Lord.

Tonight was the work party. A holiday party for a whole branch full of introverted policy analysts, planned by the older colleague who likes to think of himself as a mad man, and who held as an ideal for the end of the evening the promise of some threats of sexual harassment complaints.

So instead of what you'd expect (and frankly, what you'd hope for), say, a gathering at a pub where folks can chat and have a drink or a snack, it was at a dance bar, with a really, really, really loud band playing British pop from the late 60s early 70s. So loud that all we could do was stand there with our drinks, surreptitiously checking our watches, which, unfortunately, still read 3:30 PM.

During the break between sets, my friend excused herself on a mission to the washroom and left me in the company of two directors. One wondered if there hadn't been some rule broken - a woman going by herself to the washroom.

I cast an eye around the room and said that I thought she'd probably be ok in this crowd, and then explained that a good part of the reason women go in groups is that as gazelles separated from the herd, we're much more likely to feel others' hands upon us - their eyes watching greedily as we walk past...

What? Said the other, Really? This happens? It's times like these I realize I've just not been doing my job as a cheetah. I mean, I'm just standing around like a giraffe. I've really got to step my game up.....

Hee. Awwww, eagerly feminist fella - that's ok. really. The Mad man would be happy to use up your share.

Turkey Day

It's Thanksgiving, y'all, and you're lucky I'm wearing pants. (If there were a shirt that said that, I'd totally buy and wear it.)

Ok, well, actually, I'm not wearing pants. I've got a tights, and knee high black boots.

Anyhow. You're lucky I'm not wearing really large amounts of fleece. And drinking. And planning how I'm going to spend massive amounts of money tomorrow. And basting. Lots and lots of basting.

But I'm here. Dressed and in the office. In a previously advertised funk (I told New Boss Guy that I really wouldn't be that effective today.)

The problem is that despite the fact that I do love them, boys aren't very perceptive. Or rather, them that’s I work with.

So as a general public service announcement: Dude. If I've got an ipod on at my desk, Quit Poking. Figure it the Hell out on your own.

It's the one thing keeping everyone here from crying. Ok?

Conversations with MlleL

She is supposed to be asleep, but she hears me laugh downstairs, and asks her Papa "Is Jennifer downstairs?"

"No, MlleL," he says, "Jennifer is not downstairs."

"No," she says, "Jennifer my dog."



While I am in the bathroom, she starts to open the door without knocking.

"This had better be an emergency," I tell her. "Before you open the door, I want you to be sure that this is an emergency. Is this an emergency?"

She opens the door anyway, mutely hands me a spool of green ribbon, and leaning on it from the other side, closes the door.

"Your caught your hair," I tell her.

Vow renewal

When we married, Husband and I wanted a beach wedding, but couldn't live with the guilt of asking our families (then with younger kids) to fly somewhere far, far away from where we were to witness the whole event.

We promised each other a lot of things then, things like hanging out till' death came to one of us, being around if the other was puking, well, and some other stuff too. But we also promised that in 10 years, when we were old, you see, and well established, we'd make those promises again. In the sun, with our toes in the sand.

The funny thing is, I don't feel that old, and, ironically, don't feel that well established, but the deadline, my dears, is here. It's been 10 years!

And so in advance of booking the trip, I'm tying up loose ends - renewing my passport, deciding on a resort and booking it, and oh yeah, taking a good hard look at my own loose end.

Let's just say that with re-weddings, came re-spinning today. And I was reminded of the driveway. Oh lord the driveway. This gets better, right?

Bedtime for grown ups.

And yet?

I'm sitting with my Berry, and sending emails from my home account. Why? Well, kids, there's a new boss in town, and I'm applying for the position of right-hand man. Go-to-girl. I gets his jokes and he gets mine. We crack each other up. That can only mean good things, right?

That, and there's this ridiculous briefing tomorrow morning at 9 with that previously mentioned ADM, and we have no idea of what to say. Ok, well, we've got a plan, but it's hardly detailed, and might just involve one of us looking pretty, and one of us yelling 'HEY! Look over there!' (maybe the same person) while we both run away. (Special note to Dr. Watson: THURSDAY may just come up.)

That and I may have received my very first work call on the Berry. After two years. (It's got a really weird ring.) So I'm betting I probably should at some point soon figure out how to access my voicemail. Right?

Sigh.

New Boss-Man has already noticed distinct lack of technological skilz, y'all - which has been long noted in all who know me at all (Janey explaining web servers "see, there's these little trolls that go and get your information" [p.s. shut up. I'll have you know that just today, I had a very lengthy conversation where I used the words "on-line job posting meta sites" and "wanted" and "crawler technology" to explain to a province how we would be addressing identified job vacancy gaps in LMI and MEANT it....] Wondermom and her step-by-step instructions on Facebook on just how to add fancy buttons to this here blog, Glidinglara on how to use Twitter [ok, that might not be just for me, but I know who you're looking at, and btw, I'm still not convinced that it won't take constant care, like a tamagachi pet, and I'm pretty sure I'd kill one of those. I've got kids, and cats and no smart phone, and I don't think I can do it on my Berry.]

But the Berry, despite having been a companion (not a partner like some I might mention, but a companion) for oh, probably at least 4.5 years is still pretty much a mystery to me. Sure, I can pin, kinda, and um, email, sure, oo! and IM!, and of course do my schedule, but for example, I only learned today that I can get to the top or bottom of my inbox by pushing a SINGLE BUTTON! (man, that's useful! Wish I'da known that sooner!)

What else am I missing?????

Fambily Reunion

I don't think I've ever mentioned the little known fact that I've graduated from two high schools, have I?

There's home town from grade 12, but then, there's also that other place, Parts North from grade 13. Anyhow, the only person I'm currently in touch with from that year is Mindy, and honestly, that's probably more because of the genetic link than it is the deep bond we formed during that year our high school experience overlapped - she in grade 9 and me in 13 - excellent though that time was.

Imagine my surprise, then, to have found myself smack in the middle of a Parts North high school micro reunion. Which, really, is strange, considering I had no idea who these people were. Well, except a few.

See, Mindy's got a few best friends from her time there, so when she's in North America, she usually tries to get a visit in with them - and luckily for me, one of them is in the Toronto area. This visit, we weren't able to make it to Parts North, so we met up with the fam in Toronto. At Ms. R's place for a wonderful weekend slice of family and kids together time.

Ms. R married her high school sweetie. Who invited his high school best friend over to dinner. Both kindly asked if I knew their older brothers. (NO.) They were born in 72? Nope. Still older than that.

But Ms. R's awful older sister? (Yep. I said it.) Oh, as soon as she walked in the door, I remembered her. Sigh.

As I walked in the door from the drive on that first night, Ms R's first words were 'Hi honey! You look exactly the same as you did in high school!'

The thing is, I like to think of myself as rendered near unrecognizable through the urban fabulousness of 20 years of hard work, beautification and polish. True, I wore a bob that year, much as I do now. Apparently, the truth is, I still look like an 18 year old from a small town in the mid-west living on a remote island in Northern Ontario, riding the bus for an hour and a half each way and eating far, far, far too much buttered toast.

And Mindy? Mindy is so unrecognizable that I spent the weekend looking into her grown up turquoise eyes (still, stupidly unfair of genetics to do that to me) and trying to see in her the teenager I remember. She is a virtual stranger, my only sister with an incredibly gorgeous blonde German baby - a confident, smart, accomplished and beautiful stranger, pulled together and fabulous, and I am 18 and unchanged to the world.

I know it is so unfair to say this, but I am looking forward to the expiration of the Irish visa in 2014. I'm hoping Berlin doesn't make the cut (although I somehow expect that it will), and I'm really, really hoping I get the chance to reaquaint myself with the girl who left 10 years ago.

FAQs

In response to questions I recieve via the google search terms [actual searches used to view this blog], I'd like to take a few moments to start a new feature and answer what I can:

Q) [Can I see] Katie Valentine fotos/petartas?

A) Aww, sweetie(s)! I'm super flattered. And yes, there are 'fotos' (But no petardas. Come ON!) of me available, but, honey(ies), this isn't my real name. In case you hadn't noticed from the pseudonyms and all.

Q) Does Katie Valentine have fake boobs?
A) No. These lying down and taking a nap rapidly disappearing wonders of female magnatism are all natural, baby!

Q) [Can I see] Katie Valentine naked?
A) Only if you live in the Casa Valentine. Or on really, really special occasions! (Like those fed/prov meetings or yoga classes I show up for in my dreams having forgotten some very important things.)

Keep em' coming! You know I'm responsive, if secretive...

The plagues.

Well, hell.

Here's a little story about something I wish hadn't happened last week:

On Monday night, as the skies opened and Husband stepped out of the bathroom, there came a weird extended pouring water from a bucket noise. (or, in a particularly fitting nod to Mr. Maiden, piss from a boot. Him so classy!)

Strange enough for me to raise my head and look at Husband. Who looked right back and opened the basement door.

And descended the steps only to begin cursing.

Yes, my dears. Yes.

Through a process of scientific elimination, it was made clear that indeed, it did rain in the basement when we flushed the powder room toilet.

Well, I guess, thank the Lord for small mercies - I've got a little Bissel cleaner to suck all the water up (and scrub), and it had been a 'clean water flush', whatever that is.

I managed to convince Husband that it was time for the professionals and perhaps a new toilet (low-flow, natch), and so by Friday evening, and after a fairly hefty investment, I think we'll be able to flush again. With, hopefully, a lower water bill.

It should offset the cost in, I'm thinking, roughly 5-6 years, but everything after that is just gravy, right???

Dreams used and wasted

In update to MlleL and the zombies:

The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....

I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]

Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....

In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.

I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laser to help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.

This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something like Velcro in my leg.

Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husband among them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.

Bedtime.

It is far, far past bedtime. Especially for one we are trying to wean from afternoon naps before she starts afternoon kindergarten in two weeks.

"Mama," she says in a small voice, "I can't sleep because I keep thinking about zombies."

"What?" I say, "Zombies? Where did you see them?"

"On tv," she says, "they eat brains and make other people zombies too."

"Oh," I say, trying to think of a solution, "first of all, that was not great tv for you to be watching. It sounds way too scary. Also, zombies aren't real. They're scary make believe."

"But I can't stop thinking about them."

Remembering past success with logic - monsters? Not in Ottawa - Monsters have big feet, too big to buy shoes and boots, and you sure can't live in Ottawa without shoes and boots - maybe somewhere warmer - polar bears and Elephants? Well, when they knock on the door, we just don't let them in. Also, they can't really fit through the door anyhow. Witches? We don't let them in either, but because you don't want to offend a witch, I offer them tea and cookies on the deck - I start to think about how I can make her safe.

"Well, honey, number one, zombies aren't real. But if they were, did you see them walking around? I mean, number two, zombies are stupid."

"And number three," I say, counting them out on my hand, "their fingers don't work all that well. All of our doors are locked, so the zombies, if they were real, wouldn't be able to open the doors."

"oh!" she says, inspired, "and they're really old and break really easily!"

"Right!" I say. "Number four, they break really easily."

"But what about them coming in the windows?" She asks. (Stupid tv show. What the hell was the care provider doing while this was on?)

"Well, honey," I say, "remember they're stupid. And break easily, and their fingers don't work. So they really can't climb up anything, and if they tried to get in the windows down here, they'd just break up into zombie bits. If they were real, which they aren't."

"AAAAND," I say, moving the party back upstairs, "They're really slow. So if they were real, which they're not, they can't get you inside the house because they're stupid, and slow, and break up really easy and their fingers don't work."

"But what's the most important reason," I ask?

"They're not real." She agrees and climbs back into bed.

"Exactly."

Unless, of course, zombies are real, and you took a day off this week to drive one home from dental surgery.

And although she wasn't stupid, she was kinda slow, and her fingers didn't work all that well, and if I had dropped her while I walked her crazy zombie laughing self to the car, I bet you she would have broken into pieces.

ooook.

I realized rather late in the game that the extreme efforts I made to minimize the amount of luggage travelling to Points North may have also minimized my access to things I wanted and possibly needed.

Despite that fact, I thought outside of the box, found one of the refillable juice boxes in the car, filled it with water and stuffed it down my pants. I took two puffs of the inhaler, laced my shoes and set out.

Sure, it wasn't on schedule. It was, to be exact, Thursday morning.

This year, I avoided the Worst Run Ever (up hill both ways past the cemetary containing my father's unmarked grave and substanital emotional discoveries) and took a more circuitous route through the village, past the Inn and out the new road to complete the 16k.

I would see 7 trucks on my journey, a motorcycle, and one car -my dad's, the Crown Vic, which is now owned by others in the village, and still appears to be in really good shape.

Two of these vehicles (NOT the car) would follow the long standing Points North tradition of the wave. One of them, which I saw a happy total of four times during the two hours, merrily waving away before he even passed me, was driven by the man who sold me the first sweatshirt I ever bought with my own money (I was 8), copious amounts of candy (aw hell, it would have been this time if the general store had still been open), countless loaves of bread and my first legal liquor (20).

In fact, when I tried to buy that liquor, he asked me to wait a minute and had a whispered conversation with his 'wife'. Having not reached a successful conclusion, he returned, fixed me with a stern look, and said "Katie? Are you over 19??" And then totally took my word for it.

Oprah talks about the secret socio-economic indicators that instantly identify your class - vocabulary, teeth, etc.

It was like that. The running made me not from there. It was like wearing a suit of away. Not only did they not know who I belonged to, they could not see past the suit to recognize the kid I used to be.

It was his wave - each of those four times - that eased that feeling of being different, and helped me remember a time when my vacations to Points North were the stuff of family, of freedom, and of wild amounts of McIntosh's Toffee. Even when I had the braces and Mrs. Maiden asked him not to sell it to me.

Oh my god, you guys, Oh my god!

You will never, never guess what we happened upon on our drive to Parts North, and so I will tell you.

In Deep River, my dears, at perhaps the most frequented Tim Horton's in all the world, there is now a COLD STONE CREAMERY counter.

No word of a lie. Apparently, it's part of a test market. I promise you that it's almost worth the drive to Deep River alone.

Don't let this be a Krispy Kreme y'all. Seriously. Please help encourage them to stay.

You'll be glad you did!

Breath of fire

To be truthful, it's been my calming noise all of my life. I don't even realize I do it when I go to sleep. When I was a child, I napped with Mr. Maiden on the couch. It's the sound of him sleeping. The sound of him breathing.

Constrict the back of your throat, and breathe - ujjayi breath - the sound of yoga and the ocean, and the sound of my dad. The sound of COPD.

When I was 19 years old, I was an out of shape first year university student in Northern Michigan. (I'd been to Grade 13 in Parts North, but then transferred those credits over to the University. A phenomenally cheap strategy for getting through school.)

Anyhow. I got suckered into playing Broom Ball (for the uninitiated, it's hockey rules, played with small rubber brooms and a hard rubber ball on the arena ice.) as one of the only girls on the intramural team. Because we were short girls, I had to run for the whole period. I didn't get a break.

I stepped off the ice and experienced my first (and one of my worst) exercise induced asthma attack. When I recovered, I called Mr. Maiden, and asked him what asthma felt like. He sighed and said "Well, honey, how about you tell me what it feels like."

It never really surfaced again as badly until a nasty virus lasting weeks and weeks in Arizona had me prescribed with a puffer to take several times a day.

Off and on, I've had a puffer ever since. Well, mostly off, to be honest - I haven't had one in the house for about 10 years. I remember tossing the last one when it expired back in the apartment. I think it was the one bedroom, so at least before 2000.

The thing is - in the lunch time running group, I am always, always the last one in the line. Always. I watch people I really should be faster than (think old and infirm wearing pumas, for Christ sake) pass me on my runs around the bridges. And I have running partners with whom I train during lunch hours.

I can always tell, D says, when you're not behind me - I can't hear you breathing.

(Apparently, it's not normal for your friends to be able to hear you when you run?)

You know, S says, I really don't think it's a getting in better shape thing. I really don't think your lungs should be the only part of you keeping you from more speed.

I always assume that the reason I can't breathe is because I am in some way not in good enough shape, and if I just work harder, it will fix itself.

Why not get a puffer? they ask.

I am afraid of it.

I want to be stronger than this - to be able to manage to train and run at the same speed as others. Not to see others slowly gain away from me because I can not go faster, never go faster and still breathe.

I do not want this - it terrifies me. A small part of me thinks that it might be worth a try - to see if it really is better, faster, without the constant controlling of the gasp - three counts in, three counts out - don't panic, you're fine.

A part of me suspects that it might not make a difference. That I will always be the one at the back of the pack.

The other part just misses him so badly.

Ok, he says, looking vuaguely around his desk at post-it notes, I think that's about it...

Anything else you can think of? I ask

Don't think so?

Boss-Man's Boss pokes his head in. You acting? he asks me.

Yep, says Boss-man.

Well, I say, me and the pick-up guy.

Mostly Katie says Boss-man.

Exactly half, I correct him. For two of the four weeks.

Well, says Boss-Man's Boss, good luck. You've got big shoes to fill!

I know, I say, contemplating the pile on the floor, imagining shuffling around his office in them.

I've been here 18 months. My acting is by no means a new situation, so why the warning this week?

THIS should be fun......

During a recent visit from Mrs. Maiden

Oh, by the way, she says, if you find one of your new Mr. Clean Erasers with a teensy corner bitten off, it was me - not mice.

Ok, I say, but you know you're allowed to use the whole thing?

Well, I use it to clean my teeth. She explains, See? See how much whiter they are? It's what the tea does, and I just can't get it off with toothpaste alone.

But, I say, what about whiteners? I mean, have you considered that?

Well, she says, but those are chemicals! I mean, I don't want that, right?

But mom, I say, um, I think the thing about the whiteners is that they were designed to go in your mouth. Unlike, say, a Mr. Clean Eraser.

But do they taste bad? I mean, Mr. Clean has no taste! [you got that right, lady! Have you seeeeeeen that earring? I mean, so 90s!!]

Uh, I say, I guess I've never noticed. Sorta minty, I'd bet? I guess the downside is the sensitivity, but that goes away when you stop using it...

Hmm. She says, am I going to look like a grinning skull when I use them?

Well, no, I explain, see, because you are in charge of how long they are in your mouth, and it's a gradual thing, so if you start to feel like you're good, that you're white enough for right now, you stop. No one makes you keep doing it until your teeth are blue.... [she has seen the results of overzealous whiteners and is concerned.]

Hmm. She says, whiteners....

(I can see that Mr. Clean is going to continue his unconventional responsibilities unless I buy the gels and watch her use them.)

And now a break for some logic.

Here's the thing about being a member of the Religious Society of Friends. (A Quaker y'all.) The thing is - one of the tenants of Meeting is that well, you don't necessarily need a meeting. If you can't make it, that's generally considered ok, because you can meditate for guidance from the Spirit (a piece of which is in all of us) as needed.

It's pretty darn convenient.

Meetings (what we call services) are silent and turn into a discussion only when members are moved by the Spirit sufficiently to share with others. (We don't have a service, nor do we have a minister or priest. Meetings are not lead by anyone.) Sometimes, no one feels much like talking. Great as an adult. Painfully, mindbendingly boring as a kid.

The last actual meeting I went to was right after Husband and I decided to get married just shy of 11 years ago. But see, just last week, I was having a hard time. My anxiety (about what I couldn't tell) was affecting my sleep, making me jittery at work, irritable, and just generally, not that fun. I asked for some help on Thursday.

On Friday, as I drove to work, I got my response. The thing about dealing directly with the Spirit is that his words are not filtered through someone else. It's a direct line in a language I usually understand, and it went something like this:

"You know I have your back."

Yep. I do. Really. (I don't talk about it much, and I do what I can with the whole blending into Catholicism thing. But I talk to God when I need to.)

"So if you know I have your back, how dare you have the audacity to be anxious? Get out there and do your best. The rest is up to me."

It seems so beautifully simple that I just had to share.

Boss Lady

I'm having domestic help issues.

As I scrubbed the upstairs bathroom this weekend, I tried to remember the last time I did it. I don't think I can. Could it really be sometime this spring, before Lolo's hospitalization? Very probably.

LACKLUSTER. (please note: spray and wipe has been done relatively frequently. I've also cleaned the tub in recent memory. It's just the deeper stuff that has been left to its own devices. The floor, for example.)

We have a running joke in the Casa Valentine that someone needs to speak with the cleaning lady (that'd be us). She's not very good. (Well, we're busy!) In fact, we routinely question why we're paying her. (We're not. Maybe we should?)

But then today, as I heated up my leftovers for lunch in the kitchen at work, I took a good assessing look at them and found them to be somewhat sub-par. They were: 2 whole wheat tortillas with reheated chopped steak. (Not so bad, but distinctly lacking in chlorophyll.)

But then I thought of what husband had: 1 hot dog and 3/4 sausage with the rest of the steak bits on top and 1/2 corn on the cob left-over from last night. No buns, no sauce. Husband gamely called it meat mosh and some corn. I totally put that together for him and called it lunch. That's not cool. Not cool at all.

Our personal chef is heading for a smacked bottom.

Supplements

By means of explaining what the past month has been, a series of vignettes:

1. Prepping for the funeral, MlleL asks "Mama, when the daddy puts the seed in the mama to start a baby, how does he put it in there? Does he.... (mimes swallowing something)" (Aaaaaaa!) I figure that when they're ready to ask, they're ready to know, so I answered in a way I thought she could understand - and vague enough for me to be ok with it. We came up with something along the lines of 'privates kissing'.

"Does it hurt?" she asked. "Umm, no," I said, "it's nice. It's like kissing, right? Kissing's nice." "Ok," she says, and we continue dressing.

2. After weeks and weeks and weeks of tough training seemingly only getting worse (you guys, says a colleague. You take it so seriously. It should be fun. Sweetness and light. Last time was sweetness and light, I say, this time is all pain and darkness. Only I really am telling the truth.) I am rejected from donating blood for the second time in a row. I am low on iron. Apparently, really low. Enough for a surprised noise from the nurse rejecting me.

3. Regardless, I stop in at Running Room to pick up supplies. Because I am convinced that somehow, if I just eat enough carbs and try harder, I can force my legs do what they are seemingly physically incapable of doing. Running Room staff and coaches explain just what exactly it means to be anemic and try to train. And also offer very supportive advice on how to deal with the disappointment of not running the half marathon. Because this is also a large part of the advice.

4. During a particularly sad and hungry day, I run into an colleague, who claims shock at my weight loss. Of which, I stress, there has been none in a year, but she grabs my wrist, and in a way that only someone who has known you for a long time can, pokes me in the place between my ear and jawbone to prove her point. Somehow, this makes me feel miles better.

5. I am driving MlleL to shopping, and she says "K is afraid of having a baby." K is the 4 year old at her day care. "Oh?" I say? "She's afraid of the blood." She tells me. "She's afraid of it hurting, but I told her what you told me. I told her that it wouldn't hurt. Because the daddy will be gentle, right?" "WHAT?" "When he pokes the seed up your vagina. He'll be gentle, right?"

"Uh... Yeah....... Sweetie, are you telling K about having babies?" "Yeah....."

Oh god. Oh, God. My kid is that kid. THAT kid in school!!!

Drama!!

oh my goodness.

I was going to be writing another whine about being sick, and tired, and one of the worst fibro streaks in recent memory (seriously. It hurt to wear clothes and use my powder brush. Shit.)

But right now?

RIGHT NOW???

I can't breathe, because I'm watching Finn sing 'Jesse's girl'. Um.

Can't talk.

Passing

If I were a character in Harry Potter, I'd be able to see thestrals now.

This is what I'm thinking to myself in the hospice room. Only what I'm really thinking is those scary skeleton horses, because I can't remember the official name because my father in law just died.

It was like a breath of air that wasn't, his passing.

We were all there, and then suddenly, he wasn't.

And we were all alone together in our grief.

Thank you, I told him moments earlier, for letting me be a part of this family. I am blessed, I told him, to have had you as my Pop too. We will miss you so much, I said, but we will be ok. We will always, always love you.

I'll see you again, he had told me a few days earlier, during his last words to me, I love you.

That's a promise, I had said, smiling at him over my shoulder on my way out the door.

An AWARD!!!

Hey y'all!

So, look what I won!!! Cause' I'm brilliant in honest content!!

Awesome! Cause' look. I know I'm not here very much right now, and it's not that I don't love you, it's just that Mummy's a little busy right now. No, look at my eyes, I'm talking. No, I'm not CLAZY!!, nor am I LUUUDE!, and I will not have a TIME OUT!! I'm talking and I'm the mama.

My very good friend Wondermom gave me this. I think it might have been to inspire me, and it worked. Thanks very much, honey, it means a lot!!

But, as always, there are rules to follow, my dears, so...

1. Brag about the award.

2. Include the name of the blogger who gave you the award and link back to that blogger.

3. Choose a selection of blogs that you find brilliant in honest content (umm. This is hard. I kinda read like, four blogs, and one of them gave it to me, and I'm also really bad at tasking others, so..... You're all fantastic, and I mean that!!)

4. List at least ten honest things about yourself:

1. I frequently write everything I eat in a little book. It somehow clears my head of food clutter and allows me to do real work.
2. Sometimes I feel completely unprepared for parenting. I usually lock myself in the bathroom when that happens.
3. I'm really, really bad at telling lies. Pretty much, what you see is what you get.
4. I am always, always exhausted. I can't remember a time when I wasn't.
5. I'm also incredibly old. My American birth certificate says I was born in 1917. Heh. Which must be the reason I drink hot water before bed time, love cherry imperials, and drink Bristol Cream Sherry.
6. I am also very forgetful. (must be the age.) I write lists of everything everywhere. I've even left myself sticky notes on the dashboard to try to remember errands on the way home from work.
7. I am a perfectionist, but also a bit lazy, so my house always looks cluttered.
8. I am a number 6 on this crazy-assed personality test. My type is called the loyalist, or the skeptic, depending on which site (or book) you're forced to read. It would appear that I have (as I may have mentioned before) inherited Mr. Maiden's tendencies. Except I'd like to think that I might be a bit less on the umm, concentrated side as Mr. Maiden tended to be. If not, please feel free to drug me through my morning coffee. Which brings me to Number 9.
9. The number 9 has always been my favorite number (it's so neat and tidy - 3 sets of 3), and I was once responsible for helping family members secretly drug other family members to ease awkward social tensions during a very important family event. Ask me sometime. I'd be happy to tell you ALL ABOUT IT.
10. And one last, aching bit of honesty for you tonight before bedtime. This past month has made me wish more than anything I can explain that I had hugged my dad before he died. It is one of the biggest regrets of my life - We kissed, and held hands, and I rubbed his shoulder, but I did not hug him. We did not have that type of relationship. We loved each other terribly, but he wasn't able to be very comfortable with physical affection when I was an adult. Instead, I hug and kiss my father in law every day I see him. Stroking his now almost silent noggy in the hospice before he drifts back to sleep.

Two views:

a) Three years ago, when MasterP's pregnancy was just beginning, Death came (uninvited, but I understand this is usually how it works) for a stay of undetermined length at Lolo and Lola's. (It was indicated that he would be with us anywhere from 3 weeks to 3 months).

He has sat beside us on the couch for three years. I find it helps to think of him like the stinky footed phantom of Bill and Ted fame.

Thankfully, he's not been a difficult houseguest (despite the feet), and we've grown increasingly accustomed to him, so much so that it's been hard to recognize that over the past six months or so, he's been getting tired of watching pro-wrestling and soap operas.

But he has.

And the questions now are more of how long and what to do (well, not much I guess. It would appear Death refuses to be distracted with the story line of All My Children any longer.)

b) During MlleL's new favorite activity of looking at her own baby photos, we come across a photo of her baptism party, in which a six month version of herself is being held by a smiling, ebony haired man, and she asks who it is. I reply, surprised, that it's Lolo. Her Grandfather.

"That's not Lolo," she laughs "That doesn't look like Lolo."

Looking at the picture, she is right. He is virtually unrecognizable.

March already.

I am frequently told to blog more.

I know, I sigh. I know.

It's not that I'm not thinking of you all, my guests, waiting patiently for another funny story, it's just that I'm presently a little lacking in the funny.

I can tell you about MlleL, when being chastized by our care provider last week, cocked her head, looked her right in the eye and said 'you know, we're looking for another daycare because you boss me around.'

I can tell you that MlleL has begun to crack the written code and is reading words.

I can regale you with stories of french and half-marathon training (again). (For both)

I can tell you of the magic power Janey has - after a somewhat damp coffee session last week, she suggested doing something more fun, and cupcake samples magically appeared by our sides. Red velvet with cream cheese icing. (Cupcakes DO make EVERYTHING more fun.)

I can tell you about the remarkable lack of humour shown by the parking attendants in Hull (sketchy lot) who, after their spectacularly bad advice resulted in me losing my parking last month, didn't even crack a smile this morning at 6 AM when I presented myself, unwashed and still in pajamas, on the off chance there were some passes yet unclaimed for the month of March. (There were. Awesome. I'm back in business!!)

There are, of course, the worries left unsaid, which creep in and disrupt my sleep, allowing the fibro to stake its insidious claim to further territories of my body, like for example, my hips and hands. (Listen, Fibro, we've lived together for a while and I understand that no amount of medication will make you go anywhere, but I feel like I can speak to you frankly. I need my hips, and I really, really need my right hand, particularly my thumb. So please understand that this comes from a place deep inside of me when I encourage you most sincerely to get bent. The hands are mine. I already licked them.)

But for now, for you, my beloved guests, I search for the funny.

My Daily Mystery

Their apartment is situated just across from my office at school - at the top floor of what I assume to be a three story walk up.

The very kind in which Husband and I lived in the early days.

Each day, I see one or both of the in their bathroom slippers and robes for frequent ciggy breaks on their balcony, to the railing of which is tied a plastic owl. They must be having problems with interlopers of one kind or another.

It is the middle of the day, during a space of a couple of weeks. Could it be that they work the night shift? Their faces are young but worn. Her hair is recently cut and colored and her nails painted a dark red, and yet she stands hard in her robe, sweeping the balcony of any dirt as she smokes the first of today's cigarettes. The broom remains at the ready throughout the day, propped in the corner of the railing.

They have a bucket for the butts, and neatly tuck them in, their hair trendy and their tv, and its endless talk shows, is almost big enough for me to read the subtitles.

They are watching Judge Judy.

He is pacing again - he's always pacing - now in a jacket and slippers, dressed but for the slippers.

What do they do, in their apartment all day? What has prematurely aged them so? Their faces grey, lined and unsmiling as they pace with a cigarette.

What keeps them trapped so, with only their balcony as an escape?

Special K

See, with the return to school, I've thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be considered rude to be eating my breakfast (cooked oatmeal) in front of the instructor on one-on-one training and conjugating with my mouth full.

Since mornings are so tough here at the Casa Valentine time-wise, (seriously, I'm late every, every, every day.) I figured I'd give Special K a shot, I mean, there's 1.25 cups in a serving, it's dump in the bowl and chew, and two points is two points, right?

HA. From what I can tell, the Special K Challenge is not to lurch so much when you're wandering the halls looking for foooood, tasty fooooood so as not to alert your prey.

Stupid Special K. Stupid Christmas weight.

Lovely, lovely microwaved rolled oats. Thanks for taking me back. I'll never, never leave you again.

soooooooo

I may be back. I'll try not to write in French, but am feeling very pleased with myself for having written a long and rambling email en Francais to Mrs. Maiden. Take THAT traductrice!!

Heh.

So, for those of you who may not have guessed, I'm off to French training for 10 weeks. 10 weeks of one on one, private French training. I speak it for hours every day, with someone nodding and jotting notes of errors down as I babble on, listing tasks, and responsibilities and making up a Departmental mandate. You know, which seems to be to help Canadians. Ummm, throughout their lives. Especially training. And maybe when they're old, but also, when they're young too.

I'm gonna rock that exam.

In other news, the real estate market is so hot that several days ago, I came home to the following note, addressed to the Valentine Family, and written on yellow lined paper in red pen:

"Dear Valentine Family,

Hi,

My Name is Peter Fisher.

Doris and I would like to

$BUY$

Your House at

(my address here)

Please call us at

PH# (presumably, his phone number here)

Thanks,

Peter"

I know it seems strange, and kinda creepy, but I'm tempted to find out just how much Peter is willing to $PAY$ for the Casa Valentine....

Wow.

Well.

That was a hell of a couple of weeks!! Whew. I'd like to thank Janey for encouraging me to train for the half - I think that the work definitely paid off in the endurance sport that is preparing for Christmas.

Am I the only one that feels that way? Sometimes I think that if I were a better mom and wife, I'd get all the baking done (no scorching), presents bought and wrapped, house cleaned, work done, sexiness fulfilled, and all of the other stuff and still feel all Christmassy and what-not.

Which is not to say that well, aside from the the heavily browned short breads (danged oven) I didn't get most of that list accomplished, but three guesses as to what was left off?

I was rereading this year, thinking of the year in review, and was struck by how much things stay the same.

January: complaining about lack of food and sleep. Hah. Just wait for this January's update.

February: A compilation of conversations, including how Husband and I stayed up all night bailing a flooding window well to avoid a basement flood. Awesome. Gruelling.

March: MlleL and the great Pony Rodeo. Hee.

April: Signed up for the 10k, and talked about dating - in general, not in my immediate experience, y'all.

May: I complained about lack of boobs and concentration. And how hard it is to run. Ran a 10k.

June: What it's like to shop like a mom. And may have signed up for a half marathon.

July: Time management issues, a sinus infection, and more about how hard it is to run. Oh. And KISS live. Still, awesome.

August: Family vacation. 20th reunion. Figuring out where home really was.

September: More complaining about what bras do to me. Ran a half-marathon. Turned 38.

October: MasterP turned 2.

November: American Thanksgiving. More lists.

December: yet again, complaining about boobs.

How do you read this?

This year, I shall endeavor not to complain about boobs or bras quite so much. Maybe I'll post more often.

If the last couple of weeks are any indication, though, I'll probably do some complaining about lack of food and sleep, how hard it is to run, and well, maybe some lists thrown in for good measure.

Nothing if not consistent.