whine whine whine

You people don't know how much I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed you.
You are my only connection to the outside world.

Aside from pumpkin pie and tapioca pudding (my latest favourite comfort foods), I have no friends. No one to serve me that pudding on a tray. Or rub my feet. Or my shoulders.

I am, of course, lying. It only feels like I have never been outside of this house. (the swimming pool for kids lessons doesn't count. Neither does Superstore or McGavins Bread Basket. Or the Steinbach Arts Council, waiting for children's lessons to conclude.)

I'm sure that there are moments where I am not fighting the ever losing battle of taking everyone's crap off my counter and finding places for all their crap. I'm sure there have been days when the deck doesn't hold three bags of garbage and one bag of recycling because I fear leaving the house long enough to put them into the bins at the side of the house. (and no. I'm not afraid of leaving the house per se. I'm afraid of what myriad toddlers will do while I leave for 19 seconds.) I'm sure that eventually I will find time to put away the summer furniture that's outside rusting on that garbage- strewn deck. Did I mention that the deck is rotting? I'm sure that someday we'll make another gargantuan loan and build another deck.

Then again.
If I went out, there would likely be mirrors. I'd notice that my clothes are pathetic. My latest haircut a disaster. (and I had such high hopes...) My colour a beastly grey. (I recently bought some make-up at Shoppers. Turns out that it only works if you apply it.) I'd notice my saddle bags, love handles, and the way I walk- like a lumberjack in heels.

I'll have to limit myself to outings that include beverages.
Maybe I'll live large right now, and pour myself a water while I dash out to the garbage cans in the rain.

hmmmph. This lady needs a party.

More on that later; for now-- Keep Saturday, November 14 open.
No excuse is a good excuse.

Just Remember- It's Not You- It's Your Fibroid

It doesn't matter how many times you've given birth. It doesn't matter how many times your dilation has been measured. It doesn't matter how many GP's, gynecologists, interns (pardon the pun), nurses, custodians, and their assorted spouses and household pets have donned the ubiquitous latex glove and had their way with your precious life giving internal organs.

You still never quite get used to your annual physical.

So, when you actually do force yourself to go get it done, just for the greater good of keeping the lubricant manufacturers in work; it's never good news to hear that you're gonna have a couple of additional tests.

Not on your finger or toe, either.

Enter... the internal ultrasound. *******Do Not. I repeat. Do Not click that hyperlink if you are:

1. not female;
2. if you prefer not to know what those machines are for;
3. if you are squeamish in any way;
4. or if you are under the age of 41.

I myself had always thought of the ultrasound as a warm gooey wand that got massaged around one's belly and produced the image of a wee cherubic ghoulish looking baby that you would soon become the proud mother of.

Never. Ever. As something that required a latex condom. Never in a million years as something that might tempt you to sigh deeply and light up a cigarette.

I never imagined a test in the diagnostic imaging department that would find me suppressing inappropriate jokes (does that come in ribbed?) and pretending that this was an ordinary Wednesday evening occurrence- just me and a technician in a dimly lit room. And that latex condom thingie.

I decided that my Dr was incredibly thorough. I thought it was kind of quaint that he would send me for a special test because he thought I had "a big uterus". (I've got big thighs too. Nobody ever tests me on that stuff. I also have four big kids. Big kids= big uterus.)

I sort of felt like blushing as I passed through the waiting room on my way out. None of those poor people had any idea of what had just transpired.

I phoned Brian right away. These sorts of things ought not to be kept secret- too corrosive. We decided to put the whole sordid affair behind us and launch optimistically into our future.

The next day, I returned to my Doctor. Like some sort of seedy magazine full of images of the latest celebrity caught on the beach with a cellulite dimple; he already had the report. Hard to be in denial with this sort of expediency.

I never expected that test to produce anything. Just like I never expected that test. I never expected my uterus to grow another thing ever.

But then again, I never expected to get a muffin top, dimpled arms, rolls around my kneecaps, or a tummy riddled with dimples deep enough to hide your toothbrush in.

I suppose I should be glad that the twenty pound weight gain of getting old and dimpley isn't me.

It's my fibroid.

I remember back in the day when I used to have time to write.....

Dinner. With a Side of Death.

(*the not-so-pretty reality of a mother who does eventually reach her breaking point*)

Pie. That's what.

One of them is filled with chicken and carrots in a white sauce, and the other is filled with apples, sugar, and cinnamon. If you complain about the first pie, I will break your femurs. If you are good little boys and girls and eat up your nutritious, delicious chicken pot pie, you will be rewarded with another pie.

If anybody says anything at all containing the words "wow" (in a sarcastic tone) or "whatever" (in a teen tone), there will be a rolling pin thrust through one of these windows.

And, no. There are no side dishes of chicken fingers, or smiley face french fries, or salad, or roasted cauliflower, or spinach with strawberries and toasted almonds.

This crust began its preparation at 6:30 this bloody morning. There really wasn't time for any of that other stuff, and besides, going without those lovely side dishes will not kill us, whereas other certain, particular actions just might.

Tonight, we eat PIE.

High Maintenance Home Decor

It's no secret that I suffer from a rather serious and chronic couch disorder.

I've dragged my entire marriage and family through this drama with me- currently, we are enjoying couches #9 and #10 in a long line of second hand seating arrangements.

They usually start out looking not too bad.

Especially in their original, second hand context.

When your choices are flanked on one side by the awesome swag lamp, and an LP record of the Goertzen Family Singers on the other.... Well... You'll be amazed at what couches look amazingly appealing.

The first couple of years months days with the new-to-you couch seem to go well. Then the crush of the daycare, the children, the pets, and the elements begin to wear on the ancient piece of upholstery. Time to throw a blanket over it. Go for the layered look while the inner springs work their way towards the outside.

Try your hand at some reupholstery.

Seems to work. No one's complaining.

But nothing lasts forever, and there comes a time when all these efforts and good intentions come to an end. If you sit down and find yourself undergoing a wire colostomy when you thought you were just plunking down to watch "The Office"... Well.. take that as a sign that it's time for that drive.

Even when it means convincing your body-builder/tae-bo instructing sister to help you hook a trailer to a van when you don't even know how to drive it in reverse just so you can make an urgent trip to the dump.

Yup. Looks like this place is missing something.

Doesn't look homey.

Or comfy.

That's better....

(context can be everything.....)

sherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. You could go to one of those fancy furniture stores and get one of them couches that don't need replacing every couple of months.

But where's the fun in that?

In 1963, my father was travelling around rural Manitoba, on some business for an insurance agency he worked for. He was driving his very first brand-new car and savouring autumn's colours as his car ate up the country miles.

Legend has it that he drove home to his very own farm and announced to my mom that they were "going on a bit of a vacation". It had been a good year for farming, and he could afford to rent a cabin for his young family of seven in Wasagaming; at Riding Mountain National Park.



That's five years before I was so much as a twinkle in my papa's eye. The family swelled to ten- five daughters and three sons. Our autumn trip up to Clear Lake remained pretty well consistent throughout. Now we number thirty plus people- some years we rent five cabins; some years three. Our traditions have evolved and grown and shifted with the years.

Thanksgiving dinner.
The marsh walk.
"Red Light; Green light" with my brother Wally.
Walks to the pier.
Endless swimming in the pool.
Walks to deep bay.
Bike rides.
Treasure hunts.
Endless hours at the playground.
Uncle Mel's trail mix.
Scrabble, monopoly, and chess.



My dad turned eighty-seven this summer.
He was younger than I am now when this tradition first began, and I think of it all now from the angle of being a young, busy, easily distracted parent of a busy and demanding band of children.

He couldn't have known what he'd first begun back in 1963.
Remarkable, isn't it?

(ever wonder what you're doing "right" as a parent? Perhaps we'll be surprised....)

Does Anyone Else Do This?

Eat a lunch that you know will give you that emptyfull feeling, even though you've done it a hundredmillionandfortyfour times before and regretted it?

A white bun with plum jam and cheddar cheese, followed by two chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and a reese's peanut butter cup is not part of the daily recommended dosage of useless calories for any active woman.

Really.

Ah, The Weekend

Wasn't it delicious? Like a custom ordered Autumn event.

And. True to my newer, leaner, less greedy self; I managed to stay away from town-wide yard sales one town over, and Freecycle Winnipeg.

I find myself vacillating between self-righteous pride, and deep-seated grief over what I might have missed...*sigh*

What'd you guys get-- Huh? Huh? AW... comeon and tell me.

Joyce no happy: A Day in the Life

*to protect the lives and privacy of the innocent; the entire collective of all humanity aged twelve and under will henceforth and forever known as "Billy". Any resemblance herewithin to actual persons is almost entirely coincidental. Furthermore, should any person by the name or pseudoname of ede read the words within this post, the entire portion mentioning the theoretical canine is entirely untrue. So, you can still come over on Friday. We don't even LIKE dogs, much less let them into our house, or onto our furniture.

Billy been a bad, bad boy. Even Billy's doggy been bad. Billy's doggy done go pee pee on the couch that were meant to cradle a wee, early mornin' child. When that sleepy, innocent patron padded her way across the dark floor in the early, early morn, she had the great misfortune of wading straight into the slushy deposits of Billy's dog. Billy been bad.

When the day was in full swing, and time come for the daily walk, Billy didn't listen no how. Billy ran ahead of the wagon. Billy stood too close to the street. Billy begged to hold the doggie's leash; even though everyone knows that only Joyce holds the doggie leash.

When we stopped at a theoreticaly residential location to return an item that may or may not actually exist, Billy began to pout in his classic pouty way- arms crossed, shoulders slumped, lips protruding. Upon further examination, it seemed that Billy had expected to be served cookies.
That he wanted cookies. That nothing but cookies would do.

This presented an excellent teaching moment. Only children who walk close to the wagon and never threaten to run into traffic and understand that doggies like to be walked by their owners might ever get cookies. And that this might only occur annually- on a very special religious holiday known as : go outside dressed up all ridiculous-like and then go begging door to door. To strangers.

The park became out of the question. Too many street-crossings without armed policemen. Too many under-controlled intersections. Too close to main street.

Take Billy home.
Take Billy to the sand box in the safety of the backyard. Not much traffic there.

Watch Billy throw sand into his "best friend"s eyes.
Put Billy in time out.

Use words.

Loving caregiver: "Billy. Why did you throw sand into your best friend's eyes?"
Billy: "Because. I wanted to talk to him."

Understand the necessity of occasionally throwing sand in people's eyes, but decide that possibly enough communication had occured for now, and perhaps going indoors to eat and expediate nap/quiet time was in good order.

Put Billy to bed. Attempt a small rest on the couch after squandering most of "quiet time" cleaning pasta off the floor, walls, high chair, window, and inside of furnace; hunting on hands and knees in unusually dusty and mysterious corners for a runaway soother; and replacing sheets, blanket, and books in a rest spot that had clearly been pillaged by a small army of men, women, and rabid beasts. Not to mention mentioning "IT'S QUIET TIME. PLEASE USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE" roughly seventy-four-million, six thousand, three hundred, and two times to the cherubs who had unfortunately outgrown nap time.

Recognize that two hours had been taken out of the twenty-four hour clock in an attempt to save rising energy costs. Rest time is over.

Be greeted by a noxious odour at the top of the stairs. Observe Billy. Clever Billy. Learned to remove all lower garments and defecate on sleepy spot.

Billy need bathy.
Billy grumpy and angry when not allowed to linger in bath to play with bubbles and other possibly unidentified floating objects. Joyce no happy.

Joyce take Billy to play with his friends. Not outside because Joyce getting tired and no happy.
Billy take soccer medallion on a ribbon and wack his best friend in the head with it.

Billy have time out. Billy say more things about wanting to talk to his friend, wanting cookies, wanting to stay at Joyce's for a sleep-over.

Joyce begins to hope for daylight savings time, thinking that it would make evening come more quickly. Joyce begins to consider highly unrecommended methods of self-medication. Joyce begins to beg Billy to put her on a time out. In her room. With the remote control, a bottle of gin, several luscious lemons, and ice cold cans of tonic water. Maybe some sleeping pills.

yeah, dat Billy been a bad, bad boy. And dat's sumpin' because we ain't even allowed to say that anybody be a bad boy these days. Nobody been bad. But sometimes Billy make some awful bad choices.

And then. Joyce be no happy.

Got Tonnes of Zucchini?

Try this recipe:

Chocolate Zucchini Muffins or Loaf

3 eggs beaten

1 cup oil

1 1/4 cup sugar (I always cut that down)

1 large package instant chocolate pudding

2 cups grated zucchini

2tsp vanilla

1 cup flour

2 cups whole wheat flour

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

1 cup chopped nuts (optional. I like to cut down the sugar and throw in some chocolate chips instead. That way everyone thinks they are eating junk food and they gobble it up.)

1. Beat eggs, oil, sugar, pudding mix, vanilla, and zucchini
2. Blend dry ingredients and add to zucchini mixture. Mix well.
3. Scoop into muffin tins. I use the mini size so that there is less waste and it works well as a school snack.
4. Or divide into two loaf pans.
5. Bake: large muffins for 17 - 20 min.
6. Or: mini muffins for 11 - 12 min.
7. Or: two loafs for one hour.
8. (all at 350 degrees)

These are moist and delicious and disappear with alarming speed.

Killing Me Softly

Do you ever feel your life blood literally leeching out of your limbs?...heart... brain?

It seems that I committed my life to table-wiping and clutter-busting somewhere back in the '90's. But here's the kicker- its never done. And even when it is done; is never stays done.
Therefore you actually, inevitably begin to question your sanity.

How would a contractor feel if he daily arrived on the construction site to see his labours of yesterday utterly dismantled? What about the teacher who cracks open page one of the math book every single day for years on end? Or an exterminator who gets called to the very same building every day to kill the very same invasion of rats and cockroaches?

Just had to get that off my chest. Among a myriad of repetitive, monotonous tasks that I repeat daily, hourly, endlessly- my top three are:

1. The kitchen counter. Seen by most as "that horizontal plane where everything belongs- backpacks, misc papers, lego bits, cords, scissors, dvd's..etc."
2. The entire entry room. Filled with coat hooks for the convenience of daycare patrons. Seen by family as an excellent place to store clothes, backpacks, lego pieces......
3. The bathroom/laundry room. Need I say more?

Indulge me with your twilight zones, if you please. Please?

What I Learned At The Self Check-out

1. That Superstore will never hire me to run one of those other check-outs where impatient people parade past you with their foodstuffs and watch you scan and scan and scan.
2. That those bar codes are hidden in the most ingenious locations.
3. That when the machine-lady says; "Put your item in the bag"-- you'd best just get to it.
4. That if you pay with cash, it's easy to hear the coin portion of your change and thereby locate it.
5. But that change which involves $5 dollar bills... there are no sound effects. This variety of change is much trickier to locate, and may involve pressing the "help" selection.
6. That if the self check-out attendant and you are having drinks and sharing recipes by the end of the check-out process; it's just possible that you may not be cut for this line of work.

Do-It-Yourself Weekend Project

Okay; so no.
I did not whip up this adorable bedroom on a Sunday afternoon.

But. Armed with only this and this; I managed to turn

this

into this. Which ought to make this little girl kinda happy.

And, it was just as easy as it looks. For your imitating pleasure; a brief tutorial:

1. Unroll cast-off carpet in front lawn on a particularly warm and humid Sunday afternoon.



2. Encourage the whole family and a few pets to participate.

3. Crawl around in plain view of passing traffic, cutting a room shape into a large, heavy bit of plush.

4. Haul it up the stairs and shift it around to fit a bedroom. It works better when you don't try to stand on it and move it at the very same time. That's just a tip for ya.

5. Stand back and enjoy your fantastic achievement.

6. Gear up for the second project.

With the remnants of the remnants, I didn't exactly create this to wrap up my weekend project.

But I did manage this in the dank dungeon-esque basement daycare space.

And that ought to make a few of these even cheerier.

Did I Mention?

... That the Darfur blog is up and running once again?
Please check it out at Darfur bags- Eclectic Bags; http://bags4darfur.blogspot.com/

In spring when I was slowing imploding; I was really afraid of taking a break. I was afraid to "let it all go"- fearing that if I took a break, the project would lose momentum and there would be no more support left for the refugees of the ONGOING crisis in Darfur.

Sometimes, I am deeply grateful to be wrong.

Wish you were here...

I miss this place sometimes.
This blog.

When I started writing on a weblog, I was just stupid and naive enough to think that I was writing to the great, anonymous, faraway masses. That bit me in the ass pretty early on. Then I worked on being honest and authentic without being hurtful and blowing people's privacy. Now, I worry about writing about almost anything.

So, I miss this place.

But I'm going to rant about some stuff anyway. Some stuff that really bugs me and gets my ridiculu-meter revving.

1. Outdated signs. When you drive into Winnipeg down St Mary's Road (which is now one of two ways, since the St Adolphe bridge went tets up, and the bridge leading through St Norbert got closed....sheesh. Speaking of things that are annoying. but I digress.) Just inside the city a mile or two is a sign for a manicure place that says: Spring Special! Well, that really bugs me because it's hardly spring anymore, is it. We never even got spring, not to mention summer. So, take down the bloody sign, or apologize, or something.
2. The buzzer on my dryer. It's really loud, and goes on forever. It bugs me.
3. Kids who lie for no apparent reason. They've got nothing to hide; nothing to fear; nothing but a love for the untrue. They make up stories about being able to see and measure the size of a mosquito's brain. They tell tales of being in particular dance classes, including their times and location, when they are in fact not enrolled in any dance whatsoever. They will lie about food, about clothes, about anything.

Now humour me. Give me three of your petty grievances.

The Sam-cident

It was a pretty big day all right. No trouble getting this little grade one boy up and ready for his great foray into book learnin' with the big boys.

*

His big brother was now a senior at the elementary school - looking down benevolently from his lofty position as sixth grader. He'd not forgotten his own humble beginnings though, and agreed amicably to the responsibility of walking his little brother up to the appropriate school doors while I stayed at home raising other people's toddlers.

*

So, outfitted in brand-new "skinny jeans" picked out by his older, more fashion conscious sister; Sam set off with his backpack loaded up with snacks, a ham sandwich, and a yummy juice box to look forward to on his first "all day" at school.

*

I suppose it would be wrong to speculate that the t-shirt that he chose had a bad omen.

I suppose that if he'd worn a spider man t-shirt, he wouldn't have found himself swinging from Wiens Furniture to Gan's Kitchen and beyond- all the way to that hallowed house of learning. So what was to alert us to the possible dangers of wearing a shirt depicting an innocent bicycle?

How were we to know that a certain young cyclist's bicycle seemed to hone in on that shirt like a checkered flag at a grand prix, slamming straight into my little man and sending him flying?

His big brother walked him straight back home to me- and boy, he had a shiner! A great big bulgy goose egg, right below that pretty blue eye.

*

And from what I see; that blue is about to get closed in by a whole lotta black.

But thanks to the kindness of a big brother; that wound won't go too deep.

*

And because I'm not really superstitious, I'll go ahead and let him wear those monster truck and quad-depicting t-shirts.

*

Right after I push him up to school wrapped in a blankey, belted into his old stroller........

I Know My Boys Have Been Messin' With Daycare Heads When...

... I get this sort of question:

"Joyce..... I know they make a place called Disneyland that's for kids; but is it true that there is a real place for kids named LA-LA LAND?" !!

Stuff That Makes My Heart A'Flutter

Doing a big of blog slummin', I decided to springboard from Christine's chosen direction of blogging about gratitude. (So, don't tick me off and ruin for everyone else; OKAY?)

I'll start with a few of my summer treasure hunting favorites:

A whole delicious row of sewing thimbles- found stuffed in an old pill bottle for 25 cents.

I could hardly speak. This cake stand. Probably the loveliest in my collection. (okay, so I only have three cake stands so far... but whaddevah)

This here large milk glass goblet type thingie. What a

find on my thrifting adventures with old friends in Brandon.

It went nicely with this white laying hen that I found at townwide garage sales two towns over.

And the most delightful greeting cards. I have a particularly hard time ever writing on these, but my dear Rosa does get them on occasion, because she's not nearly as selfish as I am, and I don't want her to know the darkness

in my own covetous heart. This red lamp. Especially for a measley dollar at yard sale in Wasagaming, Riding Mountain National Park.

And last, but certainly not least-- the child's play iron.

In my favorite colour.

With a real dial.

And an actual cord that plugs in. (stupid idea for a child's plaything; brilliant thing for a 41 year old child to uncover in a box full of junk at an auction sale)

I think that iron is my top favorite summer find.

*ahhhhhhhh* happy sigh.

How To Cause Misery/ Why My Children Don't Deserve Me

1. Be on the guest list for a church-style celebration which involves adorning oneself in a manner befitting such a setting. Correction: Which involves explaining to and insisting upon one's offspring on dressing in such a manner as to not bring undue shame upon one's maternal head.
2. Have a family member who only wears one pair of pants, and only t-shirts with witty sayings upon them. Explain patiently and insistently that grandmothers in their seventies will not be amused to have these witticisms forever gracing their walls in the form of The Family Portrait.
3. Have a minimum of one pubescent offspring who reacts to any and all stimuli, suggestion, frustration, and gentle teaching as personally directed trauma to which there is only one possible reaction: tears, slams, sarcasm, and a subtle victim mentality worn as a dark and burdensome cloak.
4. Have a minimum of one genetic representative with numerous hangers clad in gorgeous fashion that you yourself have spent your hard-earned earnings on. Be utterly prepared to hear the following: Too floofy. Too drapey. Too dressy. Too beachy. Too wrong. And best of all: TAKE ME TO THE MALL!!
5. Have the will power not to break skin or crush molars as you suppress your rising, cresting, molten rage. Remind precious offspring that yesterday was spent in a mall. Remind offspring that you are a humble labourer incapable and unwilling to buy shares in adolescent fashion. Remind offspring that just yesterday the urgencies involved particular binders, thumb drives, running shoes, and even passport photos for an upcoming European fieldtrip.
6. Remind offspring that you brought them into this world and you can take them....... NO. Resist. Repress. Begin to break skin and crush molars.
7. Switch to boy clothes in an attempt to regain your centre.
8. Discover button-up shirts buried deep in the recesses of the closet.
9. Watch son steadily beat his head upon the edge of a doorway and tears well up in his pretty blue eyes.
10. Consider visiting the sick and infirm at a local hospital, seeking out victims of H1N1 and breathing deep, deep, deep, swallowing their sputum, rolling in their bedding, and sipping from their urinals in order to bring an alternative home to the family. Just a deadly case of the swine flu to keep us from the agony of resting the black pants, cut-offs, and sweatshirts for an entire, impossible day in a pew-lined sanctuary, all clogged up in buttons and zippers.
11. Either that, or slapping us all full of honey, and laying ourselves down in a field of red ants.

Dear Wellbutrin:

I find it necessary to remind you of your proper place and function in the chemistry of my mind. You are here to slow the seratonin reuptake between the neurtransmitters of my brilliant and capable mind. You are here to stave off the exhaustion and darkness of depression.

Why then, do you find it necessary to wake me up nightly at 3:33 am, or 2:34 or4:12 or all of the above? What in the world of all things healthy, productive and proactive makes you think for a minute that robbing me of precious REM will benefit my mental health in any way whatsoever?

Are you so narcisistic and self-centred that you think it a good idea to get my attention at my most vulnerable moment and remind me of your uber-helpfulness? 'cuz I gotta tell you. Sleep deprivation in the realm of mental health is as dumb as mustard on strawberries. It's just not that sexy.

Now, I'm way above throwing threats around.... but.... I'm just sayin'. NO TOUCHY MY NIGHT NIGHT!! or I'll kick your po white trash to the curb and take up with some other lover.

After all. I've got my standards.
I'm just sayin'.