Eid

Eid Mubarak to Powa, who reads this when she's taking a break from being a super-genius-research-scientist-person. And to all my imaginary readers too! (Apart from Father Dougal, who is currently tending to his flock aka 'the barbarian...horde!' Bunch of rowdy pre-schoolers.)

We woke up to rain and saturated greenery & purdiness outside--the pond in particular, a marvel to behold.

I got (myself) a Too Faced Natural Eyes Palette! Huzzah!
And littlest got a book about a lion who likes to chirp along with 'perky parrots.'
Ole Man Jiggy Wiggy got some LUSH.

And these pictures of Palestinians celebrating Eid made my morning. Uncrushed spirit.

They were pounded with 40 airstrikes (and counting) from The Unfettered Goons BUT WHATEVS YO, EID!

Pics courtesy of Rina Andolini who wrote:

We managed to hand out 20 food parcels courtesy of an Al-Fatiha Global brother. Many families displaced from Shaji'ya, living in Gaza city with no food, no clothes, no mattresses to sleep on, no nothing. They evacuated their homes and their lives and left with nothing. They have nowhere to go back to as their homes are destroyed. Shaja'iya is destroyed.

Of course, whatever we do, it is not enough. But we will do all we can to help as much as we can in shaa Allah.

Many families do not feel comfortable with having pictures taken, and this is something I respect highly. I am here to help and not make a circus out of things.

Those who felt comfortable with it, I did take pictures with their permission.

The parcels consisted of rice, oil, olive oil, cheese, macarona, tomato paste, luncheon, fool, tea, fortified with minerals milk powder, mixed lentils, chicken stock, tuna, jam, dilute mix drink, sugar, and cleaning products.

As Maya Angelou wrote:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise 

I rise. 

Distractions distractions

Lately my dreams consist of an amalgamation of the massacres in Syria, and Gaza, with a little of Iraq thrown in for good measure, videos/articles/books manifesting into gruesome, graphic nightmares.

The creepiest part of these dreams, are the bits that flash to Vurld Leaduhs, gathered 'round the Round Table and plotting out the next assault in sterile, precise terms--unfettered by sympathetic, human consideration. Unaccountable, unstoppable. Then there's me, impotent, inexplicably connected to it all.

Others I've confided to, have told me the exact same thing: they've mentioned dreams of dying families, people suffocated in the rubble of shattered buildings, a kid waking up to find herself an orphan. Bits and pieces of the news we've read, the pictures we've seen, the history we know. Strange, isn't it, that people of all ages, are just as in tune to this madness, and just as affected?

When you wake up, the nightmare taints what would have otherwise been an ordinary day. Routine hangs around like unwanted dead-weight.  Like moths' carcasses, hanging in a spider's web, long-devoured, with only the wings remaining.

 I feel so much is unnecessary trash, if it was shaken off, I'd find the answer. Some way to help, just a little. I asked so many people whether there was a way just to get Egypt to open its borders, stop sending back or stealing from aid, etc. Petitions? Rallies? Letters? What? I mean what more can you do??!?

So as catharsis, perhaps en route to summat constructive, I'm writing this out. That's how I used to think things out when I was younger, writing and a walk.

I don't feel anger, at all, just a deep urgency to H.E.L.P. 

Motherly Musings

I didn't realize my own strength, before I became mother to a Sweetnik.

I didn't realize how much strength it takes to rouse oneself from a brief nap after, days of broken sleep, for one more round of carrying around a Kitten Love. 

Nor what it takes to hold back the screams, after reading the same excuse for a story, for the umpteenth time to a Scholar-tot.

Or what it takes to pull a Glorious Youth off the swings after he's spent the entire time laughing (to the point of hiccups) with the good cheer normally reserved for a Santa Claus chugging down egg nog. 

I can spend 3 hours in a crouching tiger position, attempting to feed a Rambunctious Joy/Cheery Chomper. Getting up only to prepare more dishes.
(I can spend hours making special dishes for him, only to have him dump the whole thing with a perfect left hook. The tears dried up many paye ago.).

If someone wants celeb gossip, I'm prepared to discuss the finer points of the Yellow Wiggle scandal. (This is how I chill). Last time I got a chance to have fun, it was to get the groceries. Treat. Yo'. Self

And so it goes on.

A Note of a Personal Sort

I've resolved to take off the hijab, and just go about with my bushy, frizzy hair on show.

POURQUOI, you say?

I'm tired. (Je swee fatty gay).

I'm tired of plodding around, minding my own business, subject to nasty stares from Staunchly Mozlem-Hatin' Canadians (usually of ze French variety...more's le pity). The negative stuff is proportionately minuscule, but I feel it more.

 I'm tired of always feeling hesitant to plunge into anything outside of what I know, because by looking 'overtly Mozlem' I'm having to shove past that mountain of strangers' perceptions, misconceptions, and political/philosophical stance.

 Even if people are nice and normal to me, I'm aware that it can go either way, that I represent an entire religious group, and they can project whatever prejudices or hatred they have, onto me, without even speaking to me.

Some people get offended by what's on your head. That, or they feel sorry for you, assuming you were held at knife-point on your twelfth birthday, by a vicious, bearded Mozlem man, who demanded you succumb to the Oppression System! 

"Okay, alright!" I wept (they think), "I'll...don the...cloth! For the rest of my days! I'll scrub your kitchen floor with my ragged self-esteem! I'll sweep the floor of my prospects and opportunities and meekly bow down before your misogynist tendencies!"

"Promise?" he snarled (he: probably my father, although a brother, l'oncle, and husband are suspected too)

"Oui! Oui! Just, mind the jugular! Please! It's my only one!"

"Prove yourself!" he threw a heavy, black cloak at me. It reeked of gloom. Of tyranny.

Hands trembling, gulping back a sob, I draped the cloth on my head, suffocating my wild, Hermione-like mane forevermore. Somewhere, a fairy died.

Having thus initiated me, the Mozlem man growled his approval, and cut me a slice of cake. 

Recently a guy started 'chatting me up' so I quickly tossed in the word 'husband' and tried to get away. After which he looked at me with great pity and said, "Happily married?" as if Muslim women are all condemned to demonic husbands straight from al-Qaeda.

 I'm also tired of having people like non-hijabi aunties and stupid people in general, act like I've committed a crime if I laugh too loudly, or have too much of a personality. These people are Muslims, but they have a tendency to treat hijabis like a lower form of life. It's like the caste system but dumber. Especially happens at auntie-oriented parties where they wish I would just sit silently, occasionally offering to wash the dishes, or say "Ji, auntie. Aap bohut zyada Aishwarya se milti hain." 

 They want me to be mute, a maasi (maid) away from home (Pakistan)! Just to sit there like the fool I am (low IQ denoted by scarf), while they scuttle about, tossing samosas, gossiping, and being generally nauseating.

"Aray?!? A hijabi girl?!!" they think "Having fun? The gall! I don't wear hijab and even I am not having as much fun as she! After her!" And in their minds, they have unleashed a fantasy, chappal-bearing infantry, to teach me to keep to my place.

 Putting on the hijab was a big deal itself, because:

 1. my dad was bluntly against it (surprise surprise)..

 "Why do you need props to be a decent person?"

 "You'll become an old lady before your time."

 "You're going to get into trouble with that, in Canada." etc.

 He's charismatic and wise, so I sought his approval more than my mother's (who was for it, but has less vivacity).

 2. I got little support among 'my own.' Muslims often tried to convince me to take it off and be 'normal.' Of the latter, all I need to say is, they were all traditional desi aunties, and it's understandable....

3. 'Twas a spiritual move on my part, but I was still erratic in my daily prayers.

4. I'm really self-conscious and shy as it is. 

I dunno. 

I've also had a pretty bad childhood in Canada, at public schools, where a bunch of stupid girls would make up lies about me, and Kiran (another Muslim girl). 

We had other friends but they couldn't really be around to protect us all day. 

Once these girls (they called themselves the Pixie Club) threw pebbles and twigs at Kiran, on the playground. When I came running, they pretended that WE were the ones throwing stones at them.. and told the playground monitors so... (they used to throw twigs at the hijabi auntie Muslim playground monitor, btw, never got in trouble either).

Or they'd lie to teachers that Kiran (Kiran was their no 1 target because she could barely speak enough English to defend herself) had been screaming racial slurs ("black cat") at one of their black friends, Alanna. 

This was ridiculous because 

1. Kiran and I had two black friends in that class. They weren't assh@ts like Alanna.

2. Kiran had no idea what saying 'black cat' would accomplish. She could barely speak English. She had said "blackboard" to me, and they knew it.

Teacher didn't do anything even though a bunch of kids spoke up and said they were lying about Kiran...who had dissolved into tears..

Those girls were terrible. They'd walk by and kick us and act like it was a mistake... They would whisper to us how ugly we were. (We never told on them, because once Kiran had, and they literally followed her all the way home--Kiran's house was walking distance--shouting insults).

And then one day one of these girls--Ashley--aka the unofficial 'leader' of the Pixie Club--came up to me. It was after class, and I was the last one out as usual, being extremely disorganized... 

She basically said Muslims were all trash, animals, ugly (I guess that's when my obsession with makeup/looks started)... That her parents were always telling her about things on the news (a man had murdered his daughter that year, it was in all the newspapers) to show her what animals we were...

That her parents had told her to bully/torment me and Kiran whenever she could, because we were Muslims...other weird stuff. 

She also said our homeroom teacher was REALLY good friends with her mom, so complaining about Ashley wouldn't do anything to her...

Basically she was telling me that I was just going to have to suck it up, the way the Pixie Club treated me and Kiran, because I was Muslim, and deserved it.

So over the years I just internalized that I deserved the worst, because of my identity. 

I'm now at a point in my life where I can look back on all this.... I realize I need to start from scratch.... The hijab is 'cramping my style' and adding to my crippling shyness....

because I feel as I used to back in grades 4-5-6, when I was bullied/taunted for my religion, when I go out with it and receive some kind of negative response...

Of course, in those grades I didn't wear hijab, and actually grades 5-6 were at a different school with a different Mozlem-hating bully (a French Canadian girl, incidentally), but I guess those experiences had kind of beaten into me, that I sucked, and I 'attracted' bullies, who just further drove it into me that I was scum of the earth!

I'll just keep working on 'inner me,' and work my way out.

Long stream-of-consciousness ramble and high-five to all the RockStArzZ who read through... (crickets)

Canadian Problems

It's not like I buy nothing in between, but ordering from the internet is always a hassle because:
1. Customs take their time, processing and checking and making sure there's no anthrax embedded in the eyeshadows.
2. Canada Post delivery people have the endearing habit of  "attempting delivery" (but never ringing on the doorbell, knocking, or even risking a trip to this charming ghetto). They then leave a notice in the mailbox, dropping the item off at local post office, at their convenience.

I am so excited because my second Artist of Makeup parcel has arrived. Albeit, the whole "attempted delivery" shenanigans were pulled. Yet again.
 Trudging in the 15 cm of snow, I tried to unlock the mailbox. Uh uh. It was frozen and jammed shut due to the cold.

So now I'll have to go out tomorrow, with a portable hairdryer (don't own one, note to self: buy one first) and try to defrost it a bit. Or perhaps the sun will kindly pay us a visit.

THEN I'll have the notice card, THEN trudge to the post office in my boots (no boots, note to self: purchase those too), and THEN...FINALLY...the banality of the situation will dissolve as I unpack NEW SHINY EYESHADOWS!  Hurrah for glamour! Hurrah for global warming!

On the Baby and Book Front

There are quite a few books I am getting through these days. Books previously abandoned, in order to attend to Perfection Personified or catch up on sleep.
King Lear, Little Dorrit, and an uncompromisingly dull study of basic physics concepts. Fun, fun.
Life is settling down.

Spunky Sweetheart was the main impediment to my reading habit, and, thankfully, he's finally drifted into a routine of some sort. The transition from normal feeding to formula/bottle, is complete, and from the deferential offering of solids he was used to, to a regimented, gung-ho approach. THESE PEAS AIN'T GON' EAT THEMSELVES, BOY.

A major blessing: early intervention. There is a waiting list, and our doctor didn't feel the need to refer us to them for ages (which they found astonishing and negligent on his part), either. Thanks, doc. There were so many things we were doing wrong, without considering his specific needs.

They diagnosed acid reflux (which his FOUR other pediatricians hadn't picked up on, nor Sick Kids walay) just by looking at him. Back arching and gulping noises.

Also, they took us off the PediaSure which our supposed "registered nutritionist," experienced and highly rated pediatrician had told us to give him since 6 months onwards.
This was despite the warning printed on the label. I would often protest and ask him whether it was really safe, but he would reassure us every time: it was not only safe, it was A SUPERIOR REPLACEMENT TO FORMULA. Early intervention folk were appalled by this recommendation. Apparently it was worsening his acid reflux, and was unnecessary besides. Also, it tasted so sweet and dessert-like compared to formula, so he rejected the latter, in every brand incarnation.

They gave us guidelines to help him take to the formula. Some of their tips, we knew, some we didn't, all of it incorporated together was very effective indeed. I'll share them here in case it will help anyone else. I apologize in advance if it reads as a bit haphazard, but I really am just writing with minimal revision, as always :P
Guidelines included:
lay him on his LEFT side always, hug him or use a blanket to wrap him tightly, making him feel snug.
 Keep bottle tilted sideways, slightly upwards. Open/close bottle cap every now and again to prevent a vacuum from forming, which frustrates his attempts to efficiently suck.

His muscle tone was dubbed, generally lacking. Even in his mouth (no chunky purees, that would have to be chewed).
His temperament was deemed stubborn (he was used to milk, so he wanted to stick with it, making exceptions only for yummy fruit puree). And his appetite was quite small. It had to be increased little by little, and the best way to do this, they said, was not by giving many small meals throughout the day, in the hope that he would take in enough calories, but by deliberately making him hungry. Three times daily, and only two ounces of milk in between. (16 oz total but only 2 immediately before or after-NOT more, really difficult for me when he would cry wanting more formula, but, as they said, we needed a tough love approach.) This would also allow him to take in a greater volume of solids.

One thing that was putting him off, was that he was uncomfortable in his seat. Being weaker than most babies, he couldn't prop himself upright. This unstable base, slouching to one side always, was annoying him. So we were told to put a small, rolled up towel, on either side of him. Also, a rolled up towel under his feet, so they had a stable base, and weren't waving in the air. (We no longer need these towels, as he has grown stronger. Is also tall enough that his feet sit flat and comfortably on the foot rest).

The pureed solids had to include 1 starch, 1 protein, 1 green, with a teaspoon or so of butter/olive oil/flaxseed oil/coconut oil. Fruit could be given as a dessert snack, or given whole (e.g. bananas) as practice. They didn't count as the main meal. Make sure the solids were thick enough that you could hold the spoon upside down in his mouth.

Finally, to eat while he was eating. I LOVE this tip. Truth be told, this made the biggest difference in terms of solid intake. I was already doing several of the other things they mentioned, but THIS, this was the game-changer.

It made mealtimes fun for him, rather than an excruciating exercise in patience. I can imagine, the severity of my expression, a spoon constantly hovering by his mouth, when it wasn't forcefully jammed in, would make any meal indigestible.

To have me eat alongside him, makes Tiny Tot so very happy. He reaches out for the very food/drink I'm going for. He sees me have a mouthful after mouthful of food, going mmmm... and, hey, is that a challenge? I can do that too, ya know.
It creates a jovial atmosphere of camaraderie for him, awesome, I'm doing what the Giants are doing! No longer do I seem like Captain Hook (Cook?).

He is digesting better (apparently, like the rest of us, babies can get stomachaches if they are force-fed or stressed.)
I sing to him, he plays with the food, lets it slosh around between his fingers, feels the texture, throws stuff around once in a while. More to clean up for me, but who cares? Solid meals have become something to look forward to!

Along with all the other help, Glorious Gumption is finally, finally, thank GOD, prospering.

They saw him yesterday. Not only has he grown in height, he is slowly but surely catching up in weight (was off the CHART before). Coordination, balance, muscle tone, have all improved. They were very pleased indeed. As am I.
And life, now that baby is thriving, is very, very good.

A Case of the Crazies

Perhaps it is the dull weather, dull routine, grey clothes I've been wearing, but I find this makeup from the Dior catwalk (summer 2010) exciting. Arresting. Fun. (Love the one in the middle!)

Must try it. NOW.

Of course, to carry off a look of such vivacity, some people may require gin in their system (a good substitute for confidence).

I think I have an inbuilt reservoir of--some would say madness--I prefer to think, spunk--and I will definitely wear this tomorrow.
Out. To a much-dreaded party. With masses of desi aunties (read: judgemental and easily mesmerized by Shah Rukh Khan) around.

Me: GREETINGS, AUNTIES PLURAL!
Aunties: (not looking up) 'Slamlaykooooom, betaaaaa... 
Me: Here be my child-a-roo, as they say in Australia!
Aunties: (immediately turn, arms outstretched, ready to grab my first-born and run)..ARAYYYYY! Wutta kyoooootie! My bayyyybeee! Come here my child! Come to mama! Not the imposter mama who's kept you away for so long...the real deal! ME! ME! ME! (all aunties saying "me!" and surging forth, trying to get to baby)
Aray Shayma, SHAME ON YOU! You selfish woman! I lost my maid this year!
Aray Ghazala, I'm better with children. Your tarantula lashes will scare him.
Aray Ursula, I have a brooch pin and don't think I'll hesitate to use it!
Aray Rasmalai Dood, you already got your glory, when you tore off a piece of Hrithik Roshan's collar at the Toronto Film Festival. Beastly hag. It's my turn now!

Me: Now, now, auntie-poos, one at a time, in an orderly fashion, s'il vous plait.
Aunties (looking up to challenge me, menacing eyes): NAWW! ME FURRRST--... (it hits them).. Aray beta?!?!?!
Me: Yes, doting auntie of mine, unrelated, whose name I do not know, and who I met but once before?
Aunties: Y-y-y-you...
Me (eyebrow raised): Yes....?
(silencio)

An aunty steps forth (the first to recover): Beta... what have you done to yourself?
Another aunty: SHE'S POSSESSED! MADNESS! THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE WATER!
A third: HAUNTED!
A fourth: DJINNS!
(shrieks as all aunties run from the room, shimmying as fast as they are able in saris and high heels, and drive off)

One can dream.

 

Troubling News

I don't know how to start this besides saying, I didn't know there used to be a comedy show called The Fast Show.

 I found it on youtube after swiping the iPad from Tiniest of Tots (who is truly a tech wiz by now). Well, it's like, uh, real funny and multi-faceted, and, like, I think more people should watch it and know of it and stuff.

The Ted/Ralph sketches are particularly clever. Poignant, is the word. So is genius, sweet, well-executed. Here's the link.

Not in a very playful/writer-y mood today, to your relief, no doubt.

'Tis a blustery, autumn day--mists of rain, grey sky. Canapoo be beauteous indeed, even in such weather.

Some Troubles have taken over our lives. Little Love is having health issues (is average height, but extremely underweight--he is off the chart, actually). Worried. Blood results are consistently normal. No metabolic disorder, etc.

 I try to stuff him, Le Hub tries to stuff him... However, like the good doctor* said, you can take the horse to the well, but you can't force it down its throat. Or take a Little to a lobster/dolphin steak/chocolate-coated cockroach/rice cereal.

Especially if the Little uses his newly acquired teeth as a firm, tightly clenched gate that not an ounce of food can pass.

 *they are always GOOD DOCTORS if they are highly qualified but humble old men; sweet, short, bald, with a concerned furrowed brow. And especially if they furnish their office with their own oil paintings, Renoir prints, cuckoo clocks, and a portrait of Princess Diana goofing around with children.

 

Blood tests

Eid was awesome. Besides the blood test bit.

I don't understand what it is about blood tests for babies. My son has low weight for his age and height, so we often have to take him for testing. Every single time, bar one, we have had to get it done, the execution is exceptionally horrid. (Or unexceptionally. It's startling when they get it right).

Yesterday, we took him to the Sick Kids hospital. 

Blood test consisted of lady poking him with a needle, pushing it in, blood coming out like hardened treacle, and Not Going Into the Vial. 

So for what seemed like a century, the lady is standing there trying her utmost not to curse, stressed face. Meanwhile I'm holding the wailing, desperately frightened baby down, and hubby is holding his phone above baby's head, playing a Wiggles episode to distract him. (Run on sentence, but mid-rant I can't be bothered to edit.)

We were Five Minutes in before the lady asked me to push the red help button. 

I know the timing for a fact, mayhaps off by a minute and several seconds, because this Wiggles episode is on youtube, called counting, and we were nearing the end of the Captain Feathersword song, which is at the five min mark.

Second lady comes in, tells first one she had the needle in wrong spot (all the while baby is going purple and screaming in pain/fright). I also noticed she had to readjust the tube (the little wire thingy was on wrong!!). Reinserts to correct spot. Blood fills the tube. Baby crying. 

Second lady tells me to hold tissue down on a specific spot on baby's arm, which I do. She moves away. I am holding it where she had put it.

 Baby crying. Several minutes of me trying in vain to sing songs and soothe him. No movement of tissue aside from holding it down.

Turns out the lady had put the tissue paper in the WRONG SPOT and blood was still spurting onto the table!! Streams. Hubby swears. 

Second lady in an attempt to protect her job, we later decided, berated ME for 'not pressing it down' (which I assure you I did-not my fault she put it in wrong spot!) while I wash baby and myself off. Neither of them put a band aid on him, helped us in any way, nothing. 

Blood also got onto my coat so I have proof.

Incompetent staff? Inadequate training? 

Have been to Life Labs previous times, and had a lady take several vials before deciding she hadn't done the job correctly and needed to take several more. Eight total. (Remember, we are talking about a little baby, who doesn't realize what is happening, or why, only that it hurts and feels wrong. For many adults, even getting one vial is a big deal)

Many more incidents to recount.

Polka Dotted Lips and Other Misadventures

This makes me laugh whenever I think about it so I had to save it here...

So I was at the makeup counters, having brought along my little sister to take care of baby, dillying and dallying between Guerlain and Benefit. 
As you do. 

Keep in mind that this kid, despite being a uni student, procurer of awards/scholarship, and supposedly intelligent, is quite excitable and childish. She also finds shopping extremely dull, moreso when it's
MAKEUP shopping, so she was trying desperately to make it interesting for herself.

I look up and there she is at some counter, smiling widely, swiping on testers of EYELINER and eyeshadow on her eyes. 

Me: NO DUN DO THAT GERMS AHH. 

Baby sis -grinning from ear to ear-: Sorry, what? 

Me: You'll get people's germs! And they'll get yours! 

Baby sis: What? Ooooh look at my eyelashes *blinks* Aren't they pretty
! I think mascara is the best makeup. Don't you? Oooh EYEBROW STUFF! Everyone tells me I need to fill in my eyebrows.
(SMEARS PURPLISH EYELINER ONTO EYEBROWS) 
You're supposed to seal it in right? That's what my friend does! Is this it? (RUNS DARK BLUE MASCARA THROUGH HER BROWS)


Me: NOOO! GERMS! *pull her away* 

Baby sis (pouts): Why'd you do that? There's no germs! Don't they replace the testers every time? 

Me: NO! Just try it on your hand. By the way your brows are purple and blue. 

Baby sis: Really? Haha. I thought it would be brown. oooh look at this colour! *SWIPES ON THREE RANDOM DOTS OF A LIP LACQUER--you know, the kind that dries and is impossible to take off?--in a BRIGHT PINK colour.*
Oooh it's so bright. LOOK! -tries to rub lips but the dots have already dried-

Me: Why'd you do that? It's one of those long lasting ones. Now you're gonna have random pink dots on your lips. 

Baby sis: Oh no! It's on me forever?!? -genuinely about to cry- I hate makeup -tries frantically to get it off- This is so stupid! Makeup sucks! 
-i asked the counter lady for a makeup wipe-

Later..

Baby sis: Oooh cheeks! -swipes on a transparent colour-changing gloss from Smashbox.- 
Me: Your cheeks have random fuchsia squiggles all over them.
Baby sis: What no, it's transparent!
Me: -sigh- it changes colour. 
Baby sis: What? Makeup is so stupid! Oh no! Everyone will make fun of me!

The sweetest thing...

The sweetest thing my husband has ever done for me (and the list of lovely, thoughtful things he does is absurdly extensive), was read Anne of the Island, a childhood favourite, to me when I was in my last, most painful weeks of pregnancy.

He'd be annoyed to know. He goes to greater lengths than this to keep my rather difficult self happy--so why is this simple deed tops?

Because nothing--and i mean NOTHING--has made me laugh so much!

When you are in real physical pain, seeing a thoroughly macho type, longtime X Men & Mixed martial arts fan, hunched over with a quizzical expression, puzzling through Anne and her petty problems...it's priceless. And the funny mockery along the way. Because of course he couldn't restrain himself.

' "I've a blue silk to make up yet, but it's a little heavy for summer
wear. I think I'll leave it until the fall. I'm going to teach in White
Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in church
yesterday was real dinky." '

"Oh the idyllic whimpers of these limpid shores.
 How quaintly doth they speak to the seraph within my soul."

Seriously. Any of you with masculine types around, be it a robust outdoorsy uncle with grotty hands from mountain-biking all day...here's a top tip. To be used whenever you are "feeling blue--just a pale, pensive azure."

Find the most florid-prosed, romantically and impractically-minded writer...and MAKE HIM READ THEIR STUFF. Just a chapter.

Here is an excerpt at random, from the gag-inducing "Rose In Bloom" by that dastardly Louisa May Alcott (SHE DISSED DICKENS...) It would do nicely. :

"I know my chestnut burr too well to mind his prickles. But others do
not, so I will take him in hand and make him a credit to his family,"
answered Rose readily.

"Take Archie for your model he's one of a thousand, and the girl who
gets him gets a prize, I do assure you," added Uncle Mac, who found
matchmaking to his taste and thought that closing remark a deep one.

"Oh, me, how tired I am!" cried Rose, dropping into a chair as the last
carriage rolled away somewhere between one and two.

"What is your opinion now, Miss Campbell?" asked the doctor, addressing
her for the first time by the name which had been uttered so often that
night.

"My opinion is that Miss Campbell is likely to have a gay life if she
goes on as she has begun, and that she finds it very delightful so far,"
answered the girl, with lips still smiling from their first taste of
what the world calls pleasure.

Hm. Anne would still be better, honestly.

With her "eyries" "slender iris figure" and "forlorn goblin nooks festooned with the lingering echoes of faraway dreams." I strung that last set of words together at random, but I'm sure it exists somewhere in the book.

*Note: J'adore LM Montgomery and hold nothing against her, save that she caused an intense, unfulfilled craving for puffed sleeves all throughout my 90's childhood*