The not-so-secret life of Katie Valentine

Ugh.

2011-12-01T21:36:00.002-05:00

So.

Heh. Long time no see?

Sigh.

I'd love to tell you that I've got a realy good excuse, or I've been sick - been super busy? How about just in over my head.

Some days, it just feels like I'm busy rolling the boulder up the hill, and every morning, I'm back at the bottom.

Other days are great. Don't get me wrong - I'm ok. It's just that there's no extra for writing.

So what's happened over the past four months?

Oh lor'. I found out that I needed to pay my taxes in the US. Or rather, I needed to file for them. (because even if you don't owe, you need to file.) And also tell the US government about all of my bank accounts (joint or otherwise) that I and my husband have here in Canada. In great detail, over the past seven years. And there might be some penalties for that. I guess I'll find out when they get around to it. Or not. So that took some time, and continues to take angst.

MasterP started kindergarten. MlleL started first grade, and started giving up her naps (yeah, I know. I know.) We're struggling with that. It's pretty exhausting, managing the mood swings of a really tired 6 year old. It feels like I'm constantly on a high wire balancing what's happening between the time I get home and the time she gets to bed. Am I making dinner quick enough? How is her blood sugar? Will we make it through without that awful whining, convulsing stagger she does, dragging around the house to display her displeasure? (Never mind that that's a huge button - I have no idea what makes me so crazy when she does that....)

I turned 40. It was pretty great. I've worked on a list, but haven't got far, of the things to do before I'm 50. I'm not sure I'm ready to committ to writing them down. One of them means running a hell of a lot more than I am right now. so....

I ran the Rattle Me Bones the fastest I've ever run 10k on October 23. Which was great, but 2 minutes over where I really wanted (sub 1 hour) so I'm working on feeling better about that.

MasterP turned 4. I made cake pops, and a cake covered in squinkies. heeee.

We went to Target on November 11. We got stuck at the border for almost 2 hours, so ended up having about 1 hour and 45 minutes to shop before tearing north again. LOTS of fun.

November was November. I continue to be super funky (in a hateful way) around American Thanksgiving - mad at everyone for nothing. Man November sucks.

And here we are! We did our first Christmas Activity tonight - making snowflakes. But both pairs of scissors didn't work well, so MasterP was easily frustrated... And then we hung them, and then while working on French reading, MlleL had a full blown meltdown.

I guess tomorrow I'll hope for better.

And meanwhile, I'm trying to type my way down from a chocolate craving.

Glorificus

2011-08-10T21:13:00.004-04:00

At the beginning of the summer, a dear friend invited me to share in an organic 'share' from a local farm. I thought that this might possibly be quite awesome, and signed us up.

Since that time, it's become clear that I don't really know what to do with a wide variety of organic vegetables (especially since it seems that the wide variety is really mostly greens of one sort or another.) My tries to interest the family in these greens, usually by stir frying them in sesame oil and adding soy, are not well accepted.

So much that when picking up last week's share, Husband tried to convince my dear friend to keep ours. Dear friend's husband offered to help him carry it to the car. (heh. sounds like the greens are equally welcomed at her house.)

This week's share included beets. Which, to be honest, I first unsucessfully tried to roast to make delicious beet salad. (I know, right? So yummy!) It did not work out.

So imagine my happiness in having been introduced to Glory Bowls. "No, seriously", I said, putting on the rubber gloves to peel the beets (and changing after getting juice on work clothes, dammit to hell) "You're going to love it!"

"It's a Glory Bowl! It's gonna be glorious!!!" Husband looked askance at that. I mean, I guess I can understand his hesitancy.

"It was created in BC! I took out the tofu and added left over turkey!" Not better.

In fact, until I finished. And put it on the table.

MlleL declared it yummy. MasterP agreed. And so did Husband. In fact, he went back for seconds, and had so much that we barely have enough for lunch tomorrow.

Make this. Make it. You'll be thinking how awesome it is - healthy and super tasty. No gluten, for wheat haters, and if you don't want to use all that oil, well, then, don't!

Then? You too will be sitting around thinking about making this for a dinner party. Too informal? Perhaps. It's a rice bowl, after all.

Maybe, like me, you'll imagine your guests donning black robes and serving your every whim. I mean, it looked great for the first half of the season, right? Focus on that. And look out for a spunky blonde with a fake 'little sister'.

(yeah, that's right. I linked to explain the joke.....)

Wishlist: A Cleaning Lady

2011-07-23T15:46:00.004-04:00

List of things I found under the cushions of the couch today:

1. 15 raisins, not completely whole;
2. 6 crayons, also, not completely whole;
3. two pink socks, (matching) in different locations;
4. a multicoloured zooble;
5. a sound making flashlight designed to assist in the reading of 'Cars: Carburetor County'
6. countless crumbs. (and I do mean countless);
7. 3 pieces of fruit candy, the kind obtained from the Canadian Tire vending machines. (clearing throat and looking at Husband here.); and
8. A HARMONICA.

Just saying.

Changes....

2011-07-23T15:34:00.004-04:00

Perspective is the weirdest thing.

It's so variable, so biased.

It has, in the months immediately following the half, become harder and harder to see my accomplishments. My waist is once again covered with layers of sloth and pancakes.

And so I return to the pavement, at an hour I have only previously vaguely talked about (5:30). Husband laughed at me when I've mentioned it before. I am not known as a morning person. But it's before the heat of the day, and (mostly) before the after work fatigue hits. It allows me a morning that is of my own choosing - and the time to wake up before I am hit by the demands of the day. It is a remarkably peaceful thing, but also, apparently a rather busy time of the day for other runners.

I love it. It gives me time to get the work out out of the way. I can listen to my podcasts and have lunch again, with others, and not feel guilty for having not done what I should have.

That said, these runs are affecting my perspective. Where once the distance was (a little) easier, they are difficult again. The early morning sun at my back strikes me in such a way as to cause my shadow to resemble a giant fertility figure - a tiny head and giant bottom waggling along the road. No wonder this is so difficult, I think, look at the size of that!

Mrs. Maiden has told me the story of her comeuppance as a 40-year-old. She was wearing her blue bikini and feeling rather proud of herself for doing that at her age; "not too shabby," I remember her describing herself. However, after laying on some sun warmed rocks in the North Channel during a cruise on the Maiden family boat, she sat up with a squelching, sucking noise. Her back fat had sealed her to the stone.

I remember thinking that was hilarious. Ok, well it kinda was, until the fertility figure thing.

And until I raised my arm to wave goodbye after having spent the weekend with awesome friends from my youth and most of our kids, doing really great beachy cottage type things, and caught a glimpse of the bottom of my arm waggling away in it's own fond farewell.

Conversations with kids

2011-06-22T21:39:00.010-04:00

Before the rewedding, I took them both in for haircuts.

"What'll it be?" asked the hairdresser, looking at MlleL. "Short" she says, pointedly ignoring me in the mirror. "No" I say. no. Except that then the stylist suggested donation.

She gave me her reasons, involving her ability to do her own hair, to wear her hair down, and the like. And I get it. I'll make the appointment to get her hair cut (which is very, very long) and she can donate it. We've discussed length, and options for donation, and she's given me a deadline. As I brush it at bedtime, I try to take my time now, knowing that these moments are limited.

The other night, she watched me in the mirror as we talked and I brushed and she finally got it.

"Will you miss it?" She asked.
"Yeah," I said, "but this is your hair. It's your body. It's ok."
Suddenly, she looked closer. She took the makeup mirror and moved it closer to me, flipping it to the magnification side.
"What do the cracks do?" She asked, pointing at the corner of my eye.

This morning as I was making my coffee:

MasterP "Mama, where does Santa live?"
"In the North Pole, buddy. Remember? With the elves?"
"Yep. Where dat?"
"Where it's winter all the time. Remember?"
"oh, yep. It not winter time now. It's rainy day."
"Nope - no snow. Which is good, right? Summer time is Mama's favourite time."
"Summer time is not my faborite time."
"No? Well, when is your favourite time, sweetie?"
"Well, not bed time."

The Ottawa Half - a bit late

2011-06-19T07:51:00.003-04:00

So finally, a round up of what it was like to run 21.1 kilometres, again. Finally.

It was, as you well know, the fourth half I've trained for. The second one I've run. It hurt. Oh, lord.

I started with colleagues (I mean, who better to spend over 2 hours of pain with than the folks you see every day? And yes, Janey, you better believe I had mascara on.) The pick-up guy, to be exact, was our bunny. And I did my best to stay with him, even though it was my fantasy pace. I had honestly planned to finish. I thought maybe I could do better than last time, but I was prepared to run the same race and figured that'd be ok.

It was crowded. So crowded, that I was soon knocked back in the pack - the pick-up guy turning to check a few times for a thumbs up, but soon I could only see his back, and his ears...

I ran through neighborhoods, past work, across the bridge I cross on almost every lunchtime run. I experienced unbelievable kindness when my ipod fell and the guy behind me stooped in the middle of the surging crowd to pick it up.

I ran past a pirate family no less than three different times, I ran through heat, and drizzle and steady rain, I ran past signs that made me laugh out loud (worst parade ever) and ones I considered stopping to debate (you've done harder things than this), I ran past old colleagues and new, some who recognized me, but most who didn't - I certainly didn't smile the whole time, but there was a moment when I realized that if I stopped to walk the rest of the way, I'd still have finished faster than I ever thought possible.

And that moment was pure brilliance.

Raise a Reader

2011-06-15T07:58:00.001-04:00

I am trying so hard to raise readers. So hard.

I switched, a few months ago, to reading longer books at bedtime. Buh Bye, Bellybutton book! (ok, we still read those to MasterP, but follow with a few pages of the chapter book for MlleL. She's so tremendously impatient that I'm trying to train her to slow down and listen.)

We've worked our way through Pooh (the adventures of and further adventures....) and are starting on the Moomintroll books http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moomintroll. (I know, right? You've probably never heard of them. I'm not sure why I have, only that Mrs. Maiden loved them - she had been in Sweden as a young person and was taken. We had as many as she could find, and as a weird result - no childhood complete without Moomins - I might also have a bunch as well as a result of an ongoing relationship with rare book sellers in far away places. Or something like that. I've just done a Google image search for little My, and am shocked to find the following they have, apparently, there are plays and maybe a show? [if so, why does it take a rare book seller to get them? Just wondering.] Swedes. I do have to admit, tho, that I am now wishing for Little My paraphernalia. In case you're considering gift shopping or anything like that.)

I've talked MlleL into them by explaining that she looks just like Little My. And she does. Nevermind that that was MY nickname as a child. Or that Big Brother sometimes still calls me that.) Little House is next. We got the box set when Mrs. Maiden came up last time.

(Me: YAY BOOKS!!! Kids: Where are the toys, Nanny?)

Some nights are an exercise in more patience than I can muster, when MasterP wants me to stop reading the long story, stop, stop, stop, and asks at every sentence something unrelated to what is happening. Mama. Mama.... MAMA! What. I love you. Excellent. Thanks for that. Love you too. As I was saying. MAMA! Yep? Will you give me a hug? Yes. Absolutely. When I'm done with the story, just like every night. MAMA!! Do you like my car? (and..... I'm done. Exactly as he had hoped.)

Some nights, they both settle in, and have a listen while I read several pages. These moments are my favourite. I remember my mother reading these books to me when I was their age, Mindy and I in the bed together (I remember Mindy in the cradle, actually, as reading was going on, and then later the blue crib, in the big brass bed, and finally on our own...) I remember big brother creeping down the hall to settle outside of our door to hear the story...

She sat in the rocking chair and worked her way through Roald Dahl, C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder, E.B. White, Louisa May Alcott, L.M. Montgomery, Frances Hodgson Burnett (the Secret Garden AND the Little Princess), Charlotte and Elizabeth Bronte, Jane Austen, and quite a bit of Dickens. She even got through the first several chapters of Great Ex (to the cemetery scene) before she closed the book and told us if we wanted to know how it ended we should read it ourselves. (Isn't that enough, Mr. Maiden yelled up the stairs, for Christ' sake, the kids are teenagers!)

I know MlleL likes it, because every night at bedtime, our book appears on the foot of her bed. But I'm never sure if she's really listening. I'm not sure if she gets the story quite yet.

Until this weekend, when she was explaining to me how she managed to get MasterP to go to sleep for his nap.

"I pretended I was reading him a long and boring story, and told him to pretend to go to sleep while he listened to it, and he did." (Uh Oh.) Well, what kind of long and boring story, I asked?

"You know, like how Owl told the long and boring story about his uncle and Pooh had to listen with his eyes closed and then Owl's house fell over. Like that."

HOORAY!!!!

Again, some more!

2011-05-28T10:48:00.003-04:00

Wow.

Ok. So there was supposed to be some writing about awesomeness of three year olds and their view of the world, and maybe something about six year olds and the continuing drama and what it's like to try to manage child care for first graders (spoiler alert: it sucks; there aren't many choices in my neighborhood.)

But what this is really about, what has consumed me, is that half marathon standing between me and all rational thought. It's tomorrow. It's tomorrow; it's tomorrow.

My favorite shorts are drying on the rack in the basement. My jacket is currently rinsing. I've stretched and gotten ART (ow) and taken my iron. I've run and run and run and run and run.

I don't feel ready in the slightest, but apparently, either I will or won't be tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Writer's Block

2011-05-02T15:36:00.003-04:00

I wake up at 6:15ish each day - and get things ready for the day - breakfasts, coffee, clothes, snacks and then at 7, I shower after Husband is out and down, and get myself ready and then I get us out the door.

And then I'm at work and I'm worrying about, oh, tons of stuff, and writer's block. It's with me everywhere. I'm worried at work. I'm worried in runs. I'm worried and irritable at home.

I leave a little after 5 and get myself home, racing through the door and cooking dinner, most often in my suit, and from there, I try to change and it's already 7:30, and the kids need to start getting to bed at 8, and I've fought the homework fight and we finally get them to bed and we come downstairs and it's after 9, and writer's block.

I have 45 minutes until I go to bed, but there's nothing on to watch (what the hell is wrong with TV execs?) and I go to bed.

During runs the thoughts don't flow anymore. I think about my feet pounding and pushing me forward and making the distance. I worry about relationships and people and work. Always work and what's next. What's next? And writer's block.

Words won't line up for me. They refuse - dancing just out of my reach. I have flashes before I fall into a fitfull sleep of the amount of things at work piling up that I need to get to that won't come - words finally aligning somewhat, but not in the way I want, but during the first half of the night, before a child wakes me, they slip away again, leaving me disjointed, and anxious and exhausted again at 6:15.

I'm running Saturday mornings. Which is hard, brutal, really, to wake up the first morning of the weekend for a growing distance, but then, I've got the rest of the day to hang out, and then Sundays are gymnastics, but at an hour that allows me to a) sleep in a bit and b) have a decent breakfast with the family before we head out. It might be the sweet spot. It's ok.

My neighbor came over a few weeks ago and asked me if I was training again - when I replied in the affirmative, she asked abruptly, "don't you think that's too much?"

I don't. Is it? Is that the thing that's wonky?

I yuv you ma-ma, MasterP says, I yuv you the moshe. (hee. awww. me too!)

Things are good. Really. They're ok. I'm ok. The trip to the Dominican was awesome, and I kid you not - resort weddings are fantastic. FANTASTIC.

I'm busy now, but what is the thing that keeps the words at bay?

I can't help but think that people are noticing by now, but I can't find them anywhere I look. And beleive me, I've tried. I've looked everywhere.

Can you think of somewhere I haven't?

Hey Universe?

2011-03-23T22:30:00.002-04:00

So you know when there's something that wants to be written sitting at the top of the stack, keeping you from writing anything else?

Remember that time I wailed about wanting to be a rocker of boats? Yeah. About that. I'm good. Thanks. I'm good now.

I'm thinking what I'd like to wail about right now is a general lack of savings, and umm, ooo. The unfortunate dearth of chocolate peanut butter eggs in the Casa Valentine?

So many things, really, but all about the love

2011-02-16T21:16:00.001-05:00

"Hey!" says MlleL as she bursts through the door after school, "Valentine and Valentine are the same! EVERY DAY IS VALENTINE'S DAY AT OUR HOUSE!!!!"

"Yep" I grin.

I've seen arguments for and against, for and against this celebration, and I most recently saw one that said basically, it's about family. And socks with little hearts all over them. And for kids. Because love is an every day thing. You can't just pull it out and shine it up and have it work once a year.

It's as Churchill may have said (I've also seen arguments about this too) 'Never, never, never give up.' Really, that's pretty applicable in all aspects of life. With the laundry monster in the basement, with the never ending plumbing issues at the Casa Valentine, with friendships, and arguments, and work.... And Love and Marriage.

With the rewedding so close now (just over a week, y'all) on February 24, at 6PM on the beach in Punta Cana, we've been discussing what real vows you would say to your beloved after 10 years of marriage and a couple of kids:

1. I can assure you that I'll go to bed mad at you, but I'll still love you when I wake up.
2. I will cherish your mother, and strive to roll my eyes only when you aren't looking.
3. I will not try to change you, but will love you anyway.
4. I will laugh at your jokes.

Many of you know the story of Husband and I, how on the first night we met, in January of 1999, after I had just finished explaining to the entire change room at the gym that he seemed awfully nice, but that I wasn't into Asian guys, how moments later in the hall, as he explained why he wasn't coming out with the group for dinner (he was heading out to see what he could do to diffuse a domestic situation between two friends of his) I heard a click.

I did. And it was loud enough to change my life. Later, in that intense period where things are said that never seem corny, but really, really are, he told me that the thing about warriors was that they were there to the end. And so. I am my beloved's, and he is mine.

In about a week's time, after months of the WW and training, ten and a half years of marriage and two kids, I'll meet my husband on the sand, just as we promised, and promise, again, to never, never, never give up.

Ooooh. And I'll be doing it with a new ipod touch in my bag!!

One more time for old time's sake....

2011-02-04T22:36:00.001-05:00

Yo.

I don't do this enough.

I promise I recognize it and wear that recognition around like a hair shirt. I think we can all tell when I'm training and when I'm not, as these things generally come to me as I'm running.

So...... I've clearly not had that many long runs of late. Sorry.

I did have a long note qued up and ready to go to discuss the change of the WW over to SOMETHING NEW AND COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, except that it's pretty much the same. Well, I actually had one prior to that talking about how I'd managed to find an extra point (entitled I replace food with tea and gum) to drop to 19 points a day (if this means anything to you...) but then I went to meeting, and all of a sudden I had 29 points a day available to me. So that was a bit of a wash. But on the upside, I'm having fruit as a snack instead of tea and gum, so there's that!

Now. During last night's run (SEE?), I was listening to a recent release from that guy who's stage persona sounds remarkably like my favourite candy. But that doesn't completely explain his draw for me, and I was trying to think what it was.

We're about the same age. We're from the same state - in fact, the Robotic Engineer's grandmother lived just off of 8th Line, in the Detroit, which, I can promise, was very different from 10th line, in case you saw the movie (which I did. Brilliance, right?). But the streets are really called that, and you can probably tell that the two aren't that far away from each other.

But seriously, is that enough? I mean, clearly, we've not that much in common - is it that I'm just drawn to them with an Achilles heel? Feet of clay? Irreparably shattered but brilliant and funny?

I don't know. But I can tell you that I am. It's inexplicable. I mean, I remember what it was like to live with an alcoholic, and it's really not that much fun, so I'm pretty sure Husband is safe, but is it my own rage and sorrow, miniscule in comparison, I think, that I recognize in them?

Am I the only one? I mean, besides Lainey?

Mrs. Maiden, political activist

2011-01-23T14:59:00.003-05:00

Now. Some of you will recall that Mrs. Maiden's wintertime abode is in the middle of a small, south-western town currently the centre of a giant amount of world-wide attention.

As you may imagine, I've been receiving updates on the situation from quite a different view point from the at-a-distance news casters here in Canada.

While Mrs. Maiden does not live within reasonable walking distance of the intersection in question (that's rather in the northern, more expensive side of town, y'all), she does live about a mile (or a 20 minute walk) from the hospital in which some of the victims, including THE victim are currently being treated.

And while steadfastly not an AMERICAN, she does feel as if it is important for her to take action as an individual in the ways she finds possible.

To whit:1. She has reported that the Healing touch community (herself included) is focussing their efforts on Ms. Giffords, particularly with respect to minimizing brain swelling. These efforts can apparently work over a distance. She offers as proof of their effectiveness the Doctor's comments that they have no explanation for her success as a patient, but continue to be positive.

2. She has been walking, daily, to stand outside the hospital for an hour or so in the afternoons, so as to be able to extend her energies that much more closely. (that's fantastic, mum, I tell her, and well, at least you can feel like you're actually doing something. (and boy, that's not at all creepy) Yes she says happily, I feel VERY powered up...)

3. In the lead up to the youngest victim's funeral, this awful hate church announced their intention to attend the event and protest America's increasing tolerance to homosexuals. In response, the Arizona leg made any protests of this nature at funerals illegal. Despite this, it seemed as if the haters were going to appear anyway. Mrs. Maiden had read about groups of opposes to the hate church forming a human barrier between the bereaved and those spewing hate filled messages. So off she went, 65 year old granny, to be OF USE. (I mock, and yet, am so very proud of her.) She described the scene - and you, I am sure, may have read of it, but it wasn't really explained that the 'attendees dressed like angels' were a team of people who have trained to act in opposition to the members of this church, in white robes carrying pvc tubing framed 'wings' to create a visual barrier between the grief and the hate. And hundreds of avenging angels had come from miles around (mostly Phoenix, she thought) on their motorcycles, with their slightly darker robes, in a slightly more sinister fashion, to stand in protection of the mourners. And the rest of them stood, hundreds of citizens of Tucson, ready to 'sing very loudly' when the shouting began.

But they didn't. They never came. And so instead, thousands of normal people stood and mourned a child.

Lord.

2010-12-15T20:40:00.004-05:00

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

2010-11-25T16:30:00.000-05:00

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

2010-11-24T21:46:00.002-05:00

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

2010-11-17T21:43:00.003-05:00

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.

2010-10-13T21:54:00.003-04:00

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

2010-10-06T21:19:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-22T22:32:00.004-04:00

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.

2010-09-22T22:17:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-12T21:13:00.005-04:00

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.

2010-08-16T20:53:00.003-04:00

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.

2010-08-12T21:17:00.002-04:00

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!

2010-08-07T22:45:00.002-04:00

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

2010-07-29T21:32:00.003-04:00

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.

2010-07-24T13:52:00.002-04:00

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

2010-07-19T20:52:00.003-04:00

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.

2010-06-30T21:46:00.005-04:00

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

2010-06-14T17:40:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-23T21:45:00.004-04:00

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!!

2010-05-11T21:16:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-01T17:20:00.000-04:00

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!!!

2010-04-08T21:40:00.006-04:00

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:

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.
Sometimes I feel completely unprepared for parenting. I usually lock myself in the bathroom when that happens.
I'm really, really bad at telling lies. Pretty much, what you see is what you get.
I am always, always exhausted. I can't remember a time when I wasn't.
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.
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.
I am a perfectionist, but also a bit lazy, so my house always looks cluttered.
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.
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.
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:

2010-03-24T21:00:00.004-04:00

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.

2010-03-01T21:10:00.004-05:00

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

2010-02-10T20:32:00.003-05:00

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

2010-02-06T22:07:00.004-05:00

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

2010-01-27T21:05:00.003-05:00

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.

2010-01-04T21:45:00.006-05:00

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.

Sad for us all

2009-12-14T21:29:00.003-05:00

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

2009-12-09T20:53:00.000-05:00

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

2009-12-08T20:20:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-26T21:29:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-11T08:53:00.000-05:00

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

2009-10-30T21:59:00.000-04:00

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"

2009-10-14T20:39:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-06T22:03:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-10-06T22:01:00.001-04:00

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

2009-10-02T12:37:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-25T22:15:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-09-10T22:18:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-09-08T14:33:00.002-04:00

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....

2009-09-04T20:41:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-03T20:34:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-08-27T22:04:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-17T17:47:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-17T17:42:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-15T13:46:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-24T12:13:00.001-04:00

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...

2009-07-22T21:05:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-07-16T21:12:00.003-04:00

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:

2009-07-16T21:04:00.002-04:00

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:

2009-07-07T20:34:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-28T21:38:00.001-04:00

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

the chasm between kids and no kids

2009-06-23T21:16:00.002-04:00

"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

2009-06-18T20:52:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-15T10:43:00.001-04:00

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?

2009-06-01T21:55:00.004-04:00

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...

2009-05-30T14:18:00.003-04:00

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??

2009-05-17T21:53:00.002-04:00

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...

2009-04-28T21:02:00.001-04:00

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...

2009-04-25T10:11:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-04-15T21:13:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-15T21:11:00.000-04:00

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....

2009-03-23T19:18:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-03-16T22:12:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-09T21:01:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-03-05T21:40:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-03-02T22:15:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-23T21:29:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-20T09:43:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-10T17:35:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-28T21:14:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-26T20:52:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-01-19T22:08:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-19T22:06:00.002-05:00

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???

2009-01-12T09:29:00.003-05:00

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:

2009-01-07T21:31:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-04T22:06:00.003-05:00

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.

Wooooo Girls

2008-12-28T10:17:00.004-05:00

Two male colleagues, one who's known me well for years, and one who's worked with me for a few weeks recently started conversations with me the same way.

Exhibit A: "Take what you will from this question, but try not to get too excited...."
Exhibit B: "Try not to get too excited, but...."

Hmm. (to their credit, my almost immediate response was heeeeeeeeeeee! So they might have had a point.)

Someone else recently told me that my Facebook profile shot looks fantastic, and that "I'm one of the smiliest people" she knows. Really?

Is that how people see me? Flying off the handle with cheering at the happy life news of colleagues?

Should I be renting a hummer now?

Or is this all more irrefutable evidence of my long-held claim??

I shoulda been a cheerleader, man. It's my calling.

Dudes.

2008-12-16T21:17:00.002-05:00

I'm exhausted.

In a way that's hard to explain, the depths of the exhaustion. So much so that today's parking ticket almost made me cry, right there on the sidewalk beside yet another unsuccessfully plugged meter. But hopefully, the teeth will come soon, and transit strike will end, Christmas will be celebrated, the First Ministers' Meeting will happen in January, they'll think I'm doing a good job at the new work, and we'll all sleep better for it.

And also? Just a few lessons from a recent Friday night out.

First: Late night shopping without kids IS as fun as you remember it was. Especially if you're with a girlfriend.

Second: While shopping wearing the pink sock monkey jammies your mom bought you at Target for the three-generations-in-sock-monkey-jammies photo op, it's much easier to feel sane if you don't look down.

and finally:

If you are a teenage member of the 'style squad' - St. Laurent Centre, I'm looking at you - and you're tempted to treat adults wearing sock monkey jammies like crap, please remember that there's a much greater chance that adults will write to your boss to complain about your behaviour. Just sayin'.

hypochondria, explained

2008-12-05T21:11:00.005-05:00

The thing about fibromyalgia is that it's got weird, wildly variable, traveling symptoms. Such that one day, you're fine. Miss some sleep, get a head cold, and you can't figure out why your hip hurts so, or your pinky finger is completely numb.

Anxiety? check. Short attention span? yup. Light hurts your eyes and vision blurry? uh-huh. Grouchy tummy? oh, yeah.

And there are occasionally conversations like this:

"Yeah. The [Florida] Keys are pretty terrific. I think we were in Key Biscayne, (of course this was 30 years ago or so - so my info is HARDLY current) but some people had a car and we ended up going to...... oh..... dang. The word..... you know, those places where fishes are?"

Right. Those. places. where. fishes. are. (It's called fibrofog - and also, an aquarium)

Sure, there's stuff I can do: I eat bran every day. Every. Day. I avoid caffeine after 3 to try to sleep heavier. I try to stay active.

I keep my spell check on all the time.

I wear sunglasses and sit with my back to the window in meetings.

The best thing I can do? Figure out how to keep a thesaurus next to me at all times. Oh, and maybe move the baby out of our room.

It might be time.

More lessons in culture shock

2008-12-04T21:06:00.004-05:00

Moving from the small office building of oh, somewhere in the hundreds in population to the office complex with somewhere close to twice the population of the town I grew up in is fun.

Really. It's fun. Especially for a people-watcher such as myself.

I've felt the need to create PSAs - for example, aimed at the lady last summer who was sporting the skirt that might have been from a few seasons back. It was apparently higher waisted than when she first bought it, and yet, the slit was in the same place it used to be, only, as you might imagine with the rise in waist, a corresponding, and truly, truly unfortunate rise in slit had happened. We could call that one "Madam, we can see your ass cheeks, or: Please consider boyshorts for the workplace"

Or for the lady with the unusual chunks of colour in her otherwise white hair "I'm not sure that you should let your berry-loving bird friend sit on your head while you watch scary movies"

But the PSA aimed at me? Well, it might be titled "there's a subtle but clear difference between the way ladies who are paid to organize and deliver things and ladies who are paid to be theoretical dress." Huh. Not quite as catchy as the last two. But probably an important one to watch. I mean, I wear boyshorts and don't let birds sit on my head, so I'm probably ok there. But it's a different aesthetic. Like cool boots but no lipgloss. Dresses but no eye shadow.

Sadly, almost a Daphne vs. Velma thing.

I'm doing my best to blend, but old habits die hard. Today, I used my wiles to bend my provincial colleague to my will and sign an MOU he had been stalling on.

Do you think he'll respect me tomorrow?

Mixed Grill

2008-11-27T21:21:00.003-05:00

That's kinda how I've thought of this week.

Saying goodbye to S - the only thing she was ever, I think, super early for, and it was this.

Starting the new job Monday. Realizing that program people are extroverts, and policy folk introverts. For the first time in my public service career, working with a team where the boys outnumber the girls. We talk about bikes a lot. The kind you pedal, not the kind with engines.

Having the following conversation with the guy showing me around on my first day in my boss' absence: "If you bring your lunch, what I do is find one of the small boardrooms and lock the door. I'm not inviting you to join me - I don't want to eat with you in the least - I'm just telling you what I do." "As a model available for imitation?" "Exactly."

Experiencing the sudden and unexpected feeling of my heart singing a a little song of hope at the work I was doing yesterday.

Seeing some really great colleagues I haven't seen in a long, long time.

Getting hugs from those very same people.

Loving Phase 4 after being in the boonies for the past 5 years.

Experiencing the public transit commute again.....

Having a minute long conversation with Auntie Maiden on the phone today - "Hi, Katie" "Hi, Auntie Maiden" "I hear you have two beautiful children now." (to the tune of MlleL yelling mamamamamamamama from her time out - heh.) "uh, yeah. They're pretty great." "And you and Husband are doing really well" "Well, I guess so." "It's really nice to be talking to you" "Yes, you too." "24 years is too long." "Yes, it has been" (by the way, again, I was 14 when you ended our relationship - I hardly think I'm to blame for it being this long. Additionally, you could have answered my email if you had wanted to be in contact.) "It's been that long. 24 years. Well, I'll give you back to your mother now" (Hah. that's exactly what Mr. Maiden said almost every phone conversation we had.)

Running face first into Mr. Maiden's anniversary. Dad - it's been a year today, and I think of you and miss you every single day.

Eating pumpkin pie with MlleL tonight, because just as it has been for MasterP's labour, MlleL's birthday, MasterP's birthday, and Valentine's Day, it's Husband's night at classes again.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Beauty tips, Katie style.

2008-11-26T21:24:00.003-05:00

Now.

You know I love me my spanx. Love, love, love. I wear them now to pretty much any event that requires a dress. They're fabulous, AND a slip. All in one.

What I didn't love about them was the waist. It left a line, and uh, well, rolled a bit. And required some tugging throughout the evening. So you could see it under dresses. Which was the antithesis of the whole point of them.

So for Husband's cousin's wedding two weeks ago, I invested in the higher power. The ones that go all the way to your bra strap. (In my case, I think if I pulled hard enough, the top strap.)

But here's the deal. The thing with Spanx is that while they make you look sexy with your clothes on, they're remarkably unsexy on their own. Particularly if your beloved sees you putting them on.

There's not much that will change that for you.

EVEN IF THEY'RE CROTCHLESS. Spanx, I'm looking at you here. For ease when nature calls, the package said. I don't know about you, gentle reader, but I really, really don't mind pulling down my undergarments to pee. Especially if my business is put away such that I can sit down without a constant gentle reminder of the lack of secure covering.

Who the hell thought that was a good idea????

no no no.

2008-11-18T20:45:00.003-05:00

My cell phone rang as I was helping MlleL out in the washroom, actually, on Friday morning. As we came out of the hotel bathroom, Husband announced 'your phone rang'. Uh huh. I heard it too.

Strange.

I checked the voice mail, the one I'm not supposed to have since the changing of the plans, but there it is, still blinking away. It was a work colleague and friend still on mat leave. 'You need to call me as soon as you get this', she said.

So I did, going back into the bathroom for a bit of privacy - and a seat on the toilet lid in my jammies.

'Why are they calling me', I thought 'what could be so urgent in the office?' but no. That doesn't make sense. I'm leaving in a week - I'll have been in and out in 5 weeks - not nearly long enough to have acquired the kind of expertise on something that gets you called while you're on vacation. And why would a work colleague on leave be calling anyhow?

No. Something must be wrong. An accident. Someone dying. Maybe boss-lady.

Instead, the news was of S.

Beloved, beloved, beloved S, who's prayed for health ran out after ten short weeks of marriage. Tiny, angry, headstrong, brilliant, funny S, who had too much pain for 27 years.

MlleL told me on Sunday as we were grocery shopping that I should be happy and not sad because S is happy now that she can be with her baby (who lived for 5 days in January) and with God. It's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

But I wish we didn't keep having to have these conversations.

My bellybutton, exposed.

2008-11-11T14:03:00.004-05:00

A friend asked me a while ago about my hobbies. I told her that a) I didn't have time for them and b) I don't really have any anyhow.

I was thinking in particular of my sad scrapbooking supplies after the plan of cheap and easy grandparent Christmas albums created three years ago during MlleL's infancy went so desperately awry. They were, in fact, neither of those options, and I haven't done anything since.

So I thought to myself, no, I don't really have hobbies.

A few nights ago, however, it occurred to me that I just wasn't thinking of the right hobbies. Because, in fact, I do have hobbies. Currently, I run and I write. Sometimes I do both at the same time, and then I trip for lack of attention to the first. And actually, there's a third.

It's hard to think of excersise as a hobby - particularly since a) I am not very fast, b) I cannot run for great distances, and c) I am, at best, sporadic in my achievements. Let's say once or twice a week. But really, I guess, that's a hobby.

And just because I don't post more frequently doesn't mean I'm not thinking about writing a lot more. Often, I'm worrying that I don't have the right voice - or that I'm not consistent with its use. I wonder if the nicknaming of my friends and loved ones is more annoying than good. I worry that my entries are not interesting enough - that the everyday minutia of working and momming and cooking aren't that interesting to the greater crowd. Or I worry about how to get more people interested. (Yes, it's about writing, but I'm goal oriented. It's numbers, baby. Numbers. Training dies hard.)

Sometimes I wonder about grammar, but then I reread to edit.

And then finally, I start to worry. I spend hours helplessly entertaining myself. I have a secret fear of Husband not coming home from errands. I worry for the kids. I think about you. Because, my dears, I really am Mr. Maiden all femmed up. I manage to restrain the general anxiety and worries for the future most of the time through careful inspection of the logical and statistical likelihood of occurance (no, crazy, it's extremley unlikely that Husband will be attacked in the bathroom of this backwoods gas station for being a brown fella - even if it IS in the middle of nowhere, and if he is, he does hold several black belts in various marial arts so he'll probably come out any second now), but when there's big change afoot, I'm a snappish, worrying looooonatic.

I'm sure it'll work out. It'll work out, right? They'll be nice there? There will be somewhere to make/get coffee? They'll think I'm doing a good job and that I'm smart enough? I'll get the commute worked out?

I mean, I guess I could always run. If I'm late, I could always write a note by means of explanation...

Dang it.

2008-11-10T21:13:00.002-05:00

I just sent me spam of Michelle Obama naked. Ick. I mean, I'm sure she's a handsome woman. It's just that I'm not so into seeing first ladies naked. Or really, any ladies naked.

But I can't mark me as spam, right? Cause' then, what if I emailed me again with something important?

How would I know???

The ugly side of the 50s wife

2008-11-07T20:36:00.003-05:00

A few years ago, I declared that if dinner was required shortly after I returned home from work, there would be nights I would need help. Specifically, I would like someone else to cook for me.

What I got instead was a crock pot. I say crock pot, because it's actually a Rival, the original maker of the slow cooker. It wasn't just any crock pot, it was a smart pot. And it was even slightly programmable, in that I could select the temperature (high or low) for a specified period of time, after which it was to turn to a warm setting.

I had such hopes for her, my tidy little oval wifey cooking me my dinner. So pleased to think of her watching over my tasty stews while I thought about you know, budgets and stuff. Welcoming me home with open arms and the scent of my dinner bubbling happily away.

As it turned out, Husband did not like her cooking. MlleL did not like her cooking. (and secretly, I did not either, but I made all of us eat it anyhow.) Husband complained that it was dry, and tried to talk me out of future dates. I refused to consider that meat that had been stewing all day in its own juices lovingly cared for by wifey could be dry. How could it????

Well, it was, and it has been for the whole time, really.

And tonight? Tonight was the last straw, my dear. I'm tired of you not listening and burning my food. Your lack of communication confuses me. How could it have gone so wrong? You're on your way out. Oh, yes. That's right. After what you did to my pot roast, cooked for only four hours from FROZEN, I went on-line to read about your escapades.

It seems you've been burning everyone's dinner. And not in a cute, 'caution, hot dish' way either. In a horrible, dry, grey, hard to chew, not even homemade gravy makes it that much better fashion.

Dude. I'm getting a divorce. And I'm looking for a mistress.