I want one

Recent months have been rather fruitless on this wee pink blog. I felt I didn’t have anything of worth to say that didn’t make be sound like a bragging douche or a whiney brat. So I kept my fingers still. November turned out to be a bit more productive, and sometimes I think I have something of worth to say.

But I want more.

I want to get nominated for a Canadian Blog award next year. I suppose that means I have to write more, and I need to have readers besides my family. I need to build a following. The funny thing is that I have gone to several social media courses since being in the GoA for the past six months. I have been told how to build a following and how to make blog postings sexy. But that is making blog postings about government stuff sexy. Not making me and my life and my musings sexy. They are already naturally sexy, don’t you know? No? Now you do. My life and my musings are sexy. (psych!)

Do I start a series about how progressively annoying our upstairs neighbours are? Do I blog about our house hunting experience? Do I blog about future attempts to become a mother? Now, there’s bringing the sexy!

I don’t want to do political things. Everyone has their opinion and I don’t think I’m invested enough to care to blog about Iggy or Eddy. Besides, I work in government, and when I am home, I could give a rip about politics. Religion? Hells to the no! I think organized religions are a farce and I don’t want to invite the kooks of the world to bombard me with their “truths”. (Starting right now. If you read that line and get all uppity, take it elsewhere, sister.) I’m not going on some weight loss journey because to me, that’s setting myself up for failure. I have no real hobbies except for cooking, reading and watching TV. Which may explain my need for a weight loss journey, but re-read the line two sentences earlier, please. Do I blog about the weirdos I see on the bus? Because I see a lot of them. A lot.

My head hurts from this existential crisis. So may I be so lazy to ask my seven readers… What do YOU want to read from me?

Satre-esque Yours,

xoxoSallyS

December 8th

I was four, almost five, when my brother was born. I strangely remember chunks of that evening.

My sister and I were at my Granny and Papa's house but I don't remember for how long or when we got there. All I know is I was watching Little House on the Prairie when we got the call. Being four, three-days-short-of-turning-five, I was mad that my show was cut short by a trip to the Fredericton hospital.

I think we were in the waiting room with my grandparents for a while, then we found out that David James had made the scene. They brought my sister and I to the bassinet that held him. I remember very clearly looking at this perfect round head with scrunched eyes and down-like hair, "That looks like my father." And sure enough, he does, even to this day. A little taller and broader than David James I, but they look the same.

Then they brought us to see our mother, who had just had a c-section and was high as a kite. It was 1980, after all. She scared me as she loopily asked us to give her a kiss. I just wanted to go look at the tiny creature who looked like my father.

Dave was a cute baby, with the nastiest diapers ever but a strong sense of self. He was a strong little boy and a talented young man. Now, he's a husband and soon to be a father. I wonder if, when I see his baby, I will think "that baby looks like my brother"? I just hope his baby's diapers show mercy to him and Nicole.

Happy Birthday, Dave.

Reminiscingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Look! Over There!

I am so over this Tiger Woods thing and I'm not even watching/reading!

Why do people care if a guy cheats on his wife with some skanks? Men do it all the time, and yes they are dicks for doing so, but it's his family's business and not ours. I'm not saying forgive Tiger, or any man who cheats, but we should let the affair lie with that man, his wife and thier family.

Why are the media and the public seeking a confession or an apology? He didn't step out on us. He should not have to atone for his sins in public. He should be begging his wife and family for forgiveness and make amends to them for not being a good and honest man. He should be apologizing to his wife for not respecting her, himself and their relationship the way it should be respected.

It's hard enough for a marriage and a family to heal after affairs. To be in the media glare would make that healing all the more harder.

Look away, folks. There's nothing to see here.

Look Awayingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Happy Birthday to my Little Titter

Jane turns 32 today. Scissor kicks!

I like to brag about Jane to anyone who will listen. She’s a determined and willful woman, who takes on whatever she puts her mind to. She’s also indefatigable. Jane is a bundle of energy – always talking, walking, talking, cleaning, thinking, talking and moving. She’s also incredibly strong. Jane can take on a lot and come out the winner.

For example, this fall. She is pregnant (due on December 15^th), has George to care for, a husband to nurture, a house to tend to, AND she’s working on her Masters in Education. When I tell people this, they are impressed. Pregnancy, a toddler and a husband are enough. Add a Masters to the mix and you have Jane. She knows what she wants, knows how to get what she wants and just does it. No complaints, no pity parties, no hissies. And if there is a hissy, you know it’s warranted.

Craig is lucky to have her as a wife. George is very lucky to have her for a mother (she’s a great mom!). PBS 2.0 doesn’t know how lucky she/he is yet. I am blessed to have her as a sister. There was a time we were far apart, physically and spiritually. But not anymore.

Happy Birthday, Janie. I love you and am very proud of my little titter.

xoxoSallyS

Nurse Hillie

My mother was a nurse. And a very good one at that. When we were kids, my mother would bandage and balm our cuts without so much as a squeal. We could puke everywhere and my mother would not wretch as she cleaned it up. Poop, pee, puss, bring it on – my mom never wavered. But when we’d be at a friend’s house and hurt ourselves, the mothers there would squawk and balk at the sight of a cut finger. Not my mom.

Jane and I call it “Nurse Hillie Mode”.

To this day, if we have any medical question or have something weird to show her, her voice changes, her demeanour changes and Nurse Hillie comes on the scene. Her voice gets more even and she talks just a little slower and a little deeper. Her brow knits a bit and she very efficient. Blood pouring out of a cut? She’ll calmly and firmly wipe it away and see how bad the cut is. Ingrown hair? She’ll firmly wipe the area and efficiently pluck that hair free. There’s a picture of my mom on her graduation day from nursing school – she must have 19 or 20. She’s wearing one of those old-fashioned nursing caps and the crisp white uniform. Whenever Nurse Hillie comes on the scene, I picture a swish of a nursing cape and Hillie in her nursing cap zooming in close on the malady.

So when I sent her this link yesterday, I expected Nurse Hillie to love it. NOTE: If you are at all squeamish, do not look. It is disgusting and is still haunting my thoughts and making me gag. That's why it's not embedded. If you're a masochist, you will click on the link.

Nurse Hillie loved it, natch. In her Nurse Hillie voice, all deep and clam, she tells me that it is not a zit but a blocked sweat gland and then tells me how they develop. She said the goo coming out is thick and …I cut her off, switching the topic to her favourite – George.

“So how is George,” I asked, trying to direct her away from the horror.

“Cute,” she said curtly, as if George was a nobody. “The stuff that comes out smells like sour milk.”

Oh Hillie. When she said that, I pictured the swish of the nursing cape as she ran off to the next medical dilemma. Her voice got animated and bubbly as she talked on an on about George. Nurse Hillie left the scene and Hillie was back in full force.

I miss her.

Medically Yours,

xoxoSallyS

In Defense of the Snuggie

Mock not, my friends, when I say the Snuggie is one of the greatest inventions of our time. I was once a mocker, too. I laughed uproariously when the commercials aired. I declared that someone wearing a Snuggie looked and was ridiculous. A blanket with holes? Who could be so dumb? I am. Except that I am not dumb for owning and proudly wearing a Snuggie.

Byron’s and my quest for comfort drew us to the Snuggie. In early October, Edmonton had a freakish cold snap. We had just moved back there from the balmy shores of Victoria, where the average temperature in the winter is about 3 degrees. When this cold snap hit us, we chattered our teeth and wondered how we could possibly survive in Edmonton. Never mind that Byron grew up around here and I had been living there for years before we moved.

One Saturday, in the middle of the cold snap, we decided to brace ourselves for winter. I have rented since I left my parent’s house so whenever it was chilly, or I got a chill, I would crank the heat. In the two years we were in Victoria, By and I kept a very warm house. For the first time, he never had to pay for heat, so he also cranked the heat whenever he wanted. Here, we have to pay for our heat. We are very reluctant to turn the heat up. How could we remain comfortable and warm, while not bankrupting ourselves?

One word.

Snuggie.

We got provisions for a long winter that weekend. We got flannel sheets, a kettle, slippers… and Snuggies. They are tan. They go past our feet and the sleeves extend well past our fingertips. They have a high neck and are fuzzy. They are the best things ever. We care not if we look silly sitting on the couch, all Snugged up. The shame has disappeared when we walk around the house in our Snugs to get a book or a drink. It’s like a warm, body-length hug. The thermostat has not gone past 20, even though it’s frosty outside and there’s a nip in our house. We no longer care, for we have our Snuggies.

Seriously, if I could, I would give a Snuggie to all my family and friends just so we can share the joy of wearing, curling up under, and snuggling under the Snuggie.

Comfortably Yours,

xoxoSallyS

I'm kind of gross.

It’s true. I am kind of gross. Strike that – full-on gross.

My office is on the 9^th floor and right across from my office is another office building. My desk faces the window so I can see all the workers at their desks toiling away or eating lunch or talking with people or looking out the window. Knowing they look out the window, and that they can probably see me in my office does not deter me from my gross ways.

I floss at my desk. If I have a bat in the cave, I will dig for that bad boy – with Kleenex, of course. But still, I pick my nose at my desk. I will re-adjust the girls. I will re-arrange my pants. I eat lunch and take advil and apply balms and salves. I act as if no one is watching, as long as my back is turned to the door.

I wonder if they see me and think “who is that narsty girl in the window”. Does anyone else do this? Or am I alone in my gross office ways?

Flossingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS