Updates on the blog are few and far between these days. Life is busy. Anxiety runs high while coping mechanisms continue to fail me. But that’s another post for another day, or not. Today, we have two updates in one post:
First update: While this mummy doesn’t drink, she can relate to just about every single other thing in Why Mummy’s Sloshed, the fourth book in Gill Sims’ hilarious diary-style series. If you’re a forty-something mum and don’t cringe at swear words and do appreciate when other mothers and wives are very honest in sharing just how UGH life can be sometimes, these books may just be for you. So, grab a copy, lock yourself in a closet, or better yet, lock your kids in a closet, go find yourself a comfy seat (just shove all of the sodding laundry onto the floor) and give it a whirl. I’m throughly enjoying this fourth book – laughing, wincing, smirking, head-nodding and uh huh’ing my way through it while my kids interrupt every two minutes looking for answers, justice or revenge. But that’s a normal day around here now, so I may as well read during the lulls in the excitement.
Second update: During our weekly visit with Nana yesterday, I came across this absolute gem of a bookmark and just had to bring it home with me. Now, in hindsight I was shockingly too young to read V.C. Andrews books when I began (um, the fifth grade ?) and I’m fairly certain that reading them warped my developing brain in ways that I am still unprepared to examine. Of course, I also do not remember why I just walked into the living room holding a wooden spoon and one of those plastic knobby things that keep the air in a bicycle tire, but I do vividly remember Cathy, Chris, Cory and Carrie and that bloody attic they were forced to live in for years. Really though, aside from the incredibly twisted and warped family dynamics I read about, I mostly remember the excitement that I felt every time another instalment would hit the bookshops. Not sadly, I no longer have my library of V.C. Andrews books and honestly the mere thought of reading one of those books today hurts my stomach and makes me feel icky, but I do have this small reminder of all those years when I could and would stay up reading well into the night because I just couldn’t put the book down until I knew how it ended. In those days, I could do that just about every night without any ill-effects in the morning, aside from the sadness of not having another new volume to read that day.
While I cannot pretend to remember the precise day I came into possession of this fine piece of memorabilia, I imagine I probably received it from our local independent bookshop on Queen St. East, in the Beach, where I grew up. The man who ran the shop was a bit odd, as was I, I was probably just better at hiding the oddness within. Really though, in those carefree times all that really mattered to me was that he kept me well supplied with reading material (and apparently free bookmarks).
Finally and also, the second photo above serves as evidence that I have officially, formally and actually given up and finally accepted the fact that this unholy, dimpled, sagging, veiny, scarred, jiggly mess of flesh really is my body and not just a placeholder while my real and most excellent body is being assembled and prepped for delivery. And rather than keeping this lot perpetually encased in as much fabric as possible during what has become a ridiculously hot and humid Ontario summer, and causing myself the maximum amount of distress due to heatstroke, I now wear shorts. And overall shorts at that. So, I guess that sometimes resignation really is the same thing as growth, right?
Stay safe, and as always, stay golden.