December 21, 2010
So, I am still marking.
Surprise, surprise.
There has, however, been some progress.
Two courses have had grades entered, so they are fini.
The manuscript has been submitted to the publisher.
In my email to my contact, (we have been emailing a lot these past few weeks), I said a nervous breakdown may result if more edits are necessary.
And finally, 25 pounds have been eliminated from my Reubenesque figure.
Moving me away from Reuben and closer to Twiggy.
Okay, maybe not Twiggy. . .Rita McNeil perhaps.
The book edits were completed only because I stayed up all hours Monday morning, facilitated by waiting for Keith to get off work.
Sunday was a rough night for Keith.
He was very late finishing at the theater.
I sat here, exhausted, waiting for the phone call that would indicate my Pookie was finished and ready to come home.
By the time he got home, and I finished as much editing as I could, it was late.
Very late.
At least for the woman who likes to be in bed by 9.30 so she can ready until 10.00 before she falls asleep with her glasses still on her face.
Accompanied by the book.
If Stephen didn't intervene, I expect I would have perished by now.
The cause?
Death by smothering fiction.
Keith, who has finished his exams and had two days off from work, was in an unusually jovial mood yesterday.
Bolstered by being able to sleep in, he decided that he wanted to make a batch of shortbread cookies for his friends.
Not wanting to stifle his creativity, nor his good mood, I said sure.
What could be the harm in a 19 year old young man making cookies?
I showed him where the kitchen was, and then sat down to continue marking the intro to crim papers, or the less than reasonable facsimilie version of them, anyway.
He then realized he didn't know the recipe by heart. Would I write it down for him.
Remember, this is the young man who will not cook something if each and every single ingredient listed in the recipe is not in our house.
Substitutions are not his forte.
I wrote out the recipe, and returned to my marking.
He is listening to his ipod, headphones snug in his ears, so every time he asks me something, it sounded not like the duclet tones of my adorable son, but more like we were separated by a dance floor covered with drunk dancers listening to music with the bass turned up high, and he was bellowing into a microphone.
He reads through the recipe, which was lacking, apparently, because I only included the ingredients and not the steps needed to combine said ingredients.
I didn't think I had to.
He's been making these cookies with me since he was able to restrain himself from eating the raw dough, or shoving it into his nose and ears.
I stupidly assumed he understood the process of putting the cookies together.
My first sign of what was in store for me while he made these cookies came while he was gathering his cooking utensils.
Keith: MUM! HOW DO I GET THESE DAMN MEASURING CUPS APART?
When I was able to get myself off the floor, only brought back to life because the dogs were hovering over me, licking my face and preventing the cats from feasting on my prostrate body, I crawled over to Keith and separated the measuring cups.
Keith, always concerned, asks: MUM, HOW COME YOU'RE CRAWLING?
Once I was able to get myself back in my chair, and was able to recoup enough motor skills to pick up my pencil, I attempted to resume marking.
While listening to Keith dig out mixing bowls, and other baking related paraphernalia.
Secure in the belief I was going to be left to mark in peace, I was again shaken out of my reverie.
Keith: MUM, HOW DO I CUT THIS BUTTER? IT'S REALLY HARD!
When I was eventually able to regain the strength in my legs, and lift myself, again, from the floor, wiping away the blood from the laceration on my scalp from when I hit the edge of the table, I was able to, through sign language because my ability to speak was temporarily compromised.
Again, I assumed this would be the last time he tried to to take.me.out. via baking, and when my faculties came back on line, I started marking again, determined to get through marking at least half of the papers piled beside me.
But alas, my peace was shattered with the panicked bark,
Keith: MUM! I CAN'T FIND THE FLOUR!
Once I wiped up the floor from my petrified-induced incontinence, and used the defibulator to restart my heart, I was able to inform my son that the flour was right at his feet, in a reusable Sobey's bag to make carting it around easier.
I took this opportunity to ask him if there was anything else he was going to need help with, because I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to sustain another ipod induced assault.
In hindsight, I should have just asked him to turn his ipod down.
Or make the cookies myself.
But I just didn't want to stifle his creativity, or spoil his good mood.
Besides, what's a little incontinence. . .we have linoleum.
Keith managed to make his cookies without much further difficulty.
Except for when I intervened to prevent him from making cookies the size of platters.
Because he was getting bored.
But, his cookies were good, AND, more importantly, he did his dishes.
Shortly after, he comes back into the kitchen.
Delivering a message.
He's a regular go-to guy for Mer.
She texted him, asking him to ask me if she could come over and do her laundry.
Yes, Mer, and you could have asked me yourself.
I don't want you running around in putrid panties and soiled socks any more than you do.
And while you're at it, stay for dinner.
I love meals where all my chicks are present and accounted for.
And as I have said before, with five conflicting work schedules, those meals where we gather around the table are fewer than I would like.
The Christmas shopping chaos has made getting together even more difficult than usual.
Making last night a rarity.
My kids are nothing if not entertaining when they are all together.
Keith and Em together are funny but calm.
Keith and Mer together are funny and the harbingers of complete and utter chaos.
Keith, Em and Mer together leads to chaos infused with scorn.
Scorn on Em's part.
I think she sometimes find Mer and Keith a little overwhelming.
I know that after sitting at the table for dinner with all the kids, Stephen usually needs to scurry to his office for a little bit of "down time."
Last night was no different.
Over my dinner of pot roast, mashed potatoes (for the kids), carrots (for me and Stephen) and a medley of stir fried veggies, we were treated with the Van Clan Floor Show.
The highlight of the festivities was when Mer looked at Tikka and said she was becoming cross-eyed with old age, perhaps because she was getting cadillacs.
It all fell apart after that.
And just when I thought that perhaps peace would reign after dinner Mer mentioned she, too, wanted to make shortbread cookies, and she wanted Keith and Em to help.
Em just walked out of the kitchen, in spite of Mer's pleading to PLEASE come and help.
Keith was more than happy to help.
Of course he was.
He knew where everything was.
But, Mer said, we need music.
Keith agreed.
Instead of an ipod, I was treated to the cd player scream fest they referred to as music.
Remember, I am trying to mark.
When they started making body parts out of the shortbread dough, I decided it was time to join Em in the livingroom.
All that was on was Man Versus Food.
But that was okay.
It was better for than Mer V Shortbread Dough.
Because I didn't want to know jsut how creative she could be with her cookie dough.
But I didn't want to stifle her creativity.
I just wanted to hold on to what was left of my severely depleted sanity.
Who said cookies only bring joy?
Title Lyric: Frayed Ends of Sanity by Metallica
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