Girl Time

On Saturday I went away to a cottage on Lake Huron with some girl friends for a night. (Some of them were the same crowd who went to Quebec with me a few weeks ago.) You could be forgiven for thinking that some of us rarely sleep in our own beds, but that's because I don't tell you about the mundane, usual routine most of us carry out, which includes a book, a bath and lights out by 10. We're wild, we are.

The Great Lakes are huge...no wonder the first white people to see them thought they'd reached the Pacific. I remember a friend of mine who grew up in Calgary marvelling at seeing Lake Huron for the first time; she said she'd never seen a lake where you can't see the other side before. It's a wonder that they ever warm up enough to swim in at all, let alone for the better part of three months. (I've never been to Lake Superior, but I hear that is always cold enough to re-arrange your anatomy, should you be so foolish to venture in.) The lake wasn't quite warm enough to swim in just yet, and the weather outside didn't encourage it either, but we did dip our toes in and walk along the beach barefoot at around sunset.

The weather wasn't great while we were there, windy and cold, but we enjoyed the respite from motherhood and responibilities nonetheless. (I particularly enjoyed sleeping in without having a persistent, determined cat trying to get me out of bed to get him tuna.) There was lots of food (LOTS!) and drink and plenty of talk and laughter. I tell you, these women will talk about anything.

I came home full and sated and ready to face my family again. I just love my friends.

Nothing to Lose But My Dignity.

I've been running for 6 weeks now. (There's a sentence I never thought I'd say.) Six weeks of running every twenty to thirty minutes, six days a week. My knees don't hurt any more, and I can walk down the stairs without wincing, and even if I'm not running the whole time and I'm a wheezy, gasping mess most of the time, at least the little black dots have stopped swimming in front of my eyes after a few steps. I do seem to be slowly getting better at it.

One of the reasons I took up running is to lose some weight, just a few pounds would make me happy. (Mostly, I'd love to be able to eat the way I want to eat and not have to think about it too much.) And guess how much I've lost since I started running???

Nothing. Not one pound. I'm not exaggerating in a "I've lost a few pounds but I thought I'd lose more" kind of way. No, I am exactly the same weight as when I started 6 weeks ago. I haven't lost so much as a couple of ounces. This pisses me off like you wouldn't believe. When I have ranted about this to anyone who will listen, I inevitably hear the "but muscle weighs more than fat, so you must be building up muscle" song, but they can sing that to the wad of fat around my middle that gleefully yells "bullshit" every time it comes up. Perhaps it comes with being fair, female and over 40, but I'm pretty sure that wad of fat has taken up permanent residence, and has no intention of letting a little exercise persuade it to move along any time soon.

I'll keep running. (I still have 7 weeks left in my running class, after all.) But if I don't see some improvement in my body, I'm going to be really mad. And then I'm going to run while yelling and ranting full tilt the whole time. Maybe that will burn off a few more calories.

Berry Good

It must be Father's Day coming up, because the strawberries are in season. We are lucky enough to live in a time and place that we can get fresh strawberries almost all year round, a miracle in and of itself, but the ones we get from California in December have nothing on the ones we get from around here in June.

I went out on Sunday morning to the farm about 20 minutes from our house that grows acres of them, and scored a whole flat for us. That's 8 quarts for 4 people. And this is Tuesday and we're almost done. It's the "all strawberry, all the time" diet for a few weeks here at Chez Loudshoes, and the answer to every question about what we have to eat is "strawberries".

I have some very decided ideas about how to deal with strawberries; they should preferaby be served with something cold and white, like yogurt, ice cream or whipped cream, and strawberries should never be cooked. Cooking a strawberry is just criminal. I won't even make cooked strawberry jam, I'm so offended by cooking a fresh strawberry. In the unusual event that I do make jam, I'll freezer jam, which is much more like mushed up fresh strawberries. I hardly ever make jam, though, because the only way to make jam is to make vats of it, and I end up moving it all over the freezer for a couple of years before I throw it out, and then one day I get it into my head to make jam and I'm right back at it again.

I don't particularly like strawberries and chocolate together, so that doesn't happen very much around here. But strawberries with French Toast, or strawberries with cream cheese on bagels or strawberries on my spinach salad are all okay by me.

The season is short, only about 2 weeks, which is good, because by the end of the season, we've had our fill. Until next year.

Driving Miss Crazy

Dear Lady In The Car Ahead of Me This Morning.

Apparently it is "Drive Very Slowly In Front Of Mrs. Loudshoes" Day today, and I didn't get the memo. Everyone else, it would seem, has gotten it, and has joined into the spirit of the day with a collaborative effort that would be incredibly impressive if it wasn't so damn frustrating. But you? Your effort went way beyond what anyone could have ever expected. Especially me.

You are to be commended for your diligence in following the suggested speed limit. Because it is merely a suggestion, isn't it? No one could be expected to drive at the heady frontier of the speed limit, could they? You drove at a prudent 10 kilometers under the limit all the way along, preventing me from all sorts of incalculable dangers, and also, from getting where I wanted to go.

I have to appreciate your keen and prudent behavior at the four-way stops all along St. George street, of which there are many. Not only did you come to a full and complete stop at every single stop sign, as they no doubt taught you in driver's ed, but you also insured that there was no one else at the stop signs with impressive care. You looked to your right, and then to your left, and then to your right again. And then to the left again, and then to the right again, just in case a transport truck materialized out of nowhere in the nanosecond your head was turned.

There was no running yellow lights for you, no siree. In fact, you balked at running green lights, as well. Just as we came within a hundred feet of a green light, you sagely put your foot firmly on the brakes, just in case the light were to turn any time soon. And if you went slowly enough, they were all bound to turn sooner or later, weren't they?

If you wondered why I didn't pass you at any point, believe me, it was not for lack of trying. However, your habit of driving with your left tire on the middle line, or indeed, a foot into my lane, rendered that idea moot pretty quickly.

I realize that "Driving Slowly In Front Of Mrs. Loudshoes Day" is a treat for everyone, barring myself, so I hope that I get the memo when it's time for "Drive Slowly In Front Of The Annoying Lady" Day. Except, I don't think you would notice when that day came.

Another Crutch.

I found this on the web a little while ago, and it has added immeasurably to my life. The Drama Button lends far more gravity and substance to my every utterance than content alone could ever do.
For example "I have to clean out the cat litter", followed by pushing the drama button gives that mundane job a certain glamour and boldness that it has always lacked. Or try if I give it a go after "I'm sure I left my keys somewhere"....now I don't seem like such an empy-headed nitwit, I appear to be nervy and fearless.
It's heady stuff. You should try it.

My Glamourous Life.

What a fabulous week it's been, busy and fun and jam-packed with good stuff.

Sunday we met some friends visiting from Australia for a picnic in the park. Jennifer grew up here in Canada, met a very nice Aussie a few years back and decided he was worth a move to the other side of the world and did just that. She and her husband and delightful children come back every couple of years or so, and take the time to contact us and make arrangement to see us. I reward such enterprise by showing up with beer, pizza and popsicles. We had such a lovely evening talking about people we used to work with and catching up and remembering why we always liked each other in the first place.

Monday was errands and grocery shopping and cutting my friend Sue's hair, which is always way, way more fun than work. The Mister had a dentist's appointment, which meant that I was stranded without a car and forced to read my book and eat potato chips for the afternoon. Thing 1 and I went to our running class, which we really enjoy because it's only the second week and it's still pretty easy.

Then on Tuesday, I went to Toronto with Big Liver Girl to see the Dave Matthews Band, which is easily one of my very favorite things to do in the whole entire world. I love that band, I just love them. And they put on an entirely wonderful show, playing almost ALL of my favorites, and Big Liver Girl and I danced and clapped and sang until we were tired and hoarse. (They played a rocking cover of Burning Down The House, and I figure I was the only person in that audience that saw both Dave Matthews and Tom Jones perform that song in concert. I heard one of the hammered young women in front of us ask if it was off the new album. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was by the Talking Heads and it was released before she was born. She was too drunk to remember it anyway. ) We stayed overnight in a flat-out wonderful hotel, got up at 5 in the morning, and drove home in time to see the kids off to school. We both managed to get through our respective days without sleep-deprivation rearing it's ugly head, and then we plunked ourselves down at our youngest children's end-of-the-year concert at school. TWO concerts TWO nights in a row with Big Liver Girl! Another fun night...honestly, if you find yourself at a concert, any concert, Big Liver Girl is excellent company.
I went to bed last night before sundown, slept like the dead, and got up this morning all bright and shiny and new once again.

Today was uneventful, which was very welcome. I got my hair done and went for a run with Thing 1 and plan on watching 30 Rock.

It's not Ivana Trump's life, but it suits me entirely.

How To Make People Happy.

Today is Pizza Day at Thing 2's school, so it's the one day a month I go into her class and help give out pizza and drinks. Thing 2 is happy enough to have me there, and I'm happy to do it. I get to know the kids, ("Okay, THAT kid is going to set someone's couch on fire, don't let him in our house".) and they get to know me.
Most of the kids like me and I get along with just fine, but there are a few who don't like me, and believe me, the feeling is mutual. (Mrs. Loudshoes is a hard-ass, she makes you say please and thank you every stinking time; and when you give her the stink-eye because of it, she will give you your pizza last.)
Since this is June, and therefore the last pizza day of the school year, I thought I'd bring in a dessert for the kids, even the ones I don't particularly like. It's a bit of a minefield, bringing food into the school, because of peanut allergies, but I managed to find a brand of fudgesicles that were peanut-free, so I was good. (To bring homemade food in is a nightmare, better left alone. You have to submit a list of ingredients before you make the dish, and then sign an agreement that you won't substitute any of the ingredients for anything else. Then you have to make the dish and woe betide the person who runs out of yogurt and uses sour cream.)

The kids were thrilled with this unimagined booty, and most of them reacted like I said school was all overwith today when I pulled the fudgesicles out of the bag. It is seriously too easy to make some people happy.I started wondering if I walked around with a permanent supply of fudgesicles would I make other people happy all the time? Would the cashier at Sobey's, the Tim Horton's lady and our dry cleaner, Mr. Grumpy Korean, have an epiphany and be happy with their lot in life if only they had a sweet, creamy chocolate treat presented to them? (I really want to try this on Mr. Grumpy Korean, because he is one dour man...I've never seen him smile even once.)

I gave the fudgesicles out around the time most of the kids were finishing their pizza, because I know at least a couple of them would have eaten the fudgesicle first. As it was, some of them stopped eating the pizza and tucked into the fudgesicle immediately, like they couldn't possibly finish those three bites of savory before falling all over the sweet. Most of them managed to eat their fudgesicles without incident, but a couple of them dropped theirs and a few more completely bathed themselves in it, and one kid lost the stick entirely, and I cannot fathom how he did that.

And then I had a fudgesicle, and although it didn't put me in the blissful rapture of the Grade 6s, it did make me happy. So I'm going to have another one.