It's hard to get over, she comes out in October. . .

October 1, 2010



HAPPY OCTOBER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


The month of Thanksgiving and Meredyth's 21st birthday!!!!!

Translation: a birthday celebration that will span two days and probably leave Mer with happy memories and blood alcohol poisoning.


Translation: the month where I prepare a ginormous family meal, everyone comes over, eats and leaves.


As in leaves me with the dishes.


Stephen says I get stressed out when I have people come over for dinner.


I disagree.


I get stressed out when people don't listen to me while I am in the midst of cooking turkeys and ham, surrounded by boiling pots and noisy microwaves, while dogs hover around me so close I feel as if they have been velcroed to my pants, cats jump on the counters hoping to score something, anything, but preferably turkey, with kids running in and out of the kitchen asking me when is it going to be ready? when are we gonna eat? how come it's taking so long, and my mother sitting at the table telling me she needs to go to the bathroom and my father is on the deck avoiding everything and everyone.




The dogs and their saga continue.

Today was their routine follow-up after their guess-what-we-have-fleas-visit.

While the scratching had lessened, at least for Frankie, Tikka was still beating the floor so hard it sounded like ten warrens of thumping rabbits had set up permanent residence in our house.

Tikka's scratching and thumping is so loud some nights she wakes me up.

Which is a good thing because then I remember to get up and continue the pee parade.

Apparently after two weeks of antihistamines that made them pee every two hours, regardless of where they happened to be, we were told they actually didn't have fleas.

Really.

Um. . . .

Our dogs have sarcoptic mange.

Trust me, it sounds as bad as it is.

And if it isn't bad enough that our beloved canines are harbouring small mites that burrow under their skin, and that this condition is contagious, we were given another delightful tidbit of information.

It afflicts dogs, cats, other animals. . . .

. . .and humans.

Those mites can jump from animal to human.

AS SOON AS Stephen heard this, he started scratching.

Then he and Meredyth, who was begrudgingly helping us by managing Tikka, cooked up an evil plan to convince their disease phobic step-son and brother that he was afflicted with sarcoptic mange.

Remember, this is the kid who refused to go to Toronto because he was convinced he would get SARS.

His first text to Mer upon hearing of his new affliction: "Can I still go to the party tonight?????"

That's my boy.

Priorities straight.





It is only by some intervention of fate that none of us are afflicted.

Not even the cats.

Okay, maybe not fate. According to the vet, the reason we aren't card carrying members of the mange club is because of Stephen.

More precisely, Stephen's obsession with cleaning.

Cleaning, vacuuming three times a day, washing everything in sight, even collecting laundry that may not actually be dirty, has spared us the indignity of being plagued with a skin condition that has also been referred to as canine scabies.

Tikka has it far worse than Frankie. Both, however, had to have blood drawn and skin scraped. Both found the entire experience traumatic.I found the vet bill equally traumatic.

I found the vet bill equally traumatic, and no one had any medication to make me recover from it.

$375.00 later, we were laden down with medications, shampoos, creams. . .

It is going to be a long two weeks to our next visit. We have to adminster antibiotics every twelve hours; 1.5 pills for Tikka, 1 for Frankie. Tikka has to take two antihistamines every twelve hours, and Frankie is limited to one.

That was our only request: that if possible, so long as it didn't mean he would suffer, we asked, begged, pleaded for Frankie's dose of antihistamine to be reduced to prevent the two hour pee parade from taking over our lives. For a dog with a bladder the size of a two liter pop bottle, medication that encourages him to drink water, any water, toilet water, puddle water, water for the cats, has proven to be hazardous for our health.

Our itching canines are completely unaware of their outlaw status. We have, out of caution, put off any further dog training with Annette-the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/) until we after our next vet visit.

Which is just punishing me, since I so look forward to Annette's visits.

She makes me laugh.




Traumatizing vet bill, Mer's rent, my mortgage, the car payment, the too-long shitty weather. . I was feeling more than a little sorry for myself.

Mer's rent was justified.

I love her more than anything, but the child couldn't save a cent, even if her very existence was on the line.

Her apartment in my name and her rent coming out of my bank account has forced me to take drastic counter measures with Mer's money to ensure she has her share of the rent.

And this makes me unpopular with Mer when she wants her money.

To be fair to Mer, she is aware of her money challenged ways.

She has said to me, "Don't give me any. No matter what I say. No matter how hard I beg and plead."

Not a problem. I can handle that.

I have enough pent up frustration that saying no, maliciously saying no, is actually good for me.





But I was still feeling very sorry for myself. The how-come-I-work-so-hard-and-am-making-more-money-than-I-ever-have-in-my-life-and-I-never-have-any-money blues was permeating my every thought.

BB King would have been proud.

Thankfully, today was our day to volunteer at the Fredericton Community Kitchen: http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/.

Which pulled me out of my poor-me funk very quickly.

Em came with me and Stephen, and she helped make salad, wipe trays, dry dishes and dole out desserts.

And after being at the Community Kitchen, serving meals to those in need, I really didn't feel that I had the right to feel sorry for myself anymore.

Sometimes, you just need a little perspective, or a kick in pants to remind you of what's really important.


Title Lyric: October by Fm Static

Oh it could be so nice, growing old with you. . .

September 30, 2010




Today I was told that married friends of ours have separated.


This makes me very sad, for both of them. Of all the married/together friends we have, this couple was not even on my mental list of people who would possibly separate.


I have learned through a lot of experience that marriage is hard.


My mother, who has been married to my father for almost 50 years, has always told me that marriage is the hardest job you'll even do.


And she is so right.


Stephen and I have certainly have our ups and downs.


Sometimes we're able to work through them with relative ease.


Other times we need time apart (usually I go to work) and at some point during the day we manage to sort things out.


And if that doesn't work, we always have counselling.


So far, knock on wood, we haven't encountered anything that we haven't been able to work through in one way or another.


Two people together is work, throw in some children, a few pets, aging parents, adult siblings, careers, and you have all the makings for a life long psychotic episode.









Trying to balance everything is more of a challenge than I ever imagined, especially when you're stuck between your teenage/quasi-adult children and your aging parents.


The impact of being planted squarely in the middle hit me when I had to make an executive decision: Emily had a dentist appointment on the same day, at the same time, as my mother was scheduled for a barium enema.


As a one car family, we have encountered these dilemmas before, and I did the only logical thing I could do: reschedule Em's appointment.


She was heartbroken, naturally, at the thought of postponing her rendezvous with our dentist, missing the opportunity to have her mouth held wide open with the mechanically manipulated dental dam, dohickies holding it to her mouth, trying not to gag on the putrid taste that always eminates from this device of torture.


And how come dentists try to carry on a conversation with you, when they have your mouth held hostage and even when you try to participate, you sound like the faceless teacher from the Peanuts?


Just asking.







Now, instead of trying to rationalize with only my children about doing things they don't want to do, I have to attempt to rationalize with my mother as well.


She is stubborn, and when she sets her mind to something, she is almost immovable.


For example, I called her one evening and she was complaining that she couldn't hear.


The hearing aid repair person came in, gave her hearing aid a thorough once over, and said that her inability to hear had nothing to do with the hearing aid.


There must be another reasons.


And there was.


My mother.


Her ears were SO packed with wax that a sandblaster was actually considered to be an option.


However, since the nursing home was not comfortable with sticking a sandblaster, even a mini one, into my mother's ear, alternative measures had to be used.


Oil.


I don't know what kind, could be vegetable, olive, canola, but whatever it was, it was poured into her ear every night for a week.


After the oil went in, the nurse then stuffed her ears with cotton to make sure the oil didn't driop out.


And if my mother couldn't hear pre-oil and cotton, she was a lost cause afterwards.


My dad would call to say goodnight, and I'd have to be on the phone with him, yelling what he was saying to Mum.


The entire nursing home became privy to the intimacies of my parent's good night ritual.


Dad: tell your mother I said goodnight.


Me: DAD SAYS GOODNIGHT.


Mum: WHAT??????


Me: DAD SAYS GOODNIGHT!


Mum: SPEAK UP. . .I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!!


Me: DAD. SAYS. GOODNIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


And onward we would go until all the nightime rituals were complete.


She couldn't hear anything except the crackling in her ear where the oil was trying to break through the practically impenitrable barrier of wax.


After several days of this, I am visiting my mother, and the nurse comes in with her hands full: oil, cotton and Mum's medication.


Mum dutifully takes her medication.


And resolutely refuses to allow the nurse to put the oil in her ears.


Mum: I don't like it!


Nurse: I know, but the doctor is coming in tomorrow to syringe your ears, and the softer the wax is, the easier it will be to remove.


My mother was a nurse for 30 years.


She damn well knows why the oil must go into her ear.


She just doesn't WANT the oil in her ear.


She can't hear anything, she says, but the crackling, and it keeps her up at night.


Given the night time medication she takes, there is NO WAY a little oil working through the wax barrier in her ear is going to keep her up.


I once accidentally dropped her phone.


Scared the shit out of me.


Mum remained asleep, didn't even bat an eyelash or flinch.


So I wasn't buying her rationale.


In her wheelchair, arms crossed, lips pursed, teeth out, she shakes her head back and forth, indicating in no uncertain terms that it would take an army of nurses to get that oil in her ear.


Sitting on her bed, I am pleading internally for her to listen to the nurse. Hoping that for once the telepathic bond between mother and child would kick into high gear and she would just agree to oil in the ear.


No. Such. Luck.


After much pleading and cajoling, I finally stood up, went over to my mother, bent down to look her in the eye, and said:


Me: Mum, you either let the nurse put the oil in, or I will.


She glared at me for a few seconds. Lips still pursed. Arms still crossed, but I could sense she was wavering.


I have no medical training whatsoever.


If I did it, the oil may actually end up in her nasal passages as opposed to her ear.


Me: I mean it. And, if you don't do it, the entire week of oil and cotton will be a waste and you'll have to start all over again.


Eureka!


She uncrosses her arms, keeps her lips tightly pursed and tilts her head to the left to ensure maximum oil capacity.


Cotton packed in, she looked at me and said,


Mum: There. I hope you're happy. Now I can't hear a damn thing!









Part of parenting is the referree role.


You know, when you have to physically or metaphorically get between your children to negotiate a peace treaty so no one ends up bandaged or on the way to the hospital.


The same goes for my mother.


I have alluded to the wheelchair kicking incident between my mother and another resident.


I'll call her Maude.


In relating the incident to my brother, he commented that I really need to put the entire story in my blog.


After he wiped the streaming tears from his face. . .the ones caused by intense, almost breathless laughter.


One Saturday evening, I was clearing the dishes from our usual beans-and-homemade bread nursing home supper.


We were eating during what's called the "second sitting."


The residents eat first, and then those residents who are having company join them for dinner eat when places become available.


And usually, during our meal, one of the sliding glass doors to the dining room is closed and locked.


While Stephen and I are clearing the dishes, my mother readies herself to return to her room, where we usually watch the news.


Or if she really wants to punish me, a John Wayne film on Turner Classic Network.


This particular evening, while we were clearing up, Maude wheels in through the only remaining entrance out of the dining area.


Blocking my mother from being able to leave.


My mother is not always patient with the other residents. She discerned early on who she considered a friend. . .


. . .and who she considered not to be a friend.


Mum and Maude have a history. While awaiting beds in nursing homes, Mum and Maude were in the same unit at DECH.


I call it the holding pen.


Its the place where people awaiting nursing homes, and who have been as physically rehabilitated as much as possible, go and wait for a space.

This was, without a doubt, the most depressing place my mother was during the two years she was hospitalized.


But that is a story for another time.


Suffice to say that the line between Mum and Maude had been a long time ago, and it was as solid as cement.


Instead of waiting for me and Stephen to finish with the clearing up, my mother decided to take matters into her own hands.


Mum: Move Maude. You're blocking the entrance.


Maude's hearing is about as good as my mother's.


Mum: Maude. Move. YOU'RE BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE!


Maude doesn't budge.


And there are no three strikes you're out with Mum. Two warnings are as good as it gets.



Mum proceeds to put her foot on Maude's wheel and starts pushing her out.


Maude, in retaliation, yells at Mum to stop pushing her.


Which only makes my mother push harder.


Before I know it, I turn and witness a WWF:WCSD (World Wrestling Federation: Wheelchair Smackdown).


I didn't even know that was a division.


The two of them are kicking at one another, yelling and I did the only thing I could do.


I grabbed the back of Maude's chair and started pulling her out of the doorway, while she continues to yell at me that it was all HER (my mother's) fault and she was just sitting there minding her own business.


I bent down to talk with Maude, apologize for Mum kicking her.


And when I stood up, my mother was booting it down the hallway in her wheelchair, her hands a mere blur she was moving so fast.


Leaving me and Stephen to deal with the aftermath of her actions.


Finally, we sorted things out, and I head for my mother's room.


She is sitting there, resolute, arms crossed, watching the news.


I bend down in front of her, again looking her in the eye, and ask:


Me: WHAT was that about!!!?????


Mum looks back at me, right in the eye, and says with a completely straight face,


MUM: I don't know what you are talking about.


Stunned, I fall onto her bed, and sit there, not saying another word.


Later that evening, the night nurse came in.


The night nurse who lives across the road from my parent's house and keeps an eye on my father, letting me know if he doing anything stupid like climbing on ladders to clean gutters when he has an aneuyrsm and is not supposed to be climbing ladders under any circumstances.


My mother hadn't said a word to me about the incident, or anything else for that matter, since she claimed ignorance of her foray into smackdowns.


As soon as the nurse-who-lives-across-the-street comes in, hands full of Mum's meds, Mum looks at her and says,


Mum: Jackie (a pseudonym) I want you to know that you may hear that I was kicking Maude earlier this evening. I just want you to know I didn't kick anyone!


And then she looked at me.


Pursed her lips.


Crossed her arms.


And stayed that way until the meds kicked in, and the world became a softer, more narcotic version of itself.


If I don't see the humour in these events, I may as well just lay my head down and cry.


I'll take humour every. single. time.




Title Lyric: Grow Old with Me by Adam Sandler

I don't like spiders and snakes, but that ain't what it takes to love me. . . .

September 29, 2010




2 am.


In the bathroom, lights out, dogs milling around because where ever I go in the dead of night, they go.


I can't even count the number of times I've tripped over one or both of them while trying to walk to the can, still asleep.


Last evening, I was not only joined by the dogs, but by Stephen, too.


Stephen always turns on the lights.


Always.


And he insists on talking to me, in spite of the very clear fact that I am still sleeping, or am at least not awake enough to engage in any level of cogent conversation.


I am trying to go back to bed. He stops me for a hug. And then we both notice that Keith's shoes are in the hallway.


Meaning Keith is home.


Stephen asks, "Keith's home. Where is he?"


And literally JUST as he asks this critically important question, Keith pops around the corner and begins walking upstairs.


He appeared as if he was in a Harry Potter film, you know, when they apparate out of nowhere, carrying a bowl of cereal, with his "I've been out under the deck" look on his face.


All I know for sure is he absolutely terrified Stephen.


Stephen screamed.


The dogs jumped up like bats out of hell, rushing out of our bedroom ready to take out the evil doer who was causing all this racket.

The cats were clinging to the ceiling, eyes the size of toonies on steroids and shaking within an inch of their lives, puffed up like blowfish.

Em slept through the entire thing.

Years of living with children, on my own, lead me to the conclusion that getting upset about everything is a colossal waste of time.

That isn't to say that I don't get upset, because I do, but I usually don't let the small things bother me.

Stephen, when we first got together, was strung tighter than the wire tightrope walkers walk upon.

He is much better now. Years of living with me and the kids and the pets have worn him down a little, like rocks worn down by the ceaseless waves washing over them.

Even if the rocks wanted the water to stop, it wouldn't matter.

The water would just keep coming.

Hence why there is no point getting stressed about things.

For example, the hairballs hacked up during the night, and always placed where you are guaranteed to walk on top of them no longer cause him to force his hand to his face, covering his mouth in an effort to NOT gag.

I used to yell at him to STOP because all that would happen is I will have two messes to clean up instead of just one.

It was far worse listening to Stephen gag than to simply get some paper towel, pick up the offending hairball and toss the whole mess in the garbage.

But he would persevere, determined to not be outdone by a soggy, slobber slathered, mucusy hairball.

Until I removed him from the scene, sending him somewhere far, far away so I could clean up the mess.

Tikka, who is almost 13, will occasionally bite off more than she can chew, or her body will simply say that its not feeling the food love and she will promptly rid herself of the offending and half digested food.

This would send Stephen into an apoplectic fit, in part because of the sheer volume of her throw up. . .

. . .but also because of her propensity to throw up in public, or in her mind, the room where the largest number of people have congregated.

My brother had a cat that would do the same thing.

Except he wouldn't vomit or cough up hair balls.

He'd bring my brother dirty underwear to the living room and start "romping" with it.

Give me vomit over a horny cat any day.

Keith, of all the kids, was the once who gleaned the most pleasure from Stephen being wired so tightly.

For example, one day Keith went into the closet, and put his feet into a pair of boots that went up to his knees.

He then wrapped himself in a coat, while it was still on the hanger.

From all outward appearances, there was no one in the closet. The boots were standing neatly on the floor, the coat on the hanger.

Stephen goes to said closet, and as he is reaching for his coat, Keith jumps out and yells, "BOO!"

Once I was able to get Stephen off the ceiling, I was able to massage his heart back to beating.

And I made Keith PROMISE to never scare Stephen like that again.




Sometimes Keith would coerce his younger, impressionable younger sister to join him in his antics.

Em adores Keith, and essentially does anything he asks her.

It was no different when she was younger.

Somehow, the two of them managed to squeeze into the linen closet.

Keith was on the floor.

Em was nestled on the next shelf amid the towels, sheets, the heating pad and the hot water bottle.

At least she was able to stay warm and hydrated, because I have no idea how long they were in there before Stephen came along.

He got more than towels when he opened that door, let me tell you.

Eventually, I had to sit down with Keith and explain to him that while I applauded his creativity, he was going to have to start using his powers for good instead of evil.

Because I didn't know how much more Stephen's heart could take.





My brother and I were not immune to the cruel means children use to torment their parents.

But we were old enough to know better.

My mother started wearing a hearing aid when we were in our early teens.

Sometimes, we would mouth words to her, making her think that her hearing aid was turned down to low.

And when she turned it up full blast. . .

You get the picture.

I'm still not convinced my mother needs a hearing aid. I just think that years of very selective hearing had convinced her brain that her ears stopped listening.





But the absolute worst thing my brother ever did to me occurred a couple of years after we had moved out of Oromocto and into a rural community.

My father was adamant that we have a garden.

And more adamant that my brother and I work in the garden.

Whether we wanted to or not. And we definitely did not want to spend our summers pulling weeds and chasing birds away from the peas.

Sometimes, garden work would be family activity.

I would have much preferred a good game of Scrabble, thank you very much.

On this lovely summer evening my brother and father were weeding through the corn.

And my mother and I were a couple of rows over, weeding something else.

My brother called me over.

I went. He was my brother. I tried to be as congenial as possible.

And then the little f***er threw a frog at me.

Until that moment, I had no idea that warp speed was something more than a snazzy means of moving around the universe.

To this day, I don't think I've moved faster.

For WEEKS I refused to go to bed unless my mother came into my room, stripped my bed down and lifted the mattresses to show me that there were no frogs waiting at the bottom of my bed to spend the evening hopping up and down my body, waiting for the opportune moment to hop into my mouth, or try to get up my nose.

To this day I can't stand the site of frogs.

Or snakes.

Or any other thing that needs to slither.

And we don't even use the word s-p-i-d-e-r in this house if Em is within earshot.

Not unless we want to spend our nights sleeping with one eye open and trip wire secured around our room.

The ant in her bellybutton almost put her into a coma.

Once she stopped her tribal ant removal dance that was dizzying in its ferocity.

I didn't even know she could move like that.



Title Lyric: Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford

Fish don't fry in the kitchen, beans don't burn on the grill. . . .

September 28, 2010


Since coming home at 6.00, I've been cooking.

Chopping.

Slicing.

Dicing.

Pouring.

Stirring.

Seasoning.

Tasting. . . .

I love to cook. When I am in the kitchen, ipod clipped to my apron, headphones snug in my ears, creating, concocting, inventing, I'm in the zone.

And everyone in my house knows to leave me alone.

Cooking is an achievement, an accomplishment, with a tangible end product I can see when I am finished.

And much of academic work is the exact opposite.

You work and work, write and re-write, change up the material you teach, and yet you never get the sense that you're finished.

Or if you do, your publisher sends you a letter telling you that you need to get your manuscript professionally proofread and then provide an affidavit signed by the proofreader stating that the manuscript has been read by someone who is literate.

Yeah, I'm a bit bitter about that.

Frustrated.

Thought I was finished. Moved on to another project.

Hence cooking.

And baking.

I love baking bread, cookies, cakes, squares. . .

And of course, I love to eat them.

Which is more than evident.

So, tonight's endeavours resulted in a clam chowder, chili, sweet and sour stir fry with rice noodles, and a lovely fruit salad.

I am content in the knowledge that my efforts had a beginning, a middle, and an end.

And that I didn't have to do any of the clean up.





If I'm to be honest, I have not always been the reincarnation of Julia Child you know and love.

When I was younger, I was notorious for making a beautiful batch of cookies, popping them into the oven, and then retiring to the bathroom for some leisurely reading time.

Until the smoke alarm went off.

The dog would start to howl.

My father would come bounding up the basement stairs, demanding to know what the hell was going on, and how come I was on the toilet when I was supposed to be watching the cookies I was baking in the oven and did I KNOW how hard it was going to be to get the stench of burning cookies out of the house.

And then he would smack the smoke alarm with a broom until the damn thing stopped screeching like Ned Flanders when Homer accidentally killed Maude.

This is how I learned that cheese graters were a great way to remove burned bottoms from
cookies.






Sometimes my brother would join me in my culinary escapades.

Before we were old enough to stay home on our own, my brother and I went to a day care.

We were a little older than most of the other kids, which meant we were able to assist with cooking.

And pudding, in one of those Tupperware shaky thingy. . .you add milk to the contents of the pudding pouch, shake the shit out of it, let it sit for a few minutes and voila!

You have creamy, yummy, immediately edible pudding.

Of course, my brother and I assumed that ALL pudding was meant to be concocted in this manner.

We went home, took out three packages of pudding, put it in a huge, empty pickle jar because we sadly lacked the Tupperware shaky thingy, added the pudding and shook.

And shook.

And shook.

And shook.

And shook.

We shook together, hands clutching the sides of the jar, thinking that twice the shaking power would facilitate the process.

My mother walked into the kitchen.

We then learned the difference between pudding you shake. . . .

. . .and the pudding you bake.

Or rather cook on the stove, stirring and stirring, then letting it cool, where you would be greeted with that disgusting thick "skin" covering your pudding.

In order to cook the the vast amount of pudding the way the pudding was intended to be cooked, my mother had to haul out her dutch oven and she made my brother and I stir within an inch of our lives.

And we ate pudding every night for 10 days.

My mother made sure of it.

It was months before I was able to even look at pudding again.

J-E-L-L-O. . . .





My own children eventually became old enough to develop an interest in cooking.

For one of my birthdays, Meredyth took it upon herself to surprise me with a birthday cake.

And like her mother, she eschewed cook books.

Really, who needs them????

I came downstairs to this odd smell, which was quickly followed by this "PHOOM!" coming from inside the oven.

Mer put three cups of baking soda in the cake.

Things that make you go "PHOOM!"

The inside of my oven was coated with a sticky concoction of milk, eggs, baking soda, and a tablespoon of flour.

It still amazes me how quickly that concoction turned into an adhesive that would make denture creams a thing of the past.


Title Lyrics: Movin' On Up, by Jeff Barry and Ja'net Dubois

When I was drinking, when I was with you, living it up when the rent was due. . .

September 27, 2010

Friday afternoon, I come into my office and on my computer is a note from Keith telling me that his computer and liquor are in his gym bag and will I take them home.

And be careful to treat the bag gently because he doesn't want anything to happen to his liquor.

A big, full bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.

Good to know he has his priorities straight.

Last evening, Sunday, while watching the season premiere of The Simpsons (which was not all that good, if you want my opinion) I glanced over to Keith's desk, and noticed the big bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum was sitting on top of it.

But it was no longer a big, full bottle Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.

It was now a big, empty bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.

I don't even want to know if he drank all of it by himself.

Keith was, for the longest time, a shy, quiet, reflective young man.

He spent time in his room playing World of Warcraft, doing homework, spending hours with his Mama.

Until he started working at the theater.

Then my shy, quiet, reflective young man because a social animal.

Out all the time.

Drinking.

Smoking pot.

He goes to work, attends all his classes, spends lots of time studying, gets good grades, never asks for money, is still reflective, so I don't see that there is too much I can complain about.

In fact, the first time he ever found himself in the inebriated state, he comes home and as soon as I wake up and head downstairs, he meets me at the bottom of the stairs.

He says, "I want you to know that I got drunk last night. I have a hangover now, but I didn't want to go to bed until I told you."

Tell me, please, where is the fault????

Every first he has told me about.

Why?

Because he loves his mother so much that he feels compelled to share every intimate detail of his life with her?

No.

Because he knows I'll find out, so he may as well be the one to tell me, rather than have the story distored through the incorrect telling of another person.

Another person like Meredyth.

Because while Keith tells me everything he has done, he had the common sense to tell me enough to know what happened, but not enough to make me question his sanity.

His sister, on the other hand, delights in sharing with me all the details Keith wishes to remain hidden among his close-knit circle of friends.

Growing up, I could tell my parents somethings but not everything.

At least nothing major.

So I am thrilled that Keith feels he can share everything with me.

For example, I never told my mother and father about the first time I found myself in the throes of too much alcohol.

My parents had spent three years living in Germany, when my father was in the military.

This provided them, and many armed forces personnel with the opportunity to travel throughout Europe.

In fact, had my mother not insisted on boarding a plane to Canada when she was 8 1/2 months pregnant with me, I may have been born a German citizen.

Along with me, my parents brought many things back with them from Germany, including the practice of letting children have a small glass of wine, or other alcholic libation, during special occasions.

Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my parents would bring out the "good" dishes, including the wine glasses and my brother and I would be allowed a half a glass of wine.

And my mother thought the post-dinner antics were the result of too much cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.

Our wine consumption was tickety-boo until the Christmas we spent at my grandmother's house.

My grandmother, as far as I know, was not much of a drinker.

In fact, if memory serves, she was very much against taking the odd alcoholic tipple.

But that never stopped my father.

(In fact, little stopped him when it came to my grandmother. They had a mutual dislike for one another.)

He brought a bottle of wine, poured glasses for himself, my mother, and my grandmother's second husband.

He sat down.

And I, with all the indignity my under-10-year-old-self could muster, I demanded to know where my glass of wine was.

I didn't get my half-glass of wine.

But I did get a swift kick under the table from my father.

A pinch on my leg from my mother.

And the death stare from my grandmother.

I was 15.

My best friend was turning 16.

We were at her "cool" aunt and uncle's house. The first thing her Uncle said to me when I walked through the back door was , "DON'T get drunk."

One beer.

Okay, but I wasn't seeing the appeal. What was it about this beverage that was so enticing.

Two beers.

Better. I'm starting to realize how come people may find themselves beguiled by this libation.

Three beers.

Much better. At this point, I come to the realization that what I was experiencing was being tipsy.

Very tipsy.

Four beers. I am sitting on the floor, laughing at absolutely nothing. My best friend is laughing, too.

Maybe not absolutely nothing, because apparently I was pretending to play the guitar like BB King.

I can see how that would be amusing. Its amusing now, and I'm sober when I do it.

Five beers. NOW I get it. I have been thoroughly seduced by this yeast based liquid refreshment.

Completely.

Six beers. I notice that I am slowing down. I can sense it.

I can also sense my body's unwillingness to accept anymore of this glorious, amber coloured potation.

Thinking some fresh air will make things better, I go out the back door and down the stairs, drawn by the allure of the cool March air.

And promptly stepped on the tines of a rake, bringing the rake handle in direct contact with my face.

Cool air, a bloody nose and what would become a bruised face.

Beer seven. I had now reached maximum capacity.

No more room at the inn.

And rather than disgorge myself in the more acceptable manner, my body decided on a much faster, and far less attractive means of ridding my insides of its liquid albatross.

Thankfully I was able to avoid any further humiliation by mkaing it to the salle de bain on time.

Again, sometimes you just have to grateful for the little things.

I wasn't feeling grateful the next morning.

In fact, I wasn't feeling much of anything outside of the throbbing in my head, behind my eyes, in my ears. .

My hair hurt.

I was ready to swear off food for the rest of my natural (and perhaps unnatural life).

If you know me, you know how well I have managed to swear off food.

One would think, given that I am quasi-intelligent person, that this experience would have been enough for me to come to the logical conclusion that perhaps over-indulging in liquid libations was nothing something I would want to do again.

I didn't come to that conclusion at all.

Between the fateful introduction to alcohol at the tender age of almost 16, and turning the legal imbibing age of 19, there were a couple of other occassions where I may have possibly engaged in some tippling.

One time glaringly sticks out: I was in grade 12, and two of my friends and I decided to drink a bottle of Baby Duck among us before a school dance.

We knew the admonitions from the school about coming to the dance after drinking, however, we were on the dance committee. We would be there earlier than other students, hence avoiding the nasty encouters with those teachers who insisted on checking your id's, and smelling your breath, or the RCMP officers who were always called in to monitor students coming into the dance, returning when said students were leaving the dance.

We just hid out in the coat check room until the pre-entry inspections were over.

All I remember about that night was a lot of dancing, and the loud voice in my head that kept yelling: DON'T ACT LIKE YOU'VE HAD ANYTHING TO DRINK!

But at least this was before the advent of Facebook.

Because having friends who know what you did when you were out the night before is one thing.

Having friends who are willing to share those details with anyone who will listen (and we all have those friends, don't we) is something else.

But having a full colour picture documenting your antics from the previous evening is another.

You know the picture: the one of you wearing nothing but your mother's granny panties on your head, face in full makeup artfully applied by your drunken friends, little ditties written all over your torso in lipstick, like "There once was a man from Nantucket. . .", you holding a bottle of Sailor Jerry's in one hand, while in the other is the can of whipping cream your mother bought for Sunday dinner's dessert and you're squeezing its contents into the Homer Simpson boxers you thought would be fun to wear.

Immortalized on the world wide web for eternity.

With your name on it.

Once I started having children, drinking became far less enjoyable.

There is no amount of fun garnered from drinking the night before, that is worth getting up the next morning, with a hangover, to three loud children who insist upon my paying attention to them.

And now, in my almost mid-40s, I have reverted to my lightweight drinking status.

One glass of wine, a vociferous "WOO HOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I'm out cold in bed, snoring loudy, probably reminicing in my dreams about the "good ol' days."

Title Lyric: When I was Drinking by Hem