We caught a little bit of the Santa Claus parade while we were in Montreal. We didn't stay for the whole thing because it was very cold out. And we were hungry. And we're pussies, evidently. But we watched a bit of it and enjoyed soaking up the Christmas atmosphere.
It's funny just how barren you can feel when the crowd you're in has a median age of four. And you're easily outnumbered by them 5 to 1.
We eventually gave up the excellent curb-side spot we'd secured to a family with a toddler in a stroller and another one very obviously on the way.
And I felt somehow small and ashamed by my childlessness.
Four days in a hotel is the precise amount of time it takes for you to become completely used to someone else making your bed, cleaning your bathroom, vacuuming your floors and making every single meal for you.
Coming home to a house with no staff sucks ass.
I'm procrastinating at the moment. My plan is to take Thomas' Christmas wreaths to the cemetery today, and it always requires a little mental preparation before I make the trip.
Fortunately it's a lovely, sunny day.
But, well, my boy is still dead.
I got a hair cut yesterday afternoon.
My stylist is a bit of a wing nut, but I forgive her because she has been kind and tactful enough not to ask me any prying questions about children or my uterus since she heard the whole story during my inaugural visit. I love her for this.
I did catch her taking what she believed was a furtive glance at my tummy, but I can overlook this indiscretion. I should have told her that any bump she may have seen was just one too many croissants.
Lord, those Montreal croissants are good...
Anyway, I love my stylist and the cut is excellent, but I don't for the life of me know why she insists on blowing my hair dry into a ridiculous bouffant.
I know now to make my appointments late in the day when the only place I need to go afterwards is home.
I shouldn't have mentioned croissants. My tummy heard me.
I think they should start building space shuttles out of whatever my purse is made from. I bought this thing at least four years ago (as a reward for making through a particularly annoying Monday at work) and with the exception of some very minor wear (that's virtually invisible unless you're inspecting it closely) it looks brand new.
I don't know how this can possibly be since I use it year round, but I'm increasingly curious to see exactly how long it's going to last. At this rate it's conceivable that it might outlast ME.
The best thing? It was dirt cheap - something like $35, as I recall.
But it's cute. I swear it is. Shut up, it is.
I'm out of material. It's time to head off to the cemetery.
This is NOT the life I ordered. Why does it feel like the longevity of cheap purses is the only thing I can rely on?
Well that and, thank God, My Beloved.