Being a grown-up


There are some things, as a kid, we just SWORE we would NEVER be caught DEAD doing. And now that we’re grown ups, we do them without pause. It’s hard to put your finger on the exact day when this change overtook us. It’s different for each item.

We hold hands with boys. We read books without pictures. We can stay in the room for Dr. Who.

Also, we eat things we never thought we would. In fact, two foods I find I have an unhealthy passion for, are items I used to abhor.

First, there’s diet coke. I used to call it the most disgusting and pointless beverage in existence. (I was never melodramatic.) The inarguable fact is that it has no taste. It also has no nutritional value. But as I grew older and the demands on me became many and the pressure to cut calories increased, I found diet coke had the “kick” I love in the morning without the guilt. For many, coffee fills this niche in their lives, but I can’t do the coffee thing. So, I look forward to the sound the can makes when it opens and the fizzy shock of bubbles in your mouth as you swallow that first cold gulp.

And now, I’ve found that since Thanksgiving, I cannot stop thinking about pumpkin pie. I ask at restaurants and at Tim Hortons and I buy the ingredients and I lay awake at night fantasizing about the saltiness of the crust and the smooth sweetness of the filling. I even convince myself the benefits of the antioxidants (beta-carotene) warrant my steadfast fixation (if not obsession) and outweigh any detriment to my arteries and insulin levels. What happened to being a kid and thinking anything that looked like you shat it out was probably not worth eating?

Epilogue to "Oops"

This morning I received the e-mail confirming my fears as stated in the aforementioned entry -- Oops.

From "The Perons", subject title: Re: Love ya

It had the original "misplaced" e-mail attached and the note:

"We love you too, Melissa, but we're pretty sure you meant to send this to Mark"

Team Work
(possible alternate title: The Softer Side of Mark)

Today, Mark and I exhibited a symbiosis so beautiful, I think it warrants sharing. This is above and beyond the normal day-to-day I’ll-do-the-laundry-if-you-make-dinner cooperative interplays.

Mark is fighting a cold and I’ve just come back for a run, so we’re both pooped. He needs to make an insightful post for his on-line course but his head hurts and he can’t get his ideas out. I’m lying snuggled up in bed and don’t really feel like moving. So he comes in and gently persuades me to “scribe” for him, which means he tries to express his ideas and I type them in words I’d use, then he takes out the words like “heart-felt” and “dismay” because they sound too girly. So I settle into his desk chair with my quilt wrapped around me and he tells me the ideas he’s trying to get across. As I sit there and mull over how I will formulate them into eloquent prose, Mark carefully selects one of my favourite records, Herp Alpert and the Tijuana Brass and puts it on. (Keep in mind, this record is wedged between two very expensive records of his because he uses mine as space-keepers, so this is quite a sacrifice). So now I begin to type away to “Spanish Flea” and “The Lonely Bull” and, of course, I feel inspired, so the words just come. Then, to add to my comfort, Mark goes to the bedroom and gets a brush and combs my hair. Of all the wonderful ways to stimulate brain waves, I vote having your hair brushed to be number one!

Then, of course, he had to take out the girly words. But let me tell ya, we’re both happier now than we were a half hour ago.

:)
Melissa

Oops

Have you ever made a mistake that just makes your stomach churn when you think about it?

Today I sent Mark a sweet e-mail. Actually, I sent it this morning. It said how much I loved him. And I retold the night’s events: I couldn’t sleep and so I had to get up and move to the futon and how I woke him up, but he was very sweet and concerned and came to see if I was okay.

When I came home, he didn’t mention the e-mail. We ate dinner and sat around and finally I asked him, “WELL, did you like the e-mail I sent you?” to which he responded, “What e-mail?”

If I think about it really hard (and I’m really trying not to), I figure I probably just hit the Peron whose name is just below Mark’s in my hotmail address book (his father’s name) and sent HIM the e-mail.

As I said, I’m trying not to think about it.

When SHMIDT happens

SHMIDT happens.
Sometimes it’s our fault. Sometimes it’s someone else’s fault.
And in that instant when you realize that you’ve just landed in a wholloping pile of it, you just close your eyes and instantly which you could take back the last minutes and do things ever so differently. You can wish you hadn’t driven that way to work, ‘cause you never go that way anyway. You can wish you had been driving slower. You can wish you’d looked to see if anyone was stopped dead in the middle of the on ramp (instead you may have been looking left to see if any cars were coming). However, they don’t call them accidents for nothing.

And here’s what I’ve realized. The way a person handles SCHMIDT is very telling. The way a person pulls himself together and sorts things out and takes control and stays calm and treats people respectfully and kindly even in the face of chaos, says so much about who he is.

I would MUCH rather have a man who is good at getting himself (and sometimes me) out of SCHMIDT than a man who has never found himself in it.
Because SCHMIDT happens.
And we must be prepared.

My friend Hilary and I used to eat red licorice until we couldn't even stand. We used to practice cheerleading routines even though neither of us made the cheerleading squad. We used to invent languages together, such as Melilary, which was a hybrid of latin, french and english. (Kapal et Kapal sunt allum. Bom est nullum.) We used to fantasize about the men we would marry and the jobs we would have and the women we would become and how we would change the world. And my dear friend Hilary has just changed the world in one more incredible and awesome way.

Welcome little Jacob Ian James Watson.

Butting Heads

I teach a young lady named, well let's call her, Gabriella. And we're butting heads right now. She likes to talk and I don't like her to talk. And she flares her nostrils when she looks at me. And she calls me Mme Lapprand. So I call her Rachael.

A Lesson on Perseverance

Note: The names of the people involved in these events have been altered to protect their privacy.



J.P. McWilliams is an energetic little dude in one of my science classes. He loves to answer questions enthuasiastically all the time, which is why I noticed he was chewing gum yesterday. I asked him to spit it into the garbage, partway through whatever I was saying, without even missing a beat. I take pride in my eagle-eye gum-radar. Kids are always amazed that I can detect the most subtle gum-chewing, even when they think they are being very stealthful.

So J.P. got up out of his seat and spit the gum into the garbage pail. Well, I didn’t actually watch him spit it out. Perhaps he did not. Because about fifteen minutes later, the little bugger was chewing gum again. Of course I noticed again, because, as I mentioned earlier, I have an excellent gum-radar. This time I walked over and quite angrily asked him to kindly spit out his gum. I told him how disappointed I was that he would not listen to me the first time and then I WATCHED as he took the pink wad out of his mouth and placed it sheepishly into the garbage receptacle.

I only taught that boy for a 45 minute period that day and damned if I didn’t notice, five minutes before the end of class, that he was CHEWING GUM AGAIN! I was livid. I felt disrespected. I marched over to J.P. and I put my hands on my hips and I waved my finger. His face turned very red. I told him, “You have GOT to be KIDDING me! You may think that I am MADE of patience, but I AM NOT! Now spit out that gum right now!” He did. I watched VERY VERY carefully. “I would like to see you after school today, please, J.P.”

J.P. did not come to see me after school.
I e-mailed his mother.
J.P. came to see me the next morning (this morning).

We sat down and I explained very calmly why I felt so upset. I was more upset at the blatant disrespect and lack of adherence to my instructions. J.P. nodded in agreement. He took the latex gloves I handed him and began to scrape gum off of the under side of the desks, as I’d instructed. I thought, “This will definitely do the trick. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Well, done Melissa.”

At lunch, I was in the staff room chatting with some other staff members, including a supply teacher who was in for the week. She mentioned which classes she’d taught that morning and who was giving her trouble. “Do you know J.P.?” she asked me. “Yes,” I replied.

“Well,” she said, “I had to ask him TWO TIMES to spit out whatever he was chewing!”

The One

Do you believe in soul mates? The existence of the one and only match for you out there in the universe?

Well, if you read my earlier blog entitled Standing in a Snowbank, it seemed as if I was leaning towards believing in a higher power which dictates whether a certain special wedding gown is The One. That when you try it on, you will know.

Since that gown in Peterborough, I have gone shopping two more times for wedding gowns. Last weekend, I found The One, again. Only this time, it was silk and $1600. It was easier to walk away from that dress. And luckily, yesterday, I found The One a third time. By now, though, I’ve learned that gowns are made to make us feel like princesses. Any dress that does that well and makes us feel beautiful, will be deemed, The One.

The dress yesterday not only made me feel beautiful, but it made my wallet feel a lot more beautiful than the silk masterpiece of the weekend before. It was at Laura’s Dream Bridal Gallery. It’s a discount shop. The prices are great. And Laura even gave me a hug on my way out of the store. What fun! Dresses are so hard to describe in words, so let me just say, there’s ivory taffeta and pink embroidery and lots and lots of laces up the back for Maryann to be in charge of.

In October, I am the proud owner of my very own snowbank!