January 7, 2011
Everyone is allowed to be cranky.
Crabby.
Generally out-of-sorts.
Me included.
I have no problem with crabbiness.
Just keep it to yourself.
Hence my belief that it is okay to be crabby, but you best to be on your own if you are.
Easier said than done.
Crabbiness descended upon me yesterday.
Like a cloud of hungry locusts.
I'd like to say I have no idea how come I was the target for seething internal rage, waiting to lash out at the first person who got to close.
I'd like to say that.
But I can't.
I did, however, work hard at staying on my own.
That sort of worked.
When I was forced to interact with others, I did my best to conceal my crankiness and appear normal.
By the evening, however, my energies were dissipating, and my protective shields were dissolving.
Leaving anyone around me wide open for attack.
There was one minor skirmish.
For several days I've been experiencing difficulties maintaining my wireless connections from the kitchen.
The place where I do the most of my work.
Sunny.
Nice big window for those pensive moments.
Alas, I had to make the decision last evening that for whatever reason, I had to move upstairs to our home office, Stephen's man-cave, to work.
Because I could connect to the modem directly with an internet cord.
So I did.
But I wasn't happy about it.
In fact, I am sitting in here right now.
No window.
But where the window should be is Goblet, resting on her pillow which sits on the top of a trunk Stephen brought back from his summer visit to Montreal.
I have a window on my left.
I mean, it's not as if I'm in prison or anything.
Frankie laying on my right, throwing himself on the floor with reckless abandon, and wondering how come we've moved from the kitchen.
"Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. . . ."
The skirmish. . .
Right.
Let's just say it was ugly, but short lived.
No one was physically injured.
And I retired to my room, under my covers, where I was left alone.
For a few minutes.
Luckily my shields recharged and I was again able to maintain a facade of calm.
My malaise is perhaps rooted in the knowledge that Monday I return to work.
As does Stephen.
Keith and Em return to classes.
All of which is fine.
Oh, except for that part about Stephen and Em being creatures of the night and absolutely abhorring the idea, let alone the act, of getting out of bed in the morning.
And that 4 out of 5 mornings for the next few months are going to resemble daily doses of Dante's Inferno.
In addition to this, I also have a nagging feeling that I've forgotten something.
Even when I was in younger, in middle school and highschool, the end of any extended break left me wondering if there was something I was supposed to do, but forgot about.
Leaving me open to the wrath of my teachers-who-were-cranky-because-they-too-had-to-return-to-work.
My anxieties were always unfounded.
As they are now.
But that doesn't mean they go away.
It isn't that I don't want to see my students.
Return to teaching.
But at the same time, I've become immersed, happily I might add, into my crime and film data.
And pulling myself out of data coding may make my children happy, as it would seem I've spent a rather significant amount of time working on it.
They tolerated it, perhaps, because I was in the kitchen, a hairs breadth away from them.
And not upstairs.
Where I am now two hairs breadth away from them.
I love data coding. . .both open and focused.
At this moment, I can hear the collective groans and/or gasps of astonishment from my advanced qualitative students, who have now been forced to accept what I've been telling them for as long as I can remember:
I. Am. A. Geek.
For some reason they just don't want to believe me.
Reading what my students think of Double Indemnity and Bonnie and Clyde, how much they loved Hard Candy, and how they construct gender and crime. . .
Yes.
I find it very, very interesting.
Its one of the first times I've wished for a sabbatical.
Perhaps its time to think about applying for one.
January 6 is always Ukranian Christmas Eve.
We were supposed to be in Montreal, visiting with Stephen's family.
Eating Ukranian food.
Veranekah or as they are known by their other name, perogies.
Kutia, pearled wheat, poppy seeds, and honey.
Lots and lots of honey.
Borsht, lovely beet soup chock full of veggies.
Compote, the most delicious brandy infused colon blow you will EVER have.
As many different kinds of fish as you can imagine.
All homemade.
By Stephen's mum and aunt.
None of which I was able to partake of.
No going to St. Sophie's and visiting with friends of Stephen's parents who make the pilgrimage to New Brunswick three and a half years ago for our wedding.
And visiting those friends who couldn't make it.
Going to Montreal is not just about the shopping, the great restaurants, the fabulous art galleries. . . .
I genuinely love visiting with Stephen's family and friends.
And even the road tripping.
Barrelling down the Jean Lesage highway at Quebec speeds. . .because in Quebec is the closest thing we have to Audubon in Canada.
Listening to the Eagles Greatest Hits, singing my heart out.
Or the CBC, where in I don't sing because the Met Opera house turned me down after hearing me screech through Carmen.
I love ALL of it.
And perhaps not being able to go on a desperately needed few days away is a source of my bad humour.
Or, the most rational explanation for my general state of annoyance is the most obvious one.
Cabin fever.
Maybe sequestering myself in the house analyzing data for hours at a time isn't the best way to spend my day.
But it is what I want to do.
However, I think that my body is arguing with my brain for something other than what I've been doing.
I am volunteering at the Community Kitchen this evening.
This will pull me out of the I'm-feeling-sorry-for-myself-blues I've been singing lately.
One where data analysis has to wait in line for me, like everything else does, to complete the things I'm supposed to do.
And there are always the perpetual money issues.
Particularly the we-never-have-enough-money-issues.
People think, wrongly so, that because we are profs we have lots of money.
We have no money.
Not when you have kids and husbands in university, rent help to provide, utilities, the never ending grocery bill. . . .
I try not to let money bother me.
Really, I just want enough to pay the bills.
And buy groceries.
I don't live an expensive life.
No credit cards.
But still, every once in a while, I find myself wishing for a lottery win.
Not one of those 56 million dollar ones. . .just a couple million.
Is that a lot to ask?
Of course, there is one final explanation for my acerbic cantankerousness.
But you can figure out that one for yourself.
Title Lyric: Malaise En Malaise by Manhattan Transfer
Friday, January 7, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Conspicuous consumption. . .wake up . . .take your power back. . .
January 5, 2011
2011 BookFest, version 1, took place last night.
Or a rather miniaturized version, .5, occurred.
Around 9.30, fatigued from running errands, driving children here, there and everywhere, dinner making, family messaging, and that other thing. . . .
Hmmmmm. . . . .what was it again?
Oh.
Right.
Working.
I decided to go to bed, don my warm, snugly flannel jammies, and delve into the pile of books that found their way to me yesterday.
Knowing myself as I do, I did ask Stephen what his intentions were towards my books should I happen to fall asleep while burrowing into my books.
This is an important question.
Upon spying the pile on the kitchen table earlier last evening, he looked at me and asked,
"And where do you plan on putting those?"
Me: Does it really matter!!!???!!! Look! Books!!!! Words on a page, ideas transcending time and space, a veritable cornucopia of unexplored worlds, uncharted territory!!!
And you want to bother me with trivial notion such as space for these glorious new adventures on paper??????
I KNOW what Stephen would do to these books.
If.
He.
Could.
Off to my office they would go, where there stands a strong possibility that I may never see them again.
I know this because I have to go digging for a book I need to read before Tuesday.
A brief, yet surprisingly thorough scan of my office yesterday yeilded no such book.
So I'll have to engage in a more than brief expedition today.
Thus, asking Stephen his intentions towards my books is an important and necessary question.
He sighed.
And said he'd put them on my dresser.
"Really?" I asked.
"Really, really" he replied.
Sure enough, only two books in, I was out faster than a child filled to the brim with kiddie Gravol.
I enjoyed the two books I started.
The one about the difference between welfare policies and the experiences of people actually in need of welfare is fascinating.
Written by a journalist.
With words I've never encountered before.
So I've started a list.
Let the expansion of my limited vocabulary begin!
That's okay though.
There's always tonight.
And ten more books to go.
Twelve if you count the two I have to have read for Tuesday.
Fourteen if you also include the two I've been reading for the last few days.
I.
So.
LOVE.
Books.
Stephen likes books.
He doesn't harbour any long festering, deep seeded, malicious, fermenting hatred towards books.
Otherwise I would have never dated him.
Let alone get married.
He just doesn't love them.
Not like I do.
Not many people do.
If books were living things, I may be incarcerated given how much I love them.
Perhaps he is tired of staring at the piles upon piles upon piles of them that have overtaken our house.
At least as much as he will let them.
I have boxes of books in the basement that he refuses entry to on the grounds that there simply isn't any place to put them.
Bull***t.
His pages-and-spine inspired wounds had a bucket of salt rain upon them last evening when, after a trip to Kent, Keith came home with a bookshelf.
For his own ever growing pile of books.
He spent over $400.00, of his own money, yesterday at the UNB bookstore.
Preparing for his second term of this academic year.
That's the deal.
We pay tuition.
He pays for books and supplies.
Coming home and taking his books upstairs into the semi-hovel he calls a room threw into sharp relief that he was in need of some sort of shelving for his ever increasing stacks of books.
At dinner, he asked Stephen if, perhaps, he would like to take a trip to Kent that evening to peruse book shelves.
Asking Stephen if he would like to go to Kent is like asking Emily if she'd like to swim her way through a vat of PC Chicken Wing and Blue Cheese chips.
Stephen's eyes lit up brighter than the Christmas tree and all the outdoor lights of everyone within a 100 kilometer radius of our house.
As long as Keith accompanied Stephen as a chaperon Stephen could go to Kent.
Stephen, alone, cannot go to Kent.
He can't control himself.
Lamps, mirrors, do dads and gee haws come back with him when he goes alone.
Plus, Stephen could get the appropriate screws for my new, hand cranking pencil sharpener he needs to mount downstairs.
This pencil sharpener came with its own screws.
Aluminium screws.
These aluminum screws were not satisfactory.
Not at all.
Not for Stephen.
So, viable reasons in hand, Stephen and Keith set off for Kent.
Coming home with a lot more than a bookcase.
I didn't know Kent stocked Sailor Jerry's, Corn Pops, Pringles, celery, PC chips, coffee cream and other sundry items.
Keith comes into the kitchen, proudly showing me the box containing his book case.
And then he, and his Sailor Jerry's, go upstairs to put the bookcase together.
I'll be glad when Keith starts classes again.
Effectively limiting his association with Sailor Jerry's.
And the toilet bowl.
Stephen, then, is hell bent we get more bookshelves.
I'm fine with that.
But because he is Stephen, it can't be any bookshelf.
It has to be a solid wood, finished bookshelf.
No pressboard or veneer for my spoiled rich boy.
Meaning the likelihood of bookshelves gracing this house are slim to nil.
At least until the kids move out.
Stephen is not the only one who wants things he can't have.
Keith experienced some of this yesterday.
For some reason, he was determined to spend money.
And he didn't seem to care what he bought, just so long as he bought something.
He has been pining, aching, brooding for, coveting, desiring, wanting, languishing over a flat screen, plasma television.
Already in his possession is a television.
No more than three years old.
He even has cable in his room!
But for some reason I cannot fathom and he has not been able to explain to my satisfaction, he wants a new tv.
Off to Future Shop we went.
Remember that conversation about going places I don't want to go because we are a one car family?
Future Shop is one of those places.
I'm just not into electronics.
And going to places like Future Shop, The Source, Sears, for me are like walking into an only foreign language bookstore.
I know I'm in the presence of books, but I don't know what they're about.
All the tvs he looked at looked fine to me.
Because they were all tvs.
I wasn't aware of the minute distinctions in megahertz, whatever those are.
Or what a 1080 mean.
Or how this Toshiba isn't as good as that Sony.
Or vice versa for all I know.
Furthermore, I just cannot for the life of me figure out how come any sentient being could ever need a television the size of the side of a three storey house.
No one needs that much tv.
Ever.
Conspicuous consumption.
Not to mention the potential for blindness from sitting too close.
Blindness and melting braincells.
Luckily, Keith didn't get a new tv.
But hell bent on spending money, he did get textbooks.
And investment.
Not a divestment.
Everything has the potential to be upsized.
McDonalds fries enough to clog your arteries in 1/4 of the time it would normally take.
Upsized drinks that contain about 4 liters of soda in one shot and enable sugar blindness after consuming half.
The larger than large theater popcorn with a pound of butter, layered (I haven't asked the kids what that means. . .I'm not sure I want to know).
What is it with upsizing????????
Club Packs??????
Okay, some club packs are okay.
Toilet paper.
Ketchup.
Baking soda.
We can't keep baking soda in this house.
Stephen uses it for cleaning.
Consequently, when I need a teaspoon for something or other, I am informed that it has been sent down the drain, with vinegar, to unclog the long hair and shampoo buildup in our drains.
And you never know how badly you'll need baking soda until it isn't there.
I remember when my parents upgraded from their 14 inch portable tv to what they have now.
A 40 inch tv.
My mother used to sit at the end of the couch, watching whatever my father was watching.
A story in and of itself.
Once the new tv was installed, she was watching tv from the far end of the room, practically sitting beside the washer and dryer.
And even then she claimed watching it gave her a headache.
She may have taken the smaller tv upstairs to her room, and watched tv in there.
Perhaps that was the ultimate goal of my fathers tv upsizing plot.
Title Lyric: Softkill by Brainclaw
2011 BookFest, version 1, took place last night.
Or a rather miniaturized version, .5, occurred.
Around 9.30, fatigued from running errands, driving children here, there and everywhere, dinner making, family messaging, and that other thing. . . .
Hmmmmm. . . . .what was it again?
Oh.
Right.
Working.
I decided to go to bed, don my warm, snugly flannel jammies, and delve into the pile of books that found their way to me yesterday.
Knowing myself as I do, I did ask Stephen what his intentions were towards my books should I happen to fall asleep while burrowing into my books.
This is an important question.
Upon spying the pile on the kitchen table earlier last evening, he looked at me and asked,
"And where do you plan on putting those?"
Me: Does it really matter!!!???!!! Look! Books!!!! Words on a page, ideas transcending time and space, a veritable cornucopia of unexplored worlds, uncharted territory!!!
And you want to bother me with trivial notion such as space for these glorious new adventures on paper??????
I KNOW what Stephen would do to these books.
If.
He.
Could.
Off to my office they would go, where there stands a strong possibility that I may never see them again.
I know this because I have to go digging for a book I need to read before Tuesday.
A brief, yet surprisingly thorough scan of my office yesterday yeilded no such book.
So I'll have to engage in a more than brief expedition today.
Thus, asking Stephen his intentions towards my books is an important and necessary question.
He sighed.
And said he'd put them on my dresser.
"Really?" I asked.
"Really, really" he replied.
Sure enough, only two books in, I was out faster than a child filled to the brim with kiddie Gravol.
I enjoyed the two books I started.
The one about the difference between welfare policies and the experiences of people actually in need of welfare is fascinating.
Written by a journalist.
With words I've never encountered before.
So I've started a list.
Let the expansion of my limited vocabulary begin!
That's okay though.
There's always tonight.
And ten more books to go.
Twelve if you count the two I have to have read for Tuesday.
Fourteen if you also include the two I've been reading for the last few days.
I.
So.
LOVE.
Books.
Stephen likes books.
He doesn't harbour any long festering, deep seeded, malicious, fermenting hatred towards books.
Otherwise I would have never dated him.
Let alone get married.
He just doesn't love them.
Not like I do.
Not many people do.
If books were living things, I may be incarcerated given how much I love them.
Perhaps he is tired of staring at the piles upon piles upon piles of them that have overtaken our house.
At least as much as he will let them.
I have boxes of books in the basement that he refuses entry to on the grounds that there simply isn't any place to put them.
Bull***t.
His pages-and-spine inspired wounds had a bucket of salt rain upon them last evening when, after a trip to Kent, Keith came home with a bookshelf.
For his own ever growing pile of books.
He spent over $400.00, of his own money, yesterday at the UNB bookstore.
Preparing for his second term of this academic year.
That's the deal.
We pay tuition.
He pays for books and supplies.
Coming home and taking his books upstairs into the semi-hovel he calls a room threw into sharp relief that he was in need of some sort of shelving for his ever increasing stacks of books.
At dinner, he asked Stephen if, perhaps, he would like to take a trip to Kent that evening to peruse book shelves.
Asking Stephen if he would like to go to Kent is like asking Emily if she'd like to swim her way through a vat of PC Chicken Wing and Blue Cheese chips.
Stephen's eyes lit up brighter than the Christmas tree and all the outdoor lights of everyone within a 100 kilometer radius of our house.
As long as Keith accompanied Stephen as a chaperon Stephen could go to Kent.
Stephen, alone, cannot go to Kent.
He can't control himself.
Lamps, mirrors, do dads and gee haws come back with him when he goes alone.
Plus, Stephen could get the appropriate screws for my new, hand cranking pencil sharpener he needs to mount downstairs.
This pencil sharpener came with its own screws.
Aluminium screws.
These aluminum screws were not satisfactory.
Not at all.
Not for Stephen.
So, viable reasons in hand, Stephen and Keith set off for Kent.
Coming home with a lot more than a bookcase.
I didn't know Kent stocked Sailor Jerry's, Corn Pops, Pringles, celery, PC chips, coffee cream and other sundry items.
Keith comes into the kitchen, proudly showing me the box containing his book case.
And then he, and his Sailor Jerry's, go upstairs to put the bookcase together.
I'll be glad when Keith starts classes again.
Effectively limiting his association with Sailor Jerry's.
And the toilet bowl.
Stephen, then, is hell bent we get more bookshelves.
I'm fine with that.
But because he is Stephen, it can't be any bookshelf.
It has to be a solid wood, finished bookshelf.
No pressboard or veneer for my spoiled rich boy.
Meaning the likelihood of bookshelves gracing this house are slim to nil.
At least until the kids move out.
Stephen is not the only one who wants things he can't have.
Keith experienced some of this yesterday.
For some reason, he was determined to spend money.
And he didn't seem to care what he bought, just so long as he bought something.
He has been pining, aching, brooding for, coveting, desiring, wanting, languishing over a flat screen, plasma television.
Already in his possession is a television.
No more than three years old.
He even has cable in his room!
But for some reason I cannot fathom and he has not been able to explain to my satisfaction, he wants a new tv.
Off to Future Shop we went.
Remember that conversation about going places I don't want to go because we are a one car family?
Future Shop is one of those places.
I'm just not into electronics.
And going to places like Future Shop, The Source, Sears, for me are like walking into an only foreign language bookstore.
I know I'm in the presence of books, but I don't know what they're about.
All the tvs he looked at looked fine to me.
Because they were all tvs.
I wasn't aware of the minute distinctions in megahertz, whatever those are.
Or what a 1080 mean.
Or how this Toshiba isn't as good as that Sony.
Or vice versa for all I know.
Furthermore, I just cannot for the life of me figure out how come any sentient being could ever need a television the size of the side of a three storey house.
No one needs that much tv.
Ever.
Conspicuous consumption.
Not to mention the potential for blindness from sitting too close.
Blindness and melting braincells.
Luckily, Keith didn't get a new tv.
But hell bent on spending money, he did get textbooks.
And investment.
Not a divestment.
Everything has the potential to be upsized.
McDonalds fries enough to clog your arteries in 1/4 of the time it would normally take.
Upsized drinks that contain about 4 liters of soda in one shot and enable sugar blindness after consuming half.
The larger than large theater popcorn with a pound of butter, layered (I haven't asked the kids what that means. . .I'm not sure I want to know).
What is it with upsizing????????
Club Packs??????
Okay, some club packs are okay.
Toilet paper.
Ketchup.
Baking soda.
We can't keep baking soda in this house.
Stephen uses it for cleaning.
Consequently, when I need a teaspoon for something or other, I am informed that it has been sent down the drain, with vinegar, to unclog the long hair and shampoo buildup in our drains.
And you never know how badly you'll need baking soda until it isn't there.
I remember when my parents upgraded from their 14 inch portable tv to what they have now.
A 40 inch tv.
My mother used to sit at the end of the couch, watching whatever my father was watching.
A story in and of itself.
Once the new tv was installed, she was watching tv from the far end of the room, practically sitting beside the washer and dryer.
And even then she claimed watching it gave her a headache.
She may have taken the smaller tv upstairs to her room, and watched tv in there.
Perhaps that was the ultimate goal of my fathers tv upsizing plot.
Title Lyric: Softkill by Brainclaw
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Our aspirations are wrapped up in books. . .
January 4, 2011
Hi everyone.
I'm Dawne.
(a resounding, in unison chorus) Hi Dawne!
I'm an addict.
Books.
What can I say?
After family and pets, I love books.
A few dollars in my wallet and I am at the bargain book section of Chapters faster than you can say "Chai latte at Starbucks."
And today was a day for books.
Ones that were accidentally sent to the UNB Law Library that were meant for me.
Ones at the UNB Bookstore I had forgotten about.
The ones I ordered when I went a little crazy with my Chapters gift cards.
I had, in total, $211.00 in gift cards.
Shopping online through Chapters means cheaper books.
I had far too much fun.
So, some of what I ordered arrived today, but alas, I was not here to get the parcel, so I have to pick it up after I get Em from work.
And this is a gift that keeps on giving.
Because the rest of my order will arrive around the 25th of January.
My heart's desire at this moment is to abandon my work, my family, my responsibilities, go upstairs, put on my pjs, crawl under my uber warm covers (because again, I'm freezing today) put the books in a pile on Stephen's side of the bed, and slowly go through each and every one of them.
Looking at the front covers, the back covers.
Perusing the front pieces, table of contents if one is there, publishing information, or if it's fiction, read the first couple of pages.
Non-fiction means I head for the bibliographies first, in search of more potential reads.
And what titles have set my heart aflutter?
My stomach turning butterflies?
My brain buzzing with anticipation?
Let's see. . .
From Chapters:
Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
Silent Scream: An Anna Travis Mystery by Lynda LaPlante
13 1/2 by Nevada Barr
The Great Movies III by Roger Ebert
Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel by Tess Gerritsen
Wishin' And Hopin': A Novel by Wally Lamb
Above Suspicion by Lynda LaPlante
From the UNB Law Library (how they ended up there is still a mystery. . .to me and the librarian):
Crackhouse: Notes from the End of the Line by Terry Williams
Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets by Sudhir Venkatesh
American Dream: Three Women, Ten Kids, and a Nation's Drive to End Welfare by Jason DeParle
And from the UNB Bookstore, forgotten in the madness that was marking and Christmas:
Courting Disaster: Intimate Stalking, Culture and Criminal Justice by Jennifer L. Dunn
Shane, The Lone Ethnographer: A Beginner's Guide to Ethnography by Sally Campbell Galman (this is actually done in cartoon form. Tres unique!)
Twelve books, just waiting for me to undress them, devour them, enjoy them.
Eventually.
Because the adult me insists on picking kids up from work, making dinner, working at completing a mini exploration of films that can assist in explaining certain theories of deviance, coding data, preparing for the beginning of classes next week. . .
Things I love, to be sure.
But those new books are calling, calling, calling me. . . .
It is a day of adult decision-making.
Tomorrow, Stephen and I planned on hitting the road to Montreal to celebrate Ukrainian Christmas.
However, Mother Nature, in the throes of multiple personality disorder, wants to dump snow in random amounts, in random places between here and Montreal.
No matter how we planned it, we were hitting snow somewhere, both there and back.
And Stephen just didn't think driving in such unpredictable conditions was a good idea.
He is right.
I understand that.
But right and reasonable doesn't mean I have to like it.
We've had some horrific driving experiences in the winter while heading to Montreal.
During our first trip, ever, we were fine until we hit Quebec City and stopped for something to eat.
We were in St. Hubert's for one hour.
Sixty minutes.
And when we came out, it looked like someone had turned on a snow faucet.
On us.
The remaining two hour drive was perhaps one of the scariest we'd ever had.
The car kept veering to the right, making Emily ask, "Is that our exit?"
Mer, who had a cold, provided more than just the natural and expected crabbiness you'd expect from three kids in the back seat during an 8 hour drive.
She had a cold.
Every time she coughed. . . .
. . . .she farted.
And
it
was
putrid.
A stench that could peel paint from walls, bring small children to tears, make dogs howl as if in excruciating agony. . .
Yes.
It was that bad.
But worse was the captain of this crappy commute.
Combined with our less-than-winter-winter-tires, it was a drive that made the Van Every-Pidwysocky-Clarke record books.
Stephen was SO tense.
Once we arrived in Montreal, Stephen unfolded himself from the car.
Walked into his parent's house.
And before even saying, "Hello Ma, Hello Tat" asked for Tylenol.
The strongest stuff they had.
And a hot water bottle.
His back had completely seized.
Remaining so during our entire visit.
But we still had so. much. fun.
Setting a precedent for other trips.
Basha's for Lebanese food.
Simons for linens and such.
Purse shopping in the east coast mecca of purse shopping.
Strolling downtown, popping in and out of various shops.
Like the three storied Chapters.
The two stories HMV.
So, I'm all for reasonable and rational.
But not seeing Stephen's parents and Aunt Irene, not going to their church. . .
That shoves reason and rational aside.
We are a one car family.
Understanding and compromise are a part of our family repertoire.
For example, today was a day of errands.
Keith needed a visit to the optometrist.
A result of his foray into inebriated sledding.
I didn't really want to go to the optometrist that had been closed since December 24th and just opened today, meaning that everyone who had optical appointments or spectacle emergencies had descended making the parking lot full, the waiting room fuller, and me not wanting to wait the hour and a half it would take a technician to get to Keith.
But we did.
And oddly enough, it didn't take as long as I had predicted.
Before we headed to our next stop, I reminded Keith of the importance of compromise and doing for others.
And then we went bra shopping.
For my mother.
I figured we were tit for tat, so to speak.
As we both had to do something we weren't really looking forward to.
I love compromise.
You just never know what will happen.
Among our errands, Simply for Life.
Sort of across from the optometrist.
And while it wasn't an appointment day, I thought I could nip in for a weigh in.
I've lost another three pounds.
Which was actually disappointing for me.
Given the extraordinarily super-human effort I put into avoiding all the Christmas goodies I so wanted to gorge upon, I was hoping for at least 5 pounds.
I know.
I know.
I lost three pounds during the season of love, goodwill, fellowship, and weight gain.
I've heard.
But like a student who worked for weeks on a paper that only garnered a C grade I resolutely believe my efforts should have received greater reward.
28 pounds later. . . .
I'm happy I've lost more weight.
Logically, I know I'll lose more.
But logic and reason can't trump all the mincemeat pie, chocolate, shortbread cookies, chips, Quality Street candies I walked away from, turned my back on, gave the cold shoulder to.
Not even.
Title Lyric: Wrapped Up in Books by Belle and Sebastian
Hi everyone.
I'm Dawne.
(a resounding, in unison chorus) Hi Dawne!
I'm an addict.
Books.
What can I say?
After family and pets, I love books.
A few dollars in my wallet and I am at the bargain book section of Chapters faster than you can say "Chai latte at Starbucks."
And today was a day for books.
Ones that were accidentally sent to the UNB Law Library that were meant for me.
Ones at the UNB Bookstore I had forgotten about.
The ones I ordered when I went a little crazy with my Chapters gift cards.
I had, in total, $211.00 in gift cards.
Shopping online through Chapters means cheaper books.
I had far too much fun.
So, some of what I ordered arrived today, but alas, I was not here to get the parcel, so I have to pick it up after I get Em from work.
And this is a gift that keeps on giving.
Because the rest of my order will arrive around the 25th of January.
My heart's desire at this moment is to abandon my work, my family, my responsibilities, go upstairs, put on my pjs, crawl under my uber warm covers (because again, I'm freezing today) put the books in a pile on Stephen's side of the bed, and slowly go through each and every one of them.
Looking at the front covers, the back covers.
Perusing the front pieces, table of contents if one is there, publishing information, or if it's fiction, read the first couple of pages.
Non-fiction means I head for the bibliographies first, in search of more potential reads.
And what titles have set my heart aflutter?
My stomach turning butterflies?
My brain buzzing with anticipation?
Let's see. . .
From Chapters:
Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
Silent Scream: An Anna Travis Mystery by Lynda LaPlante
13 1/2 by Nevada Barr
The Great Movies III by Roger Ebert
Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel by Tess Gerritsen
Wishin' And Hopin': A Novel by Wally Lamb
Above Suspicion by Lynda LaPlante
From the UNB Law Library (how they ended up there is still a mystery. . .to me and the librarian):
Crackhouse: Notes from the End of the Line by Terry Williams
Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets by Sudhir Venkatesh
American Dream: Three Women, Ten Kids, and a Nation's Drive to End Welfare by Jason DeParle
And from the UNB Bookstore, forgotten in the madness that was marking and Christmas:
Courting Disaster: Intimate Stalking, Culture and Criminal Justice by Jennifer L. Dunn
Shane, The Lone Ethnographer: A Beginner's Guide to Ethnography by Sally Campbell Galman (this is actually done in cartoon form. Tres unique!)
Twelve books, just waiting for me to undress them, devour them, enjoy them.
Eventually.
Because the adult me insists on picking kids up from work, making dinner, working at completing a mini exploration of films that can assist in explaining certain theories of deviance, coding data, preparing for the beginning of classes next week. . .
Things I love, to be sure.
But those new books are calling, calling, calling me. . . .
It is a day of adult decision-making.
Tomorrow, Stephen and I planned on hitting the road to Montreal to celebrate Ukrainian Christmas.
However, Mother Nature, in the throes of multiple personality disorder, wants to dump snow in random amounts, in random places between here and Montreal.
No matter how we planned it, we were hitting snow somewhere, both there and back.
And Stephen just didn't think driving in such unpredictable conditions was a good idea.
He is right.
I understand that.
But right and reasonable doesn't mean I have to like it.
We've had some horrific driving experiences in the winter while heading to Montreal.
During our first trip, ever, we were fine until we hit Quebec City and stopped for something to eat.
We were in St. Hubert's for one hour.
Sixty minutes.
And when we came out, it looked like someone had turned on a snow faucet.
On us.
The remaining two hour drive was perhaps one of the scariest we'd ever had.
The car kept veering to the right, making Emily ask, "Is that our exit?"
Mer, who had a cold, provided more than just the natural and expected crabbiness you'd expect from three kids in the back seat during an 8 hour drive.
She had a cold.
Every time she coughed. . . .
. . . .she farted.
And
it
was
putrid.
A stench that could peel paint from walls, bring small children to tears, make dogs howl as if in excruciating agony. . .
Yes.
It was that bad.
But worse was the captain of this crappy commute.
Combined with our less-than-winter-winter-tires, it was a drive that made the Van Every-Pidwysocky-Clarke record books.
Stephen was SO tense.
Once we arrived in Montreal, Stephen unfolded himself from the car.
Walked into his parent's house.
And before even saying, "Hello Ma, Hello Tat" asked for Tylenol.
The strongest stuff they had.
And a hot water bottle.
His back had completely seized.
Remaining so during our entire visit.
But we still had so. much. fun.
Setting a precedent for other trips.
Basha's for Lebanese food.
Simons for linens and such.
Purse shopping in the east coast mecca of purse shopping.
Strolling downtown, popping in and out of various shops.
Like the three storied Chapters.
The two stories HMV.
So, I'm all for reasonable and rational.
But not seeing Stephen's parents and Aunt Irene, not going to their church. . .
That shoves reason and rational aside.
We are a one car family.
Understanding and compromise are a part of our family repertoire.
For example, today was a day of errands.
Keith needed a visit to the optometrist.
A result of his foray into inebriated sledding.
I didn't really want to go to the optometrist that had been closed since December 24th and just opened today, meaning that everyone who had optical appointments or spectacle emergencies had descended making the parking lot full, the waiting room fuller, and me not wanting to wait the hour and a half it would take a technician to get to Keith.
But we did.
And oddly enough, it didn't take as long as I had predicted.
Before we headed to our next stop, I reminded Keith of the importance of compromise and doing for others.
And then we went bra shopping.
For my mother.
I figured we were tit for tat, so to speak.
As we both had to do something we weren't really looking forward to.
I love compromise.
You just never know what will happen.
Among our errands, Simply for Life.
Sort of across from the optometrist.
And while it wasn't an appointment day, I thought I could nip in for a weigh in.
I've lost another three pounds.
Which was actually disappointing for me.
Given the extraordinarily super-human effort I put into avoiding all the Christmas goodies I so wanted to gorge upon, I was hoping for at least 5 pounds.
I know.
I know.
I lost three pounds during the season of love, goodwill, fellowship, and weight gain.
I've heard.
But like a student who worked for weeks on a paper that only garnered a C grade I resolutely believe my efforts should have received greater reward.
28 pounds later. . . .
I'm happy I've lost more weight.
Logically, I know I'll lose more.
But logic and reason can't trump all the mincemeat pie, chocolate, shortbread cookies, chips, Quality Street candies I walked away from, turned my back on, gave the cold shoulder to.
Not even.
Title Lyric: Wrapped Up in Books by Belle and Sebastian
Monday, January 3, 2011
When did reality become tv. . .
January 3, 2011
While I still have another week before I resume teaching, it would appear that my little corner of the world is returning to its pre-holiday state.
And while I enjoyed certain bits of the holiday, I'm happy to be returning to routine.
A very routinized creature I am.
Very.
Just ask Stephen.
There are times when I think I may just make him crazy with my intense desire to maintain my routine, and thus cling to my false sense of control.
Everyone is allowed their delusions.
It would appear Mother Nature has come out of her hot flash.
Mild, snow melting, foggy conditions were replaced overnight with cold, snow bearing, windy weather.
I have enough personalities living in my head.
Mother Nature should have the decency to keep hers to herself.
I had an experience yesterday, that, had I actually not been in the car and heard it with my own ears, I don't think I'd be capable of believing it.
Sunday after New Year's Day or not, the Superstore refused to open before noon.
Thus, after acquiring all our necessary goods from Victory, Stephen, Meredyth and I were left with about 20 minutes before the Superstore opened its doors.
We'd never actually arrived before the doors opened on a Sunday, as we're usually at Quaker Meeting, or, on occasion, still asleep.
Watching the people line up outside the locked doors was very interesting.
And certainly fodder for another time.
However, the bizarre event I'm referring to has to do with a Twilight Zone-esque conversation that occurred between Mer and Stephen.
About, of all things, Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.
I wasn't aware Stephen even knew that this program was on the television, let alone what it was called.
It would appear he didn't.
So while waiting in the car, no heat because we are environmentally conscious and didn't leave the car running so our breath was fogging up the inside and I abjectly refused to allow the windows to be open even a smitch because ever since losing weight, I can't seem to get warm no matter how hard I try, except when I'm at the nursing home, in Mum's room, where it is always a balmy 30+ degrees, Mer and Stephen traverse into the Twilight Zone:
SJP: I saw this older, grey haired guy on tv last night with someone who looked like an aging rock star. (Just as an aside, Stephen, what color is your hair???)
MVE: Yeah. That's Dr. Drew and Leif Garrett.
SJP: Whose Leif Garrett.
DAC: A singer from the 70s. I had a poster of him on my wall.
Pause.
DAC: Stephen, how come you were watching Dr. Drew?
SJP: It was on.
MVE: I love that show.
SJP: Yeah! He had a bunch of people on there. They must be celebrities, but I don't know who they are.
MVE: Janice Dickinson, Leif Garrett, Eric Roberts. . .he's addicted to pot.
SJP: Why does Janice Dickinson sound familiar?
MVE: She was a judge on Americas Next Top Model.
SJP: Oh yeah.
Pause.
Me sitting in the driver's seat of the car completely flabbergasted and gobsmacked at what is happening right in front of me.
If the Queen of England had walked by at that moment, grabbed a cart and stood in the line up of would be grocery shoppers, chatting while smoking a cigarette, I would have been less shocked.
MVE: She claims she's an alcoholic, addicted to drugs and sex.
SJP: Really?
At this moment, THANK GAWD the Superstore opened and people started moving inside.
Because I was terrified of where this conversation was going to lead.
Toddlers in Tiaras perhaps?
I personally can't stand Dr. Drew.
Have we become so desperate for entertainment that watching anyone, celebrity or not, work through addiction is appropriate.
Same with Intervention.
But, people like Dr. Drew and Dr.Phil seems to have appeal to some people.
A lesson I learned when I dissed Dr. Phil in front of Stephen's father, while sitting at his kitchen table.
He turned, looked me straight in the eye and said,
"DR. PHIL HELPS PEOPLE!"
No, Dr. Phil helps himself.
But, because I was brought up to respect my elders, I just sat there and did not say a word.
I am very thankful he couldn't read mind, though.
This morning SFL wasn't open, so I have no idea if I've lost any weight over the holidays.
I just hope I didn't gain the "usual ten pounds" people acquire during the holidays.
Feasting on all those goodies and yummies.
While I resolutely eat baby carrots and celery.
So, I was actually at Mer's by 10.00 am, as promised.
Being on time is almost as stupefying as Stephen knowing what Celebrity Rehab was.
Mer had just gotten up.
But, she had made a valiant attempt to clean her apartment knowing that I would be coming.
She was madly scrubbing dishes, mumbling, "This container stinks. . .I don't know why. . ."
There were so many things I could have said, but I kept my mouth shut.
And then we started.
Keith's dire prediction was that there would be food flying and nasty words volleyed back and forth like a Wimbledon tennis match.
He was wrong.
HA!
We had a lovely time, cooking, cleaning, chatting. . .
I showed her that crock pots were useful things in spite of her unsuccessful attempt to roast a chicken in one.
Some things are better saved for the oven.
Beef stew meat provided the basis for a lovely stew and beef stir fry strips.
Chicken breast was transformed into chicken cacciatoire.
Rib ends have been par boiled and await their turn in their crock pot bbq sauce bath.
And I am taking over two containers of homemade turkey soup when we pick her up for work at 2.00.
Meaning, when everything is cooked and contained, she will have about 15 meals in her freezer.
Ready-to-eat, preservative free.
And she even asked if we could do it again.
Next time, she wants me to teach her how to make homemade mac and cheese, and beef stew in the oven so we can top it off with dumplings.
Homemade biscuits and pizza pops, too.
All in all, a good hour and a half spent bonding and cooking.
With a clean kitchen to boot.
On a somber note, I was saddened to hear of the death of Pete Postlethwaite.
He was brilliant.
Particularly In the Name of the Father, where he played Guiseppe Conlan.
If you haven't seen it, you should.
With lots of kleenex.
Title Lyric: 1985 by Bowling for Soup
While I still have another week before I resume teaching, it would appear that my little corner of the world is returning to its pre-holiday state.
And while I enjoyed certain bits of the holiday, I'm happy to be returning to routine.
A very routinized creature I am.
Very.
Just ask Stephen.
There are times when I think I may just make him crazy with my intense desire to maintain my routine, and thus cling to my false sense of control.
Everyone is allowed their delusions.
It would appear Mother Nature has come out of her hot flash.
Mild, snow melting, foggy conditions were replaced overnight with cold, snow bearing, windy weather.
I have enough personalities living in my head.
Mother Nature should have the decency to keep hers to herself.
I had an experience yesterday, that, had I actually not been in the car and heard it with my own ears, I don't think I'd be capable of believing it.
Sunday after New Year's Day or not, the Superstore refused to open before noon.
Thus, after acquiring all our necessary goods from Victory, Stephen, Meredyth and I were left with about 20 minutes before the Superstore opened its doors.
We'd never actually arrived before the doors opened on a Sunday, as we're usually at Quaker Meeting, or, on occasion, still asleep.
Watching the people line up outside the locked doors was very interesting.
And certainly fodder for another time.
However, the bizarre event I'm referring to has to do with a Twilight Zone-esque conversation that occurred between Mer and Stephen.
About, of all things, Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.
I wasn't aware Stephen even knew that this program was on the television, let alone what it was called.
It would appear he didn't.
So while waiting in the car, no heat because we are environmentally conscious and didn't leave the car running so our breath was fogging up the inside and I abjectly refused to allow the windows to be open even a smitch because ever since losing weight, I can't seem to get warm no matter how hard I try, except when I'm at the nursing home, in Mum's room, where it is always a balmy 30+ degrees, Mer and Stephen traverse into the Twilight Zone:
SJP: I saw this older, grey haired guy on tv last night with someone who looked like an aging rock star. (Just as an aside, Stephen, what color is your hair???)
MVE: Yeah. That's Dr. Drew and Leif Garrett.
SJP: Whose Leif Garrett.
DAC: A singer from the 70s. I had a poster of him on my wall.
Pause.
DAC: Stephen, how come you were watching Dr. Drew?
SJP: It was on.
MVE: I love that show.
SJP: Yeah! He had a bunch of people on there. They must be celebrities, but I don't know who they are.
MVE: Janice Dickinson, Leif Garrett, Eric Roberts. . .he's addicted to pot.
SJP: Why does Janice Dickinson sound familiar?
MVE: She was a judge on Americas Next Top Model.
SJP: Oh yeah.
Pause.
Me sitting in the driver's seat of the car completely flabbergasted and gobsmacked at what is happening right in front of me.
If the Queen of England had walked by at that moment, grabbed a cart and stood in the line up of would be grocery shoppers, chatting while smoking a cigarette, I would have been less shocked.
MVE: She claims she's an alcoholic, addicted to drugs and sex.
SJP: Really?
At this moment, THANK GAWD the Superstore opened and people started moving inside.
Because I was terrified of where this conversation was going to lead.
Toddlers in Tiaras perhaps?
I personally can't stand Dr. Drew.
Have we become so desperate for entertainment that watching anyone, celebrity or not, work through addiction is appropriate.
Same with Intervention.
But, people like Dr. Drew and Dr.Phil seems to have appeal to some people.
A lesson I learned when I dissed Dr. Phil in front of Stephen's father, while sitting at his kitchen table.
He turned, looked me straight in the eye and said,
"DR. PHIL HELPS PEOPLE!"
No, Dr. Phil helps himself.
But, because I was brought up to respect my elders, I just sat there and did not say a word.
I am very thankful he couldn't read mind, though.
This morning SFL wasn't open, so I have no idea if I've lost any weight over the holidays.
I just hope I didn't gain the "usual ten pounds" people acquire during the holidays.
Feasting on all those goodies and yummies.
While I resolutely eat baby carrots and celery.
So, I was actually at Mer's by 10.00 am, as promised.
Being on time is almost as stupefying as Stephen knowing what Celebrity Rehab was.
Mer had just gotten up.
But, she had made a valiant attempt to clean her apartment knowing that I would be coming.
She was madly scrubbing dishes, mumbling, "This container stinks. . .I don't know why. . ."
There were so many things I could have said, but I kept my mouth shut.
And then we started.
Keith's dire prediction was that there would be food flying and nasty words volleyed back and forth like a Wimbledon tennis match.
He was wrong.
HA!
We had a lovely time, cooking, cleaning, chatting. . .
I showed her that crock pots were useful things in spite of her unsuccessful attempt to roast a chicken in one.
Some things are better saved for the oven.
Beef stew meat provided the basis for a lovely stew and beef stir fry strips.
Chicken breast was transformed into chicken cacciatoire.
Rib ends have been par boiled and await their turn in their crock pot bbq sauce bath.
And I am taking over two containers of homemade turkey soup when we pick her up for work at 2.00.
Meaning, when everything is cooked and contained, she will have about 15 meals in her freezer.
Ready-to-eat, preservative free.
And she even asked if we could do it again.
Next time, she wants me to teach her how to make homemade mac and cheese, and beef stew in the oven so we can top it off with dumplings.
Homemade biscuits and pizza pops, too.
All in all, a good hour and a half spent bonding and cooking.
With a clean kitchen to boot.
On a somber note, I was saddened to hear of the death of Pete Postlethwaite.
He was brilliant.
Particularly In the Name of the Father, where he played Guiseppe Conlan.
If you haven't seen it, you should.
With lots of kleenex.
Title Lyric: 1985 by Bowling for Soup
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Making food is just like science . . .
January 2, 2011
Finally, the Superstore and Victory opened today.
And Mer needed groceries.
So did we, if I am to be completely honest.
However, we could have waited another couple of days, but apparently, Mer couldn't.
In other words, Mer had money and had we not taken her for groceries, she would have gotten her eyebrows waxed, bought new clothes, genuinely all around looked good.
But she would have also been hungry.
At 21, I'm not entirely certain she can discern between looking good and eating.
So I discerned for her.
This expedition, however, turned out to be very interesting.
A learning experience almost.
For both Mer and me.
At Victory, she came out with chicken breast, stew beef, fresh veggies like celery, broccoli, carrots, onions, garlic, etc.
As well as other things. . .things that fall into the "stuff-Mum-would-NEVER-buy-and-probably-doesn't-even-know-are-available-in-this-store" category.
Chicken "tenders" for example.
I have NO idea what part of the chicken a tender come from. . .or if it actually even comes from a chicken.
Beaks, anyone?
And a bag of these huge cut french fries.
Enough to feed an army.
Again, how much potato is really in those fries?
I kept my mouth shut.
Reigned in my maternal self, the one that was screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING????"
Until Stephen started to get that look in his eye, the one that was saying french fries of unknown origins and fried beaks looked mighty tasty.
I did have something to say about that.
I think it was. . . . .
NO!
Stephen was with us.
As a referee.
Previous excursions into the grocery store have left Mer and me unable to communicate in a manner expected of two women, one of whom gave birth to the other.
Our foray into the land of foodstuffs wasn't as traumatic as it has been in the past.
But there were some sticky moments.
Particularly when I took a moment to look in her cart.
And made her, yes, I. Made. Her. put things back.
Because it was either put them back when I said to.
Or do it at the cash register when she was confronted with a reality we have all experienced before.
The holy-shit-I-don't-have-enough-money-I'm-so-embarrassed-what-will-I-have-to-put-back-reality.
Because I was not participating in her reality.
The Mum-I-don't-have-enough-money-so-will-you-pay-the-difference-reality.
I went through her cart with a viciousness I don't think she knew I had.
Gone was the PC Meat Lasagna.
The one that can feed a family of 8 and still have leftovers.
Mr. Noodles. . .bye bye.
Those packets of processed putridity don't even have enough nutrients to qualify as real food.
The D'Italiano Frozen Baguettes, two to a package, were thrust a Stephen with the command, "put that back in the freezer section."
Oh, and while you're there, you can take the following:
Frozen, concentrated Welch's Grape Juice.
Chocolate Milk
Tropicana Orange Juice
And don't think I'm being mean.
The child had lots of other things in her cart to quench her thirst.
Although we did almost come to blows over Kool-Aid.
Which in no way, shape or form will ever resemble "healthy" and "wise" choices.
The Shake'N Bake almost started a smackdown at the check out.
And the cursing that resulted from the removal of the two boxes of Pizza Pockets was enough to make even me blush.
She did get fruit, cheese, milk, eggs, yogurt, sour cream, whole wheat bread. . .
. . .which also required some negotiation. . . wraps, Miracle Whip. . .
. . .because while I was able to get her to price down items like mustard, she abjectly refused to replace her Miracle Whip with the PC brand.
I had to be willing to make some compromises.
On occasion, okay several occasions, I had to ask that all important grocery shopping question,
"Do you REALLY need that?"
Also impetus for a battle royale, especially in the jam and jelly aisle.
Apparently, separating Mer from her Smucker's Double Fruit but 1/2 the calories jam is a place angels fear to tread.
By the end of the shopping phase, but before the cashing out phase, I had managed to remove may of the preservative permeated goods, and replace some brand names with equally good not so brand name goods.
When all of a sudden she blurts out,
"SHIT! I need garbage bags!"
Which ultimately lead to the demise of the PC Meat lasagna.
At first she wanted to trade in her PLPs
(personal lady products)
Until I mentioned that a frozen lasagna wasn't going to do her any good when Aunt Flo came visiting.
There was some resistance.
But Mer got her stubborn nature and overt pigheadedness from someone.
She just chooses to forget who that someone is.
At the checkout, the child who grabbed her cart, ready for a happy adventure grocery shopping had been replaced with a surly, cantankerous young woman still reeling from her mother's cart purge.
As well as said mother's refusal to pony up any cash for those unnecessary items.
In the end, she left the grocery store with lots of food.
And about $3.79.
She also wasn't feeling much love towards her mother, and flatly stated when I was trying to make conversation with her,
"I just don't want to talk to you right now."
The real world is a harsh, cruel place.
On the drive back, I asked her what she planned on doing with this food.
"Eat it", she replied.
D'uh.
"How?", I inquired.
And here was the learning something part.
She had no idea.
It dawned on me (no pun intended) that the idea of cooking food and freezing it was simply not in her repertoire of realistic things to do with food.
Hence, tomorrow morning, at 10.00 am, before she goes to work for 2.30, I will enter Mer's kitchen, provided it is clean, and teach her how to prepare food in advance.
Beef stew.
Stir fry.
Chicken cacciatore.
Mum's homemade biscuits.
Cooked, placed in containers, put in the freezer available for consumption when required.
Given how well we grocery shop, this could be an interesting endeavour.
Either we'll come out of it meeting our desired end.
Or her kitchen will be coated in chicken parts, saturated with spaghetti sauce, bursting with biscuit dough and swimming in stir fry.
Pray for us.
Title Lyric: Cooking Book by Lazytown
Finally, the Superstore and Victory opened today.
And Mer needed groceries.
So did we, if I am to be completely honest.
However, we could have waited another couple of days, but apparently, Mer couldn't.
In other words, Mer had money and had we not taken her for groceries, she would have gotten her eyebrows waxed, bought new clothes, genuinely all around looked good.
But she would have also been hungry.
At 21, I'm not entirely certain she can discern between looking good and eating.
So I discerned for her.
This expedition, however, turned out to be very interesting.
A learning experience almost.
For both Mer and me.
At Victory, she came out with chicken breast, stew beef, fresh veggies like celery, broccoli, carrots, onions, garlic, etc.
As well as other things. . .things that fall into the "stuff-Mum-would-NEVER-buy-and-probably-doesn't-even-know-are-available-in-this-store" category.
Chicken "tenders" for example.
I have NO idea what part of the chicken a tender come from. . .or if it actually even comes from a chicken.
Beaks, anyone?
And a bag of these huge cut french fries.
Enough to feed an army.
Again, how much potato is really in those fries?
I kept my mouth shut.
Reigned in my maternal self, the one that was screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING????"
Until Stephen started to get that look in his eye, the one that was saying french fries of unknown origins and fried beaks looked mighty tasty.
I did have something to say about that.
I think it was. . . . .
NO!
Stephen was with us.
As a referee.
Previous excursions into the grocery store have left Mer and me unable to communicate in a manner expected of two women, one of whom gave birth to the other.
Our foray into the land of foodstuffs wasn't as traumatic as it has been in the past.
But there were some sticky moments.
Particularly when I took a moment to look in her cart.
And made her, yes, I. Made. Her. put things back.
Because it was either put them back when I said to.
Or do it at the cash register when she was confronted with a reality we have all experienced before.
The holy-shit-I-don't-have-enough-money-I'm-so-embarrassed-what-will-I-have-to-put-back-reality.
Because I was not participating in her reality.
The Mum-I-don't-have-enough-money-so-will-you-pay-the-difference-reality.
I went through her cart with a viciousness I don't think she knew I had.
Gone was the PC Meat Lasagna.
The one that can feed a family of 8 and still have leftovers.
Mr. Noodles. . .bye bye.
Those packets of processed putridity don't even have enough nutrients to qualify as real food.
The D'Italiano Frozen Baguettes, two to a package, were thrust a Stephen with the command, "put that back in the freezer section."
Oh, and while you're there, you can take the following:
Frozen, concentrated Welch's Grape Juice.
Chocolate Milk
Tropicana Orange Juice
And don't think I'm being mean.
The child had lots of other things in her cart to quench her thirst.
Although we did almost come to blows over Kool-Aid.
Which in no way, shape or form will ever resemble "healthy" and "wise" choices.
The Shake'N Bake almost started a smackdown at the check out.
And the cursing that resulted from the removal of the two boxes of Pizza Pockets was enough to make even me blush.
She did get fruit, cheese, milk, eggs, yogurt, sour cream, whole wheat bread. . .
. . .which also required some negotiation. . . wraps, Miracle Whip. . .
. . .because while I was able to get her to price down items like mustard, she abjectly refused to replace her Miracle Whip with the PC brand.
I had to be willing to make some compromises.
On occasion, okay several occasions, I had to ask that all important grocery shopping question,
"Do you REALLY need that?"
Also impetus for a battle royale, especially in the jam and jelly aisle.
Apparently, separating Mer from her Smucker's Double Fruit but 1/2 the calories jam is a place angels fear to tread.
By the end of the shopping phase, but before the cashing out phase, I had managed to remove may of the preservative permeated goods, and replace some brand names with equally good not so brand name goods.
When all of a sudden she blurts out,
"SHIT! I need garbage bags!"
Which ultimately lead to the demise of the PC Meat lasagna.
At first she wanted to trade in her PLPs
(personal lady products)
Until I mentioned that a frozen lasagna wasn't going to do her any good when Aunt Flo came visiting.
There was some resistance.
But Mer got her stubborn nature and overt pigheadedness from someone.
She just chooses to forget who that someone is.
At the checkout, the child who grabbed her cart, ready for a happy adventure grocery shopping had been replaced with a surly, cantankerous young woman still reeling from her mother's cart purge.
As well as said mother's refusal to pony up any cash for those unnecessary items.
In the end, she left the grocery store with lots of food.
And about $3.79.
She also wasn't feeling much love towards her mother, and flatly stated when I was trying to make conversation with her,
"I just don't want to talk to you right now."
The real world is a harsh, cruel place.
On the drive back, I asked her what she planned on doing with this food.
"Eat it", she replied.
D'uh.
"How?", I inquired.
And here was the learning something part.
She had no idea.
It dawned on me (no pun intended) that the idea of cooking food and freezing it was simply not in her repertoire of realistic things to do with food.
Hence, tomorrow morning, at 10.00 am, before she goes to work for 2.30, I will enter Mer's kitchen, provided it is clean, and teach her how to prepare food in advance.
Beef stew.
Stir fry.
Chicken cacciatore.
Mum's homemade biscuits.
Cooked, placed in containers, put in the freezer available for consumption when required.
Given how well we grocery shop, this could be an interesting endeavour.
Either we'll come out of it meeting our desired end.
Or her kitchen will be coated in chicken parts, saturated with spaghetti sauce, bursting with biscuit dough and swimming in stir fry.
Pray for us.
Title Lyric: Cooking Book by Lazytown
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