Adventures in Germany, part 2

This happened in March, after we'd lived in Germany for about two months: 

The door to our balcony has a lever on the side that flips up to lock the door and flips down to unlock the door. The entire door shifts down when it's locked so it's quite secure. We leave it unlocked all the time as we are on the second floor and no one can break in. I went out for a smoke this morning first thing, before even having breakfast, which is not something I normally do. However, for whatever reason, I grabbed my coat this morning, one cigarette from my pack and went outside to smoke it. Kate was already up, colouring and  watching cartoons so I figured my minor deviation from the morning routine would not be noticed. 

Before we moved to Germany, Kate never watched TV. It would be on and she wouldn't even look at it. She preferred to play with her toys while we watched our own shows. I think it has something to do with all the German cartoons, but our darling daughter is now addicted to the box. 

Anyway, as soon as she realized where I was she stood at the door, asking to be let out, but of course I shook my head and said no. She seemed to accept this and wandered back to the living room and I went back to reading the magazine I had. Suddenly, I heard a thunk! And I froze.

No, no, no, she did not just do that, did she? Oh yes she had. Without me noticing, Kate had returned to the kitchen and had flipped the lever up, locking me outside and herself inside. This happened at 8:45 in the morning. I tried desperately with much crying and swearing to coax her to pull the bar down and she almost did it twice, but she gave up both times. She just did not have the strength to push it into place to unlock the door. I was stuck. And I panicked. I screamed, I shouted, I coaxed, I cried, I begged Kate to try again.  Please baby, try again. She would not. While the lever was apparently fascinating five minutes before, it was of absolutely no interest to her now.

Fortunately, I had our only cellphone on me, but who on earth would I call? Brad didn't have a phone and I didn't have many people I could call. Our fellow expats were away on a trip so they couldn't come. And it was not even 9:00 am. That is practically dawn to Europeans. 

My best bet was Sonja, the girlfriend of one of Brad's co-workers, Marco. They were a great couple that we had quickly become friends with but Sonja worked late nights as a server at a local bar and she likely wouldn't appreciate an early morning phone call from a stupid woman she barely knew who had managed to get locked out on the balcony by her toddler. I waited until 9:30 and the entire time I was having anxiety attacks about what Kate might get into while she was unattended by her fabulously responsible mother. 

When I finally reached Sonja, it was 9:45 and I'd been out there for an hour, alternately sobbing over my predicament and pounding on the door in the hopes that a sound thumping would dislodge the damn German engineering. No luck. 

Kate spent that hour crying at the door to be let out to join me, playing with the curtain by putting it on her head and saying 'Hat!', sitting in front of the door with her feet up on the glass of the door, playing peekaboo and, finally, getting her shoes, like THAT was the reason that I wouldn't let her come out with me. She went into the living room to put her shoes on and when she succeeded,  she gave me a big smile and lifted one foot and then the other to show me. When I still uncompromisingly would not let her out, she gave up and went to the living room with her shoes still on, sat on the couch and watched cartoons. She had a lovely time, while I sat on a plastic chair and cried. 

Thankfully Sonja's grasp of English was good enough that it was possible to even explain the problem, and she called Marco, who told Brad (without explaining why) that he needed to return home immediately. Poor Brad flew home, imagining the worst only to find his furious, embarrassed wife locked outside and Kate happily watching German SpongeBob.   

To make it even worse, Kate has been saying fuck loudly every time she gets mad today. She's also been telling Brad, complete with fake crying, how mummy cried today. Then she loudly says Fuck!

 And before you EVEN start, I know I should quit smoking.  I'm pretty sure, someone, somewhere, is about to give me the mother of the year award. Oh and they are calling me Rapunzel now.  

Why I Quit Facebook

Every time I need to start an assignment...I write a post in my blog. In fact, you can pretty much measure how much schoolwork I need to get done by how many blog posts I suddenly have. I think this is a pretty common phenomenon.

phenomenon |fəˈnäməˌnän, -nən| noun
1 a fact or situation that is observed to exist or happen, esp. one whose cause or explanation is in question.
I can't believe I actually spelled phenomenon without using spellcheck. I know I shouldn't be so surprised about my spelling since I'm practically a university graduate (!!!!!!), but I have very little faith in my spelling, a fact which has not changed since the advent of spellcheck. I love spellcheck. If spellcheck was a boy, it would be a cute,  pouty-lipped sassy boy that I would want to marry. Some of you may be thinking that my ideal spellcheck looks suspiciously like...hmmm who does that look like? I'll never tell. ...but let's get back to important matters. I typed phenomenon correctly! Don't get all shirty about it, try spelling that correctly without peeking. I dare you. I told you it was a pretty fabulous feat.

I recently quit Facebook. That's right, I QUIT. Some people think I am batshit crazy for deactivating my account. I mean, come on, how can you possibly live EVERY SINGLE DAY without checking Facebook 40 times? I'll tell you how: it's hard. I was a bone fide, true-blue Facebook freak. I checked that crap every thirty minutes...when I was bored, when I was driving, when I was in the bathroom...during class, when I woke up in the morning and before I went to bed at night. And you know what I was seeing 90% of the time? I was seeing pictures of babies with cancer or dogs with their heads cut off and people were asking me to "like" these photos to help said babies or dogs. WHAT THE FUCK? Why would I like a picture that depicts a baby dying of cancer? Or a dog brutally killed? That is the most effed up thing I've ever heard of and people actually think they are helping? How stupid are they? 

And if I wasn't being pelting with pictures of suffering pooches and dying kids, I was being inundated with pictures of objects from the 80s with "like if you remember this." Yeah, I remember it. And with that piece of nostalgia, you made me feel pretty old. Thanks a lot.

Or I was being reminded that my life, compared to everyone else's in the world, was complete crap. Except for that one person who complained non-stop about her life, her kids, her house, her neighbours, her husband, her car, her kids' school, her sister, her mother and her dog. And the neighbour's dog. Her life sucked and made me feel pretty good about my own. But everyone else? They have nicer houses, smarter kids, better-behaved dogs, newer cars, better jobs, and more money than me. And I was, frankly, sick of being jealous of people when my own life is pretty fantastic. I have fabulous people in my life and wonderful things to be grateful for every day. Facebook had the audacity to make me forget that.

I will say I miss seeing what people are up to on a daily basis. Although that seemed to be about 1% of the info I actually got from Facebook. I've missed a few invites because I'm not on Facebook...but guess what those people did? They contacted me directly! I got a special invitation and you just got a crappy Facebook invite! HAHAHAHAHAHA, who's jealous now?

So that's it. I quit Facebook and I only regret it a tiny bit. I might even sign in again one day, just to screw with you.

27 Boxes of Books

My dad died four years ago today. No one said anything to me and I feel like they all forgot. They probably did, except for mum. She probably figured I didn’t need reminding, but still. I wish one person would have said something to me today...but no one did. 

To be fair, last year I forgot. I was happily minding my own business on October 7th and in the evening, my mum called me to see how I was managing, on this, the 3rd anniversary of my dad’s death. I replied, “Well, I was doing just fine forgetting about it until you called to remind me. Now I feel like shit that I forgot. What I horrible person I am. Thanks for reminding me.” She felt terrible, but I’m pretty sure I felt worse. 

So ironically,  I celebrated thanks today, on the anniversary of his death. I am thankful though. I’m still alive. But I can’t help but be bitter that I am dadless and that my youngest daughter will tell people, “My mom’s dad? Oh, he died before I was born.” And my oldest daughter will say, “Oh, ya, my grandpa died when I was two. I don’t remember him.”

For those two things I am not thankful.

I miss my dad, although sometimes I wonder why because we had a complicated relationship. Part of me did not like him very much and will probably never forgive him for leaving my mum and me when I was 15, essentially ending my life as I knew it. Another part of me loved him deeply because he was my dad. He taught me why the moon waxes and wanes. He told me never put up with a guy with a temper, because one day the temper would be turned on me. He had this deep, gravelly laugh that I can’t quite remember anymore. He smelled like tobacco smoke and he read copious amounts of science fiction. He paced while he thought about a difficult problem or if something he heard on the news was driving him crazy. He started making bread right before he died and whenever he experimented a little too much and had a crappy batch, he fed it to the ducks in the park across the street. 

When he died, both my brother and I were living outside of Canada and we had to fly home to clear out his apartment. Neither of us had a lot of time as we had to return to our homes, so we left a lot of stuff, but we did the best we could. Perhaps if one of us had had a home in Canada, we would have kept more things that belonged to him. More things that he had once touched. I have one teak box with a few artifacts from his life and I wish I had kept a shirt or something. The most time-consuming and hardest tasks we had was packing up his books because both my brother and I would grab the odd book from his collection as we packed them up and stop to read for a bit. We both packed a box each to take home with us, but there were so many, we couldn't keep the rest. I now have one row of books in my own library that once belonged to my father. I don’t even know why I picked those particular ones or if I will ever read them and I couldn’t tell you the title of even one. My eyes pass over them, unfocused, when I go upstairs to pick a book out. I suppose it’s a type of avoidance. One day I will pick one out and hold it and think about my dad holding it, reading it. Maybe I will picture him standing in the bookstore, deciding whether to buy it or not. Bookstore visits were a thrice-weekly occurrence for my dad. In any case, I have not read any of these books yet. But I will.

So what it came down to was packing up my dad’s stuff, taking a few small things and donating the rest to charity. The last night was packing the rest of the books. We packed all the books and loaded them into a van and drove them over to a used bookstore. It was dark, raining. Middle of October in Southwest Ontario, you know? So we get to the used book store and they don’t want them. We stare at each other in the wet and the gloom and decide to take them to Value Village. It seems like a good idea because the money will go to charity and we both think Dad would like that. So we unload the boxes and there are so many of them. I tell Dave we need to count them and we come up with twenty-seven. And that’s it. My dad’s life came down to 27 boxes of books abandoned on a rainy night on the cold pavement. 

I wonder what I’m supposed to get out of this experience. Losing my dad at the age of 31 and having this difficult, often sad, often strained relationship with him before he was taken from us. In my mind, I see his books that he loved so much being dropped off at some second hand place and us driving away. It took every ounce of strength I had not to run back and take every book back with me. I wish to this day that I had. 

Do you want to know what I got out of it? To be thankful for every second I have on this earth with these dear people I love. To love life and read books. To look at the moon and remember what he taught me. And to feed the ducks.

The things we lie about to ourselves...

1) That graham crackers are better than cookies and therefore not a "guilty food" and you can eat as many as you like
2) That if you eat the suggested serving portion each time you help yourself to said graham crackers, the calories don't count as much
3) That if you buy something on sale that you didn't really need in the first place, you are actually saving money
4) That if you have a cigarette when you're drinking, you're not really smoking
5) That fat-free foods are better for you when in actuality they usually have more sugar in them to make up for the lost fat
6) That if you weigh yourself with your clothes on, you can take 5 pounds off the total
7) That people are staring because you are so good looking when it's really because your underwear is showing, you have toilet paper stuck to your foot or you have spinach in your teeth
8) That you didn't really just spend the entire evening watching reality television, that you maybe watch an hour of television a night or every other night when in actuality you just watched it straight, without moving, from 6:00 until 11:00 (that is 5 hours a night in case you don't feel like doing the math because Survivor just came on and you're not really reading anymore)
9) That you enjoyed that weird artsy film when really you just don't want to admit you didn't like it, didn't get it and you want your money back
10) That you don't eat that many sweets or junk food...
11) That you have nothing to wear in your closet
12) That you totally just biked for an hour when it was probably about 30 minutes
13) That when you were biking, you were absolutely going hard-core fast, for-all-you-are-worth pedaling
14) That you really do need a new pair of shoes because you hate every pair you own when secretly you love all your shoes immensely
15) That you named your phone because you thought it was funny, but now you really think of it as another person
16) That you love every, single second of being a parent and never, ever want to tear your hair out by the roots in frustration or move very far away from any place that allows children to exist.
17) That Kraft dinner is a good lunch because it has milk in it, but you are too damn tired of saying no not to make it
18) That if you just quickly glance at a text message but don't reply then you aren't really texting and driving
19) That you studied for hours and hours and it was not broken up with painting your nails, surfing the net, job searching, playing with a new app, eating graham crackers or writing in your blog

What I did in the five years between posts...

Iwentbacktoworkigotanewjobiquitmyjobandmovedtogermanywiththefamilyandlivedtherefor16monthswemovedbacktocanadaigotanewjobtheniwentbacktouniversityigotpregnantwehadanotherdaughter(thatmakestwo!)nowimastayathomemom

...The end...

Adventures in Germany, Part 1

After yesterday's rather heavy post, I thought I'd share some of my European Adventures to give you a laugh.

In 2008, Brad, Kate and I moved to southwest Germany. We lived for 16 months in Stadelhofen, a small village in the Black Forest of Germany. We were about 20 minutes from the French city of Strasbourg, which is part of the Alsace region in France and it has almost as much German influence as French. Strasbourg was the border city Marie Antoinette travelled through on her way to Versailles. This is my story about the first time I visited Strasbourg.

On Tuesday I went to France. By myself. Well, with Kate of course. One of the other Canadians came by in the morning to say hi and we were chatting and she said they have an Ikea in Strasbourg and I thought to myself, 'Oh yeah? I need a broom and some garbage cans, I might end up going there' I mean, Ikea is the same everywhere, right? So after she left, I googled the store  and voila! I got the address and a map. Looking at the driving directions I thought to myself, ah, not so hard, just a right, left, straight, straight, right left, straight, no problem, I can totally do this. So I started off and I drove around Stadelhofen (where I live), then to Apperweir, on to  Zusenhofen, and halfway to Ulm, for about 30 minutes trying to find the B28 to Strasbourg because, of course, right off the bat, the instructions were not correct. Anyway, I finally found the highway and I made it to France, which is only about 20 minutes away. So I get on this enormously huge 401-entering-Toronto-esque type highway in France and I'm thinking, Oh God, I will never find my way home, I should turn around right now, but stupid me, I kept going. I followed my directions and found that they were not that bad and that the signs on the roads kind of  jived with what was in my instructions, so I followed them and holy mother of God, after about ten nail-biting minutes on the highway, including two exits and another highway I made it to Ikea. Parked, immediately had a cigarette. Contemplated turning right around and going back before I forgot how to get back. No, no, I'll just follow the instructions in reverse, it'll be fine, after all , I made it here, didn't I? And what woman can really resist a beautiful, shiny, blue and yellow Ikea, just beckoning to her? Not me, that's for sure.

Well, I shopped for about twenty minutes, the whole time close to tears, thinking, stupid stupid stupid. Should have waited until Brad was with me, then at least we'd lost together, or I should have printed instructions on how to get BACK, but no, had to go off half-cocked. I bought a dustpan with a brush, a laundry hamper and a stool for Kate. Briefly thought about gathering enough courage to ask a stranger 'Parlez vous anglais?' and then beg for instructions on how to get back to Germany. Decided against it. Got back to the car, drove around Strasbourg for about 15 minutes, getting more and more panicky when I realized I had no idea how to get back on the huge highway that I'd just been on, but in the opposite direction. After passing Ikea several times and realizing that I was just going in circles, I finally swallowed my pride and parked again, went in again (and the whole time I have Kate, so I'm hauling her around) and after about ten minutes of glancing shyly at a young couple and trying to pump up enough courage to use my French, I finally asked them if they spoke English. THANK GOD they did. They started to help me, but an older German gentleman heard and also spoke English, so he instructed me how to get home and I got home in about 35 minutes. Just like that. Ironically, I was on the right highway the first time I left Ikea and chickened out, I just had to go further. Scary as hell, seriously, but I am kind of proud of myself. We had dinner at Brad's friend's house that night and his wife said I was very cool, that she has many girlfriends that would not go to the Ikea in Strasbourg because the highway is too complicated and scary. I did not explain to her that I didn't know any better.

I've come to the conclusion that not only should Google maps tell you HOW to get to a place, they should RATE the route. Like, give it a 1-10 rating, 1 being straight there, no highways or turning and 10 being the craziest, busiest highways and many exits and turns. e.i. 10 being the nail-biting, cigarette-yearning, twisting-hair, most scary-ass thing you have ever done.

You may be asking, what was Kate doing while I was freaking out? She was sleeping. Like a baby you might say. Traitor.

Dear Bullies:

To All the Bullies I Knew in High School:

The first two years of high school I spent mostly in fear, sadness, and desperation because I was bullied by the same group of girls almost every day. Junior high was the same, but not quite so bad. It was more like training for the real thing.

Bullied. It seems so odd that there is so much focus on it now. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad people are recognizing it and trying to stop it. I'm glad kids are more aware of it and that schools say they will not tolerate it. But when I was in high school, bullying was just part of life. It was something we had to deal with in order to grow. We were going to grow up and have to deal with difficult people all the time, so we better get used to it. Boys will be boys and girls can be vicious. Well, being harassed and embarrassed on a daily basis did not make me better at dealing with difficult people, it made me terrified of confrontation.

In junior high, when I was 12, it was a group of three girls, who, for whatever reason, decided they hated me. As I recall it was because one girl liked my "boyfriend" and her friends supported her. They spread rumors that I was a slut and had already lost my virginity, they said I was stupid, they told people I was a bitch, they confronted me several times face-to-face and said they were going to beat me up. They never touched me, but I lived in fear that one day, when I was walking home alone, one of them would be there to punch me in the face, as she so nastily put it. I still remember all their names, but the main girl, the girl who was jealous of my boyfriend, my friends, my hair, I have no idea what, her face is burned into my mind. Her thin lips pressed into a sneer and her eyes glittering with hate. Because I was 12 and such a threat to her world? In oft repeated chat short form, WTF? 23 years later, I picture her face and I start to shake a little while I write this entry. I never told my mom, I never told any teacher. I just went to school every day with a knot of fear in my stomach hoping it wouldn't be too bad that day.

And it wasn't all bad. I had great friends who supported me, promised they would have my back if any of those girls so much as touched me. But who are we kidding? They were as powerless as me and they couldn't be my bodyguards. Thankfully, because the mean girls were a year older then me, they eventually graduated to high school and the next year I found myself in with the toughest group of kids in the school. They were from an area of town were poor kids and rich kids mingled together but all had various difficulties at home which meant they adopted each other as brothers and sisters. My own home life was great, my parents were still married, we lived in a nice house, we had everything we needed, but I was still welcomed into the group. Into the fold I went and I finally belonged somewhere. I didn't even need to be tough to be friends with them, they liked me because I was nice. And they were tough enough that I was protected by their reputation. No one was going to mess with me when I ran with a bunch of tough kids like that.

Then I graduated and went to high school. We'd moved in the meantime and I was starting at a school where I knew four people out of 1500. Again, I didn't belong and it wasn't long before some girls sniffed this sad fact out and began to pick on me.

All you want to do in high school is blend in, be cool, have a group to hang out with and just get through it. Some people even manage to have some fun. I wasn't a joiner, I didn't go in for clubs or sports, but I managed to make a few friends. Some of them I'm still friends with, incredible as that seems. I met a guy, we started "dating." I wasn't on anyone's radar and life was pretty good. My family had moved to a farm, so we were kind of isolated, but I had a horse and I loved the country. School was a place to go to see my new friends, hear the gossip and just hang out between classes. Lessons didn't really factor in.

Then, one day, it all changed. I knew that there were a couple girls in grade ten who didn't really like me, they gave me dirty looks in the halls and I always felt like they were whispering about me to each other. I laughed that off as vain. After all, who was I but a silly little niner of no import to them? They probably didn't even know who I was I told myself.

I went to a party one night with a few friends. I wasn't an isolated loner, a geek with no friends, a psychopath in the making, I had friends, I got invited to parties. Some people might even remember me as being popular. But this one party, this one night, there was a girl there that I knew didn't like me. She was one year older than me and for whatever reason I never learned, she had decided she didn't like me. I wasn't really concerned. Honestly, I don't like everyone I meet, I don't expect everyone who meets me to want to be bosom buddies, but I thought I could win this girl over. And then that undercurrent of hate I was starting to feel at school would dissolve and I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

So I smiled at her. I thought, hey, I'm friendly, I've made friends here, I can make this girl like me. Every time I caught her looking my way, I offered her a small smile. I thought I was making headway. Then a friend of mine (who was in this girl's class) came over to me and said, "Megan, you know I like you and I'm not saying this to be mean, I'm just relaying a message for your own good. Meangirl just said if you smirk at her one more time, she's going to come over and wipe your stupid smile off your face. So, you know, just don't look at her anymore, ok?"

I still remember the shock and outrage I felt as my friend said this to me. I was trying to be NICE! I was trying to be FRIENDLY! And this girl thought I was smirking at her? Taunting her? I look back at that night and cannot recall a time that my intentions were more thoroughly misunderstood. And I've been married for 12 years and had plenty of those head-shaking fights where you just think, Really? You honestly think that's what I meant? And the added insult of being told to "just not look at her anymore"! Who the hell did she think she was, telling me where to look? But at the same time, it scared me. I didn't have my tough friends to back me up anymore and I didn't want to push the issue. I really can't stand fist fights, I've never been able to handle the idea of them in real life and the thought that someone wanting to smash their fist into my face scared the hell out of me.

So that was the start of it. Soon I had a new group of three girls harassing me. They spread rumors about me too and taunted me, yelled at me in the halls. One of the worst insults was a nickname they gave me that followed me for the next year and a half, until I moved away and left the school.

"Hey Booger! Hey, yeah, I'm talking to you bitch," they laughed as I walked by. I could feel my face turning scarlet with embarrassment and confusion. Booger? Why were they calling me Booger? Gross! I remember looking around to see if anyone else had heard. Of course they had, lots of people were staring, a few were laughing, some were just looking away from me in embarrassment. These three girls kept calling me Booger and it took six months for me to find out why. It was as simple (and embarrassing) as talking to a boy one day who noticed I had a booger in my nose and he went and told a bunch of people about it. Word got back to those girls and they gleefully called me Booger for the next year and a half. They probably still call me that, I have no idea. What I do know is that 20 years later I am ridiculously conscious of what is going on in and around my nose at all times.

Another day, the three of them fell in step behind me as I was walking to class and starting talking about that new bitch, you know, Megan? Yeah, what a little slutty bitch she is, if I ever catch her alone, she better watch it because I'm going to kick her ass into next week. She's fucking dead if I ever see her outside of school, what a fucking slutty whore. She's so fucking high on herself, but she's nobody, she's nothing. And I walked in front of them, my books clutched to my chest, my head down so no one would see the tears in my eyes. I didn't turn around and yell at them, I didn't stick up for myself. I just cried silently to get to class. I couldn't even duck into a washroom to avoid them, because what if they followed me in and really did start hitting me? I pictured myself with a cut lip, a blackened eye, sitting alone, bleeding, in the bathroom after they left. Definitely not an escape plan.

And so on it went. Every night I would lie in bed and think about those girls and what I would say to them if I were brave enough. I wished that my old, tough friends from junior high were around to protect me. I knew that I would never stick up for myself, never speak out, that I would walk through the halls with them yelling "Booger!" and laughing at me and I would never tell on them. It might surprise you to know I never once thought of telling a teacher or reporting them to the principal. It was my problem and I had to deal with it. It didn't matter that I was too frighten. My fright was just another problem I had to deal with and get over. I didn't tell my mom, or my dad. I might have mentioned it, but I know it never turned into a big deal, that my mom never called the school to discuss a bullying issue. We talk about it now. My mother and I. She's a teacher now, at the same junior high I attended when I was 12. She says she had no idea that I was being harassed like that, if she had known...well, what would she have done? Probably nothing, because back then it was just something you put up with. You think your kid is exaggerating. Like, but mom! EVERYONE has these jeans! Parents didn't get involved like they do now, they weren't aware of just how badly bullies affect kids. My mom says if it was happening now, she would never let it slide, that she'd be calling the school, the parents. But that is now. Back then, I just cried myself to sleep each night and dreaded the arrival of the school bus in the morning. I went to school in total dread of what horror this new day would bring.

I spread it around that I was a pacifist. That I never fought and I didn't believe in fighting. My reasoning was that it would hold the fist fights at bay because not even a mean girl is going to throw a punch at a pacifist. Pretty much the most cowardly thing you could ever do is hit a person who has told the world they would not fight back. It was the only thing I ever did to defend myself. And in the process of telling people I was a pacifist, I realized I was. I would never hit another human being in anger or participate in a fight. Quite honestly I thought fist-fighting was vulgar and low-class and I was above it all. Okay, so maybe when the mean girls accused me of walking around like a snotty shit, they had a slight point. Still, I stand by that opinion. And I still don't like fights.

That was grade nine and grade ten wasn't much different. The taunts continued. The threats rang out. The name Booger followed me everywhere. At a time when all you want to do is blend in and be accepted, being called Booger doesn't exactly help.

In the fall of grade ten, one of the girls approached me at a party. She had been in a terrible car accident that summer, one in which she had almost died. As I recall, her neck or back had been broken and while she could walk, she had to wear a halo that had been surgically screwed into her head to keep her spine from shifting. I guess this accident had opened up her heart and mind and she came to realize what she had done to me the year before was incredibly unfair. She came up to me and said, "I'm sorry about all that shit I said to you last year. I can't speak for the other two, but I need to apologize to you. Things are different for me now, I realize how short life can be and I don't want to have regrets. I get it if you hate me, but I'm sorry and I won't be mean to you anymore." It took a lot of guts for her to say that. She could have just ignored it all, maybe stopped participating in the bullying, but essentially just ignore me. But she didn't. She had the guts to admit her complicity and apologize for it. I've always admired her for that and we became friends afterwards. We don't talk much anymore, but she's on my Facebook and if anybody asked, I'd say she was a friend.

Unfortunately, her apology seemed to fuel the fire for her two friends. They still hated me and still threatened me on a daily basis. I learned to avoid them, to take different routes so I wouldn't run into them on the way to class. One day, the ringleader, another girl whose face is burned into my memory even 20 years later, sent a message through a friend of mine to meet her in the stairwell near the gym. Ironically, it was the same friend who warned me at that party a year before that I better stop being so damn nice and watch my back. I didn't want to meet this girl, I was imagining her punching me, finally, after all those threats, but I didn't know how I could avoid the confrontation. My friend urged me to go, said she'd be there the whole time and that it would be better to just face it. If I ran away, which I dearly wanted to do, I would be branded a coward and things would never get better. So I went. And I stood there, mute, nodding my head, tears streaming down my cheeks as this girl started yelling at me in front of about twenty or thirty other kids. She told me what a stupid little bitch I was and who the hell did I think I was, walking around like I owned the school when it was pretty clear that everyone hated me. Did I see the people standing around? Every one of them hated me and wanted to see her kick my ass once and for all. I was nothing. I was nobody. I was a loser and if I kept walking around like queen shit, she was going to punch me in the face enough times to wipe that stupid fucking grin off my face. That I would need a fuck load of Tylenol to ever get my smile back.

I just kept nodding, agreeing with her, hoping she would finish up soon so I could flee back to my small group of friends. What hurt the most wasn't the threats of hitting me. It was the realization that all those people sided with her, that they hated me too. I never thought I was popular, or that everyone loved me, but to realize they hated me? What had I ever done to them? Dated a boy they liked? Laughed too loudly in the hall? Looked at them wrong?

Finally she was done. And I turned around to leave and realized my small group of friends were immediately behind me, ready to punch HER in the face if she touched me. I don't condone violence and especially not men hitting women, but when my guy friend said he was just waiting for her to throw a punch so he could hit her back (knowing I wouldn't), even the pacifist in me hugged him hard. I was only 15, sue me.

A miracle happened that afternoon. That girl's friend, someone who had not been part of the threats and taunts, came up to me and said, "I want you to know, what she said to you it wasn't true. Everyone there was hoping you'd lay her out, shut her tough mouth up for once. What she just did was really uncool and I want you to know I don't agree with her. Good for you for taking it and then walking away. Maybe she'll finally leave you alone." She had never stuck up for me before, but I guess her friend had finally taken it too far. People were starting to see that I was being bullied and that it wasn't cool. They started telling her to lay off, the shut up. It didn't change her feelings towards me, she still gave me dirty looks, still yelled, "Hey Booger!" occasionally but she didn't try to confront me openly anymore. Mostly it just got ignored.

Then I moved away and started at a new school. This school was a lot bigger and in a lucky coincidence, one of my best friends had also moved and would be attending the same school. At least with her by my side and a sea of students around me who didn't know about the booger, I could finally blend in and just be a high school student. I was never harassed at this school. No girls ever decided that they were going to kill me. No one threaten me or made fun of me. I never, to this day, found out why that girl hated me so much. It was something I wondered about incessantly because if I could have changed it, so she would leave me alone, you can bet I would have. But she never told me. As far as I know, she just hated my face and wanted to break it.

My story isn't that bad. I know the bullying that goes on inside and outside of school is so unbearable for some kids that they choose to take their lives, rather than live with the torment. I didn't contemplate suicide as an escape. But I can understand why a person would because the constant fear and sadness that I lived with for 18 months was humiliating and exhausting. And I can honestly say it has scarred my life because I will never forget it. I still shake to remember those days, some worse than others, when I would walk into school, my stomach in knots because I was terrified of what fresh hell my tormentors had in store for me that day. The nights when I couldn't sleep because I was lying in bed, imagining my ultimate payback, my revenge, crying because I knew it was a lie and that I would just put up with it, day after day.

It hasn't made me stronger. I still shrink from confrontation. Even in safe environments like the classroom, I have panic attacks speaking out because of what others might think of me. In the moments after I've confidently given my opinion in front of 50 other students, my hands shake and my heart wallops in my chest. I don't want to be special and I don't want to stand out. That is what bullies took from me, even if they never actually hit me.

My daughter told me today this kid has been bugging her at school. She considers him a bully. I told her how I was bullied, told her some of what those girls from so long ago said to me, to my friends, to their friends. She looked at me with round eyes and asked me what I did. I told her I didn't do anything, that I cried to sleep at night and was scared to go to school. She asked me if I would tell one of my teachers if someone was bullying me and I told her that was what she was supposed to do, or come to me like she had. She said, "Yes, but mum, what would you do NOW? Would you tell your teacher if someone was bullying you?" No sweetie, I'm a grownup now and I have to deal with it myself if it happens.

I didn't tell her that being a grownup doesn't help. But now I have my own kids to worry about and I have to have a talk with my kid's teacher about this bully. Even though the idea makes me shake and my hearts begins to wallop.

The Academy Awards

Last night, along with millions of other people, I watched the Oscars. For once I was able to stay up and watch the whole thing since I didn't have to work the next day, but now I wish I hadn't. It was a mishmash of ideas stuck together and called an awards show. I liked Ellen, I thought she was funny (a big improvement from Chris Rock who advocates hate with his racist black vs white humour), but she was barely even on the show. Then there was the singing, each year I can't stand the singing numbers, but this year seemed worse. Maybe it was the fact that three of the songs were from the same picture because apparently there wasn't any other movies with original songs in them? The show obviously ran long, not ending until long after midnight, but they had this guy recapping at the end of some sections on who's just won and how many Oscars were left to give away and talking inanely about Oscars work pools you may have entered. It was painful to see how many Oscars were left to give out after sitting on my couch for three hours. Here's a clue guys: If you're running into overtime, delete the guy who is talking about stuff that no one cares about.
And while I thought it was cool that a nobody like Jennifer Hudson (who was voted off American Idol for crying out loud), just won for best supporting actress, I seriously thought I was going to get an unwanted look at her nipple during her musical number. It came THIS CLOSE to popping right out and making the Academy wish they'd never heard of Jennifer Hudson. I was glad that she was on and off stage during the number and it looked like she was able to adjust her boob, because it looked a lot less likely to jump out and say hi during the last half of the act.
Will Ferrell and Jack Black were funny in a Broadwayeque number lamenting the fact that they would never be nominated and challenging the nominees to a fight. The best part was Will Ferrell saying that Mark Walberg was actually pretty tough, so he didn't want to fight him. "No, really, I think you're a great actor"
They also had these people who gathered behind a screen and made shadows of some of the movie logos or themes. This sounds lame, I know, but you see these shadows of people tumbling onstage and they jump, join, and stretch together and suddenly instead of ten people you have a clear picture of the shoe from the Devil Wears Prada, or four penguins from Happy Feet or a gun for The Departed. It was weird, but really kind of cool.
The Departed won Best Picture and Martin Scorsese won for the same picture for Best Director. Since the picture kicked ass (was very bloody and shocking, but also sad and exciting, quite a ride) and since Scorsese, a legend of Hollywood has never won before, those final Oscar moments, while maybe not worth a four hour wait, were truly wonderful to see.

Embarrassingly Clumsy

I went to Ikea with Tara yesterday and before we started shopping, we fed ourselves and the babies. The restaurant at the Burlington Ikea is pretty good and they provide microwaves for any baby food you might bring. Kind of refreshing that they don't insist that you eat their food. Anyway, after we were all done eating, I put our trays on the tray rack. Then Tara thought maybe she left her tubberware lid on the tray, so I went to look, but couldn't find it. She couldn't find it either, so I thought I would double check the tray. I pulled the tray out from the rack about halfway and then used both hands to start searching through the dishes and napkins on the tray. Unfortunately, no sooner had I let go of the tray then it came crashing down to the floor, spilling uneaten food and breaking dishes with a resounding *CRASH* I was so embarrassed, I started cleaning up the mess, hoping no one would notice. Considering there was salad, apple sauce, meatballs and mac and cheese mixed in with the broken dishes on the floor and the whole mess had somehow spread out about three feet in every direction, trying to hide it was futile, but I tried anyway. While I was thinking this, I picked up a piece of broken dish by the sharp edge and cut my finger. It wasn't much worse than a paper cut, but it was bleeding a lot more. This is when the Ikea employee came out and said, "Oh, don't worry about cleaning that up, we can do, it's our job" and I said, "OK, is there a place I can wash my hands? And I need a bandaid, I have a little cut" "OH, well, you need to come with me and talk to a manager, you'll have to fill out an incident report" Ah crap!!! So I followed the Ikea person over to the cashier, where, apparently, there was a manager. I went with her to the sink, but not before two customers saw my bleeding finger and made sympathetic but disgusted face at me. The manager had me wash my hands and swab the cut with alcohol (OUCH). The whole time this was happening, Tara was with the babies and she was probably wondering where the hell I was, because I went to check for her lid and then I disappeared! So I told the manager I would be right back, I had to tell my friend what had happen. The manager said that was fine, that Rob was coming up to fill in an incident report. Greaaaaaat! So we were standing there and the manager comes over and gives me a bandaid and then this guy comes up and says he's Rob and I told him that my finger was fine, that is was a tiny cut, no more than a paper cut, really, so he was like, "So you don't want to fill out a report?" And I was, "Um, if I don't have to, than no." So we were free to go. I had a bloody papertowel to throw out and Tara had a paper towel and a glass so I took them for her and since I didn't want to leave the glass on the counter, I put it on a tray that was on the dreaded tray rack. Only the floor was all slippery from my now mopped mess and my left foot slipped forward and I went down hard to ground on my right knee. I'm not kidding, I have a bruise today to prove it! I stood back up so quickly, I don't even think anyone noticed. At least, I'm really hoping no one noticed. I rushed over to Tara and said, "We have to leave, now. I just fell in the wet spot created by my mess and I don't want to have to fill out an incident report!" Tara started laughing at me and said, "Really, what happened, did you really fall? Are you ok?" And then, THEN, when I got home last night and I was putting stuff away and cleaning out my closet (I got a shoe holder and now my closet is all orgnaized) I fell down the stairs holding the baby and three bags of used clothes. I only fell down the three stairs leading to the landing, but I hurt my bum and my lower back. At least there wasn't a cafeteria full of people staring at me as I went down this time. I'm hoping that I spent all my clumsy tokens yesterday and that I have a accident-free Tuesday.
Oh, and the lid, the one that Tara couldn't find and thought was on the tray? She suddenly remembered that she left it over near the microwaves and then forgot to get it before we left the restaurant anyway!!! For all we know, that lid is still on the counter waiting for someone to claim it!

I Made a Sweater

I made a sweater for Kate. This is a picture of her in the sweater, she is obviously very excited about it (or maybe she's wondering how the baby in the other room has the same sweater as she does):
I did not use a pattern, because I didn't find one that I liked, so I made one up myself. It's not the greatest sweater ever made, but it's nice enough and I like the colours. It's something Kate can look at when she's a grownup and say, "My mother made that for me." My mother thinks I'm very daring to knit a sweater without a pattern. Woohoo, we're on the train to Thrillsville now. Stop the train, I'm getting out--knitting without patterns leds to chaos and chaos leds to anarchy, the whole world may collapse because I took two sticks and some yarn and decided to make up my own pattern. Knit one row, pearl one row. Omg I can't handle the pressure.

There Should Be People Who Do This For a Living

One broken latch, three stripped screws, one broken drill bit, two useless packs of latches, four skinned knuckles, three un-needed holes drilled into my cupboards and one blood blister later, I have managed to attach childproof latches to my four drawers in the kitchen. I'm very proud. Well, sorta proud. Already I hate them. Everytime I open a drawer *THUNK* and the drawer stops short of actually opening. And then *THUNK* the drawer stops as it's closing. I know it's better and safer for Kate since she is starting to "cruise" around the place and one of her favourite things is to open the drawers. She hasn't pinched her fingers yet, but our drawers are mean, I've been bitten by them myself. Anyway, this is what Kate thinks of my babyproofing:



She has had a fever for almost 48 hours. Well, an off and on fever. Low-grade, probably induced by teething, but it's still a fever. I know low fevers are actually good because it means she's strong and fighting something, but it still freaks me out that my baby has a fever. Words like, "fever spiked" and "deadly infection" keep buzzing in my head like angry bees, ready to sting if I pay too much attention to them.

First Haircut and Retarded Self-Help Books

Yesterday, after Kate fell asleep, I gave her a hair cut. It looks pretty good except now she looks more like a boy than ever! At least she has proper bangs now, instead of those annoying wispy bits of hair that went everywhere. And I have all these mini barrettes now that I can put in her hair so that people know she's a girl. It's kind of funny, because I find it annoying when she is wearing pink and people think she's a boy, but really, who cares? So people think she's a boy, it's not like it will last long and she'll grow up emotionally scarred because she was mistaken for a boy all the time. She doesn't know the difference, so she doesn't care! Cutting her hair for the first time made me feel nostalgic. Not too much more time before I go back to work :(
MSN was featuring a video series about this book called Babyproofing Your Marriage. One of their 'tips' was the Five Minute Fix, which is giving your husband a blowjob instead of having sex with him. Apparently, of the men interviewed, most agreed that they would do whatever their wife wanted (babysitting, housework, with a smile no less!) if they got regular blowjobs. This is just wrong on so many levels. First of all, how ridiculous is it to suggest giving a blowjob instead of sex? If I don't feel like sex, why on earth would I feel like giving my husband a blowjob? Secondly, the authors reason that it will get him off your back for a couple days without rejecting him completely. Honey, if you are just trying to get your husband off your back for a few days, why don't you try TALKING to him? Treating him like a chauvenistic pig isn't good for anybody. I know, I know, guys would rather get the blowjob than a heart-to-heart, but sometimes life sucks (or, in this case doesn't, ha ha). Thirdly, the authors, after interviewing many couples, found that women wanted more help, with the kids and the housework and guys wanted more sex. So the solution is a blowjob for him so he will help you clean the dishes? Fuck that, if my husband can't wash the dishes without me 'sexually servicing' him, I'd rather just wash the damn things alone! I'm not saying that our sex life is perfect, or that the occasional blowjob wouldn't help, but seriously, this is the solution three authors came up with to help millions of couples with kids? Here is a review I found: Jenna's Review It wasn't very flattering and I'm glad I read it before wasting my time with the book! Frankly, I'm a little disappointed with MSN for featuring such crap.
If a book like this can get published, surely I can write something worthwhile!

A Hole in My Sock

I have a hole in my sock and my bra isn't giving me enough support and my hair has split ends. Today everything seems sucky. Maybe I'm just depressed that Christmas is over...

Bona-Fide Standing

Today I looked up from writing my thank-you cards to see Kate standing at her new Baby Grand Piano, trying to reach the buttons at the back. She was STANDING, on her own two feet, by God! And tonight, because of a late nap, she DID NOT want to go to sleep at bedtime. I put her in her crib and left her room, but after 15 minutes of her howling, I had to go back in, I couldn't stand it anymore. I felt like I was torturing her! When I went back in her room, she was standing in her crib, holding onto the bar and screaming at the top of her lungs. I said to Brad, "You better come and see this!" Which probably gave him a heart-attack, but he was pretty excited when he came in and saw her standing there, all by herself! Doesn't she look happy in this picture?

Bona-Fide Crawling

My daughter's been dragging herself around the house for the last month or so in what one friend calls the 'wounded soldier crawl' and another calls the 'commando crawl'. Yesterday, Christmas day, it finally happened-she crawled on her hands and knees! She got on her hands and knees and started rocking back and forth like she usually does, but this time, instead of falling flat, she actually moved forward, all the way across the hall! I sat in amazement, watching her and all I could think to say was, "Holy shit!" It seemed unreal, that this baby, who only five months ago didn't even know she had feet, can actually crawl on all fours across my hall! I have to say, even with everything we got yesterday and the wonderful dinner with our family, that was surely the best Christmas present of them all!
This year was the first year we had Christmas dinner at our house. In previous years, we spent the day dragging ourselves around town, trying to spend time with my dad, Brad's parents, and my mum. It's usually worked out well, Christmas Eve at my dad's, breakfast at one mom's, dinner at the other, alternating every year. It was always fine, but I always, always dreaded Christmas coming and trying to work everything out. It always seemed like my responsibility and I hated that I had to divide my time between my dad, my mom and brad's parents, and make sure everyone was happy. The guilt of leaving my mom alone on Christmas Eve combined with the guilt of leaving my dad alone on Christmas Day, does not always make the season a jolly one for me. One year, we had everything planned and Brad's mom phoned a week beforehand and wanted to switch everything and I nearly had a nervous breakdown. Brad saved the day by saying that our plans stood as they were and that his mom had no right to change things a week before. God bless Brad!
Anyway, this year, with a new baby, I was dreading this arrangement more than usual because, as anyone with a baby or small child knows, getting them ready to go out, getting them in the car, getting to your destination, unpacking everything (kid and gifts), packing everything up again, taking them somewhere else and unpacking and packing, oh my GOD!!! And trying to find time to nurse her? Forget it, so my brillant plan was to have dinner here, in our teeny-weeny house. I just couldn't decide which grandparent would have to miss Kate's first Christmas, so my plan was to make sure no one did! To complicate matters, I invited a couple my mom knows because they were alone for the first time, with neither of their daughters coming home. Which would have been fine if I had talked to Brad about it before making the rash decision to invite them. The silences I endured after I told him were not pleasant and I don't really blame him, since he isn't of the 'the more the merrier' type. I should have known, I'm not really sure what possessed me to invite them, blame it on the abnormally large Spirit of Christmas I seem to be suffering from this year. Anyway, they came and Liz made the gravy, so THAT was ok. I think Brad has forgiven me. But if anyone remembers the incident of the rabbit in the spare room, they know I'm given acting in haste and repenting at leisure. You would think poor Brad would be used to it by now!

Can't Sleep

It's most aggravating when you KNOW you will be exhausted the next day. It's not like I can just pause my life and take a nap when I'm tired. I'm yawning. My eyes are itchy. But sleep eludes me tonight. Hmmm. I think I got that last bit from Jane Eyre.
I was lying in bed, thinking about money, a sure-fired way to lay awake all night. I was thinking about work and taking Kate to daycare and the idea, just the IDEA of it, gives me the shakes. In seven months, I've left her with a sitter five times. OMG. I swore I wouldn't be the kind of person who gives up her life to have kids, but I realize now that she IS my life. So anyway, five times, for maybe four hours at a time. And now I have to leave her with some stranger ALL DAY?! The idea is ridiculous. I miss the kid when she's in bed for the night.
So, I have a few plans to make sure this doesn't happen.
1) Take two kids in for $35-$50 a day, each
2) Bookkeeping from home
3) Pray that Brad's business takes off and he makes enough money for all of us
4) Research online jobs, to see if I can do any of them
5) Start internet porn site, collect money for dirty, stupid men
6) Invest in the stockmarket
7) Bet large amounts of money at the track
8) Become a personal shopper/errand runner for rich people
9) Get pregnant again and take another year of maternity leave after working for 13 weeks
10) Learn how to fix cars and open shop, with Kate as my apprentice
11) Write Great Canadian Novel and sell for thousands
12) Sell rights of Great Canandian Novel to movie producer for millions
13) Sell story of my life, as author of Great Canadian Novel, to different movie producer for more millions
So-do you have any ideas?

And Thanks For All the....Ducks?

The Kid likes the ducks. They quack happily when you pull their string (why does that sound kind of dirty?).

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW

My boob hurts. Yes, that's right, you heard me, my boob hurts. It's all lumpy and full of milk and even though I fed Kate on it for twenty minutes, it's still full. Blocked milkducts suck. I'm really glad I'm breastfeeding and I wouldn't switch to formula if you paid me, but I could live without the swollen breast. Part of me doesn't want to give up breastfeeding, but part of me is also looking forward to when my boobs go back to normal and I don't have to think about them or notice them or be constantly aware of them at all times. Do you know that I actually caught myself (several times) lifting first one breast and then the other IN PUBLIC to see which one was more full (and therefore which one I was going to feed her on next).
Holy Mother of God I need a warm compress.

Happy (Late) Halloween

We (meaning me and Kate, because Brad was on the afternoon shift) had a pretty good Halloween. I managed to not only give out some candy, but I visited people too. My mum and my in-laws were really pleased to see Kate and I arrive to "trick or treat" I even got some candy out of it! I ate so much chocolate in one night, I've been suffering from withdrawal all week.

I got Kate's costume on eBay (I'm telling you, eBay ROCKS). It was way too big, even if it was labelled 6-9 months, it would have easily fit my little friend E who is 18 months! So I ripped it all apart and made it many inches shorter and it turned out so cute-don't you think?
I was thinking I could use it as a pattern for next year and make her a little black bear costume or something. I have so much fake fur it's not even funny. Of course, it would probably be much easier to just BUY a pattern and use IT as a pattern, being as that's what they are for. We'll see how much time I have next year. Try none. Store bought costumes from now on.

I took a picture of my stomach to document what it looked like seven months later. I'm not publishing it here, but I have to say, I was pretty happy with the difference. My stomach is flatter than it was at 15 weeks, which was my first belly shot. I guess that means I'm back to normal.

Brad and I went this Indian food place and got take-out from their buffet yesterday. Oh. My. GOD they make good food. It's really amazing how much you can fit in a take-out tray when you try. They had fresh fruit too, so I stuck a banana in my pocket on the way out (which Brad made fun of later). I figured I had four servings of fruits and vegetables in one sitting, which totally rocks!

Success...Well, Sort Of

Today, my baby VOLUNTARILY opened her mouth when I offered her food! The food offered? Broccoli! Who knew that a child that came from me would prefer vegetables over fruit? Well, not entirely sure that's true because later she was offered a pear (mostly eaten by me) and she grabbed hold of it and used her two teeth to chew away on it. I think she just doesn't like baby food. I can't really blame her, what the hell does straining do to fruit to make it taste that shitty?

Anyway, another mommy friend told me Kate would probably prefer 'real' food to jarred baby food and cereal and she was right. The broccoli was just something from our dinner that I cooked a little longer. I think the bright green intrigued her and she opened her mouth like she does when she sees a favourite toy (right before stuffing as much of said toy into her mouth as possible). Can't say that she particularly enjoyed the broccoli once it was in her mouth, but lo and behold, she opened her mouth for a second helping. After that, forget it. Turned head and pursed lips reigned.

Anyway, tonight a good friend came over and man, she is one crazy girl! She loves babies and dogs and she just gets right down there with them to play. Today she was jumping up and down and talking to Kate and I have to say-Kate loved it. She even giggled out loud which is something she doesn't normally do unless she is physically stimulated (tickling, etc). It was hilarious. Kate was in her Bumbo chair rocking back and forth, like she was trying to dance, laughing her head off. This girl is the type of person you want to babysit your kids, because you know she wouldn't just park them in front of the TV, she would actually play with them and take them places. Cool chick.

Today was a crazy day, I was up all night (it seemed) with Kate, who awoke at 1:30 am and decided it was time to party. She didn't (would NOT) go back down until 5 am. Needless to say, with a killer sore neck and very little sleep, I wasn't really in the mood to party. Then, of COURSE, she slept most of the afternoon, so I got some shuteye then, but GOD. So, here I am at 1 am, not able to sleep, but tired nonetheless. This SUCKS!

I'm reading Jane Eyre again. I don't really remember it from the first time around, except that I felt I was struggling thru it. Now I find myself really enjoying it and wondering what will happen to Jane next. I've just gotten to the part where the owner of the school she's attending has made her stand on a stool in the middle of the great hall and told everyone she is a liar, but her nice headmistress has asked her the truth of her past and believes what Jane says. Altho I find it hard to believe anyone would be as cruel to a child as Mrs. Reed is to her niece Jane, I admire Jane's courage to stand up to her at the last, when Mrs. Reed lies about her character and behaviour. I find myself rooting for poor, downtrodden little Jane. I have a feeling that when I'm finished Jane Eyre I'll once again be convinced that I will never write anything worthwhile.

By the by, I may get some flak for this next comment, but I just finished re-reading The Secret Garden and I have to say, it's not that great! I know it's a beloved book and a classic, but the writer was a bit of a manic about flowers and the weather and let's face it, neither subject is very exciting. I can only handle so many passages describing the heather on the moor and the wind whistling through the eves. To be fair, it IS called The Secret Garden, so descriptions of flowers should be expected, but oh my God, enough! Also, I found myself re-reading certain sentences because vague pronouns and misplaced commas made it hard to read. In one sentence, a pronoun was missing altogether! I found myself wondering if the author ever listened to her editor.

Ah well, it's easy enough for me to criticize books, but I've never had the imagination to write one, have I?