probably

As I sit here my dog is chewing a plate. It's one of those plastic Ikea plates. I bought them 10 years ago. I discovered that she had somehow found herself one and destroyed it enough to make me never want to put food on it again so I gave it to her. She is in heaven.

It will probably be the cause of her death 14 years from now.

As I stare at the computer I am contemplating what form of exercise I will do this morning. It will probably end up being the shower I take soon and the walking up the stairs to take it.

I am thinking that might not be enough.

I woke up last night every hour on the half hour starting at 2:30. If that wasn't so aggravating I would be thoroughly impressed with my super powers in the night. To wake up at 2:30 and then 3:30 and then 4:30 and then 5:30? I mean.....that is some serious talent.

I dare you to try it. I'll bet you can't do it.

I probably never reached REM and I probably should see a sleep doctor. I am procrastinating on that phone call.

Tomorrow I am going to Banff with most of my book club for a sleep over. It's going to be an awesome break from life and sassy kids and a grumpy husband who's grumpiness will probably be worse by the time I get back due to being with the kids for 30 hours.

Although, I probably won't sleep a wink for fear of waking up my poor sister who has to share my bed. I have already come to terms with this fact and I am taking a book with me. And some Advil. And some Diet Pepsi. I hope the room we are staying in has a fridge.

It probably does......right?

I probably should have refilled my sleeping pills prescription. That would have provided much entertainment for the ladies in my book club.

I will probably have to delete this post if the man finds out I put this picture of him on my blog. After work last night he took a shower and put his jammies on to relax for the first time in probably 3 months. It was miracle he was even home and even more of a miracle that he had time to sit and watch a show. I asked him if I could take his picture when he came down the stairs in this.........



He said no. I took it anyway and now it's here. On my blog.

I am probably, most likely, a very terrible wife. I will most likely, probably, have to beg for forgiveness. But like they say, that's easier than asking for permission.

Right?

Right??

I have a secret that is making me happier in my life that I will probably share with you at some point. Until then, just know, that I am happier with my life.

I am finding that working on my book is an overwhelming, unorganized, mess of ideas and thoughts that is one of the most exhilarating experiences I've ever had. I said my goal was to be done by June 15th, or something insane like that, but I have given myself until the end of the year since I moved and I can change the rules.

I probably need more time.

I am probably not working out today. I will definitely take a shower though. I have lunch date and I think she would appreciate that.

I will probably be back next week with more amazing things to tell you.

You are probably really excited about that.

Right?

Right??

catty cravings

Do you ever crave being catty? Like a cupcake. You just gotta have it. Do you ever just want to say something mean? Out loud? Some of you probably don't. Some of you are probably really nice-like all the time and never have a nasty thing to say.

Some of you should probably not be here.

I'm not going to say anything nasty out loud. Intentionally, anyway. Or am I? I think I probably might. Now would be a good time to look away.

I want to preface what is about to happen here by saying I went to see a scary movie last night and was up until 1 am. Which is a sure fire way to guarantee that I will maybe squeak out 2 or 3 hours of sleep.

And that is what happened. Which might explain my mood. Actually, I feel like I'm in a good mood so I'm not entirely sure where this is coming from. Maybe it's coming from the fact that I have not vented in, like, hours and it's building up and it's about to come pouring out.

All over your eyes.

I have not been in love with my blog lately and I can't seem to shake the lack-of-love-for-the-blog funk. I don't really care, which isn't good for it's survival. I have lots to say but when I work it out in my head it all sounds nasty so I keep it to myself, which is what my mother taught me to do.

But....I just have to say.......there are things I do not understand about people. And it seems like A LOT of people do things that I don't understand which makes me wonder if there is something very wrong with me. I'm not that old, I didn't think I would turn into my father at such a young age.

An old fuddy duddy.

How come we don't get a choice as to who we turn into? We should be allowed to pick. My mother or my father? I seem to have the worst of both of them. I'd like to think I have the best of both of them as well but I'm so busy trying not to be catty I can't always see the good.

Sometimes I say something out loud to my kids, I guess because I feel safest around them, and then I instantly regret it. It's so judgy and mean and I wonder how many nice random things I have to say to undo the damage.

"Great, now I have to say 4,672,981 put-ups to make that right," is what I think to myself.

For example, I went to Cicely's dance recital the other day, and without getting into how positively atrocious the majority of it was, I was baffled at the choice of costumes the teachers picked for some of these kids. I happened to express my bafflement to my family upon arrival at home. I simply do not understand the process for choosing costumes. I assume, and I may be wrong, that there is a catalogue or something where the teachers go and pick something they think fits their dance.

Is that how it works?

So my concerns are that there are either a) not enough choices or b) not enough decent choices or c) blind dance instructors who could not see skank or immodest or downright ugly if it jumped up and bit them on the nose.

Now, kids come in all shapes and sizes, I get that. I am the first to admit that some kids lose their chunk, if they have any, in the later years, not just the early years. And that's okay. As a child who was plump and juicy I don't judge plump, juicy kids. I do not understand, however, as a dance teacher why you would choose the one costume that accentuates a fluffy child's cavernous belly button or her just barely blooming bosom. I mean, come on, are you blind? When you dress them like they are going to the beach in a sparkly shark attracting bathing suit how are the rest of us supposed to be comfortable watching them jump all over a stage that is lit up like they are about to beamed into outer-space?

As a mother, I would be ill if my buxom beauty was forced to dress in something that was not only hideous but totally unflattering and bordering on cruel and demeaning.

Part of me thinks I should single-handedly change the way we dress our littles on the stage. I'm going to draw up a petition and take it door to door to every single person in the entire world.

Having said that, some of them are so cute, their little outfits are so perfect and adorable and I want to shake the hands of the teachers that pick them and say "thank-you." Thank you for not parading all the little people around like oversized, ill dressed, stuffed animals.

Cicely was dressed as a butterfly ballerina and her costume was beautiful. A long billowy tutu and wings. Her teacher also had the best dances of the whole concert but I'm not getting nasty. I will say that if I hadn't already fired that studio for ineptness and an inability to be considerate they would have been fired immediately after the recital.

Un-im-pressed, I was.

Anyway, where is this going?

I don't understand.

I don't understand people who drive to the school 30 minutes before the bell rings so they can park right in front of the doors. Like making their kids walk 40 feet to the car is going to kill them.

I don't understand why when I go to the grocery store someone has to leave their cart in the middle of the aisle and then walk away from it, like they are the only person in existence.

I don't understand why the 9 year old has to contradict EVERY SINGLE THING the 6 year old says. Why does he care?

I don't understand self-disciplined, self-motivated people. They make me feel jealous. All the time. My daughter is one. Maybe she isn't my daughter.

I don't understand people who park where they are not supposed to park. Are we the laziest society ever, or what? Making up a parking space so you don't have to walk makes you look like an idiot, not the super-genius-who-out-smarted-all-the-dumb-people you think you are.



I don't understand why the perfect horror movie is impossible to make and I do not, for the life of me, understand why Diet Pepsi tastes so good.

I live in a state of confusement. Which is not a word. And now I don't understand why confusement is not a word.

And now, I am done.

a saturday catch all

I've only blogged once this week. I don't know why, really, other than that I've felt kind of tired and lazy lately.

What was that? Don't you always feel tired and lazy, you say?

Good point.

So, remember when I was complaining about the ripped chair that came and replaced my tv that no one wanted?

Well, here's the silver lining to that story. Last night, the door bell rang, which normally irritates me because, thanks to my father, I am genetically programmed to be irritated when the door bell/phone rings. But when the kids are here it's a lot less irritating.

I don't know why.

So we answered the door. A bunch of young people were standing there and they said they were from a church across the street (not my church) and they were having an activity called Bigger Better.

Sounded familiar, I thought. And slightly serendipitous. I started to shake with excitement.

They presented us with this.



And asked if we had anything bigger or better we could give them.

Mwahahahahahahaha. That's my evil laugh.

"Why yes, I do, indeed, have something bigger and better to get rid of. I mean give you."

I hailed the man to come and erect the leather chair I moved into his garage when he wouldn't move it out of my living room. The boys saw it and declared themselves the winners.



Ohhhh, someone's the winner here boys, and I don't think it's you! I watched them cart that thing all over the neighbourhood for a few hours before they disappeared in a white truck.

Moving on. Last week I got a text from the man. It read: Guess who just shot a nail through his ankle? Spoiler, it's me. ROAR.

And that's it. He likes to torture me so. I soon found out he was in Urgent Care getting it removed. He brought his own nail puller because apparently he's the kind of guy that brings his own tools to the hospital. That must be an Eagle Scout thing. Always Be Prepared? No?

X-rays showed that it went right through the inside of his Achilles tendon and straight out the other side.

Gross.



He saved the nail. So I could take a picture. For my blog. Good man.

The bad news? They had to cut his work boot to smithereens.



Wait.....no. That's not the bad news. But the good news is that all that money we give to WCB is going to come back to us and buy him a new pair of boots.

Awesome news.

Lately people have found my blog by googling a variety of random things. Like, "barf bucket", "dance hard", "fajita cookers" and "goals of having a party in your house".

I don't know where to start with this. But if I were to try I would conclude that someone is throwing a party in their house, with very specific goals and are planning on some serious dancing that may require the use of a barf bucket because, probably, they ate off a fajita cooker that they may or may not have found in the garbage and they most certainly want me to come.

What other possible conclusion could there be?

And consider yourself caught up.

buy deodorant and shower every other day

Have you ever had a text fight? You know, a fight only through text and it leaves you wondering what the heck just happened.

"What the heck just happened here?" I said to myself Monday morning after the man and I had turned two texts into a slice of marital dysfunction to add to our dysfunctional marital pizza pie.

He went to work, it was a holiday, he always works on holidays and everything was fine. We texted a couple of times, everything was fine. But then I decided that I was down right ticked that once again I was home with kids and a dirty house and company and a dinner to prepare whilst he was the only working carpenter in the country.

National holiday. Why can he not embrace the national holiday like everyone else? Why does he fight it so?

This used to be an argument we had in the "early years", the whole take the holiday off thing, but then I stopped arguing with him because I never won and he fights dirty. I don't like dirty fighters, I think they're cheaters, so I choose not to fight. It's worked out pretty good, we don't fight that much. But every now and then I decide that my tongue is numb from all the biting so I say something.

This time it was via text. But it just slipped out. There was no control. It just happened.

What he hears is a tad unfair, I'll grant him that because remember? I've been biting my tongue so he doesn't even know I'm at boiling point.

Anyway, two texts later and it's on.

What the heck just happened?

Sooooooo.....Holden, who is 9, and this was not a smooth segue, is taking Sexual Education at school and I find this very humorous. Now, I am the kind of mom who sits with my kids and I pull out the books and I tell them everything they need to know about love and sex and babies and puberty and zits and pubic hair and armpit hair and wet dreams and erections and periods and cramps and tampons and sperm and eggs and tubes and all that fun stuff. I make sure they have their facts straight. Straight facts from me, their mother, the one who knows all and isn't going to tip toe around anything that might be confusing unto them or their little minds.

I start in grade 4, just like the schools, and I tell them a tad more than the school tells them ( and by tad I mean everything) so in grade 5 they aren't 1) shocked and 2) behind everyone else who's been talking about it because their older siblings have been playing with their minds since grade 4.

They used to send home forms for a signature but from what I can tell the elementary schools are not doing that anymore and for the past couple of years I have been blindsided with surprise questions and comments directly related to sexual education. I did not sign a form for Holden and he's taking sexual education.

But this is a totally different concern altogether. I did, however, sign forms for the older two so my guess is that middle schools still have their crap together and that also, they are getting into the nitty gritty.

Whatever. Not the point. Yesterday, whilst cleaning up, I came across some school work on the floor. It was on the floor because in this house we don't have tables or desks or counters or dressers or anywhere to put stuff on except the floor. Only floors, lots and lots of floors. So, naturally, he put it on the floor.

It was Holden's. It was sexual education homework. I read it and I laughed. It was called Advice Corner and it said this: Now that you know more about puberty, you will find that your friends come to you for advice on all sorts of things. Below are some of their questions. What will you tell them?

Holden did not answer them all. If it had anything to do with a girl he wouldn't touch it. Bras and periods and cramps?? No way.

Question: I don't want to shave yet but people keep telling me I should. What should I do?

Holden's Answer: If you want to, do it. If you don't, don't.

Sound advice, Holden.

Question: I feel so bad - my friends told me I stink after gym class. What can I do?

Holden's Answer: Buy a stick of deodorant and shower every other day.

That's my boy. Logical.

Question: My skin is always breaking out. I bought some medicine, but it's not working. Can a doctor give you a pill for this?

Ummm, are we asking a 9 year old what a doctor can give pills for? This 9 year old has been to the doctor 3 times in his entire life. Which is obvious since his answer was: Buy cream.

Fake kid bought 'medicine', wants to know if the doctor can give a pill instead, and my son said 'buy cream'. My advice would be to not ask my son for advice.

And finally, question: This person on my track team has feet that smell just gross after every practice. Should I tell him to see a doctor?

Holden's answer: No. I would tell him to buy deodorant and shower every other day.

I was going to ask Holden how I should handle this texting fight I had with his father but I am afraid he'll tell me to buy deodorant and shower every other day.

I don't know, the kid is pretty put together. Maybe I'll give it a go.

updates on aggravation

First things first. Last night we had potato chips and pop with our dinner. And then we had Crave cupcakes. Wanna know why? Because the nightmare known as Willacy is officially over. We gave up possession and received our money. It is weird to have a burden end so abruptly. Just like that it was over. I still worry about it but don't fret, I will find something else to fill that void soon enough, I am sure.

Maybe I'll start to spend my time worrying about why the man is going through garbage at work.

Here is an update on the alleged "fajita cooker". First of all, I love that he called it a fajita cooker. For whatever reason it cracks me up. This is the culprit.......



And yes, I will agree that it undeniably looks like a fajita cooker. But....it is missing a lid, I assume it must have had a lid at some point, and the cord. So it is going back to where it came from. And soon I hope because the thing is filthy.

We would use something like this once a year and only because we had it. Hold up! We could totally have a Fajita Night. Once a year on say May 17th? A new tradition? Traditions are good. I am all for it but as far as I am concerned I won't be writing it on the calendar because we do not own a fajita cooker.

What we do own now, however, is this piece of........



The other night, the same night as the fajita cooker chat, I came home from being out and about and found that hideous chair sitting in my living room. My first thought was that the man pulled it out of the garbage, along with the glorious fajita cooker, and with full faith in my healing/furniture salvaging powers thought he'd bring it home for me to fix with all my extra love.

You see, I have lots of extra love.

When he finally showed his face I asked what in the hell that piece of crap was doing in my living room. Can you feel all the love? He laughed and said, "I got rid of the tv."



"Oh good. But explain the chair please." Said I.

"I got rid of the tv but they gave me that chair."

Okay, confused? Mmm hmm. Me too.

This is what happened. The youth in our church had an activity that night called Bigger Better, which is just all kinds of awesome, as long as they don't come to my house. But they did so now I recall all voiced opinions of awesomeness and I put full blown aggravation in its place.

The youth break up into groups and they start with something small. They visit all the church members homes in the hopes of exchanging what they have for something bigger and/or better. The man saw an opportunity to both get rid of the tv and to drive me just a little more crazy.

I had the stupid tv on kijiji to get rid of. For free. It works but no one wanted it. The man said he'd throw it out but it sat in the family room for a week. Aggravating. Now it's gone. Thank heavens. But what am I going to do with this chair? I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Every chance I get I take a hammer to it to release some of my pent up aggravation. Since it looks like youknowhat already I figure why not? The man said he would get it gone but it is still sitting where I put it last night to remind him to get it gone.



Right in front of the stairs. He's walked by it at least 5 times.

It's still there. And so is my pent up aggravation. One kick from me and that thing is halfway out the door.

You know what my mother used to say? And speaking of my mother I just realized today that she and I have the same countertops now. This explains why she has been on my mind a ton since I moved into this house. Every time I walk into the kitchen I think of her and I couldn't figure it out. Until today. I love my mum so it isn't so bad.

She used to say "If you want something done right you have to do it yourself."

She is a wise woman and because of her I am going to get the stupid chair out of here right now. Where will I put it?

The back lawn seems as good a place as any.

the fajita cooker

My husband just called me and said "I found a fajita cooker in the garbage and I'm going to bring it home for you to see what you think."

Now I sit here pondering an assortment of things. Things such as: is this what we've come to? Finding random small appliances in the garbage that we might want to cook food on and then eat?

Things like: we've been married for almost 17 years and we are so confident in our marital love that we might suggest to the other that we thought only of them when we pulled a fajita cooker out of a garbage bin on a work site.

I asked him how he knew it was a fajita cooker. I mean, have you ever heard of a fajita cooker? I am skeptical such a thing even exists. His response? "Well, it's pretty obvious."

It's pretty obvious it is a fajita cooker? How would he even know? Has he ever seen a fajita cooker? Not only did he find it in the garbage but he thinks we might want to cook fajitas on it and then consume them.

Like through our mouths.

And now I am flummoxed because who would throw out a perfectly good fajita cooker? Unless, of course, it is broken.

No one in their right mind would throw out something as convenient and easy to store as a fajita cooker. I'll bet you have one in your not overflowing cupboards right now.

Right?

Raise your hand of you own a fajita cooker!

So I asked him, "Why do you think it was in the garbage, hon? Don't you think maybe it's there because it is broken?"

His reply? "Well I'm sure I can fix it or get a new cord.....or something."

Naturally, I did not tell him not to bring it home because apparently we have come to this. The kind of people who fondle fajita cookers that were salvaged from the garbage. Plus, I need to know what a fajita cooker looks like. Maybe it looks like a panini press?

What are the odds of that?

I could google it but I think it would be more fun to sit here with bated breath and see what he brings through the door.

And before I tell him to take it back to the dumpster where he found it I will reconsider the alleged fajita cooker's worth since many many many years ago my brother in law Dave pulled an electric grill from the garbage and asked me if I wanted it and I said............

"Sure, why not?" I mean, it looked brand new and was in perfect condition and I trust my brother in law Dave. Plus the thing makes awesome skinny pancakes. Still. To this day.

One thing I do know is that, after 17 years of marriage, knowing the man like I do, if I said all of these things to him he would simply respond with, "Fajitas can be awesome too."

Such the frugal optimist he is.

for whom the gong tolls. part 3

Sometimes I feel as though my life is a series of bad jokes. I wrote about some specific incidences here and here. Sometimes I wander the streets aimlessly wondering why I have such bizarre luck. I say things like "Why me?" and "I'm just trying to be a good person. Why does everything have to be so complicated all the time?"

Ok, seriously, I do not wander the streets. That would be a poor use of time and I never use my time poorly.

But I do wonder why everything is so complicated all the time. However, I can wonder that anywhere. I don't need to take to the streets for that level of pondering.

But first, speaking of bad jokes. Yesterday I put up a facebook status that sparked some concern. You see, the man and I went to see our lawyer and sign some papers regarding the sale of our house. You know, totally normal stuff. She asked us which bank account we wanted the money from the sale deposited into. I gave her a void cheque for my own personal account. She asked the man if he was okay with that. I guess that was the responsible thing for a lawyer to do. I made a joke that I was going to take all those many many dollars and run away from home.

And then I thought about it for real. For 7 seconds. It isn't a ton of money but it really is enough to run away with, buy some muumuu's and maybe find a hovel to sleep in on the beach in Oahu.

Head shake. Reverie done. Over it. Whoosh. What an awesome daydream. Just kidding. The man is way too handsome for me to leave over a few dollars. Plus the lawyer said, "why leave and make him happy when you could stay and make him miserable?" This was, by far, the most sound advice I had ever received. As if I was going to run away now.

And plus, I am nothing if not the kind of person who derives pleasure from the making the people I live with the most miserable I possibly can.

After all, after I have picked up the man's dirty socks, again, or Jack's dirty underwear off the kitchen counter, again, or rescued the wee one's toys from the dog, again, I am convinced all the people I live with are doing that very thing to me.

Time to retaliate. No?

I received a couple of emails, in regards to my facebook status, from concerned citizens that I might be announcing my marital separation via a facebook status update.

Come on now, people. I am classier than that.

Aren't I?

So, after the visit with the lawyer, and a botched up facebook status, I went to Willacy, which was 2 minutes away, to get as much cleaning done as I possibly could before I had to go home and rescue the dog from her kennel.

I started vacuuming. It plugged up. I unplugged it. It plugged up again. I unplugged it. Again. It plugged up again. For the last time. For the life of me I could not shake the vacuum plugging culprit out. Let's not jump to any conclusions about the dust bunny level in my house. Or the fact that I was vacuuming things up I should not have been. Because that would lead one to the conclusion that my house was super disgusting. And that would be unkind. Correct, but unkind. Let's just assume the vacuum is old and not doing very well in it's later years.

Okay?

Okay.

Since, there was nothing left in the house that might aid me in my mission to unplug the vacuum I decided to move onto cleaning the fridge.

Gross job.

Things were going swimmingly. The freezer got clean, easy peasey. I pulled the fridge apart, started the scrub, cleaned drawers and doors and whatnot. I threw out onion skin and withered garlic. I was standing at the sink scrubbing the glass top from one of the drawers. I was holding it in one corner whilst scrubbing the goo off the sides of it when all of a sudden the entire thing was gone.

Vanished.

Like magic. Abracadabra. Disappeared. Gonzo. No longer in existence. It took a sec for me to realize what had happened. What that blast was in my face. Where the thing went to that I was just holding...... 2 seconds ago.

It was in about 3 million pieces. All over the sink (the one with the garburator), the floor, my feet, the counter.......

The tempered glass shattered and when I say shattered I mean there were now 3 million pieces of itty bitty glass all over the place.

Tempered glass so blasted temperamental. Geez louise. Settle down tempered glass.

And my vacuum didn't work, remember? So I called the man and asked for direct instruction as to what I was supposed to do in this situation. Because I was tired from being up at 4:30 with the stupid dog, my problem solving skills required some outside assistance.

He said, "leave it. I'll deal with it."

And that, my friends, is why a) I feel as though I should not have to clean Willacy, because it hates me and 2) I will not take the money and run. If I did, I'd have to clean up my own messes.



P.S. Today the phone rang. I went to answer it and it shocked me. Now the phone is toast. And also, the dog ate my laptop power cord. It never ends........

charleston chew

Sometimes I make the kids dance for their dinner. Yesterday it was a chocolate bar. I may be a bad mom.



The funniest part? When we got to 7-11 they didn't have any.

oh they flicker and they float

1. I sat down this morning thinking I should blog something but my brain is tired. Really pooped actually. And my back is still so sore. My bed is just bad for the healing of a sore back. I've been waking up a lot in the night due to aches and pains and it has left me groggy and lazy. My fingers fall asleep a lot during the night. I hope that is normal. I'm sure I have my arms kinked in some weird way but I don't know how you stop that while you're sleeping. Also, my right knee wakes me up in agony almost every night. Am I dreaming that? If I google it will I find out I have some terminal ailment that will kill me slowly over the next 37 years? Do I want to know?

2. I found this picture on my iPhone this morning. It made me laugh. But I was standing up so I peed a little.



3. The wee ones are on day 2 of their new school and this morning I dropped them off giddy with excitement. So that is a relief. And also awesome.

4. On that same note, the older two are still at home bugging me because their new school won't register them until their old school has released them. I know they are cool kids but come on! Release the hounds, wouldya?



5. This chandelier is hanging in the new house. Not sure why, this house is not that old. It certainly wasn't built in the era where anything that looks like this was cool. What is that era anyway? Ohhhh.....right, the 90's. Actually there are 2 of them. I think it's hideous but Amelia thinks its "absolutely beautiful, like in a princess castle." I love that kid and her inability to see the ugly.

6. Every time I walk through the living room and I see this chandelier a certain song pops in my head. It goes a little something like this....."Up above candles on air flicker. Oh they flicker and they float. And I'm up here holding on to all those chandeliers of hope......."

Name that song.

7. I love that song and so I do not mind that it runs through my head almost every second of every day.

Yet.....

8. The man has more work than he knows what to do with. He is working 13 hour days and I'm not in the mood for it. He needs to knock that crap off and come home especially because......

9. We don't have a microwave yet and eating cold supper is gross at 8:30 pm. Ask anyone.

10. We walked to church on Sunday and it was awesome.

11. I am not adjusting well to the lack of ice maker. I'm not drinking my usual 4 litres of water and I am oh so thirsty. The fridge is cold though and makes some really yummy ice cold Diet Pepsi's.

12. Are you feeling caught up yet?

13. So I guess I'll unpack some more boxes and then take the teens out to lunch since that sounds like a nice way to celebrate the endless unpacking of boxes.

Seriously.....every time I turn around there is another flipping box that needs to be unpacked. Where did they all come from? I think they are multiplying.

I think someone is feeding them after midnight.......

Great, now I want to go watch Gremlins.

a sad farewell

There are only two more nights in this house. I still can't believe this is almost over. At the risk of going on and on and on about it I feel as though I need to say a certain farewell.

Formally.

I know I have said over and over that I can not wait to be done with this house and all the evil it holds within. And this is true. Mostly. Mostly I can not wait to get out of here.

But.....

There is one thing that I am already lamenting the loss of. Every time I look at it I feel a sadness that I have to leave it behind. This morning we had a chat. It went a little something like this.

Me: You know, you have served me well over the last 20 months.

It:

Me: You have never let me down, not once and I am so very grateful.

It:

Me: I know you don't really understand what is happening here but I'm sure you've seen me working around you, packing things up, getting things out of the house.

It:

Me: I'm sorry I haven't come by sooner to say my good-bye. I didn't want you to be angry. I was avoiding this because I was afraid things would be awkward between us. I was wrong to make you wait. It's just two more days and then I will be gone forever. Please, try to forget me. Try to move on.........

It:

Me: I feel terrible about it. If I could take you with me I would, please know that. And I will love you 'til the minute I leave this place and replace you, one day. Maybe I should have kept that last part to myself. Anyway, again, I am so sorry I have to leave you here, in this God-forsaken place.

It:

Me: You're awfully quiet. I understand. You're confused because our love was so strong. Enduring. Eternal. And now I am abandoning you. Turning my back without a second thought. It's a tough pill to swallow. I get it. I'll give you some time.

It:

Me: Well.........okay then........

It'll be a sad day when I am no longer able to just press a button and get what I love the most. May 5th is the day. The day I will have to actually start making my own ice.

Again.

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Flour update: As I was packing up the rest of the kitchen I found two partially used bags of cake/pastry flour and another bag of white flour. I think there may be need of an intervention. Or maybe I shouldn't be allowed to have big cavernous cupboards that swallow whole bags of flour.

Anyone want to come bake cakes with me?

on working hard

Here are my thoughts on working hard. On the physically busting-your-back kind of working hard. Working hard is good for the soul. It's like medicine for a broken spirit. A cure, of sorts. It's been a long time since I worked really hard. A couple of years. And the last time I worked this hard it was for a different reason, with the hope of a different outcome, with a different purpose. I felt good then too but I didn't want to be working that hard. It wasn't what I wanted because I knew it wasn't for me. I hoped it might have some positive impact on me personally but deep down I didn't have the faith to believe it would.

This time it is for me. It's for my future and my own healing. It's so I can move on from the last time I worked this hard.

The last few days I have been working hard. To the point where my bones cry, "No more!" They plead with me, "Please, for the love!"

The harder I work now means the less hard I have to work in a weeks time. Or, at least, I'll have more time to work hard doing other things. Like painting. Once again I will be painting an entire house. But people do that all the time so I guess it's no biggie.

When you work hard you go to bed spent. You sleep hard. You wake up rested but tired and then you work hard again because things need to be done. There are deadlines. The only way to meet them is to work hard.

I am having some serious physical reactions to the hard work. Endorphins, I guess.

It's all good.

Being an inherently lazy person, I could count on 2 hands how many times I have worked hard for an extended period of time. Like many hours a day for many days in a row. I'm not sure how much more I have left in me. It feels like lots, though, and to me that screams improvement. Progression. Moving on with anticipation for the future. I'm pretty sure it would be a whole lot easier if I was 50 pounds lighter but I'm not so........

Regardless, I have been working hard, and I am very tired. The outcome of all this hard work is a good one, lots of hope and lots to look forward to. I almost hope the hard work doesn't end anytime soon. In fact, when it's time to go on holidays this summer, I think it would be pretty nice if it was a break from some really hard work.

And not from being my usual lazy self. Youknowwhatimean?

So to hard work I raise my glass and say:

Thanks, hard work. You're a good thing. Let's make out.