Another Brick in the Wall

When people learn that at the age of 35 I became a fulltime University student, the first question they usually ask is “But why?” Most of them are happily amnesic about their college days, having long forgotten term paper due dates and final exam cram sessions.

Why did I go back? I was married, in decent financial shape, well into my thirties, and ready to return to work after an extended leave. My return to work after an extended sabbatical was (sadly) not spent “finding myself” by lying on a tropical beach with a rum laden fruity drink in hand, reading the Steinbeck library. It was more like trying to survive while dodging blueberry baby food bombs, studying advanced Lego engineering techniques and honing my negotiating skills with the most difficult of demagogues, a strong-willed, half-naked, plastic hammer toting toddler.

My two kids were healthy and happy in school and well-adjusted. I was now looking forward to the “rest of my life.” But as my time alone grew, so did nagging thoughts of what I had not accomplished. I had never graduated from high school, having dropped out when the opportunity to make minimum wage at a gas station seemed infinitely more exciting than listening to the hypnotic droning of a musty sweatered history teacher.

So after my kids went back to school for the 2006 school year, so did I. I needed several credits to graduate and secure my admission as a mature student to University. I received my high school diploma at the tender age of 34, only 10 years before my daughter will do so. Finally I felt qualified to help her with her homework. Grade five math still makes my head hurt, and I often cry, but I can now dry my tears on my high school diploma.

I applied to and was accepted by the University of Guelph to study for my English degree, which I am fully confident will amply qualify me to work at any local English factory.  In other words, what the hell am I going to do when I finish? When all is said and done, I will be five years older, $50,000 deeper in debt, and likely 15 pounds heavier, since the University of Guelph is like going to book club at The Mall of America food court.

As I approach the end of my run as a student, I am a little worried that all it will garner me is the dubious honour of standing in the unemployment line whilst holding my diploma and still wearing my graduation robe and mortar board. I am sure the tassel will be long gone, likely having found a use as a noose for some G.I. Joe figure or transformer zip line.  But I imagine those feelings are no different from any other recent “mature” University graduates fear. Right? Right?

So why did I go back? Because it was something just for me, and something that with the proper effort would likely secure me employment not merely requiring “soul rental” for eight hours a day.  It would allow me to learn things I could not have learned anywhere else. It was animated discussion, constructive argument and spirited debate. And that was just while standing in line deciding what latte to get at the campus Starbucks. I LOVE University.

Higher education is about much more than memorizing dates and analyzing literature and rhetorical devices. My thinking was stretched to the point that I heard audible pops from deep within my cranium. I cried over novels, lost sleep at exam time, thought only of GPA’s, and tried in vain to form a Russian Revolution study group with my elementary school aged children, but they were all, “Help us find the green Lego monster eyes. We wanna play Legggooooo…”

Going to back to University full-time while being a fulltime parent to two kids has been challenging, fantastic, difficult, rewarding and exhausting. Friday nights find me co-coordinating school mate sleepover and class field trip permission slips, not clubbing or doing keg stands. Hey – no judgment – I’d likely go if I were invited, but somehow being the oldest on the class doesn’t score you popularity points. You will, however, be the first person they all look at for a firsthand account of Reagan era- economics in Political Science lectures.

My student loans will be paid back just in time to start helping my daughter with hers. And if I am kept working poor for a while to pay them back, I will still have my education. I may be burning my diplomas for heat, and I hear that some Psychology department heads are in cahoots with the Student Loan Office to “erase” educational experience on default of loan payment, but for now, my University education is the one thing of mine that cannot be repossessed. My van however, is an entirely different matter , and those Led Zeppelin stickers make it that much more valuable.

Fakebook

Facebook is making me feel bad. Too many of my “friends” are having fun and interesting lives, and it is starting to depress me by comparison. I receive live updates all day long about how fantastic things are for them and while the truth is that I am happy for them because they deserve every happiness, it does make one examine their own state. But keep it coming, I say, because I love seeing happy holiday pictures and contented messages. That way, I can live vicariously through your updates.

But with my own life currently being held together with dollar store duct tape, I have to sometimes dig deep in order to post anything other than “Eh…” as my status.  I’m going to start making stuff up to post, just to make myself appear less pathetic. If you suddenly notice that I am dating a future prince, spending the day overseeing the washing of my yacht or flashing my newest bauble, this is your heads up that it is PROBABLY NOT REAL. (Although the PM assures me that he is indeed descended from the Royal House of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glücksburg. You can start calling me “Your Royal Highness” now  if you’d like. You know what? Just do it anyway.)

But other than that, the other stuff is purely fictious. From now on I am going to “Fakebook.”

I’m going to have to in order to maintain some street cred. See for yourself; here are a random sampling of typical comments I read daily, as compared with my current reality below:

Woke up to hubby serving me eggs Benedict in bed!

Woke up and couldn’t breathe. Thought I had pneumonia, but it was just my 5-year-old sitting on my chest and sticking his fingers in my nose.

Just had a great review at work! Boss said he’s overly impressed with my accomplishments. Received a huge raise and new great benefit package, too!

Got paper back with a “C+” Prof says I am “capable of more” if only I were to “apply myself and dedicate more time to research.”  I hope my next essay is on what dog breed I will never buy , or the special attributes of a “Fire Type Maxus Draganoid Bakugan.”

Bank made error and doubled my savings account interest this month. For my honesty in reporting they are letting me keep it!  Drinks on me!

Considered asking the optometrist if the kids could rake her yard in exchange for exam and new glasses.  If she says no, I’m having a drink.

Apple picking at the local organic orchard. Been invited to stay for wagon rides and cookout.

Ran out of gas on Main Street while heading to store for hotdog buns. Smelly guy on adult tricycle offered me a ride home in his carrier. Who knew a milk crate duct taped to a bike fender could be so comfy?

Came home to find house sparkling! Forgot cleaners were coming today.

Came home to find two unflushed toilets.

Only two more days until we are sipping Champagne Mimosas ocean side on our annual three-week getaway to Fiji! Off to get more sunscreen!

Only two more days until my annual root canal. Apparently my teeth are made of sponge toffee. Off to get more Advil!

Nighttime stories read, prayers done, dinner dishes washed…now sweetie and I watching “When Harry met Sally.”

Hid Bakugan comics to avoid reading to son, used Lord’s name in vain (twice), put paper plates in over flowing garbage can…now watching Biggest Loser and eating ½ bag stale M&M’s I found under couch.

Drifting off to sleep after a great massage by hubby.

Went to bed, only to realize sheets and blanket were in dryer and still wet. Raked Lego off couch and crashed with oatmeal crusted throw pillow and hair dye stained beach towel.

But it’s not all bad. I “like” all their great news and hope their luck continues. But if it doesn’t, I am here to commiserate, because sometimes an authentic “been there, done that” is just what you need to feel better, or to at least feel that you are not the only one living the blooper reel from “Married with Children”, except in my case without the “Married” part.

Then, last night, along came the proverbial “kick in the chops.” A pop-up message appeared in my Facebook side bar. The man behind the curtain noticed I have several mutual friends with another member, and urged me to accept a “suggestion” to become “friends” and “reconnect” with this person.

 Who?

 My ex-husband.

Beating the Christmas Rush

This past Sunday I went to Canadian Tire (think Home Depot but with winter clothing) to stock up on discounted Halloween decorations and additional disguises for my son.  Turns out I was too late for the Halloween bargains – they were all gone; replaced with something more “seasonable appropriate.”

What I could buy however, was a 6-foot inflatable Santa Claus in a helicopter with operational chopper blades. Store staff wore Elf hats, and I could detect a mulled cider odour coming through the ductwork. Immediately upon entry my children began talking of  their “Christmas lists” and started pleading for Nerf Vulcan Blaster machine guns, 6000 piece Lego kits and dogs. I checked my Blackberry, and yes, it was indeed November 1^st. Which, for those of you confused by Daylight Savings Time, is still just the day after Halloween.

When I got home I saw my neighbours pulling the ghoul and goblin figures off of their roof.  Halloween is over and they were clearly done. But a few hours later, I noticed they had replacing them with 12 brightly painted plywood reindeer.

I love Christmas too, but what about the concept of delayed gratification?

Why the hurry? Starting the Christmas celebration on November 1^st  means that there will be 55 days of Christmas. Are they not called the 12 days of Christmas? It’s not the 55 days of Christmas, and I’m sure that not just because it was too difficult to think of 55 rhymes verses for a song, although I have some suggestions –  all including “a man from Nantucket.” 

It’s bad enough that the Sears Wish Book was delivered in August and my kids have committed the toy section to memory. I am afraid when they visit Santa at the mall, they’ll just give him page numbers: “I want a page 345, a page 406 – but the blue one, and a page 452. With turbo booster.”

Last year, I got into “the spirit” way too early. By Boxing Day, I was so sick of holly berries, spray painted pinecones and glitter balls that when the kids returned home from a visit at their Grandmother’s house, they found me struggling to the curb with a naked Christmas tree and bags of used tinsel. At the door were 6 large Rubbermaid bins of Christmas decor waiting to be jammed into the storage shed. I just wanted it GONE.

Christmas cannot happen yet! Not until all the Halloween candy has been eaten and I have raked the leaves. My lawn mower is still parked in the middle of the backyard, waiting for me to either gain ambition or succumb to the circulating neighbourhood petition. And you want to me to hang lights and a wreath? I still have a 4-foot black tarantula with a skeleton head and red light up eyes on my front door. And I like her there! I haven’t had a solicitor or religious converter knock in two weeks.  

Maybe for Christmas I’ll just stick some holly in her eye sockets to make her more seasonably appropriate. I’ll tell the kids she’s the “Christmas Arachnid” and that she delivers gift and goodies in her egg sack to well-behaved children, and eats the bad ones. And the kids who insist on playing “Alvin and the Chipmunks” Christmas CD on loop rotation for the 6 weeks that sandwich December 25? She spins them in a web.

It’s a good thing Alvin doesn’t have his front teeth, because if he did, I’d punch them out. 

Please don’t think that I have a “humbug” attitude or that I am just too lazy to change the seasonal décor. It’s more than that. I am perfectly happy with calendar pages that still show wicker “horn of plenties” spilling harvest vegetables, not glittery Christmas scenes. I am in no hurry. I live in Canada, remember? It gets cold here. You need to buy your kids their winter jackets at the end of August and they can maybe take them off for 5 minutes in April.

I do love Christmas, but I love it more in December. Can we please take November off? I just got over University midterms, sewing Halloween costumes, and battling Swine flu and the chest cold from h-e-double toothpicks. I want to cozy up on the couch with a pitcher of Margarita’s, a mixing bowl of guacamole and the DVD of M*A*S*H Season 5 for a few weeks.

If I smell a spiced plum candle, encounter a shopping mall Santa or get an angel shaped sugar cookie from a well-meaning neighbour, I’m gonna lose my Christmas crackers.

The Pre-Teen Parenting Paradox

My ten year old daughter is a funny, beautiful, talented and intelligent girl. She is also utterly and completely exhausting. But not in the physical sense that my son is; he wears me out, yes, but nothing that a hot bath, a bottle of Shiraz, and a good cry can’t cure.

Pre-teen girls, I am discovering, are exhausting on an entirely different level. It’s like comparing the pain of a toe stubbed through steel-toe safety shoes to a leg fractured in a fall down seven flights of wet, uncarpeted stairs. That was set incorrectly and then had to be re-broken.

She’s been off school all week with the flu. Despite her being sick, I have really enjoyed having her around all week. It’s been nice spending the one on one time with her, and her insights on some things are so dead-on that I am wondering where I was while she had this huge developmental leap. Turns out, however, that I was lulled into a false sense of complacency, and was bold enough to even start thinking that if this was how complacent and reasonable she was now, these pre-teen years are going to be a breeze.

Turns out it must have been the fever talking, because once she recovered, things were back to normal.

She is a girl who WANTS details, but you should so NOT give them to her. She will kill you with questions about contingency plans, backup strategies and worst case scenarios. I ask her if she wants to walk to downtown to get ice cream for dessert, and she’s drawing maps of the town’s underground sewer system in case there is road construction that would prevent us from getting within a block of the store.

So I thought up a method that I thought would give me an accurate account of her state of health, but without getting all convoluted and distorted. Smart, right?  

Me: How do you feel right now on a scale of 0 to 100?

Her: What?  

If at your best you are a 100, and worst is a 0, how do you feel now?

Zero is the worst?

Yes.

Wouldn’t zero be dead then? That’s your worst.

Okay. Zero is dead. How do you feel?

I don’t know. (Looks pensive)

Why is this hard for you?

The “50” is throwing me off.

What? Why? Why the 50?

Well, I don’t know if I’ve ever had a “50” day. My days are really good or really bad. Can we get a dog?

No. So what is today then? A good day or a bad day?

If we can’t get a dog then it’s a bad day.

Like 50?

A demented dog would be 50. I’m not there yet.

Focus please! Forget about a dog. WE ARE NOT GETTING A DOG.

Even a one eyed, one-legged, demented dog? I would take care of it and pull it in the wagon.

The wagon is broken. Your brother bungee corded his bike to it and rode it down the hill and…LISTEN TO ME! How are you feeling? (I, for one, am not feeling so good at this point. I have started sweating and my heart is palpitating.)

What are you getting at? Why do you want to know?

Because I need to know if you feel strong enough to go back to school tomorrow. You’ve been gone a week and you were exhausted and lethargic the entire time.

What does lethargic mean?

Tired. HOW DO YOU FEEL RIGHT NOW?

Why don’t you ask me if I am tired then? That would be easier.

(A pause while I root through my purse for my blood pressure medication.)  Are you tired today?

Ehh…I’m about a 76.4 I guess.

Forget the therapy jar; I’m saving for law school. This girl could wear down Gloria Allred, Johnnie Cochrane and Edward Greenspan. Before breakfast.

Finger Poised on the Panic Button

I hate it when my kids are really sick.

I hate the feeling of powerlessness, the anxiety, the lost sleep, the what-ifs, the second guessing. During the flu season it’s tempting to just stock the larder, gather bushels of root vegetables and simply close your family indoors from October to April. If you know me, you understand that this is SO NOT AN EXAGGERATION. I am a worry wart, dipped in hypochondria, deep-fried in panic and served with a side of hysteria. I am a party, no?

But my kids are social creatures, and so isolation would work for exactly 2.4 hours. I wouldn’t even have a chance to slice the first potato for soup. This past few weeks, flu season has hit my area – hard. Be it Type A, Type B, H1N1, Hong Kong Chicken, whatever, among the first in its line of sight was my 10-year-old.

Poor Dog Lover has been home for a week. It seems like the worst of it has passed for her, but despite getting 12-14 hours of sleep a night, she remains just exhausted and looks so sad. She is missing her first dance this Friday and I am afraid I am going to have to hide the calendar, unplug the cable TV and attempt to convince her that she has NOT missed Halloween, even though she will likely sleep through it. We’ll simply have to do it another day. The neighbours won’t be surprised to see my kids in costume on a regular Wednesday night, but the asking for candy may seem a little weird. I guess I could go myself and tell homeowners I am collecting candy for “my sick child.” But, that didn’t work the last 3 times I tried it, so I am holding out little hope this year.

Dingly Butter Nuts seems fine. He moves too quickly for anything microscopic to take hold. Plus he has that protective peanut butter and jam coating.

There is a wreath of garlic hanging from my front door, and in typical protectionist fashion, I have consumed enough of it to frighten any vampires out of the tri-county area. I’ve incorporated every old wives tale for fighting flu that I’m aware of. And there are plenty suggestions floating around out there right now. I just about had her ready to submit to a mustard chest plaster by promising her a dog for Christmas, but she saw my fingers crossed behind my back in the window reflection. If I get an email today saying that painting all the rooms in your house bright orange zigzag stripes will actually scare flu viruses away, I am heading for Home Depot for drop cloths and masking tape.

All of our windows are fogged with vaporizer steam, and our house smells like an Italian kitchen with all of the fresh garlic and Oil of Oregano I am doling out. I bought the 6 pack Jumbo size Kleenex boxes, made a big batch of homemade chicken soup, and a military size drum of antiseptic wipes. We have Astragalus, Elderberry, Lavender, Eucalyptus, Oscillococcinum, and Toe of Newt at the ready. We are armed for battle.

But she seems on the mend, and is mostly tired and bored now. I have played countless games of sick bed Scrabble, participated in pre-teen magazine quizzes, and watched so much Teletoon that I am now dreaming in animation. We were without internet access for a few days, and when I told her that when I was sick as a child, all I got was 3 channels on a black and white television, she said, “But that was back in the medieval times!”

I think she’ll be getting that mustard chest plaster after all.

Won’t Someone Please Think of the Children?

Please don’t ask me to babysit. I don’t like it, and I am not good at it.

I have a bad habit of talking to children as thought they were adults. I’ve discovered that when you take a 6 year old boy to McDonald’s and say “Before you place your order, please gauge your hunger level commensurate with the amount of food provided in Happy Meal as compared to the 6 pack chicken and separate fries option,” they just stare at you. Then they start to cry and tell strangers that you are not their mom.

I love having play dates over for my kids, though. But those kids are here to play; it’s anytime I am bound to keep them longer than 6 hours and have their medical information on file that the trouble starts. Play dates are not the same thing as babysitting. Those kids are here just for fun; all I am required to do is put out food and clean up spills. Well, at least provide a cloth so that they can clean up the spills. Or just wordlessly point to the linen cupboard and spray cleaner while giving them the stink eye. Whatever.

Please do not think me cold. I understand how hard it is to do that job well. I think that being an excellent caregiver to other people’s children is one of the hardest jobs in the world. Which is EXACTLY WHY I DON’T DO IT. Did you see the words “hardest” and “ever” in that sentence?

I appreciate and love my child care provider. I can’t even call her that anymore because she is now a close friend, but no longer my sitter. The day she decided to go back to school and stop providing childcare, I cried harder than when my husband left. I’M KIDDING. Okay. I’m not.

I love my sweet, sweet Ms. X. I am not telling you her name because I want to keep her to myself. She is one of the nicest people I know, AND she likes appreciates the culinary wonders of bacon as much as I do. It’s like we were meant to be.

If I ever did become a child care giver, here’s how my ad would look:

__________________________________________________

Frazzled, impatient mother of two now providing child watching services. Daily breakfasts will be served by showing child where in pantry to locate fruit cups, pudding packs and granola bars.

I find lunch to be generally overrated, but if you do wish your child eat a meal before 5 pm, please include preferences from list: carpet lint, stale saltines or leftover guacamole. If the planets align and I have both bread AND cheese, as well as the inclination, grilled cheese sandwiches may possibly be provided. Fresh fruit is available, but will be permitted only if children remember to put the knives into the dishwasher after they finish slicing the watermelons.

Circle time is held daily, and includes such learning games as “Making Jeni coffee – the RIGHT way,” “Proper Ways to Stain Removal and other Laundry Chores,” and “Yard Work Builds Character.” Please provide your child with a roll of toilet paper, as I cannot always promise that there will be any in the bathroom. Actually, give them two rolls. My son ran out yesterday.

Child must be inventive and adventurous, and enjoy playing independently and OUTSIDE. I have things to do in the house. Send child in clothing you care little to nothing for, as tree climbing, creek walking and general leaving me alone are all highly encouraged.

Some level of numeracy is expected, especially the numerals “9” and” 1.”

Hours of availability are from 11 am until 2 pm. Earlier drop-offs are permitted, but expect to have door answered by Medusa-haired baggy eyed woman in threadbare Led Zeppelin T-shirt and men’s XXL track pants secured with baling twine. Tim Horton’s coffee (large; milk only) is happily accepted as bribery and your best bet to securing warm and loving environment for your child before 9am.

Crafts are discouraged. That’s what we have nursery schools for; crafts and getting chickenpox over with. T.V. is permitted, although children’s programming is rarely tolerated, especially if M*A*S*H reruns are on. We pray at the altar of Dr. Benjamin Hawkeye Pierce here, so children must be comfortable with depictions of gaping chest wounds and understand Korean war-era lingo. Okay, Hot Lips?

While I cannot at this time offer school transport services, I do have a child’s John Deere pedal tractor and a 1971 town map available for an additional fee.

lease call at least 1 hour before scheduled pick up time so any necessary first aid procedures can be rendered.

References are not available at this time, pending completion of conflict resolution mediation session.

___________________________________________________

What do you think? Could you trust your children to me?

My Main Man

Like most of his gender, my five year old son is a simple creature.

He says what he means, does what he wants, and really, all he wants is for me to make him a salami and tomato sandwich and then leave him alone. He is smart, inventive and curious. I have seen him display unlimited patience when building a Bakugan Lego Thunderdome from plastic berry baskets and packing tape, yet he can blow up like an egg in the microwave if both of his legs go through one hole of his underwear.

He will likely end up being some sort of explosives engineer. Or a felon. Jury’s still out.

He appreciates and responds well to a streamlined schedule: Eat, sleep, play, destroy, aggravate, enchant, repeat.

He knows what he likes, knows what he doesn’t and couldn’t care less if your view differs. He can be difficult, bewitching, charming, offer stinging criticism, appear emotionally detached and be overtly affectionate. At the same time. I have no idea where he gets it from.

"I did NOT eat the powdered donuts for dinner..."

 He loves to wear costumes, do wheelies on his two wheel bike and steal my kitchen utensils. Today on his daily bike ride he wore his glow in the dark skeleton costume, a flame-stickered bike helmet, and carried both a lime reamer and a garlic press in his pocket. The garlic press had been missing for days, and was later returned to the drawer without comment, but smelled oddly of garden soil and worm intestine.

He tells me he loves me and that I am his “best friend” countless times every day, and loves it when I read to him from my history textbook. That boy knows more about the Russian Revolution, The Grand Exchange, or the King’s Great Matter than many of my classmates. Especially that weird guy who wears his pajamas and a floor length black oilcloth duster to class.

When it comes to his wardrobe, I’ve stopped offering explanations as to his appearance. Luckily, his teachers are kind and understanding, and find it “charming” that he wants to wear his John Deere T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants and assorted bits of various costumes from Halloween’s past 5 days a week. My daughter needs a different pair of jeans for every day of the month. My son needs two pairs of pants, total. He’d be happy with one, but by bribing him with orange Tic Tacs I was able to get him to agree to an extra pair for when the first are crusted with pancake syrup, play dough and hamster poop.

I was hoping that Santa would deliver some new clothes for him at Christmas, but so far his only request is “a long, really sharp stick with some kind of propeller thingy on the end to chop stuff up.”

I am asking Santa for a military grade triage first aid kid and a cask of tequila.

They say that there is a special place in heaven for mothers of sons.

The vast majority of days, I love earning  my wings.

The current fave, especially for family meals out. And appointments.

Venom Therapy Doesn’t Work for Procrastination

I have a major paper due tomorrow worth 30% of my grade.

So I am currently watching “The View.” I had to – Elisabeth Hasselbeck returns today from maternity leave and I want to see her co-hosts faces when she announces that she is pregnant again. I am watching it because doing homework has proven to be hazardous to my health. This is valid procrastination.

This weekend, I tried to be a diligent student and do my homework. I was lying down, reading 18th Century literature and formulating comparative thematic arguments, when suddenly I was overcome by a severe and debilitating pain in my pants. Intrigued? A wasp had flown into my jeans, and (like most others) upon finding it quite inhospitable there, became perplexed when he could not get out (again like most others.)

I was wearing my hiking boots at the time – I like to be prepared for the trek from the couch to the fridge – and as such COULD NOT get my pants off. All present in the house were then subject to hearing my crazed screams at the PM to “JUST TAKE OFF MY PANTS!” and “Sweet Jesus, IT HURTS!” Then came the loud and emotional pleas for raw onion, garden mud and paper towel wrapped ice.

A few moments of breath holding silence was then followed by loud slapping noises as I swatted at my denim wrapped leg to kill the invader. But I received only a sting in my hand for the effort. When we finally emerged from the room to enter the kitchen, we were met with silence and a mixed bag of looks, ranging from disgusted interest (to me) to begrudging respect (him).

Cue the Violins

Get your paper hats and noisemakers!

You are not-so- cordially invited to a pity party, where I am the guest of dishonour. Please wipe your feet on the mat of despair and hang your coats on the hooks of melodrama. Get comfy, pull up a chair, and I will recount to you my troubles.

 The morning started off in typical fashion, but the normal chaos soon escalated. I overslept, forgot to make lunches, we were out of milk and my gas tank was empty. Little time was able to be devoted to getting ready. Luckily, my youngest child has recently made it his aim to become star of the upcoming  “Howard Hughes – The Later Years” bio-pic, in that he refuses to brush his teeth, wash his face or hands, and insists on wearing the same clothes day after day until they ultimately run from him in fear. Luckily his hair is short and thick, easily hiding the dried Play-Doh within. The struggle to get him into seasonally appropriate, properly fitting outer wear is tantamount to negotiating the Treaty of Versailles.

It was definitely going to be a Yoga pants and knotted pony tail kind of day. The height of my personal grooming was brushing my teeth and cleaning my fingernails with a folded McDonald’s French fry container I found in the van.

Once at school, I discovered I had a midterm exam. While I understand that it would be hard to simply forget about such things, please be aware that my mind has been occupied solving other pressing problems like finding a specific miniscule piece of yellow Lego in order to prevent an nuclear meltdown. I also needed to locate our winter jackets, boots, hats and gloves, since the weatherman said Mother Nature is PMSing and we can be expecting snow soon. I hope it holds off for a few days at least. My lawnmower is still waiting in the middle of my lawn. I left it there in August when it ran out of gas halfway through the job. I think that is why it’s there. Maybe I just got bored.

Because I was late to my first class this morning, I had to take the one vacant seat in the lecture hall. There were audible sounds of pity from the surrounding area, and I realized why after I had been sitting down for only 10 minutes. I won’t go into great detail here;  I think it best to  suggest merely that my desk mate had consumed WAY more turkey than was (digestively speaking) safe to do so, and I was now subject to the ensuing intestinal trauma.

In my next class, I put my laptop down on the table but was unable to release it when class ended. Apparently, the prior tenant of the desk thought it was appropriate to eat a heavily syruped pancake breakfast in class that morning. For breakfast I had done yogourt shooters (forgot a spoon) going 120 km/hr on the Highway en route to school, so when I “accidentally” bumped hard into anyone who smelled like maple syrup today, my anger was SO NOT MISPLACED. 

The day doesn’t get any better.  In my last class of the day I had an assignment returned to me. My mark was much lower than I am happy with. I should mention that I wrote that paper at the height of my feverish sojourn to Sicko-ville last week and hardly remember even writing it. I must have been pretty sick, because when it was returned to me, I noticed it had the circular imprint of a liquid Tylenol cap, along with a blob of Cheez-Whiz in the lower corner, and my last name was spelled without any vowels.

Now as I am writing this at school, all I can smell in the dining hall is boiled hotdogs and anxiety. I am trying to enjoy my cardboard shrouded frozen puck insta-meal in semi-peace. I grabbed it from the freezer this morning without looking. I am have had so much turkey this weekend at assorted dinners that I was looking forward to the reprieve offered by a lasagna Florentine or three cheese ravioli ala Mother Lean Cuisine. Guess what I grabbed? ROAST TURKEY DINNER. Screw it. I’m going to the mall.

I’m back. Even a jumbo Supreme Chili fries from the food court and taking a headfirst dive into the Old Navy clearance rack didn’t make me feel better.  Okay. A little. Although the pants I bought probably won’t fit now. I didn’t try them on at the store. Could you imagine the scene? I envision a naked mannequin flying through the glass plate window, sales clerks cowering behind racks of brightly coloured cardigans, and me  foaming at the mouth and shrieking ”THE TAG SAYS 8! I WEAR AN 8! WHY DON’T THEY FIT? WHY?” That’s when I crumple onto the cold cement floor and hide under a pile of fur-trimmed vests until someone on the security team draws the short straw and has to remove me in a blue plastic shopping cart.

I beg you, tell me about your worst day – but don’t make it too awful – there is little room for empathy today in my shriveled black heart.

Just Another Excuse to Eat Maple Syrup

This weekend is the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday. It is similar to the American Thanksgiving, but with fewer French Fried onion and marshmallow topped casseroles, hockey instead of football, and when we slice our hand open carving the maple basted turkey, the ambulance ride, emergency room visit, and subsequent 12 stitches are covered.

I know that some people don’t “believe” in Thanksgiving. I understand and respect the reasons and the protests. But “not believe?” What’s not to “believe” in ? It not like we’re talking about Unicorns, purgatory, or free will.

Because I will be spending the next few days consuming my body weight in turkey and pumpkin pie, I may be MIA until Tuesday or so due to tryptophan induced stupor. I’ve been busy doing Thanksgiving prep this week in all of my spare time – priming my stomach to consume copious amounts of maple syrup drenched acorn squash and maple syrup and bacon Brussel sprouts by eating lots of Bran Buds and bread products. I also tied one end of my “turkey eating” yoga pants to the fence, shut the other end in the van door and then drove slowly down the driveway to fully stretch out the waist band to make them more suited to a weekend of gluttony.

The kids and I are celebrating Thanksgiving on Sunday with typical holiday fare: turkey, disappointment, mashed potatoes, guilt, sage stuffing and resentment.

On Monday we all go to the PM’s place for another meal. That one worries me. My children are not the best at sitting still at dinner tables, and prefer the “drive by” style of eating. My son has eaten entire meals by stopping for bites between cartwheels and couch diving flip flops. His outfit also concerns me a tinge. He has pre-planned it and it is hanging on his doorknob waiting:  a pair of skull and cross-bone swim trunks (too small,) a khaki nylon vest (shirtless underneath because “it looks cooler”) Bakugan knee socks, and his Budweiser beer can hat.

To that dinner I am taking pumpkin pie, whipped cream, and ample portions of self-loathing.

Happy Thanksgiving!