So my manager sent around an email to the whole unit reminding them that it was my birthday yesterday. People asked how old I was turning and I didn’t lie but I’m beginning to think that I should have told them that I’m older than I actually am. Because, you see, now everyone knows that I really am the baby of the office.

Anyway, I got some great presents including:

The most gorgeous silver earrings from my Mom (I have promised her that this time I won’t lose them…at least I’ll try really really hard not to)

A bike computer from Bert (which I think he mis-callibrated to make me think that I’m going faster than I actually am which is a-ok with me – I respond very well to positive feedback)

A necklace from my 18-year old brother who actually made it himself (I initially thought it must have been his girlfriends idea but no, she was in Toronto at the time, he really did come up with the idea and implement it all on his own)

Two huge bouquets of flowers from my relatives in England (I am at that age now when flowers showing up unexpectedly at the door is one of life’s grand pleasures)

Bert and I are heading off to Vancouver on Friday and, as always, the impending visit home is bringing with it a stream of strange dreams involving my father and his new wife.

A bit of background information:

1. My father sent me a letter four years ago explaining that he never wants to hear from me ever again.
2. My father proposed to his new wife when she picked him up from the police station after he had been arrested for throwing my Mom against a wall and using her shoulder to shatter a grandfather clock.
3. My father’s new wife is 11 years older than me and 11 years younger than my father.
4. When I got married my father and his new wife went to the Bahamas to make sure they wouldn’t accidentally run into anyone who was actually attending the wedding.
5. My father and his new wife hate me with a passion that I don’t even remotely understand.

Ok, so my dreams range from settings in which I humiliate my father’s new wife without her even noticing that she’s being made fun of – everyone else in the dream knows it though, of course, to tearful reunions with my father during which he finally admits how wrong he was to hate me all these years.

I dream of attending my fathers’ funeral and discovering that, in his will he apologizes to me.

I dream of being involved in a sting, busting my father and his new wife for smuggling drugs on one of their frequent trips to the Bahamas.

I dream of sweeping in and paying for my brothers’ college when my father backs out the day before tuition is due.

By and large I seldom think about my father and his new wife. I certainly don’t forgive them but neither do I waste much time or energy getting upset at the things that they do. I find it strange then, that these dreams always put in an appearance just prior to trips to Vancouver.

I got up at 5 am to let the dog out (yeah, I know, 5am) anyway the entire path from our bedroom to the front door was well lit. The computer/monitor/printer/UPS lit the path through the office. The microwave/dishwasher/stove took care of the kitchen. The tv/dvd player/surround sound system bathed the living room in light.

Which brings me to my point, I hate LEDs. I hate having the time flash at me from three different appliances (not including the alarm clock). I hate the computer blinking away reminding me that it’s waiting for something to happen.

A while back we had a power outage. I remember being amazed by how quiet everything was, and how peaceful. I am almost tempted to flip the power switch every night for a half hour or so just to re-capture that moment.

But when the power gets turned back on, the ‘alarm system’ beeps, the fridge beeps, the dishwasher beeps, the microwave beeps, the stove beeps, the UPS beeps, the alarm clock beeps. And worst of all, half of them keep on beeping until you pay attention to them.

You know how sometimes when you get brand new shoes they take a little bit of breaking in before they’re really comfortable. Over time the shoes stretch and feet develop roughness in all the right spots.

Well I’m going through the same process right now with my new bike seat except (1) bike seats don’t stretch, and (2) my arse is not pre-dispossed to roughness in any spot.

So, this morning I rode my bike to work largely standing up on the peddles. When I stopped at a traffic light I happened to run into one of my colleagues who invited me out for drinks tomorrow night after work. So here’s the thing…tomorrow night after work I am supposed to go for a long bike ride with Bert, but sitting on a cushy bar stool is way more appealing to me at the moment.

So um Bert, isn’t it supposed to rain tomorrow, or was it supposed to be stupidly hot, or was it tomorrow that the swarm of locusts was predicted to arrive?

When I was a kid about two weeks before Christmas we would go to the grocery store as a family and buy special food. We each got to choose two or three items that we normaly wouldn’t have in the house. I often chose brie, shrimp (for shrimp cocktail), and then whatever I happened to fancy that particular year.

Sometime between then and now I lost that excited wonder in food that many people consider rather benine. My husbands family always eat amazingly well. They always get the best cuts of meat, the finest cheeses, the juciest fruits, the creamiest chocolate. It’s not like their super-rich or anything they just choose to spend a lot on food. At their house I ate my first lobster, sampled my first caviar, gorged myself on after-dinner cheese platters. With the exception of the after-dinner cheese platter none of these things are standard fare but there wasn’t the same Christmas shopping trip excitement that I knew as a kid. They were treats all right, but not special treats.

Anyway I didn’t think much of this until I read this post today. I was reading about church cookbooks and the first thing that popped into my mind was, ‘hmm, sounds like a hundred sub-par recipes for nanaimo bars’. Ten years ago I would have been thrilled at the concept of a book of recipes from people I know. Now I assume that they can’t possibly be as good as the professionals.

It makes me sad. I’m sad that I think that brie is now a second-rate cheese, I’m sad that shrimp cocktail seems like an excuse to avoid marinating, I’m sad that pasta with pesto sauce has become rather plain-jane.

I’m eating a whole new set of foods now but they’re not special. They’re not Carol’s nanaimo bars, or Danielle’s snikerdoodles. Sure they taste good but the ’specialness’ got lost somewhere along the way.

I want it back please.