Happy holidays to everyone out there. I wish you much joy.
Archive for December, 2008
Though it’s been said - many times, many ways.
Wednesday, December 24th, 2008My Christmas Concert Cherry.
Thursday, December 18th, 2008I busted it with Juniper’s Christmas Concert was last night.
We survived.
Special notes:
1) To Buddy, for leading me to believe that this Christmas Concert, in this school, with this teeny tiny tinker toy gymnasium, would be akin to hell’s waiting room. Extra bonus points for building it up (down?) for days on end.
2) To the woman who actually gave me my first ever glimpse at a smarmy expression. I mean, sure. I’ve read about it in books. I’ve heard tell of a smarmy expression. But never have I seen it so aptly demonstrated. You know the type. Thinks she rules the school, knows everyone, is up in everyone’s business. She bored eyeball sized holes into my spine from directly behind me for the duration of the concert, the better to hear me trash Buddy’s ex (I didn’t. But she was waiting/hoping).
3) To the concert gestapo, for not booting us out of the teeny tiny tinker toy gymnasium, even though we were in flagrant violation of the rule: No Parents Of Children Above Kindegarten-Age Shalt Pass Through The Portal Until 6:30. As a result of our rule-breaking ways, we were able to sit comfortably for the duration. Or, in Rosebud’s case, dance wildly to the music for the duration.
4) To the kid sitting next to Buddy eating chocolate wafers and drinking juice, who sat and stood more often than a devotee at Catholic high mass, resulting in repeat crumb showers. We giggled. Like bad school children.
Juniper was exactly as I’d imagined her - intense, focused and enthusiastic. She remembered all the gestures and sung like there was no tomorrow. A marked difference from the cute kindergarten lad who cried the entire way through “I love to sing”.
Can’t wait until next year!
*It should also be noted that this is the same woman who informed Buddy’s ex about our talk of vacations to Disneyland - the better to agitate her.
An open letter to dads who leave
Wednesday, December 17th, 2008Dear sirs,
Can you tell me why it is that so many of you cannot handle the reality of your wife becoming a mother? I mean, it seems evident to me. Together, you agree to place your unprotected penis into the vagina of your lovely lady-wife, with the understanding that pleasure is an adjunct to procreation in this case. You watch her belly swell with equal parts trepidation and pride. You watch the birth happen. You crow to everyone about how wonderful and amazing and beautiful your child is. That child Comes Home With You. And reality sinks in.
Is this why, three or four years down the line, so many of you suddenly start departing like rats off a sinking ship?
Honestly, this is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous because it doesn’t seem to just happen once in a while. It happens a lot. Frequently. Discouragingly commonly.
Why?
Is it that you feel abandoned by the woman who swore to love and honour you? Does the fact that she has another butt to wipe and another mouth to feed really feel like such a betrayal of her vows to you? Are you miffed because you don’t live in the babyseat anymore?
I mean, lookit - if you and your partner are truly not getting along - if you’re playing Fishwife and Monger on a nightly basis, if you’re sleeping in separate rooms, if you’re *truly* irreconcilable (and have proven it by a - working on it for a long time and b - actually agreeing with each other that you are irreconcilable), fine. Leave. Go. Collect $200 and then give at least half to the care and feeding of your child.
But if you’re simply bored, disaffected, stressed or overwhelmed, or life hasn’t gone in the directions you’d hoped well - guess what? That’s parenthood. That’s life. That’s the way things go when you have a young family. When you make a choice to procreate, you surrender your right to think of yourself first.
Let me repeat that, for those who are not paying attention:
When you make a choice to procreate, you surrender your right to think of yourself first.
The worst part of this daddy exodus is that it seems to invariably involve another woman. And that other woman has been, in my experience, a woman without children of her own.
Motherhood is disfiguring. It’s dirty, it’s exhausting and it leaves a mark. But guess what? Fatherhood is supposed to be exactly the same way. Instead, you get to have your nice clean visitations in your nice clean home, with your nice clean girlfriend and her unmarked stomach and her unswerving devotion to you and only you. No child to compete with. No late nights. No Mother at all in your Lover.
Daddies of our generation have been a bit of a disappointment* to me. I’d honestly have thought, with all the divorce and ugliness that went on around us when we were kids, they’d be more careful in what they say and do. They’d take more time to consider whether or not they were really ready to be a parent. And once they’d made that decision, they’d stick to it.
Instead, it’s just a glossy dimestore novel about passion and betrayal and leaving women holding the parental bag while daddies go off to diddle their secretaries, sister’s best friends or random woman found at bar.
So, a note to the fathers of the world. If you need a shoulder to cry on, because you’re tired and stressed out and sick of seeing your wife/mother of your toddler sporting the same grey sweats over and over again, and you’re just sooo lonely and isolated - I’m not the person you should come to. Not only will you not get a shoulder to cry on, you might actually end up with my beer thrown in your face. I have no respect for you or your whining. Adulthood means surrendering some of those childish things - and one of those things is selfishness.
Get over your bad self, strap on (and keep on) the big boy underwear, and be a father. Because if you don’t, your kids will know. Sooner or later, they’ll know. And they’ll start looking for partners who most decidedly do not match your personality profile. And if that’s the harshest thing they do to you, you can consider yourself fortunate.
Please to be noting: this is a rant that has been a long time in coming. Every time I hear an almost lock-step version of my marriage’s demise from someone else, this bubbles up.
* There are exceptions. Tremendous exceptions to this rule. I happen to know a good handful of A Plus daddies. It’s just pitiful that they are the exceptions and not, as it should be, the rule.
Birthday gremlins.
Monday, December 15th, 2008I don’t know who Buddy pissed off on the karmic level, but whoever he annoyed, they wreaked their vengeance on him this past weekend.‘Member that stomach bug that overtook Rosebud to herald the beginning of our week? Yeah. Well, it sunk its tiny little pincers into Buddy on Friday night. Just in time for his birthday.
Sigh.
Still, he choked back one or two bites of my carefully crafted bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, toast, coffee and orange juice breakfast-in-bed. He seemed quite happy with his spanky new high-end go-mug, his copy of Seven Samurai, and his new iPod dock for the kitchen (The man has missed his kitchen music since the day he moved in. Even if he hadn’t said anything, the very fact that it’s been playing almost 24/7 since he got it gives it away).
He even mustered the energy to appreciate the mystery gift of the afternoon, which involved much driving around and threats of strange events, until we stopped at a small house on a street we’d never been on before, wandered up to a stranger’s door and I introduced him to the nice lady who was to read our tarot cards.
Yup. That one was fun. Half the fun for me was stretching the mystery out as long as possible. I think it was half the fun for him, too, though the curses and threats that went along with it were something to behold.
His illness did mean canceling dinner plans with his parents, as the very idea of food was enough to turn him green. He did manage to eat the dinner my mother made for him last night, though he didn’t do it his usual justice.
Not exactly how I wish things had gone, but yannow - that’s life for you. I guess the only person left to get this tummy bug is Juniper. I imagine it’ll happen just in time for Christmas.
Oh, the holidays.
Food Pr0n.
Friday, December 12th, 2008I happened by a local store called The Happy Cooker. I quite enjoy the place. From the friendly little rainbow flag in the corner of the door, to the five foot chef, with his six foot whisk who greets you next, the place immediately puts me in the mood.
As soon as I step in, I’m lost. I could go in there with the best of intentions (as, in this case, hanging out other friend-shoppers), and it changes nothing. Mostly, I’ve surrendered my fine pretenses and simply try and confine myself to small items. Never mind that the staff always have to follow after me with a cloth and a bottle of windex, to do a post-drool clean up.
It’s the Pr0n, you see. I have no control.
The shiny knives. The glistening tortilla presses. The Kitchenaid blender - industrial version. Never do so many sugarplums dance before my eyes as when I’m there.
My haul, this time? A tiny microplane on a key ring, which was far more painful to use than it had a right to be - clearly I should’ve just gone for the one with the handle. But hey, it was only five bucks, and if it’s just five it doesn’t count. A “Y”-shaped vegetable peeler (don’t know how else to describe it - it’s a Y with a blade across the top), which I adore, and a mandolin.
Which I promptly ran across my right thumb pad.
Twice.
I continue my adoration for The Happy Cooker and it’s delicious, wonderful, tasty pr0n. But clearly I should be made to stay away from the pointy objects.
It’s yer b-day.
Friday, December 12th, 2008It’s Buddy’s birthday tomorrow. Not only did he have the ill-grace to be a December baby (thusly complicating my Christmas planning, and forcing me to cherry pick my preciously misered list of gifts), he also emerged into the world as a squalling (but undoubtedly adorable) infant on a Friday the 13th. In December. He’s very fortunate that CH and Bobby are not of the religious bent that most of his ancestral line are, or he might have been exchanged for a nice 14th or 12th baby.
It’s also coming up on the close of our first year together. It’s not there yet. But there’s a strange and anticipatory feeling in the air about it.
*This* day marks the first time we really flirted.
*That* day is the first time we hugged.
It’s not popular to be happy. It’s decidedly unpopular to be *this* happy. Talking about being happy is akin to talking about how wealthy you are. Or how many famous people you know.
It’s insufferable and therefore, Simply Not Done.
As if that’s going to stop me.
It’s strange, because I am, in fact, really in love with this man. Madly in love with him. And yet, somehow, I know that we’re not done evolving, or falling in love with each other. We haven’t reached any kind of emotional plateau. We’re still discovering new things about each other, and new ways that we work together.
This is the real gift. But you know, I don’t know if it’s truly a gift. It’s more like discovering an amazing waystation on the road of life, where they’re serving your favorite foods, showing your favorite shows, and the other travelers are all the best people you’ve ever known. It’s a reward for having come this far. And it’s a promise. Our road may not always lead us to such pleasant places, and we may not always enjoy the journey. But we are in it together, and that makes it all that much better.
Happy Birthday, lover. You are exactly who I suspected you were, and you are more than I ever knew was possible. My life feels like one big gift now, one that I’m slowly opening, and savoring. You? You made that possible.
The Merriest Unmarry eXmas of all.
Wednesday, December 10th, 2008Yes, dearest readers - for those of you who enjoy a good pun the way I do, the headline is true. My divorce will become final on Christmas Day. This is an appropriate summation to the marriage. It’s ending is a gift.
Buddy’s? Buddy will have to wait until New Year’s Day.
Ho. Ho. Ho. *
*A virtual cookie to those of you who immediately thought “and a bottle of rum!” Even if it’s supposed to be Yo. ho-ho.
Day-glo.
Tuesday, December 9th, 2008It finally happened. After three and a half(ish) years, Rosebud finally got sick. Sure, she’s had sniffles, and the occasional mild cough, but Sunday night marked the first time she’s ever been truly sick.And when I say truly sick, I mean the graphic, stomach-bug kind of sick. Technicolor sights and smells sick. Multiple loads of laundry sick. Sleeping in Mama’s bed sick.
You think I’m kidding about how infrequently she’s ill? I called Our Lady of Daycare yesterday morning to let her know that Rosebud wouldn’t be in, and she was shocked. Shocked enough to say “It’s Rosebud’s first ever sick day. I can’t believe it.”
You’d have believed it if you’d been there, I can assure you.
So, she and I stayed home yesterday. She was mostly recovered by that time, aside from a bit of a low ebb energy level. Today, she’s back in the saddle.
And honestly? After all my worry about being ill-prepared for her to get sick, it wasn’t so bad. I mean, it was gross. But the emotional part of it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I’d thought. Who has time to fret when they’re cleaning and/or soothing? It’s another one of those “put one foot in front of the other” deals. You just keep going.
It helped that she was herself, aside from being ill. It the midst of throwing up, she kept insisting “I’m okay! I’m okay!”
Between Rosebud and Rosebud’s illness, I didn’t have time to do anything but what was immediately in front of me. It’s very tidy how that works out.
Today I don’t feel so good. I’m hoping it’s just psychosomatic. I don’t want to revisit Technicolor puke again anytime soon.
Broke back by mountains.
Thursday, December 4th, 2008A couple of weeks ago, we painted Juniper’s room.This probably sounds like an awful chore to have to do. For most people, it probably is. But I like the application of a fresh coat of paint to things. There’s something about it, in the first strokes of putting up a new colour that feels BIG. And there’s a promise in it, that if you apply it right, you’ll have something brand new at the end.
I’m crazy about painting. I’ve volunteered (VOLUNTEERED) to help others paint places. I’ve done different paint applications, I’ve learned techniques, I’ve even stenciled.
I’m an old hand at it.
But what I discovered, a couple of weeks ago, is that there should be more emphasis on the *old* part.
I hurt my back.
The day or two after painting, it was tight, but that’s to be expected. However, I didn’t expect it to remain tight for an entire week. I described it as having a rubber band wrapped around my tail bone.
One week later, exactly, the rubber band snapped. I was prostrated for the better part of an entire weekend. And when I say “better part”, I’m being facetious. Because that’s how I roll. Facetiously. Sometimes even fatuously.
Since then, it’s improved. By that I mean, I can walk. Move. Bend. Function. But I am in no way floating like a butterfly or stinging like a bee. What I’ve been experiencing since then (two weeks now), is aches and pains, accompanied by tweaks and moments of seizing.
Colour me (but don’t paint me) impressed.
Buddy blames it on the way I paint, which he referred to as the Jane Fonda method. I don’t know any other way to get things done, but evidently I’m going to have to learn. My back has talked back.
That, on top of everything else that has been going on, has succeeded in making me pretty fricken cranky. It’s now started to migrate to my right hip, which has led to some highly attractive limping, and occasionally, even stooping.
So, I’m old, tired, cranky, overworked and overwhelmed.
Yup. It’s so totally Christmas.
HOWEVER - I have officially booked two weeks off for the blessed season. Two weeks. And you know? I’m not going anywhere during that time. I’m not planning any major home projects. I’m not even sure if I’m going to get out of bed for most of those days. I’m going to sleep, rest, sleep, rest and then maybe think about a little more rest and sleep.
Two blissful weeks. I cannot wait.
P.S. Juniper’s room looks lovely. We added some pretty floating shelves on the walls, and a rug on the ground, and it now looks like a proper room for a girl - a place to retreat from the big bad world. There are photos of the feat, but sadly I haven’t access to them at the moment. You’ll just have to imagine it with me.
I confess, I am blogstipated.
Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008And I mean, my bloag (trapped gas in my blog) is epic, friends. I could be rented out as a romantic mode of transport across the African Plains. Macy’s offered me a million to be a float. The Michellin Man is stalking me.
I have a lot to give, and I had better get this mental cork popped soon, or we’re going to have trouble.
I want to talk to you about the Canadian government right now, to those of you who would otherwise be uninterested. If your latest soap opera is starting to fail you, all you have to do is acquire A Brief History of Canadian Politics since 1980. You’d see high drama, folks. Brother against brother, cut-throat, take-no-prisoners, honest to swear-ta-ya snitting going on. Actual historic events. Ludicrousy. Unlikely bedfellows.
And most of that has happened in the past week.
I also want to tell you about the crazy-ass nature of my worklife, and how I wonder if I can possibly survive it, somedays. On the days I’m not madly in love with it - denizens and workload both.
I cannot wait to tell you about how I survived the birthday party of last weekend, and how lame a picture I made, doing it. Not a score I’m proud of, though the Birthday Girl had a blast, which is the vital part.
AND, I would also enjoy a chance to fill you in on the process of divorce and how The Fates, in their Infinite Wisdom, saw fit to remind me of their curious ways.
But I cannot. I am all out of blex-lax. And no blog shall come forth.
