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Showing posts from September, 2010

Spoem

I just sat pondering my latest spam offering for so long that I really feel like I have to share it. It's like a found poem, like a hymn sung by a crackhead angel -- it seems that if I puzzle it out and move some words around and read it aloud in the proper tone of voice I might just unlock the mysteries of the universe: cruel Julian with Grub and Deuterium oxide you can tangible a unquestionable life. I usual in actually, it's implausible so roll in on an ry it, do it sporadically! Mini Chill? contains a familiar commingling of herbs and amino acids called Relarian? that has been proven, in published clinical trials not not to not unexpectedly curb accentuate and eagerness, but to in act improve your heavens and enhance mentally ill gamble a accidentally on! Mini Chill? doesn't liaison drowsiness, so whether you're in the medial of a stressful hour at kisser all out or enjoying a lifetime silly with your friends Mini Chill? is guaranteed to bring back your d

Fed Up

What is with everyone needing dinner every single goddamned night? My god, it's relentless! How have we not come up with a better way to address this yet? I've heard that there are actually women who can produce a colourful, balanced, palatable meal that doesn't include day-glo orange cheese or twinkies night after night AND do all the other stuff that goes into having something resembling a life. Since school started, I've been concentrating on making dinner. Yesterday I looked up and realized that I had done nothing but cook dinner for roughly seventeen days. I don't think I can live like this. So I've been experimenting with cooking in bulk. You know, where you cook big batches of stuff or cook more than one thing at once? Conventional wisdom has it that you freeze the excess for easy consumption later on, but that would entail emptying out the three half-empty cartons of ice cream and forty-seven leftover freezies, plus the frozen peas we use whenev

Tarred With the Same Brush

We've had a letters-to-the-editor conversation in the local paper going on recently, between people who think Muslims are being unfairly expected to apologize every time acts of terrorism are discovered to be planned or perpetrated by radical Islamists and people who think that a) this isn't actually true or b) Muslims should apologize, or at least be clear about the fact that they are against such acts. One such letter was written by Maher Arar , whose story is known to most Ottawa residents if not most Canadians. The letter is titled "Muslims Have Nothing to Apologize For", and can be found here . Arar states not only that Muslims should not be expected to apologize, but speaks negatively of the imams and members of the Muslim community who have done so, in part because the suspects referred to haven't always been conclusively proven to be guilty. He also decries the fact that this is a unique phenomenon to the Western people/Muslim people dichotomy, and that

The Autumn of Our Discontent

Today I'm getting things out of the way -- you know, those little things that every time you see the item involved you think "I have to..." and then you go on with your day and don't do them? Okay, maybe it's just me. I cleaned the crap off the top of my dresser -- some baseball cards (into Angus's card bin), some bedtime story books (into Eve's bookshelf), the sparkly pipe cleaners with which Eve spelled "Mom" and "Love" (into my box of stuff Eve made me). I cleaned out a box of receipts and threw out the ones that I didn't need any more. I sewed a hole in a pair of tights that have been hanging over the stair rail since last winter. Usually this kind of thing gives me an immense feeling of accomplishment. Today that immense feeling of accomplishment must be having the same trouble getting out that I am. I was supposed to go shopping with my Mom this morning because the last two nights I've been feeling like I'm co

The Obligatory Back-to-School Post

One week down. I'd know how many to go, down to the last day, if Eve had the same teacher as last year, because that teacher kept track of how many days of school were left. She also knew how many days were left until her retirement, but she seemed to really enjoy teaching despite that. Eve was up until after eleven the night before the first day. I think it was partly a shifted body clock from summer craziness and partly excitement. I was a nervous wreck (not for any good reason, just because overreacting is who I am and what I do), and trying to hide it, which was less easy when she ended up in bed with me from nine-thirty on watching the clock and speculating on how she was going to feel going to school the next day on 'one hour of sleep'. She tried reading. I scratched her back. She cuddled her Build-a-Bear with the heartbeat. She wouldn't listen to music because she's convinced that if she goes to sleep listening to music she gets nightmares -- I tri

If All Else Fails, We can just watch Camp Rock 2 a Bunch of Times

Back to school day minus two. We have no plans for Labour Day weekend. I hate when we have no plans and yet I go on not making plans. Angus was in Thunder Bay and Matt was in Washington and I didn't know what they would feel like and I knew that everyone we know probably would have made plans if I waited until they got back. And yet I waited. It's a mystery. My husband got back the day before Angus, so the two of us plus Eve plus my Mom went to pick Angus up at the airport. After the incident , my mother in law said no one even asked her for I.D. when she met him in Thunder Bay. I guess they were only worried about getting stuck with him, not giving him away to a stranger. Also, while having a drink with my Mom and talking about the incident , I jokingly said "I should have just made something up, it's not like they verified it", and then felt much less amused as I realized that this was totally true and I REALLY COULD have just made it up, since there wa

Word Picture Wednesday: The Park After Dark

After a day spent in a curtain-pulled house, hiding from the blasting sun, nursing my pounding head: my daughter, the dim glow of her white and purple zebra pajamas, the flashlight strapped around her wrist tracing crazy patterns on the sand below, swinging up into the stars.