January 14, 2011
Date night!!!!!!!!!!!!
After we finish at the Community Kitchen, Stephen is taking me out for dinner.
Given my dietary restrictions, going out for a meal is no easy feat.
Standard reasons for going out, such as eating something you can't make at home are out the window.
Hence, we are going to Swiss Chalet.
No surprises.
Nice salads.
But alas, no Chalet fries with Chalet sauce and ketchup for me.
Sadly.
None for Stephen, either.
Even more sad.
If I were a stronger, perhaps even better woman, I would possess the intestinal fortitude to sit across from my husband while he eats, enjoys, relishes his Swiss Chalet fries.
But I'm not a stronger or better woman, and if I had to sit across from him while he feasted on fries, I fear I would suffer a complete loss of my already minimal self-restraint.
I'd eat his fries and then begin a rampage through the dining room grabbing fries from patron's plates, making small children cry, and then finish in the kitchen by eating every fried potato product in sight.
So no, Stephen will have to eat salad, too.
Either that or prepare to visit me at the police station once I'd been charged with public destruction, public nuisance, and unethical treatment towards potatoes.
Perhaps if it wasn't so close to the end of Christmas, my resolve would be more stalwart.
But my strength is still significantly depleted from eschewing all that delectable mincemeat pie over the holidays.
And one person can only evade so much.
I can't remember the last time Stephen and I went out together just because we could.
And not because we needed groceries.
Or some other errand that needed doing.
Rarely do we ever get out.
Which is odd considering the amount of time we spend together.
Alone.
As the kids all work or are out gallivanting about, Stephen and I have found that more and more of our evenings are spent partially or fully, alone.
Not a chick nor child in sight.
So you would think that we'd take advantage of that time and do something together.
Other than sitting in our home office, together.
Stephen blasting music from you tube.
ABBA.
Diana Ross.
The Four Seasons.
The Cowsills.
Other bands from his generation I've never heard of before.
While I sit at my little table, headphones on, listening to movies or television programs.
Attempting to avoid the onslaught of a flailing Stephen.
Who thinks he's dancing.
When what he's actually doing is closer to a tribal rite of passage, or an Olympic event.
Either way, getting too close can lead to irreparable physical harm.
For both of us.
Or watching the news, commenting on whatever trial, tribulation or travesty had happened over the course of the day.
Laying in bed together, reading, sometimes sharing passages of what we were reading to one another.
All of which is well and good and fine, and most of the time even lovely.
But it isn't the same as going out somewhere with your husband.
In public.
For a couple of hours at least.
Before we are driven home by the pull of the canine cord.
Their need to pee.
Get out.
Take control.
See their Mummy.
So while we're out, we'll enjoy it.
Knowing it may be a while before it happens again.
But working together, grocery shopping and running errands do not dates make.
Inevitably, we are with others.
And that isn't a bad thing at all.
However, every once in a while it is nice to go somewhere, just the two us.
Talk about whatever.
Or not talk at all, as the case may be.
Okay.
THAT isn't likely.
At least we can go out on the occasional date night.
There were times, when we were dating, that getting out together was harder that it ought to have been.
Em, especially, was determined that Stephen and I spend as little time alone as possible.
It wasn't as if Stephen and I were going out clubbing.
Although that would be interesting.
Or to the car races out in Geary.
That would be most unlikely.
No.
Most of the time we simply went to Starbucks for coffee, and then back home again.
But for Em, it wouldn't matter where we went, or for how long, it was that we had left.
Period.
One memorable evening she threw herself in the hallway at my feet and proceeded to engage in the most vociferous of temper tantrums I've ever seen her perform.
Mer, lots of creative, engaging, sometimes almost amusing tantrums.
But this was a new one for Em.
Perhaps because she had never been in need of such enticements.
I had never really gone anywhere with out her.
Or her me.
Except for work and school.
But she was, indeed, jealous of my spending time with Stephen.
And she flung herself on the floor, kicking and screaming with such force I was convinced she was going to beat her way through to the basement.
Or the neighbours were going to call the police.
Me?
I did the only thing I could do.
Stepping over her theatrical performance, I said goodbye to all the kids and left.
Stephen, when we were in the car, suggested perhaps we should stay home.
I turned in my seat, looked him square in the eye, and said if we didn't leave now, we'd never get out of the house again until all the kids had moved out and being tied to the interior of my house, or if I was fortunate enough, the yard was not how I envisioned the next several years of my life, so no thank you let's head up to Starbucks and do you think they might put a shot of brandy or other alcohol into our coffee?
Em didn't speak to me for two days.
Title Lyric: Dating Game by Sublime
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
I'm falling down the stairs. . .help me cause I've got no grip. . .
January 13, 2011
Thankfully, it's not Friday.
Because I don't think Mer could take any more bad luck.
Yesterday, I'm in my office, working, and Keith is lounging in his aptly named "Keith's Korner" reading Beowulf, I think.
His cell phone rings.
From the tone of his voice and level of politeness, I knew he wasn't talking either of his sisters.
Or his friends.
Oh my keen powers of deduction. . .
My spidey senses tingling, I knew something was up.
And in all likelihood whatever was going on was related to Mer and so bad that it had to be relayed through Keith.
Got.
It.
In.
One.
On the other end of the phone was a manager from the theaters.
Calling to ask if Mer could be retrieved from her place of employment as she fell down a flight of 13 stairs.
13 narrow, steep stairs.
Injured, she was.
How was yet to be ascertained.
If that child didn't have bad luck, she'd have no luck at all.
Of course, as we seem to be in a state of emergency, I don't have the car.
I'm teaching until 5.20.
Why would I have the car?
Stephen has the car.
I call Stephen and apprise him of the latest Mer-mishap.
The one following the loss of her wallet, all her i.d., including as it were, her Medicare card and preceeding the loss of her cell phone in a snow bank.
The result of hopping around like a three legged rabbit.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Mer spends her entire day in the Emergency Room.
The end result. . .
A broken patella.
I wasn't briefed of the final diagnosis until just before I picked her up.
After 5.30 pm.
Today is my three-hour film class.
And it was the first day of my three-hour film class.
And because we were in a state of Mer-mishap, it would only follow that my cell phone was dead.
I don't use it enough to warrant remembering to ascertain whether or not it is fully charged.
There I am.
In class.
Mer in the hospital probably needing an amputation, because as time passes and I hear nothing my mind starts to wander and create catastrophic, disasterous and near fatal scenarios.
Of which amputation was just the beginning.
Traveling blood clots with the potential to cause aneurysm.
Full body cast requiring feeding through a tube.
You see where this is going.
And to add, literally, insult to injury, it would appear Mother Nature was having another mood swing.
When I walked to my classroom at 2.15 the sky was cloudy, but nothing was falling from the sky.
Walking out of my class at 5.20, not so much.
A snowstorm had descended upon us with the ferocity of a screaming child wanting nourishment.
Walking from one building to the other made me speculate that this is what the Donner party felt like.
Amid the frigid temperaturs, near blinding snow and gale force winds we had to fetch Mer and Keith from the hospital.
Keith wandered up to the hospital after his class to keep Mer company.
My son comes out of the hospital pushing my oldest daughter in a wheelchair.
In a blizzard.
And because it's us, going from hospital to apartment to home was simply not an option.
It was hospital to Shoppers for crutches to bank to deposit money to other Shoppers for prescription to be told it would be 30 minutes to theater to back to Shoppers to gas station to Mer's apartment to home.
IN A BLIZZARD!
The gas stop was necessary because given the way our luck was, I could just see us in a ditch somewhere with a gimpy child and no gas.
Two different Shoppers, you ask?
The crutch rental cleaned out the remaining meager funds in my bank account, so I had to stop at the bank to cash a cheque I'd been carrying around for a week and there was another Shoppers closer to the bank machine so it made more sense to go there than to double back to the other Shoppers.
Clear as mud, right?
And why go to the theater only to have to go back to Shoppers?
Because I wasn't spending 30 minutes in the backseat of the car with a cranky, pain-riddled in front, and two cranky kids in the backseat with me.
And there were no available seats in the nicely appointed wait-for-your-prescription-here venue at Shoppers.
We had to keep moving.
Getting things done.
That was our only salvation.
And what reason could possibly exist for my sitting in the backseat of our 2006 Ford Focus station wagon with dog gate?
Mer couldn't bend her knee.
She required the additional space in front.
Fine with me.
I have been known to park my ample bootie in the backseat.
For my mother.
My brother-in-law.
I'm not above sitting in the back.
Alone.
Sitting the backseat with two additional people however, is another story.
35 pounds less of me or not, it was cramped.
Everytime I had to get out, I had to lean into Keith and Emily.
And I mean lean.
Mer isn't the only one with a wonky patella.
It felt like that ride at the exhibition. . .you know, the one with bench seats that whizzes around at the speed of light, forcing anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting on the end to experience the crushing weight of their fellow passengers until the next fling shifts everyone to the other side.
I think its called the Sizzler.
All I know is I was always the one on the end.
Extra padding and all.
Unfortunately, there was no flinging or fun during this ride.
Just me and two kids in the backseat.
Squished. Cramped. Jammed. Squeezed back there tighter than winegums in an airtight package.
While Mer and Stephen luxuriated in the spaciousness of the front seat.
And Mer has the audacity to say:
"It's fun sitting here with Mum in the back."
Good thing we were so tightly congregated that I couldn't move my arm to smack her.
Gimpy or not.
By the time we returned to Shoppers and taken possession of Mer's Tylenol 3 prescription, of which I felt I deserved at least half for the headache that had taken up residence in my frontal lobe as a result of our unplanned expedition in the midst of a blizzard while ferrying the needy and vertically challenged, I was exhausted.
Emotionally drained.
Intellectually absent.
Physically bereft.
I wanted nothing more than to come home, change into my flannel jammies, and take residence in front of my computer to work.
Work I know.
Comforting, welcoming, and sometimes even enjoyable, work has during several times in my life provided solace.
Distraction and diversion.
Work is constant.
Friendly even.
And most of the time I even know what I'm doing.
Unlike raising children.
Most of the time I feel like I'm wandering through the dark attempting to avoid sinkholes, booby traps, landmines, pitfalls while waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Or, as in the case of today, fall down a flight of stairs.
Title Lyric: Falling Down the Stairs by The Eagles
Thankfully, it's not Friday.
Because I don't think Mer could take any more bad luck.
Yesterday, I'm in my office, working, and Keith is lounging in his aptly named "Keith's Korner" reading Beowulf, I think.
His cell phone rings.
From the tone of his voice and level of politeness, I knew he wasn't talking either of his sisters.
Or his friends.
Oh my keen powers of deduction. . .
My spidey senses tingling, I knew something was up.
And in all likelihood whatever was going on was related to Mer and so bad that it had to be relayed through Keith.
Got.
It.
In.
One.
On the other end of the phone was a manager from the theaters.
Calling to ask if Mer could be retrieved from her place of employment as she fell down a flight of 13 stairs.
13 narrow, steep stairs.
Injured, she was.
How was yet to be ascertained.
If that child didn't have bad luck, she'd have no luck at all.
Of course, as we seem to be in a state of emergency, I don't have the car.
I'm teaching until 5.20.
Why would I have the car?
Stephen has the car.
I call Stephen and apprise him of the latest Mer-mishap.
The one following the loss of her wallet, all her i.d., including as it were, her Medicare card and preceeding the loss of her cell phone in a snow bank.
The result of hopping around like a three legged rabbit.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Mer spends her entire day in the Emergency Room.
The end result. . .
A broken patella.
I wasn't briefed of the final diagnosis until just before I picked her up.
After 5.30 pm.
Today is my three-hour film class.
And it was the first day of my three-hour film class.
And because we were in a state of Mer-mishap, it would only follow that my cell phone was dead.
I don't use it enough to warrant remembering to ascertain whether or not it is fully charged.
There I am.
In class.
Mer in the hospital probably needing an amputation, because as time passes and I hear nothing my mind starts to wander and create catastrophic, disasterous and near fatal scenarios.
Of which amputation was just the beginning.
Traveling blood clots with the potential to cause aneurysm.
Full body cast requiring feeding through a tube.
You see where this is going.
And to add, literally, insult to injury, it would appear Mother Nature was having another mood swing.
When I walked to my classroom at 2.15 the sky was cloudy, but nothing was falling from the sky.
Walking out of my class at 5.20, not so much.
A snowstorm had descended upon us with the ferocity of a screaming child wanting nourishment.
Walking from one building to the other made me speculate that this is what the Donner party felt like.
Amid the frigid temperaturs, near blinding snow and gale force winds we had to fetch Mer and Keith from the hospital.
Keith wandered up to the hospital after his class to keep Mer company.
My son comes out of the hospital pushing my oldest daughter in a wheelchair.
In a blizzard.
And because it's us, going from hospital to apartment to home was simply not an option.
It was hospital to Shoppers for crutches to bank to deposit money to other Shoppers for prescription to be told it would be 30 minutes to theater to back to Shoppers to gas station to Mer's apartment to home.
IN A BLIZZARD!
The gas stop was necessary because given the way our luck was, I could just see us in a ditch somewhere with a gimpy child and no gas.
Two different Shoppers, you ask?
The crutch rental cleaned out the remaining meager funds in my bank account, so I had to stop at the bank to cash a cheque I'd been carrying around for a week and there was another Shoppers closer to the bank machine so it made more sense to go there than to double back to the other Shoppers.
Clear as mud, right?
And why go to the theater only to have to go back to Shoppers?
Because I wasn't spending 30 minutes in the backseat of the car with a cranky, pain-riddled in front, and two cranky kids in the backseat with me.
And there were no available seats in the nicely appointed wait-for-your-prescription-here venue at Shoppers.
We had to keep moving.
Getting things done.
That was our only salvation.
And what reason could possibly exist for my sitting in the backseat of our 2006 Ford Focus station wagon with dog gate?
Mer couldn't bend her knee.
She required the additional space in front.
Fine with me.
I have been known to park my ample bootie in the backseat.
For my mother.
My brother-in-law.
I'm not above sitting in the back.
Alone.
Sitting the backseat with two additional people however, is another story.
35 pounds less of me or not, it was cramped.
Everytime I had to get out, I had to lean into Keith and Emily.
And I mean lean.
Mer isn't the only one with a wonky patella.
It felt like that ride at the exhibition. . .you know, the one with bench seats that whizzes around at the speed of light, forcing anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting on the end to experience the crushing weight of their fellow passengers until the next fling shifts everyone to the other side.
I think its called the Sizzler.
All I know is I was always the one on the end.
Extra padding and all.
Unfortunately, there was no flinging or fun during this ride.
Just me and two kids in the backseat.
Squished. Cramped. Jammed. Squeezed back there tighter than winegums in an airtight package.
While Mer and Stephen luxuriated in the spaciousness of the front seat.
And Mer has the audacity to say:
"It's fun sitting here with Mum in the back."
Good thing we were so tightly congregated that I couldn't move my arm to smack her.
Gimpy or not.
By the time we returned to Shoppers and taken possession of Mer's Tylenol 3 prescription, of which I felt I deserved at least half for the headache that had taken up residence in my frontal lobe as a result of our unplanned expedition in the midst of a blizzard while ferrying the needy and vertically challenged, I was exhausted.
Emotionally drained.
Intellectually absent.
Physically bereft.
I wanted nothing more than to come home, change into my flannel jammies, and take residence in front of my computer to work.
Work I know.
Comforting, welcoming, and sometimes even enjoyable, work has during several times in my life provided solace.
Distraction and diversion.
Work is constant.
Friendly even.
And most of the time I even know what I'm doing.
Unlike raising children.
Most of the time I feel like I'm wandering through the dark attempting to avoid sinkholes, booby traps, landmines, pitfalls while waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Or, as in the case of today, fall down a flight of stairs.
Title Lyric: Falling Down the Stairs by The Eagles
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Pay so much for clothes so small. Was that shirt made for me or my doll? Modesty is out the door. . . .
January 12, 2011
I survived my first day of classes for the winter term.
I managed to make it to the right classrooms with right syllabus for the right class.
That's a lot of rights for a woman who had three hours of sleep the night before.
Thanks to my canine compadres.
Em seems to have fared reasonably well, too.
When I picked her up, she was smiling.
But that could have been because she was leaving forced confinement.
Or because I had picked her up from the mall, and she had engaged in more teenage consumption.
Her latest fashion fetish is cardigans.
I don't ask.
I don't care too much about what she buys so long as it fits, it covers all the necessary parts, and there are no vulgar sayings stretched across her chest and/or butt
Because a shopping Em is a happy Em.
Shopping: the sure fire pick me up.
At some point, she may need therapy to address "buying-things-makes-me-happy" but I'll worry about that tomorrow.
Or, dare I think, that perhaps the smile on her face was because she was happy to see me???????
So many reasons for a smiling Bunny.
I'm just happy she was smiling.
Cause the alternative is so much more to have to work through.
I'm just happy that the kids are old enough to buy their own clothes.
Without any intervention on my part.
Clothes shopping with or for the kids was always dreaded.
What sane woman would look forward to taking three impatient children to the mall in an attempt to procure clothing that will fit, is affordable, and durable enough to endure the trials of small, active children?
Inevitably, I was on my own, as none of my friends or family possessed the intestinal fortitude necessary to withstand the trauma of inserting child into clothing to assess acceptable fitage.
Made me long for the days of those cardboard dolls I would get a Christmas, where dressing them consisted on punching out the clothes from the table sized book, and affixing them with the tabs provided.
Imagine how much easier clothes shopping for kids (sounds like the name of a garage band) would have been if all I had to do was fold down some tabs.
Granted, there would have been issues with full backside nudity, but the stress and trauma of repeated taking things off and putting them on could have been minimized.
Alas, no such options existed, so off we would go to engage in another exercise in futile compromise as I tried to match clothes to kid.
Keith wasn't too bad.
As long as he was covered, and the clothes were in no way flashy or attention grabbing, he was usually okay.
He never was a sequins or diamante cluster kind of guy.
There was that one phase where he insisted on wearing all of his underwear backwards because when he went to the bathroom, he wanted to see the superhero gracing his undies for that day.
Apparently, this was more challenging if Spiderman was covering his butt.
I always wondered if it was uncomfortable.
Em, too, was quasi-reasonable, although she was always very clear about what she wanted, what color it had to be, and that, like her brother, there be nothing on the front of anything that was attention grabbing.
She was fussy and stubborn.
I dangerous combination.
There was the year where she wore a bandana over her hair every. single. day. as the result of a hair cut she had insisted on, and then, upon seeing the results, burst into tears.
Nothing was wrong with the hair cut.
She looked like her beautiful self.
But, she was one unhappy child.
Hence, each morning. after getting herself dressed, she would put her kerchief on her head and of she'd go.
She looked like a farm woman in a western.
I half expected John Wayne to come to the house asking if the "l'il lady was ready to get to school."
Most mornings I wished someone would have come for them.
Even if it was the racist John Wayne.
And of course, there was Meredyth.
From an early age, like birth, Meredyth has considered me to be nothing short of intellectually challenged when it came to clothing.
Even at 5, she would look at me after I had dressed for work and inquire, "You're wearing THAT to work?"
Now, there may have been times when such inquires were warranted.
But not from a 5 year old.
Always impressed by what she saw on television, Mer wanted nothing more than to look like the kids on YTV.
Okay.
I can live with that.
But when it came to looking like what she saw on MuchMusic, that was another story.
One of my most oft used phrases with Mer, other than, "I don't want to know" was,
Mer! Pants up! Shirt down!
That child wanted to world to know what she had.
Whether she had anything or not.
Shopping was such a battle it got to the point where we would go into a store, I would find some young, unsuspecting store employee who was only paid minimum wage, and say to her,
"She is 12. She can spend this much money. Nothing can show any parts of her body other than her head, neck and arms."
And then I would take Keith and Em shopping.
Now, if I don't like what she's wearing, and thankfully, that is a rare occurrence, I just keep. my. mouth. shut.
Except for last Friday when she was flashing the clients that the Community Kitchen.
The result of an "oh-my-gawd-Mum-and-Stephen-are-here-so-I-grabbed-the-first-thing-I-could-find-from-the-floor-and-left" moment.
At least that's what she said.
Clothing was always an issue for me.
That's the way life is when you're the fat kid.
Christmas was always a bit like opening one of those surprise bags you'd get from convenience stores.
I never knew what my parents had picked for me.
But I knew I wouldn't like it.
Which accounts for my approach to clothes shopping with the kids.
The intense need, desire, craving to avoid the "I don't like it."
What really disturbs me now is what I see when I go to work, or the mall, or anywhere for that matter.
Beautiful young women who are not Kate Moss sizes wear clothing that is so obviously too small for them.
And which leave them looking like beer-bellied men.
I saw such a girl the other day, when I was driving to the grocery store.
Lovely girl.
Long, thick hair.
Beautiful smile.
And a neon yellow shirt stretched so tightly across her middle I could tell she had an innie and not an outie.
Covering her bottom, a pair of pants so tight that if she had bent down, they would have split, revealing her backside to anyone driving on Dundonald at that moment.
I don't get it.
The obsession to wear clothes that are too small.
Creating this bulge at the middle.
My kids refer to it as a "muffin top."
I could care less about your size.
Because I'm certainly in no position to critique weight, size or fashion sense.
But it just seems to me that wearing clothes that are the right size for you is just common sense.
So, all the young women out there wearing clothes too small for you,
STOP.
It's unnecessary.
Be happy with who you are.
And if you're not, do something to change it.
But at the very least, stop showing me your bellybuttons through your shirt.
Or I'll show you mine.
The Grand Canyon.
Title Lyric: Clothes by Barlow Girl
I survived my first day of classes for the winter term.
I managed to make it to the right classrooms with right syllabus for the right class.
That's a lot of rights for a woman who had three hours of sleep the night before.
Thanks to my canine compadres.
Em seems to have fared reasonably well, too.
When I picked her up, she was smiling.
But that could have been because she was leaving forced confinement.
Or because I had picked her up from the mall, and she had engaged in more teenage consumption.
Her latest fashion fetish is cardigans.
I don't ask.
I don't care too much about what she buys so long as it fits, it covers all the necessary parts, and there are no vulgar sayings stretched across her chest and/or butt
Because a shopping Em is a happy Em.
Shopping: the sure fire pick me up.
At some point, she may need therapy to address "buying-things-makes-me-happy" but I'll worry about that tomorrow.
Or, dare I think, that perhaps the smile on her face was because she was happy to see me???????
So many reasons for a smiling Bunny.
I'm just happy she was smiling.
Cause the alternative is so much more to have to work through.
I'm just happy that the kids are old enough to buy their own clothes.
Without any intervention on my part.
Clothes shopping with or for the kids was always dreaded.
What sane woman would look forward to taking three impatient children to the mall in an attempt to procure clothing that will fit, is affordable, and durable enough to endure the trials of small, active children?
Inevitably, I was on my own, as none of my friends or family possessed the intestinal fortitude necessary to withstand the trauma of inserting child into clothing to assess acceptable fitage.
Made me long for the days of those cardboard dolls I would get a Christmas, where dressing them consisted on punching out the clothes from the table sized book, and affixing them with the tabs provided.
Imagine how much easier clothes shopping for kids (sounds like the name of a garage band) would have been if all I had to do was fold down some tabs.
Granted, there would have been issues with full backside nudity, but the stress and trauma of repeated taking things off and putting them on could have been minimized.
Alas, no such options existed, so off we would go to engage in another exercise in futile compromise as I tried to match clothes to kid.
Keith wasn't too bad.
As long as he was covered, and the clothes were in no way flashy or attention grabbing, he was usually okay.
He never was a sequins or diamante cluster kind of guy.
There was that one phase where he insisted on wearing all of his underwear backwards because when he went to the bathroom, he wanted to see the superhero gracing his undies for that day.
Apparently, this was more challenging if Spiderman was covering his butt.
I always wondered if it was uncomfortable.
Em, too, was quasi-reasonable, although she was always very clear about what she wanted, what color it had to be, and that, like her brother, there be nothing on the front of anything that was attention grabbing.
She was fussy and stubborn.
I dangerous combination.
There was the year where she wore a bandana over her hair every. single. day. as the result of a hair cut she had insisted on, and then, upon seeing the results, burst into tears.
Nothing was wrong with the hair cut.
She looked like her beautiful self.
But, she was one unhappy child.
Hence, each morning. after getting herself dressed, she would put her kerchief on her head and of she'd go.
She looked like a farm woman in a western.
I half expected John Wayne to come to the house asking if the "l'il lady was ready to get to school."
Most mornings I wished someone would have come for them.
Even if it was the racist John Wayne.
And of course, there was Meredyth.
From an early age, like birth, Meredyth has considered me to be nothing short of intellectually challenged when it came to clothing.
Even at 5, she would look at me after I had dressed for work and inquire, "You're wearing THAT to work?"
Now, there may have been times when such inquires were warranted.
But not from a 5 year old.
Always impressed by what she saw on television, Mer wanted nothing more than to look like the kids on YTV.
Okay.
I can live with that.
But when it came to looking like what she saw on MuchMusic, that was another story.
One of my most oft used phrases with Mer, other than, "I don't want to know" was,
Mer! Pants up! Shirt down!
That child wanted to world to know what she had.
Whether she had anything or not.
Shopping was such a battle it got to the point where we would go into a store, I would find some young, unsuspecting store employee who was only paid minimum wage, and say to her,
"She is 12. She can spend this much money. Nothing can show any parts of her body other than her head, neck and arms."
And then I would take Keith and Em shopping.
Now, if I don't like what she's wearing, and thankfully, that is a rare occurrence, I just keep. my. mouth. shut.
Except for last Friday when she was flashing the clients that the Community Kitchen.
The result of an "oh-my-gawd-Mum-and-Stephen-are-here-so-I-grabbed-the-first-thing-I-could-find-from-the-floor-and-left" moment.
At least that's what she said.
Clothing was always an issue for me.
That's the way life is when you're the fat kid.
Christmas was always a bit like opening one of those surprise bags you'd get from convenience stores.
I never knew what my parents had picked for me.
But I knew I wouldn't like it.
Which accounts for my approach to clothes shopping with the kids.
The intense need, desire, craving to avoid the "I don't like it."
What really disturbs me now is what I see when I go to work, or the mall, or anywhere for that matter.
Beautiful young women who are not Kate Moss sizes wear clothing that is so obviously too small for them.
And which leave them looking like beer-bellied men.
I saw such a girl the other day, when I was driving to the grocery store.
Lovely girl.
Long, thick hair.
Beautiful smile.
And a neon yellow shirt stretched so tightly across her middle I could tell she had an innie and not an outie.
Covering her bottom, a pair of pants so tight that if she had bent down, they would have split, revealing her backside to anyone driving on Dundonald at that moment.
I don't get it.
The obsession to wear clothes that are too small.
Creating this bulge at the middle.
My kids refer to it as a "muffin top."
I could care less about your size.
Because I'm certainly in no position to critique weight, size or fashion sense.
But it just seems to me that wearing clothes that are the right size for you is just common sense.
So, all the young women out there wearing clothes too small for you,
STOP.
It's unnecessary.
Be happy with who you are.
And if you're not, do something to change it.
But at the very least, stop showing me your bellybuttons through your shirt.
Or I'll show you mine.
The Grand Canyon.
Title Lyric: Clothes by Barlow Girl
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
We will make great pets. . .
January 11, 2011
First day back to teaching for me and Stephen.
High school for Emily.
All things considered then, the morning wasn't as bad as it could have been.
Stephen was cogent enough to be able to drive.
Although he doesn't particularly fancy the morning traffic at Regent and Prospect, so I expect that the morning commute will fall, again, under my To Do list.
Keith was up 20 minutes before we had to leave, ready and raring to go.
But Em. . . .
Em is clearly the recipient of some toxic genetic mix that simply prevents her from being remotely tolerable in the morning.
I started at 5.30 am, the first of two wake up calls.
Turned the light on.
Saw movement in the lower left leg.
A twitch of a toe, I think.
All she was willing to do to signal that she had heard my clarion call, and was thinking about getting out of bed.
She had 30 minutes.
At 6.00 am I returned to her room to see her in the same position, but with one, slight change.
To shield her fragile eyes and her even more fragile state of mind, she had pulled her housecoat from under the sleeping Reilley, and had placed it over her head.
But there is nothing that can protect her from her mother's determination and will to get that child out of bed.
She was in the bathroom by 6.15 am.
Crabby, miserable, suffering from an all out malaise. . .
But she was up.
I get that she isn't a morning person.
What I don't get is the continued struggle to get out of bed.
She has to.
Accept it.
Embrace it.
Do it.
Save yourself the pain and indignity of listening to your mother sing at you,
"Get up, get up, it's time to get up" over and over again.
What was unexpected was the disquieting and disconcerting activity among our four legged companions last evening.
For reasons unbeknownst to either Stephen or myself, Tikka, Frankie and Goblet would not settle last night.
At.
All.
Frankie was in and out of room so often we thought there was revolving door.
Quiet one minute.
The next, the click and clack of his toenails as he wandered the upstairs hallway.
Followed by the whining at the threshold of our bedroom door.
Tikka must have laid on every particle of our bedroom floor last evening.
She could not get comfortable, find a place to lay, rest her head.
And she isn't quiet about it.
She sighs.
Loudly.
She throws herself on the floor.
Loudly.
She takes over Frankie's pillow.
Happily.
Goblet's new collar contains one dangling bell, and when she walks, very occasionally runs, licks herself with reckless abandon at the top of the stairs for all to see, blinks, breathes, her bell hits her "I've had my rabies shot" tag, creates a less than melodious ringing.
I've taken to calling her Jingle Bells.
Or Bo Jangles.
Depends on the day.
She was non-stop last night.
Like she was on a merry-go-round and she couldn't get off.
Loud sighing, petulant whining, unmelodious jingling, clicking and clacking toe nails, periodic throwing of canine chassis on the floor. . . .
Not somnolentt sounds.
2.00 am and I'm thinking that locking them all in Frankie's crate would be quieter.
We tried several things to bring peace to our cadre of calamity.
Nothing worked.
By 3.30, exhausted, frustrated and still clueless about the cause of this early morning catastrophe, we gave in.
Tikka on Frankie's pillow.
Frankie on our bed.
Goblet sucking Stephen's earlobes.
Giving me two hours of uninterrupted sleep.
It will be a very long day.
And tonight, those four legged furry critters will have a quiet night.
Even if I have to drug them.
I am not above that.
At all.
My brother and his wife gave us a three month subscription to Netflix.
Oh!
My!
Gawd!
Because I so need more distractions.
NETFLIX!
Movies! Television!
Commercial free, no time-outs or buffering issues.
I may not get anything done for the next three months.
But I'll watch everything Netflix has to offer.
Whether I like it or not.
Just because I can.
Title Lyric: Pets by Porno for Pyros
First day back to teaching for me and Stephen.
High school for Emily.
All things considered then, the morning wasn't as bad as it could have been.
Stephen was cogent enough to be able to drive.
Although he doesn't particularly fancy the morning traffic at Regent and Prospect, so I expect that the morning commute will fall, again, under my To Do list.
Keith was up 20 minutes before we had to leave, ready and raring to go.
But Em. . . .
Em is clearly the recipient of some toxic genetic mix that simply prevents her from being remotely tolerable in the morning.
I started at 5.30 am, the first of two wake up calls.
Turned the light on.
Saw movement in the lower left leg.
A twitch of a toe, I think.
All she was willing to do to signal that she had heard my clarion call, and was thinking about getting out of bed.
She had 30 minutes.
At 6.00 am I returned to her room to see her in the same position, but with one, slight change.
To shield her fragile eyes and her even more fragile state of mind, she had pulled her housecoat from under the sleeping Reilley, and had placed it over her head.
But there is nothing that can protect her from her mother's determination and will to get that child out of bed.
She was in the bathroom by 6.15 am.
Crabby, miserable, suffering from an all out malaise. . .
But she was up.
I get that she isn't a morning person.
What I don't get is the continued struggle to get out of bed.
She has to.
Accept it.
Embrace it.
Do it.
Save yourself the pain and indignity of listening to your mother sing at you,
"Get up, get up, it's time to get up" over and over again.
What was unexpected was the disquieting and disconcerting activity among our four legged companions last evening.
For reasons unbeknownst to either Stephen or myself, Tikka, Frankie and Goblet would not settle last night.
At.
All.
Frankie was in and out of room so often we thought there was revolving door.
Quiet one minute.
The next, the click and clack of his toenails as he wandered the upstairs hallway.
Followed by the whining at the threshold of our bedroom door.
Tikka must have laid on every particle of our bedroom floor last evening.
She could not get comfortable, find a place to lay, rest her head.
And she isn't quiet about it.
She sighs.
Loudly.
She throws herself on the floor.
Loudly.
She takes over Frankie's pillow.
Happily.
Goblet's new collar contains one dangling bell, and when she walks, very occasionally runs, licks herself with reckless abandon at the top of the stairs for all to see, blinks, breathes, her bell hits her "I've had my rabies shot" tag, creates a less than melodious ringing.
I've taken to calling her Jingle Bells.
Or Bo Jangles.
Depends on the day.
She was non-stop last night.
Like she was on a merry-go-round and she couldn't get off.
Loud sighing, petulant whining, unmelodious jingling, clicking and clacking toe nails, periodic throwing of canine chassis on the floor. . . .
Not somnolentt sounds.
2.00 am and I'm thinking that locking them all in Frankie's crate would be quieter.
We tried several things to bring peace to our cadre of calamity.
Nothing worked.
By 3.30, exhausted, frustrated and still clueless about the cause of this early morning catastrophe, we gave in.
Tikka on Frankie's pillow.
Frankie on our bed.
Goblet sucking Stephen's earlobes.
Giving me two hours of uninterrupted sleep.
It will be a very long day.
And tonight, those four legged furry critters will have a quiet night.
Even if I have to drug them.
I am not above that.
At all.
My brother and his wife gave us a three month subscription to Netflix.
Oh!
My!
Gawd!
Because I so need more distractions.
NETFLIX!
Movies! Television!
Commercial free, no time-outs or buffering issues.
I may not get anything done for the next three months.
But I'll watch everything Netflix has to offer.
Whether I like it or not.
Just because I can.
Title Lyric: Pets by Porno for Pyros
Monday, January 10, 2011
When your mouth gets full of fire. . . .
January 10, 2011
Dear quartet of blue haired church ladies with your tantalizing, tasty, demonic case of mincemeat tarts,
YOU HAVE NOT DEFEATED ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Another 7 pounds has bit the dust.
Grand total: 35 pounds lost since October.
15 pounds away from my first of many goals: 50 pounds.
My pants are looser. . .even my father noticed Saturday evening when we were at the nursing home.
I am wearing a shirt, at this very moment, that I haven't been able to wear for a couple of years.
I am conquering my demons.
Food will not run my life.
Chicken and almonds are enough.
Stephen and the kids love chicken.
But it would seem that their tolerance is waning. . . .a little.
Twice last week Stephen made dinner.
Stir fry veggies and pork one night.
Hamburgers the next.
I found ground beef in the freezer.
He wanted red meat.
Craved it almost.
Hamburgers were on the menu.
While I sat at the table and ate my lean ground beef pattie, sans bun, ketchup, mustard, relish, pickles and cheese, I dawned on me what was going on.
Me: Are you getting tired of chicken?
SJP: Just a little.
Me: Why didn't you say something?
SJP: Because I didn't want you to think I wasn't being supportive.
With the remaining ground beef, I made chili.
Simmering in the crock pot as we speak.
Brimming with veggies, a little ground beef, and lots of beans.
I am perfectly willing to compromise.
Just because I can live on chicken, almonds and sweet potatoes, doesn't mean everyone else can.
Who made the beef stew with dumplings yesterday while singing her heart out?
Making chili in this house is a bit like a game of Russian Roulette.
You never know what will happen.
I like chili.
The kids, as far as I know, like chili.
Stephen thinks chili is the next holiest thing to cheese.
The two together and he thinks he's in heaven.
For the most part, I do the cooking here, and with good reason.
Chocolate chips in my beans.
Linguine and clams in my egg salad.
All very good reasons to ensure Stephen's access to the kitchen and its contents are strictly monitored.
However, all bets are off, all rules out the window, when it comes to chili.
Stephen's desire for heat in his chili renders him virtually unmanageable.
I put all the necessary spices, sauces, veggies needed to ensure the chili has some heat but isn't completely inedible.
Stephen, on the other hand, has been known to question my culinary judgement.
Meaning at every opportunity, he will smuggle his Louisiana hot sauce into the chili.
The chili I started out with, the edible, tasty and somewhat spicy chili morphs into a cauldron of heat hotter than Dante's Inferno and just as inedible.
Except for Stephen, who tucks into his bowl of hell infused heat with such gusto that watching him is almost obscene.
Relishing every bite while he sweats profusely, he repeatedly makes remarks about "how good" the chili is with "just the right amount of heat" while the rest of us who have dared to try the most minuscule of nibbles are busy dousing our heads in buckets of milk in a weak and vain attempt to quell the angry volcanoes building in our insides.
Yesterday, after I finished putting my chili together, I sat down with Stephen at the kitchen table, put both of his hands in mind to center him and made him look me in the eye.
I then threatened him within an inch of his life, promising a long, painful, tortured death if he even considered that taking the bottle of hot sauce from the fridge and adding more acrid, blistering, piquant, spicy zestiness into my chili, thus rendering contaminated and indigestible.
He seems to have understood.
Random taste testing of my chili has revealed no burning, febrile additions at the hands of the heat obsessed uncontrollable.
Thus taking the bullets of out the gun, and leaving the game of Russian Roulette with my chili for another day.
Gambling with the food of a woman struggling with weight loss isn't a good thing.
Ever.
Today is the last official day of my break.
Teaching resumes tomorrow morning at 10.00 am.
Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods.
Changes have been made to syllabi's. . students who have taken my classes in the past and have thus advising the incoming crop of the work load awaiting them have provided misinformation.
Muwahhhahahahahahahahaha. . . .
Let.
The.
Games.
Begin.
Title Lyric: Chili Con Carna by The Real Group
Dear quartet of blue haired church ladies with your tantalizing, tasty, demonic case of mincemeat tarts,
YOU HAVE NOT DEFEATED ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Another 7 pounds has bit the dust.
Grand total: 35 pounds lost since October.
15 pounds away from my first of many goals: 50 pounds.
My pants are looser. . .even my father noticed Saturday evening when we were at the nursing home.
I am wearing a shirt, at this very moment, that I haven't been able to wear for a couple of years.
I am conquering my demons.
Food will not run my life.
Chicken and almonds are enough.
Stephen and the kids love chicken.
But it would seem that their tolerance is waning. . . .a little.
Twice last week Stephen made dinner.
Stir fry veggies and pork one night.
Hamburgers the next.
I found ground beef in the freezer.
He wanted red meat.
Craved it almost.
Hamburgers were on the menu.
While I sat at the table and ate my lean ground beef pattie, sans bun, ketchup, mustard, relish, pickles and cheese, I dawned on me what was going on.
Me: Are you getting tired of chicken?
SJP: Just a little.
Me: Why didn't you say something?
SJP: Because I didn't want you to think I wasn't being supportive.
With the remaining ground beef, I made chili.
Simmering in the crock pot as we speak.
Brimming with veggies, a little ground beef, and lots of beans.
I am perfectly willing to compromise.
Just because I can live on chicken, almonds and sweet potatoes, doesn't mean everyone else can.
Who made the beef stew with dumplings yesterday while singing her heart out?
Making chili in this house is a bit like a game of Russian Roulette.
You never know what will happen.
I like chili.
The kids, as far as I know, like chili.
Stephen thinks chili is the next holiest thing to cheese.
The two together and he thinks he's in heaven.
For the most part, I do the cooking here, and with good reason.
Chocolate chips in my beans.
Linguine and clams in my egg salad.
All very good reasons to ensure Stephen's access to the kitchen and its contents are strictly monitored.
However, all bets are off, all rules out the window, when it comes to chili.
Stephen's desire for heat in his chili renders him virtually unmanageable.
I put all the necessary spices, sauces, veggies needed to ensure the chili has some heat but isn't completely inedible.
Stephen, on the other hand, has been known to question my culinary judgement.
Meaning at every opportunity, he will smuggle his Louisiana hot sauce into the chili.
The chili I started out with, the edible, tasty and somewhat spicy chili morphs into a cauldron of heat hotter than Dante's Inferno and just as inedible.
Except for Stephen, who tucks into his bowl of hell infused heat with such gusto that watching him is almost obscene.
Relishing every bite while he sweats profusely, he repeatedly makes remarks about "how good" the chili is with "just the right amount of heat" while the rest of us who have dared to try the most minuscule of nibbles are busy dousing our heads in buckets of milk in a weak and vain attempt to quell the angry volcanoes building in our insides.
Yesterday, after I finished putting my chili together, I sat down with Stephen at the kitchen table, put both of his hands in mind to center him and made him look me in the eye.
I then threatened him within an inch of his life, promising a long, painful, tortured death if he even considered that taking the bottle of hot sauce from the fridge and adding more acrid, blistering, piquant, spicy zestiness into my chili, thus rendering contaminated and indigestible.
He seems to have understood.
Random taste testing of my chili has revealed no burning, febrile additions at the hands of the heat obsessed uncontrollable.
Thus taking the bullets of out the gun, and leaving the game of Russian Roulette with my chili for another day.
Gambling with the food of a woman struggling with weight loss isn't a good thing.
Ever.
Today is the last official day of my break.
Teaching resumes tomorrow morning at 10.00 am.
Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods.
Changes have been made to syllabi's. . students who have taken my classes in the past and have thus advising the incoming crop of the work load awaiting them have provided misinformation.
Muwahhhahahahahahahahaha. . . .
Let.
The.
Games.
Begin.
Title Lyric: Chili Con Carna by The Real Group
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Queen of, Queen of all the tarts. . . .
January 9, 2011
The last Sunday before the official end of the holiday break.
So depressing.
Really.
I know, I know, you're thinking I've had an additional week off from the rest of the world, so I have no right to complain.
You're right.
I don't.
But that has never stopped me before.
Mer and I went to THE worst movie I've seen in a quite a while.
Our saving grace was at least we didn't have to pay for it, compliments of Mer's exploited labour to the theater.
Season of the Witch.
What is most unfortunate is that the story itself had potential. . .demon inhabiting the body of a young girl, the Middle Ages so they automatically assume she was a witch, long pilgrimage to a monastery where she will be tried by monks who possess the last copy of a book of demon-ridding Latin incantations.
Okay, so the story could use some tweaking, but there was potential.
And that potential was in no way realized in the film.
In spite of the presence of Ron Perlman.
At least he made the film somewhat amusing.
Nicolas Cage did not.
He's usually hit or miss lately.
Mostly miss.
Nonetheless any trip to the theater, even for a bad movie, is better than not going to the movies at all.
At least for me.
In spite of having to endure the aromas of freshly popped popcorn, hear the sounds of soda and ice mingling in the upsized cup, the look and smell of nachos surrounded by two, yes, two container of hot processed nacho cheese dip, and the crackle of chocolate bars opening, the "mmmmmm" at that first bite.
I feel like I should wear a sign everywhere I go that says, "I am engaged in a major lifestyle change. Please do not eat anything sweet or salty, or drink any carbonated drinks in my presence. Thank you."
That or the standard, "Do not feed the animals."
At least with the holidays over, the temptations to gorge on all things heretofore identified as ungorgeable will end.
And I will return to a state of normal.
Meaning I'll just have to deal with all the standard ungorgeables.
However, there was one last temptation put in front of me on Friday.
At the Community Kitchen of all places.
A quartet of well meaning church ladies brought in a box of 50, yes that is 5-0, fifty, homemade-including-pastry-mincemeat tarts.
Anything but mincemeat and I would have probably been okay.
I.
Love.
Mincemeat.
Every Christmas, my mother would go to the local butcher and get two containers of his homemade mincemeat.
Presumably for mincemeat pies.
Presumably being the operative word.
As soon as I saw those two containers of gloriousness, the spoon came out.
At first, just a couple of spoonfuls.
And then a couple more.
Finally, when my mother was ready to make those pies her I-put-them-at-the-front-of-the-fridge-and-they-were-full containers of mincemeat were transformed into the almost-empty-save-for-perhaps-one-raisin-at-the-back-of-the-fridge-and-now-there-was-nothing-left-for-pies-until-my-mother-drove-back-to-the-butcher mincemeat.
So, 50 mincemeat tarts were a little more than I had bargained for.
My defenses were down.
Shields operating at less-than-minimum capacity.
It had been a rough day. . .all sorts of things going on that I couldn't control.
It was definitely a let's-throw-caution-and-reason-to-the-wind-and-satiate-our-shattered-nerves-and-wounded-pride-with-these-fifty-mincemeat-tarts kind of day.
They were glorious.
Huge.
Evil temptresses masquerading as flaky homemade pastry gently caressing the mound of moist mincemeat, a small, carefully cut piece of pastry gently nestled on top.
Demon treats baiting and beguiling me, artfully disguised by the careful craftiness of blue-haired church ladies.
Oh.
My.
I had one.
I simply did not possess the intestinal fortitude to prevent succumbing to such enticing pastry delights.
And then. . . .
I had another.
I did.
But after two, my shield kicked in, common sense flooded my being and a tsunami size wave of guilt flooded my inner self.
Needless to say I've been beating myself up all weekend about those two, tempting little tarts.
Tempting me when I was weak.
Shameless little hussies.
This morning I took some "me" time.
"Me" time translates into being in the kitchen, headphones snug in my ears, ipod singing in my ears.
Me singing in the kitchen at the top of my lungs to songs I may, or may not as the case may be, not know.
Quality be damned I sing lustily to whatever happens to pop up on my ipod at the time.
Everything from Maroon 5 to Mariana's Trench, Rhianna to KC and the Sunshine Band, Glee favourites to Usher, Pink to Katy Perry and any other dance music that happens to be on there.
I sing it all.
Loudly.
Heartily.
Not caring at all how anyone who hears me.
If it makes me happy, dance around the kitchen making the dogs question my sanity, and have my children request, at the end of a performance, "please let's not see that again", then do it I shall.
And while parading around the kitchen singing and dancing like I was auditioning for American Idol, I even made a beef stew.
Because all that performing and me time should result in something other than aching ears, annoyed family members and traumatized pets.
Dinner is just the gravy.
Title Lyric: Queen of All the Tarts by David Bowie
The last Sunday before the official end of the holiday break.
So depressing.
Really.
I know, I know, you're thinking I've had an additional week off from the rest of the world, so I have no right to complain.
You're right.
I don't.
But that has never stopped me before.
Mer and I went to THE worst movie I've seen in a quite a while.
Our saving grace was at least we didn't have to pay for it, compliments of Mer's exploited labour to the theater.
Season of the Witch.
What is most unfortunate is that the story itself had potential. . .demon inhabiting the body of a young girl, the Middle Ages so they automatically assume she was a witch, long pilgrimage to a monastery where she will be tried by monks who possess the last copy of a book of demon-ridding Latin incantations.
Okay, so the story could use some tweaking, but there was potential.
And that potential was in no way realized in the film.
In spite of the presence of Ron Perlman.
At least he made the film somewhat amusing.
Nicolas Cage did not.
He's usually hit or miss lately.
Mostly miss.
Nonetheless any trip to the theater, even for a bad movie, is better than not going to the movies at all.
At least for me.
In spite of having to endure the aromas of freshly popped popcorn, hear the sounds of soda and ice mingling in the upsized cup, the look and smell of nachos surrounded by two, yes, two container of hot processed nacho cheese dip, and the crackle of chocolate bars opening, the "mmmmmm" at that first bite.
I feel like I should wear a sign everywhere I go that says, "I am engaged in a major lifestyle change. Please do not eat anything sweet or salty, or drink any carbonated drinks in my presence. Thank you."
That or the standard, "Do not feed the animals."
At least with the holidays over, the temptations to gorge on all things heretofore identified as ungorgeable will end.
And I will return to a state of normal.
Meaning I'll just have to deal with all the standard ungorgeables.
However, there was one last temptation put in front of me on Friday.
At the Community Kitchen of all places.
A quartet of well meaning church ladies brought in a box of 50, yes that is 5-0, fifty, homemade-including-pastry-mincemeat tarts.
Anything but mincemeat and I would have probably been okay.
I.
Love.
Mincemeat.
Every Christmas, my mother would go to the local butcher and get two containers of his homemade mincemeat.
Presumably for mincemeat pies.
Presumably being the operative word.
As soon as I saw those two containers of gloriousness, the spoon came out.
At first, just a couple of spoonfuls.
And then a couple more.
Finally, when my mother was ready to make those pies her I-put-them-at-the-front-of-the-fridge-and-they-were-full containers of mincemeat were transformed into the almost-empty-save-for-perhaps-one-raisin-at-the-back-of-the-fridge-and-now-there-was-nothing-left-for-pies-until-my-mother-drove-back-to-the-butcher mincemeat.
So, 50 mincemeat tarts were a little more than I had bargained for.
My defenses were down.
Shields operating at less-than-minimum capacity.
It had been a rough day. . .all sorts of things going on that I couldn't control.
It was definitely a let's-throw-caution-and-reason-to-the-wind-and-satiate-our-shattered-nerves-and-wounded-pride-with-these-fifty-mincemeat-tarts kind of day.
They were glorious.
Huge.
Evil temptresses masquerading as flaky homemade pastry gently caressing the mound of moist mincemeat, a small, carefully cut piece of pastry gently nestled on top.
Demon treats baiting and beguiling me, artfully disguised by the careful craftiness of blue-haired church ladies.
Oh.
My.
I had one.
I simply did not possess the intestinal fortitude to prevent succumbing to such enticing pastry delights.
And then. . . .
I had another.
I did.
But after two, my shield kicked in, common sense flooded my being and a tsunami size wave of guilt flooded my inner self.
Needless to say I've been beating myself up all weekend about those two, tempting little tarts.
Tempting me when I was weak.
Shameless little hussies.
This morning I took some "me" time.
"Me" time translates into being in the kitchen, headphones snug in my ears, ipod singing in my ears.
Me singing in the kitchen at the top of my lungs to songs I may, or may not as the case may be, not know.
Quality be damned I sing lustily to whatever happens to pop up on my ipod at the time.
Everything from Maroon 5 to Mariana's Trench, Rhianna to KC and the Sunshine Band, Glee favourites to Usher, Pink to Katy Perry and any other dance music that happens to be on there.
I sing it all.
Loudly.
Heartily.
Not caring at all how anyone who hears me.
If it makes me happy, dance around the kitchen making the dogs question my sanity, and have my children request, at the end of a performance, "please let's not see that again", then do it I shall.
And while parading around the kitchen singing and dancing like I was auditioning for American Idol, I even made a beef stew.
Because all that performing and me time should result in something other than aching ears, annoyed family members and traumatized pets.
Dinner is just the gravy.
Title Lyric: Queen of All the Tarts by David Bowie
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