I met up again last month with some colleagues that I hadn’t seen for a year, and two of them asked me if I had lost weight. I muttered that I didn’t think so, and let it go at that. How do you know if you’ve lost weight if elastic waistbands are part of your daily life I ask you?

I stepped on the scales last night and was surprised to find that I was 25 pounds less weighty than the last time I checked. (About a year ago) The scales were pretty dusty, and I was wary of touching them, as they had been living in a nook in my bathroom. The first thought I had was that they were gummed up by the dust of disuse. It’s a possiblility.

My stepping on the scale was a sort of benchmark gesture, since my physio exercises have made me feel so much better that I have been motivated to try other exercises to build up my core strength. That way, my back will not be painful, and sucking my gut in and walking with my shoulders back improves my appearance. Still in pajamas, mostly, but now with a model’s walk.

Okay. A fat, old model. But still.

I do not need wine to dull the pain in my neck and shoulders anymore. I barely take anti-inflammatories. (compared to earlier, when I swallowed them on a schedule. I still had breakthrough pain)

My blood test results were pretty good. Blood sugar: fine. Cholesterol: pretty good. Liver, kidneys: okay. Thyroid: all good.

Now the only thing left is that pesky smoking habit. It’s next.

I think I’m finally starting to emerge from the deep blow caused by my mother’s death. It feels good to be alive.

Now, if I can only keep Herman in check, I’m golden.

I used to make fun of my mother all the time. Shaddap, it was a mutual thing we did, lots of fun. I was sharper of wit, but she was big on schadenfreude. Which is German for ‘I enjoy your misfortune’ or ‘I’m afraid of my own shadow’. You decide. So, ma would go for the kill, and then you would hear the dirtiest laugh, which would be the creak on the hinges of hell. Ma took great pleasure in her evil ways.

We got along just great. We ‘got’ one another. I visited her most every day, so some of her evil ways rubbed off on me. When I was younger, they did not, because I was snottily superior. At age ten. She loved me anyway and I grew out of it. We were good friends in my adult years. Ma provided an excellent model for friendship. If you didn’t mind the whole mockery-with-a-dirty-laugh thing. Well, I dropped the mockery, and used my madd diplomatic skillz. The laugh? Not when I’m working.

Of many things, I would mock her failing eyesight. She would grin because she knew the same fate awaited me.

And you know what?

I have this little netbook, because it doesn’t hurt me to carry it. My neck has gotten even with me after years of poor posture at a desktop computer. The screen is so tiny that I keep a magnifying glass nearby to decipher the html, where punctuation completely counts.

Now who’s having the last laugh? Shaddap, Ma.

How to make lemonade of all these lemons? Feeling the sadness of the blogosphere for two families that lost their babies recently, even though I wasn’t previously aware of their blogs. Maddie’s funeral is today. My mom’s birthday. The day of her funeral four years ago. Thalon’s service will be announced soon, I expect. For those of you who are not on Twitter, or have been hibernating, lots of folks have purpled up their blog or avatar, in honour of Maddie. I don’t want to choose one over the other by purpling up, but I do ask the prayer inclined to keep these families in your hearts. If you wish to financially help these two families, who never dreamed they would have to bury their precious angels, you may do so here.

Thalon’s family.

Maddie’s family.

Now let’s see if I can be grateful amongst all my grumbles:

• The snow that fell yesterday has melted.
• The furnace that was not working yesterday is repaired.
• The tradespeople that invaded my home and workspace were very pleasant and respectful.
• I am enjoying the smell of hamstock simmering on the stove.
• That I had my mother as long as I did.

Have you ever noticed how little kids often have a language of their own, and can communicate with one another?

My brother, Mr. Trick, did not talk early. According to my mother, he really had no need to. Mom said I was talking at 11 months, and I’ve never really shut up since.

She used to call upon the secret language of children to have me tell her what Mr. Trick wanted. She often told this tiny story, complete with sound effects which I cannot duplicate here, and comical facial expressions, again, cannot duplicate.

Mom: Why’s he crying, witchypoo?

witchypoo: Ba didddle blup do blug?

Mr. Trick: Gah googah gee bah bah.

witchypoo: He’s got a pain in his belly. He has to poop.

It’s official now. I’m a poop interpreter.

Ass Burger Boy and myself were talking about “the Nan”, which is what everyone called my Mom. She had many quirks, as most people do, but we found hers an endless source of amusement.

Ma was a cooking fool. I well remember her baking bread at the same time she had a hoover washer/spin dryer hooked up to the sink. Just imagine piles of wet laundry, and flour flying in clouds. This was a regular activity.

She would make up a huge batch of something to have leftovers which she could freeze. If she had leftovers that didn’t make it to the freezer, and she was suspicious that it might not be at its peak freshness, she was quick to offer food to anyone who visited.

If it seemed a bit off, I would 86 it. ABB has a real problem throwing away food, and sometimes it worked to his detriment. Every once in a while he got the squirts after being at the Nan’s.

Today, we had a decision. I made a shephard’s pie which was yummy, but the next day, we both had the squirts. I wasn’t really sure what caused it, but decided that if we were going to eat the remainder of the very large shepherd’s pie, it was going into the oven as if it were never cooked previously.

I had a large portion, showing no fear. ABB had a smaller portion, which for him, is unusual. That boy can chow down.

I guess we will see what tomorrow brings, won’t we?

Shaddap, Ma. I hear you laughing at me.