consumed

Boy, how do I put this... I know, I'll blurt it out:

onceuponatime I was afraid to eat in public.

Weird, huh? I was paralyzed by the thought of having to sit and let people see me eat. Afraid that someone, anyone would see me eating and tell me off. That I wasn't allowed to eat. The thought of being out in public, potentially at a hungry time could make me hyperventilate. Seriously, just ask Joe.

I can remember giving myself an assignment during therapy; I had to go to the mall, get a cup of coffee and sit in the food court and drink it. By myself. I think I made it through half a small cup the first time.

Don't worry, things got better. I got better.

Jump forward to present day. I was stuck in the mall across the street from our car dealership whilst they poked and prodded and cleaned and refilled the car for almost five hours. At some point I had a hungry time. Most of the time was spending shopping, blissfully alone. (I'm almost finished my xmas shopping!)

So I headed to the obligatory (rhymes with pergatory) food court, got myself something and found a table. I was comfortably engaged in reading when all of the sudden it hit me just how far I'd come. And yes, the therapy helped... but surprisingly it was the Trip that we'all went on last year that has made the difference. It's been about a year-and-a-half since we took the Family Trip (one that is still talked about fondly at least once a week) and I still feel the confidence I gained from doing that travelling.

A proud little moment, an epiphany of sorts, sitting in that food court... sometimes I'm proud of me.

I belong to a freecycle network, and was briefly perusing the listed items a couple of days ago: "offer: two jars of instant coffee, opened".

Really?! No... really? Seriously... come on...

I mean, I'm all for redirecting stuff away from the landfill 'n all... but you mean to tell me that you're that on top of your foodstuff inventory? And you have time in your life to give to making sure two jars of instant coffee don't get composted & recycled but instead go to a new home??

Impressive.

she's got Huge... tracts of land!

My 11 yr old daughter keeps trying to get me to try on clothes with her when we go shopping for her. I've explained a couple of times that I'd love to, but they don't have my size in the store. I have to go to the Fat Chick Stores. I'm at the upper end of Regular sized so I can occasionally find something that will fit, but the accompanying frustration with finding that something just ain't worth it. I'm in the smallest size of the fat chicks usually, and sometimes I'm in the No (wo)Man's Land inbetween. That imaginary line in the sand... Beyond Here There Be Dragons!! (for sure!)

Anyway, where was I...? Oh yes, my daughter: shopping with.

A little while ago, while I was explaining this size segregation to her she stopped flicking through a rack, looked over at me, puzzlement on her face, and said "why?". As in "why aren't there all kinds of sizes in this store??!"

And for a split second I saw it through her eyes. Just learning how to shop for clothes and other yummies, judging what would be a good colour and whether or not she can run around during recess in it (ie Cartwheel Coverage) ... I saw past the judgement and discrimination and thought 'Yeah! Why aren't there all kinds of sizes in this store...?!? We humans come in all sizes and shapes... why isn't there more variety??'

It was nice. A brief respite from the pressure, that constant Not One of Us feeling that I carry with me whenever I go into a Regular-sized store with her.

And then I thought "ooohh, something to blog about!" and went back to my real life.

Dear Ms Mazda MPV,

We were both sitting, waiting patiently at the red light. You were behind me. As soon as the light changed, we both accelerated... me actually driving my car by changing gears, you by pushing down on a pedal. Just after we cleared the intersection I guess you decided that I wasn't accerlerating fast enough because you started to pull out over a solid yellow line going around a blind curve.

I must admit at first I was busy driving my car (please see above) and didn't comprehend just what you were attempting. When I did, I stopped accelerating. Why? Well, you needed to come back into my lane... back over that solid yellow line while we're now going around that blind curve.

Then... I. slowed. down. For you.

Now, don't think for a minute that you are justified in passing me in such a dangerous way because I was obviously going too slowly... I slowed down for you. And yes, I leaned on my horn.

Maybe it sounded indignant? or perhaps a bit pissed? Sorry... that's cuz I was a little bit. But mostly I was incredulous. And then when you'd been allowed back into the proper lane and stole a look in your rearview mirror I mouthed a big 'NOooo' and shook my head...? That's because what you did was beyond wrong. It was just plain stupid. Why would you - a minivan driving Mom - do something so crazy?! Because by the next set of lights you were only two cars ahead of me!! Yeah, I know... endangering at least two whole families for 20 metres!

And then at the next lights too... only 20 metres gained. And then you turned right, down towards a school very close to my kids' school... ahhh, that's why. You were late to pick up your kids...

So was I. (I mean, the picking up my kids part). Weird, huh? We're both Moms, on our way to pick up our kids from school. You could be me! I could be you!

So let me say this, from one Mom to another:

WRONG. and

you're welcome

probably permanently puzzled

I don't recall where I heard about this book, but it was recently and hopefully it'll come to me some day. I'd like to remember what sparked the interest in this book. It seems like that should be remembered. Anyway, I can't seem to put it down. It's funny, and well written. Even if it didn't 'speak' to you, it'd be a great read. But it's made even better because it is so very very relevant to me and my story. Frighteningly, reassuringly so. Frighteningly may be obvious: the first half dozen pages gave me the willies there was so much similarity with my childhood experiences. Reasussuringly may not be so obvious.

At one time I thought that my family's dysfuntions were unique. When I discovered that not only was that not so, but there were worse situations out there I was afraid and so very saddened. Afraid because that meant that there was so much more nastiness in the world than I had previously realized. Saddened because I knew what it was like. At least my less nasty version...

I now find reading about this whole topic reassuring. I'm not alone. There are more people just as messed up as me, travelling along the same path. Some, with a great sense of humour. Like hers.

And then - as often happens with my life - some other angle on the current topic is illuminated by another source. I heard an article on the radio about epigenetics. About how earlier, childhood experiences (even more so than later adult ones) can actually cause changes in one's genetic mechanism. How certain genes can be regulated by either your physical environment, or even your social surroundings and experiences.

I believe I was raised by an Iron Monkey (from Harry Harlow's attachment experiments with infant Rhesus monkeys). She tried her best I believe now with what she was given (or, I'm choosing to believe this because the alternative is just too ugly). We've never discussed this to any depth or degree. When I open this topic up, it is shut down with a dismissive flick of her wrist and a 'oh, Yvonne... you only remember the bad things' type of comment. End of discussion.

So what? So what if I was raised in an environment that was physically undemonstrative and emotionally cold? (there are worse situations... 'it could have been worse you know Yvonne'. Yes, I know.)

Well, what if? Maybe, just maybe... my genetic expression was trained to deal with higher levels of... oh, I don't know... cortisol. Or learn to live in a bath of anxiety-produced body chemicals...? What would that do to one's genes?

I don't know. But I also don't know how I can maintain such a large body, such a high weight on what I eat and how I live. It doesn't make sense, doesn't add up. So maybe this is another piece of my puzzle.

re-read

In re-reading recents posts, I noticed that I've published ones that document how busy/insane/busy my life is right now. I don't want these posts to read as complaints, rather as disbelief. I mean, just how can I possibly be that busy...? I'm a SAHM for goodness sake! What the hellelse am I doing exactly??

That's what my inner voice exclaims. Well, one of my inner voices. No, not United States of Tara-esque or nuthin, just one of my thoughts, expressed as slightly judgemental.

In order to combat recent posts, let me list many happy things that happen. Many of which occur daily.

ahem

walks at the dog park, during which I make a point of looking up at the sky. Because it's usually changing, and usually beautiful and always calming.

I Wish in the morning, driving the kids to school

Three Sisters, hot in a mug. Oh, and bacon.

huh. those are all in the morning...

okay then,

having more floor space now

not obsessing over yarn, but feeling my creativity take off in other directions. Unknown.

chocolate (little too obvious?)

quiet evenings all to me. otherwise known as Staying Up Far Too Late For My Own Good

a nice, quaint, Jane Austen movie every once in a while

having two children who read too much. Like recently at a restaurant I was the only one who didn't bring any reading material and I was kinda lonely. But it's difficult to utter the words "stop reading so much!". I can, and have, uttered 'put down that book' but that's because their attention is needed elsewhere.

playing tug-of-war with the dog

and blogging.

busy-ness

Part of the reason why I blog is to journal. So this post is important for me... you may stop now guilt-free; you need not read any further.

Last week was lived in hourly segments. As in this hour I must do this, but then next hour I need to be over there doing that. My mantra was Just Move Forward. Whenever I sat still for more than four minutes I tended to fall asleep. Thankfully red lights are less than four minutes in length. Even while sitting still in the car at an intersection I could feel my body start to slump.

There was two school council meetings, open house at Neal's school, a long outsourced cleaning session of the old and now empty house, consumption of one hyacinth bulb with resulting barf session paid for at the vets, two swim team practises, listing of old house and eight subsequent showings, stamping children's Terry Fox maps as they ran around the school field, inaugural pizza days at both schools, a gymnastics practise, five long walks at the off leash dog park, two offers on the house, one accepted.

And a partridge in a pear tree. At least I think it was a partridge... could've just been the female cardinal. Although Joe swears he sees wild turkeys around.

Unfortunately when I'm that wound up, when I get up to pee at 4am I get planning my day. Ticking off items on my mental To Do list. And then I can't fall back to sleep. I guess instead of counting sheep I should just pretend I'm at a red light, huh?

ode to jane

Oh dopamine of mine.

When will you settle down

And content yourself

With this regular Life?

If you were cocaine

or some other illicit substance

I shudder to think

Just what I would do.

To feel anew the soar, the tingle

The hit...

After dulling the dendrites

With repetitions

Requires steadfast faith.

one breath at a time

Blaze was attacked while I was walking him after dinner last Sunday. A German Shepherd didn't like the looks of him I guess and burst through his front door, tore down the street and chomped on Blaze's rear end. He got a couple of bites in before I managed to get a good enough kick in to dislodge him.

His owners were right behind the dog, yelling for me to do just that; kick him. I was pissed off by this time and didn't need any further encouragement. The whole attack probably lasted 10 seconds. Ten long seconds.

Blaze was trying to defend himself, and cower alternatively. He's fairly submissive, easy going, which is good for a family dog that is hugged more than he likes.

When we got home I gave him a bath to get the smell of the other dog off him and to assess any damage. My husband found some punctures and we decided to sew them up ourselves so he went off to the hospital and collected what we needed. That part went okay.

But the next morning he needed to go to the vets and was put on anti-inflammatory/pain meds and a broad spectrum antibiotic. And then two days later he had to return to the vets because he'd developed an abscess in a couple of the wounds which needed lancing and draining. So he came home from that visit still woozy from the sedative, sporting a Cone of Shame. With instructions for no off-leash activities for 14 days.

All that to say that this has been a really stressful summer. Layers and layers of stress have pressurized me. So much so that my head feels like a tangle of scrap metal, and I lose my train of thought many many times a day. Yes I have upped my meds, and that does help. (I wouldn't wish an anxiety disorder/depression on ANYONE, friend of foe.) And I've blown off a bit of steam here and there. (being honest here)

But I'm looking forward to the end of it all. It will end, I know that -- see, therapy was good for something -- but I'd sure like to release this breath and take a new fresh one.

cringing for the third

Yesterday it was the microwave that ceased. Today it was the A/C that desisted. Making me grumpy and migrainey.

I've got plans to head up to the cottage tomorrow, but I'm cringing for the third! Please not the car, please not the car, please not the car...

(the microwave is a hothead. blows a fuse if you ask it to pop popcorn, so it just needs to cool down a bit and then it's fine again. the a/c had a loose wire. both easily fixed. phew)

and now blasphemy

Yesterday was Arcade Fire Day according to one of the radio stations I listen to. Because they released their third CD to much anticipation.

I have their first two CDs. I got them after I heard that "after the band opened three arena-size shows for U2 in Montreal and Ottawa, Bono and his mates pronounced the Arcade Fire their favorite new act." And "David Byrne wrote them a fan letter and joined them onstage", and "David Bowie (who’d been giving “Funeral” to his friends) asked them to cover “Queen Bitch” at one of their shows and made a surprise appearance in a white suit and straw hat". (that's all from The New York Times)

I thought "wow!" I gotta listen to this band, so I bought one, then the other CD. But I'm not gonna get this one. Because I don't get it. I don't get the appeal of the band, of this music. They were on CBC's Q last night, great interview. No divas in sight, articulate thoughtful individuals. Obviously talented. And! They've staunchly maintained their independance, releasing their music their way. So admirable, and so difficult!

But I don't hear it... and I really, really wish that I did. Because... well, I'm a bit of a music fanatic, a Grup if you will. Or, just plain Music Snob according to some I suppose. I think I'm a bit more openminded than those descriptions, but I do understand how they feel.

I can recall saving up to buy the latest 12" vinyl British import when I was a teen. Probably two paychecks worth. Now...? I hear those songs while I'm in the cereal aisle comparing boxes of oatmeal. THAT'S depressing. I read Spin magazine religiously for it's first year and a half, until they deigned to put Madonna on the cover AGAIN and I stopped cold turkey. I do have standards, after all. (and yes, I love Almost Famous)

And I have a half decently trained ear, having accomplished Grade 8 Royal Conservatory on the piano and taken jazz piano lessons a little while ago. Hell, I even listened to jazz in my 20s. Whereas friends and family hear 'noise' I hear artistry.

But I don't hear it in Arcade Fire. And I wish that I did cuz it sounds like it'd be really really good.

sacrilege

OK, I'll say it out loud: I'm just about done with you, Summer!

Granted, I'm not a summer person, I don't do well in the heat. I suffered a mild version of heat stroke in my teens and I lifeguarded for ten years so I've had my share of self-baking. Add heat-induced migraines into that now and you get a more rounded picture.

Summer started early here; mid-20C at Easter and it doesn't seem to have abated much since. And even though a heat wave is technically three days of plus 30C in a row or some such nonsense, I've had the a/c on here for over a week.

It seems sacrilegious to utter this given that us Cdns can have such long winters, but much like you Winter complainers... I'm DONE with summer!!

numb3rs

352' baseboard and quarter round

20 gallons of low VOC paint (so far...*)

5 colours of green

42C humidex

0 migraine pills left

304 books to donate

13 days till we move

52 dollars my parents paid the movers in 1963

*up to 22 now, but I think that'll be it,

23 now... surely that's it!

book guilt

In my early teens I had to read John Wyndham's The Crysalids and with that school assignment I discovered science fiction. My inner Geek was awakened. Imagine how I had to hide the covers of my books from then on...

I have always been A Reader and grew up using the public library: when my family travelled across Canada one summer my Mom borrowed the maximum number of books (30; ten per child) to bring with us. That 30 didn't last long, and apparently me and my two sisters read our quota and then each others. Long before we got to the west coast too.

However when I started reading science fiction, I had to save up my money and buy the books I wanted to read because the library didn't carry a wide enough or current selection of this genre. Things are better now, rest assured, but as a result I got into the habit of buying my reading material. And if I didn't buy the book fairly soon after it was published it'd be long gone and I'd never find it. (this is long before this Internet thingy of course)

So on my bookshelf there was always one section that I mentally entitled To Read. Books that lined up, ready to be next. This is a habit I have maintained to this day.

Unfortunately.

Why? Well, because now I have this horrible guilt! There is an entire section of my book collection that lies in wait. Much like TiVo guilt (Cdn version: PVR guilt) but book based. Especially now that we're moving house and I have to actually deal with these patient tomes... visual reminders of just how Too Busy I've Become.

I have volunteered for the past three years at a local used bookstore so I know that these books can go on to live a fulfilling life elsewhere. There are many readers who would love to have these I tell myself. I've seen it happen over and over again. And in the last three years I've done an impressive culling of my book collection, at least the ones I've actually read. I simply ask myself if I'll ever read it again and if the answer is maybe then it goes back on the shelf. Otherwise, it's off to a new home.

But these unread books. Oh, the guilt!

art and year end

We are approaching the end of the school year again, and -- again -- I'm trying to think of a small, homemade gift for my children's teachers that isn't useless. Oh, and doesn't suck.

A couple of months ago I tripped over the idea somewhere of making your own scratch pads. Stuck that idea in the back of my head. (and probably on Evernote too) More recently I was looking for a non cutesy pen decoration idea. There are lots of cutesy ones, but my gift recipients are Grade 5 and Grade 7 teachers (and one's a male) so feathers and flowers won't cut it. I remembered seeing polymer clay decorated pens on one of the kids' art shows years ago and so thought I'd search on youtube to see if anyone has something on there.

Two days later when I crawled out of youtube... I had a plan. Of sorts. So I hit the local Staples to get some cheapy pens, swung over to Michaels to augment our polymer clay stash and introduced the idea last weekend to My Two. As a visual aid I topped it off with a viewing of this very cool video which totally got my son hooked.

They spent all day Sunday creating. ALL DAY !! I kid you not. As a matter of fact, even a week later they're still rolling out polymer clay and asking me to turn on the oven.

Next up, scratch pads. Apparently fabric glue or Gorilla glue will work. I'll letcha know how it goes. (I'm gonna try it this way.)

disciplinarian

We're having dinner outside last night and for some reason the dog wouldn't settle, despite me putting him in a down/stay a couple of times. So I got up out of my seat, firmly repositioned him into the down/stay and then released him out of it and brought him inside rather purposefully.

As I'm putting Blaze in this down/stay I hear from behind me, Neal say:

"I'm glad we got a dog 'cos now I know what Mummy will do if I disobey her."

The mascots for the London 2012 summer games were introduced yesterday:

Wow... really?? No, really?!

Does anyone else see a family resemblance?

yeah, but can you dance to it?

from Coldplay's '42' on Viva la Vida,

the correct lyrics are:

"you didn't get to heaven but you made it close"

from the back of the car,

today after school:

"you didn't get to have it but you made the clothes"

waiting

I have this belief that the Universe and Everything self-corrects. You know, that karma thing. Be nasty in this life and return as an insect for your next one. When I feel wronged, I stay calm (okay, I TRY and stay calm ) secure in my faith that at some point those who did the wronging will feel the pang of the other end of the stick.

But how great would it be to actually see this process in effect?

I think it'd be extremely satisfying to watch this self-correction. With or without a whispered "I told you this'd happen if you kept behaving like that years ago..." to the karma'ed being. Not only would it give you a feeling of vindication, it'd provide 'closure' (a overused word/concept I've always abhorred). You could brush your hands off, paste a satisfied smirk on yer gob, and walk away clean.

And maybe ~ if you knew that someone would be 'taken care of' ~ people wouldn't be so nasty to each other.

THE April Fool

Bright and early, April 1st, I shake my husband awake.

My period's a week late now I say and so I bought a pregnancy test last night and just used it.

And? he says. I'm pregnant! incredulous.

WHAT?! you CAN'T be!!

Well, I am... it only takes once, you know...

I can't tease for too long and after waiting a couple of long seconds lean in and whisper April Fool's...

fast forward to the afternoon, I'm sitting down reliving this scene in my head, smirking slightly

and it hits me

why I CAN'T be pregnant

because my husband has had that very special medical procedure given to Daddies Who Are Finished Having Children.

Who's the Fool now??

busted!

Because he will be a large dog - PWDs range from 42 to 60 lbs - I wanted him to be well trained. So we first went to Puppy Kindergarten, where he learned to socialize with the other puppies, and was introduced to basic obedience with a wee bit of agility for fun on the last day. Along with competing in Puppy Olympics. All good fun, and he did really well... caught on quickly to the commands and remembered them from week to week.

And then we enrolled in the Beginner level obedience class. For the past 6 weeks I've endured frustration every week. Give him a command and he'd bark at me. Reprimand that and he'd rebel another way. He didn't do much better at home. He'd learnt some things but I seemed to arrive home from class every week asking someone else to take him so I could get myself a glass of wine and go sit by myself somewhere. (like I need an excuse to pour myself a glass of red...)

I happened to be conversing by email with the breeder yesterday and mentioned in passing that there was no way he was gonna pass Beginner's, giving her a couple of examples of how he behaves. She totally called me on them - saying that he was 'making excuses' and to not put up with it. So a couple of hours before his final test I challenged him, eventually physically restraining him into a sit/stay. First of all he did the ragdoll manouvre that every human two-year-old pulls at some point. You know the one, where their bones become temporarily nonexistent and they ooze over your arms? Yeah, he did that. He also put his open mouth around my forearm, as if to say "I could totally bite you right now". But once I had him in that sit/stay he stayed. So then I tried doing a down/stay. First time he rebelled. It looked like this:

The down/stay had to be maintained for two minutes, so I made him hold the above rebelled version for four.

He hasn't done it again. He has listened and obeyed me every since that moment.

And not only did he pass his Beginner's test, he aced it.

this time last year

I was in Whistler, drinking Gimlets. And ziplining!

I was crossing the Ts and dotting the Is for the Trip.

I was wondering what life would be like - and how the Trip would've gone.

I was hoping to have a dog, but didn't really expect it to be.

birthday. wishes.

Retroland

So, how many of these did YOU own...? I can count five.
My feet break out in a sweat just glancing at the Jellies. I remember having difficulty on the dance floor during one humid well-attended party. Definitely NOT a breathable shoe.
Loved, loved, LOVED my penny loafers. Oxblood coloured Bass Weejuns. I saved up for months to get them. And you had to scuff the bottom of them on the sidewalk or else you could slide clear across your friends carpeted basement! Trust me. (and yes, a brand-new penny inserted in each) Penny loafers were retro in the 80s; my Mom had worn them in the 50s she said. She was the one who told me to put pennies in the slots.
Never owned top siders, didn't like 'em either. I guess because the first couple of guys that I met who wore them were jerks. (the penny loafer guys never were)
And I used to use fabric paint on my knock-off Keds from Kmart to personalize them. Sometimes with a matching oversized hand painted Tshirt. I know, stylish!
Never got around to owning a pair of Tretorns, but loved them from afar.
The only addition I'd make to this wonderful list is cockroach killer flat slingbacks. Kind of like these, but elongate that toe.

ahhh nostalgia, thy name is footwear.

remember this one.

I don't feel more connected; I feel less.

Over and over again, I feel disappointed. Desperate.

"Change your expectations" is what my inner Best Friend recommends.

So. I will.

I like technology. And I think I'm fairly comfortable with it. But some of it -- the social part -- isn't fitting the bill, at least for me.

These words will be for me. Just for me. For documenting, remembering, maybe a bit of creating. Getting my thoughts down out of my head is difficult so it'll be work and therefore good for me.

But I'm changing my expectations.

I can be walking along quite contentedly, letting my mind wander a bit, maybe having a nice conversation with an imaginary friend when WHAM outta nowhere I have an entire, wonderful blog post jump into my head. But unfortunately my brain bandwidth must be very wide because the thoughts that go into that composition get absolutely and utterly jumbled by the time it comes around to sitting down in front of a keyboard to squeeze all those thoughts into my laptop. Such it was with my last post. Rest assured the original post - the now imaginary post - was quite witty, and pithy, with nary a hint of melancholy.

One of those blog posts that is still only existing in my head is about the puppy that we got last fall: Blaze. Who is almost six months old, and probably about 42 lbs by now and a (mostly) great addition to the household. I say mostly because -- just like anything that is part of Real Life -- it isn't always good. Fill in your own personal favourite Life Phrase here. Sometimes he's work; sometimes he's play. (oooh, that's a good one, huh? ...think I'll keep that one)

The best thing is, I get to take him for walks at our local dog park. Where I'm forced to get out into the fresh air. At least five days a week. He's able to go off-leash at this park so he gets a good run and there is much frivolity and he is very happy. I've been amazed at how good these walks have been for me, truth be told. We've had a good winter here, and there seems to have been lots of sunshine for my beleaguered neurons: more seratonin is a good thing. At least for me.

44

I'm bidding farewell to 44 today. 45 years ago it was Pancake Tuesday, and my Mom was hungry enough after giving birth to have an entire pancake breakfast but the nurses told her that she needed to stick to tea and toast. (I think my Mom hates tea and toast to this day.)

4 is my favourite number, and a year ago I wondered how 44 would fare. A trip to Europe, getting a puppy, and attending part of the Vancouver2010 Olympics...? it fared very, very well. (and I may end up adding 'figuring out my food insensitivities' to this list...)

Sometimes I wish I had the ability to press a small button on my temple and take a snapshot of what my eyes are seeing. (Don't you?) Until science catches up with me I'm forced to stand there and tell myself to 'remember this' in hopes of recalling the picture later.

Snapshots like last weekend, walking the dog with Neal and Maeve and a friend. The kids are hiding in a copse of young trees, climbed up into the entangled branches, calling the dog. I can't really see them, but I can hear them giggling and calling out across the snow. Blaze is bounding through and around trying to find them.

And, following my son's 'look!' comment to see another plane pass by underneath us while we're in the air. It's contrail is perpendicular to ours.

Or, looking in the rearview mirror and catching a passing glance between Maeve and Neal. Sometimes it's a giggle, sometimes a glower.

I hesitate to proclaim this, but I think this may have been my favourite year so far.That digital camera implant would've really come in handy.

the enabler

I grew up in a household headed by a father who proclaimed that the bathroom was NOT a library. You do your business, and then leave the room. (Although I admit to stealing some private time, dallying occasionally when the kids were really small.) Having a magazine rack in one's toilet to hold the reading material was akin to leaving your rusting truck in the driveway up on cinderblocks.

I'm not as quite a stickler as my dad, but we don't really have a habit in this house of preparing for a restroom visit by finding a book or choosing a section of the paper to accompany us. So imagine my surprise recently when I opened the bathroom door to come face to, ummmm face with my son, book on his lap.

Both of my children love to read; which is great. Great, great, great. Don't get me wrong in any way, I'm not commenting on his obsession. I was just very surprised. He was kind of embarrassed. But he's obviously enjoying this series.

So much so that he begged me to go to Chapters as soon as they open this morning, purchase the next book in the series, and then deliver it to him at school. In time for first nutrition break. Please, please, pah-leeeesse...????

Yes. Yes, I did.

as it is written

I have a great lasagna recipe that I copied from my sis. It's dead easy, and three outta four family members agree that it tastes really, really good. (the fourth? sigh... she was SUCH a good eater when she was a baby. I thought it was gonna be easy. What happened??)

The only issue I have with this recipe is that it encourages dissension. If I make it with anybody else around, I have to contend with comments from the naysayers. I spend the entire casserole construction time calmly reassuring the nonbelievers.

"you don't precook your noodles...?!"

"350F won't cook that in an hour"

"that's not enough noodle layers"

And then everyone enjoys dinner (except the fourth) with incredulous comments about how good it is. Yes, it is.

Your welcome. And next time, just trust in the recipe.

channelling my Grup*

When my Mom was my age, I was in my mid-teens. At that age she was as foreign to me as... umm well... as a foreigner! We lived in different worlds, more so then than any other time in our lives I believe.

I don't really know what she was busy with. Like I said I was in my mid-teens and very busy being a teenager. Great job, great boyfriend, great happy music (it was after all the 80s). My band of choice? The Police, of course. And anything alternative, edgy, funky. It was New Wave for me mostly; no mainstream Top 40 for this music snob. My Mom? Who knows... I do recall a Children's Protest against Zamfir, this pan flute player. My Mom and her friends had a couple of albums of his and it got so bad that me and my sisters started chanting "Down with Zamfir! Down with Zamfir!" to drown it out whenever she had the audacity to put it on. My Dad listened to classical or marching bands and at one time wanted to get Muzak piped into the house. I kid you not.

We had such different musical tastes, to say the very least.

I still listen to alternative music. And when my daughter was 2 yrs old she exclaimed 'Mummy, it's Weeeeeezer!!' one day from the backseat. I know there's no equivalent interaction between me and my Mom. Oh, now wait... maybe there is. My first album as a child was Andy Williams when I was six, apparently. (I used to croon Moon River.) But my kids tell ME to turn the volume down in the car because they're trying to read. (They're 12 and 10; yes I know this will all change...)

We still listen to music from the 80s... the equivalent would be me listening to Top 40 from 1961. Yeah, that just NEVER happened.

Does this mean that one day my daughter will sigh, roll her eyes and protest "enough Metric already Mum!"?

*A grown-up in the minority, finding themselves among younger people. Coined by Adrian Spies, writer of the Star Trek episode featuring a post-apocalyptic world where only teenagers survived.

It's a kid's game chiefly, but you can find grups playing too.