Category Archives: My failing sanity

At least we can calculate the volume of a sphere.

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It’s a good thing today is Pi Day – pancakes for lunch to celebrate the fact that we can calculate their area! – because otherwise I would be in a complete state of bitchery, rather than a partial one. Time change fills me with impotent rage every year; every year I think of the futility of moving the clocks around and I am furious that this outmoded imaginary concept is still a thing. Why are we forced to deal with crabby people and car accidents and general confusion two times a year, not to mention the children, oh god, won’t someone please think of the CHILDREN? It just doesn’t make sense.

Worse yet is the idiots who continually say such things as “It’s for the farmers.” Who started that rumour? Was it just to prove that people will believe anything, no matter how ridiculous? If I was a part of the farming community, I would be so pissed off that Daylight Saving Time was attributed to me and my ilk. Do you know who doesn’t care what time the clock says? FARMERS. Farmers get up and work when it’s DAYLIGHT, they don’t punch a time card on a clock. Daylight Saving Time is NOT for the farmers, it was originally established as a wartime measure to save on electricity, and do you know what? THERE IS NO EMPIRICAL EVIDENCE TO SUGGEST THAT THIS WORKS ANY MORE OR IF IT EVER DID. So don’t tell me it’s for the farmers, and don’t tell me this is a good way to be environmentally savvy because IT IS NOT.

God, I get so worked up about this every year. It’s ridiculous. Let’s all pour one out for the parents of small children who will be impossible to get to bed on time tonight and who will be impossible to wake up tomorrow morning and who will be sobbing messes for the next several days until their little bodies adjust to the new “time.”

And while I’m on a rampage, here, let me just tell you that words matter, people. If you are the sort of person who enjoys more light later in the evenings, I understand that. I don’t particularly share that view, being an early morning person, but I understand it. Here’s what I hate: when people say “I like that extra hour of daylight.” NO. That is not how it works. That’s not how any of this works! Oh, you enjoy the extra hour? Why not move our clocks ahead three hours? Why not 12 hours, then we can have 24 hours of daylight! There is the exact same number of daylight hours as there were before Daylight Saving Time, it’s just adjusted differently. So do not tell me that you like the extra hour because there IS NO EXTRA HOUR.

I love early morning light but I would be willing to give it up for you late evening people if it meant NO MORE CHANGING THE CLOCKS. If someone in a powerful position woke up tomorrow and said Let’s just leave the time where it is right now I would be perfectly accepting of the situation. But since no one – NO ONE – has the balls to do this, I am fated to semi-annual rages until the end of time, or until I do something drastic like move to Hawaii, whichever comes first.

Why does no one have the balls to do this? I don’t know. Are all our politicians in cahoots with the time change lobby group? Is there a time change lobby group? Since there is no empirical benefit to time change, there probably isn’t a lobby group, so why is this happening?

Yes. This is the hill I am going to die on.

I’ll never look at Cookie Monster the same way again.

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If I was a person who analyzed my dreams, or took the interpretations to really mean something, then I might be worried. Usually my dreams are incredibly dull; folding laundry for hours on end, for example, is a common dream of mine. But Saturday night I had a vivid dream that I was supposed to make a cake to look like Cookie Monster. It was incredibly agitating; whoever was asking me for this cake specified that it could not be round, it had to be the exact shape of Cookie Monster’s body. I kept stressing out about the EYES, how would I make EYES to look like Cookie Monster? What kind of decorating tool would I use or could I buy something that would be like an eye. And the mouth – oh, god, I didn’t want to make a mouth out of black food colouring. Then, when I went to bake the actual cake in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, the oven wouldn’t heat to 350 degrees. Instead, it heated to all sorts of strange and unusual temperatures: 414, 273, etc. I woke up in a panic about it and then wondered, why Cookie Monster? My kids haven’t watched Sesame Street in many years. That was weird.

My friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) suggested it sounded like an anxiety dream. If so I should have had it last Thursday; Friday morning I had a physical with my doctor. Now, I’m very healthy and have no issues, but I was due for a Pap test. Menfolk, you might want to consider not reading on, if you happen to be squeamish about women’s issues. First of all, my period is due any day now, and so I was worried Aunt Flo would arrive 20 minutes before my appointment and I would have to rebook. Again. The only reason I had this appointment was because I was scheduled for a Pap five weeks ago, and my period unexpectedly shown up. I was worried this would happen again, and again, and again, and I would have to call the office and rebook constantly. If there’s one thing I hate to do, it’s phoning for appointments.

Why is making appointments over the phone so hard? I dread it; it’s almost like I hate committing that time to an appointment. There never seems to be a good time for anything; and then once I figure out an appointment that will work for me, it’s not available, and we start all over again.

Anyway, Aunt Flo stayed home and I was able to carry on with my appointment. All signs point to healthy; and then it was time for the Pap. My doctor – who I really do like, and who I really do feel is a good doctor – could not find my cervix. Longtime readers will know that this is not the first time this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. The only doctor who did NOT have a problem finding my cervix was a woman, and although it is a small sample size – one that I do not want to get any larger, three different hands up in my business is quite enough, thank you – I think it is significant, if not statistically, then emotionally.

Time goes slowly when one’s feet are in stirrups, so a solid ten minutes of speculum-prodding feels like hours. The doctor asked me TWICE if I’d had a C-section; I have not, and I’m not sure what C-sections have to do with cervical positioning. I’m not sure I want to know. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “I know this is uncomfortable, I have just never had so much trouble finding a cervix before.”

“Well, you’re not the first,” I told him, “But I’m pretty sure it’s still there.”

Ten minutes and two different speculums later, my cervix was found. Hurrah! Except…”Oh dear, the speculum moved. I have to reposition it.”

Now that I think of it, maybe my Cookie Monster cake dream was a post-traumatic anxiety dream. Maybe my anxiety about making the eyes was some kind of response to the cervical searching, and the big black mouth was a symbol of the cavernous wasteland of my womanhood? In any case, it’s only about 362 days until I have to start thinking about my next Pap test, so carpe diem? Or something.

Eating, Playing, and Making New Friends: It’s A Dog’s Life

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Since nothing says romance like spending the weekend with one’s in-laws, that is exactly what I did. Well, technically we visited my in-laws because it was a long weekend – the kids had Teacher’s Conventions and Monday was Family Day – but the former sounds funnier. It was a really nice weekend, and like the day after every long weekend, yesterday found me frantically catching up on various domestic duties.

Honestly, I know we are all in the same boat, I know this is the most tedious and mundane of topics, but does it ever amaze you the sheer amount of time spent doing things just to keep the household running smoothly? Laundry, for example. Yesterday I spent an enormous amount of time doing laundry, which only results in having to do laundry again today. I also went to two different grocery stores, took the kids to the dentist for a cleaning and checkup, and went to pick up the dog from the kennel. That, along with various meal preparations and resulting kitchen cleanups, comprised my entire day. God, I’m even boring myself talking about it. Domestic drudgery, I swear.

The bright light in my day was picking up the dog from the kennel. It was the first time he had gone to this particular kennel, which is actually not called a kennel at all, but a Pet Resort. The last time Barkley was boarded overnight was in December when we went to Orlando; I was picking him up from the kennel we had always used, and I happened to mention to the fellow working there that I would phone in a week or so to book him in again for this long weekend. I called and it went straight to voice mail. I tried back and it went straight to voice mail. I left a message and my phone number, and no one returned my call. This was around Christmas, so I figured things would be busy – dog boarders are notoriously busy over the holidays.

Something felt strange though, as I continued to call and get the voice mail. My husband and I were headed to Costco just after New Year’s, and I thought I would swing by the kennel to book him in, in person. I had a weird feeling, and sure enough, when we pulled up the sign was gone and a notice of closure was on the door.

First, imagine all the people who would be stranded for dog care during the holidays. Second, imagine all the unsuspecting people who would come to drop their dog off for boarding, only to discover that the kennel was closed. They did not inform any of their customers; I texted a friend who had her dog booked in at the end of January, and she had no idea.

Long story short, on many recommendations I booked Barkley into the Pet Resort and I am very happy I did. They gave him a report card when I came to pick him up, and it was glowing with praise for his friendly and social behaviour, and also his ability to eat no matter what the circumstances. He’s an A+ eater! Barkley had so much fun playing and making new friends was the comment on the report card. Just like when my babies gained the requisite amount of weight at their newborn checkups, and when later they passed dental checkups with nary a cavity, I felt a self-esteem surge at Barkley’s popularity at the Pet Resort. One might say I’m living vicariously through my dog, and taking credit where it is not due, but I will take a boost whenever I can.

Friday morning was foggy, and although to some of you that might sound like no big deal, we do not get a lot of fog on the Prairies. I had to drive Barkley to the Pet Resort, which is just west of the city. I have driven in snowstorms, blizzards, hail, and 90 km/hour wind gusts, but I have never driven in conditions like I did on Friday. The fog was so thick I couldn’t see the highway exit signs until I was just below them; I couldn’t see the cars 25 feet in front of me, and I couldn’t see the side of the road. It was so eerie, like I was actually just in a cloud instead of on the road. The problem was that although I knew approximately where the Pet Resort was, I didn’t know exactly, and I couldn’t see anything; no landmarks, no signs, nothing at all. If I hadn’t been worried about being hit by a similarly-disadvantaged driver, I would have pulled over on the shoulder to cry. As it was I kept telling myself to breathe deeply and to not cry. There was no way out but through, so to speak. I ended up taking several wrong turns in the small commercial district, and resorted to both calling the Pet Resort to try to tell them where I was – which was impossible because I couldn’t actually see where I was – and asking random strangers in parking lots how to get there. Turn at Tractorland, one fellow told me, and although I know that Tractorland is a giant yellow building, the fog was so thick I couldn’t even see it from the road. Finally I did end up in the right place, proving once and for all that even a blind squirrel gets a nut every once in a while.

Panic at the (Electricity-Free) Disco

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Here I was, calmly going about my day, when I heard someone drop something in the mailbox. Hmmm…the mail is early today, I thought, and if my life was a (admittedly very boring) made-for-TV movie, some kind of ominous music would be playing. The soundtrack would then circle to the crazy-sounding, straight-to-the-asylum middle bars of A Day In The Life when I started reading the piece of paper that had been stuck in my mailbox.

People, the electric company is doing maintenance work on a generator in my neighbourhood, and the power is going to be off between 9 and 4 tomorrow. Seven hours with no electricity or heat; for a person who works from home, this is a nightmare on par with the one I have where I’m endlessly folding laundry and then I turn around and there is another, unfolded pile to be done.

Clearly, I would have been a terrible pioneer or settler, because the slightest hardship or inconvenience gives me a Panic At The Disco feeling. How will I make a smoothie tomorrow, I thought worriedly, like the spoiled princess that I am. Why couldn’t this happen during book fair, I thought, as if maybe the electric company was doing this strictly to inconvenience me.

Oh well. I was very productive today prior to this notice, and I have been utilizing our electrical appliances like crazy. I baked brownies and mini-muffins today, and let me just give a shout-out to my friend and YMC colleague Gwen, over at Delightful Adventures. I had been meaning to try her Vegan Gluten Free Gingerbread Loaf, but with regular gluten-full flour, and today I gave it a go. In addition to changing the flour, I also subbed in brown sugar and grapeseed oil, realized that I didn’t have cloves nor all-spice, and then decided to make it into mini-muffins instead of a loaf. In short, I was like one of those awful recipe commenters who say “This was terrible; I changed everything in the recipe and it didn’t work.” Except, it turned out awesome! I’m sure the original must be delicious too; check out Delightful Adventures if you love recipes and gorgeous food photography.

Like Jake’s class did last month, Mark’s class is on a week-long field trip. Unlike Jake’s class, which toured the Board of Education buildings and got to do thrilling things like discuss community collaboration and education funding and sit in on a school board trustee meeting, Mark’s class is actually doing something fun. They are at the Arts Commons, and they are making Greek masks, writing plays, and learning stage-fighting. Methinks Jake’s class got the short end of the stick. Mark’s “partner class” – the one they collaborate with most often – is on a similar field trip, in which they get to focus on Healthy Living. Games, physical activities, and making pizzas is on their agenda, which made me feel even more sorry for Jake’s class. I mean, the highlight for the entire class was seeing the fish tank in the indoor garden. I should point out that these field trips are assigned to the classes, and are not chosen by the teachers or the school – the school board runs them and it is considered a privilege to go. However. Fish tank viewing is not equal to learning to stage fight or making pizza.

Well. Life, as we know, is not always fair, and meanwhile when the power is out tomorrow I think I’ll take Jake out for lunch. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to go to the mall food court for lunch, which has never happened before in the history of his school experience; the mall food court being the epitome of fine dining for a ten-year-old boy.

Speaking of the mall, my mother was in town yesterday and we had a little visit and quick shopping trip. The trip to the mall reminded me why I almost exclusively shop online. People, the Old Navy is a hellhole. A yard sale set up by Mary Ingalls would be better organized. If I took everything out of my drawers and closet and piled it up on my bed, it would look somewhat like the Old Navy displays. It was a bit soul-sucking, but they had a table of boys’ t-shirts advertised for $5 each – discount taken at register! – and my mother chose one for each boy. Do I even need to tell the punch line to this? The discount was NOT taken at the register, and I left feeling like Old Navy Customer Service Has Gone To The Dogs. This $10 in Old Navy Cash feels like blood money, or at least bloody irritation money.

Well, I’m off to prepare for the coming apocalypse/ power outage, and fret that all our food is going to go bad. Fortunately for my comfort, it’s not going to be terribly cold tomorrow. Unfortunately for my food, if the power is off for longer than anticipated, my giant weekend grocery shop will be all for naught.

Chocolate and no more moustaches

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This week has been frantically busy and it’s only Tuesday. Actually, it’s only 6:30 in the morning, on Tuesday, but it feels like it should be at least Thursday. Not to mention it’s December 1; I feel simultaneously like it’s still mid-November but it’s also almost Christmas, so it’s confusing to be in my brain right now.

December 1 marks the unveiling of the Advent calendars! I had bought the boys each a Lindor one, forgetting that my mother-in-law sends them each a calendar as well, so they will be doing fine on the chocolate front. She sent them Kinder Surprise calendars, which makes me feel like I have some kind of contraband. I guess we are not in the US, so it’s not really contraband. Did I mention it’s 6:30 in the morning?

We have a wooden calendar as well, and I used to fill it with treats, and then later I copied Lynn’s idea (HI LYNN) of putting in little slips of paper with fun Christmassy activities for us to do together. However, my creative juices went dry and I would write “go sledding after school” or “read a Christmas book” on at least 50% of the days. Then last year I came up with the idea to write down nice things I noticed about each boy, and put it in the calendar for them to read later. For example “Today I was so happy when you emptied your laundry basket without being asked,” or “Today I liked when you gave your brother a hug when he was feeling down.” I found that by the end of the month they were doing a lot of extra things around the house, so it turned out quite nicely.

I’ve noticed this year some people are doing reverse Advent calendars – putting food for the Food Bank in empty wine cases – or “Acts of Kindness” calendars, and I might try that another year. For now, I’ll stick with this one.

Another great thing about December 1 is that it’s the end of Movember! There are a lot of men who look fine in moustaches; mostly men of my father’s generation or possibly older, and the occasional football coach/ police officer type. Sam Elliott still rocks a moustache, and so does Tom Selleck, but I do still find Movember a bit startling.

 

Hall and Oates

MagnumPI

SamElliott

I had to include Hall and Oates in there.

Happy December, everyone! Time to get on with my day. xo

Rod Stewart performs Sound of Music favourites, and other reasons to live.

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This weekend I got so much done; in addition to all my usual things, I also made sugar cookie dough, gingerbread dough, gingersnaps, banana muffins, and squares. I cleaned the house and we put up the Christmas tree and decorations – no, it’s not too early! – and I was about to finish up addressing my cards when I suddenly started feeling very unwell. I was feeling so unwell that my husband commented on it. Are you okay? Because you don’t look okay. You look terrible.

I’d be insulted if I wasn’t so grateful that he noticed my plight. It turns out that I had suddenly come down with the virus that had the rest of the family down a week earlier: sore throat, tight chest, and fatigue.

Fatigue! Yesterday I felt like I was in a fog; I wandered around the house for five minutes trying to figure out what I needed to do. It turns out, I needed to put a load of laundry in, but the thought process to get there was so taxing I wasn’t sure I could make it. I actually napped, which I never do. Ninety minutes of napping, and then it took me several minutes to figure out how to use my vegetable peeler while I prepped dinner. I was, alarmingly, reminded of Still Alice. It’s just a cold, I’m not coming down with early onset Alzheimer’s…or am I? I thought this over and over until I forgot about it and stared blankly at the sink for a while.

Happily, I feel much better today. I shovelled the snow from the sidewalk and only felt a little bit like dying.

This whole weekend, while I was in festive production mode, I was listening to the Sirius Holly channel, that I mentioned previously. For the most part, it is delightful. I can easily hear multiple renditions of the same song in a three-hour time period, and I will sing along with all of them. I even enjoyed ROD STEWART singing My Favourite Things, which is one of the more bizarre sentences I have written. Me, rolling gingersnap dough in sugar: Brown paper packages tied up with string, these are…hey, this sounds like Rod Stewart. It IS Rod Stewart! That’s weird.

Until this weekend, I would have said that I enjoy all Christmas music immensely, with only one exception: Paul McCartney’s Simply Having A Wonderful Christmastime. That song, to me, is the festive equivalent of Might As Well Go For A Soda. I start to twitch like someone is scratching their nails down a chalkboard. Does anyone actually have chalkboards anymore? You know what I mean.

Anyway, I had always thought that was the worst ever Christmas song. I have a very high tolerance – nay, adoration – of cheesy Christmas songs such as Barry Manilow’s White Christmas or Neil Diamond’s Little Drummer Boy. But once that “Simply having…OH GOD MAKE IT STOP” gets in my head, I feel like I need some kind of medication/ alcohol to remedy the situation. However, from listening to Sirius Holly, I have discovered something even worse.

It’s called Christmas Wrapping.

It is the most tuneless song ever with the most insipid lyrics – and this is coming from someone who goes NUTS to hear Last Christmas by Wham! so I know a little something about insipid holiday lyrics – and it is six and a half minutes long. It also is played on Sirius Holly FREQUENTLY.

My weekend with Christmas Wrapping:

Me, the first time I hear it: Is this song still playing? Wow, it’s really long.

Me, the second time I hear it: Oh god, it’s that song again. What the hell is this song?

Me, the third time I hear it: What the hell? Why are they playing this again?

Me, the fourth time I hear it: THAT IS IT. I AM WRITING AN ANGRY LETTER TO SIRIUS. RIGHT AFTER I FINISH THIS GINGERBREAD.

Me, the fifth time I hear it: I’m losing the will to live.

Me, the sixth time I hear it: *changes channel*

So I’m a little slow. Clearly, I should have gone with step six in the first place. But then I might have missed Bruce Springsteen’s Baby Please Come Home, and that would have been tragic.

And three more…let’s go, ladies!

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Remember that Seinfeld episode where Kramer had one line in a Woody Allan movie – “These pretzels are making me thirsty!” – and George co-opted that line to be a metaphor for his life which, at the time, consisted of a lonely man with no job, no girlfriend, and who was incompetently and temporarily moving cars around the block for money? THESE PRETZELS…ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY!

I thought of that episode a lot last Thursday when I was at the book fair. “The posters are five dollars.” I said this so many times that it truly felt like a metaphor for my life, or maybe my tagline in the made-for-TV movie in which I play the Book Fair Lady Who Encourages A Young Child To Purchase A Lego-Themed Book Rather Than A Highlighter Set That Looks Like Ketchup And Mustard. If this sounds like a less-than-stellar movie, well, I would counter with there have probably been worse films. Waterworld, for example, or Howard the Duck. THE POSTERS…ARE FIVE DOLLARS!

It took me all weekend to get my hands to recover from the incredible amount of hand washing I did on Thursday. My hands are not as yet fully recovered, as they still have a sandpaper feel and the cracks keep catching on my sweater. But oh, the germs in an elementary school in November. The coughing and sneezing into the hands which held the treasured book fair funds was enough to send me into surgeon-scrubbing mode, but there were a few incidents that horrified even seasoned old me.

First, a perfectly pleasant young boy wearing a knitted toque purchased a couple of books and pencils, and after I added his total, he removed his toque to reveal a mop of sweaty hair and a small baggie full of money. I gingerly accepted it, running through my emails in my mind, wondering if there had recently been a lice notice or not. I supposed the money was in the baggie and so it couldn’t have been penetrated by lice anyway, and I wasn’t rubbing my own head with it, but still.

Next, a boy purchased a book and a poster ($5) and when I told him the total, he reached down, took off his shoe, and handed me a moist $10 bill and a damp $2 coin. I stood there with the sweaty goods, horrified, while he smiled and bid me adieu.

Are these children out to get me? Maybe, but in any case, we raised a lot of funds for the library ($3700! Yay!) and I have three more to go! I feel a bit like I’m on the 20 minute workout, but with book fairs instead of leg lifts, and eighteen months instead of twenty minutes. And three more…