hazy shades of winter

Last Tuesday:

I was waiting for an appointment, spending some time happily down by in the park with a coffee* and paperback. While it was too wet out (there was a drizzle) to really be in the park, it was just warm enough to sit in my car and happily glug coffee, listening to the radio and turning pages.

I was getting lost in the characters when all of a sudden I noticed an absence of sound, like the world was suddenly holding its' breath.

What was different?

I raised my head slowly and peered out over the river. Same scene, same glimmering expanse. It was still chilly....and.....

Something tapped on the window. And into that hush, as I watched, bemused and a little thrilled, the first snowflakes of the season came flurrying down. Beautiful, really, watching everything get coated in whiteness. Seeing everything so stark in late autumn get softened by snow.

It didn't stick, of course. The Atlantic is still too warm to have anything stay long.

So it cleared and we had some fine days, days where the kids ran around without coats, days when getting a few more days out of summer shoes wasn't a terribly foolish idea, days when going outside was a time of marveling This is December? and sniffing for burning brush.

Today:

The world is white. Which is misleading, because it's all slush under the prettiness. The kids have been outside and come back, wet to the skin, mittens sopping, and telling tales of snow sculptures and sledding - and I stand at the window, clutching my mug, and think

I don't wanna go out there before, say, March.

and

I'm really, really too old for this stuff.




*I think I've noted this before, but around here it's always I had a coffee or I had a cup of tea. By now it's habit and I only notice when I'm writing it down.

toy giveaway

I'm giving away a Mastermind toy over on my review blog! Leave a comment to win. U.S. and Canadian addresses can both enter!

george foreman's sweater

In the back of my closet, shoved into a wheat-colored lump, is a darned, patched, stained, bleach-spotted old sweater that I can't get rid of.

It grew like Topsy. Or something. I don't remember getting it or buying it or having it foisted upon me. Every year I swear I'll put it in the donation box, I will, but I just never have the heart to. It's so comfortable, you see. And while brown has never been my colour - I know it washes me out and makes me look even more sallow (although sadly I'm not so sure that's possible) - it's handy to toss on over a t-shirt or jammies and go outside to walk the dog or have coffee with the moms at Literacy class.

Lately, though, my sweater has been doing the unthinkable.

It's shredding.

I was poking the thread through the needle, saving it one more time, when I started musing about how long I've had my sweater. It's been years. But where on earth did it come from? Did I steal it from a roommate? Was it a Mom gift?

Maybe the label would tell me.

Comfort Zone, by George Foreman.

Ooookay. I had as many nights of partying and rock and roll as anyone else, but I know I didn't date George Foreman. Or steal his clothes.

Comfort Zone, by George Foreman.

George Foreman had a clothing line? When, in the downtime between pummeling people and hawking the grill? I was turning the ludicrous picture of George Foreman in all his burly glory strutting down a London catwalk over in my head when I was struck by a horrible thought. This meant that my super comfy, long in the arms, ultra-casual, always-go-to sweater? Is a man's sweater.

And honestly, I don't know which I find more disturbing. That I'm now running through all the Lean Mean Fat Reducing Machine commercials in my head, trying to remember if I saw him dressed in brown,

or the fact that I stitched it up and wore it back out again today.

review

cross-posted from my review blog:

My review for Green Works

Go, read it. There's a survey at the end that will send money to a shelter in Toronto.

blowin'

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

equating

I hate math.

Really. Loathe the stuff.

Well, actually, that's not quite true. I really liked geometry. But algebra? Pah. There was no helpful visual, no absolute rules - just a bunch of letters mixed up with addition and subtraction signs, arranged whichever way to encourage maximum confusion.

But I know that math persists (like an evil rash) and that like it or not, my children would be learning it.

(Pah.)

When Cass was a baby, I used to (oh, the shame! The misplaced-but-ever-so-earnest novice parenting! The determination to make my baby the best he could be!) whisper the multiplication tables to him as he fell asleep. (It beat croaking out another rendition of Blackbird all hollow.)

I don't kid myself that it did anything for him. It didn't give him some secret boost, some indefinable leg up in the grand scheme of things.

It did, however, keep me from falling asleep. Usually.

I'm pretty sure he has no memories of me hanging over his crib, hissing numbers at him, and that's probably a good thing....

So now we just practice. I'll be in the kitchen, and I'll holler.

'Cass! What's 120 plus 53?'

First there'll be some mumbling (and some grousing) and he'll think about it a bit and whip out the answer.

After awhile, he'll get tired and start shouting math problems at me. Usually of the 'One hundred million billion plus...lemme see....six hundred and forty-two. Plus three.'

Then he's amazed when I call out. 'One hundred million billion, six hundred and forty-five!' (He hasn't yet figured out that bigger numbers doesn't always mean harder math.)
'How did you do that, Mom? Did they teach you in school?'


And I think back to those nights when I'd watch his wee little eyes feather shut and lovingly whisper:

'Eight times six is forty-eight. Eight times seven........'

Oh yes, baby boy. In school.

double vision

Yesterday was H1N1 shot day.

My two had their seasonal flu shots a few weeks ago, and C reacted badly, so we'd been working on tensing up all his muscles, blowing out his breath, and then relaxing his arms so he could have the shot over and done with quickly.

It worked stupendously until the actual moment the doctor came in the office.

And then all hell broke loose.

And I practically had to pile-drive the poor kid again.

Rosey the Roo watched her brother folded in a sobbing mess on the floor, then got up and re-settled herself in the chair next to the doctor. She flopped her arm on the chair and watched (watched!) while the doctor gave her shot, huffing in her breath only when a tiny bead of blood welled up when the needle was removed.

Why do I keep forgetting they're so different?

Before she was born, I thought having two kids would be easier than one - in some ways, am not entirely deluded - but it seems as if the second go around ought to be easier - you're not so stymied by the stages, you have a better understanding of bottles and breastfeeding and toilet-training (or at least it's not a total wander-in-the-wilderness)...it just seems...like...it should be...simpler?

Oh, how the gods laughed.

But sometimes - just sometimes - when they're playing together and giggling over the same things....when their laughter rings out like bells......and their dark heads bend over something....

It's like they're halves of the same whole.

don't tell my husband I posted...

Ssssh! He thinks I'm studying.

I've been taking a course online, and it's been going gangbusters - except that most of the tests seem to be for People Of Very Little Brain (Really? One of the exam questions was on the proper attire for an office. How hard can it be to remember to wear a bra?) and I thought I was through the dumb 'let's learn how to study bs', I did, but tonight I had to listen to an audio file that not only had a redneck ax'in and fixin' and golly-gee-ing all over the place to SLAM HOME the point that GRAMMAR IS GOOD, accents are BAD.....

it also featured the music that plays on the Peanuts specials when CHARLIE BROWN IS WALKING AROUND TOWN.

If I end up wearing a yellow argyle sweater and NO PANTS to the office, I swan - I'll know who I'll be fixin' to blame!


Must get back to 'studying'........

early morning appointment

I went to the gynecologists today.

It's a long, narrow, rather bleak sort of waiting room, especially at 9:30 in the morning, made even more beige and bland and sterile-ish by the empty magazine racks and signs bleating about handwashing, germs, and H1N1.

Although there is a table full of brochures. Go figure.

My doctor was MIA this morning - pissing me mightily, as I'd thrown the kids out the door, bolted a cup of coffee and driven the 'fast roads' there.* The office had unbent enough to tell me he wasn't in yet, but hadn't wanted to go into detail. Pity. I would have liked to know.

After all, if he was dealing with some sort of gyno emergency (Monistat! CLEAR!) then this huff I was working on would be wasted.

But for now I was trapped in a room with a slightly-off track ceiling fan (whick! whick! ting!) and one other woman, who was smacking her candy and staring out the window.

This could only get better.

I was sitting across from a poster extolling 'Top Ten Reasons to Adopt a School-Age Child' which I misread in my almost-decaffeinated state as 'Top Ten Reasons to Adopt Out a School-Age Child' - and while that was very progressive and New Age-ish (frighteningly so!) it reaaally didn't seem to fit - and besides, what could Cass and Rosey DO that would make me think about leaving them at the doctor's office?

I was musing burning down the house? when they finally called my name, and Laconic McEnglishman (he is of the imperious sort, and stares at me blankly when I crack up when he talks about 'marital relations') and I settled in to talk.

And yay! No nakedness. The ladybits were shyly appreciative. This was getting better!

The (big bad wolf) cysts were gone and/or smaller, and we both agreed that switching me to another type of progesterone would a) continue to keep my cycles....cyclical, and b) stop me from screeching don't touch me! whenever anyone came close for a hug. (Which should please Bear.)

If this type doesn't stop me from getting a bad case of the over-sensitives, I told him I'm stopping them. He'll just have to think of something else.

He didn't like that much - mainly because I think not many of his patients tell him what they're going to do - (the imperiousness, again) but it's my body, and I can't take feeling like leaning forward is going to snap me in half.**

So I smiled a lot and told him I'd see him in a few months and waltzed out of there.

Sometimes you just have to feel like you're piloting your own health-care ship.

Back in the car, where I drove quickly and expertly back to my job. Another beige-ish room.

But at least this one painting the cats? didn't have me wondering about getting rid of the kiddles.









*Am not leadfoot. I just get there more quickly than (ahem *cough* husband) some people do.
**The precautions list says to expect breast and ovary tenderness. Tenderness my ass.

need a new place to sit

Me: Rosey, it's almost time for bed!

Kate: YAWN. That was a LOVELY nap. Wait. Did she just say......bedtime?

Kate: I'm taking my owly ears and stripedy tail and getting out of.....

Kate: Oh, mzzzzimp. Huffswa. If we must.

Me: Rosey, do you have everything? Blankie? Did you kiss Daddy?
Do you have a cuddly toy to take upstairs.....
Kate: AHEM.


So of course I had to rescue my lovely but doddering feline from the clutches of She-That-Squeezes-Too-Hard (that's her name in Cat, honest) and by the time that was all sorted out, I'd completely lost the thread of what I wanted to post.

Which might not be a bad thing. I seem to be running a little bit dry for the blog recently.

No, I'm not closing up shop. I love my place here. November is just rushed for me.

Hopefully, I'll find more words soon. Stick around, would you?