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.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
March already.
I am frequently told to blog more.
I know, I sigh. I know.
It's not that I'm not thinking of you all, my guests, waiting patiently for another funny story, it's just that I'm presently a little lacking in the funny.
I can tell you about MlleL, when being chastized by our care provider last week, cocked her head, looked her right in the eye and said 'you know, we're looking for another daycare because you boss me around.'
I can tell you that MlleL has begun to crack the written code and is reading words.
I can regale you with stories of french and half-marathon training (again). (For both)
I can tell you of the magic power Janey has - after a somewhat damp coffee session last week, she suggested doing something more fun, and cupcake samples magically appeared by our sides. Red velvet with cream cheese icing. (Cupcakes DO make EVERYTHING more fun.)
I can tell you about the remarkable lack of humour shown by the parking attendants in Hull (sketchy lot) who, after their spectacularly bad advice resulted in me losing my parking last month, didn't even crack a smile this morning at 6 AM when I presented myself, unwashed and still in pajamas, on the off chance there were some passes yet unclaimed for the month of March. (There were. Awesome. I'm back in business!!)
There are, of course, the worries left unsaid, which creep in and disrupt my sleep, allowing the fibro to stake its insidious claim to further territories of my body, like for example, my hips and hands. (Listen, Fibro, we've lived together for a while and I understand that no amount of medication will make you go anywhere, but I feel like I can speak to you frankly. I need my hips, and I really, really need my right hand, particularly my thumb. So please understand that this comes from a place deep inside of me when I encourage you most sincerely to get bent. The hands are mine. I already licked them.)
But for now, for you, my beloved guests, I search for the funny.
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.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My Daily Mystery
Their apartment is situated just across from my office at school - at the top floor of what I assume to be a three story walk up.
The very kind in which Husband and I lived in the early days.
Each day, I see one or both of the in their bathroom slippers and robes for frequent ciggy breaks on their balcony, to the railing of which is tied a plastic owl. They must be having problems with interlopers of one kind or another.
It is the middle of the day, during a space of a couple of weeks. Could it be that they work the night shift? Their faces are young but worn. Her hair is recently cut and colored and her nails painted a dark red, and yet she stands hard in her robe, sweeping the balcony of any dirt as she smokes the first of today's cigarettes. The broom remains at the ready throughout the day, propped in the corner of the railing.
They have a bucket for the butts, and neatly tuck them in, their hair trendy and their tv, and its endless talk shows, is almost big enough for me to read the subtitles.
They are watching Judge Judy.
He is pacing again - he's always pacing - now in a jacket and slippers, dressed but for the slippers.
What do they do, in their apartment all day? What has prematurely aged them so? Their faces grey, lined and unsmiling as they pace with a cigarette.
What keeps them trapped so, with only their balcony as an escape?
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?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Special K
See, with the return to school, I've thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be considered rude to be eating my breakfast (cooked oatmeal) in front of the instructor on one-on-one training and conjugating with my mouth full.
Since mornings are so tough here at the Casa Valentine time-wise, (seriously, I'm late every, every, every day.) I figured I'd give Special K a shot, I mean, there's 1.25 cups in a serving, it's dump in the bowl and chew, and two points is two points, right?
HA. From what I can tell, the Special K Challenge is not to lurch so much when you're wandering the halls looking for foooood, tasty fooooood so as not to alert your prey.
Stupid Special K. Stupid Christmas weight.
Lovely, lovely microwaved rolled oats. Thanks for taking me back. I'll never, never leave you again.
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
soooooooo
I may be back. I'll try not to write in French, but am feeling very pleased with myself for having written a long and rambling email en Francais to Mrs. Maiden. Take THAT traductrice!!
Heh.
So, for those of you who may not have guessed, I'm off to French training for 10 weeks. 10 weeks of one on one, private French training. I speak it for hours every day, with someone nodding and jotting notes of errors down as I babble on, listing tasks, and responsibilities and making up a Departmental mandate. You know, which seems to be to help Canadians. Ummm, throughout their lives. Especially training. And maybe when they're old, but also, when they're young too.
I'm gonna rock that exam.
In other news, the real estate market is so hot that several days ago, I came home to the following note, addressed to the Valentine Family, and written on yellow lined paper in red pen:
"Dear Valentine Family,
Hi,
My Name is Peter Fisher.
Doris and I would like to
$BUY$
Your House at
(my address here)
Please call us at
PH# (presumably, his phone number here)
Thanks,
Peter"
I know it seems strange, and kinda creepy, but I'm tempted to find out just how much Peter is willing to $PAY$ for the Casa Valentine....
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....
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wow.
Well.
That was a hell of a couple of weeks!! Whew. I'd like to thank Janey for encouraging me to train for the half - I think that the work definitely paid off in the endurance sport that is preparing for Christmas.
Am I the only one that feels that way? Sometimes I think that if I were a better mom and wife, I'd get all the baking done (no scorching), presents bought and wrapped, house cleaned, work done, sexiness fulfilled, and all of the other stuff and still feel all Christmassy and what-not.
Which is not to say that well, aside from the the heavily browned short breads (danged oven) I didn't get most of that list accomplished, but three guesses as to what was left off?
I was rereading this year, thinking of the year in review, and was struck by how much things stay the same.
January: complaining about lack of food and sleep. Hah. Just wait for this January's update.
February: A compilation of conversations, including how Husband and I stayed up all night bailing a flooding window well to avoid a basement flood. Awesome. Gruelling.
March: MlleL and the great Pony Rodeo. Hee.
April: Signed up for the 10k, and talked about dating - in general, not in my immediate experience, y'all.
May: I complained about lack of boobs and concentration. And how hard it is to run. Ran a 10k.
June: What it's like to shop like a mom. And may have signed up for a half marathon.
July: Time management issues, a sinus infection, and more about how hard it is to run. Oh. And KISS live. Still, awesome.
August: Family vacation. 20th reunion. Figuring out where home really was.
September: More complaining about what bras do to me. Ran a half-marathon. Turned 38.
October: MasterP turned 2.
November: American Thanksgiving. More lists.
December: yet again, complaining about boobs.
How do you read this?
This year, I shall endeavor not to complain about boobs or bras quite so much. Maybe I'll post more often.
If the last couple of weeks are any indication, though, I'll probably do some complaining about lack of food and sleep, how hard it is to run, and well, maybe some lists thrown in for good measure.
Nothing if not consistent.
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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sad for us all
There are several truths about me. One is the fact that a bra is generally one of the first things I put on. Always. Ok, well, pretty much always.
This past weekend, just after I had showered before heading out to Brother In Law's 40th birthday party, and in the midst of dressing myself, not yet successful in the search for clean supportive garments, I was accosted by the outfit sported by MlleL.
"Wow", I said. "Goodness... That's......" Well, it was polka dots. That's what it was. Leggings and a tunic, all in different dots. "Let me see what I can do to find some other leggings."
"They're all in the wash." She said, "These are the ones I could find."
"Uhh," I said, as I dug around looking in the laundry (clean) basket. "How about.... Well.... I see what you mean."
"Mama," she said, clearly distracted and gesticulating towards my naked torso "why do they look so, um, soft? They look like they're lying down and taking a nap."
Right. Aaaand, back to the hunt for a bra.
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.
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