October 19, 2010
Food.
I have a love-hate relationship with food.
I love to eat it, it hates to leave me.
In particular, food hates to leave my waist, hips, thighs, arms, feet, hair. . .
My entire life I've had to deal with food and weight issues.
Weighing too much has been the one constant thread running through the tapestry of my life.
The very large tapestry.
Brief periods of weighing just enough.
Very brief periods.
Name a diet, I've tried it.
Name a weight-loss remedy, I've done it: speed, not eating at all, not eating anything resembling a carb, eating just grapefruits. . .
Exercise.
I genuinely like to exercise, but, I have trouble with balance.
Meaning, if I exercise I want to exercise as much as I want as long as I want, and other things, like, oh, work for example, end up not being given equal and fair treatment.
As a faculty member, I am granted access to a nicely appointed gym for $5.00 a month.
Naturally, I should jump through hoops of fire for such an opportunity.
I have.
It's called the PhD.
I did go the gym at my university.
I wanted to take advantage of this extraordinary opportunity to trim down my Reubenesque figure into something a little less Reuben and a little more Kate Moss.
To the gym I'd go, carrying my gym bag full of toiletries, towels, hair dryers, shampoo, conditioner, happy with the knowledge that I was doing something good to me and good for me. . .
On the treadmill I'd be, mind blissfully blank, endorphins chugging along nicely, daydreaming about walking along the English moors, or through a small village in Ireland on my way to the pub for a pub lunch and a Guinness. . .
I don't even like Guinness, but I'm all for authenticity. . .
And, without warning, I'd be plucked from dreamy musings by some muscle bound, athletic, sporting youth, high energy protein drink in one hand, journal article or assignment clutched in the other.
Wondering if he could "ask me something."
I envy women who work out and manage to look like their not working out. Perfectly highlighted hair smoothed back into a nice, tight ponytail, that bounces jauntily along to the latest dance beat pouring into their ears through almost invisible ear buds attached to an ipod touch, while they breathe normally and dab at the almost imperceptible glistenings of moisture on their foreheads with plush towels, modelling the latest, expensive name brand athletic wear, and designer footwear.
Me, I sweat like a overwight farm worker who smokes four packs a day, my hair sprouting a frizzy cloud around my face because it refuses to stay in the ponytail elastic, while wearing my 10 year old track pants with the paint stains and the 7 year old t-shirt with the bottom threads unravelling, wiping myself off with paper towel, trying to keep up with the 80s dance beat on my Walkman in my 15 year old sneakers.
And you want to talk to me about an assignment????!!!!!
No more gym for me.
Not even at $5.00 a month.
I love to take Frankie and Tikka for walks.
However, again, I am not good at balancing. I can't seem to figure out how to take them for a walk and work and do all the other things I have to do in a brief, 24 hour period.
Unless I want a starlight walk at 5.00 am, or a moonlit walk at midnight.
I prefer my walks when there is some light. I'm too clumsy to enjoy walking in the dark. I can fall during the light of day.
Why set myself up for failure by walking after midnight.
And the dogs would more than likely end up in some sort of entanglment with a woodland creature twice their size.
At least Frankie would.
Tikka would probably shake her head and say f*** that.
Two years ago, right around this time of year, I woke early on a Saturday morning and thought it would be lovely to sneak out of the house, just me and the dogs, for a meander down the Thatch Road.
By this time, I had managed to procure an ipod shuffle, as Keith had upgraded to an ipod that is not a shuffle and not a touch and I can't remember what the hell it is.
Ear buds precariously perched in my ears, (because along with all of my other physical faux pas, I don't have ears that gently or willingly embrace ear buds), I am singing my heart out, loudly, because its 7.08 in the morning and there isn't a soul to hear me, in spite of the cars lined up in parking lot and down by the riverside.
The dogs are too busy jumping in and out of the Saint John river to listen to my wailing rendition of Don't Cha by the Pussycat Dolls.
"Don't cha think your girlfriend is hot like me. . .don't cha think your girlfriend is a freak like me. . ." keening through the morning stillness like an Irish banshee with an ingrown toenail.
Happy with my crazy caroling, I march along, arms moving, feet pounding, warming up so my scarf is loosened and my mitts are stowed safely in my coat pocket.
And then, out of no where I feel this thing whiz by me with enough speed to create a smidgen of a breeze.
Synapes began firing as a result of the exercise and fresh air and within a blink of an eye, I knew who all those people were, whose cars were parked in the Thatch Road parking lot.
I had briefly wondered how come there were so many cars in the parking lot, and no one but me walking along the road.
But I like it that way.
No worries about having to apologize to dogless walkers for Frankie's volatile and outrageous behaviours, trying to convince them that he really doesn't want to go for their jugular, even if his body language indicates that would be his action of choice.
It was hunting season.
As I have no interest in the senseless slaughter of moose, deer, ducks, I never pay attention to whether or not hunting season has, yet again, been foisted upon us.
I have to believe these hunters weren't shooting at me because of my singing, although that may be a plausible theory.
No one should sing the Pussycat Dolls unless they are in a dark, noisy club buzzing on margaritas.
Especially Don't Cha.
They weren't shooting at the dogs, because as big as they are, they are no wear near the size of a moose.
It could be that in my haste to leave the house alone, without another bi-pedal being accompanying me, that I neglected to consider the time of year, and therefore didn't think of putting on Stephen's Day-Glo mesh orange vest thingy with the X across the back in electric neon yellow tape.
So, theoretically, these hunters, who had been up before the crack of dawn (as an aside, you have NO idea how much the phrase, "crack of dawn" has been maligned and misused in my presence) and therefore saw 7.08 in the morning as closer to lunch time than breakfast, making it appropriate to imbibe in some alcoholic libations, which may have stymied their ability to ascertain whether or not the figure moving along in the bushes was actually a moose trying to mate, or me singing.
A moose with a bad voice and ear buds, no horns and walking on two legs, but a moose nonetheless.
Never have the dogs heard me beckon for them in such a harsh tone as we hightailed it out of there before these hunters could decide if I should be taken out for my singing or because I was a moose making mating calls.
Back in my bed, snuggling up against Stephen, still somewhat rattled about my misadventure, dogs sleeping soundly on the floor beside me, I wondered how I was going to tell Stephen I was almost shot because drunk hunters mistook me for a moose singing the Pussycat Dolls.
Food. . right. Got a little off track there for a minute.
I'm reading a book given to me by Stephen's mother.
As a birthday present.
Subtle.
It's about food.
And weight loss.
Her two favorite topics of choice when she is around me.
She has been known to sneak weight loss magazines and books into my luggage after I've packed for the drive back to New Brunswick.
Or send me recipe books compiled by Weight Watchers.
I think she's trying to tell me something.
So, the book suggests considering your relationship with food.
I have considered my relationship with food.
In fact, if thinking alone could guarantee weight loss, I'd be thin by now!
I will say this: if Stephen keeps making the most delicious cabbage soup I've ever had, complete with two different kinds of beans, kidney and baked, I may have bigger worries than weight.
And much, much smellier. . . .
Title Lyric: I Just Want to Go Hunting by Ted Nugent
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Cause she's still preoccupied with 19, 19, 1985. . .
October 18, 2010
$1000.00.
That's how much our mangy mutts have cost us this month.
So far.
Don't be looking for Christmas presents.
Or cards or cookies or wreaths for that matter.
We'll set the dogs in front of the back window, throw some lights and garland around them, and sit around them Christmas morning, oohhhing and ahhhing, while we unwrap the cats, and other assorted household items I wrap in lieu of actual, store bought gifts.
On the upside, they're no longer contagious.
Meaning Annette-the-greatest-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/) can now return to us.
Because we really need her.
Frank's hair trigger, instantaneous, volatile and unpredictable response to *any* noise within a 50 kilometer radius has lessened my lifespan by at least 5 years per outburst.
It keeps happening in spite of my vigilance in watching for "the signs" that he is poised for an attack on the front window. My futile attempts to intercept him before he runs to the window, barking at the visibly blanched blue jay who chanced landing on our lawn, or the startled squirrel who happens to be in our tree, or the nosy neighbour who drives slowly past our house, the peacefully passing pedestarians out for a leisurely stroll . . . .
At the rate he's going, I'll be lucky if I make to the end of this week.
Imagine you're in the kitchen, working at the table, computer keys clicking at a dizzying pace because you're "in the zone," when you're abruptly yanked from your reverie by the maniacal, bellowing clamour of two hounds barking, yelping, snarling, growling, a jarring racket that will jangle the nerves of even the most stalwart, undaunted, unwavering individual.
And you can only imagine what it does to Stephen.
Two bottles of wine and a bucket size snifter of brandy, accompanied by a club pack of Prozac, and a case of Melatonin is usually enough to calm his shattered nerves and restore him to a somewhat sustainable peace.
Until the next time.
When the two of them start their hellish cacophony, I leap into action.
Grabbing the water bottle, finger readied at the trigger, I bodily relocate them (but no hands!) "bahing" at them, and gently remarking that there is nothing here for them to see, to move along, to hustle their pappies and move their shtaneh (a poor, Anglosized translation of "pants" in Ukranian).
I man the front window like a goalie at a World Cup game. Not even the hair of either canine makes it past me, arms stretched out, feet planted firmly apart, scrabbling back and forth in front of the window, bahing, firing the water bottle spray with expert precision . . ..
Either the NHL or a European World Cup team is going to call me, when some one films my impressive barricading skills and puts it on youtube.
Something has to happen, or I'm gonna have to start exploiting the dog's labour skills in order to afford them.
And once that happens, it's a short step to Reilley becoming a feline pimp Daddy managing Goblet's street corner carnal activities.
Apparently, it's 80s week on Facebook.
Gnarly Dude!
Lots of statuses are encouraging me to upload a picture of myself from the 80s so everyone can see how much I've changed.
Or not.
If you're in the "not" catgeory, reality make-over tv shows would love to get their hands on you.
What I can't figure out is how come anyone would want to remember the 80s at all, let alone what you looked like.
I graduated from Oromocto High School in 1985.
Meaning the 80s for me was not some bygone era imagined in the nostalgic, cerebral meanderings of my 16 year old daughter.
They were real.
Very real.
Some things about the 80s were great: John Hughes' films for example.
The falling of the Berlin Wall.
The Cosby Show, Friday the 13th: The Series, and Fame.
Swatches.
Rubik Cubes, Trivial Pursuit.
Raiders of the Lost Ark, Police Academy, Back to the Future, Who Framed Roger Rabbit.
The end of M*A*S*H (I was just never a fan!) and Dynasty (which never should have started, really.).
80s music is remembered for its simultaneous creativity, hideousness and incomprehensibility.
Duran Duran, Culture Club, Michael Jackson, Thompson Twins, Men at Work, Men Without Hats, Cyndi Lauper, Loverboy, Rick Springfield, John Cougar, Pat Benetar, Madonna, Wham! . . . .
I still have no idea what The Reflex is about, but when I hear it I am transported to sock hops and high school dances where I pretended like I could dance.
Instead of the unco-ordinated and in all liklihood obscene gesticulations I engaged in on the dance floor.
You can imagine my Archie Bunker-inspired father's opinions about Cyndi Lauper and Culture Club. . .
Other things about the 80s were not so good.
Namely, fashion.
Legwarmers, neon everything: from shoelaces to underwear to sweatshirts with half the shoulder missing. . . shoulder pads, Madonna-esque fingerless gloves, one rhinestone glove, and other Michael Jackson inspired haute coutere catastrophes, gawd-help-us stirrup pants, metallic prom dresses with sleeves so puffy you had to turn sideways to get into the door, oversized shirts and sweaters with big gaudy belts bearing enough metal trim to prevent air travel for 100 years, parachute pants, jelly shoes and sandals, mesh shirts, sunglasses, Miami Vice look, . . .
Big, big earrings. The bigger the better.
Some where so heavy, they stretched your earlobes to your boobs.
Who needs ear stretchers? Just get your hands on some 50 pound 80s earrings, for .10 cents a peice at a thrift shop.
Glasses so big you wondered if the bridge of your nose would collapse from the weight.
The 80s are also renowned for some of the absolute worst hairstyles ever created.
Side ponytails, headbands, scrunchies. . .
Big bar hair, achieved with mousse, hair gel and hair spray enough to not only put a hole in our ozone layer, but the ozone layers of any other planet in our solar system.
But the worst. . .the peice de resistance of all 80s hair styles. . .
The Mullet.
(Head down, face filled with embarrasement and shame)
I had one.
1981.
Business in the front.
Party in the back.
Parted down the middle with my s-shaped cowlick for all to ponder.
And if the mullet wasn't bad enough, to add insult to injury and salt to the open wound that was my hairstyle, I had another folicle faux pas:
A rat tail.
One September, during the annual FREX, I had my rat tail adorned with so many roach clips its a wonder my neck wasn't permanently pulled back, forcing me to spend the rest of my life looking only at the sky.
Any of my friends won a roach clip, found a roach clip, or procured a roach clip, it was afixed to my rat tail.
And, because I was incredibly niave (how else could you possibly explain a mullet and rat tail!) I had no idea what roach clips were used for.
But I paraded around the exhibition grounds with at least 25 roach clips securely clipped to my rat tail, like a walking advertisement for any and all drug dealers to entice me with their marijuana marvels.
I shudder just thinking about it.
The picture of me with the mullet adorning my head is in my parent's basement.
A constant reminder, a metaphor, of all that was wrong with the 80s.
Thankfully, the rat tail was hidden.
Because there is only so much humilitation to be crammed into one school photo.
In conclusion, the 80s were a fashion disaster.
A decade where fashion designers and couture wannabes experienced, collectively, an acid flashback so severe, with such daunting reprecussions that young people in the western world adorned themselves with blindingly inappropriate colors, forgot how to speak English as a result of music that made no sense, while boasting hair styles that made Ray Charles shake his head in bewilderment.
And if you happened to live so far off the fashion grid that clothes shopping took place in the nearest strip mall that housed such Holy Grails of Haute Couture as Reitmans, Woolworth's or Bi-Way, and you have the fashion appreciation of a color blind two year old, you were, in one succinct word,
Screwed.
So, am I rushing to my parent's house to procure a picture of me in the 80s so I can then whiz to work to have someone with far more computer savvy than I possess scan said picture, to my office, turn on my computer and upload this dashing daguerreotype to Facebook so everyone can see how much I have (not) changed?
Not.
Bloody.
Likely.
I'd rather dig lint out of my bellybutton.
Title Lyric: 1985 by Bowling for Soup
$1000.00.
That's how much our mangy mutts have cost us this month.
So far.
Don't be looking for Christmas presents.
Or cards or cookies or wreaths for that matter.
We'll set the dogs in front of the back window, throw some lights and garland around them, and sit around them Christmas morning, oohhhing and ahhhing, while we unwrap the cats, and other assorted household items I wrap in lieu of actual, store bought gifts.
On the upside, they're no longer contagious.
Meaning Annette-the-greatest-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/) can now return to us.
Because we really need her.
Frank's hair trigger, instantaneous, volatile and unpredictable response to *any* noise within a 50 kilometer radius has lessened my lifespan by at least 5 years per outburst.
It keeps happening in spite of my vigilance in watching for "the signs" that he is poised for an attack on the front window. My futile attempts to intercept him before he runs to the window, barking at the visibly blanched blue jay who chanced landing on our lawn, or the startled squirrel who happens to be in our tree, or the nosy neighbour who drives slowly past our house, the peacefully passing pedestarians out for a leisurely stroll . . . .
At the rate he's going, I'll be lucky if I make to the end of this week.
Imagine you're in the kitchen, working at the table, computer keys clicking at a dizzying pace because you're "in the zone," when you're abruptly yanked from your reverie by the maniacal, bellowing clamour of two hounds barking, yelping, snarling, growling, a jarring racket that will jangle the nerves of even the most stalwart, undaunted, unwavering individual.
And you can only imagine what it does to Stephen.
Two bottles of wine and a bucket size snifter of brandy, accompanied by a club pack of Prozac, and a case of Melatonin is usually enough to calm his shattered nerves and restore him to a somewhat sustainable peace.
Until the next time.
When the two of them start their hellish cacophony, I leap into action.
Grabbing the water bottle, finger readied at the trigger, I bodily relocate them (but no hands!) "bahing" at them, and gently remarking that there is nothing here for them to see, to move along, to hustle their pappies and move their shtaneh (a poor, Anglosized translation of "pants" in Ukranian).
I man the front window like a goalie at a World Cup game. Not even the hair of either canine makes it past me, arms stretched out, feet planted firmly apart, scrabbling back and forth in front of the window, bahing, firing the water bottle spray with expert precision . . ..
Either the NHL or a European World Cup team is going to call me, when some one films my impressive barricading skills and puts it on youtube.
Something has to happen, or I'm gonna have to start exploiting the dog's labour skills in order to afford them.
And once that happens, it's a short step to Reilley becoming a feline pimp Daddy managing Goblet's street corner carnal activities.
Apparently, it's 80s week on Facebook.
Gnarly Dude!
Lots of statuses are encouraging me to upload a picture of myself from the 80s so everyone can see how much I've changed.
Or not.
If you're in the "not" catgeory, reality make-over tv shows would love to get their hands on you.
What I can't figure out is how come anyone would want to remember the 80s at all, let alone what you looked like.
I graduated from Oromocto High School in 1985.
Meaning the 80s for me was not some bygone era imagined in the nostalgic, cerebral meanderings of my 16 year old daughter.
They were real.
Very real.
Some things about the 80s were great: John Hughes' films for example.
The falling of the Berlin Wall.
The Cosby Show, Friday the 13th: The Series, and Fame.
Swatches.
Rubik Cubes, Trivial Pursuit.
Raiders of the Lost Ark, Police Academy, Back to the Future, Who Framed Roger Rabbit.
The end of M*A*S*H (I was just never a fan!) and Dynasty (which never should have started, really.).
80s music is remembered for its simultaneous creativity, hideousness and incomprehensibility.
Duran Duran, Culture Club, Michael Jackson, Thompson Twins, Men at Work, Men Without Hats, Cyndi Lauper, Loverboy, Rick Springfield, John Cougar, Pat Benetar, Madonna, Wham! . . . .
I still have no idea what The Reflex is about, but when I hear it I am transported to sock hops and high school dances where I pretended like I could dance.
Instead of the unco-ordinated and in all liklihood obscene gesticulations I engaged in on the dance floor.
You can imagine my Archie Bunker-inspired father's opinions about Cyndi Lauper and Culture Club. . .
Other things about the 80s were not so good.
Namely, fashion.
Legwarmers, neon everything: from shoelaces to underwear to sweatshirts with half the shoulder missing. . . shoulder pads, Madonna-esque fingerless gloves, one rhinestone glove, and other Michael Jackson inspired haute coutere catastrophes, gawd-help-us stirrup pants, metallic prom dresses with sleeves so puffy you had to turn sideways to get into the door, oversized shirts and sweaters with big gaudy belts bearing enough metal trim to prevent air travel for 100 years, parachute pants, jelly shoes and sandals, mesh shirts, sunglasses, Miami Vice look, . . .
Big, big earrings. The bigger the better.
Some where so heavy, they stretched your earlobes to your boobs.
Who needs ear stretchers? Just get your hands on some 50 pound 80s earrings, for .10 cents a peice at a thrift shop.
Glasses so big you wondered if the bridge of your nose would collapse from the weight.
The 80s are also renowned for some of the absolute worst hairstyles ever created.
Side ponytails, headbands, scrunchies. . .
Big bar hair, achieved with mousse, hair gel and hair spray enough to not only put a hole in our ozone layer, but the ozone layers of any other planet in our solar system.
But the worst. . .the peice de resistance of all 80s hair styles. . .
The Mullet.
(Head down, face filled with embarrasement and shame)
I had one.
1981.
Business in the front.
Party in the back.
Parted down the middle with my s-shaped cowlick for all to ponder.
And if the mullet wasn't bad enough, to add insult to injury and salt to the open wound that was my hairstyle, I had another folicle faux pas:
A rat tail.
One September, during the annual FREX, I had my rat tail adorned with so many roach clips its a wonder my neck wasn't permanently pulled back, forcing me to spend the rest of my life looking only at the sky.
Any of my friends won a roach clip, found a roach clip, or procured a roach clip, it was afixed to my rat tail.
And, because I was incredibly niave (how else could you possibly explain a mullet and rat tail!) I had no idea what roach clips were used for.
But I paraded around the exhibition grounds with at least 25 roach clips securely clipped to my rat tail, like a walking advertisement for any and all drug dealers to entice me with their marijuana marvels.
I shudder just thinking about it.
The picture of me with the mullet adorning my head is in my parent's basement.
A constant reminder, a metaphor, of all that was wrong with the 80s.
Thankfully, the rat tail was hidden.
Because there is only so much humilitation to be crammed into one school photo.
In conclusion, the 80s were a fashion disaster.
A decade where fashion designers and couture wannabes experienced, collectively, an acid flashback so severe, with such daunting reprecussions that young people in the western world adorned themselves with blindingly inappropriate colors, forgot how to speak English as a result of music that made no sense, while boasting hair styles that made Ray Charles shake his head in bewilderment.
And if you happened to live so far off the fashion grid that clothes shopping took place in the nearest strip mall that housed such Holy Grails of Haute Couture as Reitmans, Woolworth's or Bi-Way, and you have the fashion appreciation of a color blind two year old, you were, in one succinct word,
Screwed.
So, am I rushing to my parent's house to procure a picture of me in the 80s so I can then whiz to work to have someone with far more computer savvy than I possess scan said picture, to my office, turn on my computer and upload this dashing daguerreotype to Facebook so everyone can see how much I have (not) changed?
Not.
Bloody.
Likely.
I'd rather dig lint out of my bellybutton.
Title Lyric: 1985 by Bowling for Soup
Maybe she just got lost, so I hung my bra from the mailbox. . .the boob fairy never came for me. . .
October 17, 2010
Saturday evening, during my usual visit to the nursing home, after an enjoyable supper of potato salad and hotdogs, Mum and I retired to her room for our weekly catch-up conflab.
Since she got sick several years ago, my mother has developed a low tolerance for the cold.
Hence, when we returned to her room, I was hit by a wall of heat so intense I felt my eyebrows singe.
My mother was already wrapped in two sweaters, heat as high as it could go, when she asked me if I would mind getting her a warm blanket to wrap herself in because she was freezing.
Masking the astonishment on my face, I swaddle her in a blanket, and then begin stripping down so I could tolerate the warmth of her room.
As soon as she goes to the bathroom, I leap from her bed, open the window and let the cool night air dance over my bare neck and arms, taking as many lungfuls as I can before she comes out of the bathroom.
In the past, if not paying attention for her return, I am jolted into attentiveness when I hear,
"Dawne! Do you have that window open??!! It's FREEZING in here!"
Reluctantly, I close the window. I've tried in the past to leave it open just a hair, but she always knows.
Always.
When she used to come to my house for dinner, she'd come into the hot-because-Dawne-has-been-cooking-in-it-all-day-kitchen, wearing 3 sweaters and a winter coat, and sit beside the heater, which I always remembered to turn on before she arrived, with dogs lying on her feet, and she would still complain that every time she came to my house she froze.
"Its a wonder those kids aren't sick with pneumonia," she'd say, "cause its so bloody cold in here all the time! Feel my hands! They're like cakes of ice!"
"Cakes of ice" was a perennial favourite of my mother. . .still is.
So, last evening while we were conflabbing, I asked her if she thought she had enough sweaters for the winter.
She thought about it for a minute, and asked if she had any money left on her Pennington's giftcard.
Which is not what I asked her, you'll note.
I said that indeed, she did, and that I would be more than happy to get her a couple of sweaters.
Off to Penningtons I went this afternoon after Quaker meeting.
Sometimes I can convince her to come with me, but most of the time I fly solo on these vestment missions.
And if something is the wrong size, or the wrong color, or the wrong style, then I have to go back.
I have been known to make four trips trying to get things sorted out.
I may have gotten it all right this trip, two sweaters: a traditional navy blue cardigan, and a dusty rose fleece with a zipper in the front.
Only time will tell.
As in tonight when I take them to her, along with her box of granola bars.
It's Sunday. . Antiques Roadshow, All Creatures Great and Small, new sweaters and granola bars.
Does it get any better than that?
The last time I was able to get Mum to come shopping with me was the first really nice, warm spring day after a long, cold winter.
Sunshine always makes her happy.
There is nothing challenging about taking Mum out, except that mucho patience is required.
Ergo my father doesn't take her.
Patient he is not.
When they shop together, it gets very, very ugly.
So for the sake of family harmony, I take her almost all places she needs to go.
Plus I can get her wheelchair in the car without taking it apart.
She needed several things for the spring/summer: t-shirts, capris, and two new bras.
We wander around the store picking out piles of things for her to try on.
And remember, she wears a hearing aid in one ear and can't hear from the other, so, she tends to be loud when she talks to you.
Especially if we're out in public because she's convinced with all the noise outside of the confines of the nursing home, I won't hear her.
So there can be loudness.
She tried on a variety of shirts and pants and capris until she settled on what she wanted.
We were at the portion our shopping programming I had put off as long as I could.
The bras.
Managing to buy bras for me is something I avoid at all costs. I hate it. My boobs are too small for my ample body, so cup size and around me size are always at odds with one another.
And at 43 I am way beyond stuffing my bra with kleenex to make the cup size and around me size fit.
Besides, I don't want boobs that come around corners before the rest of me.
If I can't bra myself up, how can I possibly manage to locate appropriate bras for my mother????
She has the same problem: around size and cup size don't work together.
Plus, there isn't much in contemporary bras she is going to like.
Leopard print wire bras for maximum boob support and outage, electric pink peek-a-boo-bras, lime green padded bras to ensure false advertising, bras with hearts on them, or kissy lips, bras with straps so thin they're practically non-existant and don't have the capacity to hold up tissue, let alone an ample pair of breasts, baby blue lacy bras that cover nothing and show everything, bras with shiny doodads at the front, bras with stripes, flowers, kittens, puppies, black strapless bras with polka dots . . .
Janet was having none of that.
Beige or white, solid straps, no lace, no padding, no designs. . .
A bra whose sole purpose is to hold your boobs up.
And not for entertainment.
I am just so thankful we didn't have to buy underwear. I can only imagine how I would explain hi-cut, low-cut, no cut, boy cut, and thongs to my mother.
As it was, she had considered getting pjs, but was disgusted by the offerings.
How come the companies who make these pajamas think a 70 year old woman wants to wear pjs with lambs cavorting all over them? Or bowls of fruit? Or Betty Boop? Or sailing motifs?
This from the woman who wore 70s prints and stripes and colors that would render you blind upon first sight.
What about me says, "I want to wear night ware that has sayings on it like, "Bad Girls Everywhere" or "Come Here and Kiss Me" or "Team Edward!??"
She thought they were referring to Prince Edward.
I tried to explain but she just didn't care.
Whatever happened to simple flowered pajama tops and bottoms? she yells at me.
There must be a top and a bottom.
No nighties for my mother.
"They bunch up around my waist, " she say, "and I feel like I'm sleeping in the nude!"
No cute little pink spaghetti strap tops with barely there bottoms, either.
"If I wanted to sleep naked, why would I go through all the trouble of buying pajamas?"
No tank tops either.
T-shirt like tops with matching bottoms and no ifs, ands or buts about it.
We didn't purchase pajamas, let me tell you that.
The very patient salesperson listens attentively while I share with her the list of dos and don't that must be be met in selecting bras for my mother.
She then scours the store, the back rooms, corners, underneath counters, inside ceiling tiles, and comes up with three bras she thinks (hopes, along with me) that my mother will both like and buy.
Helping Mum try in t-shirts and capris was fine. I help her put her pjs on all the time, and I didn't see much difference between that and helping her try on clothes.
Bras, however, were an entirely different story.
I didn't even know where to begin.
Or how.
I get the straps over her shoulders.
So far so good.
The hard part was next.
And you know what the hard part was. . .so I am NOT going into detail.
Chafing at my attempt to be delicate, my mother takes the situation into her own hands, and yells.
Very loudly.
"Oh for God's sake Dawne! Just stuff them in! I have to pee! And I'm FREEZING"
Well.
I did as she said.
While listening to the titters and tee hees from the sales staff, the store, and everyone within a hundred kilometer radius of my mother and me.
We selected two bras, put them in the pile, paid for everything and then I took her to lunch.
Just when you think you know someone. . . .
Title Lyric: The Boob Fairy by Deirdre Flint
Saturday evening, during my usual visit to the nursing home, after an enjoyable supper of potato salad and hotdogs, Mum and I retired to her room for our weekly catch-up conflab.
Since she got sick several years ago, my mother has developed a low tolerance for the cold.
Hence, when we returned to her room, I was hit by a wall of heat so intense I felt my eyebrows singe.
My mother was already wrapped in two sweaters, heat as high as it could go, when she asked me if I would mind getting her a warm blanket to wrap herself in because she was freezing.
Masking the astonishment on my face, I swaddle her in a blanket, and then begin stripping down so I could tolerate the warmth of her room.
As soon as she goes to the bathroom, I leap from her bed, open the window and let the cool night air dance over my bare neck and arms, taking as many lungfuls as I can before she comes out of the bathroom.
In the past, if not paying attention for her return, I am jolted into attentiveness when I hear,
"Dawne! Do you have that window open??!! It's FREEZING in here!"
Reluctantly, I close the window. I've tried in the past to leave it open just a hair, but she always knows.
Always.
When she used to come to my house for dinner, she'd come into the hot-because-Dawne-has-been-cooking-in-it-all-day-kitchen, wearing 3 sweaters and a winter coat, and sit beside the heater, which I always remembered to turn on before she arrived, with dogs lying on her feet, and she would still complain that every time she came to my house she froze.
"Its a wonder those kids aren't sick with pneumonia," she'd say, "cause its so bloody cold in here all the time! Feel my hands! They're like cakes of ice!"
"Cakes of ice" was a perennial favourite of my mother. . .still is.
So, last evening while we were conflabbing, I asked her if she thought she had enough sweaters for the winter.
She thought about it for a minute, and asked if she had any money left on her Pennington's giftcard.
Which is not what I asked her, you'll note.
I said that indeed, she did, and that I would be more than happy to get her a couple of sweaters.
Off to Penningtons I went this afternoon after Quaker meeting.
Sometimes I can convince her to come with me, but most of the time I fly solo on these vestment missions.
And if something is the wrong size, or the wrong color, or the wrong style, then I have to go back.
I have been known to make four trips trying to get things sorted out.
I may have gotten it all right this trip, two sweaters: a traditional navy blue cardigan, and a dusty rose fleece with a zipper in the front.
Only time will tell.
As in tonight when I take them to her, along with her box of granola bars.
It's Sunday. . Antiques Roadshow, All Creatures Great and Small, new sweaters and granola bars.
Does it get any better than that?
The last time I was able to get Mum to come shopping with me was the first really nice, warm spring day after a long, cold winter.
Sunshine always makes her happy.
There is nothing challenging about taking Mum out, except that mucho patience is required.
Ergo my father doesn't take her.
Patient he is not.
When they shop together, it gets very, very ugly.
So for the sake of family harmony, I take her almost all places she needs to go.
Plus I can get her wheelchair in the car without taking it apart.
She needed several things for the spring/summer: t-shirts, capris, and two new bras.
We wander around the store picking out piles of things for her to try on.
And remember, she wears a hearing aid in one ear and can't hear from the other, so, she tends to be loud when she talks to you.
Especially if we're out in public because she's convinced with all the noise outside of the confines of the nursing home, I won't hear her.
So there can be loudness.
She tried on a variety of shirts and pants and capris until she settled on what she wanted.
We were at the portion our shopping programming I had put off as long as I could.
The bras.
Managing to buy bras for me is something I avoid at all costs. I hate it. My boobs are too small for my ample body, so cup size and around me size are always at odds with one another.
And at 43 I am way beyond stuffing my bra with kleenex to make the cup size and around me size fit.
Besides, I don't want boobs that come around corners before the rest of me.
If I can't bra myself up, how can I possibly manage to locate appropriate bras for my mother????
She has the same problem: around size and cup size don't work together.
Plus, there isn't much in contemporary bras she is going to like.
Leopard print wire bras for maximum boob support and outage, electric pink peek-a-boo-bras, lime green padded bras to ensure false advertising, bras with hearts on them, or kissy lips, bras with straps so thin they're practically non-existant and don't have the capacity to hold up tissue, let alone an ample pair of breasts, baby blue lacy bras that cover nothing and show everything, bras with shiny doodads at the front, bras with stripes, flowers, kittens, puppies, black strapless bras with polka dots . . .
Janet was having none of that.
Beige or white, solid straps, no lace, no padding, no designs. . .
A bra whose sole purpose is to hold your boobs up.
And not for entertainment.
I am just so thankful we didn't have to buy underwear. I can only imagine how I would explain hi-cut, low-cut, no cut, boy cut, and thongs to my mother.
As it was, she had considered getting pjs, but was disgusted by the offerings.
How come the companies who make these pajamas think a 70 year old woman wants to wear pjs with lambs cavorting all over them? Or bowls of fruit? Or Betty Boop? Or sailing motifs?
This from the woman who wore 70s prints and stripes and colors that would render you blind upon first sight.
What about me says, "I want to wear night ware that has sayings on it like, "Bad Girls Everywhere" or "Come Here and Kiss Me" or "Team Edward!??"
She thought they were referring to Prince Edward.
I tried to explain but she just didn't care.
Whatever happened to simple flowered pajama tops and bottoms? she yells at me.
There must be a top and a bottom.
No nighties for my mother.
"They bunch up around my waist, " she say, "and I feel like I'm sleeping in the nude!"
No cute little pink spaghetti strap tops with barely there bottoms, either.
"If I wanted to sleep naked, why would I go through all the trouble of buying pajamas?"
No tank tops either.
T-shirt like tops with matching bottoms and no ifs, ands or buts about it.
We didn't purchase pajamas, let me tell you that.
The very patient salesperson listens attentively while I share with her the list of dos and don't that must be be met in selecting bras for my mother.
She then scours the store, the back rooms, corners, underneath counters, inside ceiling tiles, and comes up with three bras she thinks (hopes, along with me) that my mother will both like and buy.
Helping Mum try in t-shirts and capris was fine. I help her put her pjs on all the time, and I didn't see much difference between that and helping her try on clothes.
Bras, however, were an entirely different story.
I didn't even know where to begin.
Or how.
I get the straps over her shoulders.
So far so good.
The hard part was next.
And you know what the hard part was. . .so I am NOT going into detail.
Chafing at my attempt to be delicate, my mother takes the situation into her own hands, and yells.
Very loudly.
"Oh for God's sake Dawne! Just stuff them in! I have to pee! And I'm FREEZING"
Well.
I did as she said.
While listening to the titters and tee hees from the sales staff, the store, and everyone within a hundred kilometer radius of my mother and me.
We selected two bras, put them in the pile, paid for everything and then I took her to lunch.
Just when you think you know someone. . . .
Title Lyric: The Boob Fairy by Deirdre Flint
Sunday, October 17, 2010
I packed my antihistamines and tupperware drums. . . .
October 16, 2010
Today was a completely useless day.
I didn't get up, I mean really up, until 3.00.
In the afternoon, that is.
How come?
Excema.
I have excema, and it always gets bad when the seasons change.
Especially the change from fall to winter.
The itching has been known to make me crazier than usual.
Consequently, I have prescription antihistamines.
And I had to take them last night.
Anyone whose ever taken Benadryl knows the power of over-the-counter antihistamines.
Prescription antihistamines. . . .ummmmmmm. . . .
Hence, I wasn't able to achieve full consciousness until around 3.00 pm.
Luckily, I've only had to antihistamines for excema.
Never for allergies.
However, I did, only once, experience hives.
I was still living in Southern Ontario, in a townhouse complex a 10 minute walk from my in-laws.
My ex and I were in the midst of what would be our last separation before I moved back to New Brunswick.
The ultimate separation as it were.
The hives. . .right. . .
To this day, I have no idea how I came to get hives.
I just know that one evening, around 10 pm, once the Meredyth and Keith were in bed, I started scratching.
And it wasn't just one spot, it was all over.
Peering into the bathroom mirror, I noticed these red bumps all over me.
And to say they were itchy is an understatement.
I filled the bathroom sink and slathered myself with calomine lotion.
All that did was make me look like I had fallen into a vat of pink chalk dust.
All night.
Scratching.
Not sleeping.
Finally, at 6 am, I gave in and called my in-laws who picked the three of us up and took us to St. Joe's hospital.
Luckily, it was the one and only time an Emergency Room anywhere in the Western world didn't have a waiting room jam packed with sick people squeezed together tigther than sardines in a can.
I was in and out in 20 minutes.
The doctor gave me a shot of some really potent antihistamine.
Home by 7.30 am, I fed the kids a second breakfast, having fed them before we left, and then we sat down to watch a movie.
Because when you have really small children, there is no time that isn't a good time to show a movie.
Especially when mummy is hyped on an injection of antihistamines.
Before I knew it, I was completely, sound asleep.
Not because I wanted to be, but because even my will to remain awake wasn't strong enough to overpower the antihistamines following freely throughout my body. Antihistamines that had taken control over my sleep center forcing my brain to send out messages screaming, "SHE MUST SLEEP!"
But my conscience was screaming equally as loud, "SHE CAN'T. WHO'LL LOOK AFTER THE KIDS????!!!!!"
My brain responded, "NOT MY PROBLEM!!!!!! THE MEDS HAVE ORDERED SLEEP!!!"
And we know who won that battle.
Let the games begin.
Meredyth, as any precocious child would, took complete and full advantage of her mother's unwillingly unconscious state.
Not willing to be completely silenced, my conscience would occasionally overpower my brain long enough to force me awake to survey the uncontrolled chaos that was taking place around me.
I would wake up long enough to see Mer exercising her artistic creativity all over the living room walls, in my best lipstick, using my eyeshadow to shade and eyeliner to makes those finer lines.
But before I could do anything, I was out.
This was one of the periods in my life when I wore makeup.
Events like this likely precipitated my eventual eschewing of makeup all together.
Mer also made a lovely pile of flour, sugar, and assorted herbs and spices on the carpet.
Every pot, pot lid and pan I owned was scattered throughtout the living room.
VHS tape towers tettered precariously.
But the worst thing, worse than everything combined, was swimming to near consciousness only to be greeted with the saccharine sweetness of the purple dinosaur with the green spots.
That's right.
Barney.
And friends.
Perhaps Barney and his obnoxious band of perpetually perky pre-teens was the mitigating factor in not being able to achieve full consciouness. My conscience was thinking, "Screw that. Waking her to Barney is considered cruel and unusual punishment. Let her be. "
Keith, because he was Keith, napped beside me.
Both of us woke up with our faces adorned in every single form, type, kind, of makeup I owned.
Finally, around 1.00 pm, I called my former mother-in-law and asked if we could please come over.
She arrived 5 minutes later, and upon walking in the house exclaimed, "I should have taken you all to my house this morning!"
Once at her house, I crashed in the spare room until she came to get me for supper.
After supper, I went back home and it took me hours to get Mer's lipstick graffiti off the walls.
To vacuum the concoction she so artfully arranged on the carpet.
And don't even ask about how I managed to get the makeup off Pookie's face.
No child under the age of two is ever excited about that much soap and water coming into contact with their face.
Not to mention make up remover.
Sleeping until 3.00 pm because of antihistamines is so not the worst thing I've ever experienced.
And the repercussions to house, home, and my face where significantly less as well.
Unfortunately for Keith, this was not the only time Mer used his body, or parts of it, for her own entertainment.
Once she accepted that, despite her begging and pleading, I was not going to take him back to the hospital, she decided that she may as well enjoy him.
Meaning one afternoon, while I was in the kitchen making cookies, I heard a lot of "hold still" and giggling coming from upstairs.
Upon investigation, it would seem that Mer thought that it would be fun to make her brother look like a mini version of the Michelin man.
Taking the paper like covers off all of my maxi pads, she gleefully plastered her brother with them, starting from the top down.
Poor little guy had no idea what she was doing.
When he was two weeks old, we lived in a scuzzy apartment in downtown Hamilton.
I saw this building in May when we went to a conference.
It has been gentrified.
But it wasn't then.
I have lots of reminisences about that building, let me tell you.
But for now, that was where we were living.
Happily making cookies for me and mine, I noticed that Keith wasn't making any of his happy gurgling sounds.
Because Mer had placed between his toothless gums a homemade chocolate chip cookie.
The pleasure on my little Pookie's puss was a sight to behold.
The world didn't taste like milky mush. There were foods that tasted like. . . .something.
When I removed this cookie, I was greeted with the not-so-happy-sounds-of-a-pissed-off-infant.
Mer piped up, "THAT'S why I put the cookie in its mouth. To shut it up. It make too much noise and I can't hear the tv."
Sibling sensibility.
Luckily, the cookie didn't ruin Keith's appetite for milky mush permanently.
He managed to ascertain that any food filled the void, no matter what it tasted like.
He still thinks like that.
Ask my grocery bill.
Title Lyric: I'm Glad I Hitched My Apple Wagon to Your Star by The Boy Least Likely To
Today was a completely useless day.
I didn't get up, I mean really up, until 3.00.
In the afternoon, that is.
How come?
Excema.
I have excema, and it always gets bad when the seasons change.
Especially the change from fall to winter.
The itching has been known to make me crazier than usual.
Consequently, I have prescription antihistamines.
And I had to take them last night.
Anyone whose ever taken Benadryl knows the power of over-the-counter antihistamines.
Prescription antihistamines. . . .ummmmmmm. . . .
Hence, I wasn't able to achieve full consciousness until around 3.00 pm.
Luckily, I've only had to antihistamines for excema.
Never for allergies.
However, I did, only once, experience hives.
I was still living in Southern Ontario, in a townhouse complex a 10 minute walk from my in-laws.
My ex and I were in the midst of what would be our last separation before I moved back to New Brunswick.
The ultimate separation as it were.
The hives. . .right. . .
To this day, I have no idea how I came to get hives.
I just know that one evening, around 10 pm, once the Meredyth and Keith were in bed, I started scratching.
And it wasn't just one spot, it was all over.
Peering into the bathroom mirror, I noticed these red bumps all over me.
And to say they were itchy is an understatement.
I filled the bathroom sink and slathered myself with calomine lotion.
All that did was make me look like I had fallen into a vat of pink chalk dust.
All night.
Scratching.
Not sleeping.
Finally, at 6 am, I gave in and called my in-laws who picked the three of us up and took us to St. Joe's hospital.
Luckily, it was the one and only time an Emergency Room anywhere in the Western world didn't have a waiting room jam packed with sick people squeezed together tigther than sardines in a can.
I was in and out in 20 minutes.
The doctor gave me a shot of some really potent antihistamine.
Home by 7.30 am, I fed the kids a second breakfast, having fed them before we left, and then we sat down to watch a movie.
Because when you have really small children, there is no time that isn't a good time to show a movie.
Especially when mummy is hyped on an injection of antihistamines.
Before I knew it, I was completely, sound asleep.
Not because I wanted to be, but because even my will to remain awake wasn't strong enough to overpower the antihistamines following freely throughout my body. Antihistamines that had taken control over my sleep center forcing my brain to send out messages screaming, "SHE MUST SLEEP!"
But my conscience was screaming equally as loud, "SHE CAN'T. WHO'LL LOOK AFTER THE KIDS????!!!!!"
My brain responded, "NOT MY PROBLEM!!!!!! THE MEDS HAVE ORDERED SLEEP!!!"
And we know who won that battle.
Let the games begin.
Meredyth, as any precocious child would, took complete and full advantage of her mother's unwillingly unconscious state.
Not willing to be completely silenced, my conscience would occasionally overpower my brain long enough to force me awake to survey the uncontrolled chaos that was taking place around me.
I would wake up long enough to see Mer exercising her artistic creativity all over the living room walls, in my best lipstick, using my eyeshadow to shade and eyeliner to makes those finer lines.
But before I could do anything, I was out.
This was one of the periods in my life when I wore makeup.
Events like this likely precipitated my eventual eschewing of makeup all together.
Mer also made a lovely pile of flour, sugar, and assorted herbs and spices on the carpet.
Every pot, pot lid and pan I owned was scattered throughtout the living room.
VHS tape towers tettered precariously.
But the worst thing, worse than everything combined, was swimming to near consciousness only to be greeted with the saccharine sweetness of the purple dinosaur with the green spots.
That's right.
Barney.
And friends.
Perhaps Barney and his obnoxious band of perpetually perky pre-teens was the mitigating factor in not being able to achieve full consciouness. My conscience was thinking, "Screw that. Waking her to Barney is considered cruel and unusual punishment. Let her be. "
Keith, because he was Keith, napped beside me.
Both of us woke up with our faces adorned in every single form, type, kind, of makeup I owned.
Finally, around 1.00 pm, I called my former mother-in-law and asked if we could please come over.
She arrived 5 minutes later, and upon walking in the house exclaimed, "I should have taken you all to my house this morning!"
Once at her house, I crashed in the spare room until she came to get me for supper.
After supper, I went back home and it took me hours to get Mer's lipstick graffiti off the walls.
To vacuum the concoction she so artfully arranged on the carpet.
And don't even ask about how I managed to get the makeup off Pookie's face.
No child under the age of two is ever excited about that much soap and water coming into contact with their face.
Not to mention make up remover.
Sleeping until 3.00 pm because of antihistamines is so not the worst thing I've ever experienced.
And the repercussions to house, home, and my face where significantly less as well.
Unfortunately for Keith, this was not the only time Mer used his body, or parts of it, for her own entertainment.
Once she accepted that, despite her begging and pleading, I was not going to take him back to the hospital, she decided that she may as well enjoy him.
Meaning one afternoon, while I was in the kitchen making cookies, I heard a lot of "hold still" and giggling coming from upstairs.
Upon investigation, it would seem that Mer thought that it would be fun to make her brother look like a mini version of the Michelin man.
Taking the paper like covers off all of my maxi pads, she gleefully plastered her brother with them, starting from the top down.
Poor little guy had no idea what she was doing.
When he was two weeks old, we lived in a scuzzy apartment in downtown Hamilton.
I saw this building in May when we went to a conference.
It has been gentrified.
But it wasn't then.
I have lots of reminisences about that building, let me tell you.
But for now, that was where we were living.
Happily making cookies for me and mine, I noticed that Keith wasn't making any of his happy gurgling sounds.
Because Mer had placed between his toothless gums a homemade chocolate chip cookie.
The pleasure on my little Pookie's puss was a sight to behold.
The world didn't taste like milky mush. There were foods that tasted like. . . .something.
When I removed this cookie, I was greeted with the not-so-happy-sounds-of-a-pissed-off-infant.
Mer piped up, "THAT'S why I put the cookie in its mouth. To shut it up. It make too much noise and I can't hear the tv."
Sibling sensibility.
Luckily, the cookie didn't ruin Keith's appetite for milky mush permanently.
He managed to ascertain that any food filled the void, no matter what it tasted like.
He still thinks like that.
Ask my grocery bill.
Title Lyric: I'm Glad I Hitched My Apple Wagon to Your Star by The Boy Least Likely To
Friday, October 15, 2010
Dancing queen, young and sweet only 17. . .
October 15, 2010
After attending a meeting downtown, I treated myself to a much needed hair appointment.
For the past several years I had been getting greyer and greyer.
Most disconcerting.
I don’t care about getting older, or even getting grey hair.
But if I’m going grey, I want all my hair to be grey.
Not just some of it.
Grey hair is splattered throughout my naturally brown hair.
Enough of it to be noticeable.
Enough for Emily, who loves to play with my hair to comment,
“Mum, you have A LOT of grey hair!”
Around the sides, there is enough coarse, wiry grey hair to knit a blanket with.
Consequently, every 6-8 weeks, depending on cash flow, I get my hair colored and trimmed.
Because the other thing that has happened, post-kids and as a result of my thyroid pills is that my hair as become dry, coarse and in the front, as in the very front, thin.
But if my hair is longer, the top thinning is much less noticeable.
And longer hair is easier to take care of. . .no weird bed head in the morning, and if I don’t feel like doing anything with it, I haul it into a clip and off I go.
My entire youth, the one thing I was able to feel confident about was my hair.
Thick.
Naturally curly, just like Freida in Peanuts.
Gorgeous.
So, imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror one day and was able to see a portion of my scalp I had never seen before.
I thought I was seeing things until my father asked me one day if I was losing my hair at the front of my head.
Nonetheless, thin hair in front or not, I still must have my hair colored until the day comes when it is completely, and nicely, grey.
Salt and pepper hair looks sexy on men.
It looks sexy on my husband.
But my schizophrenic spattering of grey, just significant enough to not ignore, definitely does not look sexy.
In fact, it makes me look tired.
And that, I can definitely do without.
I also love getting my hair done.
THE GODDESS of all hairstylists, Norma, at Klub Soda (454-SODA) is responsible for how good my hair looks, if you’re interested.
You should be interested.
She is phenomenal.
She’d have to be to put up with me.
And the kids.
And Stephen.
As soon as I walk into the salon, I immediately relax.
In fact, after the nursing home, it’s the most relaxing place I know.
Norma pampers me, massages my scalp, covers the offending grey, listens to me, we catch up. . .
No cell phones, no computers, no distractions.
I couldn’t ask for more.
At this moment, I’m sitting in Second Cup, on King Street, at as close to the corner table as I can get.
Not having the car, I decided to just plunk myself here until Stephen can pick me up.
I used to live on King Street, a half a block from the liquor store and a block from Sweetwaters, which was the major club in this city at that time.
The kids and I lived in a six bedroom apartment, the top two floors of a three storey house.
When we moved in, the rent was an astonishing $440.00.
Amazing!
But the heating bill, the oil heating bill, especially in the winter quickly took the shine off the inexpensive rent.
And it was an old house, so it was cavernous and drafty and there were times when I thought taking out shares in Irving Oil would be cheaper.
Usually around $750.00 a month.
Being challenged in anything related to non-electric heat sources, it took me a long time to figure out if we had run out of oil.
Other than if we were freezing our parts off.
Quickly, I learned that there was a vent just below the toilet paper roll in the bathroom.
Turn the heat on, run to the bathroom, and if the toilet paper was being blown around by the heat, we were good.
No blowing toilet paper, no heat.
This once happened on Christmas Even during a snowstorm.
Imagine the joy on the face of the on call oil delivery guy when he got to my house.
Chances are none of this would have ever happened had there been access to the oil drum, or at least reasonable access to the oil drum.
It was in the basement. Which meant that I had to go outside, around to the back of the house, into the dark, dank, creepy basement, cross over to the small room where the oil drum was and check to see how low the doohickey thing was.
The thing that’s similar to the thing that let you know if the Slush Puppy machine was getting low on Slush Puppy goo.
I HATED going into the basement.
Mice, snakes, any and all sorts of little creatures awaited me.
And it was poorly lit.
Unfortunately, the kids were too young to send down there on their own. And I had to wait to go to this den of darkness until after the kids were long asleep because I couldn’t leave them on their own when they were awake.
Given what they got up to when I was there, leaving them scared the crap out of me.
Taking them with me wasn’t an option.
So late night in the dark it was.
I love electric heat.
So long as you pay the power bill, all is good.
And warm.
Had we not been evicted because the landlord wanted to refurbish our two floors to rent to a provincial government organization, that, ironically, ended the contract after a year, I’d still be living there.
Yes, over a decade later I am still bitter about having to leave.
Because they wanted government money.
Which was apparently supposed to be more reliable than mine.
I loved being downtown.
The kids loved being downtown.
Buses, parks, shopping, library. . .everything was right there.
I walked everywhere. Ergo there was less ghetto bootay then.
In the summer, we were never inside. There was always somewhere to go, something to see.
Sometimes, all we had to do was sit on the front step.
Because when you lived downtown all the entertainment you'd want was on the sidewalk.
If there was, for some unusual reason, nothing going on, my kids were more than happy to fill the gap and provide the entertainment.
Mer loves to dance.
As a small child, she never walked anywhere, she danced.
Dance loving and energetic, I enrolled her in dance classes.
Tap and jazz, which meant she tapped all over our hardwood floored apartment, much to the delight to the two men who lived downstairs.
One sunny, summer day, my brother comes upstairs, laughing.
He asked me the question no mother wants to hear: Do you know what you’re children are doing?
It would seem that my two daughters were dancing their little faces off, on the front porch, while my son sat on the step holding out his hat for donations.
They managed to make $10.00 before I stopped them.
My son, a pint sized Pimp Daddy.
Emily wasn’t as fond of dance as her sister.
She managed one year of dance lessons before she put her foot down and resolutely refused to attend another dance class, ever.
How did she put her foot down?
Did she inform me of her displeasure?
Did she sit down and bare her soul about the trauma she was experiencing as a result of dance class?
No.
Wanting to make sure that there was no way I could misinterpret what she meant by, “I don’t like dance,” Emily staged a public mutiny.
A VERY public mutiny.
During the long anticipated end of the year dance extravaganza that drew such large crowds it had to be performed two nights in a row.
While all the other powder blue tutued little girls, and the one powder blue suited little boy were on stage in front of hundreds of family and friends of the dancers, dancing their little hearts out, my powder blue tutued tot was engaging in a full frontal mutiny.
She crossed her arms, and stood completely still through the entire number.
Glaring at me in the audience.
Even though she had no idea where I was sitting.
Not a tap.
Not a smidgen of movement.
Not a hint of smile, nor the slightest indication of humour in those gigantic baby blues.
Out and out defiance.
I suspect that had I managed to make my way onto the stage, she would have dug her heels into the floor rather than dance.
My brother leans over while she is making a public spectacle of herself as whispers in my ear,
“Do you think she’s trying to tell you something?”
I guess she figured if she was gonna dance, she was gonna get paid for it.
Title Lyric: Dancing Queen by Abba
After attending a meeting downtown, I treated myself to a much needed hair appointment.
For the past several years I had been getting greyer and greyer.
Most disconcerting.
I don’t care about getting older, or even getting grey hair.
But if I’m going grey, I want all my hair to be grey.
Not just some of it.
Grey hair is splattered throughout my naturally brown hair.
Enough of it to be noticeable.
Enough for Emily, who loves to play with my hair to comment,
“Mum, you have A LOT of grey hair!”
Around the sides, there is enough coarse, wiry grey hair to knit a blanket with.
Consequently, every 6-8 weeks, depending on cash flow, I get my hair colored and trimmed.
Because the other thing that has happened, post-kids and as a result of my thyroid pills is that my hair as become dry, coarse and in the front, as in the very front, thin.
But if my hair is longer, the top thinning is much less noticeable.
And longer hair is easier to take care of. . .no weird bed head in the morning, and if I don’t feel like doing anything with it, I haul it into a clip and off I go.
My entire youth, the one thing I was able to feel confident about was my hair.
Thick.
Naturally curly, just like Freida in Peanuts.
Gorgeous.
So, imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror one day and was able to see a portion of my scalp I had never seen before.
I thought I was seeing things until my father asked me one day if I was losing my hair at the front of my head.
Nonetheless, thin hair in front or not, I still must have my hair colored until the day comes when it is completely, and nicely, grey.
Salt and pepper hair looks sexy on men.
It looks sexy on my husband.
But my schizophrenic spattering of grey, just significant enough to not ignore, definitely does not look sexy.
In fact, it makes me look tired.
And that, I can definitely do without.
I also love getting my hair done.
THE GODDESS of all hairstylists, Norma, at Klub Soda (454-SODA) is responsible for how good my hair looks, if you’re interested.
You should be interested.
She is phenomenal.
She’d have to be to put up with me.
And the kids.
And Stephen.
As soon as I walk into the salon, I immediately relax.
In fact, after the nursing home, it’s the most relaxing place I know.
Norma pampers me, massages my scalp, covers the offending grey, listens to me, we catch up. . .
No cell phones, no computers, no distractions.
I couldn’t ask for more.
At this moment, I’m sitting in Second Cup, on King Street, at as close to the corner table as I can get.
Not having the car, I decided to just plunk myself here until Stephen can pick me up.
I used to live on King Street, a half a block from the liquor store and a block from Sweetwaters, which was the major club in this city at that time.
The kids and I lived in a six bedroom apartment, the top two floors of a three storey house.
When we moved in, the rent was an astonishing $440.00.
Amazing!
But the heating bill, the oil heating bill, especially in the winter quickly took the shine off the inexpensive rent.
And it was an old house, so it was cavernous and drafty and there were times when I thought taking out shares in Irving Oil would be cheaper.
Usually around $750.00 a month.
Being challenged in anything related to non-electric heat sources, it took me a long time to figure out if we had run out of oil.
Other than if we were freezing our parts off.
Quickly, I learned that there was a vent just below the toilet paper roll in the bathroom.
Turn the heat on, run to the bathroom, and if the toilet paper was being blown around by the heat, we were good.
No blowing toilet paper, no heat.
This once happened on Christmas Even during a snowstorm.
Imagine the joy on the face of the on call oil delivery guy when he got to my house.
Chances are none of this would have ever happened had there been access to the oil drum, or at least reasonable access to the oil drum.
It was in the basement. Which meant that I had to go outside, around to the back of the house, into the dark, dank, creepy basement, cross over to the small room where the oil drum was and check to see how low the doohickey thing was.
The thing that’s similar to the thing that let you know if the Slush Puppy machine was getting low on Slush Puppy goo.
I HATED going into the basement.
Mice, snakes, any and all sorts of little creatures awaited me.
And it was poorly lit.
Unfortunately, the kids were too young to send down there on their own. And I had to wait to go to this den of darkness until after the kids were long asleep because I couldn’t leave them on their own when they were awake.
Given what they got up to when I was there, leaving them scared the crap out of me.
Taking them with me wasn’t an option.
So late night in the dark it was.
I love electric heat.
So long as you pay the power bill, all is good.
And warm.
Had we not been evicted because the landlord wanted to refurbish our two floors to rent to a provincial government organization, that, ironically, ended the contract after a year, I’d still be living there.
Yes, over a decade later I am still bitter about having to leave.
Because they wanted government money.
Which was apparently supposed to be more reliable than mine.
I loved being downtown.
The kids loved being downtown.
Buses, parks, shopping, library. . .everything was right there.
I walked everywhere. Ergo there was less ghetto bootay then.
In the summer, we were never inside. There was always somewhere to go, something to see.
Sometimes, all we had to do was sit on the front step.
Because when you lived downtown all the entertainment you'd want was on the sidewalk.
If there was, for some unusual reason, nothing going on, my kids were more than happy to fill the gap and provide the entertainment.
Mer loves to dance.
As a small child, she never walked anywhere, she danced.
Dance loving and energetic, I enrolled her in dance classes.
Tap and jazz, which meant she tapped all over our hardwood floored apartment, much to the delight to the two men who lived downstairs.
One sunny, summer day, my brother comes upstairs, laughing.
He asked me the question no mother wants to hear: Do you know what you’re children are doing?
It would seem that my two daughters were dancing their little faces off, on the front porch, while my son sat on the step holding out his hat for donations.
They managed to make $10.00 before I stopped them.
My son, a pint sized Pimp Daddy.
Emily wasn’t as fond of dance as her sister.
She managed one year of dance lessons before she put her foot down and resolutely refused to attend another dance class, ever.
How did she put her foot down?
Did she inform me of her displeasure?
Did she sit down and bare her soul about the trauma she was experiencing as a result of dance class?
No.
Wanting to make sure that there was no way I could misinterpret what she meant by, “I don’t like dance,” Emily staged a public mutiny.
A VERY public mutiny.
During the long anticipated end of the year dance extravaganza that drew such large crowds it had to be performed two nights in a row.
While all the other powder blue tutued little girls, and the one powder blue suited little boy were on stage in front of hundreds of family and friends of the dancers, dancing their little hearts out, my powder blue tutued tot was engaging in a full frontal mutiny.
She crossed her arms, and stood completely still through the entire number.
Glaring at me in the audience.
Even though she had no idea where I was sitting.
Not a tap.
Not a smidgen of movement.
Not a hint of smile, nor the slightest indication of humour in those gigantic baby blues.
Out and out defiance.
I suspect that had I managed to make my way onto the stage, she would have dug her heels into the floor rather than dance.
My brother leans over while she is making a public spectacle of herself as whispers in my ear,
“Do you think she’s trying to tell you something?”
I guess she figured if she was gonna dance, she was gonna get paid for it.
Title Lyric: Dancing Queen by Abba
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The toilet seat is your launching pad. . .
October 15, 2010
How come cell phones go off at the most inopportune time?
Yesterday, late (as usual) to pick up Em, I'm in the elevator calling her to let her know I was on my way.
No answer.
Realizing that I HAD to pee, and if I didn't go before I left the building, I would pee in the car.
Stephen probably wouldn't like that very much.
I make a pit stop in the bathroom, and of course, because I'm late, and carrying my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag, and Mer's coat, I get the smallest bathroom as all the others are occupato.
I prefer to use the handicapped stall, provided, obviously, that there isn't someone who has a greater need than I do.
Why?
Because when you're carrying all the crap I inevitably end up carting around, space is a must.
Bigger stall = more room for my stuff.
Not this time.
I had to put the two large bags and Mer's coat in the stall first, then crawl over them to get to the toilet, hoping for enough space to turn myself around and divest my ample bottom of my pants.
It was tight. I won't lie.
I situate my ghetto bootie (boo-tay? I'm never sure) on the toilet seat, begin my necessary bathroom ablutions, listening to the conversations of the people waiting for a free stall when I heard the tell tale sound. . . .
Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing. . .
My cell phone starts ringing softly and the longer you take to answer it, the louder it gets.
I briefly contemplated not answering it, but then remembered that if I didn't, whoever it was, and it was DEFINITELY one of the kids, they would just text me.
And that intonation is no better than the ringing of the cell phone.
Resigned that I am going to have to answer my phone while sitting on the toilet, I sigh and dig my phone out from underneath the assortment of bags and coats.
It was, of course, Emily.
Asking me how come I called her and then hung up.
I didn't call her and hang up.
I called her, didn't hear any ringing and then hung up.
There I am, in the bathroom, on the toilet, drawers at my feet having a conversation with my daughter.
She asks me where I am.
I wonder if she means literally or figuratively, and not wanting to risk a miscommunication that will end no where good, I told her I was sitting on the flush.
She reminds me she's waiting.
I remind her she could be walking if she thought waiting for me was an inappropriate use of her time.
I tell her that as soon as I disentangle myself from the toilet stall, that I'll be there to pick her up.
Given where I was, I didn't think a prolonged conversation was the most appropos thing.
Clearly, Em wasn't concerned about where I was sitting while we conversed.
She just wanted to converse.
How come your kids always want to converse with you when you are the least able to converse with them?
Mer has a sixth sense that signals her to call me just before I'm on my way to class.
Keith wants to bond when I am 3/4 asleep trying to negotiate myself to the bathroom.
Either way, I rush out of the bathroom, clutching my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag and Mer's coat to my chest like a quarterback running down the field for a touchdown.
Because I knew that getting Em was just the beginning.
There was returning home so she could put her uniform on.
Picking Keith up, cause he was at home and looking for a drive to work.
Quickly racing through rush hour traffic (as much as there is here) so I could get to my office, shut down my computer, and pick up Stephen from his 4.00-5.20 class.
And arriving at home sometime around 6.00 to pee-needy dogs and a hungry, hungry husband.
The looniness that is my life continues to repeat itself like a bad scratch on an 80s 45.
Last evening Stephen and I found ourselves at home without the kids.
All the little Van Every chickens were working.
When Keith started working, three years ago, I certainly noticed his absence, especially in the evenings.
But I had Em to remind me of all my maternal duties, so while I missed Keith terribly, I was busy.
When Em started working this past April, and Keith was (and still is) experiencing the freedom of being a young adult whose mother didn't enforce any curfew, I started to experience a phenomenon heretofore never experienced by me before.
I was at home in the evenings without children.
So unprepared for this, so unaware of the repercussions of working children I found myself completely and utterly confused.
Disoriented.
Generally out of sorts.
I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do.
None whatsoever.
I hadn't had a completely kid free, at home, evening since October 11th, 1989.
The night before Meredyth made her entrance into the world.
Here I am at 42 years old with no clue what people did in the evenings when they weren't embroiled in the tangled dramas of supper preparations, dog demands, fielding phone calls, husband hounding, homework cajoling, tv tantrums, bedtime begging, next day lunch readying, washing, drying folding, the never ending laundry loads because someone, usually female, had "nothing to wear the next day!".
Really, what do people sans pets and children do in the evenings?
I envision something completely decadent and adult like preparing a meal that is not restricted to the five-things-everyone-will-eat-and-not-complain-about, while drinking something alcoholic, a nice glass of brandy with ginger ale perhaps, listening to jazz or classical music, with candles softly lighting the dining room interior because you don't have to worry that a cat will walk by and set themselves on fire, or dogs in a frenetic battle of wills because they are trying to incapacitate one another will knock the candles over and set the house ablaze.
Imagine.
I couldn't.
Instead of lounging in the lull, revelling in the relaxation, nestling in the noiselessness, soaking up the stillness, I found myself completely at odds with myself, and the world.
Directionless.
Unfocused.
Hazy about what the hell I was supposed to do with myself.
I tried to work but couldn't concentrate.
Watching television was just an exercise in channel flipping.
Housework was a fait de complet as Stephen has already taken care of everything.
I just wandered from room to room.
Over and over like a ball in one of those rings cats are obsessed with.
To the point where Stephen asked me what the hell I was doing??!!
And could I stop because it was distracting him.
Now, I'm a little bit better at embracing the peace and quiet when the kids are all at work, I actually find myself looking forward to it.
Planning in advance what I'll do while the kids are busy making money and learning how to earn their way.
Or at least pay for their own clothes, cds and any other sundry items their little hearts may desire.
And believe me, they desire plenty.
But getting used to them working at night, and having them move out is something completely different.
I am step I am not ready to take, and am in no way ready to deal with.
I'm barely adjusted to Mer living on her own, 5 minutes away.
Sometimes, it's too far.
Other times, it's too close.
Most of the time, it's just perfect.
Title Lyric: Blastoff by the Decendents
How come cell phones go off at the most inopportune time?
Yesterday, late (as usual) to pick up Em, I'm in the elevator calling her to let her know I was on my way.
No answer.
Realizing that I HAD to pee, and if I didn't go before I left the building, I would pee in the car.
Stephen probably wouldn't like that very much.
I make a pit stop in the bathroom, and of course, because I'm late, and carrying my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag, and Mer's coat, I get the smallest bathroom as all the others are occupato.
I prefer to use the handicapped stall, provided, obviously, that there isn't someone who has a greater need than I do.
Why?
Because when you're carrying all the crap I inevitably end up carting around, space is a must.
Bigger stall = more room for my stuff.
Not this time.
I had to put the two large bags and Mer's coat in the stall first, then crawl over them to get to the toilet, hoping for enough space to turn myself around and divest my ample bottom of my pants.
It was tight. I won't lie.
I situate my ghetto bootie (boo-tay? I'm never sure) on the toilet seat, begin my necessary bathroom ablutions, listening to the conversations of the people waiting for a free stall when I heard the tell tale sound. . . .
Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing. . .
My cell phone starts ringing softly and the longer you take to answer it, the louder it gets.
I briefly contemplated not answering it, but then remembered that if I didn't, whoever it was, and it was DEFINITELY one of the kids, they would just text me.
And that intonation is no better than the ringing of the cell phone.
Resigned that I am going to have to answer my phone while sitting on the toilet, I sigh and dig my phone out from underneath the assortment of bags and coats.
It was, of course, Emily.
Asking me how come I called her and then hung up.
I didn't call her and hang up.
I called her, didn't hear any ringing and then hung up.
There I am, in the bathroom, on the toilet, drawers at my feet having a conversation with my daughter.
She asks me where I am.
I wonder if she means literally or figuratively, and not wanting to risk a miscommunication that will end no where good, I told her I was sitting on the flush.
She reminds me she's waiting.
I remind her she could be walking if she thought waiting for me was an inappropriate use of her time.
I tell her that as soon as I disentangle myself from the toilet stall, that I'll be there to pick her up.
Given where I was, I didn't think a prolonged conversation was the most appropos thing.
Clearly, Em wasn't concerned about where I was sitting while we conversed.
She just wanted to converse.
How come your kids always want to converse with you when you are the least able to converse with them?
Mer has a sixth sense that signals her to call me just before I'm on my way to class.
Keith wants to bond when I am 3/4 asleep trying to negotiate myself to the bathroom.
Either way, I rush out of the bathroom, clutching my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag and Mer's coat to my chest like a quarterback running down the field for a touchdown.
Because I knew that getting Em was just the beginning.
There was returning home so she could put her uniform on.
Picking Keith up, cause he was at home and looking for a drive to work.
Quickly racing through rush hour traffic (as much as there is here) so I could get to my office, shut down my computer, and pick up Stephen from his 4.00-5.20 class.
And arriving at home sometime around 6.00 to pee-needy dogs and a hungry, hungry husband.
The looniness that is my life continues to repeat itself like a bad scratch on an 80s 45.
Last evening Stephen and I found ourselves at home without the kids.
All the little Van Every chickens were working.
When Keith started working, three years ago, I certainly noticed his absence, especially in the evenings.
But I had Em to remind me of all my maternal duties, so while I missed Keith terribly, I was busy.
When Em started working this past April, and Keith was (and still is) experiencing the freedom of being a young adult whose mother didn't enforce any curfew, I started to experience a phenomenon heretofore never experienced by me before.
I was at home in the evenings without children.
So unprepared for this, so unaware of the repercussions of working children I found myself completely and utterly confused.
Disoriented.
Generally out of sorts.
I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do.
None whatsoever.
I hadn't had a completely kid free, at home, evening since October 11th, 1989.
The night before Meredyth made her entrance into the world.
Here I am at 42 years old with no clue what people did in the evenings when they weren't embroiled in the tangled dramas of supper preparations, dog demands, fielding phone calls, husband hounding, homework cajoling, tv tantrums, bedtime begging, next day lunch readying, washing, drying folding, the never ending laundry loads because someone, usually female, had "nothing to wear the next day!".
Really, what do people sans pets and children do in the evenings?
I envision something completely decadent and adult like preparing a meal that is not restricted to the five-things-everyone-will-eat-and-not-complain-about, while drinking something alcoholic, a nice glass of brandy with ginger ale perhaps, listening to jazz or classical music, with candles softly lighting the dining room interior because you don't have to worry that a cat will walk by and set themselves on fire, or dogs in a frenetic battle of wills because they are trying to incapacitate one another will knock the candles over and set the house ablaze.
Imagine.
I couldn't.
Instead of lounging in the lull, revelling in the relaxation, nestling in the noiselessness, soaking up the stillness, I found myself completely at odds with myself, and the world.
Directionless.
Unfocused.
Hazy about what the hell I was supposed to do with myself.
I tried to work but couldn't concentrate.
Watching television was just an exercise in channel flipping.
Housework was a fait de complet as Stephen has already taken care of everything.
I just wandered from room to room.
Over and over like a ball in one of those rings cats are obsessed with.
To the point where Stephen asked me what the hell I was doing??!!
And could I stop because it was distracting him.
Now, I'm a little bit better at embracing the peace and quiet when the kids are all at work, I actually find myself looking forward to it.
Planning in advance what I'll do while the kids are busy making money and learning how to earn their way.
Or at least pay for their own clothes, cds and any other sundry items their little hearts may desire.
And believe me, they desire plenty.
But getting used to them working at night, and having them move out is something completely different.
I am step I am not ready to take, and am in no way ready to deal with.
I'm barely adjusted to Mer living on her own, 5 minutes away.
Sometimes, it's too far.
Other times, it's too close.
Most of the time, it's just perfect.
Title Lyric: Blastoff by the Decendents
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
We'll get over it, we'll move forward, and know where we went wrong
October 14, 2010
Some dates, no matter how hard you try, will haunt you for the rest of your life.
For me, October 14th is one of those days.
Had I stayed with my ex-husband, today would have been our 22nd wedding anniversary.
And for those of you with firing synapses, it is also two days after Meredyth's birthday.
Which meant I spent my first wedding anniversary (the one with my ex-husband, not Stephen) in the hospital recovering from the birth from hell, trying not to cough because I was scared the stitches from my c-section would pop, and trying to poop because until you do they won't let you out of the hospital.
In fact, if memory serves, this was also the day the nurses cooked up, literally, a concoction of milk and molasses, put it in a rubber bag and used it as an enema to encourage the disposal of matter resting in my bowels.
To this day, I cannot eat molasses cookies with milk unless I want to risk an acid-like flashback that renders me comatose for at least 15 minutes, leaving me vulnerable to any unfortunate incident, like dogs peeing on me, or evil cats coloring all over my face in yellow highlighter.
I can never say I completely regretted my first marriage.
I regret things that happened while I was married the first time, but that's different.
In my mind, if I truly regretted my first marriage, then I would also regret having children.
And 99.9999999 (x infinity) I don't regret having kids.
In many ways, the kids saved me from myself.
A lot of work for three small children.
And a story for another time.
In retrospect (what a great phrase. . .it implies that one has grown and learned from their experiences) it was probably not wise to marry someone you had only known for 8 months.
And, getting married to get out of your backwoods, small, rural community where the highlight of teenage life was hanging around the elementary school with the "bad" kids, was probably not the brightest thing you could do either.
My marriage the first time a round hurt a lot of people.
My parents and brother, who could have told me not to but it wouldn't have made any difference because I didn't listen to anyone because at 21 I. Knew. It. All.
(Oh my gawd. . .Meredyth is me. I need a drink!)
My ex-mother-in-law, to whom I am still very, very close because we eloped and didn't tell her until afterwards.
On the upside, my ex-husband is now with his fourth wife, so she didn't miss out on anything afterall.
The young man I was engaged to before I met my ex-husband, I suspect, was very hurt.
He reads this blog. So consider this my official apology. I am very sorry I hurt you.
But he and I managed to maintain a connection that will last a lifetime.
Her name is Emily.
And that is definitely a story for another time!
How marrying at 21 was supposed to do that is completely beyond me but it made sense at the time.
So, I married, left university one term away from graduation, quit my job and moved to Southern Ontario.
Whatever lust-filled karma brought the two of us together lasted long enough to produce two children, Meredyth and Keith.
In fact, if truth be told, I knew the day I got married that I was making a mistake.
However, as an eternal optimist, I try to see the bright side of things, and assumed that I was just being nervous.
I now pay a lot of attention to my nerves.
In spite of being a very long 5 years of my life, that required several years of therapy to work through, there were many positives.
I am part of an absolutely wonderful family. My ex-husband aside, his family is phenomenal. I have a very good relationship with my former mother-in-law. I see her at least once a year, we talk and email frequently, and she has been very good to me throughout the last 22 years.
She even forgave me for making her a grandmother at 39.
This past summer, Stephen, Mer, Em and I enjoyed a lovely afternoon visiting with Great-Grandma, Suzy, Linda and Suzy's kids.
Now having an ex-husband's family continue to love and embrace you, and your current-and-forever-because-he-is-the-most-wonderful-man-in-the-world husband. . . .
That's definitely a positive.
Leaving me with a current mother-in-law and a former mother-in-law who have broken bread together.
How can having all those people love and care for you be anything but wonderful!
Some dates, no matter how hard you try, will haunt you for the rest of your life.
For me, October 14th is one of those days.
Had I stayed with my ex-husband, today would have been our 22nd wedding anniversary.
And for those of you with firing synapses, it is also two days after Meredyth's birthday.
Which meant I spent my first wedding anniversary (the one with my ex-husband, not Stephen) in the hospital recovering from the birth from hell, trying not to cough because I was scared the stitches from my c-section would pop, and trying to poop because until you do they won't let you out of the hospital.
In fact, if memory serves, this was also the day the nurses cooked up, literally, a concoction of milk and molasses, put it in a rubber bag and used it as an enema to encourage the disposal of matter resting in my bowels.
To this day, I cannot eat molasses cookies with milk unless I want to risk an acid-like flashback that renders me comatose for at least 15 minutes, leaving me vulnerable to any unfortunate incident, like dogs peeing on me, or evil cats coloring all over my face in yellow highlighter.
I can never say I completely regretted my first marriage.
I regret things that happened while I was married the first time, but that's different.
In my mind, if I truly regretted my first marriage, then I would also regret having children.
And 99.9999999 (x infinity) I don't regret having kids.
In many ways, the kids saved me from myself.
A lot of work for three small children.
And a story for another time.
In retrospect (what a great phrase. . .it implies that one has grown and learned from their experiences) it was probably not wise to marry someone you had only known for 8 months.
And, getting married to get out of your backwoods, small, rural community where the highlight of teenage life was hanging around the elementary school with the "bad" kids, was probably not the brightest thing you could do either.
My marriage the first time a round hurt a lot of people.
My parents and brother, who could have told me not to but it wouldn't have made any difference because I didn't listen to anyone because at 21 I. Knew. It. All.
(Oh my gawd. . .Meredyth is me. I need a drink!)
My ex-mother-in-law, to whom I am still very, very close because we eloped and didn't tell her until afterwards.
On the upside, my ex-husband is now with his fourth wife, so she didn't miss out on anything afterall.
The young man I was engaged to before I met my ex-husband, I suspect, was very hurt.
He reads this blog. So consider this my official apology. I am very sorry I hurt you.
But he and I managed to maintain a connection that will last a lifetime.
Her name is Emily.
And that is definitely a story for another time!
I was young, niave, thought I knew it all and ready to change the world.
(Really, the similarity with Mer and Em is becoming uncomfortably clear.)
How marrying at 21 was supposed to do that is completely beyond me but it made sense at the time.
So, I married, left university one term away from graduation, quit my job and moved to Southern Ontario.
Whatever lust-filled karma brought the two of us together lasted long enough to produce two children, Meredyth and Keith.
In fact, if truth be told, I knew the day I got married that I was making a mistake.
However, as an eternal optimist, I try to see the bright side of things, and assumed that I was just being nervous.
I now pay a lot of attention to my nerves.
In spite of being a very long 5 years of my life, that required several years of therapy to work through, there were many positives.
Positive #1
I am part of an absolutely wonderful family. My ex-husband aside, his family is phenomenal. I have a very good relationship with my former mother-in-law. I see her at least once a year, we talk and email frequently, and she has been very good to me throughout the last 22 years.
She even forgave me for making her a grandmother at 39.
This past summer, Stephen, Mer, Em and I enjoyed a lovely afternoon visiting with Great-Grandma, Suzy, Linda and Suzy's kids.
Now having an ex-husband's family continue to love and embrace you, and your current-and-forever-because-he-is-the-most-wonderful-man-in-the-world husband. . . .
That's definitely a positive.
Leaving me with a current mother-in-law and a former mother-in-law who have broken bread together.
How can having all those people love and care for you be anything but wonderful!
Positive #2
I was forced to grow up.
Really, I was not, at the time I married, the world-wise, smart, savvy person you know and love now.
I was naive.
Insecure.
Delusional.
But there is something about having two kids by the age of 23, in a marriage you finally realized was a mistake, and finally making the decision to leave that makes you grow up faster.
Add in an unexpected pregnancy, moving back home, and attending university to complete your undergraduate degree and you have all the reasons you need, plus a couple more, to get your ass in gear and grow up.
So, I did.
That doesn't mean I didn't make lots of mistakes along the way.
It would seem, post-marriage, that my relationship choices were not much better than my pre-marriage ones.
Or not necessarilty the best for me.
They weren't bad people, just not very good for me.
And raising three kids on your own is nothing if not an opportunity to make lots and lots of mistakes.
An opportunity I took full advantage of.
In fact, if I was so good at making mistakes with the kids, I could probably write a book about what NOT to do.
It would be a bestseller.
Positive #3
I was pushed to do things I would have never done, and learn things about myself I would have never known.
Had it not been for the fact that I was a single mother of three children, living with my brother and then in a run down apartment, with no money, therefore subsisting on income assistance, who realised that an "almost" degree wouldn't even get me a part time job in a bookstore, I probably wouldn't have ever gone on to graduate school.
I hope I would have had the common sense to finish my undergraduate degree, but that would have been the end of it.
But there is something about returning to university after living through some pretty tough stuff that provides you with a real world education that only facilitates your university education.
When I decided to complete my degree in sociology, because if I took one. more. English. course. the registrar would personally punish me, it was like someone turned a light on for me.
All of a sudden the world made sense; my experiences and frustrations made sense to me; I understood how I had gotten to where I was, and what I needed to do to get out of the mess I had gotten myself into.
I know there are other ways of understanding experiences, and in fact, the more perspectives you take into account, the better your understanding of something will be.
But sociology was it for me.
Still is.
And I don't think it'll change any time soon.
In fact, when I had Emily, just two weeks after returning to classes after the Christmas break, there are some who believe I named her after French sociologist Emile Durkheim.
I didn't.
I actually never planned on having another girl.
I was convinced she was a boy.
After Meredyth, I could have been more convinced she was a puppy than a girl.
So I just picked a name I really liked.
Even so, Mer and Keith called her "it" for at least three months.
Sometimes, they still do.
In conclusion. . . .
Not getting married at 21 would have put my life on a whole other track, and while it is interesting to comtemplate where I would have ended up, I am very happy with my life and I don't want it to change.
I'm 43, my kids are either almost adults or theoretically adults.
And I have lots of fun with the kids. They're cool. I not only love them, but I really like them.
A brother who would, I believe, do anything for me. And I him.
Parents who love me even while they try to make me crazier than I already am.
Good friends. Very important.
I have a career that excites me. . .most of the time I look forward to going to work in the morning.
A husband who adores me and I adore him.
A large extended family I love.
Dogs who worship the ground I walk on, even when they're peeing on it.
So, all in all, I think, in spite of some rough patches, things have turned out nicely.
Let's just hope it stays that way!
Title Lyric: Mistake by Straylight Run
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