bogeyandruby

Post-op update.

I sat for all of five minutes in one of the nicest waiting rooms I’ve ever seen in my life. Gorgeous red leather chairs, tasteful art work on the walls, sculptures of healing hands, free wifi, and would you believe a coffee pod machine! I found it odd that the pen I was given to fill in the medical questionnaire was so crappy. Turns out it was a deterrent to me writing my life’s story.

Much to my dismay, I was called into the “operating room” before I was ready. What’s the point of a nice waiting room if you don’t get to wait in it?

On the other side, things were rather clinical but still tasteful. An assistant set me up in a chair soooo comfy-cosy I could’ve had a nice nap. She bustled about the room giving me post-op instructions when all of a sudden this tall cowboy walked in. He was wearing blue jeans and a kelly green gingham shirt with what looked to be a little pink cowboy on the front pocket. I can’t remember if he wore a hat or not but I can assure you, he looked exactly like this.

“Howdy ma’am. What seems to to be the trouble?”

“I broke a tooth.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll get it out for you.”

And get it out they did, the cowboy and his posse. Six hands taking care of my every need, kind of like a French restaurant where the service is so good, you only have to take a sip of water before someone is hovering with a pitcher ready to refill your glass. In this case, all it took was for a little gurgle, a trickle of drool slipping out for not one but TWO suction technicians to make it disappear. I swear, there was no splatter to be found when I got home.

I must say it was odd, this tooth extraction experience. There were so many people in the room at one time, I felt like I was at a cocktail party having to make small talk. Overall though, it was a really good experience considering why I was there. Cowboy Gingham to the rescue!

Think I’ll go early for my follow-up appointment to have extra lounge time in that lovely waiting room. I’ll take lots of pics and maybe even sneak one of the cowboy hat. Yee haw!

I broke a tooth over a week ago, badly. A huge chunk of molar fell from the sky disrupting a perfectly lovely dinner party. Of course, it would happen on a Friday. It always happens on a Friday or a holiday. After an angst-filled week-end, my dentist finally called me back on Monday and had the nerve to give me the verdict over the phone. It has to come out. Not. I went to see another dentist, a boy wonder who at least had a good looky around and took an x-ray before saying exactly the same thing as my dentist. It has to come out. Shit.

Riding a wave of sadness right now and regretting all the times I neglected to floss. Think I’ll suck it up a little later.

This morning’s concentrated effort was to go for a run, then eat a healthy breakfast. (I haven’t done the latter in a long, long time.) 

But before taking care of me, I made the boys chocolate chips pancakes, albeit with a scowl on my face. Aunt Jemima, I think not. Ian suggested I buy frozen waffles but I am already extremely lazy when it comes to food preparation and am trying to limit the amount of processed stuff we eat. 

After my run, I had to resist the cries of “eat me” coming from the protein bars in the pantry, the made-from-a-mix muffins in the fridge and the bagels in the freezer. Old habits die hard and I tend to eat for comfort rather than sustenance. 

So what to make? Eggs? Nah. Last night’s meatballs? Then what would we eat tonight? I do keep oatmeal in the house for baking purposes and figured it would be the perfect low glycemic index food. 

Reading the directions, I was surprised to note that I could prepare it in the microwave. Hurrah, food preparation time saved! A third cup of oatmeal plus a cup of water and a pinch of salt. Stir and heat. Re-stir and heat. Top with maple syrup instead of sugar ’cause it’s a little healthier. Easy peesy. 

And awful. Blech, blech, blech. All that effort to be healthy and breakfast sucked, tasting more like gruel than porridge. No, thank you, sir, I won’t have some more. What I do crave, more than ever now is a protein bar, muffin or bagel.

Where did I go wrong? Should I have made it on the stove top instead of the microwave? Used cream instead of water? Feedback is welcome as are your healthy breakfast tips.

I’m turning fifty-one tomorrow. Not sure if I’m relieved or a little disappointed that it isn’t another milestone birthday. It would be difficult to beat last year’s celebration: a roomful of people I love singing happy birthday, contributing to a cause I believe in.

A year ago today, I was stressing over my speech. Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. Over but not forgotten, that is. It just so happens to be immortalized on YouTube and you can listen to it here if you have the time, fifteen minutes to be exact.

My birthday speech took stock of a whole decade, no wait, a lifetime. This year, I’m reflecting on the first year of my sixth decade via blog-entry format.

One thing I’ve realized this year is that I’ve stopped counting how long I would have been married to my ex-husband had we stayed together. I am even losing track of how long we have been apart. A friend of mine once told me it takes four years to recover from a failed marriage. I didn’t believe her when I started my ending, but guess what? It’ll be four years this March… and the kids are alright!

Time to press refresh and make new memories. Time to declutter this old heart and open it up to new love.

What else have I done lately? Well, I haven’t accomplished a whole lot of personal growth. It’s been more of an existence really, but it’ll have to do for now, at least until my boy is a little older. I do use the word stateless and mindful a lot, particularly in Facebook posts. It stops my fickle mind from wandering back and forth between regrets and worries. And it reminds me to be grateful for all that I do have today.

It isn’t an easy life. Nor is it an exciting one. But at fifty-one, it is a life filled with rich meaning and connection. If you happen to be reading this now, then you are a part of that connection. And for that I am grateful.

Peace out.

xoxo

Recently, my son overheard me telling someone that I wanted to spend more time on my blog and understood it to mean I was embracing my inner blob. Kids! We had a good laugh over it but he still has no clue what a blog is and I suspect he was just being polite when he apologized for offhandedly calling me a blob. So why haven’t I been writing more entries? Well, the main reason is that I’m not a writer. I mean, I can write stuff like Facebook posts and charts at work and the occasional long-winded email, if necessary, but it doesn’t come naturally. In fact, much of the time it’s a struggle, probably in part because I don’t have a plan when I start writing. And because I don’t have a plan, more often than not, it ends up being one long paragraph. Like this. But I’m going to persist because I want to get better at it. Ideas are swirling around in my head all the time. The challenge is how to express them in a way that touches the six people who happen to be following my blog at the moment. Honest. I’m thrilled that anyone would bother to follow me. Especially with a production rate of 1.5 entries a year.

New idea, new paragraph, right? The other thing I have to get over is my perfectionism. Yes, despite the perpetual messy state of my desk at work, I am a perfectionist deep down, a failed one at that. It’s one of the reasons I don’t cook. Can’t stand the idea of messing up my shiny kitchen. I’ve been reading a lot about perfectionism over the week-end, how it stops people from writing, cooking, trying something new or finishing something started. I think the key is to put it all in perspective. I’m not a writer but I can still write. It doesn’t have to be perfect but it can still be meaningful for me and hopefully for my six followers.

This one’s for you, I. For asking me if I wrote on my blog today.

Count on another entry soon. I’m on a roll.

I picked my boy up from camp yesterday, weary from my day and the hot, summer weather we’ve all been wishing for lately. I was looking forward to a quiet, unstructured week-end for a change. As I headed towards the chalet, I heard a faint, familiar voice yelling “mummy”, and spotted Sean with head counsellor, Meghan. She had her arm around him and as I got nearer, I noticed his flushed, tear-stained face. “Something happened,” Meghan said, “and Sean is very worried you’ll be angry with him. He cried a lot today.” She explained that one of other kids had reared his head up abruptly, hitting Sean in the mouth hard, which caused his front tooth to chip. On cue, Sean opened his mouth to show me the damage and unprepared, I exclaimed in dismay, “Oh, no!”. Immediately, his face crumpled and he burst into tears. All I could do was hold him and soothe him and reassure him that I wasn’t angry, that it was an accident, that it didn’t matter.

But the truth is, it did matter to me and I was angry. Not at him, not at the special needs child who could not control his impulses, not at the young counsellors who were devoting their entire summer to these kids as volunteers. I was angry at myself.

I left a message with the person in charge of the camp last night. Despite how he feels, I need reassurance that he is going to be okay. And then I bawled, for the piece of tooth that was now gone, for what was lost, for my son, and for me.

Today would have been my fourteenth wedding anniversary. The weather forcast predicted a hundred percent chance of rain that day and rain it did, bringing us good luck that would be short lived. The past few years have buffered the disappointment of a failed marriage somewhat, at least to the point where I can look back with detached sadness at the unravelling of my fairy tale, born of the silly, romantic notions of youth and carried well past its prime into my late thirties. I will not grow old with the man I vowed to have and to hold, before a God I didn’t believe in, and it’s better that way. We were the wrong people at the right time, succumbing to societal pressures and biological ticking clocks that drowned out the niggling little voices telling us to stop. I don’t regret the marriage so much as I regret its bitter ending, the one that claimed a kind and loving man and a once foolish romantic in its aftermath. I’d like to think that something good came out of it, a beautiful boy and life experiences that would never have happened if we hadn’t met. I hope that we can eventually be good friends and inspire our son to develop healthy relationships of his own. Perhaps with some healing, we can even dust off the disenchantment that comes with the territory and in the process, uncover our former selves. Better, more insightful versions, that is, who will bring out the best in a new partner and vice versa. I don’t believe in forever but I do believe in love. Do you, dear reader?