17 April 2014

One of those Pulling My Hair Out Days

It's day 4 of the Easter holidays. I've deserted the house for the front porch, fingers in ears -literally- trying to drown out the sounds of the little ones in the house arguing about who gets what spot in my bed. This morning I woke up in one of their beds, as 150 lbs of dog jumped on my face, not expecting me to be there. I'd retreated to that bed because the little ones had overrun mine. The day went downhill from there. 

I had a huge project due today, just a few weeks into this new job, one which is high level executive but allows me to work from home when I'm not traveling. So far, I don't mind it most days. The kids go off to school, and I settle into my desk. Holidays though, are a different story. Between the wee ones running in and out every five minutes, neighbour kids ringing the bell to play, the dog barking at the chaos, and incessant pleas of "mum, can't we go here, there, or the other place PLEASE???" ... well, I screwed up the project. I sent the wrong report to 43 people en masse today. Realized the mistake, and yet still managed to send out the wrong report a second time. 

Retreated to my bathroom tonight, ignored the repeated knocking on the door from the kids, and alternately cried and kicked myself mentally for being so sloppy. 

When the incessant arguing of the kids became too much, I retreated to the front porch. And here I sit in the dark and golden silence. They must have exhausted themselves fighting, because it's quiet now. Across the way, my neighbour's teen sneaks around the side of his house and lights up what is undoubtedly marijuana. I'm bitter and jaded... You think being a teen is stressful, I want to say, try being a parent! 

It's one of those days.


15 April 2014

Another Day, Another Bikini Area Blunder

I was sitting at the doctor's office again last week, trying to determine the cause of my extreme hip pain. Having done this the week before, and anticipating what it might entail, I was wearing granny panties, yoga pants and a tee, so that the doctors could feel my hip joints/take ultrasounds/etc. Or if worst came to worst, I'd be fully covered "down there" if the pants had to come off for them to have a look-see.


After a few minutes wait, my doctor walks in, smiling cheerily and trailed by a doctor in training. "Hello," she singsongs (I swear, there are times so she's so damn chipper I expect bluebirds to fly in and join her in song as bunnies hop around her feet). She introduces the rather bashful resident and we get down to business.





We talk about the issue at hand, and I hop up on the table for examination, then hop off the table to go through a range of movements. Balance on one leg, lift the leg front and back, bend over and touch my toes. I feel older than the dinosaurs, grimacing with each maneuver.


She pulls up a stool, and sticks her face just inches from my pelvic region as she feels my hip area. She pulls the waist of my yoga pants down a few inches to expose the top of panties and remove a layer from my hips. "Here, feel this," she says to Dr. Bashful, as she points to an area of my hip bone. He reaches over, feels the area, and says he's having difficulty locating anything. My doctor, whom I've known for years and has seen as more of my girlie bits than my boyfriend I'd wager, pulls the top of my panties down to get a better feel and look at the hip joint...


And out springs the grey bikini bush, in all it's lovely, untended too horror beauty. She glances up at me, and I blush.


"Sorry, the boyfriend has been out of town a lot."


She laughs. "I'd hate to see what your legs look like!"


The joy of getting old (and grey)!

16 February 2014

Karma Is A ...

The other night I got home from work late, sick with the flu and exhausted. I shuffled into my pyjamas and climbed into bed. Within moments, Eldest burst into the room. "Mum, I absolutely have to go shopping, I need shoes for softball try-outs tomorrow!"

I tried and tried to talk her out of it, tried to convince her to wear my running shoes, but she was adamant. I loathe shopping with unlimited passion, but I caved -only because this is the first she's ever shown interest in a sport- and made the 45 minute drive into Big City to go shopping.

As we walked into the store, I glanced down at Eldest's feet.

"Are you not wearing socks?!" I asked incredulously. Considering we were only shopping for shoes, I was irked.

"Sorry , Mum, I was rushing to get in the car!" she replied, with that annoying teenager half-shrug of indifference that I swear the French adopted from teenagers.

Swearing under my breath, I looked to Youngest. "Baby, take off your sock and give it to your sister." He looked back at me in disbelief. Eldest is a known germaphobe, and refuses to use a utensil unless she herself has washed it first. 

He looked down at his socks, and he looked back at me. "Do it," I said, leaving no room for argument. Eldest started to pitch a fit, refusing to touch the proffered sock, but after I threatened her with things that I'm sure will end up on a therapist's couch, she finally took it.

She sat down, still complaining loudly to no one in particular -as teens are wont to do- and put the dirty sock on. Refusing then to try on the clearance athletic shoes I was willing to buy, and demanding hot pink $100 ones instead, she took off the sock and started to storm out.

No way in hell was that going to happen! I was sick, had made the drive into Big City, had kept the little ones up past bedtime, and was not going to tolerate any more snotty teenage attitude.

I grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the bench she had been sitting on in the shoe area. The dirty sock was still lying on the floor. "Pick up that *#€%£$& sock, put it on, and try on these #%€&@ shoes. Now!" 

Something in my face, or perhaps my tone of voice, encouraged her to comply. 
The shoes fit, she pulled the sock off her foot, and stormed out to the car, having a tantrum the whole store could hear. I called the littler ones over and gathered up the damn shoes that had caused all this headache.

"Thanks, baby," I said to Littlest, nodding my head towards the grimy, dirty sock Eldest had left on the bench. 

"Um, mama?" he said, lifting his pant legs up. There, below the cuff of his jeans, his two ankles were clad in socks. 

He looked at me, I looked at him. We looked at the dirty sock still lying on the floor...



And burst out laughing.

Sometimes karma is a bitch. Sometimes it's a dirty sock left by a stranger.

17 January 2014

Free Yourself

I read a piece the other day, this one here, one that resonated with me, just when I needed it.



A reminder that playing it safe, living within society's (and my own self-imposed) rules of "being the good girl"... well, while that has its superficial benefits, I miss that nerve-tingling sensation I get from stepping past those boundaries into the "I know I shouldn't, but..." realm of feelings, experiences, and memories I might not otherwise have.



I don't know how many years I have left, and while I feel compelled to live within social constraints on the surface, that voice inside of me whispers "break free, be free" and I ache to follow my whims and fancies. And sometimes, sometimes... I do. And of all the things I've done, and all the things that I know I will do that flaunt convention and expectations, I will regret none of it. 

And that, my friends, is my New Year's resolution: live more fully, breathe more deeply, and feel more intensely. Lose myself in touch, in taste, and in pleasure. And above all, waste not a moment in regret.

Regrets won't change what you did, it won't give you absolution, it is nothing more than self-torment at worst and a catalyst for change at best.

Be that best, strive more fully, and love with less constraints. Embrace what your life offers you, and quit worrying about what it doesn't. Unless you have the power, the control, over that which worries you, there is quite honestly no point in worrying. That's futility at its finest.



Go, breathe, laugh, and love. It's a new year, make it what you want it to be. No one else can do that for you!


10 January 2014

Whack-A-Mole


Did anyone ever play Whack-A-Mole as a child? You know the game, the one where moles pop up randomly and erratically, and you're supposed to bop them on the head before they disappear back into their holes?


This is my office.


There's 107 cubicles here. 107! And throughout the day, people pop their heads up and look around, before ducking back into their cubicle hole. 

I am soooo tempted to buy a huge inflatable bat and start bopping people over the head. I have to do something to alleviate boredom here, right?!