December 10, 2010
If there was ever a time I was going to fall off the wagon, it is now.
Not because it's Christmas, but because its Stressmas.
And I am a stress eater.
Every ounce of willpower I possess is being channelled into not eating those things that bring me comfort but no joy.
Shortbread cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies, gumdrop cakes, boxes of chocolates, egg nog, dips, candies, fruit cake, sugar cookies. . .
French fries with ketchup, chicken wings, nachoes dripping with cheese, bbq pulled pork sandwiches, pizza, Big Macs pumpkin pie blizzards. . .
Chips and dip, chocolate bars, ice cream, cinnamon buns oozing with icing. . .
Lebanese food.
Hummus, tzatiki, goat cheese, pita bread. . .
I want it all.
Now.
I'm working hard, but, I don't know how much more I can stand.
My self talking self is running out of things to say.
My brain is tossing up images of all the things I shouldn't eat.
I need calm in order to fight off the decadent desires wanting to take control.
An internal war wages inside me.
Perhaps I should remove myself from the situation until this passes.
Find a stress and anxiety free space.
No vending machines.
Cafeterias.
Grocery and convenience stores.
Bakerys and fast food restaurants.
Tristan da Cunha, perhaps? Hailed as the Loneliest Island on Earth: http://www.darkroastedblend.com/2008/11/most-remote-place-on-earth.html
Here, perhaps, I would find the peace and quiet, the stress-free environment I so desperately crave.
Need.
Want.
Will get under any means possible.
Stressmas is partially fueled by end of term exams and papers and the students who have to write them.
Students who are a hair trigger away from exploding.
I know this from, a. experience, and b. because no matter how many times I say the same things over and over again, students have stopped listening.
I could be sitting in front of them, talking about cheese, whiskey and the mating habits of the grey leg goose and get as much of a response from them as if I was talking about how to present your interview and newspaper analysis findings, and how to write a proper literature review.
More probably.
The glazed over look has become temporarily their default facial feature.
Hygeine has become secondary. . .the women walk around with hair in hastily thrown together ponytails and faces devoid of makeup, having been replaced by dark circles or the flush of frustration, Uggs with sweatpants shoved in them and oversized t-shiorts becomes the outfit of choice. The men covering their heads in baseball like hats, or knitted caps, wearing daytime clothing that bare a strinking resemblance to their pajamas. Shaving has been tossed aside for the week old scruff.
What really scares me are those males and females who look normal. Clean, fresh, makeuped, well dressed.
Because they're trying to convince everyone that they are okay.
Two weeks from today is Christmas Eve.
In that period, I have to get all my marking completed, grades calculated and submitted, and somewhere in there, with money I don't have, engage in Christmas shopping.
It's hard to get excited about Christmas under these conditions.
To remember the reasons for celebrating Christmas.
And I'm not referring to religion.
Or the nauseatingly depressing and disheartening, completely unnecessary over zealous consumer consumption that has come to characterize Christmas.
Just basic things: being nice to others, helping out if you can, choosing to not wallow in self-absorption, doing what you can to create and maintain peace, not looking for things to make into issues, tossing aside pessimism for optimism.
Usually, by Christmas Day, I have managed to remember all of these things.
I just hope I'm conscious enough to appreciate them.
Title Lyric: Accidents Can Happen by Sixx A.M.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
All your bad days will end, you simply have to sleep late when you can. . .
December 9, 2010
Feeling this tired, I should of had a whole lot more fun yesterday than I did.
An endless parade of frazzled first years and tuckered third years came to me yesterday like I was the mountain and they were Mohammed.
Part of that is correct.
And in those few, and I mean few, short periods of quiet, I was editing, editing, editing.
And the editor was in the next room, passing pages of my manuscript with lightening speed.
Matched by my I-wish-I-had-lightening-but-I-can't-even-find-rain speed.
Interspersed throughout the mania and panic, the frustrations and hair pulling (mine, not my students) were the phone calls from home, reminding me, in case I had the audacity to forget, that I have an entire other life outside of my office.
And if there was ever a day where I would have, perchance, forgotten this, yesterday would have been that day.
Even my parents called, to lay on a layer of extra thick and creamy guilt.
Last evening was the nursing home Christmas party.
I was not there.
Experience tells me this is something for which I was pay, greatly.
Instead of partaking of cranberry juice and petit fours, I was in front of my computer, editing, or at my desk, editing.
The at my desk editing was for my students.
Who have, at this point, about as much confidence in their writing abilities as I have in mine.
Now, the day may not have been so long yesterday had I communicated better with my husband.
I laboured under the delusion that he had an appointment at 7.00 pm last evening.
He had an appointment at 6.00 pm.
By the time I was apprised of my error, it was too late to do anything about it.
This would be one of those experiences where I may have thought less about our decision to be a one car family.
A lot less.
Instead of coming home for 6.00 and enjoying a lovely meal of homemade chicken with wild rice soup and black bread, I had my supper at my desk.
Supper that was hastily delivered with an "I'm late I'll pick you up when I'm done!" and not even so much as a peck on the cheek.
MY husband was supposed to have dinner at my desk, too.
Cause misery loves company.
But, as usual, his internal clock was running about 30 minutes behind that of the entire planet's.
He returns at 8.00 pm.
I have been in my office since 8.00 am.
Tired and cranky are my office companions.
I want to go home.
But, I am missing a child.
Emily.
I know, approximately, where she is but I don't know if she knows that I want to leave.
Through texting and voice mail, I inform her that I am ready to leave.
We sit for another 30 minutes waiting for her to return my phone calls and texts.
Cause I was NOT getting home only to have to turn around and go right back out again.
I had to sit at the kitchen table and finish those edits.
And I did.
And at 10.30, I sent the completely edited manuscript to the proofreader for its final, and I do mean final, once over.
I'm starting to think that writing books is like giving birth.
You say you're never going to do it again.
But you do.
Because in between never and again there is a hidden space where your mind tucks away all the horrific memories until its too late.
And then hauls them out again.
While you listen to the cosmic muwahhhahahahahahaha in the background.
One bright spot during my day kept me from wanting to hurl myself off the Westmoreland Street Bridge.
A student came into my classroom during the last-class-help-with-term-paper-session with a plastic grocery bag.
And in this bag was a profusion of Lebanese delights.
I LOVE Lebanese food.
Okay, I love all food, but especially Lebanese food.
And this lovely student brought me and mine a meal for 4 in a bag.
A huge tub of hummus and bags of things I don' t know the name of, but it didn't matter because not knowing the name does not interfere with the taste.
It was simply delicious.
I know because I started eating as soon as she left.
Until Stephen intervened and took the bag away.
Under my barrage of admonishments about what would happen to his physical person if he ate it all before I did.
The kids each feasted on the bounty in the bag.
Loving every. single. solitary. minute.
We usually only have Lebanese food when we go to Basha's in Montreal, on the corner of Mansfield and St. Catherines.
But yesterday, Basha's came to me.
Emily, while sitting at the table with her plate in front of her, munching away in complete and utter rapture said,
"I wonder what it would be like to have a Mom who made you Lebanese food just because."
Thank you, thank you, thank you Mrs. Y.
You achieved the one thing I never had.
You made my 16-almost-17 year old happy.
Bless you!
Title Lyric: Bad Day by The Flaming Lips
Feeling this tired, I should of had a whole lot more fun yesterday than I did.
An endless parade of frazzled first years and tuckered third years came to me yesterday like I was the mountain and they were Mohammed.
Part of that is correct.
And in those few, and I mean few, short periods of quiet, I was editing, editing, editing.
And the editor was in the next room, passing pages of my manuscript with lightening speed.
Matched by my I-wish-I-had-lightening-but-I-can't-even-find-rain speed.
Interspersed throughout the mania and panic, the frustrations and hair pulling (mine, not my students) were the phone calls from home, reminding me, in case I had the audacity to forget, that I have an entire other life outside of my office.
And if there was ever a day where I would have, perchance, forgotten this, yesterday would have been that day.
Even my parents called, to lay on a layer of extra thick and creamy guilt.
Last evening was the nursing home Christmas party.
I was not there.
Experience tells me this is something for which I was pay, greatly.
Instead of partaking of cranberry juice and petit fours, I was in front of my computer, editing, or at my desk, editing.
The at my desk editing was for my students.
Who have, at this point, about as much confidence in their writing abilities as I have in mine.
Now, the day may not have been so long yesterday had I communicated better with my husband.
I laboured under the delusion that he had an appointment at 7.00 pm last evening.
He had an appointment at 6.00 pm.
By the time I was apprised of my error, it was too late to do anything about it.
This would be one of those experiences where I may have thought less about our decision to be a one car family.
A lot less.
Instead of coming home for 6.00 and enjoying a lovely meal of homemade chicken with wild rice soup and black bread, I had my supper at my desk.
Supper that was hastily delivered with an "I'm late I'll pick you up when I'm done!" and not even so much as a peck on the cheek.
MY husband was supposed to have dinner at my desk, too.
Cause misery loves company.
But, as usual, his internal clock was running about 30 minutes behind that of the entire planet's.
He returns at 8.00 pm.
I have been in my office since 8.00 am.
Tired and cranky are my office companions.
I want to go home.
But, I am missing a child.
Emily.
I know, approximately, where she is but I don't know if she knows that I want to leave.
Through texting and voice mail, I inform her that I am ready to leave.
We sit for another 30 minutes waiting for her to return my phone calls and texts.
Cause I was NOT getting home only to have to turn around and go right back out again.
I had to sit at the kitchen table and finish those edits.
And I did.
And at 10.30, I sent the completely edited manuscript to the proofreader for its final, and I do mean final, once over.
I'm starting to think that writing books is like giving birth.
You say you're never going to do it again.
But you do.
Because in between never and again there is a hidden space where your mind tucks away all the horrific memories until its too late.
And then hauls them out again.
While you listen to the cosmic muwahhhahahahahahaha in the background.
One bright spot during my day kept me from wanting to hurl myself off the Westmoreland Street Bridge.
A student came into my classroom during the last-class-help-with-term-paper-session with a plastic grocery bag.
And in this bag was a profusion of Lebanese delights.
I LOVE Lebanese food.
Okay, I love all food, but especially Lebanese food.
And this lovely student brought me and mine a meal for 4 in a bag.
A huge tub of hummus and bags of things I don' t know the name of, but it didn't matter because not knowing the name does not interfere with the taste.
It was simply delicious.
I know because I started eating as soon as she left.
Until Stephen intervened and took the bag away.
Under my barrage of admonishments about what would happen to his physical person if he ate it all before I did.
The kids each feasted on the bounty in the bag.
Loving every. single. solitary. minute.
We usually only have Lebanese food when we go to Basha's in Montreal, on the corner of Mansfield and St. Catherines.
But yesterday, Basha's came to me.
Emily, while sitting at the table with her plate in front of her, munching away in complete and utter rapture said,
"I wonder what it would be like to have a Mom who made you Lebanese food just because."
Thank you, thank you, thank you Mrs. Y.
You achieved the one thing I never had.
You made my 16-almost-17 year old happy.
Bless you!
Title Lyric: Bad Day by The Flaming Lips
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
I should keep it growing til I can't see where I'm going. . . .
December 8, 2010
It has finally arrived.
The day I have been anticipating for months.
Waiting for.
Wishing for.
Dreaming of.
It is. . . .
THE LAST DAY OF CLASSES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I made it.
There were times when I wasn't sure if I would.
If the madness and insanity of my students, carried like malaria in mosquitoes would overcome me.
Crashed computers, disfunctional alarm clocks, infectious diseases, candy craving junkies, student presentations, first year writing assignments, advanced qual students psychosis, book editing, book publishers, second year mania, identity crises, relationship regret, headaches, heartaches. . .
I have survived them all.
Again.
But who knows for how much longer?
At 10.20 am, I will not teach in a classroom until January.
Give exams?
Yes, one.
Grade papers?
Yes. And I can't count that high.
But let me, please, revel in the euphoria that accompanies the last day of classes.
Quickly followed by the heart stopping panic that grades have to be before Christmas.
Correction: should be in before Christmas.
Bird's Nest and Bump-It are finally getting a haircut.
In spite of all these degrees, I cannot understand, fathom, reason, rationalize Keith and Stephen's reluctance to get hair cuts.
Especially when they so desperately need them.
Keith's hair literally looks like a bird's nest.
Baby birds, bird's eggs, twigs, leaves, bits of Tikka's hair inhabit Keith's hair.
He keeps snacks in there, too.
Granola bars, cookies, cheese, veggie sticks, juice boxes. . .
His hair is a veritable cornicopia of bite sized delights.
I blame his friends, completely, for his not wanting to rid his head of its nest.
They tell him it looks good.
They like it.
They LIE!
People actually ask if they can touch it.
Now, I may have, on occassion, found myself running my fingers through his tangle of curly hair, as it can be somewhat soothing.
But, he rarely allows me to do this, and I risk my life every time I do.
Who knows what small woodland creature I may be disturbing?
Keith's hair does not grow down, it grows out.
A caucasian afro of gigantic proportions.
Sometimes, for fun, I'll have him pick it out, just to see how big it can get.
I usually cry "uncle" when I am being forced out of the room by his hair.
I can ask, beg, plead, threaten, cry, whine to no avail.
Offers to drive him to Norma, the Hair Goddess, at Klub Soda (454-7632) and PAY for his grooming fall on deaf ears.
Poor Norma.
Once, when he allowed his hair to reach gargantuan proportions, I dragged him downtown for a hair cut. She got him into the chair, wrapped him up in the cape, and then said, "I don't even know where to start!"
I called yesterday and made an appointment.
He complained when I informed him of said appointment.
And I made him call back and reschedule.
Tomorrow.
12.30.
When I spoke with Norma later, I warned her what was coming.
She replied, "Oh, I know. He walked by yesterday and I said, "OH MY GAWD!"
Sharpen yer clippers.
Get your your brooms.
Call Animal Control.
Keith is getting his hair cut.
Because I am all about efficiency, at least in some aspects of my life, I arranged for Bump-It to follow Keith to the clippers.
Stephen.
Again, always an issue, except maybe in the summer because of the heat.
But any other time, mention getting a hair cut to Stephen and he says, "I know. I'll get to it later."
Meaning, shut up and mind your own business. It's my hair and I'll get it caught when I am damn well ready!"
Unlike Keith, Stephen doesn't grow the world's only on-head bird's nest.
Stephen has lovely, thick salt and pepper hair.
It grows down not out.
And it grows quickly.
Were it not for the Bump-It, Stephen's hair could grow to his knuckles for all I cared.
However, for some bizarre reason, a misplaced cow's lick perhaps, when Stephen's hair gets long he develops, on the left side of the top of his head, a Bump-It.
Women pay money to purchase the plastic accoutrement that creates small mountains on the tops of their heads.
Stephen's occurs naturally.
And the longer it is allowed to grow, the bigger the bump it gets.
Meaning, I called Norma, again yesterday, and asked if she had an appointment time available for Stephen.
Preferably close to Keith.
She did.
Bird's Nest and Bump-It will morph back into Keith and Stephen after a mere 30 minutes each with Norma.
And you want to tell me she isn't a goddess????????
Stephen learned his lesson about hair cuts a long time ago.
He asked me to cut his hair.
All I had were the cat clippers, used to remove knots from my longer haired cats.
I put him in the middle of the kitchen.
On a chair.
And fired up the clippers.
His first mistake was asking me.
His second was thinking I knew what I was doing.
I didn't.
Which lead to his third mistake.
Not running out of the house upon hearing these words from the mouth of the then ten year old Emily,
"I can fix that!"
A 10 year old with cat clippers, and he thought he'd come out looking like George Clooney?????
At work the next day, people kept stopping to ask if he was alright.
They thought he'd had chemotherapy.
And then, suddenly, I had all these people at my door looking for hair cuts.
Ha. Ha.
He should be happy all we cut off was his hair.
Title Lyric: Modern Haircut by Minus
It has finally arrived.
The day I have been anticipating for months.
Waiting for.
Wishing for.
Dreaming of.
It is. . . .
THE LAST DAY OF CLASSES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I made it.
There were times when I wasn't sure if I would.
If the madness and insanity of my students, carried like malaria in mosquitoes would overcome me.
Crashed computers, disfunctional alarm clocks, infectious diseases, candy craving junkies, student presentations, first year writing assignments, advanced qual students psychosis, book editing, book publishers, second year mania, identity crises, relationship regret, headaches, heartaches. . .
I have survived them all.
Again.
But who knows for how much longer?
At 10.20 am, I will not teach in a classroom until January.
Give exams?
Yes, one.
Grade papers?
Yes. And I can't count that high.
But let me, please, revel in the euphoria that accompanies the last day of classes.
Quickly followed by the heart stopping panic that grades have to be before Christmas.
Correction: should be in before Christmas.
Bird's Nest and Bump-It are finally getting a haircut.
In spite of all these degrees, I cannot understand, fathom, reason, rationalize Keith and Stephen's reluctance to get hair cuts.
Especially when they so desperately need them.
Keith's hair literally looks like a bird's nest.
Baby birds, bird's eggs, twigs, leaves, bits of Tikka's hair inhabit Keith's hair.
He keeps snacks in there, too.
Granola bars, cookies, cheese, veggie sticks, juice boxes. . .
His hair is a veritable cornicopia of bite sized delights.
I blame his friends, completely, for his not wanting to rid his head of its nest.
They tell him it looks good.
They like it.
They LIE!
People actually ask if they can touch it.
Now, I may have, on occassion, found myself running my fingers through his tangle of curly hair, as it can be somewhat soothing.
But, he rarely allows me to do this, and I risk my life every time I do.
Who knows what small woodland creature I may be disturbing?
Keith's hair does not grow down, it grows out.
A caucasian afro of gigantic proportions.
Sometimes, for fun, I'll have him pick it out, just to see how big it can get.
I usually cry "uncle" when I am being forced out of the room by his hair.
I can ask, beg, plead, threaten, cry, whine to no avail.
Offers to drive him to Norma, the Hair Goddess, at Klub Soda (454-7632) and PAY for his grooming fall on deaf ears.
Poor Norma.
Once, when he allowed his hair to reach gargantuan proportions, I dragged him downtown for a hair cut. She got him into the chair, wrapped him up in the cape, and then said, "I don't even know where to start!"
I called yesterday and made an appointment.
He complained when I informed him of said appointment.
And I made him call back and reschedule.
Tomorrow.
12.30.
When I spoke with Norma later, I warned her what was coming.
She replied, "Oh, I know. He walked by yesterday and I said, "OH MY GAWD!"
Sharpen yer clippers.
Get your your brooms.
Call Animal Control.
Keith is getting his hair cut.
Because I am all about efficiency, at least in some aspects of my life, I arranged for Bump-It to follow Keith to the clippers.
Stephen.
Again, always an issue, except maybe in the summer because of the heat.
But any other time, mention getting a hair cut to Stephen and he says, "I know. I'll get to it later."
Meaning, shut up and mind your own business. It's my hair and I'll get it caught when I am damn well ready!"
Unlike Keith, Stephen doesn't grow the world's only on-head bird's nest.
Stephen has lovely, thick salt and pepper hair.
It grows down not out.
And it grows quickly.
Were it not for the Bump-It, Stephen's hair could grow to his knuckles for all I cared.
However, for some bizarre reason, a misplaced cow's lick perhaps, when Stephen's hair gets long he develops, on the left side of the top of his head, a Bump-It.
Women pay money to purchase the plastic accoutrement that creates small mountains on the tops of their heads.
Stephen's occurs naturally.
And the longer it is allowed to grow, the bigger the bump it gets.
Meaning, I called Norma, again yesterday, and asked if she had an appointment time available for Stephen.
Preferably close to Keith.
She did.
Bird's Nest and Bump-It will morph back into Keith and Stephen after a mere 30 minutes each with Norma.
And you want to tell me she isn't a goddess????????
Stephen learned his lesson about hair cuts a long time ago.
He asked me to cut his hair.
All I had were the cat clippers, used to remove knots from my longer haired cats.
I put him in the middle of the kitchen.
On a chair.
And fired up the clippers.
His first mistake was asking me.
His second was thinking I knew what I was doing.
I didn't.
Which lead to his third mistake.
Not running out of the house upon hearing these words from the mouth of the then ten year old Emily,
"I can fix that!"
A 10 year old with cat clippers, and he thought he'd come out looking like George Clooney?????
At work the next day, people kept stopping to ask if he was alright.
They thought he'd had chemotherapy.
And then, suddenly, I had all these people at my door looking for hair cuts.
Ha. Ha.
He should be happy all we cut off was his hair.
Title Lyric: Modern Haircut by Minus
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Now Christmas cookies are a special treat, the more she bakes, the more I eat. . .
December 7, 2010
Every once in a while, something will happen to remind us feeble humans that we aren't as in control of the world around us as we would like to think we are.
That for all the technology at our disposal, we get things wrong.
Case in point, the snowstorm that wasn't.
After the schools were cancelled and everyone ran around making alternative arrangements for whatever was supposed to happen during the day, Mother Nature decided to give us all the finger and took her storm and went elsewhere to play.
On behalf of all of us who were not looking forward to shoveling ourselves out, and for my daughter who got her snow day,
Thank you Mother Nature.
Yet again, you've demonstrated the right, the privilege of women to change their minds at the last minute, just because they can.
These infernal book edits are slowly coming to an end.
Slowly.
Just a few pages left and I will say adios, hopefully permanently.
But if I learned anything out of this process, other than that I am not the writer I thought I was, it's that when it comes to publishing, never say never.
Just hope.
A lot.
The nice thing about having a snowstorm-that-never-was-but-cancelled-school-anyway, was that I was able to sit at the kitchen table the entire day and work on edits.
I even drove to where the proofreader works part time and picked up more pages, keeping me busy until around 9.00 last evening.
And because my youngest child was home with "nothing to do" I was able to successfully and unashamedly exploit her labour.
I asked her to make two double batches of shortbread cookies.
She did.
But with some compromise.
While I sat here working, and she baked herself into a shortbread cookie coma, we listened to All Emily, All the Time.
While shifting sentences and moving paragraphs, changing words and wreaking havoc with punctuation, I was regaled with every Glee soundtrack in this house, Marianna's Trench, Lady Gaga and Panic at the Disco.
That another migraine did not descend upon my poor overworked and overwrought self is still a mystery to me.
But just to be on the safe side, I was in bed and asleep by 9.30 pm.
Hence why I was up and in the shower at 5.00 am.
Now these shortbread cookies are a long standing tradition in our family.
My grandmother, my mother, me and now my girls have spent countless hours standing at the kitchen counter with full pounds of butter, flour, and other assorted ingredients to create the perfect shortbread cookie.
Rolling, forking, sprinkles, dipping in chocoate, we have perfected the making of the shortbread into an art.
For a couple of Christmases, I took orders and sold them at a friend's craft fair, but I had to stop.
It was becoming an all encompassing activity for which I made little money, and most importantly, I was starting to hate the shortbread.
Last Christmas, I made a batch to send to Mer and one for the only class I had writing an exam.
But I did donate a batch to the United Way auction held recently at STU, and I promised my Advanced Methods class a batch, so yesterday Emily made cookies.
I have been making these cookies since I was old enough to hold onto cookie dough and not shove it up my nose, in my ears, or any other available orifice on my person.
And the same is the case for my kids.
In fact, I used to give them each a bowl full of made-by-Mummy cookie dough and make them roll them out and decorate them.
And then I would mark papers and exams in ten minute bursts.
Cause that's how long it takes these buttery marvels to bake.
I had a shortbread cookie assembly line that would have made Henry Ford stand up and take notice.
All from the little hands of my small children.
Their labour only made the cookies taste better.
Another reason I have had to step back from the cookie production is because I can eat at least as many cookies as I can bake.
I carry with me the evidence to prove this.
It was very difficult yesterday to be in the same room as the most glorious of Christmas cookies were being made.
I will admit to eating one.
And it will be the only one I eat the entire holiday.
Why?
Because I figure I've eaten enough of these cookies to last me until the Christmases I experience in my next life time.
That's why.
I've had my share and the share of a small country.
No longer will I be tempted by the buttery goodness of the homemade shortbread cookie.
Even if I have to lock myself in my office until Christmas is over.
And yesterday was momentous for yet another reason.
After months and months of months of looking at my son harbouring the patchy scrub he calls a beard and sideburns dotting the landscape of his face, I was granted the pleasure of seeing his face scrubless.
He shaved.
I don't know what cosmic force brought hither such a delightful and very long overdue gift, but I am so glad it finally came.
My son is a handsome young man.
But with sideburns and a beard he just looks like someone who has forgotten how to wash his face.
But now, the smooth, cherub face I know and love has returned full force.
Making me a very happy mama.
If he would only get the bird's nest covering the top of his head cut, I would be estatic.
Title Lyric: Christmas Cookies by George Strait
Every once in a while, something will happen to remind us feeble humans that we aren't as in control of the world around us as we would like to think we are.
That for all the technology at our disposal, we get things wrong.
Case in point, the snowstorm that wasn't.
After the schools were cancelled and everyone ran around making alternative arrangements for whatever was supposed to happen during the day, Mother Nature decided to give us all the finger and took her storm and went elsewhere to play.
On behalf of all of us who were not looking forward to shoveling ourselves out, and for my daughter who got her snow day,
Thank you Mother Nature.
Yet again, you've demonstrated the right, the privilege of women to change their minds at the last minute, just because they can.
These infernal book edits are slowly coming to an end.
Slowly.
Just a few pages left and I will say adios, hopefully permanently.
But if I learned anything out of this process, other than that I am not the writer I thought I was, it's that when it comes to publishing, never say never.
Just hope.
A lot.
The nice thing about having a snowstorm-that-never-was-but-cancelled-school-anyway, was that I was able to sit at the kitchen table the entire day and work on edits.
I even drove to where the proofreader works part time and picked up more pages, keeping me busy until around 9.00 last evening.
And because my youngest child was home with "nothing to do" I was able to successfully and unashamedly exploit her labour.
I asked her to make two double batches of shortbread cookies.
She did.
But with some compromise.
While I sat here working, and she baked herself into a shortbread cookie coma, we listened to All Emily, All the Time.
While shifting sentences and moving paragraphs, changing words and wreaking havoc with punctuation, I was regaled with every Glee soundtrack in this house, Marianna's Trench, Lady Gaga and Panic at the Disco.
That another migraine did not descend upon my poor overworked and overwrought self is still a mystery to me.
But just to be on the safe side, I was in bed and asleep by 9.30 pm.
Hence why I was up and in the shower at 5.00 am.
Now these shortbread cookies are a long standing tradition in our family.
My grandmother, my mother, me and now my girls have spent countless hours standing at the kitchen counter with full pounds of butter, flour, and other assorted ingredients to create the perfect shortbread cookie.
Rolling, forking, sprinkles, dipping in chocoate, we have perfected the making of the shortbread into an art.
For a couple of Christmases, I took orders and sold them at a friend's craft fair, but I had to stop.
It was becoming an all encompassing activity for which I made little money, and most importantly, I was starting to hate the shortbread.
Last Christmas, I made a batch to send to Mer and one for the only class I had writing an exam.
But I did donate a batch to the United Way auction held recently at STU, and I promised my Advanced Methods class a batch, so yesterday Emily made cookies.
I have been making these cookies since I was old enough to hold onto cookie dough and not shove it up my nose, in my ears, or any other available orifice on my person.
And the same is the case for my kids.
In fact, I used to give them each a bowl full of made-by-Mummy cookie dough and make them roll them out and decorate them.
And then I would mark papers and exams in ten minute bursts.
Cause that's how long it takes these buttery marvels to bake.
I had a shortbread cookie assembly line that would have made Henry Ford stand up and take notice.
All from the little hands of my small children.
Their labour only made the cookies taste better.
Another reason I have had to step back from the cookie production is because I can eat at least as many cookies as I can bake.
I carry with me the evidence to prove this.
It was very difficult yesterday to be in the same room as the most glorious of Christmas cookies were being made.
I will admit to eating one.
And it will be the only one I eat the entire holiday.
Why?
Because I figure I've eaten enough of these cookies to last me until the Christmases I experience in my next life time.
That's why.
I've had my share and the share of a small country.
No longer will I be tempted by the buttery goodness of the homemade shortbread cookie.
Even if I have to lock myself in my office until Christmas is over.
And yesterday was momentous for yet another reason.
After months and months of months of looking at my son harbouring the patchy scrub he calls a beard and sideburns dotting the landscape of his face, I was granted the pleasure of seeing his face scrubless.
He shaved.
I don't know what cosmic force brought hither such a delightful and very long overdue gift, but I am so glad it finally came.
My son is a handsome young man.
But with sideburns and a beard he just looks like someone who has forgotten how to wash his face.
But now, the smooth, cherub face I know and love has returned full force.
Making me a very happy mama.
If he would only get the bird's nest covering the top of his head cut, I would be estatic.
Title Lyric: Christmas Cookies by George Strait
Monday, December 6, 2010
What a glorious feeling, I'm happy again. . .
December 6, 2010
SNOW DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For one day, I am spared the trauma, both physical and emotional, of trying desperately to remove Emily from the warm snuggieness of her bed.
The complaints, grunts, moans, whining and whinging will not rear their ugly heads this morning.
Repeating the refrains, "I don't want to get up! I don't want to go to school! How come I have to go????" can take a break today.
Stephen's musings aloud, albeit while still almost completely asleep, why I am leaving him and the nice warm bed can restrain themselves for one morning.
And Frankie and Tikka won't give me their sad, pity-us faces when I confine them in our bedroom with Stephen while I make my escape.
All in all, a good way to start the day.
In fact, if it snowed all week, that would be fine with me.
I have enough work here for me and a small army of super intelligent elves who I bribe with unlimited honey to edit the book and help me mark papers.
And Em will make cookies.
Yes she will.
Because I need them made for tomorrow and I don't have time to do it.
What other possible reason is there for having children if you can't force them to make cookies and shovel the driveway.
Last evening, shortly after posting my blog and while in the midst of more of the infernal, never ending editing, I experienced something that I haven't had to deal with in a long time.
A very long time.
The early warning signs of an impending migraine.
Once upon a time, when I was in middle school, I noticed that every once in a while, the vision in my right eye would disappear and be replaced with the equivalent to snow on a tv screen.
And in those early, unaware, uneducated days of my youth, I happily ignored this sign, thinking it was just something that would go away.
Until the vision in my left eye would leave for sunnier climes, leaving me unable to walk, or operate heavy machinery.
Shortly after experiencing temporary blindness, I would be visited by a pain so intense that lying on my bed in a dark room, not moving at all except for breathing and the occasional blink of my eyes was about all I could manage.
Eating or drinking?
Not unless I wanted to blindly stumble to the bathroom for some worshipping of the porcelain gods.
Childbirth, tattooes, living with Meredyth, none of them even held a candle to this pain.
Not even a distant flicker.
In bed I would lay, wishing for death, not knowing how long, this time, it would take for the pain to disappear.
Inevitably, if my migraines occured during a weekday, it was always after I got off the school bus, meaning I had to call one of my parents to come and retreive me.
Cat scans, MRIs in St. John, special medications. . .my doctor could find no reason for the painful parade of rapidly opening and closing blood vessels, constricting just for shits and giggles.
After high school, they petered off, and would visit only once in a blue moon.
The last serious bout was when I had made the decision to leave Keith and experienced a week long of cluster migraines while trying to pack and look after two small children.
THAT is an experience I have actively blocked from my consciousness.
So imagine my surprise when, last evening, sitting in front of my computer, as I had been for the past 48 hours, I realized that the vision in my right eye was being replaced by the snow from the tv screen.
Immediately, I inhaled acetominaphen with codeine, shut down my computer and went to bed.
At 5.30 pm.
And stayed there until 7.00 am.
Stephen's directives were to keep all bright lights away from me, so no flinging the lights on at 2.00 am when searching for his pjs.
No loud noises.
No quick, unexpected movements.
Just quiet and dark.
He did pretty well, but there was some light when he wanted to read.
The nerve.
Right now, the sharp, agonizing, DEFCON 5 pains have been downgraded to a 1, so I should be able to function reasonably well today.
Should being the operative word.
Hope is more like it.
Em theorized that this horrific event of catastrophic proportions is the result of stressing about work.
She may be right.
All I know is that nothing strikes fear and panic into my beating heart faster than an early warning migraine sign.
Nothing.
At all.
Migraine recovering snow day.
Whodathunkit?
A day to go back to bed, get up, continue working, exploit the kid's labour, watch Stephen and Keith shovel the driveway while Goblet attempts to escape from the house and Tikka and Frankie whine at the windows because they feel left out.
Or, Environment Canada got it wrong, and everything was cancelled for nothing.
Doesn't matter though, cause once something is cancelled, you can't uncancel it.
And Em, the Queen of Early Morning Misery is, right now, awake, on the floor loving Frankie and Tikka.
Singing, "Singing in the Rain."
How come?
Because she can.
Because getting up was the result of wanting not needing.
Miserable little wretch.
Title Lyric: Singing in the Rain by Gene Kelly
SNOW DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For one day, I am spared the trauma, both physical and emotional, of trying desperately to remove Emily from the warm snuggieness of her bed.
The complaints, grunts, moans, whining and whinging will not rear their ugly heads this morning.
Repeating the refrains, "I don't want to get up! I don't want to go to school! How come I have to go????" can take a break today.
Stephen's musings aloud, albeit while still almost completely asleep, why I am leaving him and the nice warm bed can restrain themselves for one morning.
And Frankie and Tikka won't give me their sad, pity-us faces when I confine them in our bedroom with Stephen while I make my escape.
All in all, a good way to start the day.
In fact, if it snowed all week, that would be fine with me.
I have enough work here for me and a small army of super intelligent elves who I bribe with unlimited honey to edit the book and help me mark papers.
And Em will make cookies.
Yes she will.
Because I need them made for tomorrow and I don't have time to do it.
What other possible reason is there for having children if you can't force them to make cookies and shovel the driveway.
Last evening, shortly after posting my blog and while in the midst of more of the infernal, never ending editing, I experienced something that I haven't had to deal with in a long time.
A very long time.
The early warning signs of an impending migraine.
Once upon a time, when I was in middle school, I noticed that every once in a while, the vision in my right eye would disappear and be replaced with the equivalent to snow on a tv screen.
And in those early, unaware, uneducated days of my youth, I happily ignored this sign, thinking it was just something that would go away.
Until the vision in my left eye would leave for sunnier climes, leaving me unable to walk, or operate heavy machinery.
Shortly after experiencing temporary blindness, I would be visited by a pain so intense that lying on my bed in a dark room, not moving at all except for breathing and the occasional blink of my eyes was about all I could manage.
Eating or drinking?
Not unless I wanted to blindly stumble to the bathroom for some worshipping of the porcelain gods.
Childbirth, tattooes, living with Meredyth, none of them even held a candle to this pain.
Not even a distant flicker.
In bed I would lay, wishing for death, not knowing how long, this time, it would take for the pain to disappear.
Inevitably, if my migraines occured during a weekday, it was always after I got off the school bus, meaning I had to call one of my parents to come and retreive me.
Cat scans, MRIs in St. John, special medications. . .my doctor could find no reason for the painful parade of rapidly opening and closing blood vessels, constricting just for shits and giggles.
After high school, they petered off, and would visit only once in a blue moon.
The last serious bout was when I had made the decision to leave Keith and experienced a week long of cluster migraines while trying to pack and look after two small children.
THAT is an experience I have actively blocked from my consciousness.
So imagine my surprise when, last evening, sitting in front of my computer, as I had been for the past 48 hours, I realized that the vision in my right eye was being replaced by the snow from the tv screen.
Immediately, I inhaled acetominaphen with codeine, shut down my computer and went to bed.
At 5.30 pm.
And stayed there until 7.00 am.
Stephen's directives were to keep all bright lights away from me, so no flinging the lights on at 2.00 am when searching for his pjs.
No loud noises.
No quick, unexpected movements.
Just quiet and dark.
He did pretty well, but there was some light when he wanted to read.
The nerve.
Right now, the sharp, agonizing, DEFCON 5 pains have been downgraded to a 1, so I should be able to function reasonably well today.
Should being the operative word.
Hope is more like it.
Em theorized that this horrific event of catastrophic proportions is the result of stressing about work.
She may be right.
All I know is that nothing strikes fear and panic into my beating heart faster than an early warning migraine sign.
Nothing.
At all.
Migraine recovering snow day.
Whodathunkit?
A day to go back to bed, get up, continue working, exploit the kid's labour, watch Stephen and Keith shovel the driveway while Goblet attempts to escape from the house and Tikka and Frankie whine at the windows because they feel left out.
Or, Environment Canada got it wrong, and everything was cancelled for nothing.
Doesn't matter though, cause once something is cancelled, you can't uncancel it.
And Em, the Queen of Early Morning Misery is, right now, awake, on the floor loving Frankie and Tikka.
Singing, "Singing in the Rain."
How come?
Because she can.
Because getting up was the result of wanting not needing.
Miserable little wretch.
Title Lyric: Singing in the Rain by Gene Kelly
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Snow pains on the motor veins. . .
December 5, 2010
The last two days have been nothing but me sitting at the computer working on these book edits.
Housework is starting to look desirable at this point.
Even the kids are entertaining.
Keith just shoved a huge chocolate covered peanut butter ball into his mouth.
Tinfoil included.
I almost let it go, waiting for him to realize that he was eating everything, tinfoil and all.
But, my maternal instincts overrode my intense need for entertainment and at the last moment, I told him.
Because wanting to be entertained was also trumped by not wanting to sit in the emergency room because Keith doesn't have the patience to remove tinfoil wrappings.
But I am in the home stretch of the edits.
At least I'd better be.
The marking that is piling higher and higher is almost ready to topple, fall, crash on top of my head and render me unconscious.
Not that actually reading the paper won't result in the same thing, but the process will be slower and less painful.
Nothing for Christmas has been done. . .no shopping, no baking, no nothing.
I didn't visit my mother last evening because I am not doing anything I would enjoy until the last word in the last chapter on the last page has been vetted, corrected and ready to move on.
I have everything except the last chapter.
Tomorrow was supposed to be the delivery date, but, Mother Nature has other plans in store for me.
Apparently, we are supposed to get around 20 mm of rain and 25 cm of snow.
Meaning I am going in to grab all that marking on the off chance that I don't get the last chapter.
Cause there is nothing worse than having nothing to do.
Not that I've experienced such a thing since the day Mer was conceived, but I suspect that it's unpleasant.
The kids, actually more specifically Emily, are anticipating a snow storm of epic proportions.
Cancelling school and university.
Keith won't have to submit his paper.
Emily won't have to get out of bed before noon.
Stephen won't have to get out of bed before three pm.
I'll have to get up at the usual time, because there isn't a weather condition in existence that will deter Frankie from his morning pee pee.
Tikka, maybe.
I have seen Tikka, while it rains, stand in the threshold of the front door, four legs firmly rooted to the floor, collar straining around her neck because I am on the other end of the leash, my legs firmly on the cement, both hands on the leash, rain pouring all over me, trying to get this stubborn diva who believes she is just oh-so-too-delicate to get herself wet.
Even during the lightest of drizzles, she behaves like this.
So while everyone else in my house is basking in the knowledge that they don't have to get up because everything is cancelled. . . .
. . .so they hope. . .
I will be standing outside inj my zebra striped flannel pjs waiting for Bonnie and Clyde to engage in their morning ablutions, so I can go back inside the house and try to fit myself into the dryer.
This means that tonight, Em, Keith and Stephen will ALL go to bed with their pjs on inside out hoping that this tried and true ritual will once again bring them the snow day the so desire.
Personally, I don't assume anything is going to happen.
Too many times I have been lead to believe that the skies will open and deposit such a tremendous load of snow that everything will shut down for a minimum of 24 hours, if not more.
Kids get excited, anticipating all the joy of a snow day, and I always end up being the one to have to go into their rooms at the appointed time and wake them up.
And facing the wrath of the disappointed-kids-who-thought-a-snow-day-was-in-their-future.
Ugly.
Just plain ugly.
Especially Emily.
She morphs from my beautiful daughter into an evil, beast like gargoyle who speaks in tongues and calls me things that no child in their right mind would ever consider calling their parent if they weren't in the throes of a devil inspited possession.
So, I don't believe that tomorrow will be a snow day.
But, I also have no problems preparing for it.
Lots of milk and all other necessities are in stock, so no one will starve to death, and Keith won't dehydrate because he's missed his daily 8 liters of milk.
All four legged furry critters have sustenance enough to last them for several snowstorms.
Stephen and Keith have brought in the lawnmower, so there is no fear that it will have to spend the winter underneath the black covering that's supposed to be for a bbq.
A bbq that blew off the deck during a particularly ferocious windstorm.
Bring it on Mother Nature, cause if you don't bail, again, we'll be ready.
Or at least Stephen and the kids will be.
I'll be inside marking.
Title Lyric: Snow Day by Trip Shakespeare
The last two days have been nothing but me sitting at the computer working on these book edits.
Housework is starting to look desirable at this point.
Even the kids are entertaining.
Keith just shoved a huge chocolate covered peanut butter ball into his mouth.
Tinfoil included.
I almost let it go, waiting for him to realize that he was eating everything, tinfoil and all.
But, my maternal instincts overrode my intense need for entertainment and at the last moment, I told him.
Because wanting to be entertained was also trumped by not wanting to sit in the emergency room because Keith doesn't have the patience to remove tinfoil wrappings.
But I am in the home stretch of the edits.
At least I'd better be.
The marking that is piling higher and higher is almost ready to topple, fall, crash on top of my head and render me unconscious.
Not that actually reading the paper won't result in the same thing, but the process will be slower and less painful.
Nothing for Christmas has been done. . .no shopping, no baking, no nothing.
I didn't visit my mother last evening because I am not doing anything I would enjoy until the last word in the last chapter on the last page has been vetted, corrected and ready to move on.
I have everything except the last chapter.
Tomorrow was supposed to be the delivery date, but, Mother Nature has other plans in store for me.
Apparently, we are supposed to get around 20 mm of rain and 25 cm of snow.
Meaning I am going in to grab all that marking on the off chance that I don't get the last chapter.
Cause there is nothing worse than having nothing to do.
Not that I've experienced such a thing since the day Mer was conceived, but I suspect that it's unpleasant.
The kids, actually more specifically Emily, are anticipating a snow storm of epic proportions.
Cancelling school and university.
Keith won't have to submit his paper.
Emily won't have to get out of bed before noon.
Stephen won't have to get out of bed before three pm.
I'll have to get up at the usual time, because there isn't a weather condition in existence that will deter Frankie from his morning pee pee.
Tikka, maybe.
I have seen Tikka, while it rains, stand in the threshold of the front door, four legs firmly rooted to the floor, collar straining around her neck because I am on the other end of the leash, my legs firmly on the cement, both hands on the leash, rain pouring all over me, trying to get this stubborn diva who believes she is just oh-so-too-delicate to get herself wet.
Even during the lightest of drizzles, she behaves like this.
So while everyone else in my house is basking in the knowledge that they don't have to get up because everything is cancelled. . . .
. . .so they hope. . .
I will be standing outside inj my zebra striped flannel pjs waiting for Bonnie and Clyde to engage in their morning ablutions, so I can go back inside the house and try to fit myself into the dryer.
This means that tonight, Em, Keith and Stephen will ALL go to bed with their pjs on inside out hoping that this tried and true ritual will once again bring them the snow day the so desire.
Personally, I don't assume anything is going to happen.
Too many times I have been lead to believe that the skies will open and deposit such a tremendous load of snow that everything will shut down for a minimum of 24 hours, if not more.
Kids get excited, anticipating all the joy of a snow day, and I always end up being the one to have to go into their rooms at the appointed time and wake them up.
And facing the wrath of the disappointed-kids-who-thought-a-snow-day-was-in-their-future.
Ugly.
Just plain ugly.
Especially Emily.
She morphs from my beautiful daughter into an evil, beast like gargoyle who speaks in tongues and calls me things that no child in their right mind would ever consider calling their parent if they weren't in the throes of a devil inspited possession.
So, I don't believe that tomorrow will be a snow day.
But, I also have no problems preparing for it.
Lots of milk and all other necessities are in stock, so no one will starve to death, and Keith won't dehydrate because he's missed his daily 8 liters of milk.
All four legged furry critters have sustenance enough to last them for several snowstorms.
Stephen and Keith have brought in the lawnmower, so there is no fear that it will have to spend the winter underneath the black covering that's supposed to be for a bbq.
A bbq that blew off the deck during a particularly ferocious windstorm.
Bring it on Mother Nature, cause if you don't bail, again, we'll be ready.
Or at least Stephen and the kids will be.
I'll be inside marking.
Title Lyric: Snow Day by Trip Shakespeare
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