Yeah, So I Took a Month Off…

… which extended itself to three months and will probably continue more or less until summer!

Sometimes you just need to walk away from your responsibilities and since the eight year old never ceases to be demanding I decided to neglect the blog instead.

I’m nice that way. See, I’m avoiding writing about me -not avoiding writing for you. There’s a difference.

So where have I been.

I had to go on a bit of a journey -had to go deep- to find my self esteem. Somehow it went missing and I was so busy beating myself up about it I lost my nerve to look for it. Yes. Some people call it mental illness. I like to call it ‘that thing which knows no boundaries and doesn’t play nice with others’. Mostly I avoid any living forms for fear of what may come out of my mouth. Usually it’s just non-stop banter to ward off any questions, but I can’t get used to people looking at me with that special ‘How are you, REALLY?’ look, like they have to be careful how they speak to me in case I go off or something. It makes me feel weird (which admittedly, I am).

I never wanted to out myself admit to being a psycho but sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself and others and to let them see you have a sense of humour, even about your own derangement. Now after several months I’m feeling better than normal (which believe me says a lot!) and my energy is coming back, too. I’ve lost 25 pounds and the new crack is an answer to prayer.

So to happier stuff…
The eight year old is sporting a ‘90’s haircut -yes the husband took him to the old Italian guy who dyes his own grey hair (badly) and gives haircuts by the numbers. The boy’s resembles a four on top and a two at the sides. If you look at Dilbert in the cartoon you’ll see what I mean. I’m not too fond of this dated look and think the boy needs a faux hawk or something more radical. Thank goodness it’s baseball cap season!

The husband works day and night and sometimes I let him out on good behavior. He’s finally sent the gonad-mobile (‘88 Mustang Cobra) to the doctor for some plastic surgery and a pedicure. It should be ready within weeks and I noticed more weighty tomes (gonad-mobile magazines) littering the table tops all over the house. Mike the project manager for the house that is not complete gave the husband a toy Mustang in a grey colour and keeps encouraging him to get black wheels instead of shiny chrome ones. Can you say ‘twelve year old boys getting their first you know what’? They even giggle like girls on the phone.

Hockey season is done! I didn’t get the mother of the year trophy, not that one exists, but I attended several SEVERAL games to watch the eight year old score on his own net and meltdown in front of a crowd.

“That’s my boy!” I cried, loudly.

He actually did score on his own net during play-offs, once. It was the only day his Oma came to watch him play. Kind of sad/hysterical. Everyone assured him that even the pros do that, even his DAD has done that. He went on to score a spectacular goal (four games later) when they lost the championship game. The husband added some new scars to his face during his playoffs. Three stitches in the forehead pushed him to go out and get the visor replaced on his helmet (Vanity! They name is the husband!). Didn’t help him, though, the next game he took a puck in the throat, got the wind knocked out of him but went on to get a hat trick. He talked like he was from the old country for a week. He’s fine. He can still cook dinner.

Speaking of food, I’ve been acquainting myself with this new (unfinished) kitchen, learning to cook with gas and not injure or kill people. The first attempt was slow-cooked pulled pork sandwiches and only one person (a two year old) got sick, but she didn’t eat the pork. Unfortunately she had a stomach flu bug which has now traveled through and visited everyone. Weeks later I’m just recovering from my recent bout that found me face down on the bathroom floor one rainy afternoon. I no longer have a claw-foot tub with dirt multiplying underneath it (discovered in the pre-renovated house after a fainting spell) no, now I see all the dirt under the vanity. Conclusion: Don’t do that cooking thing again and pick up a broom for heaven’s sake.

What have I missed with you?