Boundbytheword Blog

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Isn’t it Ironic? August 13, 2010

Filed under: What's Up? — Noelle Bickle / Abby Brooks @ 1:47 AM

My day started out so well.

Woke up without a migraine for the first time in more than a week. Ahhh. Dropped off the wee one at day camp on time, and she was excited to go. Whew. Sweat it out big time for the end of week two at the gym. Ugh. Stepped on the scales and lost 4.7 pounds (hear the choir sing?). Had a great – and I mean great – hair day.
Waiting for the shoe to drop? Not yet, it still gets better.

Came home to a message that I was shortlisted in the Lake Country Literary Lapses short story competition! Yahoo! I’ve been invited to read my work at their evening gala next Friday night, and will find out then where I place in the 5 short-list spots. Maybe a bit of prize money to be had, for certain the spotlight for about 15 minutes while I read, and regardless of the place that I do indeed place, a night to feel pride in my work. Happy day. Happy happy happy day.

Now the shoe drops.

Our plan was to take our two little ones and my son’s best buddy to Medieval Times. Show started at 7:30 in Toronto. We figured two hours was enough time to make it there. And it would have been. Except the boys took the dog for a walk around our property before we left and came upon an unfamiliar cat. It wasn’t our cat for sure, but it was hard to make out considering it only had a tail and a head left intact. The feline parts that coyotes don’t prefer, apparently.

That delay might have been okay, except there was traffic (imagine that) and we showed up thirty minutes late to the front gates. The performance may have been salvageable apart from the fact that they lock the nine entrance doors on latecomers. So we call head office in a panic and the wonderful girl on the other end lets us reschedule. Which is very nice and a relief after the $200 “deal” on tickets. So things look a bit less bleak, I’m hoping it takes a turn for the better.

At this point we’ve travelled more than two hours. I have three hungry, disappointed kids and one cranky, frustrated husband. So we decide to hit the Old Spaghetti Factory. It was a hit when I was a kid, and let’s face it, we could use a hit right now. I used to love this place, I say. I tell them we always got a super colossal sundae to share. I assure them they’ll have loads to choose from. I use my super Pollyanna skills to cheer up the gloomy bunch and tell them it’s gonna be great.

The thing is though, things change. They have loads to choose from for pasta lovers, which in our family – not so much (except my oldest daughter who would’ve been in heaven…I know Heather, you should’ve been there). I guess I should have known based on the name alone, but hey – I was going for the nostalgia of something great. In the now though, there is no pizza for Lainey, Sam hates everything on the kids menu, and worse than that, there are no giant sundaes. Oh fudge fairies, help me now.

The kids are seriously bummed. My husband is getting more agitated by the minute – I won’t bore you with all the details (plus he subscribes to my blog and will read this). Let’s just say there may have been hushed arguments behind the menus, there may have been stone cold silence and I may have threatened to ban him to the child’s section of the restaurant. It wasn’t pretty.

About 45 minutes into dinner I begin to fantasize about living alone in Paris. Sitting alone in a street side café, writing brilliant prose as I sip wine and nibble on baguettes. And I think to myself, is this really my life? Le sigh.

I try to make the best of the whole debacle. I snap photos of everyone. Smile, I say. They smile. It looks like we had a lovely evening. Except that I wasn’t there. Or so it would seem, because no one ever thinks to snap a picture of the photographer. No. Why would anyone bother to capture me all dolled up with my (four-pound-less) chubby cheeks or the fab-o hair? No, it would be better to grab a shot of me just after I wake up, or maybe when I am scraping half eaten cat off my walking path. That captures the essence so much better really. Maybe the lack of my face in any photo can help me convince myself I wasn’t really there after all.

The irony. The day started off so well. Le sigh.


4 Responses to “Isn’t it Ironic?”

  1. Rhonda Says:

    Le sigh et all. I hear ya, been there.

  2. Dale Long Says:

    I suffer from those idealistic dreams of writing too, only I’m sitting in a beach chair, sand caked on my feet, my glass of margarita sweating glistening beads of cold beside me, straw hat, sunglasses, zinc coated nose, the delicious smell of BBQ riding the sound of the ocean. And then I have to shake myself out of the dream tree and crash to reality.
    Even though you think the day was a loss, it’s still days like that that you and your no-longer-little-ones will laugh about on a summer’s evening up at the cottage funded by the best-sellers you’ve created through sweat, angst and lack of sleep. Laugh it off kiddo. I, for one, thought it was a great story!
    The old Spaghetti House eh? I remember that place. That and drive-in A&W’s.

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