The Great Indoors

My daughters, who are usually fairly calm (or so I like to dream), are suffering from a classic case of cabin fever. It's a rainy Saturday afternoon and because LittleLady had a class until 3:30pm, (and that was early dismissal, normally the class runs until 4pm), the prospect of going somewhere far to entertain Spitfire was not in the cards.

Mr. Unfazed picked up LittleLady from class and took her on a quick shopping trip, as he was having dreams of BBQ pizza in his head, he needed supplies. He tells me that LittleLady threw a fit in the store because she wanted an extra sample of the juice being promoted. That seemed a bit odd to me but I shrugged it off. What I didn't realize was that the bigger scene was yet to unveil itself.

Earlier today, the girls had a hair trim. Actually, what they had was corrective surgery to repair the damage to their bangs that their beloved Vovó* (my mother), did to them earlier this week. Like my mother, I possess zero hair cutting talent. Unlike my mother, I am well aware of my shortcomings and leave hair cutting to the professionals. At the end of the haircutting experience, the girls received their reward: a lollypop (yeah, I know, I wasn't thrilled about it either), and a spin toy. The yellow animal inspired spin toys looked identical as far as Mr. Unfazed and I were concerned.

You know what's coming, right? The toys were not identical. One toy had circular shaped ears an the other had triangular shaped ears. Spitfire claimed that the circular one was hers. LittleLady made the same claim. A full-on "Jerry Springer For Tots" episode ensued. Why chairs didn't start flying in the air, I'll never know. Heated accusations spewed from the tiny mouth of Spitfire, her hazel eyes widening in disgust. LittleLady smirked at Spitfire's attempts at a throwdown and using her height to her advantage, looked down at Spitfire and said mischievously, "It's really mine." Seeing a tragic end to this mini-drama, Mr. Unfazed stepped in and took both spin toys away. I attempted to play Queen Solomon and declared, "I will cut the toys in half. Now whose toy is it really?" Without skipping a beat, both suspects raised their hands straight in the air. So much for ancient wisdom.

Discouraged but not defeated, I announced that the toys would soon be joining the blue bin gods. That worked. The little angels *cough* huddled together and brokered an agreement through stage whispers. LittleLady playing ambassador stated, "We will share the toy."

As I've been typing away, the toy appears to have dropped in market value, and the girls have moved on to other interests and complaints. The whiny question, "Why can't I watch a video?" is my personal unfavourite. Attention being diverted to crafts, Mr. Unfazed and I hope to enjoy the rest of the UEFA Championship League playing in the background. We had kind of forgotten about it. Real-life drama is so much better.


*Vovó means grandmother in Portuguese.

It's been a long time comin'...

Only Gordon Downies from the Tragically Hip can sing that line to perfection. He exudes such a sexiness. Even now, as I think about it, I get the shivers like the 19-year old girl I once was.

After such a lead in, to launch a discourse on how negligent I've been with my writing seems disappointing. But it wouldn't be the first time that I've disappointed and I'd hate to tarnish my stellar track record.

In messaging a friend via Facebook this morning, I mentioned that I haven't been writing due to tiredness. Yes, I was wincing at myself for projecting such a cheap and flimsy excuse. We're all tired, we're all busy. As someone recently said to me, "Nobody has the monopoly on being busy, we're all busy." Wise words and I hold them dear to my heart. But not just dear to my heart in an airy-fairy way, I need to hold them dear to practice.

I can explain what's happened recently. I started a job 1 month ago - a consulting position. The commute from home to workplace is 3 hours/day. Originally, I was to only train onsite for a 2 week period and then start working from home. This hasn't happened due to technical obstacles beyond comprehension. I'm not the only person affected. This is a company wide known problem. Despite valiant attempts from my manager to escalate the matter, the issue regarding my remote access continues to elude, fascinate, and frustate. While at times I've been disheartened, I know that there will be a resolution.

Which brings me to the necessary commute. I don't mind the bus ride in the morning. I sip my coffee, look at the window, text, Facebook, IPOD, read magazines, read books and generally feel a sense of purpose as the wheels on the bus move toward the building. Besides, I really like, heck love, the work. It's a good fit. My colleagues are bright, witty, and focused on their work too.

Coming home on the bus is not so enjoyable. I really hate it. For some reason, the wheels don't seem to move along so smoothly. I get nauseous, irritable, and am drained of energy. I tried to bring my mini laptop with me a few times to get back to writing and it was a dismal failure of an experiment. I wrote a few paragraphs for a future Toastmasters speech and then gave up after my head started spinning and I feared the wrath of the nausea gods.

Truthfully, I don't know how to mitigate my adverse reaction to the evening commute. I've fantasized about taking sleeping pills so I can snooze through the ride (there ain't no way I'm falling asleep on my own...I possess no such ability to sleep on command), but I know that's not a serious answer. Is it psychological? Would counselling help? Yes, I'm laughing, well smirking, as I type this. I'm stumped here - I'll take suggestions.