A Fictitious Listicle of Christmas Complaints
The biting cold, the howling wind, the slippery roads, the snow piling up, and the enveloping darkness, make me want to roll up in a blanket with a jumbo bag of Munchie Mix and not poke my head out till spring.
I wiped out in a heap on the driveway yesterday and was pretty sure I looked like a beached whale and, if I didn’t manage to get up promptly enough, that someone was coming to helicopter me out to the Arctic and lob me onto a precariously thin patch of ice and set me adrift still lying there, essentially gift-wrapped walrus bait.
My neighbor’s house looks like a reindeer binged on 10 ugly Christmas sweaters and then proceeded to projectile vomit. You’d think looking at it would banish my Seasonal Affective Disorder forever, but I still feel like I need to go inside, dim the lights, and take an Ativan. I’ve started averting my eyes even in the daytime.
My 30-year-old, Zellers Christmas special, fake Christmas tree is now starting to look like a 30-year-old, Zellers Christmas special, fake Christmas tree. Even Charlie Brown and the gang couldn’t sing this pathetic, scraggly mess of glue and plastic back to life.
My attempt at making a cheery platter of whimsical holiday treats ended with me crying, dusted with flour and eating cookie batter out of the bowl, while tearfully admitting that I don’t have the dexterity to use a rolling pin, cookie cutter, or piping bag or the stamina to make six dozen cookies in one day.
The lines were so long at the mall and the people so grouchy, I started to blame them for everything that’s wrong with my life.
If I have to listen to Frosty the Snowman one more time, I might have to rent a snow blower and take out all the snowmen in my neighborhood, handknit scarves, carrots, and all.
I couldn’t find the wildly popular, obscenely overpriced, Christmas gifts my loved ones wanted, so there’ll be dampened sadness around the tree this year instead of joy.
I can’t afford this but I’m doing it anyway and I’m not sure why.
I got the ugliest ornament in the gift exchange at work. It’ll make a fine addition to my growing collection of ugly ornaments from Christmases past.
Too much cheese log equals one large cheese plug. 😛
With all these Christmas parties, my bowl-full-of-jelly belly is starting to overflow my pants by a couple of large dollops.
The turkey is dry, the gravy is lumpy, the Jello didn’t set, the guests are arriving, and I feel like a smelly, wrung out dish rag who just had her hand up a big bird’s butt.
It was a beautiful summer’s eve
Under a yellow umbrella Continue reading “Disrupted”
Many of you know, if you’ve been reading my blog for awhile, that I struggle with an eating disorder. You can read more about that here. Lately, with the ongoing threat of Covid and the increased patient load at my workplace (you can read about what I do here), I’ve been succumbing to the urge to rapidly consume the contents of my cupboards, healthy or otherwise. I recently took the important step of booking an appointment to see a professional about my problem. I’ve always been a self-helper. Whenever my behaviours resulted in too many unpleasant outcomes, I would read widely on my issues and adopt new coping strategies. Often, this would produce small, lasting changes, but I’m finally ready to admit that I’ve done what I can and I need another’s perspective and guidance. Continue reading “Mountains are for Climbing”
My Prayer for 2021:
I believe it was March 2019, Pre-Covid. It’s all rather fuzzy. The moments are piling up and describing them in regards to when they happened is becoming more difficult, trying to extricate them from the pile is too arduous a task. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It happened regardless of when. I was staying with my sister. She had planned a get together for the young ladies of her community and had her daughter invite her friends and spread the word. She gathered poster boards, magazines, coloured papers, felts and pencils of every hue, stickers, jewels, glitter, and glue. She encouraged the girls in attendance to think about who they wanted to become and what their future might look like and make a visual representation. I live 10 hours from my sister and usually fly there. I wasn’t interested in carting an unwieldy poster board onto the plane, but I still wanted to participate in the exercise. A scaled-down version would have to do. At the beginning, my sister handed out a small, sturdy card to be used to record our thoughts and it was just what I needed. Brevity is a good thing. Something I’m not known for. 😀 When one has an excess of goals, one often doesn’t reach any of them. We must hone in on our heart’s desires and leave the periphery lie. Continue reading “I Have a Dream”
The word fat has been in my vocabulary since I was a child. I’m sure there was a time when I was small in size, but I don’t remember it. I was never a wisp of a girl, it’s not how I’m built. When I see pictures of myself in preadolescence, the first word that comes to mind is stocky. I’m reminded of an impish boy pointing at me on the playground, his eyes flashing, as he sang, off key, the popular, Ball Park Frank’s jingle, “They plump when you cook ’em”. He wasn’t inaccurate. Plump. That’s me, for most of my life anyway. Continue reading “Move it and Lose it: A Former Fatty on Going Lean”
Take control of me, Jesus. The current management is woefully incompetent.
Almost 6 years ago, I went back to school to change my career. To say I went back to school is incorrect, because I’ve been in school now for 52 years. The school of life is always in session. Life lessons are a moment by moment occurrence. If we’re aware, we’ll acknowledge the lesson, learn from it, and be changed for the better. If we go through life on autopilot, never recognizing what life is trying to teach us, we may someday regret our inattentiveness. Just as in school, there are some lessons we want to learn. We lap them up, like a parched dog slurping noisily at a water dish. We apply ourselves with every ounce of our time, concentration, and giftedness. Other lessons, we must push ourselves to learn. I have a friend who received a grade of 62% in one of his high school courses. Worried that this low mark would affect his chances of getting into university, he went to the trouble of taking the course again only to end up with 63%. I do find this humorous, but also baffling, because I get it. It’s true, some things we can only learn the hard way. Continue reading “Lessons from the Valley and the Mountaintop”
I lost something recently that I cherished. No, there’s been no death in my family. I like to use big words and have a tendency to exaggerate. I lost pictures I’d taken on my holidays, pictures I’d admired and played with and hoped to share on Instagram, probably 500 of them. I went on a hike to a lake this summer and impulsively took my phone, the keeper of my precious pictures, on a swim and, nope, I didn’t have them backed up. My phone is dead, blank, unyielding, even though I smothered it in quinoa, rice, and silica crystals, took it in to have it checked out by people who know more about phones than I, stroked it and prayed over it. I’m still praying, but to date, sadly, there’s been no resurrection.
Continue reading “See if I Care”
It’s never too late to start over
No matter the day or the hour
To change one’s mind is not a crime
If something isn’t working
It begs that one begin again
Barreling head long toward some lofty plan
Can mean the end of one’s self
rather than the end one intended to pursue
Pause and ponder
Gain some fresh perspective at an intermediate juncture
Recognize and titter at your blunders
Take a new tact or commit to stay the course
For more effective progress can be realized in repose
And a thoughtful journey does a better outcome make
Take your time
Take a breath
Take a good, hard look
Take a break
It’s never too late to start over
Posts come out every Monday morning, a poem every third Monday. Scroll down to the bottom of the page to receive notifications of my posts via email. Follow me on Instagram username: pollyeloquent. Thanks for reading. 🙂
We play a game in our house called “What’s Your Favourite”? We ask each other, “What’s your favourite color or animal or whatever?” Once my son asked me, “Mommy, what’s your favourite thing to do?” “Sleep”, I said.
Continue reading “Sleep Becomes Her”
Wrinkles are life’s measurable outcome.
I would say my face started visibly aging when I turned 40. (My soul’s age is skipping in a groove somewhere in adolescence.) People were always telling me how young I looked. I’ll throw out a few examples:
Continue reading “The Aging Game”