the publisher.
Problem: my proofreader has only proofread one third of the book.
Good thing I had all that rest last week. . .because this week is going to be a shit storm of epic proportions!
We didn't end up at Swiss Chalet Saturday evening.
Instead, we took our little dinner party to The Garrison on Queen Street.
Nice place, partly owned by friends, so I feel the need to share my custom with them when I can.
Plus, for some unknown reason, it was the only place in Fredericton where we could get a table.
I had the chicken stir fry with the sweet chili sauce.
Very tasty.
Keith, however, felt this burning urge to torture me and ordered a bbq pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries and. . .
. . .the biggest insult ever. . .
. . .a Picaroon's Irish Red ale.
Just cut my heart out with a butter knife.
Please.
It would hurt less than watching my 19 year old son sup on what I consider to be one of the best ales every brewed.
He just does not possess the ale maturity to appreciate such a fine blend of yeast and hops.
But, because he is the ungrateful swine of my loins, he happily drank his ale, taunting me while I sipped my Diet Coke.
Really, it was painful watching him. Like watching a former vegetarian eat a filet mignon rare.
They'll like it, but they have no idea how come they like it.
When I am able, I am going to drink a Picaroon's Irish Red.
Slowly.
Enjoying every. single. sip.
And Keith is going to be duct taped to a chair, watching me.
Last Thursday, when Meredyth was hauling my sick and sorry self through the mall in search of black pants and all black sneakers, I came upon a disturbing, and unfortunately familiar scene.
Outside of Empire Theaters, a long and twisted line of people were anxiously awaiting the midnight showing of the latest Harry Potter film.
I like Harry Potter.
All the books have been read aloud, by me to my children, complete with a poorly done British accent.
Each film graces our tv cabinet.
So I get the excitement.
Really.
I do.
What I don't get is the lining up for a midnight film as soon as the mall opens in the morning.
Or sitting on the mall floor all day, with enough provisions to last a small country for a month.
People brought lawn chairs and blankets, board games and decks of cards, bags of fast food littering these mini camp sites.
At least everyone who was in the line at the point I walked by them, fighting the urge to make the L on my forehead with my left hand, was between the ages of 16-24.
This past summer, while walking in the mall, I was greeted with, again, a long line up of movie mad campers awaiting the midnight hour to see the battle between Edward and Jacob over the always wishy washy Bella unfold.
What was more disturbing about this queue of quacks?
The number of middle aged women wearing Edward or Jacob t-shirts, sitting in their lawn chairs, in a circle, like a gaggle of giggling girls.
And this heinous site wasn't limited to just one groups of salivating middle aged women.
There were several.
Some tried to appear as if they were there for their tween daughters, but if you're sitting in the mall at 10.00 am waiting for a midnight movie, you are not there for your daughters.
So stop living in land of unicorns and jolly elves.
I was actually embarrased to be over 40.
Don't get me wrong.
I can certainly understand the appeal of the handsome Robert Pattinson.
Or appreciate the finely chisled abs of Taylor Lautner.
Em and I, last March Break, decided to see New Moon.
It was a toonie movie, and Em got me in for free, so I figured, why not?
Behind us was a married couple, and you could tell from their conversation that he was not the least bit thrilled about being in that particular movie theater.
During the scene where Bella wacks her noggin on a rock trying to become a female version of Evil Kenevil, and Jacob whips off his shirt to wipe her bloodied brow, the woman behind me gasps.
In pleasure.
And her husband says, loudly, "I hope that was worth a toonie!"
She replies, equally as loudy and in a breathy voice, "Oh, it was!"
Em just glared at me.
The don't-you-say-anything-or-I-will-get-up-and-leave-you-here-alone-and-never-bring-you-to-another-movie-again-look.
But I am not going to attempt to relive my youth by drooling over young men old enough to be my own children.
At least not in public.
What happens under the cloak of darkness of the middle of a movie theater is my business.
Meredyth starts a new job tomorrow.
Swiss Chalet.
Coupled with her job at Empire this means discount dinner and a movie for me!
Now I know why I had children.
Exploitation.
Title Lyric: Stacy's Mom by Fountains of Wayne
Sunday, November 21, 2010
There's no life like the snow life. . .
November 21, 2010
I think I may be on the road to recovery.
My first thought when I opened my eyes this morning, an event that occured as a result of the becoming-too-normal-for-my-liking-prompt from Frankie, was not,
Please just shoot me.
It was more like,
Where's the coffee and how cold is it going to be when I take the hounds out for their morning pee?
Good signs, good signs.
It snowed yesterday.
During one of my brief waking moments, I looked out the window, and in my tampons-shoved-up-nose-meets-Selma-from-The-Simpsons-voice, I exclaimed,
OH MY GOD!
And then,
Does anyone else know its snowing????
To my children who were sitting at the kitchen table.
With a picture window to their right.
My first thought was, shit, the snow tires aren't on the car yet!
My next utterance, in my same tampons-shoved-up-nose-meets-Selma-from-The-Simpsons-voice, was,
"Stephen, you need to make an appointment to get the snow tires put on the car!"
Delegation.
It's all about delegation.
Until I owned my own house and a car, I loved snow.
School cancelled snow.
Send the kids outside to play so I can have some peace and quiet snow.
Feeding peanuts to the squirrels snow.
Once I became a home/car owner, things changed.
The first snowstorm in our home was quite a memorable experience.
I wake up, look outside at what was at least waist high snow, and am hit by an epiphany so shocking I almost fell over.
There was no landlord with a truck and snow pushing thingy on it to clear my driveway.
*I* was the landlord.
My next thought was, do I even have a shovel?
I did.
Two in fact.
Don't ask me how that happened.
That was my first shoveling my entire driveway by myself experience, while the kids were snug and warm inside the house, popping out periodically to ask me when I was coming in to make them lunch.
Then I realized that I didn't even own a car, so what reason did I have to shovel the driveway?
That lasted one snowstorm, when afterwards, I realized the consequences of my rash and not properly thought out decision.
Canada Post.
Apparently, mail people don't like slogging through the snow to put your unpaid bill notices in your mailbox.
Imagine that.
And getting groceries from cab to kitchen while trudging along a not very well made path from street to step wasn't as pleasant as you would think it should have been.
So that solution was a bust.
And from then on, I have accepted that shoveling the driveway is something I just can't avoid.
Now I actually enjoy it.
Because like doing dishes and hanging laundry, shoveling the driveway after a snowstorm falls into the this-is-not-a-fun-filled-family-activity-even-if-Mum-thinks-it-should-be category.
Meaning, as I am always the first one up in our house, I am the first one outside shoveling through the snow.
With my ipod and my I-don't-care-if-you-don't-like-my-rendition-of-Body Bounce-attitude, singing at the top of my lungs while I shovel.
Shoveling becomes an onerous activity in two instances: one, when there has been so much snow already that the pile on either side of the driveway has exceeded my my 5'4" height requirement, and I have to find someway to haul it over my head without dumping in all over me.
Lucky for us, we live in a u-shaped court, which means I can shovel the snow across the street and into the island, so long as it looks like I've made an effort to actually put the snow in the middle of the island, as opposed to waiting for the city trucks to plow my snow into the island.
So far, so good.
No complaints.
Not that I'd listen if there were.
Two, which is actually FAR more annoying, is when I have spent the entire day working on making my driveway as neat and well shoveled as I possibly can.
For some reason, I am quite anal about the driveway.
I have no idea why, considering I'm not that anal about much related to housework, except laundry hanging and winter driveways.
Odd, isn't it.
So, when I wake up the next morning, sore from shoveling, but happy in the knowledge that I did a good job, I don't want to see at the end of my driveway a mountain of ice and snow put there by the plows during one of their starlight-runs.
Because inevitably, these snow barricades occur on a morning when I am already late.
And getting the kids out of bed is hard enough.
Getting Stephen out of bed is as close to impossible as you can get.
So getting everyone up and out in enough time to clear the end of the driveway of its ice and snow cargo is never the most pleasant way to start the day.
Its never soft, fluffy easy to move snow.
Oh no. That would be too simple.
It's always rock hard ice and snow boulders that could snap the end off your shovel if you're not careful snow.
Inevitably, I am already dressed for work during these morning snow tests-of-endurance-and-my-love-for-my-children-and-husband.
Outside, wind and snow blowing, trying to move boulder size chunks of ice and snow, all while wearing my workday attire, most often a dress or skirt.
And don't even ask what is going through my head when I am out there struggling with my cantankerous, kvetching kids, my hot-tempered, iracible husband and my shovel, while my neighbours are snow blowing their way through their end-of-driveway obstructions.
Begging the question, why don't we invest in a snowblower?
Because children are made for the sole purpose of shoveling snow in the winter.
That's what my parents thought, and this is how I get back at the world for the endless days and nights shoveling the driveway at my parent's house.
When the kids move out, then I will get a snowblower.
And hope and pray that Stephen doesn't lose an arm or leg while using it.
So for now, I'll enjoy the dusting of snow on my front lawn.
Knowing that shortly, the dusting will turn into piles, and the piles will turn into mountains.
I won't be able to back out of my driveway because no one will be able to see if there is anything coming.
Meaning that I will again provide free entertainment for all my neighbours who enjoy watching me try to back the car into the driveway.
And when Stephen doesn't back the car into the driveway, and I'll suggest, in my ever so gentle and dulcet, sweet and loving, caring and respectful tones that perhaps he would consider going back out to turn the car around.
Perhaps this winter we'll avoid the humiliation of not being able to garner enough traction to drive up Kimble, resulting in Keith and Emily having to push us up the road while the cars behind us nudge them onward with their bumpers.
Any maybe this winter, Stephen will listen when I ask that he not take the dogs to the farm during a snowstorm, resulting in him getting the car stuck in a ditch, walking home with the dogs in said snowstorm, getting me and Keith out of our warm, comfort zone and into a cab to take us back to where the car is, while Em stays home and has a bath, and in spite of our best efforts the three of us can't get the car out of the ditch, so we have to call Em, get her out of the bath, ask her to get us the number for a tow truck, call the tow truck from Keith's cell phone and wait in the middle of a raging blizzard for the tow truck to get to us, pull the car out of the ditch, pay the tow truck driver and then go home to where it takes me two days to speak to Stephen again in a civil tone because the man just. will. not. listen. to. reason.
Because there is something about snow storms, men and a need to drive the car that I just cannot fathom.
I know it has to do with testosterone and an animal instinct to conquer Mother Nature.
But beyond that, none of it makes sense to me.
So as soon as I realize we are in the midst of a blizzard, I have to confiscate all the car keys and threaten Stephen with some horrible fate if he even thinks of going out with the dogs and car.
But I shouldn't have to do this.
Common sense should prevail.
Snow storm + Stephen = lunacy so I am not taking any chances this winter.
Stephen, consider yourself warned.
Winter.
Yippee.
Yeah.
Call me when its all over.
Title Lyric: While I Shovel the Snow by The Walkmen
I think I may be on the road to recovery.
My first thought when I opened my eyes this morning, an event that occured as a result of the becoming-too-normal-for-my-liking-prompt from Frankie, was not,
Please just shoot me.
It was more like,
Where's the coffee and how cold is it going to be when I take the hounds out for their morning pee?
Good signs, good signs.
It snowed yesterday.
During one of my brief waking moments, I looked out the window, and in my tampons-shoved-up-nose-meets-Selma-from-The-Simpsons-voice, I exclaimed,
OH MY GOD!
And then,
Does anyone else know its snowing????
To my children who were sitting at the kitchen table.
With a picture window to their right.
My first thought was, shit, the snow tires aren't on the car yet!
My next utterance, in my same tampons-shoved-up-nose-meets-Selma-from-The-Simpsons-voice, was,
"Stephen, you need to make an appointment to get the snow tires put on the car!"
Delegation.
It's all about delegation.
Until I owned my own house and a car, I loved snow.
School cancelled snow.
Send the kids outside to play so I can have some peace and quiet snow.
Feeding peanuts to the squirrels snow.
Once I became a home/car owner, things changed.
The first snowstorm in our home was quite a memorable experience.
I wake up, look outside at what was at least waist high snow, and am hit by an epiphany so shocking I almost fell over.
There was no landlord with a truck and snow pushing thingy on it to clear my driveway.
*I* was the landlord.
My next thought was, do I even have a shovel?
I did.
Two in fact.
Don't ask me how that happened.
That was my first shoveling my entire driveway by myself experience, while the kids were snug and warm inside the house, popping out periodically to ask me when I was coming in to make them lunch.
Then I realized that I didn't even own a car, so what reason did I have to shovel the driveway?
That lasted one snowstorm, when afterwards, I realized the consequences of my rash and not properly thought out decision.
Canada Post.
Apparently, mail people don't like slogging through the snow to put your unpaid bill notices in your mailbox.
Imagine that.
And getting groceries from cab to kitchen while trudging along a not very well made path from street to step wasn't as pleasant as you would think it should have been.
So that solution was a bust.
And from then on, I have accepted that shoveling the driveway is something I just can't avoid.
Now I actually enjoy it.
Because like doing dishes and hanging laundry, shoveling the driveway after a snowstorm falls into the this-is-not-a-fun-filled-family-activity-even-if-Mum-thinks-it-should-be category.
Meaning, as I am always the first one up in our house, I am the first one outside shoveling through the snow.
With my ipod and my I-don't-care-if-you-don't-like-my-rendition-of-Body Bounce-attitude, singing at the top of my lungs while I shovel.
Shoveling becomes an onerous activity in two instances: one, when there has been so much snow already that the pile on either side of the driveway has exceeded my my 5'4" height requirement, and I have to find someway to haul it over my head without dumping in all over me.
Lucky for us, we live in a u-shaped court, which means I can shovel the snow across the street and into the island, so long as it looks like I've made an effort to actually put the snow in the middle of the island, as opposed to waiting for the city trucks to plow my snow into the island.
So far, so good.
No complaints.
Not that I'd listen if there were.
Two, which is actually FAR more annoying, is when I have spent the entire day working on making my driveway as neat and well shoveled as I possibly can.
For some reason, I am quite anal about the driveway.
I have no idea why, considering I'm not that anal about much related to housework, except laundry hanging and winter driveways.
Odd, isn't it.
So, when I wake up the next morning, sore from shoveling, but happy in the knowledge that I did a good job, I don't want to see at the end of my driveway a mountain of ice and snow put there by the plows during one of their starlight-runs.
Because inevitably, these snow barricades occur on a morning when I am already late.
And getting the kids out of bed is hard enough.
Getting Stephen out of bed is as close to impossible as you can get.
So getting everyone up and out in enough time to clear the end of the driveway of its ice and snow cargo is never the most pleasant way to start the day.
Its never soft, fluffy easy to move snow.
Oh no. That would be too simple.
It's always rock hard ice and snow boulders that could snap the end off your shovel if you're not careful snow.
Inevitably, I am already dressed for work during these morning snow tests-of-endurance-and-my-love-for-my-children-and-husband.
Outside, wind and snow blowing, trying to move boulder size chunks of ice and snow, all while wearing my workday attire, most often a dress or skirt.
And don't even ask what is going through my head when I am out there struggling with my cantankerous, kvetching kids, my hot-tempered, iracible husband and my shovel, while my neighbours are snow blowing their way through their end-of-driveway obstructions.
Begging the question, why don't we invest in a snowblower?
Because children are made for the sole purpose of shoveling snow in the winter.
That's what my parents thought, and this is how I get back at the world for the endless days and nights shoveling the driveway at my parent's house.
When the kids move out, then I will get a snowblower.
And hope and pray that Stephen doesn't lose an arm or leg while using it.
So for now, I'll enjoy the dusting of snow on my front lawn.
Knowing that shortly, the dusting will turn into piles, and the piles will turn into mountains.
I won't be able to back out of my driveway because no one will be able to see if there is anything coming.
Meaning that I will again provide free entertainment for all my neighbours who enjoy watching me try to back the car into the driveway.
And when Stephen doesn't back the car into the driveway, and I'll suggest, in my ever so gentle and dulcet, sweet and loving, caring and respectful tones that perhaps he would consider going back out to turn the car around.
Perhaps this winter we'll avoid the humiliation of not being able to garner enough traction to drive up Kimble, resulting in Keith and Emily having to push us up the road while the cars behind us nudge them onward with their bumpers.
Any maybe this winter, Stephen will listen when I ask that he not take the dogs to the farm during a snowstorm, resulting in him getting the car stuck in a ditch, walking home with the dogs in said snowstorm, getting me and Keith out of our warm, comfort zone and into a cab to take us back to where the car is, while Em stays home and has a bath, and in spite of our best efforts the three of us can't get the car out of the ditch, so we have to call Em, get her out of the bath, ask her to get us the number for a tow truck, call the tow truck from Keith's cell phone and wait in the middle of a raging blizzard for the tow truck to get to us, pull the car out of the ditch, pay the tow truck driver and then go home to where it takes me two days to speak to Stephen again in a civil tone because the man just. will. not. listen. to. reason.
Because there is something about snow storms, men and a need to drive the car that I just cannot fathom.
I know it has to do with testosterone and an animal instinct to conquer Mother Nature.
But beyond that, none of it makes sense to me.
So as soon as I realize we are in the midst of a blizzard, I have to confiscate all the car keys and threaten Stephen with some horrible fate if he even thinks of going out with the dogs and car.
But I shouldn't have to do this.
Common sense should prevail.
Snow storm + Stephen = lunacy so I am not taking any chances this winter.
Stephen, consider yourself warned.
Winter.
Yippee.
Yeah.
Call me when its all over.
Title Lyric: While I Shovel the Snow by The Walkmen
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