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Showing posts with label adulthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adulthood. Show all posts
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
Past Deadline: Rip, Scrape, Sand and Add Grit
Here’s Past Deadline from the Aug. 1/13 issue of The Perth Courier.
Rip, scrape, sand and add grit
I have a love/hate relationship with our stairs.
Actually, that’s not true. I have never loved them, and it would be more accurate to say I fear them more than hate them. Let’s just say I have a healthy respect for them.
Since moving into our house almost 14 years ago I have fallen down our stairs three times. I am gifted, apparently.
The first time was not long after we moved in. It was late. I subconsciously decided to go the fast way down the stairs to make sure I’d turned out the lights. “I’m okay!” I said.
Later, in shock, I decided to try fainting in the bathroom.
Good times!
That little trip resulted in a doctor visit, a prescription for anti-inflammatories and a brand new donut cushion thanks to a broken tailbone and an injured rotator cuff (I had braced for impact, which shoulders don’t appreciate.)
The next episode was dramatic because it happened while I was carrying baby Girlchild. Fortunately, I took the brunt of the fall (which didn’t involve most of the flight like the first time). Girlchild was alarmed but unhurt, and I escaped with a few bruises and a reminder to pay attention on “the stairs that hate me.”
I hasten to add here that it’s not as if I gallivant, traipse or partake in tom foolery on these stairs, it’s just that it’s an old house with a steep staircase made of treads for, apparently, small-footed (not to mention sure-footed) people. Or perhaps mountain goats. (For the moment let’s just ignore the fact I seem to be the only one who has trouble with the stairs, although many have commented on their steepness).
The third (and let’s hope final) time was a sleepy slip of the foot last autumn that found me careening down a half flight. That led to more quality time with the donut cushion, a lot of Advil and a busted (again) tailbone that has had quite enough of my shenanigans, thank you very much, and has not completely forgiven me.
Where am I going with this? Well, we decided to rip up the ancient carpeting on the stairs (only to discover an even more ancient green runner underneath).
That “distressed” look people pay hard-earned cash to achieve? We’ve got it in spades.
Next comes the painting.
Now, you might ask, is painting these treacherous (for me) stairs a wise move? Only time will tell.
We hope it will be just pretty, and not pretty dramatic.
Groom-boy picked up the paint for the treads the other day, and as I ran my finger over the splotch of colour they dab on the lid of the paint can, I panicked. “Groom-boy!” I said. “This doesn’t feel gritty! Didn’t you get the gritty stuff so I wouldn’t fall down the stairs?”
Groom-boy is heading back to the store for paint grit.
So, yes, if you come to our house (not recommended for anyone with dust allergies), then I am hopeful you will have traction on our vintage mountain-goat stairs. Personally, I hope to avoid having column fodder about my latest epic journey down the stairs, assuming I survive.
For now, in addition to utilizing stair grit, I will continue to hold the railing, descend slowly and show the utmost respect for the stairs.
Or maybe I should just tie the donut cushion to my bum as a preventive measure.
Rip, scrape, sand and add grit
I have a love/hate relationship with our stairs.
Actually, that’s not true. I have never loved them, and it would be more accurate to say I fear them more than hate them. Let’s just say I have a healthy respect for them.
Since moving into our house almost 14 years ago I have fallen down our stairs three times. I am gifted, apparently.
The first time was not long after we moved in. It was late. I subconsciously decided to go the fast way down the stairs to make sure I’d turned out the lights. “I’m okay!” I said.
Later, in shock, I decided to try fainting in the bathroom.
Good times!
That little trip resulted in a doctor visit, a prescription for anti-inflammatories and a brand new donut cushion thanks to a broken tailbone and an injured rotator cuff (I had braced for impact, which shoulders don’t appreciate.)
The next episode was dramatic because it happened while I was carrying baby Girlchild. Fortunately, I took the brunt of the fall (which didn’t involve most of the flight like the first time). Girlchild was alarmed but unhurt, and I escaped with a few bruises and a reminder to pay attention on “the stairs that hate me.”
I hasten to add here that it’s not as if I gallivant, traipse or partake in tom foolery on these stairs, it’s just that it’s an old house with a steep staircase made of treads for, apparently, small-footed (not to mention sure-footed) people. Or perhaps mountain goats. (For the moment let’s just ignore the fact I seem to be the only one who has trouble with the stairs, although many have commented on their steepness).
The third (and let’s hope final) time was a sleepy slip of the foot last autumn that found me careening down a half flight. That led to more quality time with the donut cushion, a lot of Advil and a busted (again) tailbone that has had quite enough of my shenanigans, thank you very much, and has not completely forgiven me.
Where am I going with this? Well, we decided to rip up the ancient carpeting on the stairs (only to discover an even more ancient green runner underneath).
Ancient green runner found under the ancient carpet.
Next comes the yanking out of a kazillion nails and staples, plus scraping and sanding.
Play safe when renovating, kids!
Scraped, sanded…ready for painting.
That “distressed” look people pay hard-earned cash to achieve? We’ve got it in spades.
Next comes the painting.
Now, you might ask, is painting these treacherous (for me) stairs a wise move? Only time will tell.
We hope it will be just pretty, and not pretty dramatic.
Groom-boy picked up the paint for the treads the other day, and as I ran my finger over the splotch of colour they dab on the lid of the paint can, I panicked. “Groom-boy!” I said. “This doesn’t feel gritty! Didn’t you get the gritty stuff so I wouldn’t fall down the stairs?”
Groom-boy is heading back to the store for paint grit.
So, yes, if you come to our house (not recommended for anyone with dust allergies), then I am hopeful you will have traction on our vintage mountain-goat stairs. Personally, I hope to avoid having column fodder about my latest epic journey down the stairs, assuming I survive.
For now, in addition to utilizing stair grit, I will continue to hold the railing, descend slowly and show the utmost respect for the stairs.
Or maybe I should just tie the donut cushion to my bum as a preventive measure.
Past Deadline: 50 Shades of Brown
Still catching up…here is Past Deadline from July 25/13 published in The Perth Courier.
50 Shades of Brown
Sometimes I am such a geek.
Specifically, I am an MNR geek (Ministry of Natural Resources). I blame my father.
Some of you may have heard/noticed I am involved with the Friends of Murphys Point Park. On Saturday, we took part in 50th anniversary celebrations at Rideau River Provincial Park by hosting a barbecue.
Despite the fact Rideau has been our “sister park” for a few years now, I had not been there before. Actually, that’s not exactly true. A kazillion years ago when I was a Carleton journalism student (early 1990s), I was on a ride-along in the winter with a conservation officer and we drove by the park. I believe I was doing an article about poaching.
“That’s Rideau River Provincial Park,” the CO said as we drove by the entrance in the snowy darkness. And that was my big tour of the park.
So I was looking forward to finally getting a better glimpse of this far-off place (near Kemptville). I loaded up the kids and supplies and joined a gaggle of volunteers at the (awesome!) beach and picnic area on Saturday morning.
For the 50th anniversary party there were many activities, including voyageur canoe rides, a visit from the OPP marine unit, programs by Murphys Point staff and a display by Parks Canada, who also brought their mascot, Parka the beaver.
Parka wasn’t the only mascot around, though. Smokey Bear also made a couple of appearances, to which I said, “Smokey Bear! Too coooool! Someone has to take a picture of me with Smokey Bear so I can send it to my dad!”
(At this point the people around me said, “Sure, crazy lady in her 40s. We’ll do whatever you want because you’re just a little bit scary.”)
Then – as if THAT wasn’t enough – some of the current Rideau River staff showed up wearing vintage park uniforms!
Crazy lady calls excitedly to fellow volunteer/BFF Cindy. “Omigod! Look! They’re wearing our uniforms!”
Indeed, we flashed back to those fabulous early ’90s when the two of us worked as gate attendants at Murphys Point and sported dark brown shorts, beige short-sleeved dress shirts and the lovely baby-poo brown blazers (for those chilly evening shifts).
Good times!
And THEN, as if Smokey Bear and 50 Shades of Brown weren’t enough, the conservation officers arrived!
Yay!
The whole reason I am the geek that I am (at least on this front) can be attributed to my dad, a retired CO. I have learned a lot from him about natural resources in general and protecting them in particular. “Grampy was a nature cop,” I tell my kids with pride.
I lurked around and name-dropped with the COs for a bit, but they didn’t seem nearly as excited about me being a CO’s daughter as I was (“Did you get a load of the crazy lady? Yeesh!” they probably said on the way home.)
Anyway, the next treat was a canine unit demonstration by Conservation Officer Colin Cotnam from Bancroft and his dog, Tanner. They went through a basic obedience demonstration and then showed off some of Tanner’s investigative skills. He is trained to sniff out a variety of things that hunters and anglers might be trying to hide. Did you know MNR dogs can not only find contraband fish, but they can differentiate several different species, too? That means they won’t go after your minnows, but if you’re hiding too many brook trout, look out!
That evening I told my dad all about it, of course. Sort of like, you know, an excited kid/crazy lady.
Happy birthday, Rideau River. Thanks for the trip down memory lane!
50 Shades of Brown
Sometimes I am such a geek.
Specifically, I am an MNR geek (Ministry of Natural Resources). I blame my father.
Some of you may have heard/noticed I am involved with the Friends of Murphys Point Park. On Saturday, we took part in 50th anniversary celebrations at Rideau River Provincial Park by hosting a barbecue.
Friends host barbecue at Rideau River.
Despite the fact Rideau has been our “sister park” for a few years now, I had not been there before. Actually, that’s not exactly true. A kazillion years ago when I was a Carleton journalism student (early 1990s), I was on a ride-along in the winter with a conservation officer and we drove by the park. I believe I was doing an article about poaching.
“That’s Rideau River Provincial Park,” the CO said as we drove by the entrance in the snowy darkness. And that was my big tour of the park.
So I was looking forward to finally getting a better glimpse of this far-off place (near Kemptville). I loaded up the kids and supplies and joined a gaggle of volunteers at the (awesome!) beach and picnic area on Saturday morning.
For the 50th anniversary party there were many activities, including voyageur canoe rides, a visit from the OPP marine unit, programs by Murphys Point staff and a display by Parks Canada, who also brought their mascot, Parka the beaver.
Parka wasn’t the only mascot around, though. Smokey Bear also made a couple of appearances, to which I said, “Smokey Bear! Too coooool! Someone has to take a picture of me with Smokey Bear so I can send it to my dad!”
(At this point the people around me said, “Sure, crazy lady in her 40s. We’ll do whatever you want because you’re just a little bit scary.”)
Yeaaaaah! Smokey Bear!!!
Then – as if THAT wasn’t enough – some of the current Rideau River staff showed up wearing vintage park uniforms!
Crazy lady calls excitedly to fellow volunteer/BFF Cindy. “Omigod! Look! They’re wearing our uniforms!”
Indeed, we flashed back to those fabulous early ’90s when the two of us worked as gate attendants at Murphys Point and sported dark brown shorts, beige short-sleeved dress shirts and the lovely baby-poo brown blazers (for those chilly evening shifts).
Good times!
And THEN, as if Smokey Bear and 50 Shades of Brown weren’t enough, the conservation officers arrived!
Yay!
The whole reason I am the geek that I am (at least on this front) can be attributed to my dad, a retired CO. I have learned a lot from him about natural resources in general and protecting them in particular. “Grampy was a nature cop,” I tell my kids with pride.
I lurked around and name-dropped with the COs for a bit, but they didn’t seem nearly as excited about me being a CO’s daughter as I was (“Did you get a load of the crazy lady? Yeesh!” they probably said on the way home.)
Anyway, the next treat was a canine unit demonstration by Conservation Officer Colin Cotnam from Bancroft and his dog, Tanner. They went through a basic obedience demonstration and then showed off some of Tanner’s investigative skills. He is trained to sniff out a variety of things that hunters and anglers might be trying to hide. Did you know MNR dogs can not only find contraband fish, but they can differentiate several different species, too? That means they won’t go after your minnows, but if you’re hiding too many brook trout, look out!
Conservation Officer Colin Cotnam rewards Tanner for a job well done.
That evening I told my dad all about it, of course. Sort of like, you know, an excited kid/crazy lady.
Happy birthday, Rideau River. Thanks for the trip down memory lane!
Past Deadline: Mid-Year Progress Report
Here is Past Deadline from the July 11/13 issue of The Perth Courier.
Mid-year progress report
I am famous for making self-improvement pledges/resolutions that often fall by the wayside. You may recall such classics as: 1. I am going to get up early and exercise! 2. I am going to eat less! 3. I am going to exercise more!
Gah. A resolution that wasn’t on the list this year was: “Replace entire wardrobe with clothes that fit!” Perhaps I should add that so I can feel as if I have accomplished something.
Anyway…something that has been working out a bit better despite Mother Nature’s best efforts to “dampen our spirits” is a resolution to spend more time outside with the kids.
This resolution has morphed a little, though, to combine with another one that was contemplated but unspoken. It may sound a bit odd coming from someone who works from home, but I want to try to spend more quality time with the kids.
I’ve long gotten over the fact that working from home automatically means I will be a Domestic Diva and Super Mom. (Ha.) My house is definitely not the cleanest on the block. In fact, I think that being here most of the time actually turns me off of making things spotless.
I can live with that. (Sort of.) Something that truly bugs me, though, is that even though I have excelled at seeing the kids off to school in the morning and greeting them when they come home, sometimes I am not really “here.”
Computer games and the TV have been babysitters over the years whilst I slave away at work deadlines in the home office. While I know there is value to having been physically here for them, it hasn’t always been quality time.
Summer is here. (It is. Really. Don’t let the monsoon rains fool you.) Yes, there will be times when I have to tune out the kids and get some work done, but I’ve got to make time to do fun stuff.
When the kids were babies, I worked weird hours – e.g., when they were sleeping. Chopping up my day so that we can spend time at the beach or on a hike or playing badminton or going to the playground or traipsing around in swamps isn’t far-fetched.
It has become increasingly clear over the years that, sometimes, kids don’t know how to play the way my generation did. With all those screen temptations, why bother going outside? So, I’ll continue to teach them.
We have a provincial park annual pass for day use – look out, Murphys Point, here we come!
Once exception to the “outside” rule is the Perth indoor pool. There is public swimming Monday through Saturday from 1 to 3 p.m. (free on Wednesdays thanks to Tim Hortons and Saturdays thanks to the Perth Fire Fighters Association). The kids and I went for our first summer excursion last Friday.
It was great. The day camp kids were there so Girlchild knew a whole pile of girls. They were having a blast – there was music and they were singing and even dancing – great entertainment at a low price!
Aside from the day camp counsellors and lifeguards, I was the only “adult” in the pool. My kids can both swim and they immediately migrated towards their friends, so they didn’t really “need” me there.
No matter. I did scissor kicks for a straight hour! (Exercise! Yes!) I enjoyed the music. I could definitely make a habit of this – and the kids had fun.
Time is marching on. The kids are growing up so fast. It’s never too late for quality time.
Next stop: the swamp!
Mid-year progress report
I am famous for making self-improvement pledges/resolutions that often fall by the wayside. You may recall such classics as: 1. I am going to get up early and exercise! 2. I am going to eat less! 3. I am going to exercise more!
Gah. A resolution that wasn’t on the list this year was: “Replace entire wardrobe with clothes that fit!” Perhaps I should add that so I can feel as if I have accomplished something.
Anyway…something that has been working out a bit better despite Mother Nature’s best efforts to “dampen our spirits” is a resolution to spend more time outside with the kids.
This resolution has morphed a little, though, to combine with another one that was contemplated but unspoken. It may sound a bit odd coming from someone who works from home, but I want to try to spend more quality time with the kids.
I’ve long gotten over the fact that working from home automatically means I will be a Domestic Diva and Super Mom. (Ha.) My house is definitely not the cleanest on the block. In fact, I think that being here most of the time actually turns me off of making things spotless.
I can live with that. (Sort of.) Something that truly bugs me, though, is that even though I have excelled at seeing the kids off to school in the morning and greeting them when they come home, sometimes I am not really “here.”
Computer games and the TV have been babysitters over the years whilst I slave away at work deadlines in the home office. While I know there is value to having been physically here for them, it hasn’t always been quality time.
Summer is here. (It is. Really. Don’t let the monsoon rains fool you.) Yes, there will be times when I have to tune out the kids and get some work done, but I’ve got to make time to do fun stuff.
When the kids were babies, I worked weird hours – e.g., when they were sleeping. Chopping up my day so that we can spend time at the beach or on a hike or playing badminton or going to the playground or traipsing around in swamps isn’t far-fetched.
It has become increasingly clear over the years that, sometimes, kids don’t know how to play the way my generation did. With all those screen temptations, why bother going outside? So, I’ll continue to teach them.
We have a provincial park annual pass for day use – look out, Murphys Point, here we come!
At Hogg Bay Beach, Murphys Point.
Once exception to the “outside” rule is the Perth indoor pool. There is public swimming Monday through Saturday from 1 to 3 p.m. (free on Wednesdays thanks to Tim Hortons and Saturdays thanks to the Perth Fire Fighters Association). The kids and I went for our first summer excursion last Friday.
It was great. The day camp kids were there so Girlchild knew a whole pile of girls. They were having a blast – there was music and they were singing and even dancing – great entertainment at a low price!
Aside from the day camp counsellors and lifeguards, I was the only “adult” in the pool. My kids can both swim and they immediately migrated towards their friends, so they didn’t really “need” me there.
No matter. I did scissor kicks for a straight hour! (Exercise! Yes!) I enjoyed the music. I could definitely make a habit of this – and the kids had fun.
Time is marching on. The kids are growing up so fast. It’s never too late for quality time.
Next stop: the swamp!
Past Deadline: Which Way to the Beath?
Here is Past Deadline from the June 20/13 issue of The Perth Courier.
Which way to the beach?
As I write this, there are 10 more sleeps until the kids’ last day of school.
Gulp.
I mean, “Yaaaay!”
(No…I really mean gulp.)
There are lots of things to love about summer, such as the warm days (or, in our case, the memory of such things because spring certainly hasn’t set the stage), the ability to sleep in a few minutes later (for those people who aren’t waging a hideous war with their alarm clocks in some ridiculous effort to trick their brains into thinking they should get up earlier and exercise) and…hmm. What was I talking about?
Oh, yes. I am desperately seeking the silver lining for the kids being home for the summer. Er…I mean…I am listing the top-of-mind happy reasons why I am totally psyched, as a work-at-home mom, for the kids to be around me 24-7 for a couple of months.
Right. So I think I left off at the part where I don’t have to make bagged lunches every night. Yesssssss! Seems like a simple thing but, man, I get tired of that job, and I know the kids get tired of eating what I pack as my imagination wanes for lunch ideas in the dying days of the school year.
And, of course, there’s vacation to look forward to – that week or two when the whole family traipses off on some sort of awesome adventure and Mom gets a total break from domestic drudgery. I mean, except for the packing. And, if a cottage is involved, the meal prep. Oh, and the avalanche of laundry when it’s all over.
But it’s totally worth it!
What else…what else…. Oh, yes! The promises! Each summer I make a mental note – and even sometimes commit it to paper – about all the cool little things I’ll do to make summer vacation more fun for the kids. You know, such as trips to the beach at Murphys Point or to actually take our canoe out on the Tay or go fishing or hiking or walking or biking. We’ll play more games and fly kites.
Did I mention I have flexible hours – but that I work all summer?
Maybe I’ll put a little note at the end of the list – whether it’s a mental or paper one – to try not to feel the usual guilt when September rolls around and I realize all the things we didn’t get around to doing.
Time really does fly and it’s hard to catch – even with a bug net.
The silly thing is, every year the same thing happens. I dive into summer with grand plans, and end it saying I have to do things differently next year. The thing is, each year the kids are another year older, so a strategy that might have worked last year may not apply this year.
What I need is a plan.
Clearly I must win the lottery. Obviously this would solve all of the above issues. Without the need to work, the kids and I could hang out at the beach and/or fly kites and go fishing whenever we want. In fact, we could just purchase a “summer home” and be done with the whole commuting to a lake issue. This is the way to go.
If I don’t win the lottery for some reason (e.g. never buying tickets), then the obvious answer is to get up earlier. I’ll get my work done at the crack of dawn and free up time later in the day for the beach.
Yes! It’s a good plan!
(At this rate I will be getting up for the day at 3 a.m. Pass the coffee, please.)
Which way to the beach?
As I write this, there are 10 more sleeps until the kids’ last day of school.
Gulp.
I mean, “Yaaaay!”
(No…I really mean gulp.)
There are lots of things to love about summer, such as the warm days (or, in our case, the memory of such things because spring certainly hasn’t set the stage), the ability to sleep in a few minutes later (for those people who aren’t waging a hideous war with their alarm clocks in some ridiculous effort to trick their brains into thinking they should get up earlier and exercise) and…hmm. What was I talking about?
Oh, yes. I am desperately seeking the silver lining for the kids being home for the summer. Er…I mean…I am listing the top-of-mind happy reasons why I am totally psyched, as a work-at-home mom, for the kids to be around me 24-7 for a couple of months.
Right. So I think I left off at the part where I don’t have to make bagged lunches every night. Yesssssss! Seems like a simple thing but, man, I get tired of that job, and I know the kids get tired of eating what I pack as my imagination wanes for lunch ideas in the dying days of the school year.
And, of course, there’s vacation to look forward to – that week or two when the whole family traipses off on some sort of awesome adventure and Mom gets a total break from domestic drudgery. I mean, except for the packing. And, if a cottage is involved, the meal prep. Oh, and the avalanche of laundry when it’s all over.
But it’s totally worth it!
What else…what else…. Oh, yes! The promises! Each summer I make a mental note – and even sometimes commit it to paper – about all the cool little things I’ll do to make summer vacation more fun for the kids. You know, such as trips to the beach at Murphys Point or to actually take our canoe out on the Tay or go fishing or hiking or walking or biking. We’ll play more games and fly kites.
Murphys Point Provincial Park. S. Gray photo
Maybe I’ll put a little note at the end of the list – whether it’s a mental or paper one – to try not to feel the usual guilt when September rolls around and I realize all the things we didn’t get around to doing.
Time really does fly and it’s hard to catch – even with a bug net.
The silly thing is, every year the same thing happens. I dive into summer with grand plans, and end it saying I have to do things differently next year. The thing is, each year the kids are another year older, so a strategy that might have worked last year may not apply this year.
What I need is a plan.
Clearly I must win the lottery. Obviously this would solve all of the above issues. Without the need to work, the kids and I could hang out at the beach and/or fly kites and go fishing whenever we want. In fact, we could just purchase a “summer home” and be done with the whole commuting to a lake issue. This is the way to go.
If I don’t win the lottery for some reason (e.g. never buying tickets), then the obvious answer is to get up earlier. I’ll get my work done at the crack of dawn and free up time later in the day for the beach.
Yes! It’s a good plan!
(At this rate I will be getting up for the day at 3 a.m. Pass the coffee, please.)
Past Deadline: Looking for Meta Bolism and Will Power
Here’s Past Deadline from the June 6/13 issue of The Perth Courier:
Looking for Meta Bolism and Will Power
Once the weather started warming up, I hauled out my summer duds.
Something went terribly wrong.
Some capris didn’t seem to fit as well as they did last year. The blue ones were a little tight. So were the beige ones. And…oh dear.
I couldn’t even blame the new washing machine since those clothes had not yet been introduced to it.
No, I knew exactly who to blame: Groom-boy.
Okay. Not Groom-boy. Just because he does the vast majority of the grocery shopping for the household doesn’t mean I have to reciprocate by eating the vast majority of it.
What it boils down to is a combination of long-time bad habits and a lengthy winter of sitting and eating, during which time my dear friend Meta Bolism packed up and left town. I will have to get moving – and I mean really moving – to recover this friend. While I’m at it, I should look for Meta’s crony, Will Power.
Will Power used to stand beside me and convince me not to snack so much – a mental hand slapper. I’m pretty good at leaving junk food in a store, but not so good at ignoring it if it’s in the house. Or on my plate.
I’ve thought a lot about how to incorporate more exercise into my schedule. Very recently it occurred to me the time I seem to have the most control over is early in the morning. (You know, when I am sleeping.)
Eureka! I should take advantage of this! (As if this is the first time I have ever had this thought.)
I wish I could tell you I love getting up early and that this Grand Plan is not doomed to failure. I am MUCH better at staying up late and getting things done, but exercising too close to bedtime wakes me up, which means I don’t sleep well, which is bad news for everyone near me the next day.
So, the Grand Plan was to work on going to bed a tiny bit earlier each night and waking up a wee smidge sooner – a process stretching over several weeks until voila! I have enough time to do some exercise before the work day starts.
Such a good, logical plan, but why is it so hard to implement? Probably because the routine has been around for a kazillion years or so.
Anyway, baby steps have been taken and minutes are being won incrementally, but it’s hard to prevent pessimism from overtaking this contest.
And then I went away on a conference.
I love conferences. I learn lots and someone feeds me, takes away the dirty dishes and makes my bed. Truly awesome.
But it’s not home, so sometimes sleep is tricky, and when the alarm goes off it’s, well, alarming. And it can seem super early.
Plus there is all that sitting and eating and sitting and eating. As proud as I am that I skipped dessert for all but one meal and I watched portion sizes, it was still more than I would normally eat. For instance, you won’t find anyone eating a full breakfast of bacon, eggs and potatoes at my house every morning. Even a little of that is a lot.
Needless to say, that didn’t help me to fit comfortably into the dress I brought for the last day.
Anyway, this is a new week full of lots or mornings and evenings to work with, and there is always the possibility of a positive outcome.
Besides, for all those times I wake up before my alarm to stew about things, I might as well make good use of the time.
Looking for Meta Bolism and Will Power
Once the weather started warming up, I hauled out my summer duds.
Something went terribly wrong.
Some capris didn’t seem to fit as well as they did last year. The blue ones were a little tight. So were the beige ones. And…oh dear.
I couldn’t even blame the new washing machine since those clothes had not yet been introduced to it.
No, I knew exactly who to blame: Groom-boy.
Okay. Not Groom-boy. Just because he does the vast majority of the grocery shopping for the household doesn’t mean I have to reciprocate by eating the vast majority of it.
What it boils down to is a combination of long-time bad habits and a lengthy winter of sitting and eating, during which time my dear friend Meta Bolism packed up and left town. I will have to get moving – and I mean really moving – to recover this friend. While I’m at it, I should look for Meta’s crony, Will Power.
Will Power used to stand beside me and convince me not to snack so much – a mental hand slapper. I’m pretty good at leaving junk food in a store, but not so good at ignoring it if it’s in the house. Or on my plate.
I’ve thought a lot about how to incorporate more exercise into my schedule. Very recently it occurred to me the time I seem to have the most control over is early in the morning. (You know, when I am sleeping.)
Eureka! I should take advantage of this! (As if this is the first time I have ever had this thought.)
I wish I could tell you I love getting up early and that this Grand Plan is not doomed to failure. I am MUCH better at staying up late and getting things done, but exercising too close to bedtime wakes me up, which means I don’t sleep well, which is bad news for everyone near me the next day.
So, the Grand Plan was to work on going to bed a tiny bit earlier each night and waking up a wee smidge sooner – a process stretching over several weeks until voila! I have enough time to do some exercise before the work day starts.
Such a good, logical plan, but why is it so hard to implement? Probably because the routine has been around for a kazillion years or so.
Anyway, baby steps have been taken and minutes are being won incrementally, but it’s hard to prevent pessimism from overtaking this contest.
And then I went away on a conference.
I love conferences. I learn lots and someone feeds me, takes away the dirty dishes and makes my bed. Truly awesome.
But it’s not home, so sometimes sleep is tricky, and when the alarm goes off it’s, well, alarming. And it can seem super early.
Plus there is all that sitting and eating and sitting and eating. As proud as I am that I skipped dessert for all but one meal and I watched portion sizes, it was still more than I would normally eat. For instance, you won’t find anyone eating a full breakfast of bacon, eggs and potatoes at my house every morning. Even a little of that is a lot.
Needless to say, that didn’t help me to fit comfortably into the dress I brought for the last day.
Anyway, this is a new week full of lots or mornings and evenings to work with, and there is always the possibility of a positive outcome.
Besides, for all those times I wake up before my alarm to stew about things, I might as well make good use of the time.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Past Deadline: Happy Futon Anniversary
Here is Past Deadline from the May 9/13 issue of The Perth Courier.
Happy Futon Anniversary
In early May, Groom-boy and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary.
Jeepers! That seems like a long time.
Such a milestone (even though it is not divisible by five) merits acknowledgment of some sort, yes? Well, I couldn’t help but notice the dramatic difference between anniversaries of the newlywed era versus, shall we say, the teen years.
It took Groom-boy and me a few years before we figured we were ready to have kids, so going out on the town, away for a weekend, off to a movie or just out for a quiet, romantic dinner was easily done. There was no need to arrange for babysitters and, even more importantly, there was actually energy to not only think of a creative way to mark an occasion, but to actually make it so.
That feels like a long day ago.
Here’s how our romantic 17th anniversary unfolded.
The day before, it dawned on me I should get a card. I didn’t see one I liked at the grocery store, and that’s almost the last time I thought of it.
On The Big Day, we opted for a (romantic) family outing to the big city. After all, we needed to look for a replacement futon mattress at Ikea. “Let’s make that our anniversary present,” we said excitedly. It was doubly thrilling because I hadn’t been to the new store yet.
Pretty exciting so far, eh?
We dragged the kids along because, well, they needed shorts. We stopped at a toy store, too, because 785 Nerf guns aren’t enough, especially when you can get one that has a water pack. (At least that means Boychild will spend some time outside.)
I was excited to find a replacement duvet cover at a good price during our excursion, meaning we have a lightweight one for summer that doesn’t have poorly repaired tears in it (I am such a seamstress).
We went to a mall, and while Groom-boy and the kids went to one store, I managed to sneak into a card shop and find something suitable for the occasion, which I later filled out in the car while waiting for Groom-boy. I know. Dripping with romance, yes?
The card had a light bulb on it. Groom-boy is all about light bulbs. If there was a job checking the town for burned-out back-lit signs, he would be your guy.
Anyway…next we were off to a family-friendly restaurant for our romantic 17th-anniversary dinner. It was yummy. Girlchild kept wanting to tell the waitress about the occasion. We kept telling her no one would care. It’s all about the birthdays at the family friendly restaurants, you know.
Since our anniversary we’ve been joking that we just celebrated our “futon mattress and duvet cover” year. I did some very cursory research and learned that on those gift lists that even bother to acknowledge anniversaries that aren’t in increments of five after the 15th year, “furniture” is the gift for 17, so we were sort of on track, I guess.
Our items are definitely suitable for 17 years of marriage, at least. After all, sleep deprivation continues to be a sporadic issue even as the kids get older. Groom-boy usually conks out on the lumpy futon in front of the TV as the night wears on, while I trudge off to bed and doze off with a book in my hand under the tattered duvet.
At least now Groom-boy won’t have springs poking him in the back and my toes won’t get tangled in the ripped duvet cover. (Not that either of us would actually notice….zzzz.)
Ah, married life. Clearly year 17, complete with an 11- and 7-year-old, is the height of romance.
(And that’s just fine.)
Happy Futon Anniversary
In early May, Groom-boy and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary.
Jeepers! That seems like a long time.
Such a milestone (even though it is not divisible by five) merits acknowledgment of some sort, yes? Well, I couldn’t help but notice the dramatic difference between anniversaries of the newlywed era versus, shall we say, the teen years.
It took Groom-boy and me a few years before we figured we were ready to have kids, so going out on the town, away for a weekend, off to a movie or just out for a quiet, romantic dinner was easily done. There was no need to arrange for babysitters and, even more importantly, there was actually energy to not only think of a creative way to mark an occasion, but to actually make it so.
That feels like a long day ago.
Here’s how our romantic 17th anniversary unfolded.
The day before, it dawned on me I should get a card. I didn’t see one I liked at the grocery store, and that’s almost the last time I thought of it.
On The Big Day, we opted for a (romantic) family outing to the big city. After all, we needed to look for a replacement futon mattress at Ikea. “Let’s make that our anniversary present,” we said excitedly. It was doubly thrilling because I hadn’t been to the new store yet.
Pretty exciting so far, eh?
We dragged the kids along because, well, they needed shorts. We stopped at a toy store, too, because 785 Nerf guns aren’t enough, especially when you can get one that has a water pack. (At least that means Boychild will spend some time outside.)
I was excited to find a replacement duvet cover at a good price during our excursion, meaning we have a lightweight one for summer that doesn’t have poorly repaired tears in it (I am such a seamstress).
We went to a mall, and while Groom-boy and the kids went to one store, I managed to sneak into a card shop and find something suitable for the occasion, which I later filled out in the car while waiting for Groom-boy. I know. Dripping with romance, yes?
The card had a light bulb on it. Groom-boy is all about light bulbs. If there was a job checking the town for burned-out back-lit signs, he would be your guy.
Anyway…next we were off to a family-friendly restaurant for our romantic 17th-anniversary dinner. It was yummy. Girlchild kept wanting to tell the waitress about the occasion. We kept telling her no one would care. It’s all about the birthdays at the family friendly restaurants, you know.
Since our anniversary we’ve been joking that we just celebrated our “futon mattress and duvet cover” year. I did some very cursory research and learned that on those gift lists that even bother to acknowledge anniversaries that aren’t in increments of five after the 15th year, “furniture” is the gift for 17, so we were sort of on track, I guess.
Our items are definitely suitable for 17 years of marriage, at least. After all, sleep deprivation continues to be a sporadic issue even as the kids get older. Groom-boy usually conks out on the lumpy futon in front of the TV as the night wears on, while I trudge off to bed and doze off with a book in my hand under the tattered duvet.
At least now Groom-boy won’t have springs poking him in the back and my toes won’t get tangled in the ripped duvet cover. (Not that either of us would actually notice….zzzz.)
Ah, married life. Clearly year 17, complete with an 11- and 7-year-old, is the height of romance.
(And that’s just fine.)
Past Deadline: We Went "Outside"!
Here’s the May 2/13 edition of Past Deadline published in The Perth Courier.
We Went “Outside!
On Sunday (April 28), I got to play in ponds! It made me eight again.
Get ready. I’m gonna tell you another “back in the day” story.
When I was a kid, my brother and I spent a lot of time gallivanting near the river not far from our house. This was “back in the day” when kids would leave in the morning and, except for meals, only return when the street lights went on.
Back in the day we had the BEST toy. It was called “Outside.”
We played Outside in every season. If it rained, we wore “puddle suits.” We had gear for all weather. We built forts with whatever we could find and made up stories and acted them out – on stages Outside – instead of watching them on TV.
It was mahvellous.
One of my favourite things to do Outside was to catch stuff at the river. Fish, frogs, snakes, tadpoles, crayfish – I was forever peering under rocks and looking for critters and bringing them home in buckets and jars until I was told to take them back.
There was always something to do Outside.
I am pleased to report that Outside is still here!
That Sunday, Boychild, Girlchild, Girlchild’s friend and I joined some others for one of the Super Kids In Parks programs hosted by the Friends of Murphys Point. It was a pond study led by park naturalist Tobi Kiesewalter at the park and it was coolio!
It was a simple plan. We walked along the main road from the entrance to the park store and stopped at a couple of “vernal pools” along the way. These are ponds that form from runoff and melt water in the spring and gradually dry up over the summer, and they are the nursery for all sorts of wonderful things.
Tobi scooped some water into a container and showed us many tiny creatures. My favourite by far was something I had no idea even existed here – fairy shrimp. Shrimp! Here! At Murphys Point!
Now, these aren’t the type of shrimp you would find at a grocery store – it would take about a half a billion to make a meal, I would think. They are translucent crustaceans with an orange tinge to them. The ones we saw were less than a centimetre long and had so many appendages they almost looked fluffy on the sides. These were the adults, and they lay eggs that can remain dormant for years – which is really handy when your vernal pool keeps drying up and you need to procreate.
Fairy shrimp are neato mosquito. Speaking of mosquitoes, did you know that mosquito larvae, which we found in the water samples, breathe using a snorkel-like appendage attached to their rears?
Other larvae get around by shooting water out of their butts.
We also learned that some water beetles have a little air bubble (Scuba tank!) on their butts that they use to breathe?
Butts are important.
No matter how much I hang around Murphys Point, I am always learning something new.
Once we finished looking at vernal pools, we headed to a little bay off of Loon Lake behind the park store, where we spent a good hour catching and examining all manner of critters: minnows, tadpoles, baby fish, lots of different larvae, various water beetles, snails, clams, gelatinous goo that was some sort of algae and little houses built in the water by certain insect larvae.
We saw snakes, heard hawks, geese and various song birds and generally enjoyed the sunshine and the opportunity to wear rubber boots, stomp around with nets and, basically, play Outside.
Man, would I love to be eight again.
We Went “Outside!
On Sunday (April 28), I got to play in ponds! It made me eight again.
Get ready. I’m gonna tell you another “back in the day” story.
When I was a kid, my brother and I spent a lot of time gallivanting near the river not far from our house. This was “back in the day” when kids would leave in the morning and, except for meals, only return when the street lights went on.
Back in the day we had the BEST toy. It was called “Outside.”
We played Outside in every season. If it rained, we wore “puddle suits.” We had gear for all weather. We built forts with whatever we could find and made up stories and acted them out – on stages Outside – instead of watching them on TV.
It was mahvellous.
One of my favourite things to do Outside was to catch stuff at the river. Fish, frogs, snakes, tadpoles, crayfish – I was forever peering under rocks and looking for critters and bringing them home in buckets and jars until I was told to take them back.
There was always something to do Outside.
I am pleased to report that Outside is still here!
That Sunday, Boychild, Girlchild, Girlchild’s friend and I joined some others for one of the Super Kids In Parks programs hosted by the Friends of Murphys Point. It was a pond study led by park naturalist Tobi Kiesewalter at the park and it was coolio!
It was a simple plan. We walked along the main road from the entrance to the park store and stopped at a couple of “vernal pools” along the way. These are ponds that form from runoff and melt water in the spring and gradually dry up over the summer, and they are the nursery for all sorts of wonderful things.
Tobi scooped some water into a container and showed us many tiny creatures. My favourite by far was something I had no idea even existed here – fairy shrimp. Shrimp! Here! At Murphys Point!
Fairy shrimp! Stephanie Gray photo
Fairy shrimp are neato mosquito. Speaking of mosquitoes, did you know that mosquito larvae, which we found in the water samples, breathe using a snorkel-like appendage attached to their rears?
Other larvae get around by shooting water out of their butts.
We also learned that some water beetles have a little air bubble (Scuba tank!) on their butts that they use to breathe?
Checking out the water beetles. Stephanie Gray photo
No matter how much I hang around Murphys Point, I am always learning something new.
Once we finished looking at vernal pools, we headed to a little bay off of Loon Lake behind the park store, where we spent a good hour catching and examining all manner of critters: minnows, tadpoles, baby fish, lots of different larvae, various water beetles, snails, clams, gelatinous goo that was some sort of algae and little houses built in the water by certain insect larvae.
We saw snakes, heard hawks, geese and various song birds and generally enjoyed the sunshine and the opportunity to wear rubber boots, stomp around with nets and, basically, play Outside.
Man, would I love to be eight again.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Past Deadline: Slow-Moving Glaciers
Here is Past Deadline published in The Perth Courier on April 11/13.
Slow-moving glaciers
On Sunday, I did what has become a habit over the last few years – I attacked the glacier covering my patio.
As patient as I have been with winter, I did hit the wall sometime in March and was ready for it to be spring. Stands to reason – after all, spring was scheduled to arrive on March 20. I strive to be punctual and I think it behooves the seasons to arrive on time as well.
Sometimes, however, spring forgets about our little backyard and leaves it stuck in a winter retrospective. When I stopped by my parents’ house a couple of weeks ago, their south-facing front garden was already bursting with crocuses. Our shadier gardens still snoozed under a layer of snow.
Finally this weekend I began to see the first peeps of green where my crocuses live. The section where the birdfeeder was situated all winter is also bare – exposing a shocking layer of bunny fertilizer.
The part of the backyard I am most interested in is our little patio, and it tends to be the last to be free of ice. My dad and I laid it a few years ago and it feels like an extra room in my house. I really miss it in the winter.
It is located in a cosy corner bordered by a workshop on one side and a shed on the other, which makes it nice and shady on hot summer days. Unfortunately it is also nice and shady in the spring, which does not bode well for ice-meltage.
So, every year, I grab my ice chipper and release some pent-up aggression by beating the poo out of a five-inch build-up of ice covering my beloved patio. One year I even employed boiling water to assist my mission – such is the urgency of my need.
Late Sunday afternoon I set out to complete this ritual. It had rained earlier in the day, so some sections of the blasted glacier had softened. I smashed away at it for a while, but I wasn’t at it too long before I lost steam.
I opted for a compromise. I grabbed a folding chair and plunked it on the small section I had cleared, sat back and chilled – literally. I was surrounded by ice, but it was nice! Birds were singing, the breeze was blowing, the sky wasn’t terribly overcast. If I closed my eyes I could almost imagine it was a coolish summer day.
In fact, closing my eyes was fairly imperative in order to adequately set the scene, otherwise my sightline was obscured by two garbage cans and a green bin currently residing nearby until their usual warm-weather locations were more accessible and free of snow and mud.
Part of the reason for giving up so easily was the fact I had checked the long-range forecast earlier and saw warmer temperatures and rain on the horizon, which should aid my cause. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to easily finish the glacier removal next weekend.
This, however, is a risky plan, because weather forecasts are unreliable. In fact, I felt like a hypocrite for even consulting the forecast.
See, around our house Groom-boy spends great amounts of time complaining about the weather forecasts. “They’re never right.” “They’re always changing.” “No one knows what they’re talking about.”
“Dude,” I say. “Do what I do. Look out the window and, if it’s raining, take an umbrella. If it’s sunny, take your sunglasses. Weather changes. Get over it.”
This from the woman who can’t wait for ice to recede.
Anyway, whether the weather cooperates or not this week, I plan to sit on my patio again very soon. My ice pick and kettle are ready.
Slow-moving glaciers
On Sunday, I did what has become a habit over the last few years – I attacked the glacier covering my patio.
As patient as I have been with winter, I did hit the wall sometime in March and was ready for it to be spring. Stands to reason – after all, spring was scheduled to arrive on March 20. I strive to be punctual and I think it behooves the seasons to arrive on time as well.
Sometimes, however, spring forgets about our little backyard and leaves it stuck in a winter retrospective. When I stopped by my parents’ house a couple of weeks ago, their south-facing front garden was already bursting with crocuses. Our shadier gardens still snoozed under a layer of snow.
Finally this weekend I began to see the first peeps of green where my crocuses live. The section where the birdfeeder was situated all winter is also bare – exposing a shocking layer of bunny fertilizer.
The part of the backyard I am most interested in is our little patio, and it tends to be the last to be free of ice. My dad and I laid it a few years ago and it feels like an extra room in my house. I really miss it in the winter.
It is located in a cosy corner bordered by a workshop on one side and a shed on the other, which makes it nice and shady on hot summer days. Unfortunately it is also nice and shady in the spring, which does not bode well for ice-meltage.
So, every year, I grab my ice chipper and release some pent-up aggression by beating the poo out of a five-inch build-up of ice covering my beloved patio. One year I even employed boiling water to assist my mission – such is the urgency of my need.
Late Sunday afternoon I set out to complete this ritual. It had rained earlier in the day, so some sections of the blasted glacier had softened. I smashed away at it for a while, but I wasn’t at it too long before I lost steam.
I opted for a compromise. I grabbed a folding chair and plunked it on the small section I had cleared, sat back and chilled – literally. I was surrounded by ice, but it was nice! Birds were singing, the breeze was blowing, the sky wasn’t terribly overcast. If I closed my eyes I could almost imagine it was a coolish summer day.
In fact, closing my eyes was fairly imperative in order to adequately set the scene, otherwise my sightline was obscured by two garbage cans and a green bin currently residing nearby until their usual warm-weather locations were more accessible and free of snow and mud.
Part of the reason for giving up so easily was the fact I had checked the long-range forecast earlier and saw warmer temperatures and rain on the horizon, which should aid my cause. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to easily finish the glacier removal next weekend.
This, however, is a risky plan, because weather forecasts are unreliable. In fact, I felt like a hypocrite for even consulting the forecast.
See, around our house Groom-boy spends great amounts of time complaining about the weather forecasts. “They’re never right.” “They’re always changing.” “No one knows what they’re talking about.”
“Dude,” I say. “Do what I do. Look out the window and, if it’s raining, take an umbrella. If it’s sunny, take your sunglasses. Weather changes. Get over it.”
This from the woman who can’t wait for ice to recede.
Anyway, whether the weather cooperates or not this week, I plan to sit on my patio again very soon. My ice pick and kettle are ready.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Past Deadline: Do You Need a Cat Scarf?
Here’s the latest Past Deadline, published March 28/13.
Do you need a cat scarf?
I have inadvertently taken up knitting. It’s because I need more things to occupy my time. (Not.)
Back about a million and a half years ago, my Nan taught me how to knit. She also taught me crochet, rug hooking, needlepoint and baking. She was talented. I miss my Nan.
The baking definitely stuck with me, needlepoint eventually morphed into an interest in cross-stitching, but the rest kind of fell away.
Many years later I came to regret my abandonment of knitting. You may recall me writing in the past about a beloved knit toy that had been passed on to Boychild from my brother. My Nan made “Ducky,” who is bright yellow with an orange beak, for my brother. It must have been almost 30 years old when Boychild got him, and over the years he required some, shall we say, maintenance.
On several occasions my bestie, Cindy, has knit odd-shaped “patches” for me to then sew onto Ducky’s thin, worn areas. Over the years he has acquired, essentially, an entirely new patch-worked skin (see above).
Recently, Girlchild has expressed an interest in learning how to sew. This is another skill that has fallen away. I haven’t touched a sewing machine since about Grade 8. I can manage buttons and can sew patches onto things, but beyond that I need to turn to others. My dad, actually, is the sewing machine expert in the family, while my mom is the go-to-person for hems.
Girlchild asked about knitting. I suggested we bake. No, she wanted to learn how to knit. Ask Cindy, I said.
So, sure enough, when Cindy and her gang were over for supper last Friday, Girlchild ambushed her. Cindy was glad (or seemed glad?) to oblige.
Fortunately I still have a craft bag filled with long-neglected items, including samples of abandoned knitting and several balls of yarn (particularly yellow for duck repairs).
I found two sets of knitting needles. I grabbed one seriously warped pair and said, “You’d better teach me, too, because if you’re not here and something goes awry, I am going to have to deal with the Wrath of Girlchild.”
(Shudder.)
And so began the great knitting projects: cat scarves. MacGregor, our indoor cat, has been coveting a knit scarf for years. (Ahem.)
The next day we trooped off to the craft store to acquire a couple of pretty balls of colourful yarn, along with a set of larger, wooden needles that might work well for small, learning hands. I managed to cast enough stitches onto the new needles to commence a third project: a blanket for a small stuffed toy.
I see dishcloths in my future. Seriously.
Over the last few days I have been able to rescue a few stitches and come up with creative excuses when mistakes are made in the knitting of cat scarves and toy blankets, such as: “That’s a peephole” and “We can cover that with some sort of fun patch.”
MacGregor won’t mind. I’m sure of it.
Girlchild wouldn’t let Cindy leave the house until they had scheduled another knitting lesson. I will be attending, too, since I have to learn how to cast off once these scarves and blankies reach their desired length.
The good thing is, when our crews get together, which usually happens weekly, her boys and mine can all go off and do guy stuff, and Girlchild, the lone female kid in the bunch, can bring her projects and we three ladies can convene the Knitting Club. After all, the world is sadly lacking in cat scarves, toy blankets and dishcloths.
Do you need a cat scarf?
I have inadvertently taken up knitting. It’s because I need more things to occupy my time. (Not.)
Back about a million and a half years ago, my Nan taught me how to knit. She also taught me crochet, rug hooking, needlepoint and baking. She was talented. I miss my Nan.
The baking definitely stuck with me, needlepoint eventually morphed into an interest in cross-stitching, but the rest kind of fell away.
Many years later I came to regret my abandonment of knitting. You may recall me writing in the past about a beloved knit toy that had been passed on to Boychild from my brother. My Nan made “Ducky,” who is bright yellow with an orange beak, for my brother. It must have been almost 30 years old when Boychild got him, and over the years he required some, shall we say, maintenance.
Ducky
Recently, Girlchild has expressed an interest in learning how to sew. This is another skill that has fallen away. I haven’t touched a sewing machine since about Grade 8. I can manage buttons and can sew patches onto things, but beyond that I need to turn to others. My dad, actually, is the sewing machine expert in the family, while my mom is the go-to-person for hems.
Girlchild asked about knitting. I suggested we bake. No, she wanted to learn how to knit. Ask Cindy, I said.
So, sure enough, when Cindy and her gang were over for supper last Friday, Girlchild ambushed her. Cindy was glad (or seemed glad?) to oblige.
Fortunately I still have a craft bag filled with long-neglected items, including samples of abandoned knitting and several balls of yarn (particularly yellow for duck repairs).
I found two sets of knitting needles. I grabbed one seriously warped pair and said, “You’d better teach me, too, because if you’re not here and something goes awry, I am going to have to deal with the Wrath of Girlchild.”
(Shudder.)
And so began the great knitting projects: cat scarves. MacGregor, our indoor cat, has been coveting a knit scarf for years. (Ahem.)
The next day we trooped off to the craft store to acquire a couple of pretty balls of colourful yarn, along with a set of larger, wooden needles that might work well for small, learning hands. I managed to cast enough stitches onto the new needles to commence a third project: a blanket for a small stuffed toy.
The new projects.
I see dishcloths in my future. Seriously.
Over the last few days I have been able to rescue a few stitches and come up with creative excuses when mistakes are made in the knitting of cat scarves and toy blankets, such as: “That’s a peephole” and “We can cover that with some sort of fun patch.”
MacGregor won’t mind. I’m sure of it.
Girlchild wouldn’t let Cindy leave the house until they had scheduled another knitting lesson. I will be attending, too, since I have to learn how to cast off once these scarves and blankies reach their desired length.
The good thing is, when our crews get together, which usually happens weekly, her boys and mine can all go off and do guy stuff, and Girlchild, the lone female kid in the bunch, can bring her projects and we three ladies can convene the Knitting Club. After all, the world is sadly lacking in cat scarves, toy blankets and dishcloths.
Past Deadline: A Billion Loads Later
Here’s the latest Past Deadline, published in The Perth Courier on March 21/13. Trust me…there will be more on this particular saga!
A billion loads later….
Back in January I wrote a column about how Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine was making a strange noise. The column morphed into something about how playing loud music is a solution to some noisy problems, not unlike covering your ears with your hands, rocking back and forth and saying “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!” over and over until the annoying thing/person gives up and wanders off.
That may be a good strategy when you’re two, but it doesn’t always work for grown-ups dealing with major appliances. Denial can be a marvelous thing –for a little while.
Interestingly (or not), the ultimate demise of the washing machine does not seem to be related to a funny noise. In fact, it happened very quietly in the night.
One morning I came downstairs and, in those quiet moments of being the first one up, I heard a drip.
And then I heard a drip drip drip.
That’s seldom a good sound in a house.
So, I followed my ears to the washing machine, and discovered the tub had about three inches of water in it.
Hmmmm.
Long story short, the part that was wonky isn’t made anymore. Sure, we could probably find the part somewhere, but did we really want to replace an old dead part with one of the same vintage?
There was also speculation it could have been a grit issue. I know it’s hard to believe there could be grit in my pristine house, said she who just last week talked about turning her kitchen into a sandy beach.
We were told we could probably limp along with the old machine (circa early 1990s), as long as we were prepared to hover nearby whenever it was being used so that we could spring into action and shut off the water in the event the wonky valve got stuck open and flooding ensued.
Hmmmm.
So we pulled the machine out from the wall a little in order to easily access the shut-off taps and carried on for a while. It wasn’t too hard to hover since the machine is in the kitchen and I tend to spend half my life there.
The dripping slowed, but never stopped entirely, which (surprisingly!) seemed to rule out grit. Just to make things interesting, the shut-off taps at the back started dripping every time they got turned on or off. There was a lot of drippage.
As much as I wanted to turn up the music to drown out the drippage, I figured ignoring it in this case could lead to a lot of unnecessary drama.
Yes, it was time to say goodbye to Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine.
Silver lining: I got a column idea out of it.
Other silver lining: We found a few lost things behind the washing machine, such as the little toy wooden mallet Boychild lost when he was two, a couple of cat toys, a hair clip and a brown marker cap that Girlchild claims she had been looking for recently.
Naturally we also found quite a lot of debris that we would have preferred to ignore for a little longer. (The washer was heavy – it didn’t get hauled out very often.)
Again with the denial! One thing I have learned as I get older, denial eventually catches up with you.
RIP, Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine! I can’t even begin to count the number of loads you have washed, especially considering a family of four had you in service before us.
I only hope the replacement, made in this plasticized era, will be as faithful. After all, as much as I appreciate column ideas….
A billion loads later….
Back in January I wrote a column about how Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine was making a strange noise. The column morphed into something about how playing loud music is a solution to some noisy problems, not unlike covering your ears with your hands, rocking back and forth and saying “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!” over and over until the annoying thing/person gives up and wanders off.
That may be a good strategy when you’re two, but it doesn’t always work for grown-ups dealing with major appliances. Denial can be a marvelous thing –for a little while.
Interestingly (or not), the ultimate demise of the washing machine does not seem to be related to a funny noise. In fact, it happened very quietly in the night.
One morning I came downstairs and, in those quiet moments of being the first one up, I heard a drip.
And then I heard a drip drip drip.
That’s seldom a good sound in a house.
So, I followed my ears to the washing machine, and discovered the tub had about three inches of water in it.
Hmmmm.
Long story short, the part that was wonky isn’t made anymore. Sure, we could probably find the part somewhere, but did we really want to replace an old dead part with one of the same vintage?
There was also speculation it could have been a grit issue. I know it’s hard to believe there could be grit in my pristine house, said she who just last week talked about turning her kitchen into a sandy beach.
We were told we could probably limp along with the old machine (circa early 1990s), as long as we were prepared to hover nearby whenever it was being used so that we could spring into action and shut off the water in the event the wonky valve got stuck open and flooding ensued.
Hmmmm.
So we pulled the machine out from the wall a little in order to easily access the shut-off taps and carried on for a while. It wasn’t too hard to hover since the machine is in the kitchen and I tend to spend half my life there.
The dripping slowed, but never stopped entirely, which (surprisingly!) seemed to rule out grit. Just to make things interesting, the shut-off taps at the back started dripping every time they got turned on or off. There was a lot of drippage.
As much as I wanted to turn up the music to drown out the drippage, I figured ignoring it in this case could lead to a lot of unnecessary drama.
Yes, it was time to say goodbye to Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine.
Silver lining: I got a column idea out of it.
Other silver lining: We found a few lost things behind the washing machine, such as the little toy wooden mallet Boychild lost when he was two, a couple of cat toys, a hair clip and a brown marker cap that Girlchild claims she had been looking for recently.
Naturally we also found quite a lot of debris that we would have preferred to ignore for a little longer. (The washer was heavy – it didn’t get hauled out very often.)
Again with the denial! One thing I have learned as I get older, denial eventually catches up with you.
RIP, Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine! I can’t even begin to count the number of loads you have washed, especially considering a family of four had you in service before us.
I only hope the replacement, made in this plasticized era, will be as faithful. After all, as much as I appreciate column ideas….
Past Deadline: Yes We Have No Vacation
Here’s the latest Past Deadline, published in The Perth Courier on March 14/13.
Yes we have no vacation
By the time you read this, March Break will be almost over, we will have mostly adjusted to the time change, we’ll have new batteries in our smoke detectors (Right? Do it now!) and life will soon return to whatever version of “normal” is currently in play. (The options are wide open on that last one.)
As I write this, however, March Break is just beginning and I have said bon voyage to several friends who have jetted away for holidays. Groom-boy and I didn’t make plans to get the family away, mostly due to work commitments. We’ll probably do some minor fun stuff with the kids. (As soon as I figure out what “minor fun stuff” means I’ll let you know.)
It’s been busy lately, so March Break kinda crept up on me. Suddenly it was here and it dawned on me just how much I could use a little vacation. (“Dawned” in this context means “hit me like an anvil.”)
So, here is my “Top Seven List of Reasons Why I Know It’s Time to Get Out of Dodge,” in no particular order. (Yes, I know a Top 10 is better, but three reasons got filtered out. See No. 5):
1. Every time someone says he or she is going away for March Break, you laugh heartily and say, “Well have a fruity beverage for me on the beach!” After a while it occurs to you that if all those people get together and talk, they will think you are an alcoholic.
2. If you’re not talking to someone about fruity beverages, you’re offering to “carry their luggage.” Of course this is a fairly common expression to suggest envy for a holiday, but apparently you are saying it with enough earnestness and/or desperation to make people back away slowly.
3. When people chuckle about the “carry the luggage” thing, you are quick to present diagrams showing how you can actually curl up in a medium-sized suitcase for easy stowing. You’ve been practising. (And so endeth the conversation.)
4. You spend a lot of time giving yourself pep talks about people’s vacation response e-mails, voice mails or countdowns on Facebook (e.g. “Only three more sleeps ’til the Caribbean!”) You learn to scroll through and/or delete quickly and adopt denial as a survival technique.
5. Your Sarcasm Meter™ is high, but your Personal Filter™ is low, which is a baaaaad combination. You find yourself sitting on your hands to avoid typing regrettable witticisms on public forums. And although your filters are hanging in there, your hands are continually going numb, which makes it harder to practice folding yourself into a suitcase.
(What? Ahem.)
6. Although you have previously stated you are growing weary of the grit on the kitchen floor from sandy snowpants and that no matter how hard you try to pretend it is a sandy beach it’s just not working, it’s getting easier. You’re thinking that setting up a lawn chair in the kitchen may help.
7. The joy you usually experience from not having to make bagged lunches for a Whole! Entire! Week! is just not giving you the same thrill it usually does. You find yourself imagining packing picnics for beaches…and pining for it. (Perhaps a picnic on the kitchen floor is in order?)
So…what’s the silver lining here? (No…really…what is it?) Well, I suppose I don’t have to get up as early as usual during March Break, which would be great if my brain hadn’t started betraying me by waking up at the crack of stupid every day. Maybe the time change will be good for something after all….
Yes we have no vacation
By the time you read this, March Break will be almost over, we will have mostly adjusted to the time change, we’ll have new batteries in our smoke detectors (Right? Do it now!) and life will soon return to whatever version of “normal” is currently in play. (The options are wide open on that last one.)
As I write this, however, March Break is just beginning and I have said bon voyage to several friends who have jetted away for holidays. Groom-boy and I didn’t make plans to get the family away, mostly due to work commitments. We’ll probably do some minor fun stuff with the kids. (As soon as I figure out what “minor fun stuff” means I’ll let you know.)
It’s been busy lately, so March Break kinda crept up on me. Suddenly it was here and it dawned on me just how much I could use a little vacation. (“Dawned” in this context means “hit me like an anvil.”)
So, here is my “Top Seven List of Reasons Why I Know It’s Time to Get Out of Dodge,” in no particular order. (Yes, I know a Top 10 is better, but three reasons got filtered out. See No. 5):
1. Every time someone says he or she is going away for March Break, you laugh heartily and say, “Well have a fruity beverage for me on the beach!” After a while it occurs to you that if all those people get together and talk, they will think you are an alcoholic.
2. If you’re not talking to someone about fruity beverages, you’re offering to “carry their luggage.” Of course this is a fairly common expression to suggest envy for a holiday, but apparently you are saying it with enough earnestness and/or desperation to make people back away slowly.
3. When people chuckle about the “carry the luggage” thing, you are quick to present diagrams showing how you can actually curl up in a medium-sized suitcase for easy stowing. You’ve been practising. (And so endeth the conversation.)
4. You spend a lot of time giving yourself pep talks about people’s vacation response e-mails, voice mails or countdowns on Facebook (e.g. “Only three more sleeps ’til the Caribbean!”) You learn to scroll through and/or delete quickly and adopt denial as a survival technique.
5. Your Sarcasm Meter™ is high, but your Personal Filter™ is low, which is a baaaaad combination. You find yourself sitting on your hands to avoid typing regrettable witticisms on public forums. And although your filters are hanging in there, your hands are continually going numb, which makes it harder to practice folding yourself into a suitcase.
(What? Ahem.)
6. Although you have previously stated you are growing weary of the grit on the kitchen floor from sandy snowpants and that no matter how hard you try to pretend it is a sandy beach it’s just not working, it’s getting easier. You’re thinking that setting up a lawn chair in the kitchen may help.
7. The joy you usually experience from not having to make bagged lunches for a Whole! Entire! Week! is just not giving you the same thrill it usually does. You find yourself imagining packing picnics for beaches…and pining for it. (Perhaps a picnic on the kitchen floor is in order?)
So…what’s the silver lining here? (No…really…what is it?) Well, I suppose I don’t have to get up as early as usual during March Break, which would be great if my brain hadn’t started betraying me by waking up at the crack of stupid every day. Maybe the time change will be good for something after all….
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Past Deadline: Losing Sleep Over It
Here’s the latest Past Deadline, published Feb. 28/13 in The Perth Courier.
Losing sleep over it
Sleep, or the potential lack of it, was on my mind last weekend.
See, both children had sleepovers on the weekend. My hairdresser calls them “stay overs,” since not much sleeping takes place.
Boychild was off at a friend’s house for his late-night adventure and came home a little bleary eyed.
Girlchild’s event was at our house. It was the first time a friend has stayed over, and it was the first non-family sleepover for Girlchild’s friend, so it was a Momentous Occasion™.
Since the girls amassed more than eight solid hours’ sleep, which is several hours more than I’d counted on, I am going to call it a success.
As usual, I got less. I think I subconsciously anticipated being awakened at all hours, so I stayed up later than I should have reading a good book. Staying up late didn’t stop my silly busy brain from waking me up too early in order to toss and turn.
What is UP with that? I mean, as parents we survive the sleepless years of feedings and diaper changes and bad dreams and barfies and cats doing stupid things (Buster, may he rest in peace, was famous for yowling around the house, while MacGregor loves to rattle metal window blinds) – and for what?
Just when the kids can find the bathroom on their own in the night and no one needs to be fed at 3 a.m., the adult brain decides to start goofing around and preventing sleep. Frustrating!
I have always preferred to get things done before going to bed rather than getting up early to finish a task. I always figured my alarm wouldn’t go off or I would hit snooze too many times. Now it seems I have finally developed an internal alarm clock that I kind of wish I didn’t have.
It appears I am turning into my parents. I could never understand why, even when my brother and I were teenagers and slept in on weekends, my parents would be up at the crack of dawn as usual – like any other regular work day.
It’s not that I want to sleep in until all hours. Sleeping too long feels like a waste of the day and then I have trouble sleeping the next night. But waking up two hours before the alarm goes off is just…well…annoying, especially when I already stay up too late. I shudder to think of what time I would be up if I went to bed earlier.
Sure, as a “grown up” there are lots of things to “lose sleep over.” I mean, we probably all think about money and work and kids and volunteering and things that could go wrong and falling pianos and committee meetings and the elderly cat and that thing you did when you were 17 and genetic mutations and funny sounds and where the lost things went and so on. Right?
(Have you seen that TV commercial for the nighttime pain reliever? “What if the hokey pokey really IS what it’s all about?” Hehehe.)
Most of the topics that wake me up seem so much worse before the sun rises and the first coffee is had, but sometimes it’s just too darned early to get up despite the fact tossing and turning is unproductive.
Once I am upright, mobile and caffeinated, however, the world seems much more manageable. Well mostly. At least I can start doing something about it instead of lying around fretting.
For now I will gladly take whatever sleep comes and will seek inspiration from peeking at the kids and the elderly cat when they are blissfully snoozing. Some herbal tea probably wouldn’t hurt….
Losing sleep over it
Sleep, or the potential lack of it, was on my mind last weekend.
See, both children had sleepovers on the weekend. My hairdresser calls them “stay overs,” since not much sleeping takes place.
Boychild was off at a friend’s house for his late-night adventure and came home a little bleary eyed.
Girlchild’s event was at our house. It was the first time a friend has stayed over, and it was the first non-family sleepover for Girlchild’s friend, so it was a Momentous Occasion™.
Since the girls amassed more than eight solid hours’ sleep, which is several hours more than I’d counted on, I am going to call it a success.
As usual, I got less. I think I subconsciously anticipated being awakened at all hours, so I stayed up later than I should have reading a good book. Staying up late didn’t stop my silly busy brain from waking me up too early in order to toss and turn.
What is UP with that? I mean, as parents we survive the sleepless years of feedings and diaper changes and bad dreams and barfies and cats doing stupid things (Buster, may he rest in peace, was famous for yowling around the house, while MacGregor loves to rattle metal window blinds) – and for what?
Just when the kids can find the bathroom on their own in the night and no one needs to be fed at 3 a.m., the adult brain decides to start goofing around and preventing sleep. Frustrating!
I have always preferred to get things done before going to bed rather than getting up early to finish a task. I always figured my alarm wouldn’t go off or I would hit snooze too many times. Now it seems I have finally developed an internal alarm clock that I kind of wish I didn’t have.
It appears I am turning into my parents. I could never understand why, even when my brother and I were teenagers and slept in on weekends, my parents would be up at the crack of dawn as usual – like any other regular work day.
It’s not that I want to sleep in until all hours. Sleeping too long feels like a waste of the day and then I have trouble sleeping the next night. But waking up two hours before the alarm goes off is just…well…annoying, especially when I already stay up too late. I shudder to think of what time I would be up if I went to bed earlier.
Sure, as a “grown up” there are lots of things to “lose sleep over.” I mean, we probably all think about money and work and kids and volunteering and things that could go wrong and falling pianos and committee meetings and the elderly cat and that thing you did when you were 17 and genetic mutations and funny sounds and where the lost things went and so on. Right?
(Have you seen that TV commercial for the nighttime pain reliever? “What if the hokey pokey really IS what it’s all about?” Hehehe.)
Most of the topics that wake me up seem so much worse before the sun rises and the first coffee is had, but sometimes it’s just too darned early to get up despite the fact tossing and turning is unproductive.
Once I am upright, mobile and caffeinated, however, the world seems much more manageable. Well mostly. At least I can start doing something about it instead of lying around fretting.
For now I will gladly take whatever sleep comes and will seek inspiration from peeking at the kids and the elderly cat when they are blissfully snoozing. Some herbal tea probably wouldn’t hurt….
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Past Deadline: High Fives and Wahoos All 'Round
Here’s this week’s Past Deadline, published in The Perth Courier on Feb. 14/13.
High fives and wahoos all ’round
Back in July 2009, I revealed in this here space that I had embarked upon a new exercising adventure, thanks to my good friend Heather, who lives in Calgary.
That was the dawn of my indoctrination into The Cult of Running™, which was a brief and torrid affair.
See, Heather and I share some motivational issues when it comes to staying on the healthy diet and exercise bandwagon. She’s a great one for encouragement, though.
She had posted a “Super Beginner Learn to Run Plan” on her blog back in 2009. I lamented that I wished I, too, could be one of those graceful, calorie-burning runner types.
I was never a good runner as a kid. Long-legged and lanky (yes, there was a day when I looked as if I truly needed many cookies to sustain me), I never mastered my breath. I looked like a windmill and generated a lot of puff.
Heather encouraged me. She urged me to get some good shoes and, when she came to Ontario to visit family that July, we took my inaugural run.
The beginner plan is a walk-a-minute-run-a-minute scenario. Those first 18 minutes led to many more runs over the next two years.
Then, in August 2011, my right foot had a nervous breakdown. For many months, walking, never mind running, was a painful thing. Apparently I have silly feet. Orthotics have helped, but I still can’t push it.
I have struggled to find a way to replace running, which I found to be the Best! Stress! Reliever! Ever! Y’all may recall how I lamented about my lack of enthusiasm for cycling (“I’m gonna die!) and I may have offered up lame-ish excuses about scheduling swimming and disliking gym, and blah blah blah.
Heather of Calgary to the rescue with her enthusiasm! Two months ago she started a private fitness group on Facebook and invited a bunch of her friends to join. The aim is to post a message in the group about our “daily” fitness activities. (So far they haven’t kicked me out of the group for not fitnessing daily.)
One of the things I liked about running was going off on my own and trying to beat my own bests while listening to my “Run Forrest Run” playlist. (Say – has anyone seen my iPod? I think my desk ate it.)
Solitary running was good, but chatting with others about exercise is great. Plus I am very vain and I like to talk about myself. No really!
There are some very active people in the group, which is inspiring. Fortunately, I am comfortable enough with my lethargy to not feel intimidated.
Meanwhile, Heather is awesome at prodding and prompting, too. If you have shown no sign of movement after a few days, she’ll ask you what you’re up to before calling 911.
The best thing is that this group is really supportive. When I post something saying the only exercise I did all week is shoveling, I get cyber high-fives and wahoos, which makes me want to try harder.
So let it snow! (Okay…maybe not.)
Actually, as exciting as shoveling is, I am much more enthused about the fact my foot is tolerating power walks. Apparently my long arch appreciates the fact my ample weight is not crashing down upon it with every running step. Walking is gentler.
I’m walking farther and faster these days (High fives! Wahoos!), so there is hope for me yet. Maybe, if I am careful, I could work up to the Kilt Run this summer. Or maybe a Kilt Run/Walk. Or just a random walk while wearing a kilt.
Whatever! Exercise is good! Let’s shovel!
High fives and wahoos all ’round
Back in July 2009, I revealed in this here space that I had embarked upon a new exercising adventure, thanks to my good friend Heather, who lives in Calgary.
That was the dawn of my indoctrination into The Cult of Running™, which was a brief and torrid affair.
See, Heather and I share some motivational issues when it comes to staying on the healthy diet and exercise bandwagon. She’s a great one for encouragement, though.
She had posted a “Super Beginner Learn to Run Plan” on her blog back in 2009. I lamented that I wished I, too, could be one of those graceful, calorie-burning runner types.
I was never a good runner as a kid. Long-legged and lanky (yes, there was a day when I looked as if I truly needed many cookies to sustain me), I never mastered my breath. I looked like a windmill and generated a lot of puff.
Heather encouraged me. She urged me to get some good shoes and, when she came to Ontario to visit family that July, we took my inaugural run.
The beginner plan is a walk-a-minute-run-a-minute scenario. Those first 18 minutes led to many more runs over the next two years.
Then, in August 2011, my right foot had a nervous breakdown. For many months, walking, never mind running, was a painful thing. Apparently I have silly feet. Orthotics have helped, but I still can’t push it.
I have struggled to find a way to replace running, which I found to be the Best! Stress! Reliever! Ever! Y’all may recall how I lamented about my lack of enthusiasm for cycling (“I’m gonna die!) and I may have offered up lame-ish excuses about scheduling swimming and disliking gym, and blah blah blah.
Heather of Calgary to the rescue with her enthusiasm! Two months ago she started a private fitness group on Facebook and invited a bunch of her friends to join. The aim is to post a message in the group about our “daily” fitness activities. (So far they haven’t kicked me out of the group for not fitnessing daily.)
One of the things I liked about running was going off on my own and trying to beat my own bests while listening to my “Run Forrest Run” playlist. (Say – has anyone seen my iPod? I think my desk ate it.)
Solitary running was good, but chatting with others about exercise is great. Plus I am very vain and I like to talk about myself. No really!
There are some very active people in the group, which is inspiring. Fortunately, I am comfortable enough with my lethargy to not feel intimidated.
Meanwhile, Heather is awesome at prodding and prompting, too. If you have shown no sign of movement after a few days, she’ll ask you what you’re up to before calling 911.
The best thing is that this group is really supportive. When I post something saying the only exercise I did all week is shoveling, I get cyber high-fives and wahoos, which makes me want to try harder.
So let it snow! (Okay…maybe not.)
Actually, as exciting as shoveling is, I am much more enthused about the fact my foot is tolerating power walks. Apparently my long arch appreciates the fact my ample weight is not crashing down upon it with every running step. Walking is gentler.
I’m walking farther and faster these days (High fives! Wahoos!), so there is hope for me yet. Maybe, if I am careful, I could work up to the Kilt Run this summer. Or maybe a Kilt Run/Walk. Or just a random walk while wearing a kilt.
Whatever! Exercise is good! Let’s shovel!
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Past Deadline: I Don't Hear Anything
Here is Past Deadline from Jan. 31/13 published in The Perth Courier.
I don’t hear anything
Saturday at my house is laundry day. Sometimes I like to squeeze in a load or two during the week, but in this particular week I saved it all up like any good hoarder and made Saturday an official Laundry Event™. My life is exciting that way.
Ahem.
I loaded up Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine and was somewhat alarmed as it kicked into gear. It was making a strange noise. I stood there for a couple of minutes, hands on hips, scowling, and listened. Oh, dear.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t used it for a week and it was feeling sluggish? Maybe the water was a bit more frigid than usual (quite likely!) and it was complaining a little?
What to do? Do I stop the machine? Call upon Groom-boy? Call upon someone who might actually know what to do? Panic?
So I did what any high-functioning adult does these days – I turned to social media. I posted: “If I pretend I don’t hear the funny sound my washing machine is making, it’ll go away, right?”
I had a variety of responses, such as “Yes” and “Think positively.” One suggestion was to give it a “good kick” and another was to “stop doing laundry.”
My favourite by far was from the Rising King of One Liners, my little bro: “Turn the radio up. It works with my car.”
Yessss!
I may be regressing into my teenage years because more and more I am finding loud music to be a tonic for a lot of things. I have always liked to listen to music while working. When I need to do something terribly cerebral I turn to classical, but lately I have been relying on my running playlist to get the job done.
Back when my Stupid Foot™ wasn’t so stupid and I was happily engrossed in the adrenalin rush/stress-release that was running, I compiled a great collection of music on a playlist I call “Run Forrest Run.”
The title is inspired by the movie Forrest Gump – the part when Forrest decides to run across the country. See, running was never effortless for me, so sometimes 5K felt a bit like a marathon. “Run Forrest Run” is quite a mixed bag. It includes nostalgia stuff from the ’80s and ’90s, some unusual stuff, songs that remind me of dancing up a storm with friends at university and enough new stuff that if my kids stumble upon it they might say, “Hey, Mom’s not as dorky as we thought!” It has a lot of fast-paced material and a smattering of slower stuff in strategic spots to enable one to catch one’s breath as they pound out a 5K.
These days it is good walking music and also decent for the stationary bike, but I find I am turning to it often as I toil at my desk. If I am working on a big deadline or a large document, sticking in the earphones and playing “Run Forrest Run” is an excellent way to pass the miles. I mean time.
It also works well if one is trying to meet a deadline while a boisterous play date is happening elsewhere in the house, but this is only recommended if there is another competent adult in the vicinity who is paying attention to the chaos.
Just as I was about ready to crank up the tunes on laundry day, the washer stopped making the funny noise and all was well.
Phew.
For at least the foreseeable future, it appears my Laundry Events will carry on as usual. Given the sheer volume of the task, however, I might do the loud music thing anyway….
I don’t hear anything
Saturday at my house is laundry day. Sometimes I like to squeeze in a load or two during the week, but in this particular week I saved it all up like any good hoarder and made Saturday an official Laundry Event™. My life is exciting that way.
Ahem.
I loaded up Ye Olde Clothes Washing Machine and was somewhat alarmed as it kicked into gear. It was making a strange noise. I stood there for a couple of minutes, hands on hips, scowling, and listened. Oh, dear.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t used it for a week and it was feeling sluggish? Maybe the water was a bit more frigid than usual (quite likely!) and it was complaining a little?
What to do? Do I stop the machine? Call upon Groom-boy? Call upon someone who might actually know what to do? Panic?
So I did what any high-functioning adult does these days – I turned to social media. I posted: “If I pretend I don’t hear the funny sound my washing machine is making, it’ll go away, right?”
I had a variety of responses, such as “Yes” and “Think positively.” One suggestion was to give it a “good kick” and another was to “stop doing laundry.”
My favourite by far was from the Rising King of One Liners, my little bro: “Turn the radio up. It works with my car.”
Yessss!
I may be regressing into my teenage years because more and more I am finding loud music to be a tonic for a lot of things. I have always liked to listen to music while working. When I need to do something terribly cerebral I turn to classical, but lately I have been relying on my running playlist to get the job done.
Back when my Stupid Foot™ wasn’t so stupid and I was happily engrossed in the adrenalin rush/stress-release that was running, I compiled a great collection of music on a playlist I call “Run Forrest Run.”
The title is inspired by the movie Forrest Gump – the part when Forrest decides to run across the country. See, running was never effortless for me, so sometimes 5K felt a bit like a marathon. “Run Forrest Run” is quite a mixed bag. It includes nostalgia stuff from the ’80s and ’90s, some unusual stuff, songs that remind me of dancing up a storm with friends at university and enough new stuff that if my kids stumble upon it they might say, “Hey, Mom’s not as dorky as we thought!” It has a lot of fast-paced material and a smattering of slower stuff in strategic spots to enable one to catch one’s breath as they pound out a 5K.
These days it is good walking music and also decent for the stationary bike, but I find I am turning to it often as I toil at my desk. If I am working on a big deadline or a large document, sticking in the earphones and playing “Run Forrest Run” is an excellent way to pass the miles. I mean time.
It also works well if one is trying to meet a deadline while a boisterous play date is happening elsewhere in the house, but this is only recommended if there is another competent adult in the vicinity who is paying attention to the chaos.
Just as I was about ready to crank up the tunes on laundry day, the washer stopped making the funny noise and all was well.
Phew.
For at least the foreseeable future, it appears my Laundry Events will carry on as usual. Given the sheer volume of the task, however, I might do the loud music thing anyway….
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Past Deadline: What Flavour is Grey?
Here is this week’s Past Deadline, published in The Perth Courier on Jan. 24/13.
What flavour is grey?
My palate has not grown up. Or maybe it has. I dunno, but you can bet I am going to try to work it all out in this here space!
I’ve said before that I’ll eat anything as long as someone else cooks it. There are some limits to this – I mean, I won’t eat spoiled stuff or food that sets my mouth on fire and such, but I get a little thrill when someone other than me prepares a meal and takes away the dishes. Oh, yeah.
It makes me less picky. I mean, we’re talking about someone who, while in the hospital having her babies, thought the fare was just fine. Heck, someone brought me food three times a day and cleaned up afterwards. It was great!
I hadn’t really thought much about the refinement of my palate, but I was recently at a business-type event with about 300 people. It featured a buffet dinner in a large hall. There was quite a selection of food – from appetizers and salads to a variety of main courses.
I tried a little bit of almost everything and, really, there wasn’t anything I didn’t like. I shovelled it in gratefully because someone else made it, someone else cleared the plates and – even better – I didn’t have to pay for it or have a baby to get it.
The only thing that occurred to me as I ate was that it was nice to have some different veggies other than the usual assortment I stick to at home to please all the tender little palates there.
After the main course and before the dessert, there was chitchat at our table about the meal. One wasn’t crazy about the veggies, another found the food wasn’t hot enough, some gave it a tepid review.
I paused. I was content. Why was I content? What is wrong with me? Was the food warm enough? Were the veggies actually odd?
I just couldn’t think of anything in particular to say about the meal. I found it…fine!
It was time for the dessert table, which featured an array of fresh fruit, squares, tarts, cakes slices and tiramisu-type thingies.
I selected some fruit and checked out the cake slices. They were layered and looked very light – more like mousse. Some appeared to have chocolate layers, but I chose something with a greenish tint, thinking there might be some lime flavouring.
I got back to the table and everyone was chatting as we ate. As I tucked into the cake I noticed that, in the lighting at the table, it looked as if the layers were more greyish than greenish. Interesting.
Others noticed, too. “What flavour is that?” someone asked.
I chewed thoughtfully. I had no idea. It was light and sweet. I could taste a tiny hint of vanilla, but other than that it was just light and sweet.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said.
A few people seemed wary of the girl munching on the grey cake. To put everyone at ease, I assured them it didn’t taste moldy or bad in any way. We agreed it was probably just food colouring and moved on with our lives.
So, yeah. I eat grey cake and don’t give it much thought. Apparently I’ll eat what’s on my plate – warm or cold, strange or not – as long as someone else makes it.
Besides, when it’s a free, buffet-style meal for hundreds of people, how picky can you get?
Maybe my palate could use some refining, but possibly I’m also good at adjusting my expectation level. That could, for example, explain why the hospital food was a hit.
Or maybe I just need to get out more….
What flavour is grey?
My palate has not grown up. Or maybe it has. I dunno, but you can bet I am going to try to work it all out in this here space!
I’ve said before that I’ll eat anything as long as someone else cooks it. There are some limits to this – I mean, I won’t eat spoiled stuff or food that sets my mouth on fire and such, but I get a little thrill when someone other than me prepares a meal and takes away the dishes. Oh, yeah.
It makes me less picky. I mean, we’re talking about someone who, while in the hospital having her babies, thought the fare was just fine. Heck, someone brought me food three times a day and cleaned up afterwards. It was great!
I hadn’t really thought much about the refinement of my palate, but I was recently at a business-type event with about 300 people. It featured a buffet dinner in a large hall. There was quite a selection of food – from appetizers and salads to a variety of main courses.
I tried a little bit of almost everything and, really, there wasn’t anything I didn’t like. I shovelled it in gratefully because someone else made it, someone else cleared the plates and – even better – I didn’t have to pay for it or have a baby to get it.
The only thing that occurred to me as I ate was that it was nice to have some different veggies other than the usual assortment I stick to at home to please all the tender little palates there.
After the main course and before the dessert, there was chitchat at our table about the meal. One wasn’t crazy about the veggies, another found the food wasn’t hot enough, some gave it a tepid review.
I paused. I was content. Why was I content? What is wrong with me? Was the food warm enough? Were the veggies actually odd?
I just couldn’t think of anything in particular to say about the meal. I found it…fine!
It was time for the dessert table, which featured an array of fresh fruit, squares, tarts, cakes slices and tiramisu-type thingies.
I selected some fruit and checked out the cake slices. They were layered and looked very light – more like mousse. Some appeared to have chocolate layers, but I chose something with a greenish tint, thinking there might be some lime flavouring.
I got back to the table and everyone was chatting as we ate. As I tucked into the cake I noticed that, in the lighting at the table, it looked as if the layers were more greyish than greenish. Interesting.
Others noticed, too. “What flavour is that?” someone asked.
I chewed thoughtfully. I had no idea. It was light and sweet. I could taste a tiny hint of vanilla, but other than that it was just light and sweet.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said.
A few people seemed wary of the girl munching on the grey cake. To put everyone at ease, I assured them it didn’t taste moldy or bad in any way. We agreed it was probably just food colouring and moved on with our lives.
So, yeah. I eat grey cake and don’t give it much thought. Apparently I’ll eat what’s on my plate – warm or cold, strange or not – as long as someone else makes it.
Besides, when it’s a free, buffet-style meal for hundreds of people, how picky can you get?
Maybe my palate could use some refining, but possibly I’m also good at adjusting my expectation level. That could, for example, explain why the hospital food was a hit.
Or maybe I just need to get out more….
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Past Deadline: Resolutions Revisited
Here is the latest “Past Deadline,” published in The Perth Courier on Jan. 10/13.
Resolutions revisited
As I write this, we are about a week into the new year and I feel inclined to provide an update on how those fantastic New Year’s “Revolutions” are working out.
Or not working out, as the case may be.
I decided to do this in part because it is snowing again. See, last week I wrote about snow and how much I like it in the winter. One of the brilliant gems I uttered was this: “Another reason I prefer snow is because it’s easier to get the kids outside. It has been awesome lately for fort building – those chunks of snow make great blocks.”
It all sounds very good, and the theory is solid, but the practice is proving to be, well, let’s just say my kids rarely decide on their own to just go outside – they usually have to be told. This is especially true for the oldest one, who sometimes needs to be pried away from the computer. (To her credit, Girlchild recently built a beautiful snow girl and snow dog who gaze happily at me when I am at the kitchen window.)
On a bright sunny day near the end of the Christmas break, I herded the youngsters outside by suggesting we build a snow mountain in the back yard that they could slide down. This led to a second snow pile that Girlchild used to make a fort. Suddenly the magic and versatility of snow was revealed and they spent two hours outside. You’d think they’d been living in Florida for the last decade.
I saw something on the Interwebs recently – can’t remember where – that said: “When I was a kid I only had one toy. It was called ‘outside.’”
So true. This is such a lost generation. It is up to us to teach our children “the Old Ways,” and that means opening the back door and gesturing broadly to the back yard. “Look, little ones! Grass! Trees! Flowers! Birds! Fresh air! Take these sticks and build something! Take this broom and pretend it is a horse and ride it! Stare at the clouds! Climb a tree! Make a mud pie! Ride a bike!”
I know I have no one to blame but myself for letting it come to this, although I also know I am not alone. Many parents are tackling the “nature deficit.”
That all said, I am inclined to add an addendum to my resolutions: “Get the kids outside!” My goal is for them to want to choose to go outside – not for it to be a chore that Mommy makes them do. And maybe that means unplugging a few screens around the house and meaning business about it.
Wish me luck.
As for the rest of the “revolutions,” my progress on that front has been…well…poor. I am going to blame the holidays because, as I write this, the kids are still off and routines are disrupted. Our sleep patterns are weird and we are still confronted with a variety of Christmas goodies lying around. It would be a crime to waste them.
Still…my pants are shrinking. I have to do something about this because a new wardrobe will break the budget. By the time you read this, I hope I will have done some form of decent exercise every day this week – something other than shovelling.
Also, here’s another addendum that was glaringly omitted from the list: “Eat less.” Seriously. Get a grip, woman! The number on the scale is startling!
The remaining resolution was “Don’t freak out in the face of change, conflict or difficulty.” Perhaps I should amend that to add: “but DO freak out about not going outside, not exercising and not eating less.”
Okay, everyone! Let’s go make a snow fort!
Resolutions revisited
As I write this, we are about a week into the new year and I feel inclined to provide an update on how those fantastic New Year’s “Revolutions” are working out.
Or not working out, as the case may be.
I decided to do this in part because it is snowing again. See, last week I wrote about snow and how much I like it in the winter. One of the brilliant gems I uttered was this: “Another reason I prefer snow is because it’s easier to get the kids outside. It has been awesome lately for fort building – those chunks of snow make great blocks.”
It all sounds very good, and the theory is solid, but the practice is proving to be, well, let’s just say my kids rarely decide on their own to just go outside – they usually have to be told. This is especially true for the oldest one, who sometimes needs to be pried away from the computer. (To her credit, Girlchild recently built a beautiful snow girl and snow dog who gaze happily at me when I am at the kitchen window.)
On a bright sunny day near the end of the Christmas break, I herded the youngsters outside by suggesting we build a snow mountain in the back yard that they could slide down. This led to a second snow pile that Girlchild used to make a fort. Suddenly the magic and versatility of snow was revealed and they spent two hours outside. You’d think they’d been living in Florida for the last decade.
I saw something on the Interwebs recently – can’t remember where – that said: “When I was a kid I only had one toy. It was called ‘outside.’”
So true. This is such a lost generation. It is up to us to teach our children “the Old Ways,” and that means opening the back door and gesturing broadly to the back yard. “Look, little ones! Grass! Trees! Flowers! Birds! Fresh air! Take these sticks and build something! Take this broom and pretend it is a horse and ride it! Stare at the clouds! Climb a tree! Make a mud pie! Ride a bike!”
I know I have no one to blame but myself for letting it come to this, although I also know I am not alone. Many parents are tackling the “nature deficit.”
That all said, I am inclined to add an addendum to my resolutions: “Get the kids outside!” My goal is for them to want to choose to go outside – not for it to be a chore that Mommy makes them do. And maybe that means unplugging a few screens around the house and meaning business about it.
Wish me luck.
As for the rest of the “revolutions,” my progress on that front has been…well…poor. I am going to blame the holidays because, as I write this, the kids are still off and routines are disrupted. Our sleep patterns are weird and we are still confronted with a variety of Christmas goodies lying around. It would be a crime to waste them.
Still…my pants are shrinking. I have to do something about this because a new wardrobe will break the budget. By the time you read this, I hope I will have done some form of decent exercise every day this week – something other than shovelling.
Also, here’s another addendum that was glaringly omitted from the list: “Eat less.” Seriously. Get a grip, woman! The number on the scale is startling!
The remaining resolution was “Don’t freak out in the face of change, conflict or difficulty.” Perhaps I should amend that to add: “but DO freak out about not going outside, not exercising and not eating less.”
Okay, everyone! Let’s go make a snow fort!
Friday, January 4, 2013
Past Deadline: The Great Goop Storm of 2012
Here’s this week’s “Past Deadline,” published in The Perth Courier on Jan. 3/13. Does shovelling count as exercise for my New Year’s resolutions?
The Great Goop Storm of 2012
“Snow. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the shoveller Stephanie. Her continuing mission: to uncover old, existing pavement, to seek out various porches and sweep off satellite dishes, to boldly go where she always goes after it snows….”
I’ve said it before – I don’t mind winter, even though I am not an avid winter sports person (“avid” and “sports” seldom go together in a sentence for me). I live in a part of Canada where winter is winter and I’ve come to expect snow. It brightens up the place and makes it pretty in the dark months.
The shovelling part can kinda stink, though.
As I write this, snow is gently falling on what undoubtedly would have been a snow day if the kids were in school. It is the second biggish winter storm, but the snow is about 500 times lighter than the first one.
Y’all remember the first storm before Christmas? The one that featured all manner of goop falling from the sky?
That was heavy stuff!
I loved how the first layer was freezing rain and water with a top layer of very wet snow. As you dug down to scoop up a small shovel-full (because a big scoop would either a. weigh 245 pounds and hurt your back or b. break the shovel), you were greeted with that layer of sticky watery goop at the bottom that actually stuck to the shovel.
Clearing porches and driveways and sidewalks (oh my!) was no easy feat. My shoulders ached for a good two days. (Thank you, ibuprofen.)
Foliage also needed rescue. Cedar hedges that withstood the Great Ice Storm of 1998 fell victim to the Great Goop Storm of 2012.
In a typical winter, we shake the snow off the cedar hedge that surrounds my in-laws’ backyard once or twice as it builds up, but this storm required urgent action. Boychild and I went out, armed with rakes, and clawed huge chunks of frozen goop off the hedge.
After that, my hands ached for about four days. Jeepers, it stinks getting older!
My other favourite part of that particular winter event was the next day. The town plows came through in the night and the temperature started to drop, so the next task was to remove the frozen ice boulders from the end of the driveway.
I felt as if I were working in the Silver Queen Mine – chopping away at icy rocks and hauling them off a bit at a time. Black powder might have been more effective.
Despite the achiness of the occasion, I’m still happy to see snow instead of freezing rain. I worry that as our climate changes, we’ll see less of this brightness and more freezing rain and darkness. Given my history of falling and busting my butt on indoor stairs, I’d rather not take chances with icy ones.
Another reason I prefer snow is because it’s easier to get the kids outside. It has been awesome lately for fort building – those chunks of snow make great blocks.
I am also trying to groom (mostly unsuccessfully at the moment) a pair of assistant snow shovellers. Seems they were much keener to shovel when they were younger, but I haven’t given up. Boychild tried to help with the Great Goop, but it was pretty heavy and he didn’t last long. (I felt his pain.)
I wonder how I will feel about snow in a decade or so when the assistant shovellers are grown and I’m that much older and achier?
Hopefully I will still view it as that frontier to be explored. Best to live in the moment I think….
The Great Goop Storm of 2012
“Snow. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the shoveller Stephanie. Her continuing mission: to uncover old, existing pavement, to seek out various porches and sweep off satellite dishes, to boldly go where she always goes after it snows….”
I’ve said it before – I don’t mind winter, even though I am not an avid winter sports person (“avid” and “sports” seldom go together in a sentence for me). I live in a part of Canada where winter is winter and I’ve come to expect snow. It brightens up the place and makes it pretty in the dark months.
The shovelling part can kinda stink, though.
As I write this, snow is gently falling on what undoubtedly would have been a snow day if the kids were in school. It is the second biggish winter storm, but the snow is about 500 times lighter than the first one.
Y’all remember the first storm before Christmas? The one that featured all manner of goop falling from the sky?
That was heavy stuff!
I loved how the first layer was freezing rain and water with a top layer of very wet snow. As you dug down to scoop up a small shovel-full (because a big scoop would either a. weigh 245 pounds and hurt your back or b. break the shovel), you were greeted with that layer of sticky watery goop at the bottom that actually stuck to the shovel.
Clearing porches and driveways and sidewalks (oh my!) was no easy feat. My shoulders ached for a good two days. (Thank you, ibuprofen.)
Foliage also needed rescue. Cedar hedges that withstood the Great Ice Storm of 1998 fell victim to the Great Goop Storm of 2012.
In a typical winter, we shake the snow off the cedar hedge that surrounds my in-laws’ backyard once or twice as it builds up, but this storm required urgent action. Boychild and I went out, armed with rakes, and clawed huge chunks of frozen goop off the hedge.
After that, my hands ached for about four days. Jeepers, it stinks getting older!
My other favourite part of that particular winter event was the next day. The town plows came through in the night and the temperature started to drop, so the next task was to remove the frozen ice boulders from the end of the driveway.
I felt as if I were working in the Silver Queen Mine – chopping away at icy rocks and hauling them off a bit at a time. Black powder might have been more effective.
Despite the achiness of the occasion, I’m still happy to see snow instead of freezing rain. I worry that as our climate changes, we’ll see less of this brightness and more freezing rain and darkness. Given my history of falling and busting my butt on indoor stairs, I’d rather not take chances with icy ones.
Another reason I prefer snow is because it’s easier to get the kids outside. It has been awesome lately for fort building – those chunks of snow make great blocks.
I am also trying to groom (mostly unsuccessfully at the moment) a pair of assistant snow shovellers. Seems they were much keener to shovel when they were younger, but I haven’t given up. Boychild tried to help with the Great Goop, but it was pretty heavy and he didn’t last long. (I felt his pain.)
I wonder how I will feel about snow in a decade or so when the assistant shovellers are grown and I’m that much older and achier?
Hopefully I will still view it as that frontier to be explored. Best to live in the moment I think….
Past Deadline: The Revolutions of 2013
Here is the final edition of “Past Deadline” for 2012, published Dec. 27/12 in The Perth Courier. Happy New Year, everyone!
The Revolutions of 2013
As one year winds down and we head into a new one, it’s time to reflect on those New Year’s Revolutions and see if I did what I said I was going to do and hatch a sinister plan to do a whole bunch of stuff in the new year.
Some years I get quite aggressive with my “live well and save the world” promises. Other years I strive for achievable goals, such as “stop eating sugar straight from the bag.” (No problem!)
Let’s reflect on the results of 2012.
Last year I opted to return to an exercise resolution. This was particularly important given the fact I have a Stupid Foot™ that collapsed in 2011, compelling me to abandon some of my favourite types of exercise.
Well, that resolution was a spectacular fail! Even though the foot feels better, it is not better enough for running. Walking seems to have fallen off the roster, too. The stationary bike has been idle. The swimming pool has only seen me as a spectator.
Clearly, this needs to be addressed, and fast. Exercising – actually doing it – is the number one item for 2013, assuming the world hasn’t ended, of course.
On a better note, I am pleased to report that, for the most part, I maintained an aggressive Hair Management Program™, which is to say I tried to avoid looking like a skunk when all the white hair started to show up. Not much of a life-altering, world-saving resolution, however, it is important to celebrate small achievements in order to bolster morale.
Maintaining a skunk-free image is incentive enough that I don’t actually have to indoctrinate it – so I’m not going to bother including it for 2013.
The third one from last year, however, bears repeating. It was “Don’t freak out in the face of change.”
I have learned to accept that change is constant. Some change is good. Other change – not so much. How we deal with it is the important thing.
A big example – something that has affected so many people – is the economy. Jobs are lost, positions are changing and people have to do things differently. The only thing you can really do is find a way to make it work.
I’m going to keep that resolution because it is a work in progress, and I am going to add “conflict or difficulty” to the end of it.
Sometimes we find ourselves in roles that attract conflict and difficulty and, in my experience, flying off into orbit does not necessarily help the situation. (It is also not very practical – space missions can break the budget.)
Under the “difficulty” category, I have found this “not freaking out” thing to be important when it comes to deadlines, too.
For example, every December a whole bunch of work deadlines converge for me, like planets aligning, and there’s not a darned thing I can do about it. So, as December approaches, I complete as much as I can in advance, then take a deep breath and bury myself in an intense workload for two weeks or so, knowing as I go that there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Adrenalin, momentum and coffee keep me going. My family has learned to ignore the crazy lady at the desk.
The December deadline thing is probably as close as I will ever come to running a marathon. Unfortunately, that type of marathon does nothing for muscle tone and does not count toward the exercise resolution.
There you have it. No new revolutions, just recycled ones. That’s all the “change” I can handle!
Happy New Year, everyone! And please save the world – it needs our help.
The Revolutions of 2013
As one year winds down and we head into a new one, it’s time to reflect on those New Year’s Revolutions and see if I did what I said I was going to do and hatch a sinister plan to do a whole bunch of stuff in the new year.
Some years I get quite aggressive with my “live well and save the world” promises. Other years I strive for achievable goals, such as “stop eating sugar straight from the bag.” (No problem!)
Let’s reflect on the results of 2012.
Last year I opted to return to an exercise resolution. This was particularly important given the fact I have a Stupid Foot™ that collapsed in 2011, compelling me to abandon some of my favourite types of exercise.
Well, that resolution was a spectacular fail! Even though the foot feels better, it is not better enough for running. Walking seems to have fallen off the roster, too. The stationary bike has been idle. The swimming pool has only seen me as a spectator.
Clearly, this needs to be addressed, and fast. Exercising – actually doing it – is the number one item for 2013, assuming the world hasn’t ended, of course.
On a better note, I am pleased to report that, for the most part, I maintained an aggressive Hair Management Program™, which is to say I tried to avoid looking like a skunk when all the white hair started to show up. Not much of a life-altering, world-saving resolution, however, it is important to celebrate small achievements in order to bolster morale.
Maintaining a skunk-free image is incentive enough that I don’t actually have to indoctrinate it – so I’m not going to bother including it for 2013.
The third one from last year, however, bears repeating. It was “Don’t freak out in the face of change.”
I have learned to accept that change is constant. Some change is good. Other change – not so much. How we deal with it is the important thing.
A big example – something that has affected so many people – is the economy. Jobs are lost, positions are changing and people have to do things differently. The only thing you can really do is find a way to make it work.
I’m going to keep that resolution because it is a work in progress, and I am going to add “conflict or difficulty” to the end of it.
Sometimes we find ourselves in roles that attract conflict and difficulty and, in my experience, flying off into orbit does not necessarily help the situation. (It is also not very practical – space missions can break the budget.)
Under the “difficulty” category, I have found this “not freaking out” thing to be important when it comes to deadlines, too.
For example, every December a whole bunch of work deadlines converge for me, like planets aligning, and there’s not a darned thing I can do about it. So, as December approaches, I complete as much as I can in advance, then take a deep breath and bury myself in an intense workload for two weeks or so, knowing as I go that there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Adrenalin, momentum and coffee keep me going. My family has learned to ignore the crazy lady at the desk.
The December deadline thing is probably as close as I will ever come to running a marathon. Unfortunately, that type of marathon does nothing for muscle tone and does not count toward the exercise resolution.
There you have it. No new revolutions, just recycled ones. That’s all the “change” I can handle!
Happy New Year, everyone! And please save the world – it needs our help.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Past Deadline: Fratricide Averted
Here is the Dec. 6 edition of "Past Deadline," published in The Perth Courier.
Fratricide averted
The other day I phoned my mom and thanked her for not killing my brother and me when we were kids.
It’s not the first time I have said it. I don’t know how she did it.
Boychild, almost 11, and Girlchild, 7, have been fighting like the proverbial cats and dogs these days. They can’t seem to be in a room together for more than 14 seconds before some sort of ridiculous squabble erupts.
Often it is screen related. Someone is invariably watching something the other doesn’t want to watch. Or maybe they will agree to play a game together, and then start screaming about a) the choice of game or b) the particular strategy employed or c) the rules of the game, etc.
I have already had to set up a schedule about which days which kid gets to choose which game, and they know the next step is for the screen-related items to be declared off limits for both.
The frustrating thing is, I can relate. It is often the Way of Siblings to disagree about pretty much everything merely on principle.
When we were kids, my parents had to set up a schedule for my brother and me when it came to doing dishes. We started off doing them together, but when it devolved into arguments about who was doing what and who could inflict the most skin damage with a tea towel, we were soon segregated to doing them individually on alternating nights.
I was mean to my brother (sorry, Doug). I was four and a half years older than he, and for a long time I was bigger and thought I was smarter. The physical part of our sibling rivalry ended fairly quickly when he got bigger and started pushing back.
No problem. I always had the psychological warfare thing going on, so I just leaned a little more heavily on that. (Girls often excel at this.)
I think I have related the Darth Vader story, but here’s a recap to illustrate a point.
Picture it: Sicily, 1947. Wait…wrong rerun. Picture it: Perth, circa 1980. I am about 10, my brother is around five. Star Wars is popular. I hadn’t seen it, but knew who the good guys and bad guys were and that Princess Leia’s hair looked like earmuffs.
At the time our basement was only partially finished, and I was down there playing with my little brother. The furnace tended to make weird, gaspy, rumbly sounds, and I thought it would be fun to scare the bejeebers out of my brother by telling him it was Darth Vader. I told him to hide under a desk in the dark, then I crept upstairs and rolled on the floor laughing as he came screaming up the stairs, terrified, a few minutes later.
(Yes, he still speaks to me.)
It backfired. He claimed to be “afraid” to go downstairs for what seemed like years afterward, so basement-related errands had to be done by me. (Well played, little bro.)
Anyway, I remember this as I listen to the shrieking and clamour around me as Boychild and Girlchild navigate the world of sibling rivalry. I see the trickery and the power plays and the supposed “hatred,” and as much as I sometimes want to set up schedules so that they are never in the same room together for anything, ever, I know this is all part of a complex social something er other.
Besides, when I see things like Girlchild being sad about something that has happened at school and Boychild offering to go and “talk to the kid” or “keep an eye on things,” I know everything is going to be fine.
Fratricide averted
The other day I phoned my mom and thanked her for not killing my brother and me when we were kids.
It’s not the first time I have said it. I don’t know how she did it.
Boychild, almost 11, and Girlchild, 7, have been fighting like the proverbial cats and dogs these days. They can’t seem to be in a room together for more than 14 seconds before some sort of ridiculous squabble erupts.
Often it is screen related. Someone is invariably watching something the other doesn’t want to watch. Or maybe they will agree to play a game together, and then start screaming about a) the choice of game or b) the particular strategy employed or c) the rules of the game, etc.
I have already had to set up a schedule about which days which kid gets to choose which game, and they know the next step is for the screen-related items to be declared off limits for both.
The frustrating thing is, I can relate. It is often the Way of Siblings to disagree about pretty much everything merely on principle.
When we were kids, my parents had to set up a schedule for my brother and me when it came to doing dishes. We started off doing them together, but when it devolved into arguments about who was doing what and who could inflict the most skin damage with a tea towel, we were soon segregated to doing them individually on alternating nights.
I was mean to my brother (sorry, Doug). I was four and a half years older than he, and for a long time I was bigger and thought I was smarter. The physical part of our sibling rivalry ended fairly quickly when he got bigger and started pushing back.
No problem. I always had the psychological warfare thing going on, so I just leaned a little more heavily on that. (Girls often excel at this.)
I think I have related the Darth Vader story, but here’s a recap to illustrate a point.
Picture it: Sicily, 1947. Wait…wrong rerun. Picture it: Perth, circa 1980. I am about 10, my brother is around five. Star Wars is popular. I hadn’t seen it, but knew who the good guys and bad guys were and that Princess Leia’s hair looked like earmuffs.
At the time our basement was only partially finished, and I was down there playing with my little brother. The furnace tended to make weird, gaspy, rumbly sounds, and I thought it would be fun to scare the bejeebers out of my brother by telling him it was Darth Vader. I told him to hide under a desk in the dark, then I crept upstairs and rolled on the floor laughing as he came screaming up the stairs, terrified, a few minutes later.
(Yes, he still speaks to me.)
It backfired. He claimed to be “afraid” to go downstairs for what seemed like years afterward, so basement-related errands had to be done by me. (Well played, little bro.)
Anyway, I remember this as I listen to the shrieking and clamour around me as Boychild and Girlchild navigate the world of sibling rivalry. I see the trickery and the power plays and the supposed “hatred,” and as much as I sometimes want to set up schedules so that they are never in the same room together for anything, ever, I know this is all part of a complex social something er other.
Besides, when I see things like Girlchild being sad about something that has happened at school and Boychild offering to go and “talk to the kid” or “keep an eye on things,” I know everything is going to be fine.
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