Who's the Bigger Tyrant: Parent or Child?

The screaming child has just been carried out of earshot, much to my relief. Kids can be such self-indulgent little shits, can't they? Though they are naturally generous: every time a spark of annoyance ignites in their brains, they feel compelled to share it. Whine, whine, whine. Often I openly mock the child into submission, then act brisk and change the subject. It confuses her enough that nine times out of ten, it succeeds in re-directing her attention and mood.

The only sound which equals a whining child in hideousness is an adult assuming the All-Powerful role, and using the Voice. Stern and terrible, it makes pronouncements like "If you don't pick that up, there will be no vanilla yogurt with honey" and "There is no more juice until you eat these three pieces of chicken." Sometimes it gets followed up with appeals to the child's rational side, i.e. you must eat protein so you will grow big and strong like dad, etc. Usually, it works. Sometimes, the kid really doesn't give a shit, countering with the inarguable: "But I don't want to."

Faced with such logic, there is only one thing to do: up the consequences. So it's no longer "Come away from there, you might fall down the hill" or "Stop at the end of the sidewalk, please!" It's better to describe in a grim, world-weary voice what will really happen. You will break both legs falling down the hill and roll into a prickle bush, where we won't be able to find you for days and days and you will have to to drink your own pee to stay alive. Or you will run into traffic and no one, nobody will stop, and a truck will roll over you and squish your guts all over the road and we'll have to get a spatula to scrape them up. Gruesome consequences worked for the Brothers Grimm and it works for me.

Making up horrible ends for a three and a half year old's Choose Your Own Adventure story breaks up the monotony of looking after a small child. At its best, silence is granted for a brief period of concentration during make-believe with stuffed animals or drawing or trampoline time. The only noises they might make at this time are breathy little songs of narration ("Now I'm jumping on this foot...now I'm jumping on that foot..."). This is the golden time, when one can sneak a glance at the absorbed child and allow an inward spasm of affection and feel like a good parent. Most of the time, it isn't like this. It's a maze of tiny chores, each branching into dead ends of failure or just another intersection. Respite occurs when the child falls asleep or gets dropped off at daycare aka being made someone else's problem.

The frequent ascents into towering kidrage further break up the monotony. It's like the scene in Sleeping Beauty where the evil queen transforms into a giant dragon. Nothing to do but either run, if it's not your kid, or get clinical. If you panic, you're done for. I pried the screamer off my partner the other day when the house-painter showed up (our crime: waking her up from a nap in the car) and took her for a walk. She had two options: stand up and cry, or be carried and stop. Up, down, up, down. I made her take a deep breath at every sign or hydrant. She calmed down in under ten minutes and was shortly as chipper as ever. I have none of the maternal pangs of guilt other women report, just an icy resolve to get 'er done. Could be because I'm a step-mother and thus biologically removed, or merely because I'm as emotionally stunted as a bonsai tree. Tomayto, tomahto.

Must work now, pumpkins.
GR

Ahem

The last year has been tapioca pudding. Bland substance filled with little bubbles to make it interesting enough to keep eating.

I was pregnant and quickly unpregnant back in September. True to life, I miscarried through a week-long project management course in Victoria. It had its comic moments to be sure, as I was staying at an absent acquaintance's place and my biggest fear was bleeding all over her bed. I slept on a small tarp, in jeans stuffed full of towels and maxi-pads. There were equal parts of regret and relief. Too soon, too soon is my first response every time my period is late--but perhaps there is never the *perfect* time. And perhaps at 39.8 years old, the perfect time is any time I can actually merge an egg and sperm in my crabby old uterus (or wherever life takes place).

Soon to be 40! Calloo, callay. I don't plan anything past a BBQ, maybe a bike ride or hike with some pals. A boob job, having the fat from my ass injected into my lips. The usual.

Work has been sporadic but now looks promising. The downside to having long-term contracts is that they (of course) do end eventually. I was confident to the point of cocky last spring, as it had been a good couple of years and I assumed the good times would keep rolling. I suppose learning a modicum of humility has been A Good Thing. I've thrown myself at various initiatives in the last several months, hoping something would stick, a connection would be made, etc.

Being a consultant/contractor/temp is a leap of faith...that keeps getting longer and longer. Wil E. Coyote, running in place off a cliff until he looks down. Maybe he could get to the other side if he just didn't look down. Who knows? The lack of consistent work/$$ has been the most stressful thing the last year. Inevitably, I've embraced the idea of going back to school to get a designation as a Something. Inevitably, I've toyed with relocation and entertained the idea of doing something completely different and tried my subtle hardest to drum up more work from existing clients. As the pseuddhists say, the Universe has not provided what I am asking. So I ask for different.

The Man has been very patient, but is more disposed to talk about it than I am. I am by turns withdrawn and dismissive on the subject. My rationale being what's the point of talking about it beyond the odd rant or moan? I've been in dry spells before, though never this long. By a certain age, one would hope to be past these droughts. Ah well. Being withdrawn has also meant I have not written a word for fun in almost a year. It's like I've thought about it as a reward which can only be granted once I've achieved the goal of busyness or sustained fecundity. I've realized now that the strange iron grip I've had on myself the last several months has mostly just left me tired and dispirited. Asking for help has been the first step. I've even done some yoga. Ain't I humbled enough yet, O Universe?

GR

Knocked Down, Just the Way I Likes It

Ahhhhhhhhh...


I have been away so long from the blogbog that {blogger} has changed its format. It seems to be on a whole radical simplicity kick. So much white. It's like freakin' Space Odyssey in here.


So what's new with you, kittens?


Since last I monologued, there have a few changes here. Let me rattle them off by way of conversation.


1. I did sell the estate, after all! Man-child came and got his stuff in several shifts. It required a dumpster rental and much effort on my part (sure, unfair but whatchagonnuhdo?), but we did get it out. Then much cleaning and packing and moving and volia, I am homeless, mortgageless and temporarily rich! Didn't last.


2. I bought a new place! Yes, not that it hasn't been cozy living at my partner's place, and it has been generous of him to share his dwelling with me. But I am too old not to require my own territory. We got first dibs on abso-fuckin-lutely cool character house here in the Village, and leapt all over it like stink. We move next week. 


3. I'm unemployed! Though not in any tragic way, really. Earlyish days yet. With the move out and another move pending, it's been hard for me to set up an office in my partner's ex-workshop. It's filled with his shit and my shit and household shit, and is only heated by woodstove. You think this would be a problem in June coming on July, but it is because it is Junuary here and 15 degrees more often than not. 


Another factor in my jobless state is I went on vacation, and if you've read past posts you know everything goes to pot when I leave my duties for more than a few days. I went on Eurotour 2012 for three weeks in May--which was lovely but well-behaved to the point of narcolepsy--and I chanced fate by not doing any work-related activity while abroad. Sure enough, a new business partnership that had looked solid when I left went off the rails while I was away, and since my new partner a) did not tell me until asked and b) did so only grudgingly and yes, rudely and then c) did it AGAIN a couple of weeks later,  I figured it was best to abort this particular experiment sooner rather than later. Jeesh. I cannot abide unnecessary rudeness. 


Anyway, I felt much like a bewildered boyfriend who gets manipulated into a break-up, and finds himself blamed by a crazy ex. Honestly, I was like dude, what just happened here...? Ha! Yet another classic Bitches Be Crazy moment. Dang.


At any rate, it's not too bad. For once, I've got a nice bit o' savings to get by on. I've dusted off my shelved company and am launching a new website/company next week and starting the work-hustle-shuffle in order to procure consulting work by early fall, I hope. If not, I may have to overcome my morbid fear of sewing machines and and work in my honey's shop stitching together odds and sods. Who knows?  Life is a highway, I want to ride it. All. Night. Long! Yeah...


4. I've found a new sport to harm myself in! Kickboxing has been on hiatus during the moves and vacation times, but I've taken up mountain-biking since moving next to the trails. A few weeks ago, I gored my thigh on a log stub (12 stitches). Yesterday, I arced over my handlebars and drove my face into the (luckily soft) forest floor. I think I have the tiniest of concussions today as I'm spacey as heck, plus generally sore. Add a constellation of bruises and scrapes to those incidents, and you can see why I am growing to love the sport. I'm not very extreme but I like sports that kick the shit out of you if you're not careful, go figure. But no downhill or BMX for me, thanks. 


5. I'm not pregnant! Had a few days of growing unease recently where I was like, oh no, it's too soon, too soon! Only to have the menstrual express arrive a few days later than usual. The partner is more enthusiastic about the idea of an offspring than I am, but even he was worried at this early juncture. Me, I'm pretty much divided at the prospect ever materializing. Part of me is like Ew + Sounds Like a Lot of Work, the other part is like Aw! + Could Be Somehow Rewarding in Mystical Way Sleep-Deprived Parents Allude To, and He Seems Keen, Etc. Hardly a ringing endorsement, I know, but a long way from where I once was. 


The He refers to childless/child-free couples as being "kinda weird", whereas I see them as being a little eccentric in a lovable, independent way. They have time to take pottery classes in their 40s! They have nice furniture (if they're not into petspetspets). They talk about things other than children. All these things, apparently, make one seem "kinda weird" to people with kids. Sigh. He must be persuasive, as I've gamely thrown my old and depleting eggs into action as needed. If they don't take, well, we may adopt. Or not. Who knows? Not this spinster (I'm reclaiming the word). 


Now I must go broil meat and prepare to be agreeable. Hope you are well!


Spinster out --

In Which Gretchen and the Brood Ponder a Move

Good afternoon, all. Here it is west coast wet and grey. The cat lies in his usual narcotic state on the edge of the desk while one of the dogs dozes unsuspecting below. We are all huddled around the baseboard, not because it is particularly cold but because the humidity tends to settle into the bones, and none of us are that young anymore.

In people years, I am still the youngest. The Mexican dumpster-rat is enigmatic about his age, having come to us from a high-kill shelter in Little Rock, Arkansas. He doesn't like to talk about his time on the streets or his upbringing, but is suspected of being in his mid-fifties.

The Spanish bastardo, on the other hand, has been with me over 15 years. Since I got him as a wee black exclamation mark of an eight-week old kitten, I know him to be well-advanced into his 70s. I still encourage him to make the leap up and down the bathroom counter for his food-dish, a trip he still mostly makes solo.

We are all showing signs of age. The dumpster rat is sprightly, but has the yellowing teeth of a Dunhill-smoking senior. The cat is greying and has the slow, arthritic walk of an aging gunslinger. Me, I pulled out a long, black hair from the side of my neck the other day. It was one of those gross-but-fascinating moments, like squeezing a ripe blemish or marveling at the size of one's own bowel movement (a few I've saluted on their downward spiral).

Ah well, we're doing pretty well, all things considered. We do our little runs and eat well and get plenty of sleep. Still all making the counter-top solo, mostly.

We are now considering a move, dear readers. After many, many months of dallying with the real estate market, a Serious Offer has now come in. A Serious Counter-Offer has been made, and apparently I shall know more this afternoon. We may make one more pass, or the dance could already be over for all I know. (As I write this, a slow-moving SUV drives past, occupants' heads craned towards the house. The would-be owners? Potential stalkers?)

If they walk away, I have renters at the ready. I am moving to a nearby village in May, come hell or high water.

First, a note of explanation: I live in a Valley, composed of four distinct areas and governments. We have a rural regional district (where I currently live), a city which forms the commercial core, a seaside town and a village. The village is a former coal-mine hub in the foothills of the Valley, with a shabby-quaint main street and no perceptible industry. It has a kick-ass live music venue, good mountain-biking and character homes in various states of distress and resurrection.

My partner--yes, we have graduated to the stately and staid "partner" from fuck-buddy and gentleman caller, there's really nowhere left to go at this stage until we get hitched--lives in said village. He lives in an 830 sq ft house, but refuses to leave.

The Village claims people in this way. Once they move there, it is an imposition to cross the highway into the other parts of the Valley. Villagers only leave to forage for food, as they are limited to gas station pantries and a small, natural food store with prohibitive prices.

Relationships that Villagers build with outsiders end in either dissolution ("You're, like, 20 minutes away!"), or with the outsider moving into the Village. Hence, my inevitable move.

There are other reasons for the move, mind you. Mainly, it is unsavory to move in together into a house that one half previously shared with another half. I bought this place with my Ex, and although it is very nice and the animals enjoy the estate, it would be strange to live here with another. I also need to flip the Ex several thousand dollars, as per our settlement agreement, and he needs to remove his possessions, as it has been almost three years since our break-up. And so it goes.

Options are a) for me to move into my partner's hobbit-hole, putting some of my stuff into storage and transforming his detached workshop into an office or b) he and I to buy a place together. The latter would be preferable.

We've been eyeing a huge character home in the Village for some time now. Lucky for us from a price perspective, it is ugly and cold from the outside. Previous owners have raised it and sheathed it in vinyl siding. It squats on the edge of the street, a sulky giant retard of a house. One one side, a crude white church juts illegally into the side yard.

It has, however, that magic quality of potential. It has an unfinished ground floor which could convert to a two-bedroom rental suite. It has high ceilings throughout, original wainscoting, a good-sized fenced yard. (Together, we have four dogs and two cats, plus a part-time child and a fighting fish names the Godfather. We need some space.) It has three bedrooms (plus a good-sized office and a strange, narrow little den), and a huge unfinished fourth-floor attic with expansive views. Each floor is larger than my partner's entire house. There are two bathrooms. Very important, this.

We dare to dream. The church could burn down, one day, allowing our side yard to be re-instated. We could finish the downstairs and have a mortgage helper, finish the attic and have a cool hang-out zone/library/arty-place. We could build a cat door to the laundry room so the blasted felines could have entry and egress. Hell, if I have the eggs to spare we could even have a kid ourselves, we'd have room to put it.

All these things are very exciting. They outweigh the mild anxiety I have with regard to sharing my space with another. He is still, fourteen months in, the best man ever. And let's face it, none of us is getting any younger. We're both experienced enough to be truly appreciative of the other, and to know when something is good versus just good for a while. Besides, if my neck hair keeps growing I'll soon be shaving daily, and we can share lather and razors.

Will let you know how it goes, or doesn't.

Fingers crossed,

GR

And What is Up With the Blog?!!

"...And what is up with the blog?!!", was the second question from my dear friend last week.

My articulate reply was a hand-wave, swooping between helplessness and defiance. I dunno, I dunno, I dunno. There is nothing in my defense other than the usual stuff about the state of busy. For I do have things to write, not a day goes by without an observation that could use some remarking upon. Of course, the worst thing I can do as a producer of wordstrings is to make a mental sticky-note for later. Falls short of perfection as a system.

However, here are some random thoughts I remember:

i. There is a certain breed of person who mistakes making others uncomfortable with impressing them, or even worse, interpreting their discomfort as attraction. (NOTE: I've been guilty of this myself in the past, with much inappropriate humour to show off my tomboy coolness. For the most part, I've outgrown this tendency, and am happy to just alternately amuse and mortify close friends.)

There are at least two gents of my acquaintance that fall into this category.

One is a stiff-necked engineer who fancies himself to be a wild-and-crazy hipster kind of guy. He insists on prolonged hugs and robot-like cheeriness. His attempt to pull off suave is foiled by being an engineer (a Forrest Gumpian genus if ever there were one), and an unfortunate propensity to titter.

The other one is a Three-Named Thing Which Does Social Media. He tweets and facebooks and exhorts others to join the convo. I don't know how he makes a living. He is also a photographer. For municipal ribbon-cuttings, he lays on the ground full-length channeling Mapplethorpe and directs his models/town councilors in front of the new pump house, highway median, etc. I could enjoy him as a mere eccentric if he did not also stare, and ask ever-so thoughtful questions to show off his Active Listening skills. Creepy.

These two men make me uncomfortable. They ask impertinent questions. They mistake my unease for coyness, and whatever answer I stammer out as proof of our intimacy. Even if I mock the engineer mercilessly, he interprets this as sassy flirting. Yech. Luckily, my encounters with both men are sporadic and infrequent.

ii. The default for human behaviour is to follow the same negative pattern again and again until something breaks. It can be something relatively harmless, like making excuses for not exercising or eating better, etc. because of one's hectic life. The day of reckoning may be something innocuous, like hulk-shredding the ass of your jeans, say; or more serious, like a diagnosis of pre-diabetes from a solemn doctor. Whatever the wake-up call, it's up to each individual to heed or ignore it as they see fit.

Ignoring it leads to a curious schism, what Orwell referred to as double-think. It's the ability to hold two opposing ideas in your head--the one you know to be true and the one you know to be convenient--yet operate at will, according to the social context. Predictably, politicians and economists are masterful at this and vilified/admired accordingly. This is a societal cause for concern, or perhaps just a meta-indictment of human nature.

However, on a personal and moral level, we can control how deeply we sink into hypocrisy. Going in deep is a matter of choice. The danger of double-think as an M.O. is that it eventually turns in on itself, in a neat trick called cognitive dissonance. This is the risk one takes for the short-term rewards of suspending one's conscience.

Yes. All this serious talk of "one" doing something is my way of grappling with a friend's actions. While I have never thought her an especially profound or thoughtful person, I've always defended her as good-hearted. I've believed she tried to do the right thing, even when the results of her actions harmed others. Now I'm not so sure, or rather, I'm almost sure she is too far gone in moral relativism to understand or care about the results of her actions.

I'm raw on this point. My fellow's Ex's also has a pattern: meet someone/move in four months later/get him to buy a house instead of just paying the rent/get pregnant right away. It's helpful that she keeps the same four-digit phone number suffix wherever she goes, and decorates each house identical to the last. This has the distinct whiff of the black widow. It might only be cause for black humour, were it not for the existence of their wee and lovable daughter. It causes him great stress and uncertainty.

Well, if she holds true to her pattern she will explode her current relationship soon enough, and be on the move once again. Messy, messy, messy.

Other than those flashes of profundity, my other thoughts are along the lines of I'm so happy I'm back kick-boxing and I like skiing and I'm glad I deleted my facebook profile, I hate that shit and being gluten-free isn't that hard when you like to bake. Deep thoughts, indeed.

Another thought is that I like to write, and part of the reason I haven't written is wondering if it is frivolous and self-centred to write as I do, when I could be doing things like work and kid-time and book-keeping, etc. You know, grown-up stuff. Stuff that is satisfying on one level.

I do like to write, though. So as long as there's a person out there who likes to read, I suppose I should keep on a-bloggin'. For what it's worth.

Adieu for now,

GR

Blaaaaaaart! Raaaaaagah! Affff....

The title of this post is meant as a literal translation of my newly expanded vocabulary. Had an adventure in Thai cooking last Sunday, resulting in said ejaculatory statements accompanying a bout of hearty 2am vomiting. The next day I crapped my pjs while trying to get ready for An Important Meeting. But enough about me: how are you? Ha ha, ha ha...

Lessons I have learned from my episode:

• Do not get all Polish when it comes to using slimy pre-washed spinach in a plastic bag. Do not attempt to pick out the "bad" pieces or impatiently just dump a bunch into the cookpot thinking oh well, it'll just cook off. "It" will not.



• Food poisoning is very unpleasant. However, after it has passed from both ends, the system feels completely purged, not unlike the effects of long, elaborate or expensive "cleanses". Want to clear the toxins, dear? Eat bad spinach and watch the toxins fly!



• Want to spice up your relationship? Stagger out onto your driveway when your honey brings you generic Immodium and a gluten-free muffin. Have the following conversation:

He: I brought you this for when you feel better...my, you look good.

She: I crapped my pyjamas. (Sees him glancing down. Adds helpfully:) Not these ones.

He: I wish you didn't tell me that.

She: Honey, you've just brought me anti-diarrheal medicine. We're on a whole 'nother level now. Now how's about a kiss?

He: (After recoiling slightly, he reaches out and pats her head) You're nice.

I am nice! So nice...I think that's the extent of my newfound wisdom from my most recent bi-decadal visit from the Food Furies.

You may have noticed a reference to "gluten-free" muffin in above conversation. Yes, it's true. I have joined the swelling ranks of Difficult People to Feed at Dinner Parties. We are legion!

I know, I know. An exasperated sigh is appropriate here. Go ahead, let it out. I too was until very recently sceptical of all the self-important claims to dietary specialness our ilk proclaims.

Sure, sure, of course you are "lactose intolerant" (you probably just had some of Gretchen's Thai Spinach Delight one night and faulted the post-dinner cappucino, you silly cow); I'm delighted to hear you're now a Raw Vegan (self-righteous, are we?); and of course, the newest members to the food hypochondriac club are self-diagnosed celiacs who moan about the gluten in just everything!

Usually recognized by stricken expressions and eagerness to explain their condition, interrupted only by the occasional longing glance at your turkey sandwich. "Oh, I couldn't eat that," they solemnly claim (not that you've asked), "There's gliadin in the bread and probably traces of wheat flour on the deli meat. No, I shall have my plain little salad, no dressing. Commercial dressings have wheat protein added as thickener, you know."

It's likely you didn't know, and equally probable you didn't/don't care. But self-abnegation is so hard to keep to oneself.

Lordy lordy. I wish it weren't so. After dabbling in all forms of vegetarianism throughout the years, from almost-vegan (whoopdeedoo) to just pork-free (I mean, pigs are awfully smart), I embraced my omnivore nature two or three years ago and relaxed into complacency. I still get the occasional pang of guilt when I buy a fresh steak or order an occasional chop. Like much that ails society, these pangs are obliterated by instant pleasure, in this case afforded by a perfectly cooked steak, or how crispy pork fat is accentuated by braised apples. Honestly, I may think something like this animal lived a life of discomfort at best and torture at worst, and died brutally to end up on my plate...and it's yummy! if I think at all. We are monsters, aren't we?

But now, of course, I am on this gluten thing. Started with my partner (a sensible, no-fuss man if ever there was one) wondering if his chronic eczema may be linked with wheat or gluten; me listening to an interview of the cardiologist author of "Wheat Belly" on CBC Radio 1 (where all white middle-aged yuppie women's hysterical thinking begins) and gamely suggesting we experiment with cutting it out for a week. That was six weeks ago, following the last cold. At the time, I noted that the author said wheat intolerance could manifest itself in chronic inflammation and a weakened immune system, and anemia. Shoot, I don't like having those thing, so why not try it?

Both of us are reluctant converts. One of our favourite meals is a beet and squash ravioli dish made at a local restaurant that still kicks in an instant drool reaction. Both of us have long considered healthy whole grains a part of a balanced diet, love our occasional muffins et al, and are at best bemused by picky, self-diagnosed victims of food allergies and sensitivities. We thought we'd try it for a week or two and see no difference, and then celebrate our mutual insensitivity with a nice pasta dinner.

Alas, his eczema got better and he lost weight around the middle. I noticed a return of my former energy level. Both of us remarked on reduced appetites. I no longer got a mid-morning or mid-afternoon crash that had me usually reaching for a bowl of cereal or some toast, along with another coffee. These were all noted in spite of ourselves. And in spite of ourselves, we couldn't help noticing that it wasn't that hard to cut it out.

My partner has found it more challenging than me, as he was a faithful attendee at the local bar's Wednesday burger night, and being a popular guy, often is handed a beer at said event as a gesture of good will. This is increasingly uncomfortable for him, as the more you refrain from eating a particular food aggravant, the harder it gets to process. My own wussiness on this point makes it easy for me to be abstinent, as the last bout of intestinal cramping and gas from eating tempura reminded me. I have counseled him to wave away the offer of a beer with a cheerful "No thanks, makes me fart!" and eat his burger sans bun without drawing attention to it.

Here's some advice I can give you, food allergy/insensitivity brethren. Unless it's a matter of potential life and death, just shut up about your ailment. Most people will think you made it up to feel important. Yup, it's true. No one cares, and if they ask politely about it, give a short, polite answer back and change the subject unless they seem eager for more information.

Also, get really good at cooking and baking (most gluten-free baking sucks). Host dinner parties, or take people out for dinner. If you go to someone's house for a meal, do not look appalled if offered a dish which contains something you can't eat. Hopefully you've been gracious enough to offer to bring something or just brought it anyways, and you can munch on that if need be.

In short, it's like being religious or a non-drinker. People won't judge you on it if you just practise some discretion and don't force it on others.

With that, time for me to clamber out of bed and make some homemade banana bread. Bon appetit!

Gretchen "It's NOT in my head!" Rutte

The Cat Goes Woof, Woof!

Lord, the onset of another Fall is upon us. By "us", I mean me and the beloved Oscar, the black Siamese cross that has been my companion (some say my familiar) the last 15 years. He and I are sitting in front of the woodstove, being remarkably inert and content. His booming purr and the sound of the automatic blower attached to the stove are the bass lines to the tappa-tappa of my keyboard this dank evening. Oh so cozy to be inside and warm and dry, indeed.

My partner and I have two cats and four dogs between us, plus Alberto the fighting fish. He remarks that if we are ever to move into together to take our adventure to the Next Level, we will have to undertake a mass cull of all household pets. "Kill 'em all, start fresh," he says, deadpan.

I comfort him by pointing out his ancient Wookie Chow is increasingly arthritic and demented, and that my Oscar has outlived expectations by at least ten years. But then the Wookie goes on jaunty evening walkabouts and continues to gain weight, and Oscar continues to thrive in his best "Fuck you, stats!" geriatric rock-star kind of way, and I secretly doubt whether we will be a one-cat, three-dog household when cohabitation happens (we agree at some point in the next year is likely).

It is implausible, as many small realities, that I should be here as we near the end of 2011. Dear Reader, it was almost a year ago that I started the fuckbuddery with the best and horniest of light intentions. I am somewhat bemused--but very, very pleased--that events have transpired as they have the last eleven months.

It seems ludicrous to me, but pleasant, that I have become so cheesily enamoured that I tuck cards-for-no-reason under his pillow, and blurt things like "You know, it is so nice to wake up every morning, think of you and be thankful" and "You make me a better person" and other assorted zingers that have him look at me smiling, both eyebrows raised, waiting for the punchline. Nope, he's released my inner earnest romantic (what I believe used to be called a "gaylord" in days of yore).

I realise sharing this may put you in danger of puking up the tiniest bit in your own mouth, or at least leave you feeling mildly nauseous. I've been there. I don't know what happened to my most excellent jaded self. All I can say in my own defense is that I remain cynical in most other facets of life. I do concede both he and his adorable spawn have captured my heart, though, and introduced me new levels of both joy and hilarity.

For example, the Child has taken a shine to the Muppets. I rented a dvd of original episodes and we've all heartily enjoyed them, except I don't wake up at 3am shouting "MUH-pets! MUH-pets!" over and over and over again. This is funny to me, as I have in my possession some exceptional noise-blocking earmuffs that I keep on the headboard on my side of the bed when I stay over. Apparently the ex--an organic home-canner/itchy ethnic sweater wearer/has studied to be a doola but lost interest kind of gal--finds it less than amusing to be woken pre-dawn to the clarion call for muppets. The two-year old yelling and the rage fits seem quite natural to me. Animal was always my favourite character.

In other news, a couple I know are in the midst of breaking up. Apparently I am helpful in providing advice on How to Get Through a Gutwrenching Dissolution. This strikes me as funny, as a) my ex and I had about as amiable a break-up as can be and b) I've always been grossed out by people eager to share the deep-yet-pithy thoughts they've gleaned from their incredible journey. I consider my own life of relative highs and lows to be remarkably banal, and I'm grateful for it. We all go through shit, and I think I'm becoming more empathetic as I age like a fine, stinky cheese. That's about all the deep thinking I've managed so far.

Otherwise, there continues to be aggravations, stresses, triumphs and grateful epiphanies of the mundane variety. My house has yet to receive an offer from any suitor, though I have found a suitable replacement for her and wonder what I should do about it.

Work continues to be lucrative and pleasant and consuming.

My health is piss-poor, as I savour Cold/Ailment #16 (or so) while gulping iron supplements. The past two days my ears have taken to popping painfully; today I blew my nose for the umpteenth time and could suddenly hear clearly out my left ear.

The Man is wonderful, the Child delightful and demanding, the Ex-Wife problematic. My own Ex is funny and recounts strange episodes from his frequent work-trips to L.A., though he has yet to appear (now Month 28 post-breakup) to collect his possessions.

Guyfriend is visiting in the next week or so with his European girlfriend/Lindyhopper extraordinaire. Thanksgiving is almost upon us. I brined a whole chicken the other day and made a superlative roast, and am now making stock.

In truth, Reader, it is a dull and blessed life I'm leading. I'm grateful to not be lying in a ditch suffering from a bayonet wound and surviving on grubs. I wish I weren't sick so much. And so it goes: in balance, a good life.

G'nite!