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Dear Diary – Hubby and I were getting out dishes for dinner and discussing how chilly the house was. I mentioned I felt cold because my hair was still damp (having showered a few hours earlier). Hubby suddenly gasped, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to tell you! Eldest Son called while you were in the shower and he left a message saying he was lying dead in the ditch…”

I called him back. He’s fine. This time, he was just calling to say “hi”. The time he called to say he had just totalled his car was…because he had just totalled his car. That, my friends, was quite a day!

My kids are the reason I wake up each morning, the reason I breathe…and why my hair is turning gray, my house is a mess and I’m crazy!

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Dear Diary – Sunday night we watched the movie, Babe, with dinner. It’s a sweet story about a pig who trains to be a “sheep dog”. Both Hubby and I remember watching this movie with Eldest Son when he was about 6 years old. It was Easter and we were at with my folks.

Dinner that night was ham and mashed potatoes!

We didn’t point it out to Eldest Son. We were worried he’d be traumatized.

This time, we ate chicken!

But when Hubby asked, “Do you want me to carve the chicken?” Youngest Son exclaimed, “oh! It’s not a decoration!”. To which Hubby replied, slightly confused, “No, it’s not decorative chicken”.

Which begs the question…do people have decorative cooked chickens in their home? Did mine look like plastic? I know my cooking isn’t great but…decorative chicken?

Dear Diary – In Grade 13 English-Writing class, we were asked to fill out an aptitude test. At the end, we had to choose 3 careers from our results and share them with the class. I chose “singer”, “archivist”, and “librarian”. The class immediately declared “archivist” or “librarian”.

I admit, I was alittle hurt. Afterall, they had never heard me sing, but they were the most logical choices. Still, I’d love to go back in time and make the prediction that one day I would sing in a music video. I may have that opportunity soon. Oh, it won’t be a rock video. It won’t receive a million views, followed by a series of talk shows and a record deal, but I’m excited.

Dear Diary – My temporary tattoo is starting to fade. I lengthened it’s lifespan by showering with a rubber glove.

How funny would it be if the “un” faded first. Then it would just say “breakable”. Maybe I should get one that says “Handle with Care”.

After the terrible turn my body has taken this week, I’d settle for “able”. One ankle has been giving me grief for a few months now, but this week the arthritis hit a new level of misery and I can hardly walk. It got so bad one afternoon, I broke down and used a cane…and I bumped down the stairs on my butt. I haven’t done that since I hit double digits. With the kettle on one floor and the bathroom on another, it’s a conundrum.

Standing isn’t as much of a problem so yesterday I made carrot-parsnip soup, cabbage and beef soup, and bread. I’m hoping the veggies balance out the carbs because my pants are still shrinking and hobbling around home isn’t helping.

Eldest Son kindly captured a photo before he dug in!
I made Sally’s no-bake peanut butter bars earlier in the week but they didn’t survive long enough for a photo!

I’d call my doctor but it will be March before I can get in to see the rheumatologist, and I already have an appointment in March. I could call my GP, but her office doesn’t have an elevator. And the thought of scooching down those stairs terrifies me!

Dear Diary – I’ve been ignoring my new bra for a couple of weeks now. I bought it because I needed a supportive bra that I could do up in the front, and they don’t come in my size off the rack. With stores opening and closing faster than a goldfish’s mouth, I opted to order one online. Sight unseen!

The first time I tried it on, I struggled a bit. But now that I have the straps adjusted, it should be simple, right?

First, it’s a tight fit, which is what you want when you’re working out. You don’t want to get slapped in the face with a rogue grapefruit when you’re striking a pose in zumba class. And you certainly don’t want to sued for battery by the skinny girl in tights next to you. (Of course, I’m not in zumba class so I’m safe, but still…) But it’s not like trying to pull on a pair of tight jeans. You can’t just lie on the bed, suck it in and hope for the best. It requires a strong grip and upper body strength to pull the two sides together in order the get the 2 parts of the zipper zipped, so this body armour bra can be strapped on.

I lack both a strong grip and upper body strength.

After multiple attempts, with my shoulder and back muscles screaming, I achieved near success. I had to practically stand on my head, but I was nearly there.

Second, the design is flawed. At the bottom of the zipper is a tiny flap of fabric. It’s sole purpose is to push your level of frustration over the edge until you cry, like ugly, snot-dripping cry. Actually, it’s purpose is completely decorative. It covers the bottom zipper do-hickey so the body armour bra looks “pretty”. I say it’s a design flaw because as I’m straining to squeeze and hold my pillowy mounds of flesh together so I can zip, the useless flap keeps covering the zipper do-hickies and I can’t get the pieces together. My hands slip and I have to repeat the whole exercise again.

By now I’m starting to feel sweat pooling in the curve of my spine. I’m desperately trying to feel the two metal zipper pieces so I can end the agony, but all I feel is a stupid flap. And I can’t see what I’m doing because my knockers are in the way, and threatening to explode from the heavily reinforced white fabric.

There is no “give” or stretch in this fabric, by the way. It doesn’t breathe. I, on the other hand, am hyperventilating. I’m moaning. I’m groaning. The backs of my knees are sweating. My brain and mouth are in agreement; they are both about to explode in a torrential outpouring of expletives that would make a sailor blush.

Then I imagine Hubby standing at the bottom of the stairs, hearing the sounds I’m emitting, wondering if he should ask if I need help. Obviously I’m either struggling with something, like a wild animal, or I’m having way too much fun alone! I think about asking him for help but I’m of two minds. One, it’s embarrassing to have to ask your husband to help you put on your intimates. And two, in my state of undress, I don’t want to give him any ideas.

Eventually, after a 10 minute struggle of epic proportions, I succeed. But now I really needed a shower.

A few days later I received an email. Could I take a survey and tell them how much I loved my new product? So I took the time to explain my concerns about the tightness and the flap, and how difficult it was for this bosom-y old gal to get dressed. Some sweet young thing replied later that I could exchange or return it. I suppose I could (if it weren’t so sweaty), but honestly, I think burning it would be more satisfying.

I was the first woman to burn my bra – it took the fire department four days to put it out.

Dolly Parton