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.
Showing posts with label Sigh..... Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sigh..... Show all posts
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Changes....
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.
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.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Writer's Block
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?
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?
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Mrs. Maiden, political activist
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dreams used and wasted
In update to MlleL and the zombies:
The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....
I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]
Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....
In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.
I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laser to help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.
This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something like Velcro in my leg.
Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husband among them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.
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.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Boss Lady
I'm having domestic help issues.
As I scrubbed the upstairs bathroom this weekend, I tried to remember the last time I did it. I don't think I can. Could it really be sometime this spring, before Lolo's hospitalization? Very probably.
LACKLUSTER. (please note: spray and wipe has been done relatively frequently. I've also cleaned the tub in recent memory. It's just the deeper stuff that has been left to its own devices. The floor, for example.)
We have a running joke in the Casa Valentine that someone needs to speak with the cleaning lady (that'd be us). She's not very good. (Well, we're busy!) In fact, we routinely question why we're paying her. (We're not. Maybe we should?)
But then today, as I heated up my leftovers for lunch in the kitchen at work, I took a good assessing look at them and found them to be somewhat sub-par. They were: 2 whole wheat tortillas with reheated chopped steak. (Not so bad, but distinctly lacking in chlorophyll.)
But then I thought of what husband had: 1 hot dog and 3/4 sausage with the rest of the steak bits on top and 1/2 corn on the cob left-over from last night. No buns, no sauce. Husband gamely called it meat mosh and some corn. I totally put that together for him and called it lunch. That's not cool. Not cool at all.
Our personal chef is heading for a smacked bottom.
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.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Drama!!
oh my goodness.
I was going to be writing another whine about being sick, and tired, and one of the worst fibro streaks in recent memory (seriously. It hurt to wear clothes and use my powder brush. Shit.)
But right now?
RIGHT NOW???
I can't breathe, because I'm watching Finn sing 'Jesse's girl'. Um.
Can't talk.
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.
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