If you call me home, I'll come driving fast as wheels can turn. . .

September 16, 2010



Being a single parent meant that I was the one who took charge when it came to doctor's appointment, or dentist appointment, or taking the pets to the vet, trying to explain to the Vice Principal of FHS that Meredyth really did want to be in school, and no, she wasn't intentionally being difficult. . .


After a while, you get to accept this as part of your everyday life.


So when Stephen and Keith took the dogs to the vet this afternoon, I was in a quandry.


Thirty-three people were sitting in McCain Hall waiting for me to come to regal them with my knowledge of Advanced Qualitative Research Methods.


And since I have yet to hear of any scientific discovery that allows someone to be in two places at once, I clearly didn't get to take my babies to the vet.

For the last couple of weeks, the two of them have been scratching themselves senseless. Tikka, in particular, was starting to sound like an entire group of First Nations drummers when she would use her back leg to scratch her front leg.

At first we thought it was a pressure sore.

I was regulary slathering her with hydrocortizone cremes. As soon as I put them on, Frankie would lick them off.

Not to be outsmarted by an 18 month old puppy, I kicked things up a notch with a hydrocortizone spray.

I was bathing and brushing them.

Frankie was starting to look like a pie bald horse.

Scratching became Tikkas primary form of exercise.

Finally, and yes we should have succumbed to the only plausible solution much sooner, we took them to the vet.

Or, Stephen and Keith took them to the vet.

But I paid.

$260.00 later, the dogs were Advantaged and will be medicated for the next 10 days.

The cats were Advantaged.

And outraged. They didn't even have to go to the vets to be punished for something that was clearly the dog's fault.

Goblet was incensed. She ran off as soon as she saw how Reilley reacted to be grabbed, incapacitated, and doused at the top of his neck with something that came out of a tube.

Stephen found her in the corner of our bedroom, underneath the cloth covering my bedside table.

She hissed and spit at him.

But she was still Advantaged.

And we didn't see her until much later last evening. She walked by us, gave us the Goblet-patented stink eye and stomped down the basement steps.

To shit on the basement floor, in all likelihood.

The best vet trip, ever, was when I decided we would take ALL our pets to the vet at the same time, in order to reap the benefit of the "multiple pet discount."

10% off the total bill.

One Saturday morning we stuffed the car full of crated and harnessed cats, four people, and the dogs in the back behind the gate.

Driving the highway from Fredericton to Oromocto, we looked like a travelling zoo. . .of psychotic pets and more psychotic pet owners.

I was driving. Because Goblet, who is usually never crated, always harnassed, HAS to sit in front, on Stephen's lap. She does not like the car. At all. And her primary method of coping with her discomfort, fear, anger and frustration at our audacity to remove her from the comfort of her home is to pant.

Picture Jack Nicholson as the Joker, panting outside your window while he plans your immenent death.

Reilley and Herman (its still raw to talk about Herman) are in their crates.

Herman was 18 pounds of muscle. He had an attitude that made Goblet look like Gandhi. Putting him in his small dog sized crate meant encasing your hands inside oven mitts, putting the crate on its end, and shoving him inside while he grips the sides of the crate, fighting you every step of the way.

Reilley has no free will. Emily managed to remove that from him a long time ago.

Nonetheless, he is VERY vocal about being crated and put in the car. Even with Em holding the crate on her lap, cooing sweet nothings at him, sticking her fingers through the bars of his cell, telling him it will be alright, and doesn't he remember how much he enjoyed the vet the last time he was there???

Tikka knows where she is going.

And is not happy at all.

Frankie, on the other hand, is blissfully ignorant of the fate that awaits him. His tail is wagging, he is pacing back and forth in the back of the car, and when we get to the vet, he leaps from the car and heads straight for the vet's front door.

He only did that once.

Because once he ascertained what actually happens at the vet, he never again leapt out of the car at the front door.

The cacophany and clamour in the car sounded like the Met Opera on a Saturday.

Except the lead performers were pissed off, hissing, caterwauling, panting, crated cats who sounded like nails on the chalkboard, supported in their feline aria by the background barking and whining of dogs who couldn't not, for the life of them, figure out how come we were bringing the cats along for our little road trip.

And that was just the car ride.

Inside the vet's office was no better.

The cats are lined up in their crates, still enraged by their incarceration, sitting side by side, looking like inmates being taken to the infirmary.

The dogs are sniffing the cats, rewarded for their care and concern over the welfare of their feline compatriots with paws shooting between the bars faster than the speed of light, nails bared, ready to remove as many layers of skin as they can in .3 milliseconds.

And the fun didn't end there. Weighing them, the vet's examination, getting their shots, pills being shoved down their throat, all of this happened with the grace and ease of trying to train elephants to walk on a tightrope while they hold flaming torches in their snouts.

Once we got back into the car, everyone, human, canine and feline settled in for the traumatic drive home, Stephen looked at me and said, "The 30.00 we saved with the "multiple pet discount" was not worth it."

And we have never taken the cats and dogs to the vet together again.

This afternoon, Stephen and I are going to Montreal for the weekend.

We'll be back Monday.

Stephen's father is celebrating his 80th birthday tomorrow.

His sister and her husband have been in Montreal for about 8 days, visiting from Vancouver.

Family and friends have come from Quebec City, Oakville, Toronto.

Its a big deal.

Saturday night we'll be having an intimate dinner for 30+ people at an Italian resturant somewhere in Montreal.

Sunday morning we'll attend St. Sophie's Ukranian Church, where Stephen's parents, his Aunt Irene and his sister will be singing in the choir.

And Stephen and I will be sitting in a pew, behind a pillar, so they can't see us.

I LOVE St. Sophie's! It is the most beautiful church I've ever been into. The first time I saw the sanctuary, my jaw literally dropped to the floor.

I can't even describe it, but I may be able to get some pictures.

If Em will lend me her camera.

None of our three, lovely children will be coming with us.

They have elected to stay home and "take care of the dogs."

Translation: they want the house to themselves while their parents are away.

I am sure they will look after the dogs, give them their meds, walk them, feed them, love them.

But just not with the same excitement, vigour, love and tenderness that I will.

Plus, I don't think anyone will sleep in our room so that the dogs can sleep on their pillows and blankets in comfort and peace.

Goblet will not even LOOK at any one in the house while Stephen is gone, and you can bet the deposits on the basement floor will increase in number and frequency.

So long as the house is still standing and that things are in the same shape they are in now, the pets are all breathing and fed, I'll be a happy woman.

Now eight hours in the car with Stephen. . . .

That is a whole other issue.

Title Lyric: Driving by Everything But the Girl

In French they say le blanc doodie. . . .

September 16, 2010




Its only 8.42 am and I want to crawl back into bed and wait for tomorrow.


The novelty of a new term has worn off. . .very quickly. I knew this when I woke up at 6.30 am instead of 6.00, and waking up late didn't encourage me to jump out of bed like it was on fire.


I just laid there.


Listened to the radio. . .songs like Sexy Chick wailing through the small, clock radio speakers, reminders from Trevor Doyle to call in birthdays and anniversaries, the news, which is never good.


I realized that I didn't wake Em to get into the shower.


I hate getting Em out of bed.


Because Em hates getting out of bed.


Em loves her sleep. Loves nesting in her bed, duvet and blankets and Reilley encircling her, fist curled underneath her chin.


But all this heavenly gloriousness disappears when I turn on the light, and speak the words she hates to hear:


"Morning Bunny! Time to get up and into the shower."


Thus releasing the maelstrom.




The only thing worse than waking Em is waking Stephen.

My husband, who is for the most part kind, patient, caring, is dillusioned, disoriented and just plain cranky most mornings.

He moans and groans about getting up: how come? what's going on?

I start the battle an hour before I want him to be out the door.

I throw pets at him in an effort to make him uncomfortable enough to get out of bed.

Frankie wags his tail, jumps on Stephen, licks his face.

Goblet walks around him in circles until she decides to park herself on his chest and suck on his earlobes.

I turn on all the lights, turn up the radio, open drawers, close drawers, open our very loud on-a-track-closet doors, and close them, repeatedly.

Everything and anything I could do to get him out. of. bed.

Mornings are one of the few times I wish we had another car. That way, Stephen could stay in bed as long as he wanted and I wouldn't have to go through my morning-symphony and pet wielding activities.

Wouldn't that be nice.



One of the things I do every morning is take the dogs out.

After a night of slumber, Frankie has accumulated a small river of pee desperately wanting release. Tikka is a bit more reluctant to do anything quickly, especially walking down the stairs and out into the cold morning air.

In fact, she is downright stubborn. She sits at the top of the stairs, staring at me, while I cajole, beg, plead, barter and outright threaten her to get her bottom downstairs.

All the while trying to control Frankie's exuberant I-have-to-go-pee-dance.

Half asleep, I negotiate myself downstairs, always amazed that I haven't tripped or fallen downstairs. Dogs are pushing behind me, the canine version of "HURRY UP I HAVE TO PEE!!!"
I snap on the leashes, and Frankie bounds out the front door ahead of me, pulling me to the side of the house in a frenzied dash to relieve himself of his waterly load.

Tikka is the COMPLETE opposite. I am dragging her out of the door and down the steps. She refuses to move any further away from the front of the house than ABSOLUTELY necessary. So, I am standing on the front walkway, arms stretched as far as physically possible, a dog in each direction, trying not to fall over or, potentially worse, be split in half.

Wouldn't that surprise Stephen!




This morning, after narrowly avoiding being severed down the middle, I get back into the house, more awake than I went out, and let the dogs off their leashes. They tear down the hallway to the kitchen like prisoners who have just been released and haven't eaten for a month.

I turn to put the leashes back on their hook. I look down at the boot tray in the front hallway, and what to my wonderous eyes did appear??????

Dog shit.

The. Motherlode.

Sitting in the heel well of Stephen's size 12 navy blue Crocs.

I see a pattern here.

My Birkenstocks.

Stephen's Crocs.

Frankie's shit.

On the upside, things could be worse. Said deposit could be on the carpet, or the laminate floor, or in a pair of shoes that can't be washed with the hose, outside the house.

So, how come such an event occurred in my house on this September morning????

Meredyth.

Okay, maybe not completely Meredyth.

Stephen was very generous in putting the left over homemade macaroni and cheese into a container for Meredyth.

She put it in her bag, which was on the floor.

At some point, Stephen came into the hallway, and saw a half-empty container of mac and cheese with the lid sitting on the floor beside the container.

And a Frankie licking his lips.

It would seem that for Frankie, a moment on the lips is not worth a lifetime on the hips.

It results in a load of dog shit in someone's shoe.



In the normal world, this would be the end of our daybreak dog doo shenanigans.

But my world is far from normal.

In any event, everyone managed to get up, get dressed, feed themselves, make their lunches, and complete their morning ablutions.

Always first in the car, I watch the other members of my family emerge from my house and head towards the car.

Keith gets in, but then remarks that he smells dog poop.

Upon investigating his shoes, he realizes that his laces are coated in fresh, smelly, on-the-lawn-or-driveway-dog poop.

He gets out of the car in search of non-shit coated shoe laces.

Stephen starts towards the car, and then suddenly stops, lifts up his foot, and notes that he has a big ol' clump of fresh, smelly, on-the-lawn-or-driveway dog poop.

I get out of car to help him hose off his shoes.

He's taking the dog poop on his shoes far better than I thought he would.




I get back into the car.

My nostrils are suddenly overflowing with a noxious stench.

One I am intimately familiar with.

I look down at MY shoes.

And guess what?

The bottoms are slathered with fresh, smelly, on-the-lawn-or-in-the-driveway dog doo doo.

I get back out of the car.

Stephen is laughing.

I. Am. Not.

He hoses off my shoes, careful to not get the rest of me wet.

We both go back to the car, and we are still assaulted by the stench of dog doo doo.

Because the dog shit that was on our shoes has been transfered to the rubber floor mats of our car.

I, again, get out of the car, haul out the mat, and shake the shit off.

Stephen does the same. And then he sprays them down, to ensure that there is not one smidgin of poop left on the mats that could potentially be transfered to anyone who has the misfortune of being in our car.

Throughout the day, we found bits and peices of poo on our shoes, clothing, and other assorted personal items.

Thankfully, all that was present was the poop.

And not the smell.

Because wandering around campus, teaching two classes, meeting with people while wrapped in the wafting scent of dog shit doesn't exactly make me feel special.

I take so. much. care. to collect the fecal landmines that dot the landscape our of humble abode.

And Stephen is fanatical about making sure that any deposit made during the night time hours is collected and disposed of.

In our biodegradable poop bags, even.

Given this, I can only assume that the abundant profusion of dog shit around my house is an evil plot between my dogs to deplete my already small store of sanity.

Don't tell them, but they're doing a really good job.

Title Lyrics: (What Rver Happened to the) White Dog Poop from the 70s by Sarah Silverman

I went out into the night, I went out to find some light. . .

September 13, 2010



The Marianna's Trench concert was amazing. An inebriated Keith arrived home at 3.30 in the morning, and immediately woke the sleeping Emily to give her the autographs Mer was able to procure.


I wasn't there, so this is all heresay, but apparently, my rather intoxicated daughter pleaded with one of the band's handlers to get her the band's autographs. She spun a heart wrenching tale of her sixteen year old sister, who is *the* biggest Marianna's Trench fan, unable to attend because of her age, at home, curled into the fetal position around her 16 year old cat, whose fur is soaking up her tears, pining and crying and wailing about the unfairness of the world, while drowning her sorrows in a tub of Ben and Jerry's.


Whatever she said, it worked.


We now have two pizza coupons, the back of which contain the signatures of Marianna's Trench.


And a much happier Emily.


At least for the time being.


Because when you have kids, their happiness can be as fleeting as a moment of sane clairty.


Insane clarity comes along all the time.










This last week, from the moment I was informed that classes started on Wednesday, not Thursday as I had believed, I feel like I'm living in a snow globe that someone just WON'T stop shaking.


In spite of all my best efforts, I can't seem to settle things down.


Case in point: last evening, in an effort to put my life back on an even keel, I thought I would just sit on the couch and watch television.


Back-to-back episodes of Hoarders, to be exact.

I like watching Hoarders. I could see myself as a hoarder. Anyone who has ever been in my office can atest to that.

Hoarders deeply upsets Stephen's notion of a pristine clean world where everything is in its place.

You'd think living with me and the kids, he would be LONG over such silly notions, but its clear there is more work to be done.


If I was just sitting, watching tv, not talking to anyone, not doing anything, other than blinking my eyes, and breathing, nothing would happen.


Because I wasn't doing anything.

Right?????


I should be so lucky.


In the middle of one of the heartwrenching breakdowns from a woman whose husband left her and their four kids because she hides her $6000.00 dollar telephoto lenses in piles of her kids' laundry, which is scattered all over the living room floor, for safe keeping, and every spare inch of house is full of clutter, the power went out.


The power went out.


And it was really out. It wasn't one of those did-you-remember-to-pay-the-power-bill outages. It was a world-is-coming-to-an-end power outage. . .no streetlights, no lights on in any of the neighbours' houses. Just black.


Everywhere.

I grew up in a rural area, so this kind of darkness I was used to.

In fact, when I moved to Hamilton, I couldn't sleep for the longest time because it was too bright outside.

And I had just started writing a new blog entry because the breathing and blinking has appeared to establish some balance.

Obviously, this was not the case, because the next thing, everything went black and my laptop switched into battery mode.


My laptop battery is so bad that as soon as the power is disconnected, it starts beeping and wailing, red siren lights begin flashing and warning! warning! shut me the f*** down!!!!! signs flash across the screen.





How come everytime the power goes out, everyone yells out, "What happened?????"


You're in the dark.


What do YOU think happened?




I'm sitting in the dark (pardon the pun).


So begins the frantic search for candles.


We have candles, little tealight candles that float in a nice crystal bowl, providing ambience for those times in my house when ambience is called for (which is rare), nice scented candles, like pumpkin spice and apple pie, that make the house smell all pretty, and masks the lingering odor of cat poop because Goblet refuses to use the litter box.


What we don't have are those industrial size boxes of fist sized white candles, where one candle provides enough light to power my entire neighbourhood.


Upstairs, Stephen is *commenting* (and this is a very loose interpretation of the term) a lot, about the absence of a flashlight in our house and how can that be possible among such educated people??????


And then he trippped over Goblet and let out a string of explatives that would curl your hair.


Emily cautiously comes down the stairs lighting her way with her cell phone.

I half expected to see Stephen emerge from the depths of darkness upstairs with one of the Dollar Store attachable reading lights I had purchased for the kids to use during a late night drive to the Bangor Airport.

But he didn't.


The dogs are milling around, wondering why its dark and thinking about how much trouble they could get in.


Finally, Stephen provided some scented candles and a couple of tealights.

This provides enough light for me to look up the number to NB Power.

I feel like I'm in some twisted Little House on the Prairie reality, reading the phone book by candlelight.

I hate calling NB anything. . .Service NB, Aliant NB, any time you need to get a hold of an actual person, you can't.


It would be easier for me to give birth to a litter of kittens than to get a real person, who knows what is going on and how to fix it, on the phone.


Knowing how fruitless my efforts would be, I forged ahead. I needed to feel I was doing something other than wandering through a dark house stepping on cats.

I'm on Emily's phone (I can't remember how come I wasn't on my phone), and then my phone starts to ring.


Its Keith. Having finished his night class, where they clearly had power, he called to see if someone would come and get him.


I am trying to talk to NB Power. Frankie is milling around the table, and I am trying to keep him from snorting candle flames. Keith is yammering at me on the phone about picking him up, Mer is on the other line, which is beeping while I am trying to talk to Keith and listen for a person to come on the other end of the NB Power phone call, Tikka is walking in circles around the table, wagging her big bushy tail, which is in danger os becoming a flaming torch if she doesn't get out of the way, and Stephen is still muttering about flashlights and stepping on the cats!


I told Keith I'd be right there. Em had to man the phone in case an actual human being appeared on the other end of the phone. I shooed both dogs out of the living room, and practically ran to the car to escape the black chaos that had consumed me.




Surreal.


Driving through my suburban Southwood Park neighbourhood sans light was surreal.


People were outside with flashlights looking to see if any body else's power was out.


D'uh!


No streetlight. No stop lights.


Kimble Drive and Forest Hill with no traffic lights. I might was well douse my naked self with gasoline and wander around a camp fire, it would be safer.


Fredericton drivers are the worst. I've driven in Toronto, Montreal, Halifax, and I can tell you that Fredericton drivers act as if they're all smoking crack while wearing blindfolds and drinking tequila while they get attempt to drive.


I can't figure it out, but I have seen strange shit happen on the roads here.


Just yesterday afternoon, a STU professor who shall remain namless, drove past a school bus with all its red lights flashing, as if to say: STOP ASSHOLES!!!! KIDS ARE DISEMBARKING FROM THE BUS. I KNOW THEY'RE HIGHSCHOOL TEENAGERS, BUT IT IS STILL NOT LEGAL TO RUN THEM OVER!!!!! The bus driver honked, other drivers honked, teenagers spewed explatives, and said professor just drove on by, looking around wondering what all the fuss was about.


As an aside, this professor is actually like that all of the time but really. . .a stopped school bus with flashing red lights?

So I am cautiously driving to the university through my darkened neighbourhood. Emily is dressed in her pjs, still on the phone with NB Power, and sitting beside me.

Cause when you're driving in the dark and all the loonies are coming out, you need a co-pilot.

After 15 minutes of listening to a message loop telling us that our food will last two days in a full freezer, a day in a half full freezer and NB Power admonishments to not leave candles burning in our bedroom, or leave pets wandering around lit candles, Emily begs to be allowed to disconnect.

And because I am not cruel on purpose, just for entertainment, I said yes, she could disconnect in an effort to recoup some of the brain cells lost from listening to the NB Power admonishments loop.

Forest Hill Towers had power. It was equally surreal to leave my darkened neighbourhood and emerge to streets with lights, and operational traffic lights.

I was just glad Mer had power. The last time the power was out in her building, she left for a two day vacation, while leaving lights and fans and candles burning.

Once we arrived back home, all the kids in tow, Keith decides he should go to Mer's lighted abode in order to read all he had to read to prepare for today's classes.

Um.

Hum.

Not in the mood to argue, I said go, which left me, Stephen and Em at home to sleep in the dark.

Stephen can't sleep before midnight at the best of times, and usually reads until he is tired enough to sleep.

And did a blackout make any difference?

No.

Because Stephen transformed into Laura Ingalls Wilder and read three chapters of his book by candlelight.

I feel asleep, in spite of my worries about waking up to an inferno because a cat knocked over a candle.

Reilley singed himself trying to get to Goblet's water bowl.

The power came back on at 1.00 am.

All of a sudden, lights are blazing, fans are going, clocks are blinking, tvs are blaring, computers are humming, cats are clinging to ceiling. . . .

Scared the CRAP out of me.

I didn't know I could get out of bed that fast.

But if all I had to contend with was setting the alarm, turning off all of the lights, and soothing the furry side of a singed cat, I guess I can assume I dealt with the blackout in my ususal grace under pressure.


Title Lyric: Neighbourhood #3 by Arcade Fire