You know, I think I’ve been a good sport. I made it through this winter with a cheerful smile and a chipper attitude. I happily took the kids sledding and shoveled the driveway. I wore snowpants and the Frankenboots faithfully, in public.
Now I want my spring, dammit. I got shoes and a mid-weight jacket out of the closet over March Break and I do not care to re-embrace Jack Frost. I’ve moved on, dude. You should too.
ANY TIME NOW.
The extended forecast calls for morning lows of -10, daytime highs of around 0, for as far as the satellites can radar. I’m done being upbeat. Now I’m bitter and jaded. OVER IT.
Speaking of bitter, know what else is giving me frown lines? My eyebrows. Back in the 80s when I was a teenager, the news was full of horror stories of supermodels who had overplucked their brows, only to find that they would never grow in again. Now these poor supermodels were forced to go through life scarred, nothing but pencil lines on their foreheads. Worse, with bushier eyebrows coming back into style, they were thrown out of work, probably to die destitute at the side of the road (or at least wait there until a millionaire with a limousine pulled up to offer them some Grey Poupon and an iron-clad pre-nup).
And yet, I have been plucking my self-same eyebrows for more than 25 years now, in the exact same shape, exact same style, and still those little buggers grow back. Where are my rewards from overplucking? How much longer does a dame have to wait?
Apparently I should have been a supermodel.
Speaking of supermodels, the kids are getting much better at modelling for this whole 365 photography project. In the early days they’d drop when they were doing when I approached, giving me fake smiles and rock-on-devil-horns. They’ve learned that This Makes Mommy Angry. They’re not quite at, say, Season 4 Nineteen Kids And Counting status, able to completely ignore the camera like it’s part of the wall, but they’re approaching Season 2 Jon And Kate Plus Eight status, where they give the camera sly side glances and then carefully exaggerate their colouring/Lego playing/dancing for comedic effect. It’s progress.
Speaking of progress, I gained five pounds last year during My Year Of Pie, and one of my goals for this year is to take that off again. So far I have lost one pound, which is sometimes so fabulous that I want to strut around in my underwear showing off my one-pound-lighter hotness, and sometimes so sad that I just want to buy some granny panties and get it over with. So my new cookbook by Edna Staebler arrives, and what’s the first thing I make from it? PIE.
Vanilla Pie, it was called, but it was made from massive amounts of boiled maple syrup so it’s really more like Maple Pie, or maybe Sugar Pie. This pie is tragically good, much like Melanie in Gone With The Wind. So much for that pound.
Speaking of pounds, there’s about 500 pounds of sticks in my garage. Every day on the way home from school we pass through a small wooded area, and each kid has to get a stick. If there are no sticks to be found, there will be tears. And when we get home, it goes in the “stick pile” of legend, a pile that is getting so huge that you could build us a second house. Where is Charles Ingalls when I need him?
MyFriendJen has an even bigger stick pile on her front porch and she came up with this brilliant plan last week: we will take the stick piles, and take them back to the woods. Replenish the stick supply, so to speak, for the upcoming spring and summer months. Release the sticks back to their natural habitat. Born free, people. BORN FREE.
Speaking of born free, I am not a girl who likes to tuck in her shirts. My regular uniform is jeans with a long-sleeved T overtop – I think I have a long-sleeved T in every single colour in my son’s mega Crayola pack. For the past year or so, almost every T-shirt I own has developed a tiny little hole right over the button area of my pants. It’s less than a half-centimetre in diameter, and it’s not caused by me wearing a belt nor is it associated with any one particular pair of pants. It’s not that my T-shirts are getting old, either, because I’ve had this happen (FRUSTRATINGLY) to shirts on the first or second wearing.
I patch them up, but it’s getting weird to be always walking around with a little hard knot of repair work in the centre of each shirt. Is it caused by the zipper on my winter coat, rubbing or catching? Is it being burned by the way I pull cookie sheets out of the oven? Is it wearing away as I do dishes at the sink? Do I, as Sir Monkeypants suggests, have a small alien living in my belly who likes to eat T-shirts? WHAT IS CAUSING IT? I’m extremely peeved.
And speaking of peeved, have I told you I’m so over winter? Get your ass in here, Spring.