She loves fine dining. . . .

January 22, 2011



2.30 am

Sleeping.

Nicely.

Suddenly, the oh-so-familiar-paw-on-back-of-head is perceived.

At least it was the back of my head and not my front, which hurts a whole lot more.

And to whom did this malevolent paw belong to?

Tikka.

Who else?

In spite of a midnight meander outside in a blizzard for her before bed ablutions, she felt the pressing need to again seek the relief of the cold outdoors to relieve herself.

Of everything.

Thankfully the snow had ceased, however, it was frigid while standing out there waiting for Tikka to make up her mind about where she wanted to relieve herself.

Why this has to be such an issue is wholly beyond me.

Outside, drop, finish, back inside.

Not outside, sniff for anything that might possibly be different as a result of the blowing snow and blizzard conditions of a few hours earlier, wander aimlessly about the front yard as much as your leash will allow, consider dropping here, consider dropping there, drop a little here, drop a little there, eventually finish, and then decide that perhaps it would be nice to return to the warmth of the house.

Except for one problem.

The person at the other end of the leash is now frozen solid and unable to move, leaving said dog to drag the frozen person into the house to lie prone in the hallway until she thaws out enough to negotiate the stairs and return to bed.







Snow fell yesterday with such vehemence I wondered if my personal comments about a menopausal Mother Nature had raised her ire thus encouraging her to take it out on all of southern NB.

And of course this had to be day of Em's 17th birthday.

The day she wanted nothing more than to go out for dinner at the Diplomat to enjoy the Chinese buffet in the bosom of her loving family.

All of her loving, immediate family as Meredyth was also in attendance.

A Friday evening, neither chick nor child at work, meaning the five of us could go out for dinner together.

During a blizzard.

Snowstorm.

Blinding.

And did common sense prevail?

A common sense that would allow our little family to remain inside the warm comfort of our home, eating a home cooked meal and saving the birthday fare for the next day, a storm free day.

Of course it didn't.

We piled into car, buckled ourselves in, me behind the wheel because Em commented that even if Stephen did the driving I would tell him how to drive so I should spare the middle man and just drive myself.

Along the route from our house to the restaurant, we stopped and picked up Keith and Mer, who were made to walk from Mer's apartment to the top of her driveway because there was no way I was traversing the dead man's curve of Mer's driveway.

And thus the journey began.

Three kids in the back, Stephen in the front, me at the wheel.

I have no real problems driving in bad weather.

I only have one minor requirement.

Not much to ask, really.

Quite simple when you think of it.

Working, functioning, able to clear the windshield, wipers.

Not the willy-nilly-here-or-there-maybe-we'll-work-when-we-feel-like-it-wipers-that-allow-the-driver-of-said-auto-to-barely-see-where-she-is-going-while-manouvering-a-4000-pound-piece-of-machinery-and-listening-to-the-raucous-jocularity-of-her-children-and-husband-around-her.






Dinner was, as always, entertaining.

Anytime my three children find themselves together under the happy umbrella of Chinese buffet, entertainment will ensue.

Add the salivating Stephen to the mix and you have all the makings of a regular comedy troupe.

As soon as our very patient waiter took our drinks order, the kids and Stephen bolted to the buffet faster than the dogs when they know their food is covered with beef broth.

And did I join the stampede to the buffet tables?

Sadly, no.

I remained at the table, poring over the menu in search of something with chicken that was not breaded, battered, or deep fried, or slathered in a sauce with who knows how much sodium.

Several go throughs of the menu left me with only one viable option. . . .

Save not eating anything at all.

Chicken Caesar salad.

I know, I know, what about the dressing? the croutons? the bacon?

I ate around the croutons and the bacon, gave the accompanying garlic bread to Stephen and Mer.

Meaning lettuce and chicken were my staple for the evening.

And when I finished, a pile of croutons and bacon sat forlornly at the bottom of the bowl.

Begging, cajoling me to eat them.

Enjoy their taste and texture.

I held my ground because I had a bigger goal in mind.

Cheesecake.

Not the ginormous slices of cheesecake turning slowly, tantalizing in the display case, the first thing you see when you enter the Diplomat.

But the smaller, dessert buffet slices.

Brought to me by the birthday girl.

Even though I did not have the buffet, I figured that given what I spent for that meal, a small slice of buffet cheesecake wasn't going to put the Dip into receivership.

It.

Was.

So.

Good.

I ate it slowly.

Enjoying every. single. bite.

Because it would be a very, very, very long time before I had another slice of such a heavenly delight.

Oddly, I was not the least bit disturbed watching the kids and Stephen gorge themselves on the buffet.

Stephen even brought me a chicken ball.

I took the chicken out of the ball of batter and ate it.

It was lovely.

Some of the batter did manage to find it's way onto my taste buds.

And in the past I would have delighted in the crispy yet tender batter.

All I tasted last night was grease.

Quite unpleasant I must say.

Leaving me to conclude that I actually didn't want the chicken balls, with or without the batter and cherry sauce.

I was fine with my lettuce and chicken thank you very much.

Trust me when I say that this surprised me as much as anyone else.


Title Lyric: Fine Dining by Jason Mraz

She was just 17, you know what I mean. . . .

January 21, 2011


Seventeen years ago, today, I was in the hospital.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Knowing that whatever happened that day, my life was going to change.

And it did.






My baby, my littlest child, my angel is, today, 17 years old.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMILY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My God she's beautiful!

Takes my breath away every time I look at her.

Em and I are very close.

She came along at a time in my life when I was at my lowest.

And when I needed her the most.

I had just left my first husband, was transported from Ontario to New Brunswick via an old flame, and during an overnight stop Em was conceived.

Comments about my morality, or lackthereof at the time can be saved for later thank you very much.

I was two and a half months pregnant with her before I even realized that something was going on.

I'd just assumed the nausea, exhaustion, ill temper was the result of trauma.

Leaving your husband is traumatic even if getting out of there as fast as you could was the absolute best decision you could have ever made.

Moving.

Uprooting two small children.

Mer was 3 and a half, Keith was two.

I brought nothing but all their stuff, my clothes, my books and the washer and dryer.

Overwhelmed with the work involved in starting your life over, again, it never even occurred to me that I could be pregnant.

Finally, my brother had had enough, and he took me to the doctor.

First thing my doctor asked me was "Are you pregnant?"

Pause.

Longer pause.

And at that moment, lights blew on in my head, red flags sprouted all around and fireworks went off in the middle of the day.

Oh yeah.

Knocked up I was.

But, wanting to retain as much dignity as I could muster, I said,

"Hmmm. . .I'd never thought of that. Perhaps?"

Hospital.

Blood test.

I returned to Fredericton (my doctor's office is in Oromocto) thought, just for fun maybe the blood test will be done and called to see if the rabbit had died.

Oh yeah.

It did.

And I was two and half months pregnant with my third child when I had just left my husband, made all the arrangements to return to university, was living with my brother and his wife in a very small two bedroom house, no money, no job, no sanity. . . .

And a baby on the way.

Not much has stopped me dead in my tracks over my lifetime.

But this certainly did.

I went back to school, pregnant.

Went to all my classes.

Did really well that first term back.

Christmas vacation came and went.

By now the kids and I were living in an apartment right nextdoor to my brother.

And I spent every minute of that vacation trying to convince this baby to come out during the holidays so I wouldn't have to return to school pregnant, and have to leave again later.

That was my first sign of the impending stubbornness that was as much a part of this child as her need to breath and eat.

It wasn't until the 20th of January, after I left my Modern Sociological Theory class for the hospital, where I was scheduled for a c-section, that Em thought it may be time to come out and greet the world.

All the kids arrived via c-section.

I have no feeling left where the c-section scar is.

Nerves cut too many times.

Considering how long I had waited for this child, a scheduled c-section for 9.00 am the following morning was fine with me.

Until the contractions started.

And I just kept.my.mouth.shut.

There was NO way I was going to experience the pain and agony of natural child birth.

Been there.

Done that.

Didn't work out.

C-section was the only way.

Luckily, as with everything she does, Em was slow and methodical.

No rush jobs coming down the birth canal fast as Olympic Luger's for her.

Nice.

Slow.

Steady.

That's Em.

I wanted a boy.

Convinced, I was, that this child was a boy.

Had to be.

Because after Mer, another girl would have been one hell of a cruel joke.

My mother was with me throughout the entire birth.

Gowned, gloved and bottied, she stood next to Dr. Crumley as she brought the third child of Dawne into the world.

While I slept blissfully through it all.

Coming out of the anesthetic haze, vaguely aware of my surroundings, my mother comes into the room, and whispers in my ear,

You have your Emily Elizabeth Dawne.

To which I slurrily replied,

"Oh no I don't! I have a BOY"

"Dawne, dear, you have a girl."

And she left before I could reply.

Smart move.

I came out of my drug haze scared to death.

Knowing the kind of girls I made, and the kind of boys I made, and what those boys and girls were like as babies. . . .

. . . .because I had yet been blessed with their semi-adult shenanigans, I was downright scared shitless about the prospect of having another daughter.

Three me's.

Let the nightmares begin.

And then I saw her.

She was gorgeous.

Beautiful.

CALM.

I knew she was going to be her own person.

Not me.

Not Mer.

Emily.

Our first night together, I hauled myself up into a sitting position, and laid her down between my legs.

While stripping her down completely, wanting to see every bit of her, I started to cry.

I was plain scared.

What was I going to do with three children?

How would we manage?

I changed her, dressed her again, fed her, all the while crying.

I said to her that I had no idea what was in store for us, but I promised her I would do the very best I could for her and her brother and sister.

Whether or not I have still remains to be seen, I guess, but from that moment, Em and I had a bond.

There was no father to share her with.

She was all mine.

Through the good, of which there has been plenty, and the bad.

And there have been some bad times.

Em was a calm, loving, gentle baby.

She was easy to settle when upset.

But none of this means she didn't have her moments.

Because she did.

One sunny afternoon, some friends were over and we were gabbing and guzzling coffee in the kitchen when Em came in.

She was about two at the time.

Her face had something odd on it.

Greyish, in fact.

Closely resembling KITTY LITTER to be closer to the point!

I asked her what she had eaten.

"Kitty!" she replied

Immediately, I called Poison Control.

Their reply:

Make her drink lots of water.

Clumping kitty litter, any kitty litter, is an absorbent.

I envisioned her dehydrating from the inside out.

So in addition to preventing dehydration, I made her drink so much liquid that day that I spent more time changing diapers than anything else.

And during all that diaper changing time we had a long talk about how come we would never eat kitty litter ever again.

Reilley came into our lives when Em was two.

He was two.

And the two of them have been inseparable from the second she laid eyes on him, grabbed him and proclaimed to all present,

"MY KITTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

 And it was proclaimed and was to be from that day forward.

She and Reilley have had many adventures over the last 15 years.

Mostly Em making Reilley do things he didn't want to do.

In fact, that he's survived so long is still a mystery.

One Christmas I caught her gluing antlers to his head.

Another time, she dressed him in doll clothes.

When she much younger, she carted him around by placing his head in the crook of her arm and carrying him here, there and everywhere.

His bottom parts swaying to the rhythm of the unsteady two year old.

But he loves her and she certainly loves him, and better friends you won't find anywhere.

And she can be quiet the comedienne.

Nonetheless, there is a serious side to my girl, one where I see such beauty and grace, such talent, I wonder what I did to deserve such a beautiful child. 

Happy Birthday Emily. I love you so much and am so proud of the beautiful young woman you are becoming.

Title Lyric: Saw Her Standing There by The Beatles

Em is quiet, reserved, shy to almost dangerousness, but, this does not mean she lacks a sense of humour.

Early mornings, late by warnings, what's the point of the alarm . . . .

January 20, 2011


6.19 am.

That's when I woke up.

Confused.

Concerned.

No alarm.

More specifically, no 5.30 alarm.

The one needed to begin the long and painful process of waking Em and getting her out of bed in the morning.

Hmmmmmm. . .

Up.

Lights on.

Stephen mumbling his early morning version of "What the f***?!?!?!?!?!?!?"

Alarm clock check revealed it was set for the right time.

It was on radio.

The problem.

Stephen's early morning fumbling attempts to rid his consciousness of Katy Perry wailing Firework, a sound that resembles shooting nails into his head from a close range nail gun, resulted in not turning down the sound, nor properly turning off the alarm.

He fixes on the first knob or dial he can get his hands on while operating at even less than minimum capacity.

And yesterday morning that happened to be the knob that changes the radio station.

Preferably away from 106.9 to something with no noise at all.

Which is what he did.

For some unknown reason, probably my own lack of awareness, when I was setting the alarm clock last evening and engaging in my pre-bed, standard radio routine, I failed to check that the radio was actually set on a radio station and not the soothing sounds of static-that-can't-be-heard-over-his-snoring.

Silly me.

So while the alarm did go off, and it was on the radio setting, it wasn't actually set to a radio station.

Consequently, no Katy Perry or Pink, but an almost imperceptible static that apparently cannot be heard over the wholly obnoxious wretchedness of Stephen's snoring.

Of course, panic filled me at the prospect of being late, and in my less than kind enquires regarding what happened to the alarm, all I got was a not even semi-conscious mumble, "I dunno know. . . .wasssn't me. . . ."

Must have been those evil early morning gnomes again, then.







Stephen would much prefer the soft and subdued sounds of CBC in the early morning.

Me, too.

Unfortunately, CBC radio does not give me that early morning jolt needed to penetrate my sleep addled brain which forces me to open my eyes and remember that it is, indeed, again, time to fight with Em to get out of bed.

CBC doesn't register above oh-there-is-classical-music-in-my-dream-how-lovely.

Hence why I insist on having my sounds of almost-silence broken by contemporary pop music.







In fairness to Stephen, I don't think he is even remotely aware of how loud he snores.

Working early one morning in our office, which happens to be in the room beside our bedroom, I was entertained with the sounds of snoring wafting from our room.

Okay. . .wafting sounds too nice. . . .let's try thrusting and pushing their way out of room.

In a brief moment of reprieve, Em wanders into the office and sits the trunk beside my desk, head wrapped in a towel, body warm and cozy in her housecoat, to begin her usual morning attempt to avail me of her reasons for why she should not have to go to school today.

Mid-sentence she is interrupted by a freight train carrying 500 cars like sounds of Stephen snoring.

She stopped.

Looked at me.

And said, "how do you get any sleep?"

"Practice", I replied, "melatonin, and making sure I am so thoroughly exhausted by the end of the day that almost nothing could wake me."

To this day I am amazed that he has never woke himself up, or awakened in the morning with nasal and throat pain that would fell a herd of elephants.

He never has.

Ever.

At least to my knowledge.






I'm very much a creature of habit.

Waking on time is a critical part of my day.

The most critical part.

Setting the tone for the day ahead.

The tone of today isn't sitting well.

Coupled with an even more vociferous than usual complaining from Em about not wanting to go to school.

There may be something to that.

Keith has been sick since Sunday.

Coughing, fever, headaches, stuffiness. . .the typical melange of ailments that befall him when he is ill.

It is not outside the realm of believability that Em, too, would be experiencing the early warning signs of such ailments.

However, given her schedule for today and her penchant for expending beaucoup de energie each morning in her vain attempt to convince me to let her stay home, I find it much harder to discern whether or not Em is, indeed, sick.

Or, if she is hoping Keith is sick enough to cajole me into thinking she could possibly be ill.

I always feel like I've been placed, not so gently either, between a rock and a hard place.

Is she sick?

Or. . .

Is she wanting to stay home because she so despises high school that she would do anything, perhaps even maim herself, as a means of ensuring she can, indeed, stay home?

Snow days don't help.

She luxuriated and lounged at home yesterday, in her pjs all day, watching movies and consorting with her sick and ailing brother, basking in the almost unconditional love of her feline friend, Reilley.

So naturally the shock of going to school is difficult to bear.

The compromise: go to school until lunch and if you're still not feeling better, you can come home.

Which is, of course, predicated on the assumption that I'll answer the phone when she calls.






I am not optimistic about the rest of this day.

Not.

At.

All.

Because in addition to being a creature of habit, I may be somewhat, just a little, superstitious.

Knowing that a day that doesn't start well can easily become a day that doesn't treat me kindly.

Leaving me wanting to stay home in my office, sitting in my chair, not moving from my computer to even prepare sustenance for fear of cutting off an appendage.

Let alone traverse outside the house into the harsh, cruel world.

But here I go.

Wish me luck.

Or send me brandy to assist in my post-day recovery this evening.

I have a feeling I'm going to need it.



Title Lyric: Heart Attack by Sum 41

I saw her on the down escalator at HMV. . .

January 19, 2011


I received an email from my publisher yesterday. . .the kind that makes me think they're happy with the editing and have moved into production.

Jesus wept.

When I saw said email in my inbox, I stared at it for a full five minutes, wondering what they could possibly want now, and if it was going to set me back another six months.

Or longer.

Finally mustering the courage to open it, relief flooded through my being followed by the realization that what they wanted would take about 30 seconds to complete and send off my reply.

But you can't blame me for being shell shocked.

Not after the editing-from-hell I endured last term.

To say nothing of the proofreader.

Lovely person.

I genuinely liked my proofreader.

But liking someone and being able to communicate what you want done, as opposed to what the proofreader thinks you should do, including perhaps going back to the beginning and interviewing people all over again, is an entirely different thing.

Entirely.






Luckily, I had some time at HMV late yesterday afternoon, acting as a protective shield of happiness, and providing the muster for the courage.

I love HMV.

And any other outlet that provides dvds for sale.

Even if its just a bin on the floor.

A special order had arrived, providing the impetus for going in.

Typically, I'm not supposed to be in there on my own.

Keith was at work.

As was Mer, who frankly would have encouraged me to buy more.

Stephen, the head chaperon was teaching a class.

And Em was far to interested in her own shopping to chaperon her 43 year old mother who should have more common sense and restraint anyway, and further more I'm not her responsibility.

So, I was on. my. own.

[Insert content sigh here]

No one to sit in the mall, on  a bench directly in front of the store and death stare me down while I attempt to wander through the store boring his eyes into my skull using the marital psychic link similar to an electric cattle prod.

And just as effective if you ask me.

No pleading kids wandering in and out, "are you done yet? can we go?" 

Just me.

And a reasonable time restriction. . .at least an hour.

Oh the rapture and joy I experienced browsing through the store, looking at movies, reading the back of them, the ping of regret that many of the movies on sale were ones I already owned, but the ecstasy when finding new treasures. Conversing with the employees, one in particular, about how he should see Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night and a former student-cum-employee about which treasures were in and how she was faring this term.

Bliss.

Given the conditions under which I was shopping, I feel I was remarkably restrained.

Only four films purchased.

But what films they are!

Inglorious Basterds.

Keith has his own copy, a gift from a couple of Christmases ago, but I so wanted my own. It is SUCH a great film, and I'd consider marrying Christoph Waltz if he and Stephen could agree to share me.

Sherlock Holmes

Not really a fan until I saw this film of the English detective and his sidekick Watson. But the story was so well done, and Robert Downey Jr. was brilliant. I was even able to stomach Jude Law.

Interestingly, BBC One, I believe, has introduced a new Sherlock Holmes, simply titled Sherlock. I love it. And it's impossible to find. Only three episodes so far, but each two hours long, and brilliant.

Sometimes I can catch them on Masterpiece Theater. Maine PBS. After Antiques Roadshow and Creatures, of course.

The Birdman of Alcatraz

Burt Lancaster. One of the best prison films ever made, and that includes Shawshank Redemption.

Audition

This was the special order. The reason for my entree into the land of dvd delights. An Asian film. Young girl, widower, meet at an audition. . . and then she. . . .

You'll have to watch the film.

With strong resolves and an even stronger stomach.

And as if the unfettered browsing and purchasing of films was not enough, I was then able to retreat to Starbucks for a venti mild.

A rare treat indeed as I typically limit myself to one coffee a day, first thing in the morning, usually while I write my blog.

Any more than one and I risk not being able to control myself, and one in a day, could lead to several in a day.

Excess and balance.

My two biggest foes.

I was very tired, however, it was only 4.50 and it would be at least another hour before I found myself at home with my canine compadres, and I figured the coffee increased the likelihood that I would not fall asleep on the drive to the university to get Stephen after his class.

Of course it worked.

Too well.

I was tired last evening and could not get to sleep.

When I did sleep, I had weird dreams.

May have to rethink the whole coffee after 4.00 pm thing.

May being the operative word.






And things just keep getting better.

Nothing makes a morning brighter than having the radio turn on and hearing the dulcet tones of Trevor Doyle informing the populace that "schools in District 17 and 18 are closed for the day."

Freezing rain, rain, snow will be our companions for the the day.

A brief reprieve tomorrow and then Friday. . .

. . .a prediction of 20 cms.

Better than yesterday, when the Weather Network was predicting 20-30 cms.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

A freezing rain-rain-snow day means no fighting with Em to get out of bed.

Or the usual morning discussion regarding all the reasons she needs to go to school and not stay home, on the couch, under a blanket with Reilley all day.

No getting Stephen out of bed earlier than he thinks he should.

He gets an extra hours sleep.

7.30 instead of 6.30.

We both teach at 9.00 am.

The university almost never closes.

So I'm not worried it will today.

But, it means that we don't have to engage in the mayhem of dropping kids off to school and racing to the university to get to class on time.

All we have to do is get in the car and drive to work.

Six minutes.

No sibling brawling.

No kevtching Stephen about my hair trigger driving instincts through early morning traffic.

Just a nice, pleasant drive down one hill to go back up another hill to the parking lot of our building.

Now if Keith could just recover from the dry-barking-to-the-point-where-I-think-he's-going-to-bring-up-a-lung-cough, and I had a sense of just how red Mer's new red hair is, life would be almost perfect.

For a few short seconds anyway.

Because there's always something lurking around the next corner.

Always.


Title Lyric: The Girl on the Escalator at HMV by Songdog  

Push up my bra like that. . .

January 18, 2011



Week Two of get-up-ready-and-in-the-car-by-7.50-or-find-your-own-way-to-school-and-work.

There were some rough patches last week, I won't lie.

But we managed.

We persevered.

No fist-to-cuffs ensued.

Although we were close.

At one point, I was considering how I could both maneuver the car through rush-hour morning traffic and act as referee to Keith and Em.

While not allowing myself the pleasure of plowing into the back of someone whose Timmies fix is more important than allowing the excessive traffic on Prospect through, thus leading them to bring the Tim Horton's drive thru line up into the street.






Thankfully, the processed meat incident of Saturday evening had no long term repercussions on my weight loss.

Another 2.2 pounds have bitten the dust, bringing the total to 37.2 pounds lost since October.

I know I've lost this weight, however, I still can't see it.

Nonetheless, there have been improvements in the clothing department.

First off, I engaged in a huge closet purge of clothes of over the holidays.

Getting rid of all of the fat clothes I know I will NEVER wear again because I will be far too small to fit into them.

This process was a bit like a scavenger hunt.

As I was getting rid of things, other articles of clothing that I had relegated to unseen places because I could no longer wear them, emerged from the hidden spaces at the top and in the back of my closet.

Hmmmmm. . . .I thought.

Should I try these on?

Or, will I be subjecting myself to unnecessary torture?

Tried on a lovely black with light blue pinstripe suit the other day.

Jacket and pants.

BOTH fit beautifully!

I hadn't been able to wear that suit for three years.

Next, a button down shirt I've worn, very rarely, as I could never actually button it down.

Success was achieved.

I could button it AND sit down in it without straining the buttons to the point where, if they had popped off, they would have hit someone with such force they would have died instantly.

Finally, the piece de resistance, my orange pants.

I LOVE my orange pants.

They're at least ten years old and have weathered more weight gain and loss than probably any other article of clothing in my closet.

I don't know what kind of material they are, except that they are definitely NOT polyester.

Even I have standards.

Some sort of cotton with an almost liner-like feel to the inside of them.

The point: Stephen and the kids despise these pants.

And when I pulled them out Sunday morning, tried them on, noted that they fit, and yelled "Eureka!" no one other than me was pleased.

Too bad.

So sad.

Sucks to be you.

Because me and my orange pants are together again.

For now.

Eventually they will become to big for me.

That's okay though.

There's a tailor in the mall.

I'll get them properly sized.

Because nothing comes between me and my orange pants.

Nothing.






Among all of the Saturday errands was the requisite returning-of-the-bras-for-my-mother-because-the-cups-"puckered."

My mum received a Pennington's gift card for Christmas.

As soon as she saw it, she handed it to me and requested two new bras.

Knowing that because it was winter, and thus I would fly alone on this mission, I set out to Pennington's one afternoon knowing full well that I would not find what she wanted, I would try to locate an appropriate substitute, said substitute would not be acceptable and I would then make another trip to Pennington's to return the substitute.

Apparently, substitutions are not welcome.

I knew this in the back of my mind, but I was so hoping she wouldn't notice.

Not because I'm a rotten child who resents bra shopping for my mother.

I genuinely don't resent doing anything for my mother.

Not after everything she's done for me.

I was hoping she wouldn't notice because Pennington's is no longer carrying her bra size. 

It's the smallest they've ever carried.

60 HHH

Lots of those.

But no Mum's size.

They did, however, have sort-of-Mum's-size.

Good around the middle.

One cup size larger.

Of course she noticed the first time she put them on.

And when I went for my usual Saturday evening visit, sitting on her bed, she looked at me and I knew that I'd been caught.

Mum: Those bras are too big.

Me: Really?

Mum: Yes. When I put it on after my bath, it puckered (here).

Me: Really?

At that point it was either come clean or continue feigning my disbelief.

I chose the former.

Explained to her how come I had picked the next cup size.

That they almost never order in her size.

And I was trying to ensure she could use her gift card and not have to spend her own money.

I then suggested that she stuff them with Kleenex.

Just to fill them out a bit and prevent the puckering.

Apparently, bra stuffing is reserved for the 12-13 year old set.

Not those on their way to 72.

Me and the bras got back into the car, and for a week I hung them in the hall closet by the front door so I wouldn't forget to return them.

Keith and Stephen found it most disturbing to look at bras each time they had to don their coats and boots.

So Saturday, when Stephen was laying out our errand-running agenda, I figured I may as well return the bras and see if there wasn't a Mum sized bra hiding amid the larger sizes.

As soon as I walked into the store the employee who sold me the bras said,

Store Employee; "Bras didn't fit, eh."

Me: Of course they didn't.

SE: What size does she need again?

Me: (this size)

SE: (scrunching up her face) Ohhh, I don't know. I'll have to look.

Other Store Employee: Look for what?

SE: (This size) bra.

OSE: Ohhhhh. . .I'll help you look.

Two employees went on a hunt more strenuous than that for the Red October.

Even though they looked through every. single. bra. in the store and in the back, they came up empty handed.

And what did I do while they were searching for a Mum sized bra?

Looked around.

What else would I do?




My pants are too big.

Okay, some of my pants are too big.

Baggy.

I look like I'm trying to emulate those boys who wear oversized pants with their underwear showing.

On purpose.

Harbouring the mis-assumption that the world is interested in what their underwear looks like.

But I'm not in the market for new pants.

Or new anything really.

There's no point.

It won't fit in a few weeks and I'll have a wardrobe full of new clothes I can't wear.

However, not buying does not prevent trying things on.

I did.

I fit into a pant size I have been able to fit into for a long time.

There were even zippers and buttons.

Not just elastic waistbands.

These were a very nice pair of pants.

I wanted to buy them.

$50.00.

No, my brain said.

This is a waste of money.

And thus the very nice pair of pants was returned to the rack.

Feeling that such an act of levelheadedness deserved reward, though, I did find a shirt.

Or rather Stephen did.

For some reason, along with high heeled shoes, Stephen wants me to wear things with sequins.

Um, no.

The idea of standing in front of a class flashing like a disco ball isn't my idea of a good time.

So when he pointed out a shirt, I was somewhat skeptical.

It did have a geegaw on the front of it.

A silverish square thing that drew the shirt in just below my boobs before it flowed out over my ever shrinking girth.

I'm not a geegaw kind of girl.

However, the man was in Pennington's with me, instead of Canadian Tire so the least I could do is try on the shirt he thought would be nice.

And he was right.

It did look nice.

So I bought it.

And in true Stephen fashion, in a store full of clothes marked down 50% or more, he selected one of the few items that was full price.

Because he is Stephen.






Stephen's parents have been singing in their church choir for a long time.

His Mum: 60 years.

His Dad: 20 years.

His Aunt Irene: not quite sure.

And in the choir are several of their friends.

People who came to our wedding.

So imagine my pleasure when Stephen informed me that someone had videotaped their Christmas performance AND put it on YouTube.

Not only the beauty of the church by the gloriousness of the choir.

Stephen's Mum is second from the right, his Aunt Irene, the third.

His dad: the only man in the back wearing a black jacket.

Enjoy!


Title Lyric: Stupid Girl by Pink

I know there's something going on. . . .

January 17, 2011


Monday morning weigh in.

As with every Monday morning, I reflect upon what I've eaten during the past week.

Wonder if this will be the week I'm told I haven't lost anything.

Or worse, gained some of it back.

Let's see. . .

Sunday to Thursday were the standard three meals plus three snacks a day.

Very good.

Friday, out for dinner. . .should be okay, because I made good choices.

But it was hard.

A test of my resolve.

My ability to avoid the things I am not supposed to eat.

But Saturday? 

Ummm. . . .not so much.






As usual, I was late getting to the nursing home.

The challenges of being a one car family.

I called my mother around 4.30, also as usual, to remind her that I'd be there for dinner, as usual.

No answer.

Not a good sign.

Pulling up to Pine Grove, I didn't see her sitting in front of the large window, waiting for my arrival.

Also, not a good sign.

I work hard not to disappoint my mother.

My theory: I've done plenty disappointing in the past, there is no need to continue.

In fact, truth be told, I'm probably still making up for all the past disappointments.

And there have been some doozies.

Concerned this was going to add to the list of disappointments, and thus make the making-up list longer, I hustled my pappies into the dining room, stopping long enough to remove my boots and put on slippers because in the winter they don't like it if you track water, snow, ice, mud, into the nursing home.

It's hell on wheelchair traction, apparently.

And a bitch to clean up.

Rushing into the dining room, I scan quickly amid the sea of white and grey hair for my mother.

No Mum.

Again, not a good sign.

Finally, I accept the inevitable.

My mother has already had dinner and returned to her room.

Sh**.

My empirical conclusion was confirmed by a nursing home employee.

"Were you supposed to have dinner with your mother? Because she was sitting in front of the dining room doors at 4.30 and she never said anything about you coming."

So, possibly upset mother.

Hungry daughter.

I did the only thing I could do.

Pizza in Mum's room.





In her room, I apologize (also as usual) for not being there sooner.

Oddly enough, she wasn't upset.

Because I certainly expected her to be.

Normally she would be.

I wondered for a minute if I was even in the right room, or with the right mother.

We watched the news while I ate pizza, the main meal item for this particular Saturday.

Nursing home meals provide a weekly, complex conundrum for me.

I was brought up to eat what is served.

And I realize the nursing home dining room isn't a restaurant.

Which means I have to be very careful what I eat when I'm there because what's on the whiteboard menu is what there is to eat.

Saturday night:

Beef barley soup.
Pizza
Assorted Desserts.

No soup by the time I got there.

But lots of pizza.

And assorted desserts.

Assorted desserts is code for these-are-all-the-desserts-that-remain-from-the-last-couple-of-days-along-with-the-standard-pudding-and-jello-so-help-yourself.

Unless there is left over pie or cake, I'm usually pretty good.

But pizza. . . .

There is nothing about pizza, even if it is homemade, that is remotely okay for me.

I love pizza.

And I haven't had any since I started SFL.

But it was all they had.

I was hungry.

Pizza it was.

But one piece, please.

Right?

Wrong!

Because as soon as the kitchen staff saw me they piled pizza on a plate and had it ready for me to take to Mum's room.

Four pieces of hot, cheesy homemade pizza.

Brimming with veggies, so there was at least one redeeming quality.

But also brimming with processed pizza meats.

Ah, there's the rub.

As if the cheese and homemade crust wasn't enough, the pizza was laden with pepperoni.

Processed food has been the most important item removed from my standard eating fare.

Next to anything containing flour that looks remotely like bread.

I eat almost nothing that comes out of a can.

Or can sit on a shelf for 15 years and still be good.

As soon as I saw that plate, I was in trouble.

Logic would dictate that I ask for two square slices to be removed.

But I didn't want to insult the kitchen staff.

They're nice to me.

And I want to keep it that way.





In Mum's room, I sit on her bed and start eating the pizza.

She's watching me.

And I didn't want it all.

Mum knew this.

We were brought up to eat what was in front of you, and not waste it because there were children all over the world who would be glad for what was on our plate.

Sure enough, "you're going to finish that, right?"

Yes Mum.

Under her watchful eye, I finished the pizza.

Big mistake.

Stephen picked me up at 7.00, and we stopped at Victory for our weekly veggie and chicken spree.

We eat A LOT of veggies. . .fresh and raw as well as cooked. 

Veggies are one of those things I could eat all day long if I wanted.

But I am trying to learn moderation so I limit myself to a bag of baby carrots and a celery bunch per day.

(just jokin' :)

While I was pawing peppers and testing tomatoes, I noticed I was feeling jittery.

Antsy.

Anxious.

Edgy.

Fidgety.

I was snapping at Stephen.

Ready to ram my cart into the back of the legs belonging to the couple pondering the poultry.

Annoyed with another couple taking forever to decide whether or not they wanted the .99 cent broccoli.

Her: What do you think of this broccoli honey?

Him: I don't know what do you think?

Her: Well, it doesn't look too bad, and it is .99 cents.

Him: I agree. But if you don't think it's okay. . .

Her: I don't know, do you think it's okay?

Him: I think that whatever you think is fine. . .

I felt like snatching the broccoli from her hand and beating the two of them with it until nothing remained but a few little bits that had fallen to the floor during the onslaught while yelling, "MAKE A DAMN DECISION!!!!!  ITS BROCCOLI NOT A CAR! HURRY UP AND LET SOMEONE ELSE FAWN OVER IT FOR 45 MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, there's nothing unusual about that. . .standard grocery shopping operating procedure that is.

But the edginess and being fidgety?

Even Stephen commented on it, in his typically kind, caring manner:

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

I stopped.

If Stephen, who is usually oblivious to my moods, probably a survival tactic, is commenting on it, there must be something going on.

Pondered what was happening with me.

And then, like the apple falling out of the tree, the lightening striking the key, I had an epiphany.

Pepperoni.

Processed meat.

Coursing inside me like a malevolent and sinister virus.

Forcing me from my usual sunny and cheerful demeanour into a rancorous and vicious many-headed hydra.

My body was in shock.

What was I doing?

What lead me to consume such dastardly foodstuffs?

One, hunger.

Not much of an excuse.

Two, my mother's watchful eye and her belief in not throwing out good food.

Much harder to avoid.

Next time I miss dinner, I'll bring my own.

Lesson learned.

The processed meat parade that coursed throughout my innards will not be in vain.




Title Lyric: I Know There's Something Going On by Frida (formerly of ABBA)

Clap your feet and wiggle your toes. Spray them down with a rubber hose. Dress them up in some fancy clothes. Just keep them away from my sensitive nose.

January 16, 2011

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY LITTLE BROTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Our dinner date Friday evening was quite lovely.

As lovely as it could be when you eat the lightest things on the menu and drink diet Pepsi because they don't carry diet Coke.

Stephen did indulge in a Molson Canadian.

I had a sip but it left a putrid aftertaste in my mouth.

No more for me, thank you very much.

At least I didn't have to suffer through the indignity of ogling the dessert menu.

Cheesecake.

Carrot Cake.

Chocolate cake with at least three layers.

My resolve was already weakened from watching harried servers run back and forth with trays brimming with Chalet fries.

I thought of tripping one in an attempt to snag any fries that flew through the air, sort of like a potatoed version of jacks.

But somehow I didn't think Stephen would approve.

Yesterday was spent running errands.

Not because I wanted to, but because Stephen did.

He was in desperate need of new winter boots.

His previous boots were leakier than a row boat with holes all over the bottom.

Leaving him, when taking out the dogs, to wear his "Hillbilly" boots.

I've never seen a pair like before, anywhere, on anyone. 

To say they are HUGE is an understatement.

They go up to my boobs.

I can't even lift my feet when I have them on.

Which, thankfully, has never been more than once.

Stephen loves these boots.

He wears them to classes, to walk the dogs, grocery shopping.

He even attempted to wear them to dinner the other evening.

If I wanted to go to dinner with Stephen, while he wore those boots, I'd have suggested McDonalds. 

Wendy's.

Taco Bell at the mall.

And while Swiss Chalet is certainly not on the same level as Jamie Oliver doesn't mean I want to go out with Hillbilly Hal.

Thus making him change them before we went to dinner. 

Plus, quite frankly, when he's been wearing them for an extended period of time, and takes him off, his feet stink.

Reek.

Fetid.

And somehow the stench of his malodorous feet mingling with the sumptuous odor of Swiss Chalet chicken and fries didn't seem apropos.

To the Shoe Company we went.

In addition to my fetish for purses, I have a deep, unabiding love for shoes.

Putting me in the middle of a shoe store with shoes AND purses, can be a dangerous enterprise.

Trips to Montreal automatically mean traversing through the downtown shops in search of purses.

Or, to the lovely you-can-haggle-down-the-price market.

The one where I was able to get three pair of shoes and for $60.00 in total.

Instead of the $120.00 they should have cost.

There are all sorts of shoes I admire, but certainly would never buy.

Stephen, too, it would seem, has a fetish for shoes.

Particularly high heeled ones.

Ones I wouldn't wear even when I do get to my goal weight.

While looking through all the exquisite shoes, he finds a pair of darkish blue sequined stilettos and comments upon how lovely they are.

I informed him that if he liked them so much, he should get himself a pair.

Because I loved my ankles and my pride too much to subject myself to wearing death-trap like stilts.

And so it was that I did, indeed, get myself a new pair of shoes.

Black Oxford brogues.

I am far more excited than I should be.

Especially given my distaste for conspicuous consumption.

Of course, like purses and shoes, wanting purses and shoes and buying every purse and every pair of shoes I want are two entirely different things.

Stephen on the other hand found a pair of size 13 Sorel winter boots.

Gorgeous boots, really.

No leaks, no holes, no nothing.

He could practically walk through small rivers with them.

And, he also managed to locate a pair of hiking shoes for when the snow decides to take a holiday and let spring and summer in for a bit.

A happy camper he is.

Off with dogs as soon as we got back from our fashion footslog.

They must be wondrous boots because when he got back, the dogs threw themselves on the floor in exhaustion and barely moved until this morning when it was time to eat and pee.

The essentials.

Title Lyric: Stinky Feet by Jim Cosgrove