Mum and Dad are not at home, it's party time, I'm all alone. . .

November 7, 2010



It's a weekend the coming together of occurences so rare that to have several in the same weekend is almost unheard of.

Almost.

One, the time change.

Fall back.

One hour.

I purposely change the clocks slowly.

Sometimes it will take me all day.

How come?

Because by changing them at different points during the day, I get to experience the thrill, the excitement, the fluttery feeling in my tummy each and every time I put the clock back one hour.

Tricking my simplistic self into believing that I gain not one hour from turning the clock back, but multiple hours.

I can gain an hour 5 different times a day.

I know.

It's a delusion.

Chicanery.

Deceptiveness.

A hoax; an illusion of more time that I play on myself.

And it works.

So don't bother trying to tell me that I am beguiling myself.

I already know that.

And I don't care.



Two, a Sunday afternoon all alone.

All.

Alone.

I will occasionally have child free evenings, the result of forcing my children into the harsh work world, but Stephen is almost always home with me.

So while I can achieve child free status, completely-alone-because-the-kids-AND-Stephen-aren't-home-status is something I don't remember happening more than once or twice.

This is a rare day, indeed.

Keith and Emily are both working, the same shift (another rarity), so from 11-5 they will be selling their labour power to Empire Theaters for the afternoon.

Meredyth typically uses Sunday to a) recover, and b) clean her apartment.  She will most likely break bread with us later today, but she certainly won't spend her Sunday afternoon here.

And Stephen?

Where is he traversing on this bleak Sunday morning in November?

St. Andrews.

He and some of the Quakers from our meeting are enjoying the lovely drive to St. Andrews to participate in meeting with the St. Andrew's Quakers; a meeting of 3 people.

Apparently, although I don't know the details, there is some strife among the group members, and because they are so small, it's hard to ignore.

So, the Meetings around St. Andrews are visiting on Sunday's to bolster their membership, and hopefully their morale.

Food is involved.

Meaning I was up at 8.00 am making homemade biscuits for Stephen to take with him.

He offered to make them himself, but, there are just some things I am not willing to share with others.

My biscuit recipe.

And my shortbread cookie recipe.

Further, while Stephen has made inroads in his cooking of meals and such, baking is entirely different, and quite frankly, I'm not willing to give up my Queen Bee Baker status.

So the biscuits were made by me.

Just enough for him to take with him and two each for Keith and Em.

Because if you bake them . . .

I will come.

With butter and strawberry jam as company.




And how come I am not joining Stephen on this adventure?

The car.

Given its outlaw status this week, the fact that it had the audacity to require a new alternator to the tune of $600.00, not including the cab fares to ferry everyone hither and yon in the 24 hours we were vehicle-less, Stephen and I decided that it would be financially more feasible for him to go and me to stay.

Both kids working and no buses in this city on Sunday meant that I would have had to provide even more cab fare to get them to work, plus the cost of tank of gas, meaning that for us, a trip to St. Andrews would have cost about $60.00.

Money we have, but, could use for other things.

Groceries, for instance.

While most people have credit cards, we don't.

We have.

But, our lives have become, for the most part, far less complex as a result of not worrying about credit card payments.

So, while we sometimes have to make executive decisions about things such as whether or not both of us can go to St. Andrews, we are also spared the debilitating anxiety that accompanies the use of credit cards.

We just don't want them.

We've managed quite well without them.

Stephen, therefore, is car-pooling with Friends from Fredericton, while I am forced to spend a Sunday afternoon, at home, alone.

Oh woe is me.

Whatever shall I do?

Work probably.

Three, work without feeling guilty.

Another rarity.




Tomorrow is my next weigh in.

It's been a challenging week.

The car sent me into such a tailspin that it took everything I had to fight my natural instinct to throw myself into a vat of dark chocolate, with little islands of chocolate cheese cake and Dairy Queen Pumpkin Pie Blizzards, plates of Swiss Chalet french fries,  sweet potato fries, nachoes with extra sour cream floating around me.

But I didn't not succumb, and instead ate celery.

Friday evening, while engaging in my weekly volunteering at the Fredericton Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/) I was asked to cut, into eight slices each, 30 homemade, church-lady-baked apple pies.

Pie crusts so flaky I couldn't comprehend what was holding them together.  Apples covered in a sugar-nutmeg-cinnamon-concoction sweetly beckoned me to just take.one.taste.

Other volunteers were enjoying small slices of this heavenly delight.

Me, I cut those pies and plated them with lightening speed.

I didn't even lick my fingers when they happened to come into contact with the sticky sweetness.

Four, an effort of such colossal willpower, devoted self-discipline, rigorous resolve, gigantic grit that a tickertape parade wouldn't have been enough to acknowledge my unfettered self-restraint.

I had to suffice with my mother's "I'm so proud of you."

And really, that was enough.

Really.

It was.




Me, the hounds and the two cats.

All alone on a Sunday.

Wow.

But to be completely honest, by the time everyone trickles back, I will be more than ready to welcome them into the warmth of my sanctuary.

Because too much of a good thing can be dangerous for your health.

And for the most part, I enjoy the subtle sounds of people in my house.

Okay, maybe not so subtle, but I like knowing that the kids are hiding upstairs or stretched out in the living room watching old movies or Family Guy; that Stephen is wiling away his life on kijiji looking for the affordable classic car that he knows will one day be his even if he has to sell a kidney to get it; that the dogs are lying under my feet, groaning and yipping in response to their canine dreams, and that at any moment, cats will cavort all over the kitchen table, hindering my marking progress.

I admit to being happily enslaved to my routine, my comforts.

But a little break away. . . . . .


Title Lyric: Home Alone by Special D