Sad for us all

There are several truths about me. One is the fact that a bra is generally one of the first things I put on. Always. Ok, well, pretty much always.

This past weekend, just after I had showered before heading out to Brother In Law's 40th birthday party, and in the midst of dressing myself, not yet successful in the search for clean supportive garments, I was accosted by the outfit sported by MlleL.

"Wow", I said. "Goodness... That's......" Well, it was polka dots. That's what it was. Leggings and a tunic, all in different dots. "Let me see what I can do to find some other leggings."

"They're all in the wash." She said, "These are the ones I could find."

"Uhh," I said, as I dug around looking in the laundry (clean) basket. "How about.... Well.... I see what you mean."

"Mama," she said, clearly distracted and gesticulating towards my naked torso "why do they look so, um, soft? They look like they're lying down and taking a nap."

Right. Aaaand, back to the hunt for a bra.

Ch ch ch changes

So you know that picture of Snoopy?

The one where he's wailing, with his head back and mouth wide open, and tears showering all around him?

That's what I look like, only without the floppy ears and generally more blotchy. Ok, and maybe better hair, because I got it cut yesterday to make myself feel better.

What has brought this on?

A space becoming available at MlleL's care provider. Care Provider B, to be exact, a space that fits, exactly, the dimensions of one very busy two-year old boy. A two-year old who wants very badly, very badly indeed to be with his big sister. Who despite the fact that he's not terribly verbal, has enough words to make that abundantly clear.

So we won't have to negotiate the two drop off points and two pick up points much longer. We won't have to worry about coordinating coverage for two different care providers' scheduled (or unscheduled) holidays and doctor's appointments, but we are leaving our beloved behind.

And it's like breaking up with someone you still love because you know in the long run, it's better for everyone. It's just like that. Someone you've been with for almost four years. And it sucks.

All of it. Every last bit of it. Right down to my toes, it sucks.

Mom crushing

Seriously.

How awesome is this site? I want to send so many pictures here.

Mindy - Remember the University grad shot Mr. Maiden took? How about the one with her in the blue bikini, pigtails, and us crawling around on the rocks like little hermit crabs? Or how about the one she hides each time the Viking or Husband come for a visit (and I love that she hangs it on the wall!!)?

http://momstyleicons.blogspot.com/

Thanksgiving

It's American Thanksgiving today; Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!

I've been in Ottawa for 13 years, and there hasn't been one of them that I didn't wish to be on my couch, in my jammies, basting turkey, drinking coffee and watching the parade. Let alone planning the day of attack tomorrow. Although to be fair, that's mostly started in the years I've been here.

In true Thanksgiving kitsch, let me now enumerate for you my thankful fors:

1. I am thankful for the safe arrival of Miss Isabella Rosa Brandt, born on November 21 at 9lbs to my LittleSister, Mrs. Mindy Dallas.

2. I am also very thankful for the safe arrival of Mrs. Mindy Dallas' milk, a few days later. Heh.

3. I am thankful that I got to spend an evening with one of my very longest standing friends - may even beat Ms. Katie B. (to whom I know I owe a call and promise is forthcoming) - it's very lucky when a childhood family friendship can grow out of childhood and loosen itself from all of its baggage by herks and jerks and arrive at something greater and more honest than one can imagine. I'm thankful for that too, and for training in the Capital Region.

4. I am thankful for my family, and my children, and for the fact that I have a job that I can call in to, and a husband who tells me to, when they are causing me to suffer from exhaustion. Seriously. (But I'm feeling better now, and promise to pay attention to my bed time - it's a rule, not a guideline.)

5. I am thankful for Janey, and the Ms. Gs, who have stuck with me for never ending conversations of self-doubt and recriminations - and still, I hope, love me as much as I love them.

6. In the past few weeks, mostly as a result of the anticipated arrival of Isabella, we have been discussing the possible routes a baby might take when exiting from a mama's tummy. Possible routes put forward? 2. Out of your 'privates, or out of your head.' Tempting, right? I mean, I KNOW. So we had a bit of the talk. So far, no questions about how babies get in. So I'm very, very thankful for THAT.

7. I am thankful for the very fabulous literacy talents of Dr. Watson.

8. I'm thankful for YOU, dear readers, whoever you are.

Remembrances

Growing up the daughter of a once upon a time Marine Corps Officer in teensy town America leads to several facts of life.

One: It is difficult not to be imprinted on the military man - uniforms are all around you, and they look good. Early remembrances of my father include seeing him march as a veteran in the Memorial Day parade in our little village, I suppose you'd call it - a little place with several hundred folk living there and a war memorial with at least a quarter of their names on it - two little general stores, a legion, a Masonic lodge, and a church - too small, even, for a school. The men folk wore their uniforms, or the parts of it that still fit - grandpas, uncles, dads, and brothers home on leave, they marched together on a hot day in May and at the end, we'd all gather in the park for popsicles - me in my girl scout's uniform having just marched myself. He wore his medals, and to this day, I don't know what they all meant. I do know, however, how very, very proud he was to find (late in the day) that he was a Nobel prize laureate - a number of years ago, the UN Forces in Korea won - and, as a US Marine, he was a member of that force.

Two: The military in the US is one of the only ways out of a small town. If your folks couldn't afford university, and many couldn't, it was what a guy did. Fresh out of high school, they'd enlist, get on the job training and possibly go to school after the 3 year enlistment with the money they'd accumulated as part of the GI bill.Military staff and service are just all around you - it is a part of everyone's lives. High school sweetheart? Now Lt. Colonel in the Army Corps of Engineers. Big Brother? Did at least 10 years in the Navy, and came out with the professional training that is still serving him today as a fire marshal.

Having imprinted early on and spent the grad school years in Tidewater Virginia, I crossed paths with a number of servicemen. And so to all of you - submarine operators, fighter pilots, Hughie mechanics, engineers, infantrymen and fire fighters, I say thank you.

My thoughts are with you all today, and I'm hoping that wherever you are, you are safe and have clean sheets to lay your head on tonight. And if you don't have clean sheets, then I hope you've got some clean, dry socks.

Wear your gear and keep your fuzzy heads safe.

Semper Fi, and pax.

subconscious, working overtime

a list of possibilities offered by my subconscious over the past week:

1. The deputy director of another division within our organization, whose office is right across the hall from mine, has been secretly keeping track of my schedule at work. For all of those days I just knock off at 3.

2. I was suddenly the owner and very excited driver of a new VW something. The thing that made me most excited, though, was the fact that it was all wheel drive, which I could totally note as I drove it. (Which is awesome as that was the first time I've ever driven an all wheel drive vehicle.)

3. Through a very fascinating turn of events I don't precisely remember, so cannot reinact during daylight hours, I ended up sleeping next to Brad Pitt. (I'm just saying.) I was very excited, as you might imagine, with the upcoming possibility of seeing him at my next Hollywood function, for which I went to get a pedicure. Things took a turn for the worse when Brad did not remember we had had a date.

"Pro-comfort"

Dear o.b.:

I've been a user now, for well, longer than I haven't. Well, hold on, I'm doing the exact calculations, and, including pregnancies and what-not, nope, still, more on that off, if you know what I mean. And I know that you do. But enough about me and my age.

What I'm writing about is your recent change in packaging, and, if I understand correctly, makeup of the coating of your product. I, as much as any, appreciate something that would be more comfortable, I really, really do. What I'd really like to question, however, is the decision of your marketing team to describe your newly designed product as 'pro-comfort'. Given that I might have a bit too much time over the past few days to contemplate actions in the ladies' room, I'd like to enquire as to who, exactly, these 'pro's might be.

I must admit my creative and intellectual limitations when I say that I can only think of two broad categories of employment in which one would have greater than the normal amount of experience and could be construed as 'pro's in the action of sticking things up kittens - who's comfort, then, were you thinking of? Perhaps a physician? I can tell you from experience that they are not necessarily concerned with my comfort (speculum, I'm looking at YOU), and as such, I am less compelled to purchase your product on their assurances.

I can only, then, assume that you might mean the working girl, who, we might acknowledge, does have experience with the aforementioned activities. I can only imagine what that client focus group might have gone like. In most areas of my life, I would argue that the working girl might not be the best model for choices, but in this particular instance, would like to thank you both. I appreciate your hard work and selflessnes in research to find the best solution for us all.

Until next time - Katie.

Mankin love

He'll be two in roughly three weeks. He's in the range of 30 pounds, MasterP. He loves to get dressed up in my sunglasses, road id, and his rubber boots and wave goodbye to everyone. 'Bye! He yells trying to unlock any door, 'Bye!!

And yet?

And yet. A favourite game is the baby game, played right out of the bath, when he stands naked and wet, with his arms pressed tight to his body waiting to be swaddled in his hooded towel. Ooooh, I croon to him, as I lift him, ohhh, my baaaaaby. Shhh, my baaaaaby. His head in the crook of one elbow and my other hand under his bum I hold him tight and he lays draped across my torso, his legs dangling behind us - a delighted and massive newborn.

Last night, as we pretended, his eyes started to roll. Oops, I said, look at this - he's done! C'mon manny, let's have your medicine (he was running a mild fever and could stand with a better night's sleep - thanks, Advil!) and get you ready....

My 'newborn' could only be consoled by the promise of a blanket swaddling after jammie application. And so, for the first night in years, I rolled him up and offered him round' for kisses, his chubby hand shooting out to hold his night bottle.

It's weird and delicious - two. A mix of independence and babyhood that I'm really in no hurry to end.

Heeeeee.

A) Jorge Hiney. Just say it out loud. Sure, you may be a well-respected Latin American scholar, but come on. How many times have you wished desperately for a different last name?

B) Can we really be this old? Can it really have been 5 years? Ran into language training coffee mate this morning. We ran across the street to Starbucks every morning when we finally got the nod at 10:15. We don't feel any older; how can it be possible that our kids are?

C) I Scream, You Scream, by Wendy Lyn Watson released today. Check it out!! I think you'll love it.

September Wrapup

oh goodness, I can't focus.

September, my dears, almost killed me. Seriously. It really, really did, with its huge stresses of two (!) new care providers, and negotiated changes to bus routes, and school, and Grammar exams, and interviews, and Doctor's appointments - mine and care providers', and a half marathon, and visits to and from family, and you know, some work in there somewhere.

Let's just say that it's a pretty good thing that boss-man apparently likes me, because the work/life pendulum has been swung away from him all month. Sorry, boss-man.

What I can say is this: October looks pretty good so far. The new care provider is good and MlleL seems to really enjoy being there - except for the double drop, which gets me to work late every morning - bus routes were changed in time for the first day of school, school is awesome (MlleL loves it. And is learning crazy new stuff every, every day), Grammar exam was passed (woooot)!, Interviews completed, Doctor's appointments attended, visits with family joyous.

Oh. The half? You'd like to hear more about that?

Well. It began bright and early on a sunny and cool September 20th, when I stopped by Janey's to pick her up at 8:15. Start time was 9:00 - and we were there in plenty of time this time not to have to jump fences and elbow our way into the crowd far from our intended corral (Ottawa 10k, I'm looking at you.) The start cannon scared us all, and a few moments later, we were off. About four blocks into 21.1k, Janey looked back over her shoulder as she always does and waved, and I blew her a kiss like I always do and I wouldn't see her again until I crossed the finish line, standing waiting for me after the medals with the biggest grin I've seen in a long, long time and a super sweaty and pretty teary hug. It will shine for me as one of the best moments of achievement in my life, and I'm so, so happy to have been able to share it like that. Sigh.

Mrs. Maiden drove down from Places North to see it - but was too teary eyed herself to see me cross. Well, she saw, but didn't recognize me until I was standing just on the other side of the fence yelling "MOM!"

Oh, the run?

Yeah. It was really, really long, but I ran it every step. Maybe you saw me? In the back of the pack with the shades on? I smiled the whole way.

putting a name on the secret

Dudes.

I'm a guinea pig.

It began with that secret I told you about, and swiftly (well, you know, for a dermatologist) turned into a trip to a dermatologist and allergy testing.

When we had the appointment on Wednesday, the Doctor was very animated, indicating she thought that I would be an 'excellent case' and very well may result in her publishing the results. Awesome! I'm gonna be famous!!!

I thought we were talking about 10 or 15 test spots. We were actually talking about more than 125. And surgical tape from my shoulders to my waistband. Meanwhile, I'll be here until Monday with my entire back looking like the result of an alien attack, and trying to bathe without getting it wet.

Short of the bugs'n'honey diet, I'm beginning to feel much in common with John the Baptist and his hair shirt.

In short, it's not nice. It's a little too warm, very, very itchy, and a constant reminder of my evil deeds through shopping.

updates...

So Wednesday night we met with the only other care provider we were offered. It was a this or nothing situation, so we really, really, really hoped it would work.

We walked in, and it was good. She was relaxed, and relaxing. MlleL was equally at ease, which is a good sign too - her being sorta a canary of stress.

We talked for a bit, and went to see the playroom in the basement (also very cool - not at all basementy and awful like they can be) and sat the three of us adults on the couch as we discussed the details of the care and watched the kids play.

Something about the way she said 'association' confirmed my suspicions without a doubt, and I lean in and asked her if she spoke Tagalog to the kids.

She leaned around me to look at Husband and said "I thought that's who you were - you look so much like your mother!! Is your dad feeling better?"

heh.

She really is all powerful, that Lola. And now?

If the new care provider crosses us, she will be forced to face the substantial wrath of my mother-in-law.

Drop offs at two separate care providers is going to be tricky, but we're back in business, and protected by the avenging angel.

Now if I only passed that interview today.... Third time's the charm, right?

ceeerap.

Worst day in a long time.

Drop off at the brand new day care provider went badly, as when the coordinator confirmed the details of the bus stop for MlleL's first day of school next Tuesday, the care provider announced that it was 'too far' for her to walk. Not about to leave my kid somewhere she doesn't know temporarily, I took MlleL back to the care provider we just said goodbye to on Friday.

And the bus route is 'frozen until the end of the month.' ie - no changes. And the centre that is supposed to bus to MlleL's school doesn't have 'any kindergarten kids that don't go to Prince of Peace, so we'd really have to consider making changes for one student if a space became available.'

So what the hell am I supposed to do now? Do I actually tell my kid that she can't go to school this year because we can't find child-care to support her? I'm not sure we can afford to keep paying for two full-time spots for a whole additional year.

So what do I do? Go pick up MasterP, I guess, who's tummy has chosen today for a revolt. Of a revolting nature, apparently.

So there. Great start to the week.

my friend....

So I have this colleague at work who I've never been able to put my finger on just who it was he reminded me of, until I passed him in the hall, doing a 'hop-think.'

Heh.

http://myfriendrabbit.treehousetv.com/

Homesick

I have heard a constant inner complaint for years - a half forgotten recurring dream.

As I'm walking to the bathroom at the office, I'll hear the sigh "I need to get out of here; I want to go home." "But," I tell it, "We like this new job. We really just need to finish the note. We'll go home when it's time. Concentrate."

Running up the stairs to the kids' bedroom, I hear "I wanna go home." "umm," I point out, "we are?"

It's an index card that pops up during times of mental inactivity. We are home, I tell it. We live here. I don't understand.

Janey wrote a love note to her quasi-hometown a while ago. While trying to think of what I would say of the place I spent part of my summer vacation running through, I just felt anger. Sure, we'd been going there since I was young, but it's so buried in resentment now, I have a hard time feeling the joys and freedoms we had as kids - running free for a week with spending money, eating all the egg rolls, ice cream and candy we wanted.

You're too young, they said twenty years ago. When you were a baby, and we went to BigBrother's kindergarten graduation, you cried from the noise. University would overwhelm you. You will come with us, and go to grade 13. In a year, you'll be older, and go to the University we've chosen. They accept grade 13 as University courses.

Fresh from the defeat of running past the cemetery (twice) and up hill both ways for 10 miles, through a community of people who do not recognize me, I hit the wall of why I could not write a love note to this place I have lived, on and off, for 25 years.

It is my prison. My tower. I have struggled for years to get past the feeling of being spirited away to a place not of my choosing (fat lot of good that did - just like Rapunzel, I found my own trouble). I have not.

And I don't think if you asked Rapunzel to write a love note she could either. Even if she loved the witch very much, and was happy with the way things turned out in the end, and used up her vacation time to return with her children every summer so that they could all be together as a family.

"Finally," said the voice, as I stood on the beach in South Haven and looked at the lighthouse, "You wouldn't listen."

"I couldn't," I said, as I drove away.

Whew.

Ok. So you can check me out on the Facebook.

I'm tagged in a few photos. You'll know me because I'm the one grinning like a fool. Let's just say that I waited 20 damn years for that whole "early bloom, early rot" thing, and I may have been a little gloaty to see it finally happen. Heh. (Mrs. Maiden, also on the Facebook, just called me to congratulate me on my late bloom.)

Did you know that the only body part that does not change size from birth is a persons eyes? That's why babies eyes look so large - they'll be exaclty like that all through life.

Looking into eyes that known me since grade 6 - that's a pretty significant thing. They knew me before puberty, before braces - and although we've not been in touch in 20 years (and frankly, thank god for name tags) the affection in the room was palpable. I haven't hurt that much from laughing in a long time.

I learned some lessons: I saw what it was like to have been a mean girl in high school, and then come to the reunion. (It looks pretty lonely, actually.)

I've learned how to live with my head held high despite everything (from the little sister of the only 'out' guy in a really small, really conservative town), how enthusiasm for others is the key to relationships, and what lasting friendship looks like after more than 20 years. (Thanks, Katie! Love you!)

It was amazing.

It was heart breaking to leave. 36 hours was not nearly enough. I didn't get to the beach (it was raining) and I didn't get ice cream.

I don't think I'd choose to live there - there's not that many public service jobs there - but it's my home. And you know what? Husband has agreed that a week in a beach house might just be a perfect family vacation.

How awesome is that???

Feh and his cheesecake: Happily ever after

I've been reading those vampire books.

You know the ones - THOSE ones.

I kinda get it; they're entertaining, but something I read before I read the books changed my opinion forever, and altered how I would view them. It was one of those alternative comics, where the protagonist had been to see the movie and likened it to a guy seeing his all-time favourite flavour of cheesecake and then declaring his everlasting love and adoration for said cheesecake. "I must have you with me for always, cherry cheesecake." snort.

While I'm on the subject, there's a few things I'd like to raise. Forgive me, dear readers, but it's been a really long time since my last book club meeting, and I really need to get this off my chest. Mostly about the second book, because that's how far I've gotten in the series. I'm pretty sure that more comments will come, because you know that even more than I hates the bad writing, I hates the unended story. (Unless you're so bad/long/unsympathetic that I don't care, and you know who you are.)

1) The quality, she ain't great. One would suppose that a female writer would know a bit about the teenage fem, having, one assumes, been one, but when one of your girls is wounded by being unsolicitously dumped by her creepy, obsessive boyfriend, no self-respecting teenage girl turns her back. It just doesn't happen. There is nothing that fuels the teenage relationship more than the DRAMA, the DRAMA! and being dumped? Dude. It's at the top of the priority list.

2) A creepy, obsessive boyfriend is just that. After having been with him a short while, it turns out that he's been sneaking into her dad's house (UNINVITED?? They can suddenly do that now?) to watch her sleep. Dude. That's not hot. It's not. He won't let her see her friends, he tells her what to do, and when she's with him, she doesn't speak of fun, just of luuuurve, luuurve. and sparklieness. Ick. Shuuuuder.

3) Sure, he might be pretty, but he's a Ken doll. He's cold, he's blond and handsome, he's got a nice chest, he's shiny, and he's unable to do more than the kissing. Feh.

4) Specific note to editor: Continuity. If you're going to set up the heroine's potential special ability as a vampire (the ability for others' abilities not to work) don't forget that. It's lame. (First family meeting, brother's special ability of influencing emotions makes her all calm 'despite the situation' (check it out, Book 1.) Later, in Italy, none of the fancy vampires can work their magic? (Book 2.) Stupid mistake. Work out the damn story arc before you write the next book. Don't make it up as you go along.)

5) If this is supposed to be a sweeping romance, the relationship with the werewolf is much better written. Aside from our supposed communal oggling of Ken/Feh, she's got stuff in common with the werewolf. He seems to strive to keep promises and stupid stuff like that. Specific note to Bella: Pick the werewolf. a) he seems like he's fun, and dude, seriously - and this goes for everyone - obsession is not sexy, it's not romantic, and it's not good for you. Under any circumstances. b) it would seem that the werewolf is capable of the physical side of love. Just sayin'. Might be a benefit later in life. You know, in your 20s or something. c) see last point about life. So that's a positive as well. (and d) you know I loves the caramel colored.) Finally, and this is just personal preference, but e) my feet are cold enough on their own in bed. I really don't need an alabaster statue sucking body heat all the time. Know what I mean?

Discuss?

Every day victories

Dudes.

In rereading the entries for the past month or so, it would seem I've been having a tough time. That's a misrepresentation. I feel in a good place; it's been a great summer, so I think I might be just finding written inspiration in my battles lately, instead of victories.

So here are some delicious victories to remind me of the summer I'm really having.

I'll be an honest to goodness auntie in late October. I'm already lucky enough to be an auntie to 6 really cool nieces and nephews, but this one will be the first baby from the Maidens (we got a ready-made nephew a few years ago in the really sweet two for one deal that was BigBrother's wedding). It's pretty exciting. I look forward to more Skype viewings soon.

In mid-July, Mrs. Maiden came to visit on her way to more healing touch training in Arizona. She stayed a day, which I was able to take off to be with her while the kids were in daycare. I had hoped to spend part of the day peeling the deadfish wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom, but as that took such a short time, we actually painted the whole room - and changed out the accessories to achieve fish eradication and new look in one day. Yipee!!

At the end of the month, she returned to care for the kids for a week while Husband and I planned to do foundation repairs. Unfortunately, as it rained each day, we were unable to dig, but what we did do was spend four days finishing all the carpentry work and prepping to allow us to finish painting the foyer, staircase and upper landing of the house - FINALLY - after 4 years of living here and two years of living with a partially scraped and prepped staircase which made me cringe just a little whenever someone new came to the house. A major, major accomplishment.

Oh, my goodness, it's delicious. The fish are gone. The decals also. As Janey said when we first bought the house - it's a matter of scrubbing out the crazy. (The sun, however, in all its subterranean glory, remains blissfully unaware of the fate which is slowly, but surely coming its way.)

Sundays I'm up when the kids are up (usually, husband takes the early shift on the weekends to let me sleep to 8. It's an amazing gift.) to do my distance training run. Doing it at the crack of dawn lets me have more of a family day with everyone, and allows time for essentials like rest, laundry and groceries. Usually, as I leave, MlleL and Husband chant "go, mama, go! go, mama, go!" (MasterP has simplified that to go, go, gooooooo!) It's tremendous motivation for me, and helps me get out the door. Yesterday morning, after my puttering around for a half hour or so - folding a load of laundry, having a snack, getting my road id on, and ensuring my iPod has juice - MasterP started his chant early, before I even had shoes on, and pushed me towards the door. "Go, go, gooo!" he crouched down and yelled through the window of the screen door as I walked out the carport, "Go, go, goooooo!" he yelled shutting the inside door.

Reunion -7days

On Monday, it seemed everything was cast against it, the family trip to the 20th high school reunion.

As he had several times before, Husband suggested again that I go on my own - flying to Detroit and then driving across state with Katie B. I refused it, as I had the other times, out of guilt.

But on Tuesday, after a particularly draining and fruitless session at the Passport Office as the only Valentine with a current passport, I let myself consider that option. I priced tickets (just over $800 or so) and let myself imagine a four day trip as a single woman. I thought about the books I might bring to amuse myself on the plane. (what are people reading now?) I rolled it around in my mouth, tasting the hours of peaceful window shopping between flights and the iced coffees I could have with no whining or tantrums. I thought of three nights in a bed to myself and three mornings without 6 AM wake up calls. I may also have imagined what going out free from that wakeup call might feel like, as well as a guilt-free distance run along the beach in the cool of the morning.

I thought I might like how that would taste.

But then Husband said that he did really want to go. And the tide was changed. We would make the drive after all, covering what is sure to be over 30 hours of driving in a four day weekend....

Besides. I'd have been lonely, right? And the ability to show my kids where Mama grew up and swim with them on the same beaches that I did at their age is worth all that.

RIGHT?

The reality of the sandwich generation

See that? she said two summers ago, pointing to pre-writing scribbles in pink chalk on the side of the carport, that says cancer.

Hi Lolo, she said on a phonecall to chat, We can't come see you today, because MasterP has a runny nose and you have chemo. Are you still having chemo? Can I talk to Lola now?

I talk to God, she said, standing in the bed of Mrs. Maiden's pick-up truck last night, before I go to sleep, after you leave the room. I get down like this, and I say please God, make Lolo better. I love him, thank you.

And accross the back of the truck, our eyes meet, and I share strength and comfort as I can.

I know all the words to De Colores and I'm proud to be an American...

Stuck.

Thanks, Janey.

It's been a gruelling week, my dears. Brought about, for the most part, by a kid cold gone bad in my sinuses. After a week of discomfort, (earning me the nickname snorky at the office - sad, but true) I have self medicated, using up half of the anti-biotic prescription I promised only to use under duress.

Dude. It wasn't as bad as the time I went to work because I was acting director and had to go to a horribly long and detailed presentation on how IT needs were going to be identified by the department and then addressed by the IT branch (not necessarily as easy a process as you might think) and the pain was so bad I couldn't actually see the screen where the horribly long and detailed presentation was displayed.

But still, I gots stuffs to do, right? Like bend over and put my kids shoes on. Or hold one on my lap without reeling from an accidental head-butt to the cheekbone. Or train for a half-marathon.

This week, I totally felt like the girl in the Advil commercial - if you think sinus pain and pressure is going to stop me.... Ask me two weeks ago, and I would have said 'pfft. That's absurd. If you're sick, seriously. How bad do you need to get out there?' This week? Well, if I let it go a week, I'm a week behind in distance maintenance. And you know, as long as I don't bend over (which I don't usually do while running) and breathe through my mouth, I'm generally ok.

But then on Monday, as I was blow-drying my hair after a tough night of, you know, snorking, I totally poked myself in the eyeball with a bristle of my round brush. Owwwww.

And also?

Later that same morning, as I was cooking her eggs and cottage cheese scramble in a one-eyed pirate mama fashion, MlleL was riffing on a role-play where her husband had just died and her baby was in her tummy (yeah, I know. TRAGIC. We're very dramatic chez Valentine. ALSO, I'd like to note that we really only watch Treehouse and the occasional episode on the Family channel, so there's not a whole lotta tragedy played out at our house influence-wise.) As I was commiserating her loss, she went on to describe how it was soooooo sad that he had died, and was now with God, and so we had to, and I quote, "dirt him up."

haaaaaaaaaaaa.

It's so, so wrong, but I don't really want to correct that, cause' it's so damn hilarious.

oh. my. goodness.

2 hours and 20 minutes of KISS. Some of it in the rain.

They were amazing.

It was an amazing, amazing show.

I'm not a huge fan, and I certainly didn't even know most of the songs, but they're icons, you know? They're icons.

And oh, I screamed for them. I leaned back and howled.

So much fun.

But my lesson learned? Well, I could rock and roll all night, but if I rock and roll, and mama (nights are still rough chez Valentine - both kids up last night again), and try to 'party every day' on four hours of sleep, I'm going to be forced to have to go home early to spend a few hours horizontal under the covers.

How I got to work late yesterday morning:

MlleL came into bed on Tuesday night, and chased me all over in her need to have directly-next-to-me-all-the-time sleep. (This is in direct conflict with my need for no-touching-me-while-I-sleep sleep.)

Husband carried her back to her own bed somewhere around 2.

MasterP woke up somewhere around 3 with teething pain, and required Husband's particular snuggle on the couch for the rest of the morning. It was a long, cold night for everyone.

MlleL came into the bedroom at 5:30 to ask for my help with her zipper, as she was already changing to start the day. I couldn't convince her that it was still sleeping time. Thankfully, as Husband was already downstairs, I was able to buy myself another half an hour of sleep.

As I wrestled with MasterP to change his morning diaper, it fell poo down on the rug. Twice. (no, I won't tell you where). Oh, hell, that's icky. Copious use of disinfectant followed.

I made them granola from scratch for breakfast. (In the microwave - I'm no saint.)

After Husband left to catch his bus, MasterP climbed on the window ledge in the bay window and pulled the curtains down. I fell off the stool trying to put them back up. (I'm fine.)

As I was brushing MlleL's hair, MasterP walked up and blew his nose on my skirt. As I looked at him in shock, he laughed and tried to do it again. He was very offended when I refused him.

I spent a little while looking for my eye shadow brush. I think someone stole it. I had to apply with my fingers, but in the meantime, if you find a little silver brush, the length of a pencil, you'll know whose it is.

MasterP threw all the balls he could find into the crack between the stove and the dishwasher.

I washed the cherries and sorted out the icky ones so that they won't continue to collect flies and we won't waste them. (Also in a pre-emptive move so that the new babysitter coming last night wouldn't wonder at my slovenliness.)

The crock pot turned itself off (or someone turned it off when I wasn't looking - which I also suspect, as both of them can reach the counter and love to push buttons). I turned it back on, and when I left, it was still on, so fingers crossed.

I caught MasterP and managed to get his shoes and his sweater on.

I finally dropped them off at 8:25.

I bought me a large latte at 10:20.

Dear sub-conscious:

To note, I'd like to thank you for your recent suggestion regarding my colleague. I appreciate your interest and concern and will remain vigilant. While I would very much welcome it, I'd be pretty surprised if a situation arose such that I, that colleague, and the lovely Dr. W would be on a work symposium involving much introspection and what would appear to be quite a bit of shopping and consumption of alcohol (in a mall/hotel that resembles a very, very large grotto). That being said, I will do my best to remain alert. Additionally, I doubt very highly that my colleague drives a truck. (Although colleague is from the west, so maybe you're right. Hard to tell. I'd ask, but then I'd have to explain why.....)

I also thank you for your repeated reminders of what it would feel like to forget to wear a top to meetings and exercise classes. I can assure you that aside from that one time at Janey's house, this problem has never arisen, and I will strive to keep my record of (relatively) successful self clothing intact. And no, I do not agree with your theory that repeated trips to the locker room to don successive layers would result in less people noticing. If I ever do find myself topless while in cobra pose, I think I'll just put everything on at once and be done with it.

Looking forward to working with you again at your earliest convenience,

I remain,

Your body.

maybe the best Globe and Mail photo montage ever

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/dear-roommate/article1196963/

the chasm between kids and no kids

"Mango is awesome." they said as I walked up to join the conversation at the buffet table at that baby shower over the weekend. "You know, Penelope Cruz and her sister design a line for the store."

"I think my sister shops there," I said, "I think there might be one in Galway."

"They're in the large city centres," they said, nodding wisely, "Paris, London - it's probably in Dublin."

"But Zara's really gone downhill," someone else said, "just in time for us to get one."

"But whyyyyy can't we have an HandM?" came the moan.

The host's greeting to me as I came in the front door? "Ha!!" She yelled, seeing that we were wearing the exact same shirt in different colours, "Love the COSTCO!!!"

Swoonedy Swoon

Somehow, as I was discussing a file with a colleague and sat down at the teleconference table for today's fed-prov call, I looked to my right and found myself face-to-face with the ADM most recently described in the MacLeans blog 'Inside the Queensway' as 'adorably nervous' and nicknamed 'Young F'. He is, ADMly speaking, younger. He's also a blonde dutchman, so he's probably a little older than his features allow.

He's the federal co-chair of the fed-prov forum my team leads, so we work fairly closely with him, although, as I am only a lowly senior analyst, we rarely speak. And certainly, never, never during these teleconferences. I usually just try to appear alert and brainy each time his line of sight drifts my way during the conversation.

Half way through today's call, however, he shifted in his chair, leaned in, put his hand in the small of my back, and spoke in a low voice in my ear. True, it was to ask if I had written down the commitments of each Province in the round table in detail (which I had), but still.....

Coffee time

Standing at the elevators on our way to get coffee this morning:

Older Male Colleauge, squinting at me: "Did you get your hair cut?"

"nope."

"brows done?"

"uh-uh"

"Well, something's different, and you look nice today!"

"uh, yeah. Thanks. It's this rockin' sunburn"

"Well, it suits you."

And by the way?

We did it.

Janey and I totally did it. We ran the 10k. There's even photographic proof of it. Heh. Am I ever glad that I listened when I crossed the start line and posed when crossing the finish.

Cause' I saw unposed photos of me, and do I always do that with my lips? I guess so, cause' upon viewing the proofs, Husband said, oh, you're doing the lip thing.

Seriously? I walk around with that face on? Y'all never told me?

Sigh.

It was long, and awesome, and as anticipated, I spent the majority of the race staring at Janey's ass while I tried to catch her, except for the part at the 7k mark where she looked behind her for permission to open up and left me so quickly I didn't even see her go.

Crossing that line a full six minutes behind Janey was one of the best feelings ever. Having worked so hard for something physical like that and finally achieving it with grace... I was happy to have shaved about 6 minutes off my own training time of chug, chug, chug, which boss-man says is 'substantial' (because I work on a team that checked my time pretty much the same time I did) and I wore the timing bracelet boss-man's boss made for me with printer paper and packing tape (no, look in the photo - that's the white band on my arm, just above the watch which is most definitely not a sports watch. So much for self timing.)

It was so, so, tear bringingly good that I'm letting Janey use that feeling to talk me into signing up for something even greater. Something even longer, in September. On the weekend exactly between our birthdays.

I'm not even sure what to say about it, other than I hope it doesn't rain much this summer!!

Afternoon delight...

Can I whisper to you of lechery?

Can I? Those surprising moments I am reminded of maleness outside of the cocoon of marriage?

Being directed by traffic cops (I don't know, just sigh...) but first and foremost?

Well, it's a specialized taste, I suspect.

And, due to the confines of office wear, doesn't occur often, but sometimes, on casual Fridays....

There's this little spot just below a toned belly button, that flat belly part where fuzz begins. It's horribly distracting in it's deliciousness.

In French training, there was a fella who sat directly opposite of me around the U of the table - of the bespectacled German variety I have long found to be so endearing - who was also very athletic, returning after lunch each day wet headed from the gym next door. And then, wearing low-slung jeans, he would stretch back over his chair and, oh dang...............c'est quoi, que je disais?

And then? During the first class of yoga with the more butch of the two instructors, we started the sun salutation series, and, well, if I'm going to be able to concentrate on the here and now, I'm going to have to move my mat.

Or not. shhhhh.

Where has all the cleavage gone??

long time passing..... (and my apologies to Mr. Seeger.)

So after the BBV debacle, I have tried it again - the buying of the supportive undergarment. Seriously - have they gotten way bigger in the fit, or is it just me? No wait. Don't answer that.

I'm am now just on the edge of being able to shop in a normal store - having to ask for a ridiculously small bandsize (one I wore in junior high, no less) but in an place in the alphabet not usually connected with well, supportive undergarments one could possibly buy in a normal store. I'm kinda at the place where I have to just accept what they have and call it mine, if I'd like to buy something to wear under my shirt. And add a 'stretcher' - which is a super sexy add on bit with extra hooks, because I am apparently between sizes - one up will result in me cursing the stupid thing in a week, as it waltzes all over my ribcage, and without the super-hot old-lady accessory, let's just say the current size reveals quite an impressive display of underarm and back 'wings'. Smokin'.

Bleagh. Underwhelming.

On the upside, however, I no longer have to wear safety goggles for protection when I run. So there's that.

On the downside? Well, I no longer have to wear safety goggles for protection when I run, I guess.

sigh...

If Saturday was the official promo of Summer, I must say.

Summer will be filled with school fairs, bouncy castles, picnics in the park, luxurious coffees with very good friends, and well, longing for fabulous hair and pedicures.

But other than that last item, it looks like it's gonna be gooooooooooooooood.

in between thoughts...

So against all better judgment, I let Janey follow up on some early big talk from me, and have agreed at her urging to sign myself up for the 10k run on Ottawa Race Weekend. Wanna see some hurtin'? Well, come on down!!! (It appears that Husband and the childrens won't make it, as it's an evening run. That plan may change, but right now, it looks like Janey and I are responsible for running and cheering at the same time.)

Right.

So I was discussing this with Mrs. Maiden - the run, not the cheering - and my suspicions that it might not quite be as easy as, well, Janey promises.

'Ooh', said Mrs. Maiden, 'I need to get you that info for the library program' [the Tucson library allows you to download books 'on-tape' to load on your i-pod for listening literacy. They don't care where you do it from, as long as you have the library card number. So, conceivably, I could be listening to books while I'm trying to kill myself through adding impossible distances.] 'That would be great, mom', I said, 'I'll try it. Currently, I've been listening to really loud music to help me keep going. And you know, Britney says I can do this....' [actually, Britney asks me to let her break the ice, to allow her to get me right. She tells me that she's miss bad media karma.... and also, pant, pant, pant....]

'You're listening to her?' Mrs. Maiden said, 'What else is she telling you - shave your head and have babies???'

Heeeeeeeeeee.

And then the discussion degenerated [as it always does] into more talk of Britney and in particular, how much her 'life' [read life prison sentence] sucks. I mean, she has tons of money, we might imagine, but she can't spend it, or leave the house, or talk to ANYONE because they all run to the press. She can't even talk to the people she pays to be her friends, because they do too. Her parents are too busy being her gaolers to talk to her.

She's done everything she can think of to break out of her iron clad gilded prison, but she's stuck. Crazy or medicated, well-behaved or not, it doesn't matter what she does. Take her pants off? Shave her head? Behave perfectly normally while on medication? Trapped under the fame microscope and held there in the shining glare by her parents. They sold her, and they're making sure their investments of time and energy are going to darn well pay off.

And then I was running the other night, and it hit me (these things used to happen in the twilight between sleep and awake, but I don't get that anymore. So it's during running.)

Jamie really isn't as stupid as people thought. She's not.

I think she took a look at what happens when your parents sell you to Disney and wanted out. And I think she saw that she had a limited time to do it - Britney's behaviour has changed nothing in her situation but make it an even tighter bind, and only a few short years separate them. So I think she took the first out she was offered, and got pregnant. Sure, there's some notoriety (or was) but I'm pretty sure there's enough money for her to be able to live normally for a good long time. Lynn ensured that when she sold the picture rights to that baby.

But she's free. She'll be on those 'where are they now' shows, but she's living a life of her own choosing.

Who knew we'd cheer for the 17-year-old mom?

Dating and biology (or Katie's rules of dating)

Welcome, my dears, to a requested posting (yup! I do take requests!), and also to a discussion of my very first passion. Well, after French kissing, which does sorta lend itself to our discussions today. French kissing is awesome. (Well, if done right. And, if done right, it doesn't use your thinking brain, which is also part of our discussions today.)

So let us begin.

First, let me say that this passion, learned in University, is the basis (or part of the basis) of today's discussion, that being, political biology. Yeah, that's what I said. I studied it, and I love it. Sure, I do finance and stuff like that, but really, this is the stuff I find fascinating.

The general concept of this theory is that humans, as an evolutionary animal, have not changed that much since we've appeared. the time we've been here is not nearly long enough for serious evolutionary change. Sure, we've gone and started making really great textiles, and some neat machines, and all, and our brains are doing some stuff like writing, and thinking has really, really evolved, but there's this biological part of us that's still doing it's best to manage our biological imperative while all the brain and 21st century stuff is going on. (Just FYI - I'm not going to start talking about how it's so much more stressful NOW that it was in Elizabethan England when people were being chased by tigers and knights and stuff. So forget it. Hee. And also, hi, Suzanne!)

The biological imperative is that we are here to keep ourselves here. Simple, right? So everything that we do is to ensure that humans, as a species, remain here. Most of our behaviour can be explained by this. Chucking our genes into the future, in such a way that we're setting them up for the most success - the success of OUR genes (by extension, this explains the family/herd/community thing. Those living closest to you generally have similar genetic makeup - thus, vested interest in their success as well.)

Ok. So we've got that concept? Everyone clear on that? I'm not talking about sexism. I'm talking about biology. We do not need to be ruled by biology, but it helps to understand where we, as an animal, are coming from in our behaviour.

Right.

So now, let's talk about dating.

Dating is really difficult, in that it's a melding of the most simple of imperatives with the complexities of 21st century social morales. (Hah! And you thought this was going to be fluffy!!) See, we're trying to obey all of these social rules - no snorking, being 'polite', eating correctly, being interesting and no trash talk while at the same time, trying to meet the more basal needs of ourselves as animals. Will you be the right potential mate to help me get my genes into the next generations successfully? YES, I AM!! (or maybe not.)

This concept can be used to explain a whole lotta reasons why we find each other attractive: men, in general, like a lady with boobs. Generally speaking - please no hate mail. They like a bit of curve, (social rules have changed the more to less, but really, if they're honest, and you look at penthouse, there are curves there. Just sayin') Curves, and boobs, speak to a lady's fertility, and chances, again, of chucking the genes forward. More interestingly, they've done research that shows that in general, gentlemen find a specific face shape more attractive. Wanna know? Ok. Well, it's when the eyes are wide spaced and relatively large for the face and the mouth, and jawline are rather pointed and small. There's a specific equation to size of mouth relative to cheek bone, but I won't (and probably can't) get into it. The hypothesis is that this face shape more closely resembles a younger female, thus, again, one who might be able to more easily get the genes forward.

Ladies, on the other hand, like a well-muscled guy. Why? Well, protection of us and our young. A sensitive guy? He'll probably stick around. A younger lady likin' the older fella? Well, he's a little more settled, he's probably a better provider, thus.....

Guys sleeping around, in general, and the ladies not so much? Guys don't need to be there for young. It's better for them, biologically speaking, to get as many potential genes out there. Ladies - well, if our genes are going to do well, we're pretty much going to need some help. (I know, I know, ladies are doing it for themselves. I KNOW. But generally speaking, it helps.) So not sleeping with him on the first date? Well, a lady needs to know that her potential gene partner would be the kind of guy who would stick around and invest in them.

So.

Katie's rules to dating?

Keep this in mind. The best dating is done on a 21st century level when brains can be activated, but at the same time, when timing works out and the genes are satisfied with their chances of getting' forward.

How so? Well, if we look at the rules, fem it up. Cavemen like a pretty lady. and men deserve to be treated as men.

When cavemen are attracted to the pretty lady, (and you know when that is and is not - be honest with yourself) then you engage their brain. (ooooo, shiny, pretty, soft. Smells yummy....) I am not saying men are cavemen, I'm just saying that this is part of the force of who we are as humans. Cavemen are hunter/gatherers. They need to be needed. They don't feel needed if you've got it together. If they don't see room for their super-solution providing selves in your life, then they feel that they have nothing to bring, and they move themselves on. (tarun tara!! Where's my maiden??) Find them a project. A THING that you cannot do by yourself. Something heavy to move. If you need to, break your own damn thing and lose your screwdriver. Just keep them entertained with needing to help you and protect you. (But not too much. There's a fine, fine line between helping/caring and bailing the sinking ship. Know what I mean?)

Ally McBeal had this piece of wisdom: ok, it was her sassy black friend, who said that you needed to concentrate on the thing men found attractive about you. "I think that's my eyes" Ally said winsomely, gazing off-screen.
"Snort," said her generously breasted friend in a plunging shirt, "be real."
"ok, she pouted," then it's my lips."

So what is that thing? Well, in my case, while my milkshake doesn't bring ALL the boys to the yard, it can bring a few. As does the potential promise of some tasty cookies with that milkshake.

Which brings me to:

There are reasons for traditional social roles. You do not have to live by them, and I wouldn't recommend that you do. You don't even have to agree with them, or like them, but they exist, and they're in play right now. I, for example, do not carry my trash out. Nor do I mow the lawn. I don't even have the faintest idea of how to start the lawn mower. Cue image of me staring mystified at the red machine in my garden shed (There's a pull thingy, right? And then....) Similarly, husband is equally unsure of how I make the majority of food in the house. (and seriously, sometimes has to ask how to use the washer.) And that's fine. Sure, there are all of those earnest women's libber gentlemen who are offended, OFFENDED by the Disney princesses. Well, me too, but because of the bastardization of traditional stories. I mean. But not for what they represent. They represent girls who worked hard and overcame adversity for their reward. Tenacity and then a crown. Good.

I ran into this guy a few weeks ago, and he was shocked at this interpretation. "Well, I guess", he said, "we need to scrub briefing notes...." "Dude," I said, "I dunno how it works at your house, but when I get home, there's going to be some scrubbing that needs to be done. Dishes and toilets will be dirty." I may not be the only one doing it, but it still needs to get done. That has not changed.

Men love a smart, successful lady, but especially so if they can see room for themselves and their genes in that life.

And when in doubt, there's Husband's addage: "Men will do anything for sex." "But why would he have......" I will say, and he will say "say it with me. Men. Will. Do...." And see? That's explained too.

Know the rules, and use them to your advantage. That's my rule.

Rules for early spring

The seven pound weight loss in three days caused by the horrible, horrible, horrible upper respiratory infection your youngest child brought into the house is, as you announced, unsustainable (even though you really hoped it actually was.)

The shingles on your nose brought on by the stress to your system will last longer than the weight loss. Ditto the sinus infection and post-nasal drip.

Don't listen to your mother when she tells you (in detail) how flushing her nose did such wonders for her that you should try it too. A) The details are disgusting - involving something that looked like a 'cockroach'. Shuuuuuuuuuder. B) What will actually happen is that the flushing won't be resolved through expected avenues. Instead, everything will be sent down the back of your throat, resulting in a wave of nausea that will force you to spend the better part of Easter morning in bed.

Sigh.

On the other hand, though, the long weekend was pretty awesome. And very inspirational in the potential for (if not the actual of) getting things done. We recuperated (for the most part) from the cold and from MlleL's My Little Pony Rodeo birthday party, did laundry, and bought groceries. She's officially 4 - all bony bummed and sassy.

The other day, she asked my why my underwear always gave me a fudge.

As in: tug, tug, tug....

"you ok there?"
"my underwear was giving me a fudge."
"Hmm?"
"you know, when your underwear...... Mama, why does your underwear always give you a fudge?"
"Well, I guess that's what underpants sometimes do?"
"No, yours. Yours are always in your bum. There's no....."
"Ahh. Well, I think the word you mean is wedge, honey. Fudge is that yummy stuff we eat at the Chicken Restaurant [Cora's]."

Yes, I did do my best to sidestep that conversation. I just can't think of how to explain avoidance of VPL to my 4-year-old, ok? And besides, I've already had this conversation with bosslady's boss, way back when. [Katie, she announced, having inspected (I can only imagine) the proof, do you wear thongs???] And it was just as intimidating then as it was last week.

Mama, can you turn it up? I promise I'll dance....

It's the deal we have, you see. In order for the car's radio to play louder than I can hear her, she has to promise to do some car seat dancing. Cause' it cracks me up. And so I dance too, the two, now three of us grooving along while running errands.

We talk of other things too, some stemming from Remembrance Day: "Tell me again about the soldiers," she'll say, "What else do they help people with?"

I've explained that soldiers help people who are frightened (like, maybe from monsters? Umm, I don't think monsters, Honey). People who need help when the rains come and their houses are not made of bricks so they don't have places to sleep. Places where there might not be enough food to eat or clean water to drink and people are worried and hungry. Places where bad men might want to be the boss, and so they hurt people until the people who live there say "ok, you can be the boss, just stop hurting us" but then they don't.

It's hard, you know, to explain these things.

What's even harder is to think of a response to this when your eyes are tearing up:

"WHAT?!?" She said on Saturday as we backed out of the driveway, "two soldiers were killed???"

A new spring, a new leaf.

Some of my favorite quotes of the week:

"Talk about a unitarian state!" The less-than-completely-engaging Dr. Academic, during a work presentation on sub-national units and international federalism, making a joke about France. (I didn't get it either. Don't bother explaining - I'll only be rolling my eyes.)

"I waxes him all the time." The replacement Leader, speaking of competing Wii-style with her husband.

Overheard in line at the very same meeting:

"Do you think she's from Newfoundland?" (If she's not, she's doing a most excellent job of faking it.)

"Use your instincts" Boss-man, describing how I should pursue my files.

It's amazing, really, how much one boss can affect things. I've been the phone a friend for so many - knower of strange detail - but for some reason, I've been having trouble bringing that same confidence and willingness to share knowledge and opinion (god knows I'll do it at the drop of a hat - even less than that - in a non-professional situation) into my work realm. It's just that it's so new (well, four months now) - this desire to hear what I think.

Dude. I got skills. I'm working on using them. I've got to dig the crazy out of the memory banks and strike out. Telling people what I think and why.

There's really no time like the present.

Wish me luck.

Springing forward

So there I was, putting my hair into what passes for a ponytail these days (the regrowth from the post MasterP shed is now at the length that it sticks directly off my head in all directions in a fuzzy aura. I try to tame it down with product and a headband, but even the grippy ones slip off my oddly shaped noggin, leaving me with odder shaped hair. It's pretty fashionable, to say the least.), when I realized that some of my highlights were still visible, despite being done oh, lets say, MasterP + 7 days ago.

Only then, upon closer inspection I realized that they weren't my salon highlights.

They were my "natural, platinum highlights."

oooooh. See, it was cool, there, for a while, when I was pretending that I was doing it to be in solidarity with the mostly pepper salt and pepper BigBrother during the trip north this summer - but now, there they are. All grown out and looking like highlights.

sigh.

I know Victoria's Secret, and you should too.

I'm a fairly brand loyal person. When I find something that works, I tend to keep using it. In the past, I found that to be so with Victoria's Secret's Body by Victoria line. And, because I am who I am, I like things to match. So I buy, and wear, things in sets.

This should not be a surprise.

After years of wear, my trusty everyday BBV's had started to wear. They're a little stretched, and a little pilly, so when the semi-annual sale came around in December, I stocked up, and bought enough matching things that they shipped them free to Mrs. Maiden's winter home. (Not having to ship to Canada? Priceless!!)

After a few days of wear of the set, however; it became apparent that something was not right. I stopped wearing them.

At a recent pedicure, I showed my waist (the part of my torso I was willing to expose in the salon) to Wondermom, who pronounced what she saw to be "not hives, but chemical burns." They are red welts the size of a finger print. Everywhere the seams of the underwear and bra touched. Think straps, underwires, band, waistband....

They've been there for almost a month and are still visible. I'm breaking out in places I usually do not require undergarments - my thigh, the middle of my back, my elbow.

I called VS to complain on Sunday night, at which time Barry (real name used) informed me that despite the fact that he had worked for VS for over 6 years, and this was one of their main sellers, he had never, ever heard of my problem before.

Barry, I'm pretty sure you're lying. I looked it up.

Victoria's Secret is that her bras and underwear contain Formaldehyde. Formaldehyde, my dears.

Giant, red scaly welt causing formaldehyde. They know it, and they keep selling them to you.

Just so you know. Tell your friends.

Amusing myself.

I'm not sure what I was thinking, but Husband was away and I was on my own. Instead of doing a run or any of the other things that could lead to my own good health, I sat on the couch and watched others search for theirs.

Specifically, episodes of Bulging Brides and Last 10 Lbs Boot Camp (which, I feel, might be a misnomer. They are not at the end of a process.)

The concept of a huge amount of work which leads to specific results. Inspiring.

Such that I was so influenced that I thought - what the heck. It's not that great a number between the wedding day and now.....

Yes, yes it was. Tony could have snapped me and my unhappy face for the inspirational 'before' photo, gaps and all.

But on the upside - I found the serape/wrap the Matrix gave me 10 years ago - and it did remind me just how gorgeous my wedding dress was. But it looks like I've got a ways to go if I'm going to wear it to my high school reunion.

Hee. What?

Conversations from the past 10 days

With Husband:
1. 1:37 AM
"Honey, I'm sorry, but you've got to get up. I need your help - there's a really bad flood in the basement."
"Ok. I'm coming."
"I really need your help - it's really bad."
"Yup, I'm putting my clothes on. Where's the flood?"
"In the basement. In the corners. In my workshop. Outside. You'll see."

2. 1:40 AM
"Ok. So the corners are a trickle. I put some towels down. I think we're good."
"It's out here - look - the water keeps filling the window well and leaking into my workshop."
"Ok, well, give me the bucket, and I'll bail it."
"I've been bailing for the last hour."
"Well, how about you let me bail for a while now."

3. 3:30 AM
"You get some sleep. I'll bail now, and then when the kids wake up, I'll go to Home Depot when it opens at 7."

Gaah. That was fun. And wet. And really, really, really cold. But at least the basement stayed dry.

With MlleL:
"I can take my dish to the calendar."
"Thanks, honey."
"I can take ALL the dishes to the calendar."
"Wow, sweetie, you cleared the table - what a good helper you are!"
"It's my pleasure."

Heeeee.

With Mrs. Maiden:
"So next weekend, I'm getting the level 2 healing touch training. You can do it long distance, you know - anything going on with you???"
"uh, well, I went for a run yesterday, so my hips are sore...."

With Wondermom:
"So, I've been thinking, you know how you wrote that post about your voice?"
"uh-huh...."
"Well, I've been thinking about mine when I'm writing. How do you do it? Did you decide on a voice, or...."
"Well, I do think about how I'm going to word something, but pretty much, I like to think that the way I write is the way I talk."
Wondermom: "......."

(hee. I take that as no.)

In a reunion of the dirtiest carpool:
"You know, for argument's sake, and if situations were different, I'd let that big boy in my life."
"Really??"
"Oh, yeah, I mean, private jet? Wherever I like? Seriously, it's kinda a fantasy, you know?"
"yeah. There's another one about a pool, where he says it's time to get out but you don't need to use the towel, just let it air dry - I mean, it's nasty, but I like it."

Yeah, baby. Are you sure you don't want to take a job back at Phase 4? I'm pretty sure I could figure a way to work the condo into my route.....

a secret

ssshhhhh.

More to come later on the past week, but first:

I weighed someone in on Wednesday night. Got right behind the counter. Stamped appropriately and made conversation regarding numbers.

It did not make me wish to go back.

Pin-up Girls

The problem, I guess, about being someone's fantasy is that generally, people don't tell you.

Oh sure, there's that guy with the googly eyes, and well, that guy, and sure, that homeless fellow too, but note that I said generally.

See, I'm thinking of how much better a girl could feel just wandering down the street knowing that somewhere, somehow, she was being thought of in shall we say, a colourful nature. Now, I'm not suggesting anything narsty - lick my boot style love - but just that you, indeed, you, are the rocker of several boats. Not necessarily the ones legally bound to you by promises, convention, and metal.

Wouldn't that be cool?

My darling girl Katie B has been my friend for over 20 years. Twenty years of up and down and way over there and way over here and school and babies and weddings and not weddings and work and no work and everything in between. Katie B and I have always been of a similar cookie mold, except for some intangible things I've never been party to. Katie B was confident in school, and, some might say, flirty. She was, it was widely known, the rocker of many boats. Not actually, mind you, but she walked in that knowledge. That there were many at the high school who carried a torch for Katie B.

Apparently, years later, judging from their reactions on Facebook, she is still regarded with boat rocking and burning things. Now Katie, you've been my friend for over 20 years, and I'm so appreciative of our relationship over that time. I really, really am - it means a lot to me, so I'm going to tell you that I only bear you a modicum of ill-feeling for this. It is not your fault, and I still love you.

But what is it? What is that intangible thing? Katie rocks. She does. She's almost exactly 9 months older than me, she's an electrical engineer doing research and development on hybrid cars, and while doing this, she got her MBA at night. She married a really nice guy, had a super-cute boy, and is a step-mom to two pretty good looking teenagers. (Must note for accuracy that one is now in his 20s.) All this, and she still has those dancing brown eyes and sleek dark hair from high school.

Meanwhile, I am bitingly funny - I am! It's true! I rock the pencil skirt, I've got a master's degree and two kids - both of them made at the same time I was working, please note - ok, it's not engineering, but it's Public Policy, and while I don't do research and development on cars and machines, it turns out I'm really organized and do a pretty good job managing Government finance and planning.....

Oh, nevermind.

More conversations with Mrs. Maiden

You know, I thought she got it. I did.

I was telling her, early on, of the differences in culture between program and policy.

And then? At Christmas, she told me how she was looking for elegant things for me to wear to my new executive position.

'It's really not executive, mom', I said 'It's actually farther, kind-of. I'm no body's boss anymore...'

'Oh,' she said, 'I know that - but it's dressier, you said?' 'right.' I said, thinking of them, 'yeah. that's right.'

So then I received the package. There's a lovely bracelet, to blind them, and a shirt which had been described to me as 'terribly elegant'. Well. Uh. Um, I'm trying to think of how to work it in. It's 'washable suede'. Not a fabric I see that often here. So anyhow, thanks, Mom, really. Thanks. I really, really appreciate it.

But the real clarity on the lack of clarity? Oh, that happened Monday, when we had the following exchange. 'Is your office the type of place you could wear a really fancy Valentine's Day vest?' 'nnnnoooooooooooo.' 'oh. Because I found two (!) at the St. Vincent de Paul and bought them both.'

Now. I must admit that in the 13 seconds it took me to finish that word, I also thought of suggesting that Mindy Dallas, being a teacher like she is, would most certainly appreciate a gift such as that.

Just me. Payin' it forward....

2009

I'll do the math for you. The math that hit me about a month ago in the shower. I knew it was coming; I knew it. There I was, not bothering anyone but the unfortunate hair oils that like to call my scalp home, and wham. WHAM!! 2009?!? Hell.

That makes it my 20th high school reunion this year.

Dammit.

To be fair, I went to high school in this fabulous little beach town. Really - go take a peek - I'll be right here.... By way of explanation, that area is the self proclaimed "Blueberry Capital of the World" and has a Blueberry festival in early August. Heavily settled by the Dutch Reform, the area still boasts a very high population of the descendants of the original settlers. Aaaand for those of you wondering where my big, blonde, tanned and handsome imprint came from (mmmmmmmm), well, there's your direct line.

In fact, and this is Husband's FAVOURITE story bar none, when I took Husband - then only Hot Boyfriend - to my 10th year reunion, we had only been dating about 5 months or so. I was showing him the state park dunes just outside of town, when I kid you not, the entire boy's volleyball team ran past me after their beach practice, and I tripped. He's never, never let me forget it.

So anyhow - I'd love the excuse to go back in the summer. I mean, I grew up there, and for lack of a better place, it's one of the places I'd say I was from. I think we're going to plan a trip. It's a nightmare drive from here, and I'm not sure what I'd do with the kids for the evening - it's not like we still have family there, but if I can swing it, I'm in.

Which brings me to the dammit part. DAMMIT!! It's my 20th. These things are competitive. It's already ramping up on the Facebook. Now. Here's the thing. Well, several things. First. Because of the joy of the profile pic, looks like Mrs. Maiden's promise of early bloom/early rot did not completley pan out (bugger), but I might be holding my own. So at least there's that.

Of course for those who voted me 'girl most changed' at the 10th year who are now telling me I haven't changed a bit, uh, whaaa? Nevermind.

Secondly, and here's where I'd really appreciate your input, is the whole Facebook business itself. I'm a stickler, but a general rule for my Facebook usage is that I'm usually friends with the folk that I am friends with. That is to say - if there's not been a hole in my life for the past 20 years, we didn't hang out then, or you've never, never tried to reach me before, I'm generally good. (oh, and here's a little shout-out to my old rez neighbor who was last in contact when he looked me up on my Alma Mater's alumni site and tried to sell me life insurance 15 years ago. No. No. No. Not even for the sake of all of those full-body-boob-grope massages from back in the day. And that would be the same response to your wife. Yes, I remember her. NO, I didn't like her then, either.)

Is that harsh? I don't know. I really don't. To the cheerleader who has recently friended me. I haven't responded because I don't know what to say, other than you could not have picked me out of the crowd in school. (Here's a hint, look for the one carrying the flute in the purple and gold marching band uniform - naka* the man magnet - at the home games.) Seriously. You never spoke to me. I remember you, because you were a cheerleader. I doubt you remember me because of the flute, know what I'm saying? I'm not carrying baggage about it - but why on earth would I want to befriend you on Facebook?

You confuse me. I think you might recognize my name, and, as I have pretty much the same haircut as I did in grade 12, you can see that it's me. But seriously. That doesn't make you my friend. Does it?

Does an impending reunion require that I friend everyone from my graduating class that pops up? How about the dude that sat behind me in Grade 7 history with the awesome nickname that has followed him his entire life (think common term for soosie, or Olie Polie's next-door-neighbor's little brother)? I mean, I remember him..... So do I friend him too?

They'll know I never responded to their requests when I'm at the reunion. How to explain that? Well, seriously, I hardly think they'll talk to me then either.... And then afterwards, will they notice if I delete them?

Should I care?

Should I??

What's on my mind.

So here's the thing. There's been quite a lot of discussion about Oprah lately. And it's made me think quite a bit about my own situation (so NOT like Oprah) and what I think about being a woman in general.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to a female colleague in a meeting who was complaining about her butt getting flat. I think I smiled in a friendly and amused way, when she said, just wait - as you age, as soon as you stop working out for a week or two, your butt gets flat. Huh, I said - well, it certainly happened to me when I had the kids. Poof - kids came out, ass was like a pancake. It took months for it to come back.

And by the way, I said, regarding getting older, I'm pretty sure we're about the same age. I dunno, she said, looking at me, I look a lot younger than I actually am. I paused, looking at her, and she said, I'm 37. Me too, I said, I'll be 38 in September.

Huh, she said. I guess I look exactly the age I am.

So what did that mean? Did she think I looked way younger than I am? Did she think I looked way older than her?

Why is age and ageing so incredibly important? Why is it that arguably, other than the Queen, one of the most powerful women in the world can't just be one of the most powerful women in the world? She can't just be? It's as if sure, she's powerful, but she's not as worthy if she's not running marathons with rock hard abs.

What's so wrong with saying yep - I've got more money than the queen of England, and I'm rich enough for people to hand sew me lovely things in my size, and dammit, it's none of your business what I had for supper. Why is the size of her ass even an issue? What is it about us that makes thin and young more worthy of all other things?

Why does it take a part-time job to maintain weight?

I always say that it's because I'm too broke to buy new clothes, but really, if I think about it, it's vanity. It might be a little comfort - I hate having to hold my breath to paint my toes, but really, it's pretty much vanity.

It doesn't seem fair, either, that as my number gets closer to 40, this dorian grey painting gets harder and harder to hide in the closet. In September, as I've explained to Janey, my points drop by another one.

Because it's a lifestyle. Snort. One I've been doing for 15 years. I can't really think of where that food or lack thereof will come from. I bring my lunch. I stopped eating toast except for the weekend. My snacks in the afternoon mostly consist of tea and some fruit. Sure, I can get more food by exercising, but seriously. Read the blog. I'd pretty much sell my soul for a week of sleeping through the night. I don't really have the extra to work out all the time, you know?

Damn. It didn't used to be this hard. When Husband and I were dating, he would pick me up every Monday after my meeting and we went out for Chinese. And we ate out every meal on the weekends. It was like that. And I still maintained a weight 10 or 15 pounds down from here.

I often pick on Janey for being too mean to her. I mean, one pack of oatmeal for breakfast is concentration camp food. At least internment camp food.

It's not cool.

So why do we do it? Who's making us do this, if it's not us?

Why is it so important?

I'm mean to me because my stomach doesn't look like it did before two people lived in it. I recognize that's not entirely reasonable, but there we are.

So for those google searchers, I'm sorry. But really, aren't the three people who routinely see Katie Valentine naked enough? Especially since one of them (hint - not necessarily the one you'd expect) is so very fascinated with Katie's kitty hair?

Isn't it?

first and foremost

Happy birthday (and anniversary) to the fabulous Dr. Watson!!!!!!!

Hee.

I hope it was a terrific one of each! Clever, clever you to arrange having been born on a long weekend in January. And thanks again to Facebook!

Why's it so cold in here???

My dears.

There are several stories in my repertoire I like to think the catch phrases of inspire my audiences to request them again, for example, there is of course:
1. The story that involved the sentence "well, First Fiancé was a robotics engineer. He worked with……….well, as you can imagine, robots."; and
2. The story that included "Husband came home early to find him up our tree with a running chainsaw and liquor on his breath".

There are some stories best seen in person (like my sun).

And there was something that happened just last night that I think will, for
me, gain it's own little place on the list of favourites.

It starts, innocently enough, with me tidying up the always strangely cold family room. It has electric heat in there, and we frequently turn it on just to take the chill off, despite it having just the same amount of heat as the rest of the house.

I have long suspected it of poor insulation, the same suspicion I hold of the rest of the house, but this addition was built sometime in the 80s, so I would have thought it would be a tad warmer. No. The outside wall has always been remarkably cold. We can also strangely hear our neighbours close their car doors with surprising clarity.

In tidying up, I moved MlleL's craft/tackle box away from the wall and was surprised with the almost frozen quality of her paints. Very cold, they were. Very cold. And also, a bit stiff.

Strange.

So I felt around, and realized that the little hole our electrician/waiter friend had helped us remove the live wire from (hah, no, seriously, yes. It was a wire, poking out of the wall. She had had the couch on top of it.) in the trim was actually blowing cold air into the room. Sorta the reverse of say, the furnace.

I was very proud of myself for having found what I assumed to be the source of the problem, particularly after the success of shrink wrapping the upstairs windows (they're now almost clear!), and went off to find Husband to happily report what I thought might be able to be fixed with a can of Great Stuff (at least for now, until we think of a prettier way to deal with that room.)

It's down here, I said, behind the futon… We pulled it out. He felt the outlet. No, I said, pointing again to the little hole, about a toonie in diameter, here!

Leaning over the back of the futon, he pulled the spare portion of the mattress away from the wall to get a better look, and had to tug harder because the frost had stuck it to the wall.

Now let's just pause and read that last phrase again. The. Frost. Had. Stuck. It. To. The. Wall.

Now. I'm no Mike Holmes, but I am a big fan (hi, Mike!) and do watch the show, so I know that that? That's not right. Not right at all.

Fudgesicles.

Dear Timothy's:

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your recent introduction of the Matcha Sugar-Free Caramel Latte (made with skim milk) - I hope that your decision to offer this beverage for a limited time only is something you will reconsider in the coming month. As I'm sure my readers are aware, I am nothing if not a self-proclaimed sugar freak, so I dearly appreciate your catering directly to me with its surprising level of sweetness, as I recognize that I am a somewhat limited target audience.

I would also particularly like to note how extraordinary a beverage this really is. If one was to rely upon the nutritional information posted on your website, I would be under the impression that while taking wholly into consideration the 150 calories it is claimed to contain, I have also unwittingly consumed an impressive 150 grams of carbohydrates, a surprising 23 grams of protein, and a jaw dropping 28 grams of fibre. The total sum of calories for these components would normally roughly equal 900, but instead, they defy Plato's description of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. For this I thank you.

I shall henceforth consider this wonderful beverage to be a super food, and totally, miraculously worth every one of the extremely valuable 3 points it cost me. I look forward to seeing you again at my very earliest convenience.

Yours in ways you cannot imagine -

Katie V.

PSA for lovers of the sun

All is not as it appears.

Running on the treadmill right next to our floor-to-ceiling terracotta styled sun on our basement wall (for those who haven't met me or seen it - it's more than you can imagine, almost 7 or 8 feet in circumference, with texture, an eyes, nose and mouth in a sort of southwest style and IT WAS HERE WHEN WE BOUGHT THE HOUSE.) I wondered at the flaking mud coloured paint.

And peeled it. Just a piece.

And discovered that under the mud coloured paint there lurks what appears to be blood fire orange tempera. Which explains the strange mottled appearance around the most textured bits - the flames, the nose, the mouth.

Which also means that the current colour scheme must have been a super-tricky plan to stage the basement to make it EVEN MORE ATTRACTIVE to potential offers.

Clever, clever girl.