Friday, April 30, 2010

Get Me Out

I'm reading this new book called Get Me Out: A History of Childbirth. It's exactly what the title says it is, a history. And sweet mothernuts, is it full of some scary, scary shite. Like, holy crap. People think giving birth NOW is scary and gross? Even 200, 100 years ago it was worse. It doesn't make for good bedtime reading, because this book is full of things that would keep a sane person up at night.

And I'm fascinated and eager for more! Not that I enjoy cryptic tales about what happened to women after doctors used to do autopsies and then deliver babies without washing their hands, but the fact that it actually happened is what stuns me and propels me into reading more. The vast amount of ignorance and misinformation that people were basing their lives around only makes me cringe to think of what future generations will say about our medical care.

Like when they finally find a cure for cancer, people will say, "WHAT?! They used chemotherapy on actual people!? That stuff is poison! How barbaric!"

I mean, you don't know what you haven't learned yet, right? Washing hands after touching dead bodies sounds like common sense today, but like I was saying, we could be doing all kinds of deadly stupid shit we don't even think about because it's common contemporary behaviour. Frankly, we probably are. Think about the mass disinfectants that are found in so many homes, either babying and weakening people's immune systems or creating superbugs.

One of these days I bet someone's going to link the massive wave of ADD children seem to have now to all the pitocin women are getting now to induce and then speed along labour. I mean, strangers will glare down a pregnant woman drinking a coffee or taking an aspirin and heaven forbid a sip of red wine, but yet hours before delivery a mother can get injected with an epidural into the spine and then IV dripped pitocin, all of which is obviously going to make its way to the fetus. I don't get it.

Oh, I get the desire to end pain and speed things up. Yes, that part makes sense. In the throes of labour, I can totally see wanting anything, anything at all to just get the damn thing out and make the pain end. But what I don't get is why injecting and dripping these drugs into a labouring mother is A-Ok when these same pregnant women are warned not to eat tuna. Tuna no, drugs yes? And since there's no long-term studies following up on the children to see whether or not epidurals are in fact healthy, who knows?

Another thing from the book is that DES was in use by pregnant women for 30 years before it was discovered that it caused some of their daughters to grow up and develop a rare deadly vaginal cancer. Total crap shoot who would get it, but they all linked back to DES. These poor mothers were only doing what they thought was best based on the advice of their doctors. How could they have known?

So it makes me nervous to think about our own contemporary norms, like the epidural. I don't blame women wanting relief or trusting medical professionals to help them. I do worry about doctors examining an apparently healthy baby and then thinking that the epidural must have had no effect and then moving on. I mean, the DES babies looked fine at first and second glance, too.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Day one

Day one of the new sleep plan. So far? A modest success. I was in bed before midnight, I fell asleep and I woke up at a reasonable hour. I was relatively alert all day, although right now I am sleepy. And Smokey's being cuddly. Try and remain awake through that. Cats actively support napping all day, especially senior cats.

I had this big plan last night, all laid out. I had a vegetarian dinner with no tea, got home and immediately got ready for bed: teeth brushed, faced washed, pyjamas and everything. When sleepiness hit, I'd be so on the ball. I refused to look at my laptop all night and when I got tired, the Dude read aloud to me from Gods Behaving Badly. It's a good book, but I'd read it already so it helped me doze off.

Success. Sleep. But I woke up about half a dozen times and didn't feel fully refreshed. Maybe it'll take a couple weeks for better sleep to catch up with me.

Incidentally, the Dude's subscription of National Geographic arrived yesterday, and in it was a lengthy article about sleep. No one knows why we need it other than that we do. If we try and fight it, sleep wins. And if we don't get it, for some reason we die. Crazy, right? There's a genetic syndrome that you can develop in your 50s that eventually prevents you from sleeping altogether. It's called FFI, fatal familial insomnia. I mean, the word "fatal" is right in the name. That's pretty much right to the point, isn't it?

So I guess my insomnia could be worse. At least it's not that. I've always thought Parkinson's and Alzheimer's were the worst ways to go. "Awaking" to death sounds pretty ass.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Turn on the light

Exhaustion continues. Eight hours of sleep somehow equals grogginess and general lethargy. I'm yawning as I type.

I went to the doctor today for a physical. Interestingly, though, I had lost track of time. I had thought it was well over a year since my last appointment. Nope. 10 months. 10 stupid, inconsequential months and I have to go back in July. Rats.

So I got to see I've gained a couple pounds, am not generally shrinking in height and was told I have low blood pressure, but after waiting an hour for my appointment to begin, it was all for naught. So we discussed my chronic fatigue problem.

No real insightful solutions: Go to bed at the same time, don't allow myself to toss and turn in bed longer than 30 minutes, get up at the same time each day, exercise more, warm milk before bed.

One thing, though, and this will kill me, I'm sure of it. No more tea. No more coffee. Considering what a hell-raising bitch it is to haul my sorry haggard ass out of bed in the morning, I really have no idea how I'm supposed to get up at a regular early hour without it.

I could nap right now. I'm actively fighting a nap right now. I'm like a senior citizen for naps. I could always go for one. The Dude naps. And then he drinks caffeinated drinks all day and night long and then piles into bed and it's lights out. Damn him and the horse he rode in on. It's hard not to be envious.

I'm like an effing vampire. Know when I get my energy? Midnight. Oh yes. And then and only then do I experience the kind of energy and alertness that normal people must experience around noon. It shoots through me and I'm wired (On what? The lack of sunshine and human companionship?) for hours.

Last night I dozed off during an old movie around 11:00. So I went to bed. Seemed like the reasonable thing to do. I fell asleep around 2:00 a.m. I just don't get it.

If this isn't sorted out through conventional means by July, my doctor suggested a sleep study. And frankly, I see it coming down to that. I mean, not only do I have a life-long history of pisspoor sleep, I also get night terrors. Oh yes. I've woken the dude up to kill imaginary spiders about... oh, a dozen times in the last two years?

"WAKE UP! Wake up, spider! Wake up, wake up! Turn on the light!"
"Mrrgh, what? No, there's nothing there. Go back to sleep."
"NO! No! No! There's a spider! Turn on the light, turn on the light!"
"See? There's nothing."
"Oh... Oh. Okay. Goodnight. Zzzzzzz."

I get recollections of these night fits the next day and I ask the Dude, "Did I have a night terror last night?" His response, a disgruntled yes. Whatever's wrong with my sleep, I don't think warm milk's going to fix it.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Home alone

Sometimes I forget the kind of enjoyment I get out of having the apartment to myself.

1. I get the TV all to myself and frequently it's just off. And when it's not off, it's turned to something I alone would want to watch. I can also watch my Pride And Prejudice DVDs, all five hours of the BBC mini-series. I can also listen to the Glee soundtrack.

2. I can order in, only what I want, and then get to eat all the delicious leftovers myself. I did this a lot when I lived alone, having takeout or delivery at least once a week and then subsisting on it for two days. Healthy? No. Tasty and fun? Yes!

3. I get 100% of the Smokey cuddles. Smokey likes the Dude a lot and when Dude's not here, Smokey gives me all the loves.

4. The dishes are always done and they get washed before they're all dirty or before they start taking over the kitchen. Generally, the apartment is cleaner when it's just me. Men are so messy.

5. I don't have to wear earplugs. I sleep with ear plugs every night. I'm not sure why, but during the first stint of a relationship, a boyfriend's breathing or night time noises don't bother me. After about a year or less and I become attuned to the noise, it keeps me awake. So I wear ear plugs (I've also worn them to block out the sounds of raccoons mating outside my window). But no boyfriend in bed means no ear plugs.

If there were tons of these absences, I'd enjoy the alone time less. But as it is, it's like a little escape into my head. Frankly, my friends often think I spend too much time there anyway (in my head, that is), but when I'm alone I don't have to either apologize for it or make an effort to be more mentally present with others. It's relaxing.

Actually, I'm probably one of the few people who enjoy a long bus ride. Sitting beside strangers in the aisle seat or listening to cell phone calls or holding my bladder not withstanding, I like the opportunity to completely let go of my awareness and stare out the window and organize my thoughts. Being home alone a few days is like a more convenient and comfortable version of that.

And as much as I want kids, it's something to consider that it may cause me to fully lose my mind more than most. Or maybe I'll adopt the tactic that so many mothers, including mine, have relied on for eons: I can't hear you!

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Jar Openers

The Dude and his dad left not long ago to go to the Dude's brother's house to help him build some fence. This is a male bonding thing, where they're not just happy to be of use to each other, but to physically make something together. The thought of helping anyone build a fence (or a deck, or whatever) does not give me any warm fuzzies, but those two left with smiles and energy.

I really like men, in general, and that's a reason why. Mostly they seem happy to help with the physical things in life. They don't so much want to hear about your day, but they'll open your jars, hang your pictures, repair your sink and move your furniture, and under it all they really seem to like it. I suppose these things make them feel like men. And how lovely that them feeling like men comes with benefits to others.

Oh, I know there are plenty of awful men out there who either try to feel like men at the expense of others, or who are delta- or gamma-grade men who aren't very useful to anyone. But I think those types are a very loud and obnoxious minority.

But the question at hand for me this weekend is what to do with myself? Maybe see Women Without Men, a movie about women in Iran, a place where the men are not raised to be of the same quality that we as women enjoy here in Canada.

PS, If you want to know who the best kinds of men are, look no further than Cute Boys With Cats. I mean, is there really anything more endearing than a man who loves cats?

Monday, April 19, 2010


When you're 10, you blow your money on candy and comic books.
When you're 13, you blow your money on candy, comic books, slushies and magazines.
When you're 16, you blow your money on candy, slushies, movies, fast food, and clothes.
When you're 19, you blow your money on booze.
When you're 22, you blow your money on booze, clothes, restaurants, magazines and Starbucks.
When you're 27, you blow your money on kitchen supplies and home decor. And wine.

Which brings me to today, having just gotten home from dance class and a side trip to Kitchen Stuff Plus. I wasn't going to go there, but someone waved a delicious 25% off coupon in my face and suddenly I needed French onion soup bowls. While I was at it, I picked up some stuff to upgrade the sad state of the bathroom. And then all was well.

So I spent the weekend in my hometown yet again, this time for a baby shower. My cousin's wife, who I used to work with back in the day, is seven months pregnant. Back when I found out in November I was jazzed not only for their happiness, but I was sure this bought me some time before the relatives started poking their attention back into my uterus. Ohohoho. No.

"When's your turn?"
"When you take the throne..." (Throne?)
"When will we be seeing you with a belly?"

"When are you going to get pregnant?"
"Oh, I'm waiting till I'm married."
"You don't need to wait."
"Oh, I need to wait."
"Well, when are you getting married?"

"You only have till 30 because your risk of Down's syndrome babies go up." (I dispute this. Pretty sure it's after 35)

And so on in that fashion. Times are a changin' aren't they? Only 50 years ago living together before marriage was a big no-no. These days it's the rare family that are upset about it and no one else sees a scandal. Everyone's doing it. Getting your girlfriend pregnant used to mean you propose. Now? Maybe move in together, see how that goes, no point in marrying just 'cause you've made a baby. Now people are moving in, getting pregnant and figuring to hell with a marriage certificate. Common law status is like a new norm.

It's to the point now that even if you're unmarried, your family still wants you to get pregnant and wouldn't automatically think it must be an accident if you do.

In many ways, I like this relaxation. It's nice to have autonomy and not be bound by social conventions like marriage. It really shouldn't be other people's call if you live with your boyfriend without marrying him first. It makes marriage something you want to do, not something you have to do in order to have the romantic companionship.

But all the same, I'm still traditional enough that I'd prefer my loved ones not assume I'm going to make babies with someone other than my husband, and as I don't have one, I'd rather they not inquire about my future children and why they're not here yet. The reason to me is obvious. It's because I'm not married. And asking me why I'm not married is too private.

I suppose no woman my age is safe from these questions. Though really I think they should be bugging my nearly-40-year-old male cousin about his plans. Guy's still unmarried and keeps dating fertile-aged women to keep his options open. They probably would if only he'd come home more often. Probably keeps away on purpose. Sure would be fun to watch him be peppered with these inquiries.

PS, this is Glee awesomeness.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Ms. Dress-up

I am a dress whore. I am dress greedy. I have two dresses en route and am already coveting two more, which had I waited two days to order new dresses, I would have made drastically different selections:

Isn't this cute?
Like the sort of thing you'd wear on a picnic.


This dress was out of stock forever.
Of course now that I'd given up on it, it's back up for grabs.

Everyone I know always comments on the fact I am sans pants. Sometimes it's just an observation that I am only ever seen in dresses. Other times it's teasing and mild grief. Mostly it's considered unusual. And I suppose it is. Most women these days enjoy pants.

When I was a little girl, I had a friend who wore dresses every day. I never wore them. Somehow I took it as an affront to my notion of feminism (Yes, I have always been a feminist, even at 8 years old) that a girl would want to wear pants. Of course, that was simplistic feminism (Hey, I was only 8, give me a break), the kind that sends the message we're as good as boys and hence should be doing what they're doing, rather than celebrating what we do differently and making our own choices based on what we actually want.

I gave my little friend the same grief I occasionally get, confused by her lack of pants, and the freedom I associated with them. But she waved me off. She liked dresses, they made her happy, end of story. Nearly 20 years later, I see her point. Sure, in a dress I can't do cartwheels downtown Toronto, nor can I sit with my legs splayed open on the subway, but somehow this doesn't concern me too much. I never could do cartwheels anyway.

I rarely ever wore my kilt in high school. Girls won the right to wear pants while I was in grade nine. In grade 10, I started rocking the pants. I may have worn the kilt a whopping one dozen times for the remainder of my high school career, and I did OAC (grade 13). Mostly I used my kilt as an aide to change into my jeans in the hallway. ***

Incidentally, I've kept the kilt. It definitely does not fit anymore, at least not like it should. Such is life. I bought it on the smaller side to begin with when I was 13 (I'm not sure why I did that to myself), and the need to fit into it I think probably had a big hand in why I was able to continue to do it up until I graduated. Frankly, it was a bloody miracle. I try it on from time to time, to gauge my bodily changes and weight gain. It's like wearing a mother-effing corset.

Had I been the sort of person then that I am now, I would have said to hell with the pants and bought a more practical size that would have gone the distance. Then at least now I'd have a backup cliche Halloween costume each year I get lazy.

*** Going to a Catholic high school means changing into your street clothes as soon as possible after school. Washrooms fill fast. To do away with crowds and waiting around, you change in the hallways. You put your kilt on, take off your school pants, and then put on your jeans. If you're a boy and possess no kilt, either A. haul ass to the bathroom, or B. get comfortable with everyone seeing your underwear. You'd be surprised how many boys chose B. There's an image of purple polka-dot briefs I will never be able to erase from my memory.

PS, I came across this recently and it's a giant dose of WTF, particularly the end of the story. This mother has some serious mental issues. Good luck figuring out life, kid. With a mom like that, you're going to need it.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Release the Kraken

Release the Kraken, it's date night! We're going to grab some food and some Clash of the Titans. I love date night. I love the corniess of calling it "date night" when we live together and see each other every day.

When the Dude moved in it was the very start of 2008. He was going back to school, and had moved up to Toronto from our hometown to do it. Since his OSAP would not kick in for at least a month, I offered my place up for him to stay until his monies arrived and he could find his own place.

Then his OSAP was late. Then his school kept him too busy to look for a place. Then when semester two was raring up to begin and he had the time to apartment hunt, I realized I didn't want him to go. Now it's over two years later and I can't remember what living alone was like, even though I did it for almost two years before he got there.

I was so prepped for him to drive me nuts. I'm not terribly easy to live with in general, I've realized. I'm not the worst (This is the worst), but I figured that going from long distance to cohabitation would be retardedly hard. I mean, common sense tells you it's going to be a trainwreck in gongshowland.

Turns out the Dude and I defy common sense. In fact the whole way we became a couple defies common sense, but that's another story. Sometimes two people just work. They may drive each other crazy, and sometimes even on purpose, but what works, works.

And what also works is going out for our favourite thing, dinner and a movie. Classic date night. Also, we've been playing against each other in Age Of Empires. So nerdy, so awesome. Makes me feel like a teenager, but in a good way.

Random: Did you know they're coming out with Hello Kitty wine? Is there anything they won't make? Hello Kitty gas tank. Hello Kitty toothpicks. Hello Kitty pliers. Hello Kitty syringes...

Tuesday, April 13, 2010


Yesterday I was out and stopped in a Shopper's Drugmart. I like to browse the magazine section. These days I'm quite into Psychology Today. I lost my interest in Cosmopolitan when sex stopped being a novel part of my life. I kid, I kid. But I mean, really. Five new sex positions? They're new if you're new to sex. 15 ways to turn on your man? Some of the things on those lists, if you don't know them by now, no magazine article can help you. Stimulate the penis... well, now there's a nifty suggestion that I'm sure no Cosmo reader has considered before.

Funny thing is you can always tell which girls have lost their virginity because they stop reading Seventeen and start reading Cosmopolitan, and then Marie Claire and Glamour. The shyer ones don't make the magazine leap, they just stop reading Seventeen.

Having grown bored of Cosmo over five years ago, and Marie Claire and Glamour following suit, I was reading nothing. I was too young to read my mother's old favourites, like Canadian Living. Tips to decorate my home and recipes for my family and advice about my children was not really relevant. Still not. Haven't even reached the bridal or pregnancy magazine stage yet.

I used to work at a bridal magazine when I was done college. I interned for three months and in that time I think I absorbed about as much as I need to of bridal everything. Oh, I loved working there. I just don't think they'd ever be of use to me for the kind of wedding I'd ever want, which is a KISS wedding. No, not the band. I'd want a "Keep It Simple, Stupid" wedding.

Tabloids are also out. I like to read them when I'm at the hairdressers and they're free and handy to pass the time. It makes getting my hair done a little extra indulgent. I like a little gossip with my hair colour. But I don't want to actually spend money on it. Gossip, like every other delicious human interaction, should be free.

So I like the pop psychology stuff. Not exactly groundbreaking material, but entertaining and neat.

It gets me thinking that there's a stage of life that's missing in the magazine rack, though. If you're a teen, you're giving more than enough titles to waste your money on. If you're well into your 30s and 40s, you're set. If you're engaged or married or a mother at my age, there's plenty. But what if you're not and you're sick to death about reading the seven special things you can do to your boyfriend's balls?

Making friends when you're out of college? Figuring out what you're really interested in aside from work? Knowing when to change careers? What kinds of theme parties would be fun to throw? Guides for organic grocery shopping and saving up for your first home? Establishing new relationships with your parents now that you're no longer a kid? How to pay off student loans and improve your credit? You know, in addition to sex, relationships and beauty topics.

If there was some sort of Quarterlife magazine out there for those of us who are still navigating these waters, I think that'd be pretty cool.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Mrs. White in the study with the candlestick

Last night I went to McPal's condo for a murder mystery, one that he wrote himself. He wrote characters for all his friends and it was a fairly epic storyline, considering all the side stories he needed to write to establish suspects, motive and surprise twists. Unfortunately a few people were too shy to reveal all their information and a few storylines got lost.

I'd attended a party like this before as a generic party guest when I was a kid. It was an event you pay to attend, with paid characters in costume playing the part, with a scripted storyline. I had a good time and danced with men in red soldier outfits. But actually being a character was way better. I got to be Madame Zuzanna, the psychic who turns out to be a fraud. I won a prize for best performance! Hehe! I won a copy of the Clue movie. Appropriate.

McPal was the easy mark and host, Mason Mogul, trying to discover information about his dead sister, who was murdered by someone at the party. In attendance was the mother, Mrs. Mogul, her assistant, and the two surviving Mogul children, the late Mr. Mogul's mistress, the local Priest, the family lawyer, the meek neighbour, a mobster, a few family friends and the paranormal investigator who was actually a private investigator.

The Dude played that last one and was the one who blew my character's cover. Buddy B and his girlfriend came and played the lawyer and neighbour. McPal's boyfriend was the priest, who turned out to be not a priest at all, and was having a secret affair with the late Mr. Mogul's mistress.

I got to hold an improvised seance and watch people play their roles with flare. What fun! I never went to parties this fun when I was younger. I've noticed theme parties increase as you move through your 20s: '80s parties, redneck parties, Bollywood parties, Stepford wives parties and so on. I was just invited to a Rubik's cube party that I can't make this weekend. When the novelty of booze wears off, you need something more.

I hope McPal does another one some day. I think it'll take him awhile to recover from this one. But it was pretty bitchin'.

Holding an intense fake seance.
Maybe I should take up being a fake medium on the side.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Life before Google and post laptop coma

There are a few things that can cause major disruption in any grown person's life, and thus prevent them from updating their blog:

1. The death of a loved one
2. The loss of a job
3. A serious illness
4. Knocking one's laptop unconscious.

I experienced number 4 on Wednesday night. It was turned on and sitting happily on my side table before it fell off somehow, hurt itself and then refused to forgive me and has not allowed me to use it since.

The Dude is linking our Macs and running all sorts of programs and such, valiently trying to retrieve my information before what looks like an inevitable reset. I have photos on there and, moreover, videos I want to keep. I have a few of Jerry that I would be heartbroken to lose, as I watch them every few weeks when I miss his little face.

No, I didn't back anything up. That is of course entirely why I'm now facing mass extinction of all my short stories, photos, videos, personal documents and the iCal calendar I rely on to get me through life.

I could cry. Actually I've already shed some tears over what is trapped inside my laptop. I hate starting from scratch. Getting a new computer always kind of bugs me for that reason, and in this case I wouldn't even have the consolation of something faster and shiny.

And something else that gets me is the lack of Google over the past couple days. I mean, I have my work computer handy, but it's alllll the way over here and not conveniently at arm's length every time I have the thought to look something up. What the bejesus did people do before the Internet and Google? And this from someone who has only had Internet access for 11 years and has only lost easy access to it, not all access. Bloody hell, that's pretty spoiled. Not that I plan on changing my perspective on it.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


I've spent the last three evenings fairly intoxicated from wine. This is highly unusual for me. I drink about, oh, a couples times a month, if that. It's enough to make me feel like I've been hit by a truck.

But what I'd like to talk about is Easter, specifically Easters past. I was giving it a lot of thought after seeing my cousin's baby and seeing another cousin's pregnant wife and talking to his brother about his girlfriend's pregnancy. Yeah. Suddenly my barren family is super fertile.

But moving ahead. My brother and I engaged in a hunt each year. My mom would leave a basket in our rooms and lay a track of jelly beans from our bedroom doors down the stairs to the living room. Then the action began.

Mom ran out of creative hiding places by the time I was about 10 and so my brother and I had egg discovery down to a science. No maps, no clues, just pure raw memory recall of previous years. It'd last about 5-10 minutes. We were good.

There was one rule. Although we were not forced to divide our normal chocolate eggs (if we were, I'd have just let my brother find them all and take half his work from him), we did have to share special cream eggs and chocolate bunnies. This made finding those less than exciting. It was wasted precious seconds that could have been used building our private stash of non-shareables.

We actually kept this up well into my teens. After my mom got sick, we had one last hunt, probably because we all really felt like it was important. And then when she died and we moved in with our dad, we were pretty much done. But our dad was just getting started. He hadn't had us for an Easter egg hunt in over a decade. He was adamant this would be remedied and we'd have the bestest hunt ever whether we liked it or not.

He woke us up early; I was 17, my brother 15. We were very into sleeping in those days and not so keen to comb Grandma's living room for chocolate. For one, it was damn ass early. Two, it would actually require effort as it was a new place and it was too damn ass early for that.

But obedience and a desire to please won out, not fully quashed by sleepiness. Dad dragged us out of bed and we groggily and unenthusiastically opened drawers and lifted couch cushions with the lifelessness lack of enthusiasm you'd expect from prisoners of war digging their own graves. Dad was in his element. We were awake, doing his bidding and giving him memories he's probably long since forgotten.

We also discovered he didn't quite think the way our mom thought. His hiding methods were strange and confusing to us. Dusty crevices not seen or remembered for years? There's a good place for eggs. Under the furniture with dog hair tumbleweeds? You know it. We found eggs for months as we did periodic cleaning, covered in questionable materials.

Dad ran commentary as we moved through the room, offering helpful suggestions and misleading clues. We found chocolate animals except for bunnies. Our father bought his chocolate out of the box. He chortled from the sidelines, "There's other animals! Who's ever squirrelly gets the squirrel!"

Grandma sat in her chair and observed with cheery smiles. She was cute. Likely it had been years since an Easter egg hunt had taken place in her home. I don't know if she ever even did egg hunts before.

You know, it's kind of funny. Everyone thinks about the things our parents do for their kids, right? The creation of traditions, planning family trips, making memories for their children to hold on to. Sometimes, though, kids play the part for their parents to help them reclaim things they lost, or to make their parents feel like they're doing a good job.

My brother and I were over Easter. Our mom had passed, our home was gone, our cats were living elsewhere and all our stuff was stored away. Our dad likely thought it would be important to uphold our old traditions, but seeing his glee made me realize he was doing it for him. And that was okay. We did the hunt for our mom the year before, we could do it for him too. It's not always about the chocolate and it's not always about the kids.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

No one has it all

Sometimes it doesn't matter how old you are, because a terse conversation with an estranged parent can make you feel 17 all over again. And a conversation with someone whose memory wipes itself clean every couple years can make you feel like you're the one who's losing her mind.

I'm the hero of this story, I don't need to be saved.
I'm the hero of this story, I don't need to be saved.
I'm the hero of this story, I don't need to be saved.

It's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright.
No one has it all.

Tomorrow I return to Toronto. Tomorrow I rejoin my real life.

In other unrelated news, the total number of relatives inqquiring into my future marital status and uterus activity: three. Not bad.

Friday, April 2, 2010


So I managed to get a few people with my last post. Weeee. My work here is done. McPal texted me to make sure it was a joke because he was very excited at the prospect. Sorry, buddy! My uterus is currently unoccupied.

I saw a lot of pregnancy updates on Facebook and an engagement. They were funny in an unintentional way, as they were all lined up on top of each other in my news feed.

I'm in my hometown. Last night I was at a good friend's house and my wacked out sleeping schedule managed to keep her up to all hours of the night. She was a good sport. I really hit a huge burst of energy at 2:00 a.m. I think it was around 3:30 when we went to bed. Really looking forward to getting this BS fatigue/sleeping issue looked into with my doctor.

Tomorrow is the 1-year-old birthday party of my cousin's kid. I bought a dress at Baby Gap. I do love shopping there for other people's kids because it's an excuse to be frivolous. I mean, it's not my child. I can waste money on something she'll grow out of in no time if I want to. And it's cute!

I feel off and out of sorts. And as such, I have little of value to say. So I'm going to try to sleep, on the off chance this strange new feeling is sleepiness at a reasonable hour.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Big Day

I'm pregnant.

I found out yesterday, and I kind of sat on it last night trying to figure out how to tell the Dude. I didn't mention it here because he reads this thing. So I took him out to dinner tonight to tell him. I thought he'd be happy, maybe a little freaked out, but mostly happy because he wants children. And I wanted to do it somewhere special. And I was nervous and I wanted to down a good hearty meal first.

So we went to the restaurant we had dinner at Valentine's Day '09. After dinner, I made a coy reference about eating for two. I paused, looked at him and waited to see if he understood. He was eating creme brulee and his spoon just suspended there in the air as he waited for the punchline.

I smiled and shrugged at him and his face went through about a dozen different expressions. But he looked happy and I asked him if he was okay. He said yeah, he was. He asked me all the expected questions: how far along am I, how long have I known, am I sure, am I happy, and so on.

So we're going to keep it and in November I'm going to be a mother. No Mexico, but that's fine. Mexico's not going anywhere. We popped into the grocery store on the way home so he'll have something to eat while I'm with my family for Easter (I leave after work) and it was so weird walking through the baby section with all the baby stuff.

When we got home, the Dude was really quiet. When I finally asked him to spill his beans and tell me what he was thinking about (I was afraid he was freaking out about the pregnancy), he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. He pulled out a ring he bought on the sly from a coin machine in the grocery store. I said yes.

It's been one hell of a day. I should call people, but I'll get to that tomorrow. Tonight I can't imagine making those calls.

Also, it's past midnight. It's late and it's April Fools Day.