May 28, 2015


Well, hello.

I didn't stand in the shower this morning thinking of clever things to say to you, which puts me a little behind the eight-ball now that I'm sitting here.

Pardon me, eight-ball? What even is this? A snooker blog?

Yes, this is clearly a snooker blog. See all the snooker-related clip art around the place? Dummy. Also: fine, I won't use snooker references. Or billiards. Or even pool.

Good. Carry on.

Where were we, before we were so rudely interuppted interruppted damnit interrupted? Oh, yes. The shower.

Oh my lord, this woman is losing it. 

No we weren't in the shower, I was writing about not thinking about writing in the shower.

[Insert "Also, I lost it years ago" joke here]

Shut UP. I'm trying to get this written in the fifteen minutes my brain is engaged in non-spreadsheet activities, and also before Seth is done cleaning the bathroom so he doesn't think I've been wasting time not working.

This is work. Believe me.

Not that we're into that sort of thing - that who's-working-when-and-how-much-and-don't-you-dare-stop-for-a-minute-you-horrible-horrible-slacker business.

Great. Now there's no way to distinguish between what you say and what I say. Italics are my thing.

Are they? Are they really?

Yes. They are. And for the record, I didn't even want to do this. 



January 19, 2015

Plus ca change, plus ca rien change

Wow, Labyrinth is a different experience as a (mostly) grown up woman who's read the fanfiction. "Well, Sarah, how are you enjoying my Labryinth?" indeed.

Also, I still can't wrap my head around the logic of that "one of us always tells the truth and one of us always lies" business. Confession: I had a book when I was a teenager that puported to explain it fully. YOU PURPORT WRONG, BOOK.


We've been to church twice since this epic. Yesterday they were called to the front by the old gentleman for a wee message just for them and the one other kid in attendance who - presumably, since he was called by name - had been inside a church building more than the four times my kids had in their entire lives. Imagine the terror, please, of that moment just after my cherubic (looking) children held hands on their way up the aisle, past forty-five smiling octogenarians and septuagenarians, and realized that they were the centre of doting attention.


It was Seth's birthday party yesterday, and - loving, uber-talented, and repetitive wife that I am - I made him a expertly-iced chocolate cake and took a well-lit picture of it.

Just like last year.

And the year before that.


January 12, 2015

I'd like to have an argument, please

This raggedy boy is incontrovertible proof that God knows I'm an incurable know-it-all and wants to demonstrate how annoying it is. Also irony.

Sandi: Pull your bowl closer to you.

Oscar: It's not a bowl, it's a plate.

...three minutes later*...

Sandi: Lucy, pass me your plate.

Oscar: You said it was a bowl

Sandi: It's rude to correct me. I'm a grown-up, and sometimes I know what I'm talking about.

Oscar: You're not a grown-up. You're an adult.

Sandi: [Dies of frustration]

Now, admittedly, there's much to admire in semantic precision and rigorous attention to detail. Just not when it's aimed at me.

See? Incurable.

*that was not three minutes just then

January 5, 2015

For the first time in forever

For some unaccountable reason I walked down the steps this morning optimistic and happy, which is a refreshing change from how I've felt in the past few months. Now - don't get me wrong - it's not like every day has been a slog of unrelenting drudgery and general gloominess with a dash of impatience and yelling thrown in for variety.

Just most days.*

There are so many, many things that are excellent about life right now, layoff and man flu notwithstanding. For example, the kitchen is thisclose to being finished. We've gone from this

 to this

to this

Even without trim, drawers, doors, and toe kicks, we can cook properly for people again. We can cook properly for people together, at the same time, with the people in the kitchen with us. That calls for an exclamation mark. Maybe two.


The entryway to our house is no longer the furthest door away from our driveway and smaller than a shower cubicle. Groceries can go from van to counter without buying an oxygen tank and hiring a Sherpa. The kids can get ready for school without standing on top of each other and/or spreading out into the living room. I don't have to walk through tracked in snow to get from the living room to the dining room. That dining room is just a dining room again, instead of a dining room/kitchen (and, for one memorable fortnight - a dining room/kitchen/living room/bedroom.)

The roof is done. The roofers - bless them - are gone, and the hours between eight and five are no longer lived in front of an audience who deserve hot coffee and snacks every three hours. We're very, very close to the final insurance paperwork and the end of an enormous headache that started ten months ago with just a tiny drop of water.

And- like a delicious cherry on top of all of this goodness - it's JANUARY, which means the season of final account reconciliations, expense summaries, 2015 budget work, and 2014 tax preparation is finally here.

The only fly in the ointment is the ongoing layoff and the fact that - as you might have noticed from Pinterest - one of us needs to be on a restricted diet for a little while, which - since you know we're not going to be cooking supper twice - means that we're trying to cook cheaply AND eat things that we don't hate AND that don't have any garlic or onions or sugar or beans or wheat flour or _insert any ingredient you normally cook with here_. FUBAR indeed.

There's not much to complain about, frankly. So I'll just get on with getting over myself, then, okay? Okay.


*I jest, Mom. I'm sure it was just PMS. (Speaking of - is it normal for it to get worse as you get older? Like really worse?)

** I just went for it there. Whoooooo! Living on the edge.