SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2010
Dreams used and wasted
In update to MlleL and the zombies:
The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....
I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]
Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....
In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.
I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laserto help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.
This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something likeVelcro in my leg.
Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husbandamong them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.
The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....
I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]
Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....
In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.
I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laserto help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.
This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something likeVelcro in my leg.
Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husbandamong them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.
MONDAY, AUGUST 16, 2010
Bedtime.
It is far, far past bedtime. Especially for one we are trying to wean from afternoon naps before she starts afternoon kindergarten in two weeks.
"Mama," she says in a small voice, "I can't sleep because I keep thinking about zombies."
"What?" I say, "Zombies? Where did you see them?"
"On tv," she says, "they eat brains and make other people zombies too."
"Oh," I say, trying to think of a solution, "first of all, that was not great tv for you to be watching. It sounds way too scary. Also, zombies aren't real. They're scary make believe."
"But I can't stop thinking about them."
Remembering past success with logic - monsters? Not in Ottawa - Monsters have big feet, too big to buy shoes and boots, and you sure can't live in Ottawa without shoes and boots - maybe somewhere warmer - polar bears and Elephants? Well, when they knock on the door, we just don't let them in. Also, they can't really fit through the door anyhow. Witches? We don't let them in either, but because you don't want to offend a witch, I offer them tea and cookies on the deck - I start to think about how I can make her safe.
"Well, honey, number one, zombies aren't real. But if they were, did you see them walking around? I mean, number two, zombies are stupid."
"And number three," I say, counting them out on my hand, "their fingers don't work all that well. All of our doors are locked, so the zombies, if they were real, wouldn't be able to open the doors."
"oh!" she says, inspired, "and they're really old and break really easily!"
"Right!" I say. "Number four, they break really easily."
"But what about them coming in the windows?" She asks. (Stupid tv show. What the hell was the care provider doing while this was on?)
"Well, honey," I say, "remember they're stupid. And break easily, and their fingers don't work. So they really can't climb up anything, and if they tried to get in the windows down here, they'd just break up into zombie bits. If they were real, which they aren't."
"AAAAND," I say, moving the party back upstairs, "They're really slow. So if they were real, which they're not, they can't get you inside the house because they're stupid, and slow, and break up really easy and their fingers don't work."
"But what's the most important reason," I ask?
"They're not real." She agrees and climbs back into bed.
"Exactly."
Unless, of course, zombies are real, and you took a day off this week to drive one home from dental surgery.
And although she wasn't stupid, she was kinda slow, and her fingers didn't work all that well, and if I had dropped her while I walked her crazy zombie laughing self to the car, I bet you she would have broken into pieces.
"Mama," she says in a small voice, "I can't sleep because I keep thinking about zombies."
"What?" I say, "Zombies? Where did you see them?"
"On tv," she says, "they eat brains and make other people zombies too."
"Oh," I say, trying to think of a solution, "first of all, that was not great tv for you to be watching. It sounds way too scary. Also, zombies aren't real. They're scary make believe."
"But I can't stop thinking about them."
Remembering past success with logic - monsters? Not in Ottawa - Monsters have big feet, too big to buy shoes and boots, and you sure can't live in Ottawa without shoes and boots - maybe somewhere warmer - polar bears and Elephants? Well, when they knock on the door, we just don't let them in. Also, they can't really fit through the door anyhow. Witches? We don't let them in either, but because you don't want to offend a witch, I offer them tea and cookies on the deck - I start to think about how I can make her safe.
"Well, honey, number one, zombies aren't real. But if they were, did you see them walking around? I mean, number two, zombies are stupid."
"And number three," I say, counting them out on my hand, "their fingers don't work all that well. All of our doors are locked, so the zombies, if they were real, wouldn't be able to open the doors."
"oh!" she says, inspired, "and they're really old and break really easily!"
"Right!" I say. "Number four, they break really easily."
"But what about them coming in the windows?" She asks. (Stupid tv show. What the hell was the care provider doing while this was on?)
"Well, honey," I say, "remember they're stupid. And break easily, and their fingers don't work. So they really can't climb up anything, and if they tried to get in the windows down here, they'd just break up into zombie bits. If they were real, which they aren't."
"AAAAND," I say, moving the party back upstairs, "They're really slow. So if they were real, which they're not, they can't get you inside the house because they're stupid, and slow, and break up really easy and their fingers don't work."
"But what's the most important reason," I ask?
"They're not real." She agrees and climbs back into bed.
"Exactly."
Unless, of course, zombies are real, and you took a day off this week to drive one home from dental surgery.
And although she wasn't stupid, she was kinda slow, and her fingers didn't work all that well, and if I had dropped her while I walked her crazy zombie laughing self to the car, I bet you she would have broken into pieces.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 2010
ooook.
I realized rather late in the game that the extreme efforts I made to minimize the amount of luggage travelling to Points North may have also minimized my access to things I wanted and possibly needed.
Despite that fact, I thought outside of the box, found one of the refillable juice boxes in the car, filled it with water and stuffed it down my pants. I took two puffs of the inhaler, laced my shoes and set out.
Sure, it wasn't on schedule. It was, to be exact, Thursday morning.
This year, I avoided the Worst Run Ever (up hill both ways past the cemetary containing my father's unmarked grave and substanital emotional discoveries) and took a more circuitous route through the village, past the Inn and out the new road to complete the 16k.
I would see 7 trucks on my journey, a motorcycle, and one car -my dad's, the Crown Vic, which is now owned by others in the village, and still appears to be in really good shape.
Two of these vehicles (NOT the car) would follow the long standing Points North tradition of the wave. One of them, which I saw a happy total of four times during the two hours, merrily waving away before he even passed me, was driven by the man who sold me the first sweatshirt I ever bought with my own money (I was 8), copious amounts of candy (aw hell, it would have been this time if the general store had still been open), countless loaves of bread and my first legal liquor (20).
In fact, when I tried to buy that liquor, he asked me to wait a minute and had a whispered conversation with his 'wife'. Having not reached a successful conclusion, he returned, fixed me with a stern look, and said "Katie? Are you over 19??" And then totally took my word for it.
Oprah talks about the secret socio-economic indicators that instantly identify your class - vocabulary, teeth, etc.
It was like that. The running made me not from there. It was like wearing a suit of away. Not only did they not know who I belonged to, they could not see past the suit to recognize the kid I used to be.
It was his wave - each of those four times - that eased that feeling of being different, and helped me remember a time when my vacations to Points North were the stuff of family, of freedom, and of wild amounts of McIntosh's Toffee. Even when I had the braces and Mrs. Maiden asked him not to sell it to me.
Despite that fact, I thought outside of the box, found one of the refillable juice boxes in the car, filled it with water and stuffed it down my pants. I took two puffs of the inhaler, laced my shoes and set out.
Sure, it wasn't on schedule. It was, to be exact, Thursday morning.
This year, I avoided the Worst Run Ever (up hill both ways past the cemetary containing my father's unmarked grave and substanital emotional discoveries) and took a more circuitous route through the village, past the Inn and out the new road to complete the 16k.
I would see 7 trucks on my journey, a motorcycle, and one car -my dad's, the Crown Vic, which is now owned by others in the village, and still appears to be in really good shape.
Two of these vehicles (NOT the car) would follow the long standing Points North tradition of the wave. One of them, which I saw a happy total of four times during the two hours, merrily waving away before he even passed me, was driven by the man who sold me the first sweatshirt I ever bought with my own money (I was 8), copious amounts of candy (aw hell, it would have been this time if the general store had still been open), countless loaves of bread and my first legal liquor (20).
In fact, when I tried to buy that liquor, he asked me to wait a minute and had a whispered conversation with his 'wife'. Having not reached a successful conclusion, he returned, fixed me with a stern look, and said "Katie? Are you over 19??" And then totally took my word for it.
Oprah talks about the secret socio-economic indicators that instantly identify your class - vocabulary, teeth, etc.
It was like that. The running made me not from there. It was like wearing a suit of away. Not only did they not know who I belonged to, they could not see past the suit to recognize the kid I used to be.
It was his wave - each of those four times - that eased that feeling of being different, and helped me remember a time when my vacations to Points North were the stuff of family, of freedom, and of wild amounts of McIntosh's Toffee. Even when I had the braces and Mrs. Maiden asked him not to sell it to me.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 2010
Oh my god, you guys, Oh my god!
You will never, never guess what we happened upon on our drive to Parts North, and so I will tell you.
In Deep River, my dears, at perhaps the most frequented Tim Horton's in all the world, there is now a COLD STONE CREAMERY counter.
No word of a lie. Apparently, it's part of a test market. I promise you that it's almost worth the drive to Deep River alone.
Don't let this be a Krispy Kreme y'all. Seriously. Please help encourage them to stay.
You'll be glad you did!
In Deep River, my dears, at perhaps the most frequented Tim Horton's in all the world, there is now a COLD STONE CREAMERY counter.
No word of a lie. Apparently, it's part of a test market. I promise you that it's almost worth the drive to Deep River alone.
Don't let this be a Krispy Kreme y'all. Seriously. Please help encourage them to stay.
You'll be glad you did!
THURSDAY, JULY 29, 2010
Breath of fire
To be truthful, it's been my calming noise all of my life. I don't even realize I do it when I go to sleep. When I was a child, I napped with Mr. Maiden on the couch. It's the sound of him sleeping. The sound of him breathing.
Constrict the back of your throat, and breathe - ujjayi breath - the sound of yoga and the ocean, and the sound of my dad. The sound of COPD.
When I was 19 years old, I was an out of shape first year university student in Northern Michigan. (I'd been to Grade 13 in Parts North, but then transferred those credits over to the University. A phenomenally cheap strategy for getting through school.)
Anyhow. I got suckered into playing Broom Ball (for the uninitiated, it's hockey rules, played with small rubber brooms and a hard rubber ball on the arena ice.) as one of the only girls on the intramural team. Because we were short girls, I had to run for the whole period. I didn't get a break.
I stepped off the ice and experienced my first (and one of my worst) exercise induced asthma attack. When I recovered, I called Mr. Maiden, and asked him what asthma felt like. He sighed and said "Well, honey, how about you tell me what it feels like."
It never really surfaced again as badly until a nasty virus lasting weeks and weeks in Arizona had me prescribed with a puffer to take several times a day.
Off and on, I've had a puffer ever since. Well, mostly off, to be honest - I haven't had one in the house for about 10 years. I remember tossing the last one when it expired back in the apartment. I think it was the one bedroom, so at least before 2000.
The thing is - in the lunch time running group, I am always, always the last one in the line. Always. I watch people I really should be faster than (think old and infirm wearing pumas, for Christ sake) pass me on my runs around the bridges. And I have running partners with whom I train during lunch hours.
I can always tell, D says, when you're not behind me - I can't hear you breathing.
(Apparently, it's not normal for your friends to be able to hear you when you run?)
You know, S says, I really don't think it's a getting in better shape thing. I really don't think your lungs should be the only part of you keeping you from more speed.
I always assume that the reason I can't breathe is because I am in some way not in good enough shape, and if I just work harder, it will fix itself.
Why not get a puffer? they ask.
I am afraid of it.
I want to be stronger than this - to be able to manage to train and run at the same speed as others. Not to see others slowly gain away from me because I can not go faster, never go faster and still breathe.
I do not want this - it terrifies me. A small part of me thinks that it might be worth a try - to see if it really is better, faster, without the constant controlling of the gasp - three counts in, three counts out - don't panic, you're fine.
A part of me suspects that it might not make a difference. That I will always be the one at the back of the pack.
The other part just misses him so badly.
Constrict the back of your throat, and breathe - ujjayi breath - the sound of yoga and the ocean, and the sound of my dad. The sound of COPD.
When I was 19 years old, I was an out of shape first year university student in Northern Michigan. (I'd been to Grade 13 in Parts North, but then transferred those credits over to the University. A phenomenally cheap strategy for getting through school.)
Anyhow. I got suckered into playing Broom Ball (for the uninitiated, it's hockey rules, played with small rubber brooms and a hard rubber ball on the arena ice.) as one of the only girls on the intramural team. Because we were short girls, I had to run for the whole period. I didn't get a break.
I stepped off the ice and experienced my first (and one of my worst) exercise induced asthma attack. When I recovered, I called Mr. Maiden, and asked him what asthma felt like. He sighed and said "Well, honey, how about you tell me what it feels like."
It never really surfaced again as badly until a nasty virus lasting weeks and weeks in Arizona had me prescribed with a puffer to take several times a day.
Off and on, I've had a puffer ever since. Well, mostly off, to be honest - I haven't had one in the house for about 10 years. I remember tossing the last one when it expired back in the apartment. I think it was the one bedroom, so at least before 2000.
The thing is - in the lunch time running group, I am always, always the last one in the line. Always. I watch people I really should be faster than (think old and infirm wearing pumas, for Christ sake) pass me on my runs around the bridges. And I have running partners with whom I train during lunch hours.
I can always tell, D says, when you're not behind me - I can't hear you breathing.
(Apparently, it's not normal for your friends to be able to hear you when you run?)
You know, S says, I really don't think it's a getting in better shape thing. I really don't think your lungs should be the only part of you keeping you from more speed.
I always assume that the reason I can't breathe is because I am in some way not in good enough shape, and if I just work harder, it will fix itself.
Why not get a puffer? they ask.
I am afraid of it.
I want to be stronger than this - to be able to manage to train and run at the same speed as others. Not to see others slowly gain away from me because I can not go faster, never go faster and still breathe.
I do not want this - it terrifies me. A small part of me thinks that it might be worth a try - to see if it really is better, faster, without the constant controlling of the gasp - three counts in, three counts out - don't panic, you're fine.
A part of me suspects that it might not make a difference. That I will always be the one at the back of the pack.
The other part just misses him so badly.
SATURDAY, JULY 24, 2010
Ok, he says, looking vuaguely around his desk at post-it notes, I think that's about it...
Anything else you can think of? I ask
Don't think so?
Boss-Man's Boss pokes his head in. You acting? he asks me.
Yep, says Boss-man.
Well, I say, me and the pick-up guy.
Mostly Katie says Boss-man.
Exactly half, I correct him. For two of the four weeks.
Well, says Boss-Man's Boss, good luck. You've got big shoes to fill!
I know, I say, contemplating the pile on the floor, imagining shuffling around his office in them.
I've been here 18 months. My acting is by no means a new situation, so why the warning this week?
THIS should be fun......
Anything else you can think of? I ask
Don't think so?
Boss-Man's Boss pokes his head in. You acting? he asks me.
Yep, says Boss-man.
Well, I say, me and the pick-up guy.
Mostly Katie says Boss-man.
Exactly half, I correct him. For two of the four weeks.
Well, says Boss-Man's Boss, good luck. You've got big shoes to fill!
I know, I say, contemplating the pile on the floor, imagining shuffling around his office in them.
I've been here 18 months. My acting is by no means a new situation, so why the warning this week?
THIS should be fun......
MONDAY, JULY 19, 2010
During a recent visit from Mrs. Maiden
Oh, by the way, she says, if you find one of your new Mr. Clean Erasers with a teensy corner bitten off, it was me - not mice.
Ok, I say, but you know you're allowed to use the whole thing?
Well, I use it to clean my teeth. She explains, See? See how much whiter they are? It's what the tea does, and I just can't get it off with toothpaste alone.
But, I say, what about whiteners? I mean, have you considered that?
Well, she says, but those are chemicals! I mean, I don't want that, right?
But mom, I say, um, I think the thing about the whiteners is that they were designed to go in your mouth. Unlike, say, a Mr. Clean Eraser.
But do they taste bad? I mean, Mr. Clean has no taste! [you got that right, lady! Have you seeeeeeen that earring? I mean, so 90s!!]
Uh, I say, I guess I've never noticed. Sorta minty, I'd bet? I guess the downside is the sensitivity, but that goes away when you stop using it...
Hmm. She says, am I going to look like a grinning skull when I use them?
Well, no, I explain, see, because you are in charge of how long they are in your mouth, and it's a gradual thing, so if you start to feel like you're good, that you're white enough for right now, you stop. No one makes you keep doing it until your teeth are blue.... [she has seen the results of overzealous whiteners and is concerned.]
Hmm. She says, whiteners....
(I can see that Mr. Clean is going to continue his unconventional responsibilities unless I buy the gels and watch her use them.)
Ok, I say, but you know you're allowed to use the whole thing?
Well, I use it to clean my teeth. She explains, See? See how much whiter they are? It's what the tea does, and I just can't get it off with toothpaste alone.
But, I say, what about whiteners? I mean, have you considered that?
Well, she says, but those are chemicals! I mean, I don't want that, right?
But mom, I say, um, I think the thing about the whiteners is that they were designed to go in your mouth. Unlike, say, a Mr. Clean Eraser.
But do they taste bad? I mean, Mr. Clean has no taste! [you got that right, lady! Have you seeeeeeen that earring? I mean, so 90s!!]
Uh, I say, I guess I've never noticed. Sorta minty, I'd bet? I guess the downside is the sensitivity, but that goes away when you stop using it...
Hmm. She says, am I going to look like a grinning skull when I use them?
Well, no, I explain, see, because you are in charge of how long they are in your mouth, and it's a gradual thing, so if you start to feel like you're good, that you're white enough for right now, you stop. No one makes you keep doing it until your teeth are blue.... [she has seen the results of overzealous whiteners and is concerned.]
Hmm. She says, whiteners....
(I can see that Mr. Clean is going to continue his unconventional responsibilities unless I buy the gels and watch her use them.)
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