I'm sure the stores that sell them get lots of returns on bathroom scales because they "must be broken, I can't possibly weigh that much". But I think I really do have a case here.
I went to weigh myself this morning, like I do every morning. Yesterday I was 146.6 pounds, where the scale has been stuck for the past four days, despite my zealous efforts to get past the 146 mark.
This morning, it registered 237.4 pounds.
I am reasonably sure I didn't gain, like, 90 pounds overnight, even if I did polish off a whole bag of Baked Lays potato chips instead of dinner.
I got off the scale, tried it again, and it said 146.2. I think I'll take it; 146 doesn't seem so bad, now.
From now on, I think I'm going to do this with my age, too. "I'm 97. Oh, sorry, I mean, I'm 46."
Like the weight, the real number doesn't seem so bad compared to the horrible possibility.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Dead Man Walking.
We have a man down.
The Mister has had the legs cut right out from under him by a sinus infection. I thought yesterday that he just had the mother of all colds, but when he (finally) took his temperature after dinner last night, it was around 102°, and he was wafting off enough heat to be a factor in global warming all by himself.
We got him off to the doctor's after-hours clinic, where he was diagnosed, and then off to the late-night pharmacy, where we got lots and lots of drugs.
Because he has a rotten cough, I decided to sleep down in the spare room in the basement, so that he could bark like a seal all night long and not worry about keeping me up. Turns out the best part of sleeping in the basement is that Toby didn't know I was down there, and I was free of the 12 pound, furry, orange alarm clock that cannot tell time. You should have seen the look on his face when I came up in the morning! If he could have talked, he would have said "hey! I didn't know you were here! This is great! I will get tuna after all!!"
As we were driving home last night, his medication clutched in his steely grip, as if he would never let it go, I mentioned that he probably shouldn't go to work tomorrow, and he said "well, I'll think about it." I pointed out that he probably wouldn't be doing his clients any favours by showing up, because, exactly what quality of haircuts did he think he'd be pulling off in this state? He conceded that he might not go. As it turns out, he hasn't gone, which is about the second time he's called in sick in about 5 years. (The last time was for a kidney stone.)
So I've stocked up on chicken soup, crackers, ginger ale and pudding. I don't know if he wants any of that, but it will keep me happy.
The Mister has had the legs cut right out from under him by a sinus infection. I thought yesterday that he just had the mother of all colds, but when he (finally) took his temperature after dinner last night, it was around 102°, and he was wafting off enough heat to be a factor in global warming all by himself.
We got him off to the doctor's after-hours clinic, where he was diagnosed, and then off to the late-night pharmacy, where we got lots and lots of drugs.
Because he has a rotten cough, I decided to sleep down in the spare room in the basement, so that he could bark like a seal all night long and not worry about keeping me up. Turns out the best part of sleeping in the basement is that Toby didn't know I was down there, and I was free of the 12 pound, furry, orange alarm clock that cannot tell time. You should have seen the look on his face when I came up in the morning! If he could have talked, he would have said "hey! I didn't know you were here! This is great! I will get tuna after all!!"
As we were driving home last night, his medication clutched in his steely grip, as if he would never let it go, I mentioned that he probably shouldn't go to work tomorrow, and he said "well, I'll think about it." I pointed out that he probably wouldn't be doing his clients any favours by showing up, because, exactly what quality of haircuts did he think he'd be pulling off in this state? He conceded that he might not go. As it turns out, he hasn't gone, which is about the second time he's called in sick in about 5 years. (The last time was for a kidney stone.)
So I've stocked up on chicken soup, crackers, ginger ale and pudding. I don't know if he wants any of that, but it will keep me happy.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Manic Monday
Most people aren't too fond of Mondays; after all, they signal the beginning of a too-long work week, and the end of a too-short weekend. But for hairdressers, Mondays are like our Sundays, and the bonus is that everyone else is working while we are off. It is about the only compensation for having to work on Saturdays.
This Monday isn't so good for the Mister, however. He's had a rotten cold, that seemed to be better on Friday, but rebounded with a vengeance by Saturday night. For Sunday he was a pity, and today he's even worse. If he was a dog, we'd have shot him by now. He's a pretty good patient, for a man. There is the odd, pathetic moan from the bedroom now and again, but for the most part, he's happy to remove himself from the civilized world and just be sick, without any audience. (Which is just as well, because I am a terrible nurse. I simply cannot remember how awful it feels to be ill, and therefore barely tolerate those who are. I can sympathise with some one's suffering, but I really don't want to be a part of it.)
I had to do some work over at the Things' school first thing. I run a plant sale fundraiser every year, and it's time to get that up and running. The stupid photocopier cut off the left hand side of every copy, and I didn't notice until I was well into it. It meant that all 500 copies had to be corrected, by hand, because it looked like you could only by 11 flats of plants, or a half a flat. (It should have said "full", but the "fu" didn't come out. I didn't mind writing "fu" on 500 copies, because that's what I was thinking the whole time.) Then I noticed that it looked like we were selling miniature pots of plants for $16.00 each, because the "1" got cut off, and it looked like we were selling pots of ".6 inches", ".2 inches" and ".0 inches", instead of 16, 12 and 10. Thing 1 was happy to miss a science lesson to help.
I went over to my parents' house to give them a hand after that. My parents are selling their house (after 35 years) and are downsizing to a condo. They keep their place in immaculate shape (a pity I did not inherit that gene), and they don't accumulate junk, so the preparations to sell will be minimal. But their realtor recommended that they paint the inside of the garage, because it might influence the overall impression of the house. Do you know how you live with something for years and don't notice it? Well, the inside of my parents garage was one of those things. The colour could only be described as "Dog Spew". How on earth none of us noticed how horrible it was for the past 35 years is beyond me.
My father has bad knees, and my mother is terrified of heights, so it falls to me to perform the daring "Feats of Strength"around their house, such as climbing the ladder and once going up on the roof to inspect the chimney when it had a raccoon in it. My dad took a tumble earlier in the day when he slipped off a step and fell into the garbage pails. I guess the racket was fearsome. My mother nearly had a heart attack. Anyway, later on, I managed to drop the roller tray (full of paint) off the top shelf, which also made a commotion, and my mother thought it was me falling off the ladder, and nearly had a heart attack. I'm glad that job is over, because my mother's nerves won't take much more.
And now I have a bit of time before the kids come home from school, I take Thing 1 to a doctor's appointment, make dinner and get some leaf bags so I can get cracking on cleaning up the backyard tomorrow.
It's only a day off from one job.
This Monday isn't so good for the Mister, however. He's had a rotten cold, that seemed to be better on Friday, but rebounded with a vengeance by Saturday night. For Sunday he was a pity, and today he's even worse. If he was a dog, we'd have shot him by now. He's a pretty good patient, for a man. There is the odd, pathetic moan from the bedroom now and again, but for the most part, he's happy to remove himself from the civilized world and just be sick, without any audience. (Which is just as well, because I am a terrible nurse. I simply cannot remember how awful it feels to be ill, and therefore barely tolerate those who are. I can sympathise with some one's suffering, but I really don't want to be a part of it.)
I had to do some work over at the Things' school first thing. I run a plant sale fundraiser every year, and it's time to get that up and running. The stupid photocopier cut off the left hand side of every copy, and I didn't notice until I was well into it. It meant that all 500 copies had to be corrected, by hand, because it looked like you could only by 11 flats of plants, or a half a flat. (It should have said "full", but the "fu" didn't come out. I didn't mind writing "fu" on 500 copies, because that's what I was thinking the whole time.) Then I noticed that it looked like we were selling miniature pots of plants for $16.00 each, because the "1" got cut off, and it looked like we were selling pots of ".6 inches", ".2 inches" and ".0 inches", instead of 16, 12 and 10. Thing 1 was happy to miss a science lesson to help.
I went over to my parents' house to give them a hand after that. My parents are selling their house (after 35 years) and are downsizing to a condo. They keep their place in immaculate shape (a pity I did not inherit that gene), and they don't accumulate junk, so the preparations to sell will be minimal. But their realtor recommended that they paint the inside of the garage, because it might influence the overall impression of the house. Do you know how you live with something for years and don't notice it? Well, the inside of my parents garage was one of those things. The colour could only be described as "Dog Spew". How on earth none of us noticed how horrible it was for the past 35 years is beyond me.
My father has bad knees, and my mother is terrified of heights, so it falls to me to perform the daring "Feats of Strength"around their house, such as climbing the ladder and once going up on the roof to inspect the chimney when it had a raccoon in it. My dad took a tumble earlier in the day when he slipped off a step and fell into the garbage pails. I guess the racket was fearsome. My mother nearly had a heart attack. Anyway, later on, I managed to drop the roller tray (full of paint) off the top shelf, which also made a commotion, and my mother thought it was me falling off the ladder, and nearly had a heart attack. I'm glad that job is over, because my mother's nerves won't take much more.
And now I have a bit of time before the kids come home from school, I take Thing 1 to a doctor's appointment, make dinner and get some leaf bags so I can get cracking on cleaning up the backyard tomorrow.
It's only a day off from one job.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Another Album Cover
I met the Tattooed One for coffee the other day, and even though it was her birthday, she had a present for me!
She said she was in a record store recently, ("a real record store. Like, with records, not CDs.") and they had a section filled with stuff that they couldn't categorize. And she found this and thought of me: (and who wouldn't?)
First of all, love the title. Do you think they had a bad spell-checker, and meant to say "Lose" instead of "Loose"? Unless, of course, they were talking about their collective weight, in which case, losing it would be a problem, too.
I like that the fours sisters apparently got a volume discount at the hairdresser's that morning, because they all have the same hairdo. Very thrifty.
You'll notice the tiny, little son cowering in the back there. I think there was another one, but the daugher at the back left ate him. Lay low, little buddy.
It's kind of hard to tell from this photo, but the mother, the battleaxe on the left, looks very bitter that she did not get the memo about the jaunty, red, hootenanney-inspired garb that everyone else is wearing. She's going to make someone pay, I just know it.
On the back of the album, there is this photo, with the haunting caption of: "Rev. & Mrs. Walters in Barbados, Island 1970". First of all, don't the two of them look like they are enjoying the tropical paradise of Barbados to the fullest? And secondly, why was the picture taken in the stairwell of a prison? It makes the Reverend look like he's nine feet tall, and she still looks like she'd slit your throat for fun.
The liner notes look like they were written by someone in a beginner ESL class, who translated some other text word for word: "The Murphy Walters, a minister of the gospel by faith, seeking God first in all things and watching God complete the job, with signs following."
I think God would be happy if one of the signs was "stop".
She said she was in a record store recently, ("a real record store. Like, with records, not CDs.") and they had a section filled with stuff that they couldn't categorize. And she found this and thought of me: (and who wouldn't?)
First of all, love the title. Do you think they had a bad spell-checker, and meant to say "Lose" instead of "Loose"? Unless, of course, they were talking about their collective weight, in which case, losing it would be a problem, too.
I like that the fours sisters apparently got a volume discount at the hairdresser's that morning, because they all have the same hairdo. Very thrifty.
You'll notice the tiny, little son cowering in the back there. I think there was another one, but the daugher at the back left ate him. Lay low, little buddy.
It's kind of hard to tell from this photo, but the mother, the battleaxe on the left, looks very bitter that she did not get the memo about the jaunty, red, hootenanney-inspired garb that everyone else is wearing. She's going to make someone pay, I just know it.
On the back of the album, there is this photo, with the haunting caption of: "Rev. & Mrs. Walters in Barbados, Island 1970". First of all, don't the two of them look like they are enjoying the tropical paradise of Barbados to the fullest? And secondly, why was the picture taken in the stairwell of a prison? It makes the Reverend look like he's nine feet tall, and she still looks like she'd slit your throat for fun.
The liner notes look like they were written by someone in a beginner ESL class, who translated some other text word for word: "The Murphy Walters, a minister of the gospel by faith, seeking God first in all things and watching God complete the job, with signs following."
I think God would be happy if one of the signs was "stop".
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Colour Me
At our salon, we've always had the arrangement that stylists cut and style without doing any chemical work, and colourists do their thing without cutting and styling. We've done this for a couple of reasons; it helps with the overall level of skill if people specialize, and clients are less likely to leave the salon altogether when a staff member leaves if they still see another staff member for services. Also, it's geographic; the colour room (which has a special ventilation system, so that the bleach doesn't make anyone pass out.) can only hold about three people and their clients at once.
After twenty years of cutting, I've decided to switch over to the colour department. (Actually, "decided" isn't quite the word. That would indicate a level of introspection that was wholly lacking. The Mister said "why don't you" and I said " 'kay". That was about it.) Colouring hair is a fairly sophisticated art, as those of you who have tried to do it at home can attest. Apart from the fact that one person's "honey" is another person's "ear wax", there's always the aspect of unpredictability; hair colour reacts to what's underneath it, and unless you know what you're doing, the outcome can be a nasty surprise. I've been training for about a year and a half to make it so that those surprises don't happen, and I haven't made anyone cry yet. Including me.
As much as I abhor change, it's kind of nice to be trying something new after two decades of "are those bangs short enough". (Just to give you an inkling as to my abhorrence, I live on the same street as my parents, I've worked at the same place for 25 years and it took me 6 years of marriage to finally switch from my maiden name.)
Most of the clients have been very supportive, even if they are a bit unhappy about the new arrangement. (I've been seeing lots of these people every six weeks for 20 years, we've become quite attached. ) One cried. (I'm not altogether sure I was entirely the cause though; she's a little squirrelley.) A couple I'll be really sorry to not see anymore; they were a hoot. (I'll confess, though? There's a couple I'm very happy to see the backend of.) I won't miss the crazy-ass bridesmaids.
For someone who thought she'd only stay in hairdressing until it wasn't fun anymore, I'm as surprised as anyone to still find myself at it. Maybe I've always found enough fun to stay. Some things shouldn't change.
After twenty years of cutting, I've decided to switch over to the colour department. (Actually, "decided" isn't quite the word. That would indicate a level of introspection that was wholly lacking. The Mister said "why don't you" and I said " 'kay". That was about it.) Colouring hair is a fairly sophisticated art, as those of you who have tried to do it at home can attest. Apart from the fact that one person's "honey" is another person's "ear wax", there's always the aspect of unpredictability; hair colour reacts to what's underneath it, and unless you know what you're doing, the outcome can be a nasty surprise. I've been training for about a year and a half to make it so that those surprises don't happen, and I haven't made anyone cry yet. Including me.
As much as I abhor change, it's kind of nice to be trying something new after two decades of "are those bangs short enough". (Just to give you an inkling as to my abhorrence, I live on the same street as my parents, I've worked at the same place for 25 years and it took me 6 years of marriage to finally switch from my maiden name.)
Most of the clients have been very supportive, even if they are a bit unhappy about the new arrangement. (I've been seeing lots of these people every six weeks for 20 years, we've become quite attached. ) One cried. (I'm not altogether sure I was entirely the cause though; she's a little squirrelley.) A couple I'll be really sorry to not see anymore; they were a hoot. (I'll confess, though? There's a couple I'm very happy to see the backend of.) I won't miss the crazy-ass bridesmaids.
For someone who thought she'd only stay in hairdressing until it wasn't fun anymore, I'm as surprised as anyone to still find myself at it. Maybe I've always found enough fun to stay. Some things shouldn't change.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Santa's Revenge.
I found this list, 10 Toys Every Parent Dreads, and died a little death while reading every entry.
Because I think we have had each and every one of them in our house, except for "Pokemon". But we made up for that by having 103 Barbies in the house, and food poisoning from the Easy Bake oven offerings.
Because I think we have had each and every one of them in our house, except for "Pokemon". But we made up for that by having 103 Barbies in the house, and food poisoning from the Easy Bake oven offerings.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Recycling Day
I love it when my weekly walk to the library coincides with the garbage/recycling pickup. It gives me all sorts of things to think about while walking, rather than the usual "God, I hate exercising" and "man, these are heavy; why do I take out so many books?".
Our city, in it's infinite wisdom, has an 8-day garbage/recycling pick-up, which means that the day moves from week to week, and we end up going a week every month without pick-up at all. (With the Easter holidays just recently gone by, we've ended up with twelve days between pick-ups.) We have a four container limit to the garbage, which usually isn't a problem, but we've filled to overflowing our four recycling containers. Combine that with a windy day, and you've got a street that looks like Mardi Gras.
I also listen to music or the radio while I walk, which can be good (i.e. takes my mind off the fact that I am, indeed, exercising) or bad (i.e. I tend to walk in time to the music, which probably looks ridiculous.)
But when the walk jibes with recycling day, I barely need distractions to keep me amused. The contents of my neighbour's boxes occupies me utterly.
Our city, in it's infinite wisdom, has an 8-day garbage/recycling pick-up, which means that the day moves from week to week, and we end up going a week every month without pick-up at all. (With the Easter holidays just recently gone by, we've ended up with twelve days between pick-ups.) We have a four container limit to the garbage, which usually isn't a problem, but we've filled to overflowing our four recycling containers. Combine that with a windy day, and you've got a street that looks like Mardi Gras.
I also listen to music or the radio while I walk, which can be good (i.e. takes my mind off the fact that I am, indeed, exercising) or bad (i.e. I tend to walk in time to the music, which probably looks ridiculous.)
But when the walk jibes with recycling day, I barely need distractions to keep me amused. The contents of my neighbour's boxes occupies me utterly.
- I had no idea so many people ate pizza. At least half of all the recyclers had pizza boxes in them. We must be the pizza-eatingest neighbourhood ever. And, in case you were wondering, Little Caesars outnumbers Domino's by miles; at least 2 to 1.
- Our neighbourhood can at least boast of having the cleanest clothes in all the land. Almost every house disposed of at least one large, plastic laundry soap bottle. Some of them had two or three. (I have been enlightened to the fact that the Loudshoes family is an anomaly, in that we only do three or four loads of laundry a week. Lots of people I know do three loads a day. Either we are the most slovenly family that ever lived, or very neat eaters.)
- Lots and lots of wine bottles. One house tossed out about 12 empty wine bottles, and the same of "Pina Colada Mix". That must have been some party.
- Clearly, there are some issues surrounding fibre intake around here. I saw tons of "All Bran" boxes, and they can't all be for muffins, now, can they?
- Plenty of cereal boxes. Like, 8 or 10 for some houses. Now, my kids would happily exist entirely on cold, sugared cereal for their subsistance, but at 6 bucks a box, that's not going to happen. Also, little kids hopped up on 8 boxes for "Sugar Balls O' Chemicals" must be hard to live with.
- Apple juice. Everyone drinks apple juice, it seems, except us. We rarely have juice in the house, of any stripe, mostly because I don't drink it. (I don't ban anyone else from having it, but they don't do the grocery shopping.) If there was a sudden drop in apple juice production, I think there are plenty of people who would be in scrounging around like raging meth addicts for the stuff.
- The bulk of the recyclers was newspapers. I'm happy to see that so many of my fellow suburbanites read the newspaper, even if it is The Globe and Mail, which I dislike. ("That Right Wing Rag" is how it is most commonly referred to here. If there's ever one around, I make sure to use it to line the cat's litter box.)
- Diet Coke and Coke Zero seem to be in no danger of going out of business. By far, they were the fillers for the blue boxes. The Loudshoes house was a major contributer in this area.
- I saw one house that was getting rid of what looked like about 5o sardine cans. What on earth could that be all about??
And so I happily spent my morning walk, examining the contents of the blue boxes, and keeping myself mightily entertained. It should be recycling day every week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)