Take my place in the checkout line. . .

August 29, 2010




How many PhD's does it take to put together a bed frame?


Apparently, a PhD is not a requirement.


For over an hour, last evening, Mer and I tried to put together her bed frame.


Tried being the operative word.


When I was in junior high, we had to engage in a number of provincial tests. . .you know, the tests that measure how well you read, do math, etc.


One test was designed to test spatial ability. 100 questions of this-is-what-the-box-looks-like-when-it-is-flat-and-your-looking-at-it-from-above. What does the box look like when it is put together?


My grade on that provincial standards test: 3/100


And I was trying to put together a bed frame.


Thankfully, my testosterone filled son and his best friend, aka Mer's "friend" showed up to "show the ladies" how to put together the bed frame.


Apparently, being a spatially challenged feminist is of no benefit when you're struggling to put together a bed frame.






As far as I can tell, Mer is all moved in. Granted, she needs two lamp shades, a curtain rod, a microwave, cable and internet, but everything major has been taken care of: her bed is on the frame, with sheets and a comforter, her brother and her "friend" are putting her desk together. . .


Can you imagine spatially challenged me trying to put an entire desk together????? It would end up looking like a bad peice of abstract art.



. . .her dishes and all other kitchen asundries are put away neatly in the kitchen cupboards, the shower curtain is up, she has clean towels, facecloths, money for laundry on her laundry card, the tv and blue ray player are hooked up. . . .


We can't find the blue ray player remote and she can't watch blue rays without it. You can't imagine the bitching I've had to listen to about that damn remote.


. . .her dresser is full of her clothes, each drawer color coded: drawer two: white shirts, drawer three: black shirts, drawer four: multicolored shirts, drawer five: her TNA pants. . .

I can't understand how one girl needs 15 sweaters and 10 pairs of the same pants.


And I won't mention what's in drawer number one.



. . .and her fridge and cupboards have been duly filled with groceries.


Ergo, move complete.


Hallelujah!!!!!!!!







I'm not a typical wife and mother.


There are many things that women were lead to believe they had to do because they were women: cleaning, cooking, child care, grocery shopping. . .


Cleaning: I'd rather not, thank you. When Stephen and I got together, it was clear that of the two of us, he was the more enthusiastic cleaner. In fact, one day, I was cleaning and he came over to me as said, word for word:


"I don't know why you're doing that. I can do it better."

I handed him the cleaning cloth I was using, said, "Congratulations, you are now the chief cleaner" and walked away.

I have done as little cleaning as humanly possible ever since. I do hang laundry, because it's a Zen thing for me, and I love thinking of how much money I save not using my 18 year old dryer.

And if people in my house don't like their underwear on the clothes line, oh well. If my table cloth size granny panties can dry in the summer sun, every one else's underwear can, too.

Cooking: I love to cook. Really love to cook. Cooking for me is therapy. I pop in my ear phones, turn on my ipod and sing (usually very loudly) while I chop and stir and flip and mash. I also love to bake, but I don't do it often because it has really started to show.

Okay, honestly, its been showing for a very. long. time.

I also cook because other than Emily, who is also a very good cook (her Greek fried chicken, sweet and sour chicken, and chicken parmegan are to. die. for. Brownies, don't even get me started. And she cooks more than chicken, but that is all I can think of right now.) no one in our house can really cook.

Okay, Keith can cook a little, but only with a cookbook and all the ingredients listed in the cookbook. Remind me to tell you the story about what happened when he was cooking, didn't have the ingredients, and Em intervened.

There were actually "words" spoken and apologies given.

Stephen can cook wonderful Ukrainian food, but that is it. The man once put chocolate chips in my baked beans because he didn't think they were sweet enough.

And he once made me an egg salad sandwich, which, instead of mayo, contained the leftover linguine and clams for the night before.

So I cook most of the time. Our physical and mental health depend on it.

Childcare: The kids are mine. I don't know if they are all right, but they're mine. I did the best I could and none of them seem to traumatized by growing up with Dawne. Could I have done better?


Absolutely.


But who couldn't.


Grocery shopping: I hate grocery shopping. No matter how well you do it, or how much money you spend, you leave the grocery store knowing that you'll be there again soon.


And in our house soon is usually the next day.


Keith and Stephen drink milk like we run a dairy farm.


When Mer moved back it was even worse. Somehow, she has become the. pickiest. eater. I. have. ever. encountered.


All she wants to eat is chicken, potatoes, and salad.


However, because she was moved in to her apartment and would not be eating all three meals at Dawne's House of Never Ending Food, we had to take her grocery shopping.


We were on a time restraint.


Quel suprise.


Em had to work at 5.45. We got to the grocery store at 4.30.


I told Mer about the time restraint. She indicated she understood.


She didn't.


Mer loves grocery shopping. So does Stephen.


I grocery shop with a list, carefully constructed from looking at what we need, what is on sale, and where the items are in the grocery store. I do love internet grocery flyers.


I grocery shop with a purpose: to get out of the grocery store as soon as possible.


Mer and Stephen grocery shop as if they have nothing else more exciting to do. They graze slowly and carefully through each aisle, picking up random things, questioning whether or not we need it, or could try it. They exclaim of minute variations in products, like Kraft Whipped Peanut Butter over regular old chunky peanut butter.


It is painful to watch this, let alone be forced to participate in it.


So there I am, cart in hand, with no list in spite of the fact that I made a list the night before when Mer and Stephen were supposed to go grocery shopping.


I could feel my blood pressure rising, knowing that the clock was ticking faster and faster. No one wanted to move. Mer is flitting from aisle to aisle. Em is pissed because she is in the grocery store in her Empire Theater uniform. Stephen is harping at me to read labels because he doesn't have his glasses and he can't read a damn thing.

I did what any time-stressed, anxiety-filled woman who hates grocery shopping would do: I started directing people to various aisles.

"Stephen, get the cheese. Mer, bread. Em, hamburger buns." When they started to flag, I was there, ready to hand out the next set of assignments.


By some miracle, we managed to get everything Mer needed, some things she wanted, and I even had a few measly dollars left in my bank account when we were finished.

I even remembered my mother's club pack of PC Sweet and Salty Granola Bars.

But that is a story for another time.


Title Lyric: Queen of the Supermarket by Bruce Springsteen

Everything you own in the box to the left. . . .

August 28, 2010


Yesterday I spent 10 hours in Meredyth's apartment waiting for Leon's to deliver her furniture: a bed, a dresser, and a desk.

I thought everything was going to be tikkety-boo when the first delivery of her couch and tv stand arrived at 11.15 am.

Two deliveries you ask? Why are two deliveries, from the exact same store, necessary you ask??
This is a very good question.

Because the couch and tv stand were bought in the Clearance Section of Leon's. The bed, dresser, and desk were bought from the Leon's showroom.

And is the Clearance Section in another location? A separate building?

Another very good question. . .you guys are really smart!

No, it is not. In fact you have to go through the showroom to get to the Clearance Section.

Leon's wisdom goes like this:

If you buy something from the Clearance Section, they won't deliver it. They contract Clearance deliveries to Premiere Shipping.

For, of course, a $50.00 fee payable upon the delivery of goods.

If you buy something from the showroom, Leon's, or someone else they contract deliveries to, will deliver your goods, with no extra delivery fee.

This makes as much as sense as a tick that can knit sweaters.

At 2.30, we called Leon's to inquire about the showroom delivery. They responded that the delivery truck had arrived at 10.00 am and we were not there.

That's because the person who called me at 8.15 yesterday morning said they would be there between 11.00-1.00.

So why would I be there at 10.00?

We were then told that they would be delivering the goods later that afternoon, before 5.00.

At 5.00, I called again.

The person at Leon's said she would call the delivery people and have them call me. I gave her my cell phone number.

At 6.30 Meredyth called. No delivery people had called, and when was her furniture going to arrive.

We'll call them again, the Leon's people said.

At 7.30, alone in Mer's apartment, I called Leon's again.

"Oh", said the pleasant voice on the other end of the phone, "your delivery slip is here."

"How come", I said.

"Because they tried to deliver the furniture and no one was there."

"That is not true," I said, "because I have been here since 10.00 this morning, and no one, except the Clearance delivery people, a plumber, and a lost Spanish man have been here."

"They said they called all three of your contact numbers and no one answered."

"Really", I said, my voice getting a little louder, "because I have been sitting here since 10.00 am and the only phone calls I have received are from my kids, my husband, and Canada Post. My phone is working, and I think I would have remembered if delivery people had called."

"Well, what about the other two contact numbers?" and then she read these two numbers.

"The first one is my home phone. And there have been people at my house all day. The second phone is my daughter, who has been SITTING ON THE COUCH BESIDE ME SINCE 10.00 AM SO CLEARLY NO DELIVERY PEOPLE CALLED HER EITHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I was gettting upset. I may have said something about how much money was spent on said furniture and how they managed to function with such incompetence among their delivery staff.

So, no furniture delivery today. I then started the process of negotiating when the furniture would be delivered.

"Given the level of incompetence on your end, I want that furniture on a truck Monday morning and I want it to be the first delivery of the day. My daughter has taken two days off work to move into her apartment. I took today off work to help her move into her apartment, and now you tell me that there won't be a delivery until Monday, when everyone is supposed to be at work."

"Let me get in touch with our warehouse manager and see if a Monday delivery is possible."

"Excuse me. Possible. How about assured. First delivery of the day."

She then took my cell phone number, again, and said she would be in touch with me today about whether or not the furniture would be delivered Monday.

After I hung up, I thought things were sorted out. I was more amicable on the phone, with the Leon's lady than I felt, but I did get my point across, and it seemed that Mer's furniture would be delivered Monday.

And then I had to take the next step: and this one I feared more than anything.

I called Mer.

To decrease the stress in Mer's bachelor apartment, I sent her out with Stephen to go to Sears to pick up bedding. They were also going to the grocery store, because not even Mer could live on icing sugar and bread crumbs alone.

She has been in the apartment all day, with me, and keeping Mer anywhere for a prolonged period of time is akin to caging a pride of lions.

Especially if that prolonged period of confinement is with me.

I calmly explained to her that her delivery wouldn't be happening today. I told her what the woman at Leon's told me.

I could hear the anger building in her voice. I knew where this was going and there was no possible way I could prevent it.

Mer called Leon's.

Again.

And at this point, she was in Sears, at the catalogue counter, picking up the bedding her grandmother had bought for her.

This counter is typically manned by older Pentecostal women.

Meredyth is pacing back and forth in front of the counter spewing explitatives that would make an inmate blush.

The older Pentecostal women were aghast. . .blood drained out of their faces at the sight of this very angry 20 year old girl, pacing in front of them while cussing out Leon's.

Stephen, of course, was mortified, and tried to manage the situation the best he could.

But when Mer gets like that, the only thing to do is step back and wait for the fury to pass.





The furniture saga continues. . . .


This morning, while typing this entry and drinking a much needed cup of coffee, the house phone rings. Its about 10.00 am.

Its the warehouse manager from Leon's.

They don't make Saturday deliveries, but they are willing to make an exception, and they will be at Mer's apartment in one hour.

Yeah, right??????

Sort of.

Mer wasn't home and I didn't have her keys. Her cell phone was dead and I didn't have her keys.

I texted Keith, who is in Moncton for the weekend, looking for the number for his friend's house, because his best friend is currently Mer's "friend" and that is where she was.

Knowing the state my son was probably in this morning, waiting for him to get back to me was not an option. (He eventually did get back to me, but not until 3 hours post-crisis.)

I did what any self-respecting mother would do in this kind of desperate situation.

I drove over to where I knew Mer was.

I had dropped Keith off there numerous times, and I knew the apartment number, but I had never been inside. It isn't a secured building, so there was no problem getting in. Up three flights of stairs and there I was, standing at the door of the apartment. I knocked a couple of times, then knocked louder a couple of more times, and no one came to the door.

I tried the doorknob. It wasn't locked. (this is starting to sound like a mystery novel, isn't it)

So, I walked in.

And it looked exactly the way an apartment shared by two young men in their early 20s would look.

I fought the urge to wash the dishes.

Tentatively, I begin walking through the kitchen, calling Mer's name. The kitchen lead me to a short hallway. On either side of the hallway were the bedrooms. The bedroom on the left had a closed door, the bedroom on the right had an open door. In the bed there was a young man with dark hair.

I am standing there, calling Mer's name, when the young man rolled over.

He was the roommate. We had never met before.

I say, "you must be (name)."

He, half asleep, holds out his hand and says, "And you must be Dawne."

And from the other bedroom emerges Mer, looking more than a little embarrased that her mother had come traipsing through the apartment, calling her name.

I looked at her. There were so many things I could have said, so many things I wanted to say.

Instead, I just said, "Hustle honey buns. Leon's is delivering your furniture today. Now. In the next 15 minutes."

Mer's "friend" wasn't there. He had left to get his mother's car to help Mer move the rest of her things.

As soon as we left, the roommate texted the "friend" and said he had met Keith and Mer's mother and he now believed all the stories were true.



The furniture has arrived.

Mer and the "friend" have taken all the remaining bags of clothes and other assorted things to Mer's apartment. The bedding is there. She has Stephen's tools to get things put together. All that is left is for us to take her to get some groceries, because Stephen wasn't taking her anywhere else last evening while the fury was in full swing.

The Furniture Crisis and Moving of Meredyth are complete.

Now, I'll just sit back and wait for the next crisis to rear its ugly head.

Because experience tells me there will be another one and it will be here soon.


Title Lyric: Irreplaceable by Beyonce

Grow old along with me, whatever fate decrees, we will see it through. . .

August 25th, 2010

Today, Stephen and I have been married for 3 years.

We didn't intentionally plan our wedding two days after my birthday, but, a convergence of events beyond our control lead to our wedding happening two days after my birthday.

Those events: Stephen's sister, Mary Ann, and her husband, Roman, along with Meredyth, were all going to be in the vicinity of the East coast. It seemed like an opportune time to get married.

Nothing about our being together has been conventional. He was a 42 year old bachelor, living in a nice two bedroom apartment, neat and clean, knowing where everything was all the time.

I was a single parent of three children, living in a four bedroom house, not neat and clean, where we often didn't know where things were.

And we had dogs and cats.

Somehow, in spite of being complete opposites, we manage to make it work. I think it's because of our winning combindation of therapy, love, patience and lots of melatonin.

Its hard being married. I knew this before I married Stephen, having been married before. But until you are married, you don't really know how much work it really is.

I didn't need to marry Stephen, to be with him. I love him, and would have been content to be with him without any sort of official ceremony linking us together.

Stephen, however, had never been married, and it was important for him, so we got married.

Again, not a conventional wedding ceremony. Being Quakers, we didn't have a minister, nor were we married in a church. The ceremony included everyone we invited, and when we were lead to, we got stood in front of our family and friends and exchanged the vows we had written. We then had more silence. Eventually, people who felt led to speak about me and Stephen, or just one of us, did so.

And that was it.

There was a pot luck reception, with wonderful food, apparently. Stephen and I were "doing pictures" (perhaps the only traditional part of our wedding) so we only heard about the food.




Stephen has had much to adjust to since we got together. There are lots of times when I question how come he has stayed. Life with me and the kids isn't easy, anyone with teenagers will tell you that. He definitely wasn't prepared for the drama that accompanies teenage girls, nor the was he ready for their understanding, or lack thereof, of "cause and effect." In Stephen's world, when you ask someone to do something, it is done shortly after you ask.

And you never have to ask more than once.

In the kid's worlds, you can ask, and eventually whatever you have asked to be done will be done.

But maybe not as quickly as you would have wanted it done.

So with the kids its more like "cause, and eventually, at some point, when there is enough time and energy to do so, there will be an effect."

This makes Stephen crazy.



One of the unforseen happenings of our getting together has been the developement of a game called "Mum-Dawne in the middle."

This is a well loved and often played game among Stephen and the kids.

The sole objective of this game is for Stephen to communicate with the kids, and vice versa, through me.

This makes me crazy.

And they know this.

I cannot seem to make them communicate with one another. And this has really been the source of more than one family discussion. In fairness, as the kids get older, they have become somewhat more willing to talk with Stephen about things, without involving me.

But there is still room for A LOT of improvement.

I also know that this is not a phenomenon that exists solely within blended families or step-families.

When I was growing up, my brother and I often "talked" to our father through our mother.

My dad wasn't easy to talk to, and while he is easier to talk with now than he was when I was younger, I'm not comfortable talking with him. Everything is compared. Contrasted. A contest to see who is the worse off.

Most of the time he wants to compare his living situation, at home, alone, looking only after himself, with my mother's: living in a nursing home, not at home. He doesn't want to be in a nursing home, but he resents that my mother is, and that she is being looked after.

And he resents that he "has" to come into town to see her every second day. He is also very vocal about this.

Unfortunately, I have no sympathy for his tale of woe. I remind him that this woman is his wife of almost 50 years, and she is in a place she doesn't want to be, and he is in the place where she wants to be. He can come and go as he pleases, has a new car to get around in, takes the odd vacation to visit family in Nova Scotia.

My fear is that Stephen and I will become more and more like our parents as we get older.

God, I hope not.



I am happy, every day, that Stephen thought marrying me would be a good idea.


Title Lyric: Grow Old with Me by John Lennon

We gon' party like it's yo birthday

August 23, 2010

43 years old today.

I'm not big on birthdays. For the kids, yes, but not for me. I don't have age issues, or anything like that, I just have never been that excited about my birthday.

Emily, on the other hand, is always excited about my birthday. This morning, she came bouncing downstairs with gifts and cards in hand, gifts she had bought with her own money from her own job.

A lovely new wallet and the 10th Sookie Stackhouse book are now mine!

Keith, with no bouncing, hands me a Chapters bag, with apologizes for the gift inside not being wrapped. Inside was the third Steig Larrson book.

Oh my kids know their Mama; they know the direct line to her heart.

Stephen bought me a lovely china cabinet and a wrought iron floor lamp, from Kijiji. Its our new favourite place to shop.

And then, the "icing on the cake" so to speak, was the brunch at the Diplomat paid for by my children.

All in all it was a good birthday for someone who isn't that big on birthdays.

Title Lyrics: In Da Club by 50 Cent