December 29, 2010
THAT was some snowstorm!
Certainly not the worst I've ever seen, but bad enough.
Especially when you have to schlepp three kids to work and back.
But we survived.
I kept mentioning to Stephen that, perhaps, we should go outside and shovel the driveway, as Em had to be to work the next morning for 11.00 am, and I didn't particularly relish the idea of crawling out of bed at 8.00 am to shovel.
"Oh no. It'll be fine. And I'll get up and help."
Red flags didn't fly, then swooped.
So while Stephen was outside, in the dark, shoveling the back deck and the front step, I put down my work and put on my longjohns.
And warm pants.
And a long sleeve v-neck shirt.
And a long sleeve sweater.
And two pairs of socks.
A scarf.
Winter boots.
Winter coat.
Gloves.
And then took off my glasses because a. snowshoveling doesn't exactly require minute precision, and b. they just fog up anyway.
Out I went.
And started shoveling the driveway.
Because I knew that there was no way Stephen would go back into the house while I was outside, alone, in the dark, shoveling on a cold, snowy, blustery, wind-blowing-your-panties-off-but-leaving-your-pants-on night.
Why such shameless trickery?
Seven years together, three of them married, has provided more than enough empiricial evidence to support the claim that there are two Stephen's in my life.
Because one just isn't enough, apparently.
Evening Stephen will make all sorts of grand claims and promises regarding such things as getting out of bed to shovel snow, meeting those early morning car appointments, drive someone somewhere, get the mall to avoid the psychotic Christmas rush. . . .
Morning Stephen is a whole other kettle of fish. He feels no obligation to honour the promises made by his arch-nemesis, Evening Stephen.
He doesn't even like him.
Calls him all sorts of names, uses profanities, generally becomes enraged enough to stomp around the house pulling his hair out when he hears of the completely irrational and unfair promises made by Evening Stephen.
Morning Stephen refuses to get out of bed to shovel snow, leaving me to do it on my own.
Morning Stephen reschedules those early morning car appointments.
Morning Stephen pokes me to get out of bed and drive *my* kids to work.
Morning Stephen has us arriving at the mall three hours later than originally planned, and then grumbles and complains about the crowds.
So no.
I do not take the promises of Evening Stephen to heart.
And therefore must resort to deception and artifice to ensure that what I want done in the evening is, indeed, done in the evening.
Not put off only to leave me dealing with that boneheaded cretin Morning Stephen.
As it is, I have to deal with him when the term begins, 4 mornings out of 5, trying to get him out of bed and amiable enough not to eat the heads off small birds while getting ready to teach his 9.00 am class.
I have nightmares about this coming term.
I really do.
Last evening, Emily, who is as far as I know this very minute, on Day 4 of 10 day stretch of alientated labour to Empire Theaters, wanted to go shopping with her Christmas money while the sales were still happening.
If she had of waited much longer, the only things left on sale would have been sail size granny panties and orthopedic shoes.
I thought it would be nice if Stephen and I met her after work, had dinner with her at Teriyaki, the only place in the mall foodcourt where I don't risk violating my new eating lifestyle, or, having a cardiac arrest as soon as I've finished eating.
Stephen was salivating for Taco Bell.
Not in front of me, thank you very much.
And then while Em shopped her little heart out and spent her riches, we could sit in Starbucks and work.
Me on my new project.
Stephen on his dissertation proposal.
You know what they say about the best laid plans.
All was well until we had settled in to work.
Sitting at our little dime sized table, both sets of books and papers teetering precariously because Stephen refused to use two tables.
Coffees hot and steaming beside us, tantalizing us with their aromas.
It was quite lovely.
Until the woman beside-sort-of-behind-us dropped her glasses.
Being polite, I moved the chair upon which were our coats, bags, scarves, etc. so she could ascertain whether or not her glasses were under the chair.
Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be polite.
TWO HOURS later, she has told us all about her legal blindness, her dogs, that she woke THAT morning wanting to take criminology, her 90+ neighbour who doesn't remember where he was born, but may be some sort of 21st Century prophet, her age, her kids, her partner, trips to the south shore of Nova Scotia, Quakerism, shed building in a commune in BC in the 1970s, anthropology, repeated queries, "Do you know so and so. . .?" gardening, spirituality, light in her home, former and current partners, previous drug use, education in NB. . . .
Stephen packed his books up after the first hour.
I kept on trucking, determined to continue working.
Stephen went to the bathroom.
I don't think she even noticed he left.
He came back.
She kept talking.
I went to the bathroom.
While doing my thing and minding my business, I hear a voice SING out,
"Is there a Dawne in here?" and then she continued to talk with me oblivious to the fact that I was on the toilet.
The only thing that saved me from an embarrasing toilet conversation with a complete stranger was an embarrasing toilet conversation with Emily, who happened to call me at that very moment.
NEVER again will I be so happy to talk on the phone while sitting on the toilet.
She eventually left.
And when I emerged from the bathroom, she had moved over to our table, my seat, and was still talking to Stephen and an acquaintance who'd had the misfortune to stop by and wish Stephen a Happy New Year.
When Stephen saw me, his eyes pleaded, silently screamed, "HELP!"
The two teenagers accompanying this woman were getting to the point where they were ready to take the car keys and leave without her.
I LOVE talking with people.
I really do.
Anyone who knows me knows this is true.
However, there is something to be said about subtle social cues, such as noticing the work we have laid out on the table before us, and not-so-subtle social cues, such as, "I think you're kids are getting restless."
By the time she finally left, Stephen had a headache and just wanted to go home.
He has vowed never to work again at Starbucks.
Me, I am always willing to give it another go.
Hence, after depositing all of my children at Empire Theaters this morning, I will retire to Starbucks to work.
With my ipod and headphones in tow.
Not making eye contact with anyone.
And not even God will be able to help the person who thinks it may be nice to start up a conversation with me.
Title Lyric: It Won't Go Away by Crosby, Stills and Nash
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