So there is nothing food related today except for the fact that I was so tired I could not even think of cooking dinner. I gave the kids gum and microwave popcorn till Michael got home. So sue me!!!
Monday March 1 looked like this -
Week 2 of new job=all day training on top of urgent issues note before 9:30;
report cards....always a button pusher - however, proudness~~~ 2 A's!!! both in FRENCH; pressure to get limited edition tickets to Empty Bowls the foodies' charity delight combining food /good works / cool ceramics fo the low low price of $45;
return from weekend "off" - hah!;
planning for vacation -12 days in sunny South Carolina - with all those GD rules about carry on luggage, liquids, unworldly pre-departure time required, and all that extra cash required to you know, take luggage...
When tired and overextended, and yes, atuned to the lunar cycle (leave it at that) - it feels like everybody wants a piece of me. No, wait, sometimes I feel torn into 100 pieces. And each one desires / deserves all 100% of each piece. But what does that leave me? I love my life. I really do. But sometimes I snap. Sometimes, I want to run away since there seems no possible way at the end of every day I can remain whole.
Like that Kathleen Edwards song - Run.
I won't paint a picture
Of what you want to see
Love is the harder times
Take it from me.
I would run down the lane
and into the night
Run so fast I swear my feet would fly
Run from my babies asleep in their beds
Run from my lover and my best friend
And back again.
Sad, but something more. Something really, only a kindred spirit could agree with. True.
And then I find a book that makes me laugh out loud - like The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley. It provides an excellent romp in the life of someone other than me - in this case, a brilliant and charming if somewhat overly imaginative child, Flavia. It is also, tangentially, a murder mystery. Not too twee, but...almost. Penny blacks (for those of us with philatelic leanings, that is of some note, and pivotal to the story), a bicycle named Gladys, and two horrid siblings (no comment, Ahem). Flavia is like Miss Marple, but littler and more verbose. And to boot, written by Michael's second cousin. He took up "writing" in retirement, and now is rich. Michael asked me, How come I can't write books like that??!! Because, my dear, you just don't. And nor should you. Your books speak of you and your mind not Alan Bradley. Although, no offence, Alan, but I think I could push one of those out.
Last night, as I lay with Owen on his bed to cuddle, we listened to Mozart's Clarinet Concerto -and I was humming away - it is a sweet and lilting piece of music I have long loved. I think - bliss. Warmth, love, etc etc. Owen thinks - Mummy, why does your voice sound like a broken record? Ok, so I have a bone to pick with the person who taught him the phrase "broken record" - since really, he has not even a vague idea of what vinyl is.
But really - this is part of the process of human communication. We often hear what we do not want to. Thus this rant. Who really wants to hear about my tired ravings? My guess is no one - however, there is a slight, ever so slight perhaps, chance - that one of my amazing, valiant, and dogged friends who do as I do - will get it.
In sisterhood. xo