An AWARD!!!

Hey y'all!

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

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

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

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

1. Brag about the award.

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

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

4. List at least ten honest things about yourself:

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

Two views:

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

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

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

But he has.

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

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

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

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

March already.

I am frequently told to blog more.

I know, I sigh. I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Daily Mystery

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

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

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

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

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

They are watching Judge Judy.

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

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

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

Special K

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

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

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

Stupid Special K. Stupid Christmas weight.

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

soooooooo

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

Heh.

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

I'm gonna rock that exam.

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

"Dear Valentine Family,

Hi,

My Name is Peter Fisher.

Doris and I would like to

$BUY$

Your House at

(my address here)

Please call us at

PH# (presumably, his phone number here)

Thanks,

Peter"

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

Wow.

Well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

March: MlleL and the great Pony Rodeo. Hee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

October: MasterP turned 2.

November: American Thanksgiving. More lists.

December: yet again, complaining about boobs.

How do you read this?

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

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

Nothing if not consistent.