Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
things that bring me much pleasure
1. A really kick ass work-out to start off the weekend. The kind of work-out that lets me not feel guilty about having a dessert after lunch (and supper). Even if that dessert is a black cherry yogurt (and maybe a Skinny Cow chocolate treat...We'll see.)2. A Babe who goes down nicely for his afternoon nap, leaving me time for a luxurious shower (even if I do have to constantly poke my head out of the steamy utopia to listen for potential cries.)
3. Thinking of something to blog about while rinsing and repeating, and knowing (hoping!) I'll have a good half hour to follow through once I've (kind of) dried off.
4. Remembering that I already have a warm tea waiting for me to drink on the kitchen counter as I sit down to the computer to start typing, thus preventing any unnecessary interruptions or cravings for a warm tea.
5. C. Whenever I read her blog, I just know that with a little time and a little more tequila, she and I could get to have the kind of friendship that only comes around so rarely in a lifetime. It's something I just know.
6. Getting an email out of the blue about a booby juice contest that's happening tomorrow morning at the Bayshore (in case any of you are interested, whether you're a breastfeeding mommy or not.) I don't know if I should be flattered or worried about A. thinking about lactating boobies on a Friday afternoon at work. ("I'll take flattered for $200, Alex.") And I especially don't know what A.'s girlfriend should make of it. (Too bad we have Super Tots in the morning; betcha you could make some pretty mean White Russians down there.)
7. Already planning next year's summer vacation to coincide with my best friend's wedding on July 1 out at her cabin. "What will I wear? Where will we sleep? What should I get her for a gift?" All questions I have a little under less than a year to answer. (And trust me, it will take that long.)
8. The prospect that aforementioned friend *might* start a wedding blog to chronicle her journey as Canada's next top Bride-zilla. If she did, I think she could get a book deal out of it at the end.
9. An Adoring and Wonderful Husband that gets even more excited than I do about our friends who are taking the matrimonial plunge. It's pretty cute.
10. A pretty cute Adoring and Wonderful Husband.
11. The possibility of yet another wedding next Fall? This is madness!
12. An excuse to make a weekend trip to IKEA that doesn't make Adoring and Wonderful Husband roll his eyes, or feign hardship. (We have to take some lights back. Kinda like the one above, except ours is white with big leaves on it. We thought they would go well in our bedroom, which has a bit of an outdoorsy theme going on, but we forgot the wall on which we would have to hang them is made of concrete, soooo, you know.)
13. Missing the new episode of Planet Earth last Sunday, but remembering that it's replaying tonight at 10:00 pm. (When did this start sounding like a good time on a Friday night to me? Which it does. It really, really does. Oh yeah, April 5. That's when.)
14. Finishing a blog entry before the Babe wakes up.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Project RACE monthly update
Okay Gido, by my calculations you owe me (or rather, you've agreed to donate to my fundraising efforts for the CIBC's Run for the Cure coming up this Sunday) $120.00. Yes. $120.00. If you're having problems with the math, Mr. Iron Ring, it equals out to 31.5 pounds of sweat money. Pretty awesome, eh? I think I will take your advice more often by putting my goals in writing. It seems to work.
In case anybody else is interested in ensuring booby goodness is here to stay, you can click here. Or here. Or here. All these links go to the same place, but I wanted to make absolutely sure you have no excuse not to click, because, uhh, it's crunch time folks, and so it's TIME FOR YOU TO PONY UP. COUGH UP THE CASH. SAVE THE TATAS, AS IT WERE. SO CLICK HERE...NOW!
Final update Sunday after the race, and all the honey garlic wings and nachos I plan to ingest by way of the glorious gluttonous celebration I've dreamed of during each and every one of my runs since I started this thing, or maybe Monday, in case those wings and nachos don't sit right, and I spend all Sunday night in the baño, ruing the run(s). This includes a total of all fundraising. So CLICK HERE NOW!
In case anybody else is interested in ensuring booby goodness is here to stay, you can click here. Or here. Or here. All these links go to the same place, but I wanted to make absolutely sure you have no excuse not to click, because, uhh, it's crunch time folks, and so it's TIME FOR YOU TO PONY UP. COUGH UP THE CASH. SAVE THE TATAS, AS IT WERE. SO CLICK HERE...NOW!
Final update Sunday after the race, and all the honey garlic wings and nachos I plan to ingest by way of the glorious gluttonous celebration I've dreamed of during each and every one of my runs since I started this thing, or maybe Monday, in case those wings and nachos don't sit right, and I spend all Sunday night in the baño, ruing the run(s). This includes a total of all fundraising. So CLICK HERE NOW!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
where I was, four years ago today
Where I'm about to go, one province and one dependant later (two if you count the Woof): Kiddyland, to see about baby snow suits, before the canal freezes over, and I am stuck having to layer the Babe to protect his extremities from the brutal Ottawa winter, one ill-fitting pair of really small sweats at a time.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
sticks and stones
Adoring and Wonderful Husband has the cutest pet name for me: Bulldozer. I have the grace of a bull in a china shop, and the patience of a gastrotrich that knows its life span is only three days (which is apparently the shortest life span of any animal in the world. Though the shortest life span of a vertebrate is the 59 days a tiny reef fish survives up to according to Australian researchers. Will the wonders of Google never cease?) You get the point: Bulldozer undoubtedly captures my aptitude for being, umm, rammy.
My razing ways are often verbal as well. Though I try to justify my brutal honesty to be exactly the kind of thing people want to hear – insightful, helpful, called for even– hindsight is wont to bring more clarity to past conversations than anything that could have spewed from my mouth at the time. The first time I was ever called on it – called on it and took it seriously – was sometime during university, when I was sitting at some nameless Regina bar with high school friends, likely studying for PSci 231: The Politics of Canadian Continentalism (or something like that.) K. and I were chatting, about what I have no idea, when the subject turned to art class in grade nine, where he and I sat beside each other. I didn’t remember it, and was a bit flattered that he did (he had since become a firefighter you see. The kind of firefighter that’s on calendars.)
“Wow, I can’t believe you remember that after all these years!” I likely purred, likely smiling smugly, likely thinking that he remembered the seating arrangement because he likely liked me back then.
“Yeah,” he said, matter of factly, and without a trace of hostility now that I look back on it, which surprises me. “I remember because you turned to me one day out of the blue and told me that I would be hot if only I got taller and gained a bit of weight.”
Ouch! I felt horrible about it, and apologized profusely, which he shrugged off, seemingly not too bothered by my words at the time he reminded me of them, eight or so years after the crime in question. And why would he be? Since that day we painted our favourite photographs using water colours (which is the only art project I remember doing that year), he had indeed gotten taller and put on a bit of weight, becoming probably the hottest guy to graduate Martin Collegiate in 1996. But that’s not the point. The point is that he remembered it, which tells me it was a significant enough comment to him at the time I said it. A comment pretty much on par as if he had told me, “You know Winter, you would be hot if only you lost 15 pounds of ass.” Motivational? Maybe. The kind of thing you say to someone if you want them to daydream about jerseying you so that they can knee you in the nose without fear of having their blue jeans stained by your blood? For sure. It’s an episode that reminds me to bite my tongue when I otherwise want to wag it. To consider how what I’m saying might make a person feel about themselves and about me as someone who is supposed to be a friend, supposed to be a nice person. Not everyone can get the last laugh like K. did, now can they?
My razing ways are often verbal as well. Though I try to justify my brutal honesty to be exactly the kind of thing people want to hear – insightful, helpful, called for even– hindsight is wont to bring more clarity to past conversations than anything that could have spewed from my mouth at the time. The first time I was ever called on it – called on it and took it seriously – was sometime during university, when I was sitting at some nameless Regina bar with high school friends, likely studying for PSci 231: The Politics of Canadian Continentalism (or something like that.) K. and I were chatting, about what I have no idea, when the subject turned to art class in grade nine, where he and I sat beside each other. I didn’t remember it, and was a bit flattered that he did (he had since become a firefighter you see. The kind of firefighter that’s on calendars.)
“Wow, I can’t believe you remember that after all these years!” I likely purred, likely smiling smugly, likely thinking that he remembered the seating arrangement because he likely liked me back then.
“Yeah,” he said, matter of factly, and without a trace of hostility now that I look back on it, which surprises me. “I remember because you turned to me one day out of the blue and told me that I would be hot if only I got taller and gained a bit of weight.”
Ouch! I felt horrible about it, and apologized profusely, which he shrugged off, seemingly not too bothered by my words at the time he reminded me of them, eight or so years after the crime in question. And why would he be? Since that day we painted our favourite photographs using water colours (which is the only art project I remember doing that year), he had indeed gotten taller and put on a bit of weight, becoming probably the hottest guy to graduate Martin Collegiate in 1996. But that’s not the point. The point is that he remembered it, which tells me it was a significant enough comment to him at the time I said it. A comment pretty much on par as if he had told me, “You know Winter, you would be hot if only you lost 15 pounds of ass.” Motivational? Maybe. The kind of thing you say to someone if you want them to daydream about jerseying you so that they can knee you in the nose without fear of having their blue jeans stained by your blood? For sure. It’s an episode that reminds me to bite my tongue when I otherwise want to wag it. To consider how what I’m saying might make a person feel about themselves and about me as someone who is supposed to be a friend, supposed to be a nice person. Not everyone can get the last laugh like K. did, now can they?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
four reasons to buy the book
Page 62: You can live your whole life following the path of least resistance. No risks, no unknowns, no discomfort. And goodness knows that we all dream of a tombstone that reads, “I was comfortable.”Page xiii: The popularity of blogging amazes and inspires me. Here are millions of people who’ve found a format that makes them eager to publish. For many bloggers, their sites are the first place they’ve voluntary written or produced a project in their lives. This is huge! It’s a Renaissance in personal expression! It’s an astonishing historical record! It’s the voice of an entire people! It’s an awesome way to K.I.T.!
Page 22: When I’m finished reading a book, I pull all the passages I’ve underlined and post them on my site. It helps me to remember why I loved a book, and tells my readers whether they might like it too.
So many ideas, so much margin space in which to jot your inspiration. At about 25 cents (taxes in.) per idea, is it pricey? Maybe. But it will probably go to the same spot my two-page Short-Cut to the English Language guide went, the one they made me buy for English 101 in my first year university that I used all the way up to grad school so I would know where semi-colons went, and how to footnote electronic resources properly: not too far away from the computer, just in case I need it. No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog? Recommended, if only so you can tell when someone is using his or her own fodder, or is poaching from the book, and 25 cents for THAT kind of righteous self-satisfaction is a price you just can’t beat, my friends. It’s a price you just can’t beat.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
telling stories
Single Me thought the most fanatical people were reformed ex-smokers who demanded you butt out when around them, because smoking will kill you – guaranteed! - and don’t you know how bad it makes you smell? I never realized it until I quit smoking and got on the elevator with someone who had just smoked. Let me tell you it was enough to make me want to barf! Also zealous? Those nutso religious right in the US who often hail from places with even wackier names, like Waco, and who re-elected George Bush as President. RE-ELECTED! Not just accidentally maybe kinda sorta voted for him as part of a protest vote that went terribly, horribly wrong, but RE-ELECTED, as in: Hmmm, I like Middle Eastern countries. Gimme, gimme, gimme! Whoever named Waco Waco shouldn’t really be surprised at the stock produced; it’s kind of the same thing with Moose Jaw. The pudding proof: isn’t Waco where Mrs. Federline comes from? And doesn’t Moose Jaw produce women willing to be wed into the Family Snell? I rest my case, your Honour.
And then the Babe entered out lives and impassioned advocates popped up on any number of issues, like cloth diapers vs. the kind that poison the planet and little baby pandas in China, and those who favour a drug-free birth to “get in tune with your body” vs. those who place their order for Medicare-funded drugs prior to conception. (I fall into the latter camp on both issues, for obvious reasons.) By far the most rabid were those who virtuously call themselves Lactation Consultants, which would make it seem as though they sit in a little public health room, waiting for YOU to tell THEM when there’s a problem getting the boob juice flowing, wouldn’t it? But no, they seek you out in the hospital corridors, and find you beneath the bed sheets, trying to grab 40 winks after the long, hard labour you’ve just had, and once they do, once they find you, they become Booby Pushers, simultaneously telling you to breastfeed, and YOU’RE BREASTFEEDING ALL WRONG: “There simply is no other way to feed your child; it’s the most natural, and provides your little one with EVERYTHING he needs, including immunities, without which HE MIGHT GET SICK. Thinking you might go with formula? Well, you might as well liquefy dog food and put it in the bottle you’re going to feed that precious baby with, or starve him altogether. That is, if he doesn’t die from the sickness of being sick, all because his LACK OF IMMUNITIES. No, no! Hold your areola THIS WAY!”
I was glad to be rid of ‘em, those Lactation Consultants. Anyone who has seen the Babe recently knows that it’s absurd to assume he has any issues in the sustenance department. And because I haven’t been inundated with advice on ways to rear my little Turkey Roll lately, I was caught off guard when I phoned the Ottawa Public Library to register Boh in Super Tots and the lady on the other end waxed on and on enthusiastically about what a “good turn” I was doing by registering him so early for a library program. Good turn? I haven’t heard that one since Brownies! But of course I ate it up. So long as the advice I’m getting is about stuff I’m already doing, or plan to do, then this Mom-zilla can keep her chest puffed out secure in the knowledge that she’s not completely screwing up her kid. (Not completely.)
And then the Babe entered out lives and impassioned advocates popped up on any number of issues, like cloth diapers vs. the kind that poison the planet and little baby pandas in China, and those who favour a drug-free birth to “get in tune with your body” vs. those who place their order for Medicare-funded drugs prior to conception. (I fall into the latter camp on both issues, for obvious reasons.) By far the most rabid were those who virtuously call themselves Lactation Consultants, which would make it seem as though they sit in a little public health room, waiting for YOU to tell THEM when there’s a problem getting the boob juice flowing, wouldn’t it? But no, they seek you out in the hospital corridors, and find you beneath the bed sheets, trying to grab 40 winks after the long, hard labour you’ve just had, and once they do, once they find you, they become Booby Pushers, simultaneously telling you to breastfeed, and YOU’RE BREASTFEEDING ALL WRONG: “There simply is no other way to feed your child; it’s the most natural, and provides your little one with EVERYTHING he needs, including immunities, without which HE MIGHT GET SICK. Thinking you might go with formula? Well, you might as well liquefy dog food and put it in the bottle you’re going to feed that precious baby with, or starve him altogether. That is, if he doesn’t die from the sickness of being sick, all because his LACK OF IMMUNITIES. No, no! Hold your areola THIS WAY!”
I was glad to be rid of ‘em, those Lactation Consultants. Anyone who has seen the Babe recently knows that it’s absurd to assume he has any issues in the sustenance department. And because I haven’t been inundated with advice on ways to rear my little Turkey Roll lately, I was caught off guard when I phoned the Ottawa Public Library to register Boh in Super Tots and the lady on the other end waxed on and on enthusiastically about what a “good turn” I was doing by registering him so early for a library program. Good turn? I haven’t heard that one since Brownies! But of course I ate it up. So long as the advice I’m getting is about stuff I’m already doing, or plan to do, then this Mom-zilla can keep her chest puffed out secure in the knowledge that she’s not completely screwing up her kid. (Not completely.)
Monday, September 18, 2006
too good to be true
No wonder this watermelon was only $3.99!
Why?
Seeds! It's full of seeds!
Whoever eats watermelon with seeds anymore? It's too much work!
Ya, I like my fruit genetically modified, thank you very much.
Me too.
Why?
Seeds! It's full of seeds!
Whoever eats watermelon with seeds anymore? It's too much work!
Ya, I like my fruit genetically modified, thank you very much.
Me too.
Friday, September 15, 2006
another Life Network commercial, for Friday nights
don't blog those ideas winter!
i'm not. i'm just going to write it down so i won't forget it.
oh. ok.
words of wisdom: who is rich enough to afford to buy a house in bermuda? i want to be that rich. how do you get that rich? i wanna be that rich.
oh you know what winter. this kind of wealth is inherited. that's where all the worth in the world has ever been. in families. the only time you or i will ever see it is when it trickles down.
you know what, the trickle down theory works, it's just that the rich keep building bigger umbrellas.
that's a pretty good way to think of it. where did you read that?
i just thought of it. you know what, i'm going to blog that...right now [reaches for computer].
oh, don't do that. don't blog those ideas winter!
no comments please
i'm not. i'm just going to write it down so i won't forget it.
oh. ok.
words of wisdom: who is rich enough to afford to buy a house in bermuda? i want to be that rich. how do you get that rich? i wanna be that rich.
oh you know what winter. this kind of wealth is inherited. that's where all the worth in the world has ever been. in families. the only time you or i will ever see it is when it trickles down.
you know what, the trickle down theory works, it's just that the rich keep building bigger umbrellas.
that's a pretty good way to think of it. where did you read that?
i just thought of it. you know what, i'm going to blog that...right now [reaches for computer].
oh, don't do that. don't blog those ideas winter!
no comments please
wrestling with my demons
Good ol' dooce. Leave it to her to help carry me through my dry phase. I had completely forgotten about that book I told you about a while back (you heard it here first folks!) called No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog. Methinks a weekend excursion to Chapters might be called for Sweetie; don't say I didn't warn you. (I was going to say forewarn you, but isn't that a bit redundant? You don't warn someone after the fact, do you?)
But enough of being cocky, She Who Struggled to Write One Sentence in the Last Week and Now Thinks She Can Slag the Creators of the English Language. In today's entry, dooce picks up what is apparently suggested topic No. 32 from No One Cares What You Had for Lunch:
Like Dead Tooth, otherwise known as Could Have Been the Perfect Guy If Not for the Caramel He Called An Incisor. He had a good job and even better prospects, studying to be some kind of engineer, so that not only could I have looked forward to a spouse with a guaranteed annual income of 80K+, but he and the other Iron Ring (mon papa) in my life could have spent endless hours over Christmas varenyky talking about pull wires and pipelines and pi and stuff. And - and! - he was tall. Like over six feet. By no means am I an Amazon, but finding a man at least as tall as me, if not taller, always seemed to be an issue in the days when I was lookin'. But I could not get past his slightly discoloured enamel, and so never called him back.
Then there was S., the Tummy Tapper. There were oh so many things about S. that I looked past to get the point that we did, the point where you start to go over to each other's house to watch T.V. (a big step in any relationship; you say PBS Nova and I say cable Entertainment Tonight.) Sitting there, eating popcorn, I couldn't take my eyes off him, and not because of his curly locks and freshly starched shirt. Rather, it was because I was watching him in silent horror, like how you watch the slo-mos on the evening news about some train wreck that happened in one of those states down in the Southern US, and it really doesn't matter which one, because they are all the same, aren't they? No. Instead of watching The Rock take down the Undertaker, or whoever the idols were back then for The Saturday Afternoon Serving of Homoeroticism For Sexually Confused Men Everywhere (a.k.a. WWF Smackdown), I watched S. slowly lift his t-shirt up to expose his navel, so that he had as much skin as was required to play the bongo on his belly button. Cheque, please!
And I'm sure there were more, but as Adoring and Wonderful Husband often says to me, When I met you I forgot about all the rest, baby. Forget indeed. And perhaps also realize that the cliché old marrieds have about how they knew right away when they first met their spouse that he or she was The One is true. Because not only was Adoring and Wonderful Husband the perfect height, he also had the best smile I have ever seen, and in all the years I've known him, he has never paused whilst flipping the channels to watch wrestling, Just to see who will win the match, I promise!, not even once.
(Oh, and if I can completely copy dooce today: What are YOUR deal-breakers?)
But enough of being cocky, She Who Struggled to Write One Sentence in the Last Week and Now Thinks She Can Slag the Creators of the English Language. In today's entry, dooce picks up what is apparently suggested topic No. 32 from No One Cares What You Had for Lunch:
What are your relationship deal breakers? Some folks are annoyed if a date shows up ten minutes late. Others look for something weightier, like a felony record. Have you ever rejected someone over something that seems insignificant to your friends? Or do you have selective blindness for red flags?Oh, my. This just brought up so many memories that four years of marriage, two mortgages and one kidlette have helped to sanitize, if not bleach altogether. Though C. and B.'s Adventures in Singleville as relayed to me over lunch last weekend definitely dredged up some of my sludgier Single Me moments, even if I did try and sound to them like a shining beacon of light now that I have jumped off the bridge called (Dear God, What Did) I (Just) Do.
Like Dead Tooth, otherwise known as Could Have Been the Perfect Guy If Not for the Caramel He Called An Incisor. He had a good job and even better prospects, studying to be some kind of engineer, so that not only could I have looked forward to a spouse with a guaranteed annual income of 80K+, but he and the other Iron Ring (mon papa) in my life could have spent endless hours over Christmas varenyky talking about pull wires and pipelines and pi and stuff. And - and! - he was tall. Like over six feet. By no means am I an Amazon, but finding a man at least as tall as me, if not taller, always seemed to be an issue in the days when I was lookin'. But I could not get past his slightly discoloured enamel, and so never called him back.
Then there was S., the Tummy Tapper. There were oh so many things about S. that I looked past to get the point that we did, the point where you start to go over to each other's house to watch T.V. (a big step in any relationship; you say PBS Nova and I say cable Entertainment Tonight.) Sitting there, eating popcorn, I couldn't take my eyes off him, and not because of his curly locks and freshly starched shirt. Rather, it was because I was watching him in silent horror, like how you watch the slo-mos on the evening news about some train wreck that happened in one of those states down in the Southern US, and it really doesn't matter which one, because they are all the same, aren't they? No. Instead of watching The Rock take down the Undertaker, or whoever the idols were back then for The Saturday Afternoon Serving of Homoeroticism For Sexually Confused Men Everywhere (a.k.a. WWF Smackdown), I watched S. slowly lift his t-shirt up to expose his navel, so that he had as much skin as was required to play the bongo on his belly button. Cheque, please!
And I'm sure there were more, but as Adoring and Wonderful Husband often says to me, When I met you I forgot about all the rest, baby. Forget indeed. And perhaps also realize that the cliché old marrieds have about how they knew right away when they first met their spouse that he or she was The One is true. Because not only was Adoring and Wonderful Husband the perfect height, he also had the best smile I have ever seen, and in all the years I've known him, he has never paused whilst flipping the channels to watch wrestling, Just to see who will win the match, I promise!, not even once.
(Oh, and if I can completely copy dooce today: What are YOUR deal-breakers?)
Thursday, September 14, 2006
tasting our way through life
I'm having a hard time sitting down and coming up with things to write on this blog. I chalk it up to the change in season which caused my routine to be tweaked here and there. A baby that is growing up far too quickly is also following Autumn around on a leash, and our habit of going to the gym in the morning, followed by lunch and a half hour nap (which used to be an hour, at least) and then a couple hours of playtime and cleaning before daddy gets home, hasn't left me with as much time as I used to have to sit in front of the computer, check my email, and think of something witty and profound to say to y'all as a way to start my day. To top everything off the Babe is slowly learning to crawl, and so I've spent the last half hour following him around his three foot by three foot crawling space with a damp rag wiping up dog hair and cat dander so that his little mouth isn't offended with the evidence of what a truly horrible housekeeper I am as he taste tests which section of the floor he's deciding to shimmy to next. ("Mmmm! Dead bug! I think I'll go that way!") I'm scared that we'll both start to get the hang of these changes in our lives very soon.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
play by play action
"Ready for the game mom!"
"Oh my gosh! I can't believe that catch..."
"...and he's making it to the end zone!..."
"Touchdown?! Who would've thunk it? Maybe they'll go all the way this year after all!"
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Franklin Allan Pershep, 59, New York, New York
Franklin Pershep, 59, was an insurance underwriter working for Aon Corporation on the 93rd floor of Tower Two of the World Trade Centre.He was at work when the tragedy of September 11 unfolded five years ago. He did not survive.
Franklin was apparently known as "the Bagel Man," often stopping at a shop near his home to pick up two or three dozen bagels to celebrate a co-worker's wedding, promotion or new baby, and then sometimes for no reason at all. One of his daughters used to stop at the same bagel shop in the mornings, and they would tell her that her breakfast was on the house, that her dad had paid for her bagel and coffee when he was in earlier that morning.
Mr. Pershep used to love to tell the story of his Incredible Shrinking Cubicle. He knew his co-workers were pushing in the walls of his office a tiny bit each day, but he wouldn't let on that he noticed, even when he had to turn sideways to get inside.
Franklin was married for 36 years to Estelle with whom he shared two daughters, Stacy and Sharyn. His three grand children Mack, Heather and Hunter, ask for him everyday.
(An initiative of 2,996.)
philanthropists
Just three more weeks to go until the CIBC's Run for the Cure. A big thank-you to the following people who have donated so far:- S.
- Grandma
- Grandma
- K.
- C.
Please click HERE to support those of us who are running that day to raise money to find a cure for breast cancer and add your initial to this list!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
back to school essay: "how I spent my summer"
Too much napping with the Babe. Not enough blogging. Must rectify the situation.
(Not!)
(Not!)
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
letter from mommy: month five
Dear Boh (C’est Bon!),
Oh my little turkey roll, how I do love thee! Let me just enumerate some of the ways…
Oh my little turkey roll, how I do love thee! Let me just enumerate some of the ways…
Okay kidlette, I gotta tell ya that so far this has been the hardest monthly letter to write. Not because you didn’t do like a gazillion million wonderful and awesome things this month, because you did (and more!), but because you’re becoming less and less of a novelty to have around the house, and more and more of a fixture in our lives. If that sounds horrible, I surely don’t mean it to; it’s just the most accurate way to describe what’s happening to our family right now. You are now so much a part of who we are that when your daddy and I wake up and think about what the day is going to be like, we no longer need to step back and say, Dude - whoa! We have to take out the garbage, deposit that check, de-skunkify Gordie AND take care of the cutest little baby in the world! Instead, we are sliding comfortably into a routine like an old man into an Avon bubble bath, scented rose (though our bones are often as weary, scented rose it always ain’t! More like scented poopy…I had to get poop in there somehow, just for daddy. POOP!) Further proof that we are becoming thoroughly family-ized? All the pictures I am posting today were taken over the course of the last 48 hours. You don’t always have the camera ready when you’re living real life, I suppose.
Nonetheless, there are more than a few highlights from this past month that stand out in my mind. Obviously, one was your first visit to Saskatchewan, complete with love and cuddles and kisses from some of the most important people in mommy and daddy’s lives. It was there on the prairies that you had your first solid food, and my oh my did you ever do well with that stanky rice cereal! So well in fact that daddy and I thought nothing of graduating you to barley after about a week or so, though after gobbling it up like the good baby that you are you immediately broke out with a rash and hives all over your face and chest. We tried carrots a couple days after that because mommy was so mad at grains for hurting you she could just spit, and you seemed to do okay, but the next morning you woke up with a bit of red on your face, and because I couldn’t tell if it was the carrots or if you just slept funny and smooshed your cheek, back to boob juice - straight up - you went. (Maybe we’ll try carrots again tonight.)
You are starting to show interest in everything around you, and grabbing for objects with a grip that would be the envy of every quarterback in the CFL, ESPECIALLY Kerry Joseph, like Gordie’s tail and the most sensitive part of mommy’s booby and daddy’s eyebrow as he reads you a bedtime story. Your motor skills are developing by leaps and bounds everyday, and I wouldn’t be surprised if by next month’s letter you can sit up all on your own and even crawl toward the stairs going to the basement, stairs that are not yet blocked by a door, stairs that if you fell down them I would freak, stairs that DADDY YOU BETTER PUT UP A DOOR BLOCKING THE STAIRS TO THE BASEMENT IN LIKE THE NEXT TWO HOURS BECAUSE OH MY GOD MOMMY IS GOING TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK RIGHT NOW!!!
Oh sweetie, I just re-read this month’s letter and it doesn’t do an ounce of justice in conveying to you just how much your daddy and I have grown to love you in the five short months that we’ve had the honour to know you. We love thee to the depth and breadth and height of every breathtaking thing you do, we love thee just for being you, we love thee freely, purely, true.
We love thee so, so, so, so, so, so much.
Baby Boh, you are, more than I ever thought possible, the loveliest love my heart can handle, and I thank whatever good great force whose hand draws our fate for each and every day you are in my life.
Love, Mommy
Sunday, September 03, 2006
I don't know Nano
The traditional gift to give to your betrothed on your four year wedding anniversary is fruit or flowers. The more modern gift is linen, silk or nylon, and the "alternate modern" is appliances. Adoring and Wonderful Husband proved his love to me through the purchase of a present that could fall in all three categories: an iPod nano. (An electronic device made by Apple that just happened to be accessorized by a nylon armband for running.) I dig it, if only because when I use it I feel like a few years have been knocked off the ol' driver's license.But only just a few years. Maybe only months. Because as soon as I went to load the thing, I realized how woefully out of date my music is (how could it not be for a person who uses the word woefully?) The last time I downloaded music, Napster was still free. In other words, AGES AGO. And so trolling in the iTunes music store I went, and holy moly, do I need some help updating my tuneage collection.
So I am appealing to the cool music people out there. I need some song suggestions. I'm looking for something upbeat for running, as well as something a bit more on the mellow side for when I'm staring at people getting on and off the bus. But really, I am open to anything and everything, because I need all the help I can get. (I especially would like to hear from Dave D., Uncle Rob and Matt.)
Thanks for your assistance in this matter.
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