Changes

Sometimes, watching my girls, I'm astounded at how grown-up they are. They look exactly the same for what seems like months on end, and then one morning when they drag their sleepy selves to the breakfast table, they've changed. Subtly, but unmistakeably. One or the other looks older somehow, more mature. Losing the roundness of the little girl faces, the excitement of the little girl voices, and gaining the height, the stretch, the angularity of older girls, the ennui and disdain for things, like Dora, that once they adored.

I get glimpses, flashes, of the teenagers and women they'll become -- Rachel sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, twirling her hair while she finalizes details for a playdate with her friend Kate over the phone, saying "Yes, that works" to Kate's suggestions. Leah and her friends Alice and Ellie breaking character in their make-believe game to gossip about a classmate in trouble for flipping off a teacher. I have no trouble imagining these three in the future sitting around a pub table with beer or wine in front of them, bending their heads together and laughing in the same way that they're now doing over strawberry-kiwi Fruitopia and chips.

But some things don't entirely change. Some things still echo the past and bring to mind the little girls they once were, though those things are fleeting and don't happen often.

Leah was watching TV the other day in a pose I remember from the past. I snapped a picture:


And then I went to the photo albums. The year that Rachel was born, Leah was two, nearly three, by the time Rae arrived. She liked to watch TV on the floor. I opened the album and took out the remembered photo, and snapped a picture of it:


It's nice to know that some things haven't changed.

Little Miss Muffet redux, now with extra snot

Man, I'm just hittin' them out of the park with my titles lately, aren't I?

Well, here's the scoop. I apparently spit in the Universe's eye last week when I was bragging about making it all the way through the fall and winter without a single cold. Sure, we danced a bit with a gastro flu once or twice in the household, but no pain-in-the-ass, drippy, sneezy, coughy colds. The Universe has a wicked sense of humour, though. It bided Its time and let me make it just past the vernal equinox and into spring before unleashing the mother of all head colds on my unsuspecting body. I'm thinking of redoing the occupation portion of my business cards to read "mucus factory". The one bright spot (and I really hope I'm not jinxing us yet again) is that the girls are showing no signs of this plague.

So, since my head is full of what feels like bricks and, well, snot, I'm incapable of coherent writing and will once again reach into the archives for a previously viewed post. And seeing how well snakes went down, this one's about spiders. I'm *not* a fan.

Gardening for the arachnophobic

My back yard earlier today:

Shhhhhp. [sound of weeds being pulled]
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.[pause][sudden intake of breath][realization that crawly sensation on arm is just breeze ruffling arm hair][relieved sigh]
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.[pause][a more-panicky intake of breath and slight scream][realization that what was thought to be a spider was only part of a dead leaf][slight embarassed laugh and relieved sigh]
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHH!!!!! Fuck! It's on my arm!! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off! Oh my God where did it go? Where did it GO? It's up my SLEEVE! AAAAAAUUUUUGGGGH! CRAP! [wild flailing of arms and shoulder shrugging, like a test subject in a nerve gas experiment] THERE IS A SPIDER UP MY SLEEVE! [attempts are made to take long-sleeved teeshirt off right there in the yard] Shit! Shit. Shit.

[small black thing falls out of sleeve]

Oh..... It's just a cricket. Well hello, Mr. Cricket. You gave me quite a scare. Run along now like a good six-legged bug.

Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
[delayed case of the willies, because it *could* have been a spider up the sleeve]
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhp.
Shhhhp.
Shhhhp.
Screw it. I'm going in for a beer.

For Meanie, or Anatomy of a fashion icon

When five-year-olds dress themselves for playing outside in September.

No velvet was available at the time.

Facebook thinks I'm fat and lonely

Facebook thinks I should take a good long look at myself in the mirror.

I am apparently not achieving my full potential. It's obvious from the steady stream of gently nudging ads that appears on my profile page. I have no doubt that Facebook has only my best interests at heart, and truly wants me to be a better person. A thinner, less wrinkly, and happily shacked-up in-a-relationship-with-my-soulmate person. (A short digression, Facebook: glass houses and stones. Your new layout really sucks leaves a lot to be desired. Epic fail. Seriously. You need to change the format back. Do it for yourself, if not for your members.)

But let me count my shortfalls according to this Dr. Phil wannabe social networking phenomenon, as manifested through the ads:

1. Compatible Single Men! - lonely
2. The Dr. Bernstein diet - fat
3. Are you 45? Win a Wii Fit! - old and out of shape, possibly fat
4. Ottawa Singles Events - lonely
5. Meet men over 40! - lonely, and only attractive to fellow oldies
6. Fine wines at the LCBO - Well, OK, Facebook, you got me there.
7. It's better than Botox! - wrinkly
8. Lose weight with Acai berries, Hollywood's secret! - fat, and easily swayed by celebrity
9. Date a millionaire! Meet single, verified Canadian millionaire men who want to date classy women! - lonely and shallow/gold-digging. And easily flattered due to my desire to believe in my own innate 'classiness'.
10. Amazing anti-aging cream: Why does Celine Dion look so much younger than she is? - (I don't know, maybe she sang at the devil until he couldn't take it anymore and gave her a portrait for her attic?) - old, with a side of wrinkly

Yeah. Then why am I in such a good mood seeing as I'm obviously totally pathetic?

Status: Alison is logging off Facebook and getting a glass of wine.

Cadoo

A package arrived for the girls a couple of weeks ago. Presents from Aunt Lise. The best thing nestling inside the box (except maybe the Mamma Mia! DVD for me) was a copy of Cadoo. Cadoo is a game from Cranium, which makes some of the best, most imaginative board games for kids around. And this one is no exception. There are cards that can only be read with secret decoder glasses, and when one person reads the clue, she must either act out the answer, sketch the answer, or model the answer out of bright purple modelling clay for the other players to guess. There are also codes to be broken. It's loads of fun, and the great thing about it is that although it's fun for all of us to play together, the girls can play it by themselves, without me having to help out.

I came up from the basement the other day, with some chicken from the freezer to thaw out for dinner, to find the girls had pulled the game out and were playing in the living room. Rachel had just finished miming 'eating breakfast' -- spooning up invisible cereal, when Leah sculpted her object and placed it triumphantly on the coffee table:

Y'all know what this is, don't you?


That's right. It's a tap.

Spring

It's above freezing today, it's nearly 11 degrees. The sun is shining, there's birdsong in the air -- the metallic-sounding calls of the first robins, the chirring of the red-winged blackbirds, the harsh croaking of the bluejays, and the autumnal honking of the geese heading back north -- and my front walkway is a small lake from the melting snow. I have all the windows open to air out the house, and I'm already thinking about all the yard work that will need to be done when the last of the snow is gone.

And I'm not the only one in the house who's noticed that spring is coming.

Snake-o-rama

Just in case the title of this post has left you in any doubt -- I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that this is a post about SNAKES. There will be pictures of SNAKES in it. Real ones. If pictures of SNAKES make you feel icky and/or freaked out, then it's time to click on over to a small fluffy animal blog or something.

You have been warned.

OK, so you might have noticed that there are no snakes in the above picture. Don't bother looking either, it isn't a "Where's Waldo the Snake" picture. (Unless the snake guy didn't take them all with him when he left, and I'm pretty sure that he did. But, if Max turns up missing any time soon, then maybe I should check under the couch. But I digress...) That's the adorable birthday girl, above. The one who loves snakes, and reptiles, and yes, amphibians. She is a fan of all things scaly and slithery and tadpole-y. So, when we were at the Carp Fair last year, and Leah saw that there was a Little Ray's Reptile Zoo tent there, she was mesmerized by the snakes. She found out that they did birthday parties, and it was game over. We were having a Snake Party!

Children were invited:

And a few adults were too:


(You didn't think I'd let this opportunity to quote from Snakes on a Plane go by without taking advantage of it, didja?)

Pizza was ordered, the room was decorated, and the cat was locked in my ensuite bathroom to avoid inadvertently becoming snake chow.

I can't say enough about Kevin and the show he put on with the snakes. He was so good with the kids, he remembered all their names, was so patient with all their questions, and really, really knew his stuff. It wasn't just letting the kids pet the snakes, no, he started with North American snakes, and then South American, African etc. He explained what kind of snake each was, where it comes from, what it eats, how big it gets, etc., etc. He also brought a monitor lizard and a cayman. The kids were spellbound. It was fun and educational and way cool. Here are a few of the 50 or so pictures I took:

A teeny tiny Rubber Boa, native to BC. Who knew we had boas in Canada?


It looks like a Rattlesnake, but it isn't, it's a harmless Bullsnake.


The monitor lizard had very sharp claws.


The Yellow Anaconda was my favourite snake, it's just beautiful. And heavy.


The cayman was pretty laid-back. I'm thinking crocodillian valium. He did have his snout taped shut (avoiding his nostrils) just to ensure that there were no nasty missing-finger issues.


Then violently and without warning, the house was tipped on its side and screaming children slid down the suddenly inclined walls to fall in a giant heap while Kevin valiantly used a hook to keep the Reticulated Python pinned to the once-floor and now-wall so that it wouldn't be flung down on the unsuspecting kiddies!!! (No, not really. For some reason I can't get this photo to come out in the correct orientation. I've rotated and saved it about 50 times on my hard drive to no avail, but my explanation is way better, I think. Just tilt your head.)

That snake (Reticulated Python) was voted Most Likely to Eat Someone, as it was not a happy camper and lunged at Kevin. No petting was allowed, and it was sent to its box without any supper.

And then came the big boy. Or big girl, actually. I think her name was Pebbles. Yes, I had a 12-foot Boa Constrictor in my living room. How incredibly cool was that?

Check out the size of her! She's huge. And gentle. She seemed to like all the petting.

After we said goodbye to Kevin and the reptiles, and everyone washed their hands, it was pizza and cake time.

I don't think any of the kids is going to forget the party anytime soon. Samuel L. Jackson would have been proud.

In which I break a promise

It's 11:17 p.m. This time shift to daylight savings is kicking my ass, because the kids aren't tired at bedtime because their bodies think it's earlier. And I can't get the photos to load from the server at work, where they're stored.

So, to avoid making this the sum total of the snake pictures from Leah's party:

I am going to have to wait until tomorrow to blog about Leah's Snake (and other assorted reptiles) Party.

Snake-o-phobes be warned, there will be snake photos in tomorrow's blog.

Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated

Well, I can't deny it. I've been a bad blogger lately. It's been more than a week since I've updated. And I haven't been round to visit many of you either. Some intense structured-writing and XML training, a presentation for my French class, and planning Leah's birthday party (which will be blogged in all its snaky glory, so be warned) kept me away from blog .

But here's how much I love you guys. Five minutes ago, I was upstairs in my living room. In my comfy chair. With a glass of red wine at my elbow, a fire burning merrily in the (fortunately squirrel-less) fireplace, the Sens one goal up on the Buffalo Sabres on the TV, and a P.D. James novel open on my lap. The girls were WWF wrestling playing nicely and I was trying to decide between brie on crackers or dark chocolate for a snack.

And now I'm here. Down in the dank ENAC-infested basement where the computer lives. Instead of being up there, in the warm bosom of my favourite hockey team family. The guilt at not posting more often was made that much more manifest since I spent a lovely few hours brunching with other Ottawa-area bloggers down on Elgin Street today. It was great to see the uh-may-zing bloggers I've already met -- XUP, Nat, Andrea, Maven, Jobthingy -- again. I also got to meet two of my other blog roll reads in person (finally!): Adventures in Mongo, and Raino M.O.T. And I had a great conversation with the Dandelion King's human.

So, here's the deal. I promise to get back on the bloggy horse tomorrow and tell you all about the 12-foot boa constrictor I had in my living room, if you promise to come back and read. And I'm a person who takes her promises seriously. (And on that note, Maven, I want to hear that you actually did deflower a masseur for me at the spa today, K?)

Return of the evil ninja assassin cat

Morning greetings, Large One. I see you and your skin kittens feeding at the table. I spurn your meal. It is a meal fit only for humans. Toasted bread and brown sticky spread from nuts that grow underground. Pah! I spit on your meal. (I mean, if my mighty death-dealing jaws were able to spit, I'd spit on your meal.)

Not for you are the tasty flayed carcasses of mice, or the heady intoxication of bacon 'n' liver dinner fresh from the can. Not for you is the cool fresh water lapped from the large white bowl in the room where the skin kittens immerse themselves in vile baths. Not for you are the.......wait.....I smell milk! Ah milk, sweet nectar of the feline gods, second only to the warm, salty tang of blood from still-twitching prey.

I am the evil ninja assassin cat! I. Will. Have. Your. Milk.

I will use all my ninja skills. I will use my stealth and my grace to perform such acrobatics as are necessary to acquire the milk that should, nay must, be mine! You dull humans will not even see me as I impersonate the shadows and the darkness to liberate that which should by rights belong to the superior being in this household.

It begins.

Intimidation and cranberry sauce

Today, American President Barack Obama is visiting Ottawa. Also, I was late for work this morning.

You'd be forgiven for thinking that these two events are linked, but actually they're not. It wasn't presidential road closures or steely-eyed Secret Service types that prevented me from reaching the office on time. It was gang activity.

Yeah, in West Carleton. I know. I'm surprised and disturbed too. There I was, minding my own business, driving down Old Carp Road, when a gang stepped out into the street. A girl gang. All dressed alike in black, sneering at me. They were loitering all over the front yards of a couple of houses, and when they saw me coming, they stepped out into the road, blocking my way. Daring me to blow my horn at them or get angry. I'm not ashamed to admit I was a little scared. They looked mean.






When I got out my camera and started snapping pictures they moved off, swearing at me. At least they didn't key my car.

As I drove away, I started to feel hungry, and I swear I could smell sage.

How I spent Valentine's Day

Becca was back in town from college, and she came over to our place to hang out and visit with me and the girls. This had something nothing to do with the fact her parents wanted to have a romantic Valentine's Day evening at home alone.

This is what we did

Tobogganing:



(Notice how Rachel tries to take her big sister out at the bottom of the hill in the above clip. Sisterly love at its best.)



Rachel doesn't make it all the way down the hill this time. She ends up with only Becca's hat and no sled.

Cooking:


Making a heart-shaped pizza is harder than you'd think. A quarter is cheese-only because Rae is too damn picky possessed of a discriminating palate.


Caesar salad. Thanks to Daysgoby for the crouton recipe, they were soooo good.

Eating:


After that, I lost interest in photography, but we had ice cream and strawberries for dessert and then we all watched Mamma Mia! on DVD and I wanted to sing, but Rae kept shushing me. Then the girls fell asleep and Becca and I watched the late hockey game on TV and talked.

It was a very good Valentine's Day.

L is for loser, that's good enough for me

I'm either a really nice mum, or certifiably insane, or maybe both. Friday is a PD day at the girls' school, so today is the day that they will be exchanging valentines. Of course, we did not purchase valentine cards when they hit the shelves, back in late December, nor are we the Martha kind of family who hand-makes individual valentines out of red velvet, Alençon lace, spun-gold thread and unicorn hair, so I realized yesterday that we would have to go shopping for VDay cards that night so that my girls would not suffer social ostracism at school. ("Yeah," I can hear you saying, "Good luck with that.") It took stops at 5 stores (one department store, 2 grocery stores and 2 pharmacies) before we found some that weren't either Dora the Exporer or Hannah Montana. Which meant that Leah and Rachel were up past their bedtime filling out the cards and taping a foil-wrapped chocolate heart to each one (because cards are not enough, apparently).

And then while making lunches this morning, an olive escaped when I was transferring it from the jar to a container for Leah. It bounced across the kitchen counter, onto the dining room floor, where it rolled between the CD tower and the wall. Batting a very interested Max away, I sat on the floor to retrieve it, instead of just bending over. Why, I don't know -- probably because I was so tired from wrangling overtired kids to bed way too late, and from having a crappy night's sleep because of Rachel ending up in bed with me -- but it provided the opportunity for some sticky-backed foam letters and numbers that had been left on the floor when the girls were making crafts to afix themselves to the seat of my pants. I didn't notice, and if the girls did, they weren't saying. So I came to work this morning with a purple S and a yellow 8 stuck to my jeans. I was like some kind of pervy Sesame Street episode: "Today's ass is brought to you by the number 8 and the letter S."

Luckily I saw them in the mirror when I went into the washroom very soon after I got to work, so I don't think very many people anyone noticed. Loser.

Singin' the blues

Well, it turns out my car has a faulty crank sensor. Alrighty then. (I wonder if people can have this problem too, and that's why they're so cranky -- their sensor is faulty and they don't know that they should just lighten the hell up. But I digress...)

The good news is that I should get the car back today, and that my amazing friend and next-door-neighbour Connie drove my kids to daycare and me to work yesterday, and then picked us all back up and brought us home. (I have the Best. Neighbours. Ever.) I'm working at home today so I'll be able to pick it up when it's ready. Also, it's a fairly small repair bill, which is a good thing.

The bad news is we're expecting freezing rain all afternoon, and if I don't get the car back early enough, I'll have to walk to the school in freezing rain to pick the girls up and walk them home, because school buses were cancelled today. Leah had a 7:30 a.m. dentist appointment, we left the house on foot at 7:00 for the dentist's office (sort of halfway between home and school) and I didn't listen to the radio before we left to hear the news and didn't discover it until we had walked to school and found that it was in snow-day mode and there would be no buses home. Sigh.

Oh, and my staus as Angel of Death, Appliance Division (Canada) seems to be totally without dispute, as yesterday, the dryer heater died. It'll tumble, but it won't get hot. Double sigh.

Now if you're thinking (and I don't blame you if you are), "Alison's whining about her life AGAIN!", this was actually a long-winded and only marginally clever intro to this:

What's your blues name?

Follow the instructions below for the genuine thrill that comes with discovering your blues name: From the first list, take the name using the initial of your first name. From the second list, do the same with your middle name. From the third, your surname.

First List: A=Fat; B=Muddy ; C=Crippled; D=Old; E=Texas; F=Hollerin'; G=Ugly; H=Brown; I=Happy; J=Boney; K=Curly; L=Pretty; M=Jailhouse; N=Peg Leg; O=Red; P=Sleepy; Q=Bald; R=Skinny; S=Blind; T=Big; U=Yella; V=Toothless; W=Screamin'; X=FatBoy; Y=Washboard; Z=Steel-Eye

Second List: A=Bones; B=Money; C=Harp; D=Legs; E=Eyes; F=Lemon; G=Killer; H=Hips; I=Lips; J=Fingers; K=Boy; L=Liver; M=Gumbo; N=Foot; O=Mama; P=Back; Q=Duke; R=Dog; S=Bad Boy; T=Baby; U=Chicken; V=Pickles; W=Sugar; X=Cracker; Y=Tooth; Z=Smoke

Third List: A=Jackson; B=McGee; C=Hopkins; D=Dupree; E=Green; F=Brown; G=Jones; H=Rivers; I=Malone; J=Washington; K=Smith; L=Parker; M=Lee; N=Thompkins; O=King; P=Bradley; Q=Hawkins; R=Jefferson; S=Davis; T=Franklin; U=White; V=Jenkins; W=Bailey; X=Johnson; Y=Blue; Z=Allison

You can call me Fat Fingers Bailey. Now where's my harmonica?

Be careful what you wish for

Yeah, don't say things like, "I really wish I could get more exercise." Because you totally know it's going to come back and bite you on the ass.

Case in point: I made the above statement yesterday during a conversation with the mom of one of Rae's friends. Apparently the Universe was listening. This morning, the car wouldn't start. Crap. OK, well, we'll walk to school. It was pretty cold, but they were dressed for it, and it wasn't too bad. Round trip distance for me, about 2 km.

I called CAA when I got home, and they said they'd send someone to boost me. When the guy showed up, it was a good thing he was driving a tow truck, because it wasn't the battery that was the problem. So I jumped in the truck and he towed my car to the small neighbourhood garage I use, which is about 5 km away. After the mechanics said they'd look at the car this afternoon, the tow truck driver said, "have a nice day," and left. By now it had warmed up some and was sunny. So I grabbed my purse and started walking home. I had probably got about 2.5 km before a neighbour driving by recognized me and stopped and gave me a lift the rest of the way.

Total distance walked today (so far): 4. 5 km.

I hope they can fix the car this afternoon, or I might be walking to daycare and walking the kids home (4 km round trip). And I think that would be just a bit too much exercise for one day.

Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!

Well not really. It's more like, "Pre-written from Ottawa, it's Thursday morning!", but I've always wanted to say that. I may not be a guest host, but I have written a guest post.

I'm guest blogging today at Jen on the Edge while Jen and Pete move Jenworld Headquarters to its new digs. So hop on over there and see what I have to say about organization, salad dressing and home improvement.

Updates

I realize that most of you picture me lying about on the couch washing down bonbons with champagne while reading trashy romance novels. (Lance pulled Samantha to him, his nearness overpowering her...) Hah! Shows how much you know. 1. Sauvignon blanc goes way better with bonbons than champagne. 2. I'm more of a mystery fan. 3. I'm too freaking busy to lie on the couch.

Things are a little hectic around here. I've been busy moving into my new office (more on this below), dealing with a case of pink eye (Leah), a case of pharyngitis with inflamed tonsils and adenoids and accompanying fever (also Leah), an upcoming birthday party to plan (Leah again), the general housework/swimming lessons/homework/life, and I'm guest blogging over at Jen on the Edge tomorrow, so I've had to write something halfway decent.

All of this is to explain why I've been slacking somewhat in the blogging department around here. So, since I'm all but legally brain dead and incapable of writing something coherent, I thought I'd just update you all on a couple of things.

• I met with my director regarding my office. I finally got the whole story, and there was no malice involved, just really bad timing and, in government-speak, poor optics. We are undergoing an integration with another branch to create a new entity and managers are being moved over from another building. The director was only informed of the necessity to find this particular manager some office space after I had already vacated, and all the other managers of that level are along the hallway where my old office is. I got an acknowledgement that it was poorly handled, so now I can let it go and move into my new office (which isn't that bad) knowing that I stood up for myself.

• After debuting as number 358 on the library request list for Twilight, I finally got it. I have to say that I am seriously underwhelmed. I've reached the part where Edward rescues Bella from some would-be rapists and I'm not enjoying the story much at all. I don't think it's the vampires -- I like vampire stories just fine. I guess it's the fact that the protagonist and all her friends are teenagers, and I don't like watching TV shows or reading books about teenagers. Yawn. Bella is irritating, and I want to march her off to an ENT doctor to see if he could do something about her obvious inner ear disturbance that causes her extreme clumsiness and propensity for falling down. I'll probably perservere to see if it gets any better, but at this point, I gotta agree with XUP's thoughts on the book.

I hope to be back to posting on a semi-regular basis soon. At least until the new bonbon shipment comes in.

"So, you still, uh, reap around here, do you, Mr. Death?"

There are many questions that roll around in my brain when I wake up in the wee hours of the morning.

Did I close the garage door?

Do I have any clean underwear for tomorrow?

What was that noise? I'm sure I heard a noise. Did the cat make that noise?

Should I be worried that the people in Rachel's artwork look like acid-fueled Charlie and Lola stick figures with giant Monty Pythonesque stomping feet?

How am I going hook up the DVD player, the VCR, and the rabbit ears to a TV with only an antenna input? I could attach the rabbit ears to the VCR, and then run a cable from the RF output on the VCR to the antenna input in the TV, but what about the DVD player? And the switch box?

The last question is a direct result of my apparent debut as the Angel of Death, Appliance Division:

Last week, the dishwasher breathed its last. Two days ago, the hot-water heater ate the metaphorical salmon mousse. And yesterday morning, when I turned on the TV just after 5 a.m. to catch the previous night's The Hour while I sat and drank coffee made lunches for the girls and fixed my hair, all that lit up was a narrow band in the middle of the screen. The audio was fine, but the video was down to one line. It has joined the choir invisible. And the other, spare TV I had stashed in the basement doesn't have any AV inputs. Sigh.

I don't think these deaths are coincidental. I'm very afraid for my toaster oven.

I'm going to need a scythe.

A 'previously enjoyed' episode

Thanks everyone for your response to my wine-filled pity party of the other day. I'm surprised (in a good way) how many of you offered support and good advice. You guys rock. I ended up sending an email to my director pointing out that the way this had been handled was less than ideal, and we have a meeting tomorrow to discuss the situation.

That's assuming that I'm back at work tomorrow, seeing as I've come down this morning with the cholera/ebola/dysentery/stomach flu that seems to be going around Ottawa right now. My brain is mush and I'm logging more time in the bathroom than on the computer. So, since the girls had swimming lessons last night, and I got to sit around a warm, chlorine-y pool and look at the *ahem* scenery, I decided that this was a good post to pull from the archives. It'll have to do for now.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson

I took the girls to swim classes late this afternoon. Since they aren't the same age nor are they at the same skill level, they are in different classes. I couldn't schedule them at the same time, so Rae's class is 4:30 to 5:00, and Leah's is 5:00 to 5:30. Leah and I sit together on the pool deck and watch Rae's class, and then Rae comes out and wraps up in a towel and we watch Leah's class.

I had just finished reading Robert Munsch's Smelly Socks to Rachel, when a movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. A man had come out of the changing room into the pool area and was walking away from me. Clad only in black swim trunks and (and this should have been the tip off) a red tank that said 'Instructor' on the back -- he was stunning. My breath was literally taken away for a moment. Tall, blondish hair, wide shoulders, muscular arms, a nice back and legs. Yup, all in all, eye candy. Radiating lines of deliciousness (fans of Grey's Anatomy will get this allusion). I might have drooled. Just a little, you know, in a lady-like way.

Then he turned around. Turns out I know him slightly.

When I met him last summer at an impromptu backyard bonfire party, he was wandering around with a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tucked under his arm and eating a Mr. Freezie. We talked about the book for a bit and he told me how he was available....TO BABYSIT so he could earn gas money for when he borrows his dad's car. CRAP. He's the son of someone in my neighbourhood, and she's younger than I am. He's maybe seventeen.

I just want to take my brain out and scrub it now.

Drama queen? Or hard done by?

OK, can't figure out how to write on my own Facebook wall, so I'm replying to those who questioned my status here. I'm fine. Blame the wine I opened for my status. In my defence, I needed 1/2 cup of wine for the chicken cacciatore I made for dinner, and somehow, the rest of the bottle was accidentally consumed. Accidentally, yeah.

Short story: I've been in my job, and my office for 12 years. I've acted for my supervisor many times, and for long periods of time. When the supervisor's job (Managing Editor) came open (due to her being promoted), I was told I would not be considered for the job permanently as I didn't have my French levels or the requisite supervisory experience. Despite the fact that I was apparently OK for the job on a temporary basis. OK, I can accept that. I like my present job, and enjoy it.

Then I was told that the person who got the Managing Editor's job was going to be given my office, and I would have to move to a smaller one. I wrote an email to my boss and her boss pointing out how unfair this was. Before I could send it, I was told by my supervisor that the new Managing Editor would take anther office, and I could keep mine. Oh, and by the way, did I want my office painted? I was so excited. My office hasn't been painted in 12 years, and the paint is peeling. I said "YES!" and packed up my office and moved temporarily to a cubicle in another area of the floor. I'm supposed to move back to my office on Tuesday of next week. Friday afternoon I was called to my old supervisor's office and told that a new manager (not the Managing Editor, but another new manager in the division) was going to be taking my office, because the Director wanted all her managers on one floor, and I would after all have to move to the other, smaller office. I can't help but wonder if this was in the cards all along, and the renovations were for this other management dude all along, rather than for me, and it was just a convenient ploy to get me to pack up all my stuff.

Now, 1) I still have a job (and in today's economy, that's a bonus), 2) I still will have an office of my own, not a cubicle, or a shared office, even though it's smaller, 3) it's just an office, not a bad biopsy or a job loss, or a major personal upheaval. So you tell me, am I being a drama queen for being pissed off? Or am I justified in feeling screwed-over? Please let me know what you think.