Some pictures, peeps. I made a Cthulhu toy for the cool home ec teacher/game store owner who got a new job for September. It was half farewell and half payment for getting me started re-lining my favourite spring coat (translation: she traced, cut and sewed it together; now I get to sew it in. I'm cool with that.)

For those who worry, I am seeing a counsellor about once a month. I'm also reading some good books about CBT and one called Rebuilding After Your Relationship Ends which sort of makes me mad but has some good stuff buried among the patronizing points. Last night, when all I felt like doing was crying, Mason came over and made us supper. Good, healthy, fresh food does wonders for my mood. I even had the energy to clean up the kitchen before he arrived, which was an insurmountable horror when I was weeping into the tissue Blake so kindly provided. My parents are worried that I'll scar Blake with the tears, but the truth is that I cry very infrequently around him. Yesterday was a big exception. I worry more about the time I disengage, although I don't suppose it's any worse than what the Boy was doing this fall. I'm hoping to use the next two weeks to recharge and find my joy wherever it's hiding.

Labels: angst, crafty, health

I am finally on the downward slope of an on-again-off-again cold that’s been sapping my will to live something awful. This was the first morning I felt something close to alright, and I credit the decision to climb into a hole and fester as soon as Blake was off with his babydaddy last night. People would call and ask if I needed anything, and my only answer was a rather pathetic ‘no.’ Sure, the house was nearly stripped of groceries and my supper last night was Kraft Dinner that my dad had originally made Blake for lunch, and then left on the stove all afternoon. Sure, my recovery plan consisted of an extended tour of every couch and bed in my house. I was still okay with it.

All it took was a night of festering plus a long snooze to the sweet sounds of Metro Morning. I am back, baby! And just in time to deal with the dishes and the mound of clean, unfolded laundry that threatens to overwhelm my basement. Plus all the end-of-term marking. Uh. Maybe I’m still sick after all.

I was actually doing okay this week until I threw everything to the winds and left town. Preacher’s mom died last weekend, and although I didn’t quite have enough lead time to make it to the funeral, I was able to arrange things on short notice so that Blake would be cared for overnight and I could leave my silly students for the day. On Monday I rushed through my duties, planned frantically for Tuesday, and even wrote a short puff piece for the school newsletter (I am the Queen of the Desperate Department Puff Piece!). As soon as I got home that afternoon, I had just enough time to throw my stuff in the car and go. I had my credit card in case I needed to check into a motel. I had my sleeping bag in case I needed to sleep on my uncle’s grave. I was set.

And although I enjoyed seeing Preacher and Martha and even Palaver (who rented a car to make the funeral ahead of me), and although we had a good night of stories and sips and smoking, it was shot through with melancholy. I’m in for the long haul with these people, and the wonderful thing is that even at these moments of bereavement and loss, there’s still the joy in each other. There’s joy in the witty comeback and the half-remembered anecdote and the unspoken glow of just being there for each other.

But it was all a little much for a delicate flower like myself, and the combination of a late night with moderate (I have witnesses) amounts of alcohol and several serious coughing spells left me in bad shape. The next day, when I went with Martha to start the house clean out, I was in the worst shape I’ve been since the day after Poet’s wedding. Martha first asked if I were pregnant, and then if she should take me to the doctor. Then she asked if I was sure I wasn’t pregnant. (I think people are taking the Casual Darts Tour a little more seriously than I am.) I still worked, though. There’s one thing you can count on about me; I will work through crippling hangovers and fierce chest colds. All in all, I’m pretty sure that I still had the best day of the four of us.

I came back to work on Wednesday, sick as a dog but utterly unable to come up with a lesson plan for a second missed day. “Where were you?” bellowed my rude students. So I told them. “Miss, you ruined my day!!” Yeah. Imagine how I felt.

That night I begged off everything so that I could crawl into a hole and sniffle to myself. Mason tried to help me out, but I was adamant that I needed nothing more than a burrow for myself. But since I clearly wasn't thinking well enough to organize a lunch, I asked him to make me a salad. It was a beautiful salad, so much so that people at work invited themselves to the bowl. They kept apologizing, which made me wonder: how much salad does it look like I can eat? Don't answer that.

Labels: bat masterson, friends, health

Battling a low-grade spring cold and a heavy conviction that I won't manage to finish out the teaching year in good form. Two weeks to finish Catcher in the Rye and all I want to do is lie down. With a book that isn't Catcher.

In my last entry I think the emphasis came through in the wrong place. I wasn't so much complaining about my impossible child as I was coming to the realization that I need to make things a lot less tough on myself. It's my stubbornness that makes things so damn hard for both me and Blake. It's this feeling that I'm doing him a disservice if we bring a wagon, or if I buy him an ice cream in the afternoon. I need to stop taking such a hard line about everything and try to be happier, lighter and more present. I need to stop worrying about the future Blake (the soft, spoiled kid I'm afraid of creating) and start enjoying the weird, energetic, sweet boy I have now.

Last night I participated in one of the most fun ideas ever conceived: a blend of Rocky Horror and Pee Wee's Big Adventure called "Pee Wee Herman Picture Show" at the Bloor Theatre. Nic, Mason, Pixie, Pixie's husband and a few hundred others came with me and were transported. Unlike the Rocky Horror Experience, in which you are encouraged to hate the characters on screen, we all love Pee Wee. I know the movie well from my younger days, and I think I scared Mason a little with the depth of recall I could command once the Danny Elfman score started to unspool. By the time we staggered from the theatre, I was voiceless from two hours of laughing, singing, and cheering along. Mason, Nic and I all agreed: if we hadn't had to work today, we'd have turned around and bought a ticket for the second show. I hummed the theme all the way home. Oh, and that this was Pixie's very first time seeing the movie. I couldn't have picked a better way to show her.

And there was something about being in a theatre full of happy people that made it better than Rocky Horror in which you throw contempt along with your toilet paper. Everybody was there for Pee Wee, and a number of them brought their kids to share in the fun. It still makes me grin, just thinking about the screams during the Large Marge scene.

"You have to watch it! You're 30!!" - nic attempts to be sensitive to my anxiety

I had promised Nic Ethiopian food that night, and after listening to his hissy fit when we went to Chippy's before the show, I decided to take him out for some fermented fun after the show. Unfortunately, Nic was a little too sick to enjoy himself, so Mason & I sipped drinks and tried to resuscitate our voices while my brother morosely shoveled food in his pie hole. I went to bed far too late for a school night, but so very happy that I had made it down.

Labels: blake, family, friends, health, outings

There are scavenger hunt photos here. I should not be allowed access to the web and my wallet on sick days, as I have impulse-purchased a Flickr Pro account upgrade today. I don't think I'm going to regret it, but I can't help but think it sets a bad precedent.

The 10 free Moo mini cards were just icing on my impulsive cupcake.

Labels: friends, health, knit

It seems I caught the plague from Stacy on Wednesday night, as I woke up Thursday in a dreadful, dragged through the dirt state (without the dirt). So I did something that I've never done before: called in sick after 6 am, after I'd eaten breakfast and showered and was about to put on perfessional clothes. It was a good move, as I spent the day schlumping around in crocheted bunny slippers and feeling a tiny bit sorry for myself. It's not a bad deal, really: since the Boy split the scene, my parents have been extra solicitous and kind whenever I fall under the weather, and they let me abscond with 5 cans of ginger ale and a bag of salt and vinegar chips when I left their house to take the Blake to school. Sweet. Or, rather, sweet and also salty.

Despite being struck down by God's judgement for having fun on a weeknight, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Besides simply being with Stacy, which remains awesome after all these years, my lily was gilded with a spectacular and fiery green curry, the opportunity to buy a new Flashman book, and a baby-gram. I've started paying Mason a retainer so that he will deliver Sage to me whenever convenient, and Wednesday night I was innocently gulping down curry when someone sat down beside us and started talking. It was Mason! And my boyfriend Sage! The best part is that the retainer part was a lie, but everything else was true. I will accept deliveries of scrumptious babies at all hours of the day.

Labels: friends, health, outings

Considering how slowly my life is moving at present, I really have no excuse for not documenting it in excruciating detail. (Other than a desire to spare your last nerve, that is.) Blake & I have settled into our new work equilibrium in which Mommy is bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan, after which she sets out her son's clothes, packs a new lunch, washes his sheets with sisyphean regularity etc. I've put out the garbage twice now (and the first time was in the icy darkness, while wearing high heels). I'm pretty impressed with myself. To quote a title I once saw in a comic store, it's a good life if you don't weaken.

The only new thing of note is that I started a belly dance class yesterday. I'm not sure what I think of my instructor. I tend to be hypercritical of instructors now, while at the same time I'm still the teacher-pleaser of yore. It's a volatile combination of bitter internal monologue and unselfconscious boot-lickery. Still, she may be hard to get a handle on but at least she's herself. I'd rather try to puzzle out a strong enigma than a bland cipher.

I'm not a natural, by the way. I'm very very much a beginner. Yoga has improved my strength and tone, but I'm still desperately uncoordinated and really poor at choreographed muscle movements. My snake arms are sucking, rather than biting. Then again, I didn't sign up so that I could dance tables by spring. As long as I can keep my self-esteem by the last session, I'm not even interested in doing the shimmy.

Well, maybe a little interested in doing the shimmy. Keep the innuendo dogs at bay, would you?

Labels: health

Ugh. I've been feeling crummy all day long, but I'm blessed in that it's not emotional but rather the kind of physical holiday crud that has so far eluded me. I'm sure that my delayed illness was the universe's way of paying me back for the Boy's defection, much like finding a parking spot in less than a minute on Boxing Day and my wallet being returned with all the plastic and a $20 bill still inside. Thanks, impartial sense of justice.

And yet, despite feeling run down I braved the cold cold air to toboggan with the Blake & my dad at a local park. Three times down the hill was enough for us, and we spent the rest of the day putzing around. Mommy likes her lie-downs on days like today. Mommy also likes her new rabbit ears, the ones that allow her to pick up half a dozen UHF channels after a teevee fast of seven months. Somehow feeling like this is more palatable when you can distract the little one with a Reading Rainbow episode.

It's weird how much of my time has been freed up by the Boy's defection. With all of the time that I'm not spending trying to communicate with him, I can spend 2 extra hours in bed in the morning, have a lie down in the afternoon sun, read for almost 2 hours and yet still be reasonably productive. Today was about closets. Blake's room swap is now in the final stages, and I have a pretty cozy craft room. I might just keep the Buzz Lightyear decals, if he lets me.

Labels: blake, health, house rich

One of the things you may not know about me: I'm thirsty. When I started this journal I pretty much stuck to the Diet Coke at all times, not realizing that I was further dehydrating myself. When I started teaching, I switched to gigantic bottles of water, often carrying two 1L bottles on either side of my backpack like a mule. Now that I've been teaching more than 5 years, I find that I'm still not smart enough to drink water on the weekends – and switching from 1 – 2 litres a day to nothing is hard on the body (no wonder I'm so cranky). The problem is that I come home from work thirsty, and having drank water all day I search for something that I can drink that won't keep me up all night. I've been plugging this hole with beer, but I'm afraid that's not going to cut it now that I'm going to be the only parent around at night.

I guess it's time to start fooling around with those fruity teas. Sigh.

Sorry for the boring; it's just this or a pointless lament on the effect of seeing all those Phillip K. Dick books gone. I always kind of thought that he loved them more than me. It's tough to have that confirmed.

Or I could talk about the talent show. Today was the last day of school, which means that it was time for the Bat Masterson Non-Denominational Concert. This year distinguished itself from last year in two major respects: 1) the audience was not filled with drunk, surly misfits, and 2) some of the staff did a number -- that was all dancing. I felt remarkably similar to how I once felt as a camp counsellor: impossibly proud to be a part of these people, and sad that I hadn’t the guts to participate. Next year for sure.

Labels: angst, bat masterson, dancing, health

So, as I said yesterday, I saw the doctor. She's the replacement for my older family doctor, to whom I was grimly resigned to stick with rather than trust myself to clinics & the ER. One of the worst parts about seeing her was how kind she was, how compassionate. She looked me right in the eye and told me how sorry she was. I was afraid going in that I would be told that I wasn't feeling depression, but grief (which doesn't require a prescription); I was relieved that she took me seriously. The other bad part was her advanced pregnancy; she was so clearly young and energetic and just about to get to the really good parts in life that it made me feel 1) used up 2) hopeless 3) that my life was over. I coped with this by bursting into tears during the first sentence, and not stopping until the appointment was over. My stoicism is apparently overrated.

Ladies and gentlemen of the listening audience: please don't fight with each other. This is my biased, subjective account of my marital problems; no doubt if the Boy had kept a public journal you would feel just as much sympathy for him as me. Maybe more. So although I appreciate the tremendous amount of support I've been shown lately, it needs to stay friendly. Or it needs to be taken to the mud-wrestling arena, with bikinis and trash talk for all. One or the other.

Labels: angst, health, on-line diaries

"I'm singing my heart out, but you were so out of range…" – sloan

Last night the Boy decided to share a bed with me again. I feel like it's been forever – and for all the nights when he stole covers, or flailed about, or snored without remorse, I've been getting lonelier and lonelier. I can't and won't let myself become complacent, but: every tiny bit of relief is that much more exaggerated by the pain that preceded it. I had real difficulty getting out of bed this morning, but that may also be because I'm getting sick.

Tomorrow I'm staying home, the better to mark and rest and dream.

Labels: happiness, health, the boy

So, as you may have gathered, I'm deep into the Bargaining stage right now, frosted with lashings of Depression. I have the superstitious fear that if I can be perfect, I can keep the Boy from leaving. I'm hoping that I can be loveable. Is this a tremendous strain? Well, that's where the depression comes in.

(On the more laughable front, I even tried wearing one of my new super-bras, hoping that I might be able to subconsciously hypnotise him. No such luck.)

It does bring my other problems into perspective, however. Like the reappearance of my athlete's foot this week. (Rocketbride is neither an athlete, nor fleet of foot. Discuss.) I first "came down" with the a.f. this summer, during my week of painting hell. Not having ever succumbed to it before, I was a little ashamed, and yet a little proud. Maybe I was dirty, but at least I hung around in too many locker rooms! (Ask me about my athlete's foot.) The cream worked well, but as is typical, I stopped too soon. And like a summertime housefly, it came back to bug me.

Last night I realized that things had become much worse, and I was having difficulty staying on my feet. There was a new player in town, and it made walking painful. I spent today shuffling around as fast as possible, hating my lopsided gait. I was afraid that the doctor would utter my favourite word: lance. Instead, he told me that it was a blister, probably caused by new shoes.

My Fluevogs? My Blister? My Fluevogs? My Blister? Not to mention, et tu, Tiff Brogue?!?

So that's okay, I suppose. And Moe Berg of The Pursuit of Happiness may or may not have bought Mason's cheese grater in a yard sale. Can't you just see Moe bent over his supper prep, saying "I'd sure look stupid lying dead in a ditch like some cheese-eating high school boy"?

No? Maybe that's just me.

Labels: angst, health, the boy

Well, that was a weird day. While we were vacationing in NY this week, our trip was cut short by a pervasive stomach bug that started with Good Hank and then worked its way through every adult but me. I was congratulating myself on my excellent immune system when I started to feel…funny. Last night I was woken by my ominously rumbling stomach. And although I knew that I would face heat from my supervisor and colleagues tomorrow, I called in sick. Because, really: do you want to be caught in a portable when you're sick to your stomach? Especially when the bathroom is at least 100 icy metres away? I didn't think so.

The especially weird thing about today was that after the morning of Strange Intestinal Symphonies, I went to sleep for 5 hours straight and woke up seemingly cured. I'm still a little delicate, but I was able to eat a full dinner with no ill effects. And I managed to finish my report card cycle, so that's one less thing to worry about.

Tomorrow, as a reward for my good health, I get to face my horrible classes – and even the good class is going to want to know why nothing was marked this week. As Richard Burton once said to Elizabeth Taylor, "I'm really looking forward to this, Martha."

Still working on the vacation entry. I managed to wallop out a summary version, but it doesn't satisfy. Give me a few days to tweak it. Plus, we can all save room for pictures.

Labels: bat masterson, health, vacation