December 3, 2010
Tuna and a quarter of a sweet potato just doesn't seem to be as satisfying as the pepperoni and cheese pizza Keith and Stephen had for dinner.
Stephen, at least, didn't eat it in front of me. As soon as I sat down at the table, he left. Keith, on the other hand, is sitting across from me, working on a paper, and eating his pizza.
It looks so good.
And I waited too long between my celery stick snack and my tuna and sweet potato.
Apparently, you shouldn't wait longer than 5 hours between meals, because your blood sugar drops, causing most people not to feel well.
It causes me to eat ravenously, out of control, and whatever I can get my hands on.
Luckily, I was able to get the sweet potato-tuna sustenance inhaled before I ended up eating everything in sight.
I was able to withstand the pizza, and the spaghetti with garlic bread at the Community Kitchen this evening.
Yeah. Me.
My willpower.
That and a quarter and I could make a phone call.
Keith's ability to maintain obliviousness never ceases to amaze me.
Living with his two sisters and me, with no in-house male role model for several years has, I suspect, contributed to his almost super power like ability to ignore all that is going on around him.
Survival Strategies 101.
Unfortunately, he has yet to acquire the skills that facilitate his ability to assess when, perhaps, it is time to actually pay attention to what is going on around him.
I walk into the house after a long day, with a full load of groceries in tow including the pepperoni and cheese pizza he asked for, and I see my son ensconced on the loveseat, under a comforter, The Office on tv, and his laptop perched on his knees looking like he was working on his paper.
Stephen and I get the groceries in the kitchen. I then feed and water the hounds, while Stephen loads up a plate with pizza for Keith and takes it to him.
I know.
He is very catering to.
A result of living with three women, on his own.
Keith puts the pizza laden plate on the table beside him.
And then Tikka walks into the living room and promptly vomits on the floor beside Keith.
OBLVIOUS.
Eventually, from his throne-like repose on the loveseat, Keith barks "Tikka threw up on the floor!"
Doesn't move.
Except for the working of his jaw while he eats the pizza.
He watches as I grab the paper towel to begin the process of cleaning up the food and water Tikka inhaled as a result, I might add, because Keith failed in his responsibility to provide either or food or water for our beleagured hounds.
So really, the fact that Tikka threw up was Keith's fault.
Tikka throwing up is not that big of a deal.
After dealing with poopy cloth diapers that could draw oil stains off garage floors; dried spit up down the back of my shirt, unnoticed by me until a fellow student points out that I have a "weird white stain" on my shirt; midnight exclamations of "I feel sick" followed by the horrid stench of a child depositing her dinner in her bed; engaging in archeological excavations into the back of the fridge in an attempt to figure out what exactly comprised the original contents of the containers that are so ancient we could sell them on Antiques Roadshow; putting my two year old son in a bucket because, during toilet training he didn't just pee in his undies, he peed in his socks, shoes, hair; regurgitated hairballs laying on the basement floor waiting for Stephen to find them and have an apoplectic seizure; there is isn't really anything that causes me any distress.
Stephen, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.
Upon just HEARING that Tikka had banked her banquet on the floor, Stephen immediately started to gag.
He comes up the stairs with bucket in one hand, the other clapped over his mouth.
Keep in mind that he hasn't seen anything.
He brings the bucket to me, sees the mess, and immediately returns to the basement.
Gagging, retching, choking, repressing and restraining, holding back whatever it is that wants to make an appearance all over the basement floor as he runs back downstairs to recover himself.
All the while listening me to yell, "Just stay down there! One mess is more than enough, and I am NOT cleaning up anything that comes from inside you because you have the gag reflex of a nit!"
Every.single.time.
Imagine if neither one of us had the capacity to clean up anything that comes from the inside of any living being who lives in this house.
Keith would have to clean it up.
Meaning he'd have to remove himself from the throne in the living room.
And remove his cloak of obliviousness.
Either that or he'd leave it and make Em clean it up.
Cause those are the rules of the family heirarchy.
Shit falls down.
Title Lyric: Gagging Order by Radiohead
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
She couldn't seem to make up her mind. . . .
December 2, 2010
I consider myself a fairly intellligent person.
Not just book smart, but someone with an understanding of how to tackle the problems the world has been known to toss at me from time to time.
Except one.
Her name is Emily.
She hates getting out of bed.
In another universe, this wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't care what time Em gets out of bed.
Unfortunately, I don't live in that universe.
I live in this one.
The we-only-have-one-car-so-if-you-want-a-drive-to-school-you-NEED-to-get-out-of-bed-on-time-so-as-to-not-make-the-other-people-who-require-the-morning-drop-off-service-that-seems-to-be-a-part-of-our-lives-at-the-present-time-LATE-universe.
Em doesn't appear to live in the same universe as the rest of us.
She lives in the I-can-get-up-whenever-I-want-and-if-people-don't-like-it-they-can-just-suck-it-up-because-it-is-my-RIGHT-to-expect-a-drive-to-school-in-the-morning-universe.
If Em wants to be late for school everyday, and face the repercussions of being late for school everyday, I wouldn't be the least bit concerned.
Except for one, extraneous factor.
His name is Keith.
Who is taking an 8.30 class this term.
And next.
Keith has never liked being late.
Which makes him the anomaly in this family, where everyone, except him, was born running behind.
Including Stephen.
Being late upsets Keith.
In fairness, he has grounds for being upset.
He is always up on time, and ready to go at a time when, if everyone else was ready to go, would ensure that no one arrived anywhere they had to be, late.
Keith can do in 15 minutes what takes Em three hours.
How long it takes Em to get ready doesn't bother me.
The fact that she won't get up in enough time to do what she needs to do in order to be ready on time greatly distresses Keith.
And usually, if we are running late because Em didn't manage to all the things she needed to do in the morning when she was supposed to be doing them, I will drop Keith off first.
For some reason, this morning, I didn't make the requisite turn to get Keith to class first.
Instead, I was on autopilot and headed in the direction we go to take Em to school.
Causing Keith to inquire about my unexpected change in direction.
Much silence ensued.
That seething, angry, tense silence.
Keith for being late.
Em for knowing she was the cause of Keith being late.
Me manning the steering wheel, trying to get the car to move faster so I could deposit my angry charges and retire to the peace and quiet, the sanctuary of my office.
After dropping Em off at school, while speeding toward the university to get Keith and his angry self out of the car, he pipes up from the backseat with words of wisdom that would have made Solomon proud:
"You know, when you drop Em off first, we're all late. When you drop me off first, Em is the only one late. Which is fine because it's her fault we're late in the first place. Just saying."
Short of threatening Em with the school bus, which leaves at 7.30 in the morning, meaning she'll have to get up at 4.30 in the morning to get ready, or conversely, that she'll have to use her entire paycheque to cab herself to school in the morning, I don't know what to do.
Suggestions welcome.
Please.
For my sanity.
Or at least to hold on to what little is left of it.
Last night's book club was, as always, entertaining.
Even though I didn't read the book.
I'm not a big fan of war books, in part because I'm not a big fan of war.
The nice thing about a book club, at least this one, is that reading the book is not a prerequisite for attending.
Good thing, too, because from October to April the likelihood of me getting the chance to read the books is slim.
The next one is Steinbeck's Cannery Row, which I will read over the holidays, because a huge Steinbeck fan I am.
And I may actually have the time.
One of the best things about attending book club is the food.
And last evening was no different.
Dates from Egypt, stuffed with almonds, a cheese ball, and another cheese like spready thingy that looked really good, and was because there wasn't much of left of it come the end of the night, the biggest shrimp I've ever seen (even though I don't like shrimp, I was impressed), large, juicy red grapes, skillet made date balls, and the piece de resistance. . .
A blueberry lemon flan.
And how much of this festive fare did I partake of?
Two dates and a small, and I mean small, slice of flan.
A glass of water.
That's me.
The life of the party.
Until I became a part of this book club, I had never even heard of a Yankee Swap.
Now, consider me a huge fan.
Nothing brings out the true colors of women more than a Yankee Swap.
The carefully groomed manners disappear faster than the desserts.
Polite, well educated, civilized women become as ferocious as traders on the floor on the stock exchange.
Friendships are temporarily put to the wayside in the pursuit of the choicest of offerings.
I am still smarting over the loss of the book of squished fairies.
I've learned a trick or two, however, about how to successfully master the Yankee Swap.
But last night, Lady Luck of Yankee Swaps shined down on me, and I didn't have to pull out any of my usual tomfoolery.
Why?
Because I was the recepient of number 1.
And if you know the rules of Yankee Swap, then you know that I was sitting at the top of the gift pile.
Because once everyone made their choice, opened it and became attached to it, I was in the grand position of taking it from them, should I chose.
I selected a lovely gift. . .four mugs in a lovely box from Bowring.
And until the end, I was very happy and content with my choice.
Until I saw the one thing that sent my heart a flutter.
Given my love of mugs, there was only one thing that could give me pause to consider trading.
A scarf.
More precisely a pashmina.
From the 10,000 Villages sale I missed because that was the week I spent in bed.
Sick.
Miserable.
Knowing that just a few minutes away was a shopping spree just waiting for me.
When the pashmina and the handwoven basket in which the pashmina was nestled came into view, trumpets blared inside my head and a Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble cry of "charge it" was careening through my brain.
Polite, kind, gentle me, when it was time for me to decide whether or not I would keep the mugs or visit misery upon a fellow book club member who was sitting content in the knowledge that her booty was safe. . .
I chose pillaging and plundering, practically cackling with glee as I crossed the room for what was, in my mind, the cream of the Yankee Swap crop.
Nothing like taking something from someone who really wants it to bring out the best in me.
Title Lyric: You Owe Me an IOU by Hot Hot Heat
I consider myself a fairly intellligent person.
Not just book smart, but someone with an understanding of how to tackle the problems the world has been known to toss at me from time to time.
Except one.
Her name is Emily.
She hates getting out of bed.
In another universe, this wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't care what time Em gets out of bed.
Unfortunately, I don't live in that universe.
I live in this one.
The we-only-have-one-car-so-if-you-want-a-drive-to-school-you-NEED-to-get-out-of-bed-on-time-so-as-to-not-make-the-other-people-who-require-the-morning-drop-off-service-that-seems-to-be-a-part-of-our-lives-at-the-present-time-LATE-universe.
Em doesn't appear to live in the same universe as the rest of us.
She lives in the I-can-get-up-whenever-I-want-and-if-people-don't-like-it-they-can-just-suck-it-up-because-it-is-my-RIGHT-to-expect-a-drive-to-school-in-the-morning-universe.
If Em wants to be late for school everyday, and face the repercussions of being late for school everyday, I wouldn't be the least bit concerned.
Except for one, extraneous factor.
His name is Keith.
Who is taking an 8.30 class this term.
And next.
Keith has never liked being late.
Which makes him the anomaly in this family, where everyone, except him, was born running behind.
Including Stephen.
Being late upsets Keith.
In fairness, he has grounds for being upset.
He is always up on time, and ready to go at a time when, if everyone else was ready to go, would ensure that no one arrived anywhere they had to be, late.
Keith can do in 15 minutes what takes Em three hours.
How long it takes Em to get ready doesn't bother me.
The fact that she won't get up in enough time to do what she needs to do in order to be ready on time greatly distresses Keith.
And usually, if we are running late because Em didn't manage to all the things she needed to do in the morning when she was supposed to be doing them, I will drop Keith off first.
For some reason, this morning, I didn't make the requisite turn to get Keith to class first.
Instead, I was on autopilot and headed in the direction we go to take Em to school.
Causing Keith to inquire about my unexpected change in direction.
Much silence ensued.
That seething, angry, tense silence.
Keith for being late.
Em for knowing she was the cause of Keith being late.
Me manning the steering wheel, trying to get the car to move faster so I could deposit my angry charges and retire to the peace and quiet, the sanctuary of my office.
After dropping Em off at school, while speeding toward the university to get Keith and his angry self out of the car, he pipes up from the backseat with words of wisdom that would have made Solomon proud:
"You know, when you drop Em off first, we're all late. When you drop me off first, Em is the only one late. Which is fine because it's her fault we're late in the first place. Just saying."
Short of threatening Em with the school bus, which leaves at 7.30 in the morning, meaning she'll have to get up at 4.30 in the morning to get ready, or conversely, that she'll have to use her entire paycheque to cab herself to school in the morning, I don't know what to do.
Suggestions welcome.
Please.
For my sanity.
Or at least to hold on to what little is left of it.
Last night's book club was, as always, entertaining.
Even though I didn't read the book.
I'm not a big fan of war books, in part because I'm not a big fan of war.
The nice thing about a book club, at least this one, is that reading the book is not a prerequisite for attending.
Good thing, too, because from October to April the likelihood of me getting the chance to read the books is slim.
The next one is Steinbeck's Cannery Row, which I will read over the holidays, because a huge Steinbeck fan I am.
And I may actually have the time.
One of the best things about attending book club is the food.
And last evening was no different.
Dates from Egypt, stuffed with almonds, a cheese ball, and another cheese like spready thingy that looked really good, and was because there wasn't much of left of it come the end of the night, the biggest shrimp I've ever seen (even though I don't like shrimp, I was impressed), large, juicy red grapes, skillet made date balls, and the piece de resistance. . .
A blueberry lemon flan.
And how much of this festive fare did I partake of?
Two dates and a small, and I mean small, slice of flan.
A glass of water.
That's me.
The life of the party.
Until I became a part of this book club, I had never even heard of a Yankee Swap.
Now, consider me a huge fan.
Nothing brings out the true colors of women more than a Yankee Swap.
The carefully groomed manners disappear faster than the desserts.
Polite, well educated, civilized women become as ferocious as traders on the floor on the stock exchange.
Friendships are temporarily put to the wayside in the pursuit of the choicest of offerings.
I am still smarting over the loss of the book of squished fairies.
I've learned a trick or two, however, about how to successfully master the Yankee Swap.
But last night, Lady Luck of Yankee Swaps shined down on me, and I didn't have to pull out any of my usual tomfoolery.
Why?
Because I was the recepient of number 1.
And if you know the rules of Yankee Swap, then you know that I was sitting at the top of the gift pile.
Because once everyone made their choice, opened it and became attached to it, I was in the grand position of taking it from them, should I chose.
I selected a lovely gift. . .four mugs in a lovely box from Bowring.
And until the end, I was very happy and content with my choice.
Until I saw the one thing that sent my heart a flutter.
Given my love of mugs, there was only one thing that could give me pause to consider trading.
A scarf.
More precisely a pashmina.
From the 10,000 Villages sale I missed because that was the week I spent in bed.
Sick.
Miserable.
Knowing that just a few minutes away was a shopping spree just waiting for me.
When the pashmina and the handwoven basket in which the pashmina was nestled came into view, trumpets blared inside my head and a Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble cry of "charge it" was careening through my brain.
Polite, kind, gentle me, when it was time for me to decide whether or not I would keep the mugs or visit misery upon a fellow book club member who was sitting content in the knowledge that her booty was safe. . .
I chose pillaging and plundering, practically cackling with glee as I crossed the room for what was, in my mind, the cream of the Yankee Swap crop.
Nothing like taking something from someone who really wants it to bring out the best in me.
Title Lyric: You Owe Me an IOU by Hot Hot Heat
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Check out the carrots. . . .
December 1, 2010
Happy December!
In our house, December 1st means hauling out the advent calendar and counting down the days until Christmas.
The advent calendar which is visited in the late evening by the elves, who leave peice of candy for the three children who came forth from my womb.
Children. . .21, 19 and *almost* 17.
Who remind me every November that they expect the elves to come.
And if I mention that the elves have contacted me on numerous occasions, via email, phone calls, text messages, etc., to inquire about the necessity of their services for such "children" I am shut down.
Hard and fast.
Because apparently there is no statute of limitations when it comes to garnering the services of the elves.
This morning, they left peanut butter cups.
Oh happy Emily.
At least Em was happy this morning.
Frankie, well, that's a whole other issue.
Last evening, after supper, Frankie took full and complete advantage of my exhaustion.
Honestly, I was ready to go to bed at 6.30.
I made it to 9.00 pm, only because of Em's finely honed maternal manipulation skills.
That child can make feel guiltier than any other person on the planet.
Enough that I actually sat through two episodes of Man v. Food, in spite of my obviously less than steel resolve to never watch it again.
More like tin foil resolve.
When I arrived home last evening, I deposited my work bag on the floor in the kitchen by my chair, as I always do.
Unless Stephen moves it.
But last night he didn't.
While sitting on the couch almost comatose, Stephen comes into the living room holding an empty and partially shredded bag.
A bag that had been unopened and until Frankie's intervention, was home to baby carrots.
He asks me, "What was in this bag? Frankie was eating it."
Frankie, who is sitting beside me on the couch, gives me a look that says, "I have no idea what that crazy man is talking about!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
What could I do?
Go in after the now completely chewed and on their way to be digested carrots?
I think not.
But to keep the peace, I said,
"They won't hurt him. And everything will over and done with tomorrow morning."
Called that in one.
This morning, in pjs and slippers, I am standing outside while Frankie takes 20 minutes to rid himself of his carrots.
As it is, it takes him at least 10 minutes to select where he wants to go.
Tikka is easy and lazy: she always goes just on the other side of the line between where she is allowed to go, and where she isn't allowed to go because it causes Stephen a small heart attack if she does.
Although, on occassion, if it is really cold out, she will walk down the three steps from the front door and pee on the walkway.
Freezing occurs instantly.
Stephen's apoplectic event occurs much faster, especially if he happens to be watching.
But Frankie is a shy guy. . .he doesn't care if anyone else watches him, just so long as I don't.
He sniffs and spins in circles, walks back and forth, paws the snow, until he finds the perfect spot.
This morning was no different.
But he was in need of several spots.
Cause those carrots worked really fast.
Will this unfortunate incident of fecal proportions cause Frankie Doodle to stop and pause before consuming unknown substances hidden in people's bags?
No.
Because all the kitty crunchy incidents have had no lasting impact on him whatsoever.
If he is in the basement, alone, he is up to absolutely no good.
And if he emerges from the basement with cat litter dotting his nose, you know exactly what kind of no good he's been up to.
I managed last evening to resist the clarion call of mac and cheese.
But just barely.
Maybe that's why I was ready to go to bed after supper.
My energy stores were depleted from all my efforts to resist the creamy temptress gracing my table.
And my carrot curry soup was good.
No doubt.
But there is something about eating forbidden food that makes it oh so much tastier than what you're allowed to eat.
Stephen offered to eat carrot soup in solidarity, and while I appreciated the gesture, I knew better than to accept.
Only because as soon as I was in bed, asleep, he'd grab the leftovers and feast until he was rendered incapacitated.
Therefore, it seemed more prudent to have him eat it at supper, than gorge on it later.
Not that he didn't help himself to extras after I ventured off to the Land of Nod, but the extras were significantly less in size than had he been initally denied.
In a perfect world, I'd never be confronted, tested, tempted.
Ever.
In a semi-perfect world, such temptation tests would occur sporadically.
In *my* world they occur daily.
This evening's challenge: Book Club.
Christmas Book Club no less.
Book Club food is always the most tempting of tempting.
And Christmas is the epitome of tempting.
Leaving me wondering if I have the intestinal fortitude, the backbone, endurance, stoutheartedness, moxy, mettle, perserverance to withstand the delicate delectables, the sumptuous savories, the divine danties. . .
I may have to take a tray of raw veggies to sustain myself.
Or duct tape myself to a chair to prevent lunging at the table.
I contemplated not going . . .saving myself the stress and anxiety.
But avoidance is never an appropriate strategy.
Plus I'd miss the Yankee Swap.
And my book club knows how to Yankee Swap.
Ruthless.
Competitive.
Feirce.
I've seen more tricks and chicanery during these Yankee Swaps than you could conceive.
Let the games begin!
Title Lyric: Carrots by Mista Mac
Happy December!
In our house, December 1st means hauling out the advent calendar and counting down the days until Christmas.
The advent calendar which is visited in the late evening by the elves, who leave peice of candy for the three children who came forth from my womb.
Children. . .21, 19 and *almost* 17.
Who remind me every November that they expect the elves to come.
And if I mention that the elves have contacted me on numerous occasions, via email, phone calls, text messages, etc., to inquire about the necessity of their services for such "children" I am shut down.
Hard and fast.
Because apparently there is no statute of limitations when it comes to garnering the services of the elves.
This morning, they left peanut butter cups.
Oh happy Emily.
At least Em was happy this morning.
Frankie, well, that's a whole other issue.
Last evening, after supper, Frankie took full and complete advantage of my exhaustion.
Honestly, I was ready to go to bed at 6.30.
I made it to 9.00 pm, only because of Em's finely honed maternal manipulation skills.
That child can make feel guiltier than any other person on the planet.
Enough that I actually sat through two episodes of Man v. Food, in spite of my obviously less than steel resolve to never watch it again.
More like tin foil resolve.
When I arrived home last evening, I deposited my work bag on the floor in the kitchen by my chair, as I always do.
Unless Stephen moves it.
But last night he didn't.
While sitting on the couch almost comatose, Stephen comes into the living room holding an empty and partially shredded bag.
A bag that had been unopened and until Frankie's intervention, was home to baby carrots.
He asks me, "What was in this bag? Frankie was eating it."
Frankie, who is sitting beside me on the couch, gives me a look that says, "I have no idea what that crazy man is talking about!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
What could I do?
Go in after the now completely chewed and on their way to be digested carrots?
I think not.
But to keep the peace, I said,
"They won't hurt him. And everything will over and done with tomorrow morning."
Called that in one.
This morning, in pjs and slippers, I am standing outside while Frankie takes 20 minutes to rid himself of his carrots.
As it is, it takes him at least 10 minutes to select where he wants to go.
Tikka is easy and lazy: she always goes just on the other side of the line between where she is allowed to go, and where she isn't allowed to go because it causes Stephen a small heart attack if she does.
Although, on occassion, if it is really cold out, she will walk down the three steps from the front door and pee on the walkway.
Freezing occurs instantly.
Stephen's apoplectic event occurs much faster, especially if he happens to be watching.
But Frankie is a shy guy. . .he doesn't care if anyone else watches him, just so long as I don't.
He sniffs and spins in circles, walks back and forth, paws the snow, until he finds the perfect spot.
This morning was no different.
But he was in need of several spots.
Cause those carrots worked really fast.
Will this unfortunate incident of fecal proportions cause Frankie Doodle to stop and pause before consuming unknown substances hidden in people's bags?
No.
Because all the kitty crunchy incidents have had no lasting impact on him whatsoever.
If he is in the basement, alone, he is up to absolutely no good.
And if he emerges from the basement with cat litter dotting his nose, you know exactly what kind of no good he's been up to.
I managed last evening to resist the clarion call of mac and cheese.
But just barely.
Maybe that's why I was ready to go to bed after supper.
My energy stores were depleted from all my efforts to resist the creamy temptress gracing my table.
And my carrot curry soup was good.
No doubt.
But there is something about eating forbidden food that makes it oh so much tastier than what you're allowed to eat.
Stephen offered to eat carrot soup in solidarity, and while I appreciated the gesture, I knew better than to accept.
Only because as soon as I was in bed, asleep, he'd grab the leftovers and feast until he was rendered incapacitated.
Therefore, it seemed more prudent to have him eat it at supper, than gorge on it later.
Not that he didn't help himself to extras after I ventured off to the Land of Nod, but the extras were significantly less in size than had he been initally denied.
In a perfect world, I'd never be confronted, tested, tempted.
Ever.
In a semi-perfect world, such temptation tests would occur sporadically.
In *my* world they occur daily.
This evening's challenge: Book Club.
Christmas Book Club no less.
Book Club food is always the most tempting of tempting.
And Christmas is the epitome of tempting.
Leaving me wondering if I have the intestinal fortitude, the backbone, endurance, stoutheartedness, moxy, mettle, perserverance to withstand the delicate delectables, the sumptuous savories, the divine danties. . .
I may have to take a tray of raw veggies to sustain myself.
Or duct tape myself to a chair to prevent lunging at the table.
I contemplated not going . . .saving myself the stress and anxiety.
But avoidance is never an appropriate strategy.
Plus I'd miss the Yankee Swap.
And my book club knows how to Yankee Swap.
Ruthless.
Competitive.
Feirce.
I've seen more tricks and chicanery during these Yankee Swaps than you could conceive.
Let the games begin!
Title Lyric: Carrots by Mista Mac
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Doesn't matter if you're skinny, doesn't matter if you're fat. . .
November 30, 2010
I'm doing a bit better today.
Not feeling quite so frazzled, frustrated, out of control.
Conditions haven't changed so much as I was able to get a full night's sleep.
Leaving me less psychotic and more in sync with the world around me.
For now.
Because something is always waiting around the corner.
Lurking.
Waiting.
Anticipating.
But today, I feel ready for it.
Tomorrow?
Who knows.
Even though my children aren't children, but closer to being young adults, aged 21, 19 and *almost* 17, there are things they do, or ask for that remind me that no matter how old they are, they are still children.
And more importantly, MY children.
Meredyth has been having a really hard time lately. Discombobulated, uncertain of her place in the world, what she is supposed to be doing, where she is supposed to be, how she is supposed to get there.
Because she is feeling this way, and she is coming over for dinner this evening, she called for the sole purpose of making a request for dinner.
A comfort food.
An-I-am-feeling-like-crap-and-the-whole-world-is-against-me-no-matter-how-hard-I-try-and-I-just-want-something-to-make-me-feel-better-food.
Now this is DEFINITELY a feeling I am intimately acquainted with.
And I mean intimately acquainted.
What food turns Mer's grey skies to blue? Puts the bow back into her rainbow? Turns her frown upside down?
Homemade macaroni and cheese.
A plate of hot, steaming macaroni and cheese where there is more melted cheese than macaroni, baked to perfection and served with salt, pepper and ketchup.
Meaning after we pick up Emily and before we pick up Meredyth, a trip to the grocery store is in order.
I had cheese.
Bought it last night as a matter of fact when we made our bi-weekly trip to the grocery store to stock up on provisions.
Leaving one to inquire about the status of the cheese that was just purchased last evening, and how come we have to go out for more cheese today, less than 24 hours later?
There is a very simple answer to that question.
Stephen.
Cheese for Stephen constitutes a food group all on its own.
Brie, camembert, swiss, havarti, gouda, blue, chedder (very old, old, medium, mild, marble) mozzarella, curds, wensleydale, provolone, parmesan, munster, colby, jack, ricotta, cottage, romano, gorgonzola, gjestost, asiago, babybel, beaufort, bocconcini, edam, gruyere, and on, and on, and on: http://www.cheese.com/all.asp.
Stephen says frequently, "cheese is my life."
It is not at all unusual for me to wake up in the middle of the night to the smells of toast and cheese wafting up the stairs into my bedroom.
More like the smell of burnt cheese hitting the broiler element, but this is perhaps not the time to be picky.
Between cheese and Goblet, there is barely time for me.
So now, instead of going home to prepare a Simply for Life sanctioned meal, I am going home to make a meal that wouldn't make the SFL menu under any conditions.
And me?
I'll be eating leftovers.
Or some of the homemade carrot curry soup I made over the weekend.
Both are fine.
Good even.
But not eating my homemade macaroni and cheese so hot out of the oven you can barely eat it will, perhaps be the biggest test I've faced so far.
Until tomorrow evening's bookclub meeting.
Christmas book club meeting at that.
All the delectable delicacies, tantalizing tasties, mouthwatering munchies. . .
While I sit in my chair sipping perrier with lime.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Comfort food.
All food gives me comfort.
Eating is the way for me to deal with the crushing defeat I experience in my every day life.
Chocolate is number one on my list.
I've never been all that impressed with potato chips, except for when Hostess introduced the Sour Cream and Bacon potato chip.
On more than one occasion, I would awaken in the middle of the night, thinking of those chips.
Given that we lived in a rural area, and the nearest convenience store was about 10 kilometers down the road, I would sit and stew in my salivating juices.
And when I was pregnant for Keith.
For reasons only understood by pregnant women who have experienced uncontrollable cravings, I wanted to eat my self into a Humpty Dumpty salt and vinegar coma.
If you have ever gorged on this potato-y delight, then you know that eating copious amounts of salt and vinegar chips can have some immediate repercussions.
Salt and vinegar flavouring would pool in the corners of my mouth causing minute cuts, which would only get worse the more chips I ate.
And I ate more, believe me.
My mouth would tingle and then go numb.
My fingers caked in salty goodness.
Now, looking at a salt and vinegar chip leaves me with that not so special feeling in my stomach.
White cheddar popcorn is another favourite, along with theater popcorn coated with ketchup seasoning.
Dairy Queen pumpkin pie blizzards.
Pancakes with syrup.
Chips and salsa.
PC Decadent Chocolate Chip Cookies.
Ice cream, especially PC Chocolate Fudge Crackle.
And of course, my homemade macaroni and cheese, which is what started this famish fest.
Meredyth's desire for comfort food, then, is something that I understand and nurture.
Em is the same.
Upset Em and be prepared to purchase an 18 wheelers worth of Kit Kat bars.
If you've really enraged her, better start lining up at McDonalds for Big Mac and fries.
In this respect, then, I've been a terrible role model for my children.
Teaching them that the best way to deal with upset, to meet the need for comfort, to manage your anger, is to eat your feelings.
As you can tell, I have eaten my feelings for so long that it's a miracle I can feel anything at all.
The thing is, eating your feelings is good in the short term, but long term all you get are more hurt feelings and pounds that are harder to lose the older you get.
Tonight, then, while watching my family ohh and ahh, ummm and yum while eating mac and cheese, I will be role modeling.
Carrot curry soup and black bread.
Yeah. Me.
Writing about food you can't eat is like masturbating.
Both serve their purpose.
But it just isn't the same.
Title Lyric: Cake by Comfort Eagle
I'm doing a bit better today.
Not feeling quite so frazzled, frustrated, out of control.
Conditions haven't changed so much as I was able to get a full night's sleep.
Leaving me less psychotic and more in sync with the world around me.
For now.
Because something is always waiting around the corner.
Lurking.
Waiting.
Anticipating.
But today, I feel ready for it.
Tomorrow?
Who knows.
Even though my children aren't children, but closer to being young adults, aged 21, 19 and *almost* 17, there are things they do, or ask for that remind me that no matter how old they are, they are still children.
And more importantly, MY children.
Meredyth has been having a really hard time lately. Discombobulated, uncertain of her place in the world, what she is supposed to be doing, where she is supposed to be, how she is supposed to get there.
Because she is feeling this way, and she is coming over for dinner this evening, she called for the sole purpose of making a request for dinner.
A comfort food.
An-I-am-feeling-like-crap-and-the-whole-world-is-against-me-no-matter-how-hard-I-try-and-I-just-want-something-to-make-me-feel-better-food.
Now this is DEFINITELY a feeling I am intimately acquainted with.
And I mean intimately acquainted.
What food turns Mer's grey skies to blue? Puts the bow back into her rainbow? Turns her frown upside down?
Homemade macaroni and cheese.
A plate of hot, steaming macaroni and cheese where there is more melted cheese than macaroni, baked to perfection and served with salt, pepper and ketchup.
Meaning after we pick up Emily and before we pick up Meredyth, a trip to the grocery store is in order.
I had cheese.
Bought it last night as a matter of fact when we made our bi-weekly trip to the grocery store to stock up on provisions.
Leaving one to inquire about the status of the cheese that was just purchased last evening, and how come we have to go out for more cheese today, less than 24 hours later?
There is a very simple answer to that question.
Stephen.
Cheese for Stephen constitutes a food group all on its own.
Brie, camembert, swiss, havarti, gouda, blue, chedder (very old, old, medium, mild, marble) mozzarella, curds, wensleydale, provolone, parmesan, munster, colby, jack, ricotta, cottage, romano, gorgonzola, gjestost, asiago, babybel, beaufort, bocconcini, edam, gruyere, and on, and on, and on: http://www.cheese.com/all.asp.
Stephen says frequently, "cheese is my life."
It is not at all unusual for me to wake up in the middle of the night to the smells of toast and cheese wafting up the stairs into my bedroom.
More like the smell of burnt cheese hitting the broiler element, but this is perhaps not the time to be picky.
Between cheese and Goblet, there is barely time for me.
So now, instead of going home to prepare a Simply for Life sanctioned meal, I am going home to make a meal that wouldn't make the SFL menu under any conditions.
And me?
I'll be eating leftovers.
Or some of the homemade carrot curry soup I made over the weekend.
Both are fine.
Good even.
But not eating my homemade macaroni and cheese so hot out of the oven you can barely eat it will, perhaps be the biggest test I've faced so far.
Until tomorrow evening's bookclub meeting.
Christmas book club meeting at that.
All the delectable delicacies, tantalizing tasties, mouthwatering munchies. . .
While I sit in my chair sipping perrier with lime.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Comfort food.
All food gives me comfort.
Eating is the way for me to deal with the crushing defeat I experience in my every day life.
Chocolate is number one on my list.
I've never been all that impressed with potato chips, except for when Hostess introduced the Sour Cream and Bacon potato chip.
On more than one occasion, I would awaken in the middle of the night, thinking of those chips.
Given that we lived in a rural area, and the nearest convenience store was about 10 kilometers down the road, I would sit and stew in my salivating juices.
And when I was pregnant for Keith.
For reasons only understood by pregnant women who have experienced uncontrollable cravings, I wanted to eat my self into a Humpty Dumpty salt and vinegar coma.
If you have ever gorged on this potato-y delight, then you know that eating copious amounts of salt and vinegar chips can have some immediate repercussions.
Salt and vinegar flavouring would pool in the corners of my mouth causing minute cuts, which would only get worse the more chips I ate.
And I ate more, believe me.
My mouth would tingle and then go numb.
My fingers caked in salty goodness.
Now, looking at a salt and vinegar chip leaves me with that not so special feeling in my stomach.
White cheddar popcorn is another favourite, along with theater popcorn coated with ketchup seasoning.
Dairy Queen pumpkin pie blizzards.
Pancakes with syrup.
Chips and salsa.
PC Decadent Chocolate Chip Cookies.
Ice cream, especially PC Chocolate Fudge Crackle.
And of course, my homemade macaroni and cheese, which is what started this famish fest.
Meredyth's desire for comfort food, then, is something that I understand and nurture.
Em is the same.
Upset Em and be prepared to purchase an 18 wheelers worth of Kit Kat bars.
If you've really enraged her, better start lining up at McDonalds for Big Mac and fries.
In this respect, then, I've been a terrible role model for my children.
Teaching them that the best way to deal with upset, to meet the need for comfort, to manage your anger, is to eat your feelings.
As you can tell, I have eaten my feelings for so long that it's a miracle I can feel anything at all.
The thing is, eating your feelings is good in the short term, but long term all you get are more hurt feelings and pounds that are harder to lose the older you get.
Tonight, then, while watching my family ohh and ahh, ummm and yum while eating mac and cheese, I will be role modeling.
Carrot curry soup and black bread.
Yeah. Me.
Writing about food you can't eat is like masturbating.
Both serve their purpose.
But it just isn't the same.
Title Lyric: Cake by Comfort Eagle
Monday, November 29, 2010
We take for granted all the things that make us who we are. . .
November 29, 2010
Thou shalt engage brain before opening mouth.
When you say things, I remember them. All of them. When you do stupid things, I remember them, too. I try not to. I don't want to. If you would just think before you open your mouth, contemplate what you're saying before you say it, consider how assinine things sound, especially the next morning after you've had time to think about it, life would be so much easier. Contemplation is important. If you need time to contemplate go to a space where you can, so long as that space isn't a shared space. Everyone in the house has space of their own. Go to it. Recharge your force there. Think while you're there. So much could be avoided with just a few minutes of thought. Being rash, doing stupid things that I have to deal with the next morning, only make things worse.
Thou shalt take responsibility for the choices you make.
Thou shalt work as many jobs as needed to meet financial obligations.
It is safe to say that while everyone pitches in what they can, at this present point in time, currently, in the moment, I think it is accurate to say that my job pays the bills. But none of you make it easy. Just because my job has some flexibility in terms of being able to come and go without hassle, doesn't mean I feel I can come and go as I please. I can't just drop everything to drive you here and there; don't call and tell me how much you wish I was home, I already know that. Drop by my office, I love to see you, but don't make an arse out of yourself where I work. And don't expect me to drop everything because you have the time to be there. I shouldn't have to schedule my work around you. We've been doing this a long time. You know how the academic year works. If I say that I have to work, it means I have to work. Would I rather spend time with you? Absolutely. Of course I would. But sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do at the time we are doing them. Accept this. At least I am in the house. I could be in my office. Or at Starbucks, or the library. I am trying as best I can to blend home and work so I can at least be in the kitchen, in the same living space as you are. When you're calling me with issues, concerns, dilemmas and dramas, you are taking me away from what puts food on our table and a roof over our head. It sucks. There has to a better way. But right now I don't know what it is. If you figure it out, let me know. I'm willing to try anything once. Twice if it actually works.
Thou shalt accept that I do know something based on my life experiences.
I need to purge. Consider yourself warned.
Commandments According to Dawne
Thou shalt not keep me up all night.
I understand that everyone deals with things differently. I, for example, like to deal with the things upsetting me during the day. Others perhaps chose early evening. Other still prefer to process the day late at night. I have no problem with this. What I do have a problem with is when you want to join me on your late night rides and I don't want to go. Kidnapping me doesn't make things any better, because it makes me miserable and cranky all day long. It affects my ability to work. All I want to do is sleep, or, depending on how intensive our midnight jaunt has been, shove bamboo into your fingernails or drown you in melted cheese. No bread allowed.
Thou shalt engage brain before opening mouth.
When you say things, I remember them. All of them. When you do stupid things, I remember them, too. I try not to. I don't want to. If you would just think before you open your mouth, contemplate what you're saying before you say it, consider how assinine things sound, especially the next morning after you've had time to think about it, life would be so much easier. Contemplation is important. If you need time to contemplate go to a space where you can, so long as that space isn't a shared space. Everyone in the house has space of their own. Go to it. Recharge your force there. Think while you're there. So much could be avoided with just a few minutes of thought. Being rash, doing stupid things that I have to deal with the next morning, only make things worse.
Thou shalt take responsibility for the choices you make.
Everyone makes decisions. And I'd like to believe that most people understand that when you make those decisions, you also realize that you must live with them. But, alas, this is not
something everyone seems to grasp. The problem is, you can't expect to made good or bad choices without accepting the responsibility. Some way, some how, you will have to sort out whatever messes you have made. Not me. You. Because believe it or not, I don't always have the answers, nor can I always help you. If you chose housework over schoolwork, partying over studying, anxiety over action, entertainment over employment, these are your choices and you have to live with the consequences. I have to live with them, too, sometimes. I don't like where you take me, or how we get there. But, maybe I can provide some suggestions, potential avenues that may result in the desired outcome. Sometimes, if I am frustrated enough, I may not even want to. At that moment. Shocking, I know.
Thou shalt not blame me for things beyond my control.
I accept that you may see me as an all knowing, omnipotent being, almighty, divine, supreme, absolute, but, I know this is a shock, (and you may want to sit down) I am not. I do not control everyone or everything. What other people do is almost always beyond my control. What you do is often beyond my control. Given this, I don't know why you think that I can, should, or even want, to control everything. I have enough work to do trying to manage and control myself, let alone everyone and everything else. If you need help accepting that not everything is in my control or your control, get it. Please. How much do you think one omnipotent being can manage, even when they are omnipotent?
Thou shalt act your age, not your shoe size.
Stop telling me how old you are. I know. Stop remarking that you're old enough to make your own decisions. I know that, too. But being old enough to make the right decisions and making those decisions are two very different things. Stop telling me that at this age you shouldn't have to deal with the things that you're dealing with. Over that I have no control (see above). What ever you're dealing with is what ever you're dealing with regardless of how old you are. Consider how come you're dealing with these things. What did you do to faciliate it?Not acting your age is just childish and immature. Locking doors, throwing things in the garbage, engaging in inappropriate behaviours, staying up all night, partying when you do not have the funds to support such activities, not going to school, not going to work, complaining about going to school or work, fighting about getting out of bed for appointments you make, these are childish and immature. Narcissistic even. So, if you are going to remind me and you of how old you are, expect that I will suggest that you act your age since you know it so well.
Thou shalt not consistently put me between that rock and hardplace you are so fond of.
I spend so much time in this place that my butt has molded the seat. The cushions are torn and their covering threadbare. Unfortunately, I can't work in this place, because if I could perhaps I'd be happier about spending time here. And I wouldn't be as behind in my work.
There's also no computer or television so it seems to me that ultimately, it's a waste of my time to be here. But for some reason, I just keep coming back, or more accurately, being put in here, no matter how hard I try to fight it. In other circumstances, maybe my interest in how I get here over and over would be piqued. But the circumstances that keep bringing me back here aren't changing. Maybe I am partially to blame for repeated visits here, but I don't get here alone and I'd appreciate if you'd do your part to stop faciliating the journey.
Thou shalt work as many jobs as needed to meet financial obligations.
Living on your own is a wonderful thing, at least this is what I've heard. Living on your own does not mean you live in space but other people pay for it. Living on your own means that you pay your own way. No one owes you anything. People will help if they can, but the expectation should be that you have to provide for yourself. That's what it means to be your age. I will continue to help, but I am not responsible for your inability to stay within your budget. I am not responsible for the bad choices any of you make regarding money. If you have money, spend it on frivolity, then don't come to me for more. I won't be giving it to you. I will no longer save you from your trivial cash choices. If you want to live a lifestyle that is currently beyond your means you have three choices: continue what you're doing even though it is clearly not working, or, secure enough employment to be able to live the life you're living, or, stop living the life you're living, grow up, act the age you keep reminding me about, and live within your means. The rest of us have to do it, why should you be any different? Stop asking for more than I can give, because I am no longer giving more than I can. The money tree in the backyard has died, and I have no means of replacing it.
Thou shalt not stress me so much that I am derailed from my work.
It is safe to say that while everyone pitches in what they can, at this present point in time, currently, in the moment, I think it is accurate to say that my job pays the bills. But none of you make it easy. Just because my job has some flexibility in terms of being able to come and go without hassle, doesn't mean I feel I can come and go as I please. I can't just drop everything to drive you here and there; don't call and tell me how much you wish I was home, I already know that. Drop by my office, I love to see you, but don't make an arse out of yourself where I work. And don't expect me to drop everything because you have the time to be there. I shouldn't have to schedule my work around you. We've been doing this a long time. You know how the academic year works. If I say that I have to work, it means I have to work. Would I rather spend time with you? Absolutely. Of course I would. But sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do at the time we are doing them. Accept this. At least I am in the house. I could be in my office. Or at Starbucks, or the library. I am trying as best I can to blend home and work so I can at least be in the kitchen, in the same living space as you are. When you're calling me with issues, concerns, dilemmas and dramas, you are taking me away from what puts food on our table and a roof over our head. It sucks. There has to a better way. But right now I don't know what it is. If you figure it out, let me know. I'm willing to try anything once. Twice if it actually works.
Thou shalt accept that I do know something based on my life experiences.
I am not stupid. I know what goes on in the world. I have life experience that could benefit you. If you're not interested in what I have to say, in hearing my opinion, than stop asking me to give it. Don't ask me to support something that we both know is dumb, irresponsible, unnecessary. If you're going to something because you think you have the right to, or because you want to, don't ask me to condone it if I don't agree. I am not here to make you feel better about bad choices. If you truly believe that my life experience has no value, stop asking me what I think. Because I will tell you, whether you like what I have to say or not. But consider this: how many things have you done that made you miserable? Or your life more difficult? Could those have been prevented if you had just listened? I don't know everything, but I do know somethings, and can even predict what may happen to you based on those experiences. You don't need to live my life, you need to live your own. But if some of the assinine things I have done in the past could prevent you from experiencing misery, isn't it worth it to consider what I have to offer? I'll tell you this: I wish, more than anything, that I had listened to my mother more than I did.
Thou shalt not lie to me.
I hate lying. It serves no positive purpose nor does it make anything better. Plus, I always find out when you've been lying to me. Lying to me means that I no longer believe anything that you tell me, even if it is true. And this will have consequences. Trust me.
Thou shalt not work as hard as you can to keep my life in chaos and turmoil.
You are all busy people. So it amazes me that you have so much time to turn my life, and our family life into complete and utter chaos and turmoil. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that the only way you can get through the day is by ensuring that chaos and turmoil exist. You thrive on it, draw from it. I don't. In fact, the older I get the less I am able to live in chaos and turmoil. The less willing I am to live in constant chaos and turmoil. If you can't live with your catastrophic companions, get help. Because I am not willing to live with them any longer. I will have peace and quiet, calmness and serenity in my life. If everyone participates, does their part, than peace and serenity shall reign. If you chose to not participate, to not do those things that will give you inner peace and serenity, to keep creating turmoil and chaos, expect to live with the consequences.
Thou shalt remember that we are fortunate, blessed and that things are never as bad as you make them out to be.
We are fortunate, blessed people. Things could always, always, always be worse than they are. Catastrophizing is a complete and utter waste of time and energy. Looking at the positive, at what is good, and there is ALWAYS good is far more valuable. It also faciliates the peace and serenity I so desperately want. The glass is half full. And if it breaks, we'll just fill another one. Imagine what we could accomplish if we worked together instead of at cross purposes.
Had I been given the gift of seeing into the future, I would have given myself these commandments long before I ever married or had children.
I would have saved myself oodles of stress and anxiety, anger and frustration.
People erroneously assume I have limitless patience, that I can handle everything, that I have the answers to all their problems.
I don't.
My patience is at its end. Threadbare. See through. And replenishing it is going to be difficult.
I can handle a lot of things. I have already demonstrated this. I don't wish to spend my life dealing with your difficulties.
If I had answers to all your problems, I'd be wealthy, happy and calm. Clearly I don't.
Being married and having children is the hardest thing I've ever done. I like challenges. Hard doesn't put me off.
People told me I'd never accomplish the things I've accomplished.
I proved them wrong.
Maybe now its time you proved me wrong. That my perceptions are erroneous. That you are more than what you're showing me.
I promise that tomorrow we will return to our regularly scheduled, amusing and life affirming programming.
Title Lyric: Purging by Boysnightout
Thou shalt not lie to me.
I hate lying. It serves no positive purpose nor does it make anything better. Plus, I always find out when you've been lying to me. Lying to me means that I no longer believe anything that you tell me, even if it is true. And this will have consequences. Trust me.
Thou shalt not work as hard as you can to keep my life in chaos and turmoil.
You are all busy people. So it amazes me that you have so much time to turn my life, and our family life into complete and utter chaos and turmoil. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that the only way you can get through the day is by ensuring that chaos and turmoil exist. You thrive on it, draw from it. I don't. In fact, the older I get the less I am able to live in chaos and turmoil. The less willing I am to live in constant chaos and turmoil. If you can't live with your catastrophic companions, get help. Because I am not willing to live with them any longer. I will have peace and quiet, calmness and serenity in my life. If everyone participates, does their part, than peace and serenity shall reign. If you chose to not participate, to not do those things that will give you inner peace and serenity, to keep creating turmoil and chaos, expect to live with the consequences.
Thou shalt remember that we are fortunate, blessed and that things are never as bad as you make them out to be.
We are fortunate, blessed people. Things could always, always, always be worse than they are. Catastrophizing is a complete and utter waste of time and energy. Looking at the positive, at what is good, and there is ALWAYS good is far more valuable. It also faciliates the peace and serenity I so desperately want. The glass is half full. And if it breaks, we'll just fill another one. Imagine what we could accomplish if we worked together instead of at cross purposes.
Had I been given the gift of seeing into the future, I would have given myself these commandments long before I ever married or had children.
I would have saved myself oodles of stress and anxiety, anger and frustration.
People erroneously assume I have limitless patience, that I can handle everything, that I have the answers to all their problems.
I don't.
My patience is at its end. Threadbare. See through. And replenishing it is going to be difficult.
I can handle a lot of things. I have already demonstrated this. I don't wish to spend my life dealing with your difficulties.
If I had answers to all your problems, I'd be wealthy, happy and calm. Clearly I don't.
Being married and having children is the hardest thing I've ever done. I like challenges. Hard doesn't put me off.
People told me I'd never accomplish the things I've accomplished.
I proved them wrong.
Maybe now its time you proved me wrong. That my perceptions are erroneous. That you are more than what you're showing me.
I promise that tomorrow we will return to our regularly scheduled, amusing and life affirming programming.
Title Lyric: Purging by Boysnightout
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