Dear Mr Johnson
It has been a while since I wrote you a letter.[Two years, if my inadequate archive search is to be believed.] Since it’s your last night (right??) in the big city, it seemed as good a time as any to catch you up on the awesomeness that has been me. Alone with your three y chromosomes. For eight crazy nights.
(What, did you think this was going to be about Hanukkah?)
Oh, I know those ‘work’ trips can be stressful and whatnot. I’ve heard the waiting line at Moma can be killer! And what can be more stressful than standing in line by yourself at an art museum? Seriously. And there’s always the possibility of contracting food poisoning from one of the myriad restaurant meals you’ve had to endure in the last week-plus. You’re playing a dangerous game of Russian Roulette, really.
Thankfully it’s been smooth sailing over here in Calgary. Because you know it’s all party, all the time when you’re hanging out with three boys aged 6, 3 and 1. Like last night. You probably had to go to some boring dinner. Followed by some dull cocktail party at a studio where all the attendees are dressed in shades of black and charcoal.
Whereas I sat in front of the computer desperately looking for something to watch on Netflix. I settled on The Band’s Visit. Because I remembered it from last year’s Academy Awards. It was a fantastic combination of sparse dialogue and overly deliberate stills of desolate Israel. Really kept me at the edge of my seat.
It was around 10.30 by the time I turned in. But first I had to take care of my Calgary-hands. It’s that time of year again and there’s not a finger on my hands that is without some sort of dry-skin related injury. I’ve actually had to stop wearing my rings. Maybe that eighty year old man who wagged his finger at me while mouthing ‘it’s my turn’ at the 4-way intersection in Westhills will think I’m single. Gosh, I hope so.
So anyway, I put a thick layer of hand cream on my hands and…..wait for it….put a sock over each hand. So as to trap the moisture. In my skin. As I lay down. At 10.30. On a Friday night. With my white-mitted paws tucked underneath my pillow, I thought of the Sex and the City episode where Samantha pontificates: ‘women with candles have replaced women with cats as the new sad thing.‘
Except in my case it would be….’women with mitts’.
Today I dragged the boys to Westhills, to go to Winners and the Superstore. Only because we needed to get out of the house and I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Also, there’s some birthday shopping to be done since you’re going to be sixty-seven soon, if the Hen is to be believed. He really wanted to buy you a Transformer-supersoaker-looking thing. I said I didn’t think Daddy would want that. So I got you a shirt instead. Which is exactly what you want, I’m sure.
I also bought the boys some crazy 100 piece human anatomy/skeleton puzzle. Because as you know the Hen is obsessed with puzzles. And I figured a puzzle that big would keep them busy for a long time. And maybe they’d learn something about their organs or whatnot.
Except it didn’t work out that way. The Gort holed up in the basement abandoning his three year old brother to figure out a very complicated puzzle on his own. So Henners dragged me to the kitchen to help him build the (way too complicated) puzzle. And nobody learned anything. Well, I guess I did.
My favorite moment of the week-plus was Thursday evening at the Starbucks drive-thru window. I was waiting for my two short hot chocolates and the barista asked if I’d like a ‘stopper’ or a ‘straw’ for the drinks. I looked at her, blankly, as I mulled over my complicated options. Did I want a stopper? Or a straw? A stopper? Or a straw?
‘I’m sorry,’ I finally apologized for the ridiculous delay in answering, ‘I’m just so tired.’ She laughed ‘do you want a coffee?’
Well, it’s late and my mitts are waiting for me. Hope you don’t choke on any super-flaky croissants!