In the past few months, I’ve had a variety of different kinds of messages sent to me from men on my Instagram page. Some of the greetings have started with “Hey beautiful”, “Hey sweetie”, “Hi there gorgeous”, “You’re cute!”, and even a heart emoji. To be honest, I’m really not flattered with this introduction tactic. I mean, it’s clear these men are not messaging me about my content and are looking to talk to me about who-knows-what (but we all know what though, don’t we).
It’s been almost a year since my last correspondence with you and yet, here we are again. It’s as if you didn’t even read the letter I sent you. So, because you seem to have ignored my previous attempt in communicating my issues with you, I continue taking that pesky little white and yellow pill each and every morning to help keep you at bay. Mind you, I still experience your aura sounding me as your presence is like a bad wallpaint job, but it’s hardly as bad as it could be.
I’m trying to involve more spaghetti-squash in our diets the best the way I can without my husband tasting what he considers as “gross squash”. He hates squash. All squash. I’ve managed to make a soup with squash that he loves so I thought maybe I could master the spaghetti-squash as well.
He didn’t love the squash, but he loved the flavours. The beauty of this recipe is that it could be easily substituted with spaghettini or any other kind of pasta you’d like.
Oil and Garlic Spaghetti-Squash with Chicken
“I want to write about you. Do you think that would be okay?”
I asked my nephew if I could write his story while we sat together on the couch, cooling down from a blistering hot day. I’ve been wanting to write about him for a while but since he lives in the US and I live in Canada, I wanted to wait to see him before I got started. This kind of thing is best done in person.
My nephew Landon is no ordinary boy. He is a ten-year-old kid who has gone through more than any child should ever have to go through in their lifetime. His story began when he was born with half a heart; the right side didn’t work. As if being born with only half a heart wasn’t bad enough, he was also born with Hirschsprung’s disease, a disease that affects the colon and causes problems with bowel movements.
I was trying to do some spur-of-the-moment meal-planning at the supermarket this past weekend when a tiny light bulb went on in my head. Suddenly I found myself picking up the ingredients I would need to finally make that long-awaited lasagna. Oh how I miss lasagna. I’ve been craving it for a while now, yet I’ve been avoiding it because it’s work to make your own sauce and I’ve been lazy.
However, buying the ingredients I need to make this saucy and cheesy dish kick-started my motivation and in that moment, I was in it to win it. I was going to go home, pull out all the ingredients, and immediately get to work on making a something my husband, my son, and I all love.
Yes, me too. I have been sexually harassed and sexually assaulted by men. I have been touched and grabbed and pinched. I have had inappropriate comments fly my way by way of cat-calling and have felt discomfort over it. Please, put your tongue back in your mouth and wipe away that smirk. No one is impressed.
I went dancing quite a bit back in my twenties. One night, we were at a club dancing up a storm when a man took it upon himself to come up from behind me and grab my crotch and my breast. He grabbed my body with a force that instantly scared the crap out of me. Somehow he believed that this is was okay; that perhaps I’d like it. My friend was at the bar and I was on my own. Unfortunately no one noticed what was happening until it was too late. Nevertheless, I fought off this sad excuse for a human being by shoving him back as hard as I could and using my already loud voice to demand that fucks off.
Perspective is something I’m working on these days.
I’ve lived with body image issues for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been small enough, skinny enough, or toned enough. There’s always something that I need to work on, whether it’s my belly, my arms, my thighs, my chest, or my back. Did I really just name every part of my body? Well, in all fairness, I think my calfs have always been just fine.
Now that I have a three-year-old, I’m starting to accept my body a bit more. Don’t get too excited too quickly. I said I’m starting to, not that I have fully accepted it. However, lately I have been having more okay days than worry days, so that’s something.
Our toddler has upped his game by pushing every boundary and button he possibly can.
I find myself losing my patience with him more quickly these days and my lack of control is worrisome for me.
I find myself wanting him to conform to who I want him to be and what I want him to do. It’s easy to forget that he is his own person, trying to make sense of the world I brought him into. He needs more time and I need to learn to give it to him.
Unfortunately, I let my anxiety and impulsiveness get the best of me at his expense.
We live down the street from a beach so there’s nothing stopping us from going to for a swim when it’s hot out during the summer. This perk is one of the very many things I love about living where I do.
After I finished stuffing my face with tacos, we got dressed and took off to the beach. Luckily, because it was six pm, there were very few people there. As we walked into the beach area, I noticed a full-figured woman on her phone. She was striking, like, stop and stare striking. But I had no time to be creepy as I had to catch up with my kid.
I took a toy away from my son because he just wouldn’t listen.
I took a toy away from my son and while I felt empowered and knew it was the right thing to do, I still hurt inside.
Allow me to give you some background information. My son is three and he is embracing the age as if this is the greatest battle he will need to fight. My son is strong-willed, determined, stubborn, and persistent.
His presence is known.
Lately, it’s been nearly impossible to get him to listen. I know other parents can sympathize. I know we aren’t the only parents going through this, but it sure feels like we are. I am, like I imagine other parents are, convinced his ears are clogged with some powerful soundproof substance that is only removed when words that sound like “cookie”, “park”, or “ice cream” come to the surface. His selective listening skills are impeccable.