October 15, 2010
After attending a meeting downtown, I treated myself to a much needed hair appointment.
For the past several years I had been getting greyer and greyer.
Most disconcerting.
I don’t care about getting older, or even getting grey hair.
But if I’m going grey, I want all my hair to be grey.
Not just some of it.
Grey hair is splattered throughout my naturally brown hair.
Enough of it to be noticeable.
Enough for Emily, who loves to play with my hair to comment,
“Mum, you have A LOT of grey hair!”
Around the sides, there is enough coarse, wiry grey hair to knit a blanket with.
Consequently, every 6-8 weeks, depending on cash flow, I get my hair colored and trimmed.
Because the other thing that has happened, post-kids and as a result of my thyroid pills is that my hair as become dry, coarse and in the front, as in the very front, thin.
But if my hair is longer, the top thinning is much less noticeable.
And longer hair is easier to take care of. . .no weird bed head in the morning, and if I don’t feel like doing anything with it, I haul it into a clip and off I go.
My entire youth, the one thing I was able to feel confident about was my hair.
Thick.
Naturally curly, just like Freida in Peanuts.
Gorgeous.
So, imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror one day and was able to see a portion of my scalp I had never seen before.
I thought I was seeing things until my father asked me one day if I was losing my hair at the front of my head.
Nonetheless, thin hair in front or not, I still must have my hair colored until the day comes when it is completely, and nicely, grey.
Salt and pepper hair looks sexy on men.
It looks sexy on my husband.
But my schizophrenic spattering of grey, just significant enough to not ignore, definitely does not look sexy.
In fact, it makes me look tired.
And that, I can definitely do without.
I also love getting my hair done.
THE GODDESS of all hairstylists, Norma, at Klub Soda (454-SODA) is responsible for how good my hair looks, if you’re interested.
You should be interested.
She is phenomenal.
She’d have to be to put up with me.
And the kids.
And Stephen.
As soon as I walk into the salon, I immediately relax.
In fact, after the nursing home, it’s the most relaxing place I know.
Norma pampers me, massages my scalp, covers the offending grey, listens to me, we catch up. . .
No cell phones, no computers, no distractions.
I couldn’t ask for more.
At this moment, I’m sitting in Second Cup, on King Street, at as close to the corner table as I can get.
Not having the car, I decided to just plunk myself here until Stephen can pick me up.
I used to live on King Street, a half a block from the liquor store and a block from Sweetwaters, which was the major club in this city at that time.
The kids and I lived in a six bedroom apartment, the top two floors of a three storey house.
When we moved in, the rent was an astonishing $440.00.
Amazing!
But the heating bill, the oil heating bill, especially in the winter quickly took the shine off the inexpensive rent.
And it was an old house, so it was cavernous and drafty and there were times when I thought taking out shares in Irving Oil would be cheaper.
Usually around $750.00 a month.
Being challenged in anything related to non-electric heat sources, it took me a long time to figure out if we had run out of oil.
Other than if we were freezing our parts off.
Quickly, I learned that there was a vent just below the toilet paper roll in the bathroom.
Turn the heat on, run to the bathroom, and if the toilet paper was being blown around by the heat, we were good.
No blowing toilet paper, no heat.
This once happened on Christmas Even during a snowstorm.
Imagine the joy on the face of the on call oil delivery guy when he got to my house.
Chances are none of this would have ever happened had there been access to the oil drum, or at least reasonable access to the oil drum.
It was in the basement. Which meant that I had to go outside, around to the back of the house, into the dark, dank, creepy basement, cross over to the small room where the oil drum was and check to see how low the doohickey thing was.
The thing that’s similar to the thing that let you know if the Slush Puppy machine was getting low on Slush Puppy goo.
I HATED going into the basement.
Mice, snakes, any and all sorts of little creatures awaited me.
And it was poorly lit.
Unfortunately, the kids were too young to send down there on their own. And I had to wait to go to this den of darkness until after the kids were long asleep because I couldn’t leave them on their own when they were awake.
Given what they got up to when I was there, leaving them scared the crap out of me.
Taking them with me wasn’t an option.
So late night in the dark it was.
I love electric heat.
So long as you pay the power bill, all is good.
And warm.
Had we not been evicted because the landlord wanted to refurbish our two floors to rent to a provincial government organization, that, ironically, ended the contract after a year, I’d still be living there.
Yes, over a decade later I am still bitter about having to leave.
Because they wanted government money.
Which was apparently supposed to be more reliable than mine.
I loved being downtown.
The kids loved being downtown.
Buses, parks, shopping, library. . .everything was right there.
I walked everywhere. Ergo there was less ghetto bootay then.
In the summer, we were never inside. There was always somewhere to go, something to see.
Sometimes, all we had to do was sit on the front step.
Because when you lived downtown all the entertainment you'd want was on the sidewalk.
If there was, for some unusual reason, nothing going on, my kids were more than happy to fill the gap and provide the entertainment.
Mer loves to dance.
As a small child, she never walked anywhere, she danced.
Dance loving and energetic, I enrolled her in dance classes.
Tap and jazz, which meant she tapped all over our hardwood floored apartment, much to the delight to the two men who lived downstairs.
One sunny, summer day, my brother comes upstairs, laughing.
He asked me the question no mother wants to hear: Do you know what you’re children are doing?
It would seem that my two daughters were dancing their little faces off, on the front porch, while my son sat on the step holding out his hat for donations.
They managed to make $10.00 before I stopped them.
My son, a pint sized Pimp Daddy.
Emily wasn’t as fond of dance as her sister.
She managed one year of dance lessons before she put her foot down and resolutely refused to attend another dance class, ever.
How did she put her foot down?
Did she inform me of her displeasure?
Did she sit down and bare her soul about the trauma she was experiencing as a result of dance class?
No.
Wanting to make sure that there was no way I could misinterpret what she meant by, “I don’t like dance,” Emily staged a public mutiny.
A VERY public mutiny.
During the long anticipated end of the year dance extravaganza that drew such large crowds it had to be performed two nights in a row.
While all the other powder blue tutued little girls, and the one powder blue suited little boy were on stage in front of hundreds of family and friends of the dancers, dancing their little hearts out, my powder blue tutued tot was engaging in a full frontal mutiny.
She crossed her arms, and stood completely still through the entire number.
Glaring at me in the audience.
Even though she had no idea where I was sitting.
Not a tap.
Not a smidgen of movement.
Not a hint of smile, nor the slightest indication of humour in those gigantic baby blues.
Out and out defiance.
I suspect that had I managed to make my way onto the stage, she would have dug her heels into the floor rather than dance.
My brother leans over while she is making a public spectacle of herself as whispers in my ear,
“Do you think she’s trying to tell you something?”
I guess she figured if she was gonna dance, she was gonna get paid for it.
Title Lyric: Dancing Queen by Abba
Friday, October 15, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The toilet seat is your launching pad. . .
October 15, 2010
How come cell phones go off at the most inopportune time?
Yesterday, late (as usual) to pick up Em, I'm in the elevator calling her to let her know I was on my way.
No answer.
Realizing that I HAD to pee, and if I didn't go before I left the building, I would pee in the car.
Stephen probably wouldn't like that very much.
I make a pit stop in the bathroom, and of course, because I'm late, and carrying my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag, and Mer's coat, I get the smallest bathroom as all the others are occupato.
I prefer to use the handicapped stall, provided, obviously, that there isn't someone who has a greater need than I do.
Why?
Because when you're carrying all the crap I inevitably end up carting around, space is a must.
Bigger stall = more room for my stuff.
Not this time.
I had to put the two large bags and Mer's coat in the stall first, then crawl over them to get to the toilet, hoping for enough space to turn myself around and divest my ample bottom of my pants.
It was tight. I won't lie.
I situate my ghetto bootie (boo-tay? I'm never sure) on the toilet seat, begin my necessary bathroom ablutions, listening to the conversations of the people waiting for a free stall when I heard the tell tale sound. . . .
Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing. . .
My cell phone starts ringing softly and the longer you take to answer it, the louder it gets.
I briefly contemplated not answering it, but then remembered that if I didn't, whoever it was, and it was DEFINITELY one of the kids, they would just text me.
And that intonation is no better than the ringing of the cell phone.
Resigned that I am going to have to answer my phone while sitting on the toilet, I sigh and dig my phone out from underneath the assortment of bags and coats.
It was, of course, Emily.
Asking me how come I called her and then hung up.
I didn't call her and hang up.
I called her, didn't hear any ringing and then hung up.
There I am, in the bathroom, on the toilet, drawers at my feet having a conversation with my daughter.
She asks me where I am.
I wonder if she means literally or figuratively, and not wanting to risk a miscommunication that will end no where good, I told her I was sitting on the flush.
She reminds me she's waiting.
I remind her she could be walking if she thought waiting for me was an inappropriate use of her time.
I tell her that as soon as I disentangle myself from the toilet stall, that I'll be there to pick her up.
Given where I was, I didn't think a prolonged conversation was the most appropos thing.
Clearly, Em wasn't concerned about where I was sitting while we conversed.
She just wanted to converse.
How come your kids always want to converse with you when you are the least able to converse with them?
Mer has a sixth sense that signals her to call me just before I'm on my way to class.
Keith wants to bond when I am 3/4 asleep trying to negotiate myself to the bathroom.
Either way, I rush out of the bathroom, clutching my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag and Mer's coat to my chest like a quarterback running down the field for a touchdown.
Because I knew that getting Em was just the beginning.
There was returning home so she could put her uniform on.
Picking Keith up, cause he was at home and looking for a drive to work.
Quickly racing through rush hour traffic (as much as there is here) so I could get to my office, shut down my computer, and pick up Stephen from his 4.00-5.20 class.
And arriving at home sometime around 6.00 to pee-needy dogs and a hungry, hungry husband.
The looniness that is my life continues to repeat itself like a bad scratch on an 80s 45.
Last evening Stephen and I found ourselves at home without the kids.
All the little Van Every chickens were working.
When Keith started working, three years ago, I certainly noticed his absence, especially in the evenings.
But I had Em to remind me of all my maternal duties, so while I missed Keith terribly, I was busy.
When Em started working this past April, and Keith was (and still is) experiencing the freedom of being a young adult whose mother didn't enforce any curfew, I started to experience a phenomenon heretofore never experienced by me before.
I was at home in the evenings without children.
So unprepared for this, so unaware of the repercussions of working children I found myself completely and utterly confused.
Disoriented.
Generally out of sorts.
I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do.
None whatsoever.
I hadn't had a completely kid free, at home, evening since October 11th, 1989.
The night before Meredyth made her entrance into the world.
Here I am at 42 years old with no clue what people did in the evenings when they weren't embroiled in the tangled dramas of supper preparations, dog demands, fielding phone calls, husband hounding, homework cajoling, tv tantrums, bedtime begging, next day lunch readying, washing, drying folding, the never ending laundry loads because someone, usually female, had "nothing to wear the next day!".
Really, what do people sans pets and children do in the evenings?
I envision something completely decadent and adult like preparing a meal that is not restricted to the five-things-everyone-will-eat-and-not-complain-about, while drinking something alcoholic, a nice glass of brandy with ginger ale perhaps, listening to jazz or classical music, with candles softly lighting the dining room interior because you don't have to worry that a cat will walk by and set themselves on fire, or dogs in a frenetic battle of wills because they are trying to incapacitate one another will knock the candles over and set the house ablaze.
Imagine.
I couldn't.
Instead of lounging in the lull, revelling in the relaxation, nestling in the noiselessness, soaking up the stillness, I found myself completely at odds with myself, and the world.
Directionless.
Unfocused.
Hazy about what the hell I was supposed to do with myself.
I tried to work but couldn't concentrate.
Watching television was just an exercise in channel flipping.
Housework was a fait de complet as Stephen has already taken care of everything.
I just wandered from room to room.
Over and over like a ball in one of those rings cats are obsessed with.
To the point where Stephen asked me what the hell I was doing??!!
And could I stop because it was distracting him.
Now, I'm a little bit better at embracing the peace and quiet when the kids are all at work, I actually find myself looking forward to it.
Planning in advance what I'll do while the kids are busy making money and learning how to earn their way.
Or at least pay for their own clothes, cds and any other sundry items their little hearts may desire.
And believe me, they desire plenty.
But getting used to them working at night, and having them move out is something completely different.
I am step I am not ready to take, and am in no way ready to deal with.
I'm barely adjusted to Mer living on her own, 5 minutes away.
Sometimes, it's too far.
Other times, it's too close.
Most of the time, it's just perfect.
Title Lyric: Blastoff by the Decendents
How come cell phones go off at the most inopportune time?
Yesterday, late (as usual) to pick up Em, I'm in the elevator calling her to let her know I was on my way.
No answer.
Realizing that I HAD to pee, and if I didn't go before I left the building, I would pee in the car.
Stephen probably wouldn't like that very much.
I make a pit stop in the bathroom, and of course, because I'm late, and carrying my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag, and Mer's coat, I get the smallest bathroom as all the others are occupato.
I prefer to use the handicapped stall, provided, obviously, that there isn't someone who has a greater need than I do.
Why?
Because when you're carrying all the crap I inevitably end up carting around, space is a must.
Bigger stall = more room for my stuff.
Not this time.
I had to put the two large bags and Mer's coat in the stall first, then crawl over them to get to the toilet, hoping for enough space to turn myself around and divest my ample bottom of my pants.
It was tight. I won't lie.
I situate my ghetto bootie (boo-tay? I'm never sure) on the toilet seat, begin my necessary bathroom ablutions, listening to the conversations of the people waiting for a free stall when I heard the tell tale sound. . . .
Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing Bing. . .
My cell phone starts ringing softly and the longer you take to answer it, the louder it gets.
I briefly contemplated not answering it, but then remembered that if I didn't, whoever it was, and it was DEFINITELY one of the kids, they would just text me.
And that intonation is no better than the ringing of the cell phone.
Resigned that I am going to have to answer my phone while sitting on the toilet, I sigh and dig my phone out from underneath the assortment of bags and coats.
It was, of course, Emily.
Asking me how come I called her and then hung up.
I didn't call her and hang up.
I called her, didn't hear any ringing and then hung up.
There I am, in the bathroom, on the toilet, drawers at my feet having a conversation with my daughter.
She asks me where I am.
I wonder if she means literally or figuratively, and not wanting to risk a miscommunication that will end no where good, I told her I was sitting on the flush.
She reminds me she's waiting.
I remind her she could be walking if she thought waiting for me was an inappropriate use of her time.
I tell her that as soon as I disentangle myself from the toilet stall, that I'll be there to pick her up.
Given where I was, I didn't think a prolonged conversation was the most appropos thing.
Clearly, Em wasn't concerned about where I was sitting while we conversed.
She just wanted to converse.
How come your kids always want to converse with you when you are the least able to converse with them?
Mer has a sixth sense that signals her to call me just before I'm on my way to class.
Keith wants to bond when I am 3/4 asleep trying to negotiate myself to the bathroom.
Either way, I rush out of the bathroom, clutching my suitcase sized purse, Keith's gym bag and Mer's coat to my chest like a quarterback running down the field for a touchdown.
Because I knew that getting Em was just the beginning.
There was returning home so she could put her uniform on.
Picking Keith up, cause he was at home and looking for a drive to work.
Quickly racing through rush hour traffic (as much as there is here) so I could get to my office, shut down my computer, and pick up Stephen from his 4.00-5.20 class.
And arriving at home sometime around 6.00 to pee-needy dogs and a hungry, hungry husband.
The looniness that is my life continues to repeat itself like a bad scratch on an 80s 45.
Last evening Stephen and I found ourselves at home without the kids.
All the little Van Every chickens were working.
When Keith started working, three years ago, I certainly noticed his absence, especially in the evenings.
But I had Em to remind me of all my maternal duties, so while I missed Keith terribly, I was busy.
When Em started working this past April, and Keith was (and still is) experiencing the freedom of being a young adult whose mother didn't enforce any curfew, I started to experience a phenomenon heretofore never experienced by me before.
I was at home in the evenings without children.
So unprepared for this, so unaware of the repercussions of working children I found myself completely and utterly confused.
Disoriented.
Generally out of sorts.
I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do.
None whatsoever.
I hadn't had a completely kid free, at home, evening since October 11th, 1989.
The night before Meredyth made her entrance into the world.
Here I am at 42 years old with no clue what people did in the evenings when they weren't embroiled in the tangled dramas of supper preparations, dog demands, fielding phone calls, husband hounding, homework cajoling, tv tantrums, bedtime begging, next day lunch readying, washing, drying folding, the never ending laundry loads because someone, usually female, had "nothing to wear the next day!".
Really, what do people sans pets and children do in the evenings?
I envision something completely decadent and adult like preparing a meal that is not restricted to the five-things-everyone-will-eat-and-not-complain-about, while drinking something alcoholic, a nice glass of brandy with ginger ale perhaps, listening to jazz or classical music, with candles softly lighting the dining room interior because you don't have to worry that a cat will walk by and set themselves on fire, or dogs in a frenetic battle of wills because they are trying to incapacitate one another will knock the candles over and set the house ablaze.
Imagine.
I couldn't.
Instead of lounging in the lull, revelling in the relaxation, nestling in the noiselessness, soaking up the stillness, I found myself completely at odds with myself, and the world.
Directionless.
Unfocused.
Hazy about what the hell I was supposed to do with myself.
I tried to work but couldn't concentrate.
Watching television was just an exercise in channel flipping.
Housework was a fait de complet as Stephen has already taken care of everything.
I just wandered from room to room.
Over and over like a ball in one of those rings cats are obsessed with.
To the point where Stephen asked me what the hell I was doing??!!
And could I stop because it was distracting him.
Now, I'm a little bit better at embracing the peace and quiet when the kids are all at work, I actually find myself looking forward to it.
Planning in advance what I'll do while the kids are busy making money and learning how to earn their way.
Or at least pay for their own clothes, cds and any other sundry items their little hearts may desire.
And believe me, they desire plenty.
But getting used to them working at night, and having them move out is something completely different.
I am step I am not ready to take, and am in no way ready to deal with.
I'm barely adjusted to Mer living on her own, 5 minutes away.
Sometimes, it's too far.
Other times, it's too close.
Most of the time, it's just perfect.
Title Lyric: Blastoff by the Decendents
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
We'll get over it, we'll move forward, and know where we went wrong
October 14, 2010
Some dates, no matter how hard you try, will haunt you for the rest of your life.
For me, October 14th is one of those days.
Had I stayed with my ex-husband, today would have been our 22nd wedding anniversary.
And for those of you with firing synapses, it is also two days after Meredyth's birthday.
Which meant I spent my first wedding anniversary (the one with my ex-husband, not Stephen) in the hospital recovering from the birth from hell, trying not to cough because I was scared the stitches from my c-section would pop, and trying to poop because until you do they won't let you out of the hospital.
In fact, if memory serves, this was also the day the nurses cooked up, literally, a concoction of milk and molasses, put it in a rubber bag and used it as an enema to encourage the disposal of matter resting in my bowels.
To this day, I cannot eat molasses cookies with milk unless I want to risk an acid-like flashback that renders me comatose for at least 15 minutes, leaving me vulnerable to any unfortunate incident, like dogs peeing on me, or evil cats coloring all over my face in yellow highlighter.
I can never say I completely regretted my first marriage.
I regret things that happened while I was married the first time, but that's different.
In my mind, if I truly regretted my first marriage, then I would also regret having children.
And 99.9999999 (x infinity) I don't regret having kids.
In many ways, the kids saved me from myself.
A lot of work for three small children.
And a story for another time.
In retrospect (what a great phrase. . .it implies that one has grown and learned from their experiences) it was probably not wise to marry someone you had only known for 8 months.
And, getting married to get out of your backwoods, small, rural community where the highlight of teenage life was hanging around the elementary school with the "bad" kids, was probably not the brightest thing you could do either.
My marriage the first time a round hurt a lot of people.
My parents and brother, who could have told me not to but it wouldn't have made any difference because I didn't listen to anyone because at 21 I. Knew. It. All.
(Oh my gawd. . .Meredyth is me. I need a drink!)
My ex-mother-in-law, to whom I am still very, very close because we eloped and didn't tell her until afterwards.
On the upside, my ex-husband is now with his fourth wife, so she didn't miss out on anything afterall.
The young man I was engaged to before I met my ex-husband, I suspect, was very hurt.
He reads this blog. So consider this my official apology. I am very sorry I hurt you.
But he and I managed to maintain a connection that will last a lifetime.
Her name is Emily.
And that is definitely a story for another time!
How marrying at 21 was supposed to do that is completely beyond me but it made sense at the time.
So, I married, left university one term away from graduation, quit my job and moved to Southern Ontario.
Whatever lust-filled karma brought the two of us together lasted long enough to produce two children, Meredyth and Keith.
In fact, if truth be told, I knew the day I got married that I was making a mistake.
However, as an eternal optimist, I try to see the bright side of things, and assumed that I was just being nervous.
I now pay a lot of attention to my nerves.
In spite of being a very long 5 years of my life, that required several years of therapy to work through, there were many positives.
I am part of an absolutely wonderful family. My ex-husband aside, his family is phenomenal. I have a very good relationship with my former mother-in-law. I see her at least once a year, we talk and email frequently, and she has been very good to me throughout the last 22 years.
She even forgave me for making her a grandmother at 39.
This past summer, Stephen, Mer, Em and I enjoyed a lovely afternoon visiting with Great-Grandma, Suzy, Linda and Suzy's kids.
Now having an ex-husband's family continue to love and embrace you, and your current-and-forever-because-he-is-the-most-wonderful-man-in-the-world husband. . . .
That's definitely a positive.
Leaving me with a current mother-in-law and a former mother-in-law who have broken bread together.
How can having all those people love and care for you be anything but wonderful!
Some dates, no matter how hard you try, will haunt you for the rest of your life.
For me, October 14th is one of those days.
Had I stayed with my ex-husband, today would have been our 22nd wedding anniversary.
And for those of you with firing synapses, it is also two days after Meredyth's birthday.
Which meant I spent my first wedding anniversary (the one with my ex-husband, not Stephen) in the hospital recovering from the birth from hell, trying not to cough because I was scared the stitches from my c-section would pop, and trying to poop because until you do they won't let you out of the hospital.
In fact, if memory serves, this was also the day the nurses cooked up, literally, a concoction of milk and molasses, put it in a rubber bag and used it as an enema to encourage the disposal of matter resting in my bowels.
To this day, I cannot eat molasses cookies with milk unless I want to risk an acid-like flashback that renders me comatose for at least 15 minutes, leaving me vulnerable to any unfortunate incident, like dogs peeing on me, or evil cats coloring all over my face in yellow highlighter.
I can never say I completely regretted my first marriage.
I regret things that happened while I was married the first time, but that's different.
In my mind, if I truly regretted my first marriage, then I would also regret having children.
And 99.9999999 (x infinity) I don't regret having kids.
In many ways, the kids saved me from myself.
A lot of work for three small children.
And a story for another time.
In retrospect (what a great phrase. . .it implies that one has grown and learned from their experiences) it was probably not wise to marry someone you had only known for 8 months.
And, getting married to get out of your backwoods, small, rural community where the highlight of teenage life was hanging around the elementary school with the "bad" kids, was probably not the brightest thing you could do either.
My marriage the first time a round hurt a lot of people.
My parents and brother, who could have told me not to but it wouldn't have made any difference because I didn't listen to anyone because at 21 I. Knew. It. All.
(Oh my gawd. . .Meredyth is me. I need a drink!)
My ex-mother-in-law, to whom I am still very, very close because we eloped and didn't tell her until afterwards.
On the upside, my ex-husband is now with his fourth wife, so she didn't miss out on anything afterall.
The young man I was engaged to before I met my ex-husband, I suspect, was very hurt.
He reads this blog. So consider this my official apology. I am very sorry I hurt you.
But he and I managed to maintain a connection that will last a lifetime.
Her name is Emily.
And that is definitely a story for another time!
I was young, niave, thought I knew it all and ready to change the world.
(Really, the similarity with Mer and Em is becoming uncomfortably clear.)
How marrying at 21 was supposed to do that is completely beyond me but it made sense at the time.
So, I married, left university one term away from graduation, quit my job and moved to Southern Ontario.
Whatever lust-filled karma brought the two of us together lasted long enough to produce two children, Meredyth and Keith.
In fact, if truth be told, I knew the day I got married that I was making a mistake.
However, as an eternal optimist, I try to see the bright side of things, and assumed that I was just being nervous.
I now pay a lot of attention to my nerves.
In spite of being a very long 5 years of my life, that required several years of therapy to work through, there were many positives.
Positive #1
I am part of an absolutely wonderful family. My ex-husband aside, his family is phenomenal. I have a very good relationship with my former mother-in-law. I see her at least once a year, we talk and email frequently, and she has been very good to me throughout the last 22 years.
She even forgave me for making her a grandmother at 39.
This past summer, Stephen, Mer, Em and I enjoyed a lovely afternoon visiting with Great-Grandma, Suzy, Linda and Suzy's kids.
Now having an ex-husband's family continue to love and embrace you, and your current-and-forever-because-he-is-the-most-wonderful-man-in-the-world husband. . . .
That's definitely a positive.
Leaving me with a current mother-in-law and a former mother-in-law who have broken bread together.
How can having all those people love and care for you be anything but wonderful!
Positive #2
I was forced to grow up.
Really, I was not, at the time I married, the world-wise, smart, savvy person you know and love now.
I was naive.
Insecure.
Delusional.
But there is something about having two kids by the age of 23, in a marriage you finally realized was a mistake, and finally making the decision to leave that makes you grow up faster.
Add in an unexpected pregnancy, moving back home, and attending university to complete your undergraduate degree and you have all the reasons you need, plus a couple more, to get your ass in gear and grow up.
So, I did.
That doesn't mean I didn't make lots of mistakes along the way.
It would seem, post-marriage, that my relationship choices were not much better than my pre-marriage ones.
Or not necessarilty the best for me.
They weren't bad people, just not very good for me.
And raising three kids on your own is nothing if not an opportunity to make lots and lots of mistakes.
An opportunity I took full advantage of.
In fact, if I was so good at making mistakes with the kids, I could probably write a book about what NOT to do.
It would be a bestseller.
Positive #3
I was pushed to do things I would have never done, and learn things about myself I would have never known.
Had it not been for the fact that I was a single mother of three children, living with my brother and then in a run down apartment, with no money, therefore subsisting on income assistance, who realised that an "almost" degree wouldn't even get me a part time job in a bookstore, I probably wouldn't have ever gone on to graduate school.
I hope I would have had the common sense to finish my undergraduate degree, but that would have been the end of it.
But there is something about returning to university after living through some pretty tough stuff that provides you with a real world education that only facilitates your university education.
When I decided to complete my degree in sociology, because if I took one. more. English. course. the registrar would personally punish me, it was like someone turned a light on for me.
All of a sudden the world made sense; my experiences and frustrations made sense to me; I understood how I had gotten to where I was, and what I needed to do to get out of the mess I had gotten myself into.
I know there are other ways of understanding experiences, and in fact, the more perspectives you take into account, the better your understanding of something will be.
But sociology was it for me.
Still is.
And I don't think it'll change any time soon.
In fact, when I had Emily, just two weeks after returning to classes after the Christmas break, there are some who believe I named her after French sociologist Emile Durkheim.
I didn't.
I actually never planned on having another girl.
I was convinced she was a boy.
After Meredyth, I could have been more convinced she was a puppy than a girl.
So I just picked a name I really liked.
Even so, Mer and Keith called her "it" for at least three months.
Sometimes, they still do.
In conclusion. . . .
Not getting married at 21 would have put my life on a whole other track, and while it is interesting to comtemplate where I would have ended up, I am very happy with my life and I don't want it to change.
I'm 43, my kids are either almost adults or theoretically adults.
And I have lots of fun with the kids. They're cool. I not only love them, but I really like them.
A brother who would, I believe, do anything for me. And I him.
Parents who love me even while they try to make me crazier than I already am.
Good friends. Very important.
I have a career that excites me. . .most of the time I look forward to going to work in the morning.
A husband who adores me and I adore him.
A large extended family I love.
Dogs who worship the ground I walk on, even when they're peeing on it.
So, all in all, I think, in spite of some rough patches, things have turned out nicely.
Let's just hope it stays that way!
Title Lyric: Mistake by Straylight Run
Garbage in, garbage out. What goes in, is found out
October 13, 2010
Thanksgiving is one of three days during the entire year when I can say with complete certainty that I can stay home.
Do whatever I want.
Sleep for as long I want.
Easter and Remembrance Day are the other two days.
How come such bliss is only afforded to me for three days a year?
Because.
Because nothing is open, there is no place where driving, in particular mine, is required.
There isn't anyone I have to visit, because all the visiting is done.
No meals to cook because cooking for two days straight means I am allowed the pleasure of no cooking without feeling any guilt.
I savour these days.
Covet them.
And usually spend them sleeping.
Which consequently screws up my sleeping for the next couple of days.
But because these days are so rare, I rarely remember that my sleep is screwed up until I am lying awake all night because I can't sleep because I slept too much during the day.
Which makes the day after, in this case Tuesday, as in yesterday, a major pain in the ass.
Why?
Because I was tired.
Cranky.
Not feeling the love for much of anything.
Not even back-to-back episodes of Bill the Exterminator, plus seemingly unlimited adoration from the dogs were enough to keep my butt planted on the love seat.
Grabbing my copy of Empire of Scrounge: Inside the Urban Underground of Dumpster Diving, Trash Picking and Street Scavenging, and my neon yellow highlighter, I made my way upstairs to my warm, comfortable, beckoning bed, where I planned on spending the couple of hours before sleep wisked me away to Land of Nod, reading and highlighting my book.
What actually happened, as far as I can tell because no one has confirmed any of my speculation, is that I fell asleep long before the end of the couple of hours, with book and hightlighter in hand, and glasses still on my face.
I supposed I should be thankful that I didn't wake up with highlighter all over my face.
Actually, I'm kinda surprised that didn't happen.
Goblet was on the bed.
She does not like me.
She is smart.
She could have colored my face a neon yellow that would have only been rivaled by the bright lights of Las Vegas.
I could have been my own kleig light, shooting beams of neon yellow into the night sky, perhaps even confusing a plane or two into thinking my front yard was actually a landing strip.
But she didn't.
This time.
However, I am neither stupid enough, or trusting enough, to assume that she will, in some way, reinforce my belief that she doesn't like me by doing something.
The fact that she can put me to sleep by sucking my earlobes is very disconcerting.
It means she has power over me.
Not a safe thing in a cat.
Yes, I am paranoid, but you haven't seen how she looks at me.
Paranoia is completely justified.
I often fall asleep while reading.
In fact, if I didn't read, I'd never get to sleep.
I can't turn my brain off, no matter how hard I try, so the only option is to distract it long enough for me to relax.
Hence, I read a lot.
Because it can often take a long time for me to relax enough to fall asleep.
Right now, in addition to reading Empire of Scrounge I am reading John Steinbeck's East of Eden.
And Amphibian by Carla Gunn
And Steig Larsson's The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.
And Katherine Howe's The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane.
And Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin.
And I am always looking for books to read.
In fact, if there is a book you really like, and you think I would like, please let me know.
I have pile in my small corner of the bedroom.
Occassionally books will rest in either of the bathrooms.
I always have books in my purse because you never know what will happen that will require you wait for an indeterminate amount of time.
And I detest not having something to do while I wait.
I may forget to put underwear on, but I would never forget to pack a book, or five, in my purse.
My seminar class, Ethnography and Crime, which has 4 students (you have NO idea how happy this makes me) is reading Empire of Scrounge.
It's a fascinating book by Jeff Ferrell, a cultural criminologist, based on his own experiences as an urban scrounger and about people who survive on what other people throw out. . .people who literally dig through garbage bags, Dumpsters, who pick things up from the street, woods, trails, sidewalks, etc. for the sole purpose of using them, or, giving them away to other people who can use them.
I can relate to this book.
I keep everything.
This drives my cleaning obsessed husband crazy.
I suspect the only thing between me becoming a hoarder, and me just liking to keep everything because it has a purpose, is my husband.
Because I know, when I'm not home, or I'm not paying attention, he is throwing things out.
I think its what the people in this book find that upsets me the most. . .that people will throw out completely useful, fine, things because they don't want them anymore.
Or because a new, improved version has hit the market.
Cell phones, for example. Or computers. You buy one, and, just like cars, they depreciate as soon as you take them out of the box.
It makes me crazy.
We have in our basement a microwave.
I LOVE this microwave. The new microwaves are no where near as big as the microwave sitting in my basement.
So how come I'm not using it?
How come there is a shiny, new, stainless steel, smaller microwave gracing the counter of my kitchen?
How come my nice, large, able to hold almost anything microwave is taking up floor space in my basement?
Stephen.
How come the nice, large microwave that can hold almost anything is even in my basement at all?
Me.
Stephen and I are engaged in a battle of wills over this microwave.
I can't let it go. There is nothing wrong with it. There is no logical reason for it being in the basement, unused, and until I can figure out a way to ensure that it will be used, I refuse to let it go anywhere.
Really, there is nothing wrong with it.
Okay, well, a *couple* of times, while people were defrosting something, or warming a snack, or heating something up, a few, and I mean few, very few, almost inconsquential blue sparks may have, on the rarest of occasions, appeared.
You know, the kind of sparks you get when you accidentally put tinfoil in the microwave.
They appeared in the midst of a sort of prolonged "bzzzztzz" sound; sort of like a hive of bees has inhabited the microwave for a few short seconds.
Nonetheless, these rarely occurring incidences had repercussions that lead to the banishing of the perfectly fine microwave to the basement.
Emily was convinced that the microwave hated her. She became quiet dramatic over it really, in a way only a 16-but-really-closer-to-17-year-old-girl can get.
And Stephen that he was being irradiated.
But Stephen can *sometimes* overreact, so I'm not convinced there is a problem.
And Keith worried that he may be rendered sterile.
I'm not touching that.
I could, but I won't
*I* think they were all over-reacting, but I was outvoted.
Thanksgiving is one of three days during the entire year when I can say with complete certainty that I can stay home.
Do whatever I want.
Sleep for as long I want.
Easter and Remembrance Day are the other two days.
How come such bliss is only afforded to me for three days a year?
Because.
Because nothing is open, there is no place where driving, in particular mine, is required.
There isn't anyone I have to visit, because all the visiting is done.
No meals to cook because cooking for two days straight means I am allowed the pleasure of no cooking without feeling any guilt.
I savour these days.
Covet them.
And usually spend them sleeping.
Which consequently screws up my sleeping for the next couple of days.
But because these days are so rare, I rarely remember that my sleep is screwed up until I am lying awake all night because I can't sleep because I slept too much during the day.
Which makes the day after, in this case Tuesday, as in yesterday, a major pain in the ass.
Why?
Because I was tired.
Cranky.
Not feeling the love for much of anything.
Not even back-to-back episodes of Bill the Exterminator, plus seemingly unlimited adoration from the dogs were enough to keep my butt planted on the love seat.
Grabbing my copy of Empire of Scrounge: Inside the Urban Underground of Dumpster Diving, Trash Picking and Street Scavenging, and my neon yellow highlighter, I made my way upstairs to my warm, comfortable, beckoning bed, where I planned on spending the couple of hours before sleep wisked me away to Land of Nod, reading and highlighting my book.
What actually happened, as far as I can tell because no one has confirmed any of my speculation, is that I fell asleep long before the end of the couple of hours, with book and hightlighter in hand, and glasses still on my face.
I supposed I should be thankful that I didn't wake up with highlighter all over my face.
Actually, I'm kinda surprised that didn't happen.
Goblet was on the bed.
She does not like me.
She is smart.
She could have colored my face a neon yellow that would have only been rivaled by the bright lights of Las Vegas.
I could have been my own kleig light, shooting beams of neon yellow into the night sky, perhaps even confusing a plane or two into thinking my front yard was actually a landing strip.
But she didn't.
This time.
However, I am neither stupid enough, or trusting enough, to assume that she will, in some way, reinforce my belief that she doesn't like me by doing something.
The fact that she can put me to sleep by sucking my earlobes is very disconcerting.
It means she has power over me.
Not a safe thing in a cat.
Yes, I am paranoid, but you haven't seen how she looks at me.
Paranoia is completely justified.
I often fall asleep while reading.
In fact, if I didn't read, I'd never get to sleep.
I can't turn my brain off, no matter how hard I try, so the only option is to distract it long enough for me to relax.
Hence, I read a lot.
Because it can often take a long time for me to relax enough to fall asleep.
Right now, in addition to reading Empire of Scrounge I am reading John Steinbeck's East of Eden.
And Amphibian by Carla Gunn
And Steig Larsson's The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.
And Katherine Howe's The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane.
And Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin.
And Sidewalk by Mitchell Duneier.
I'm never sure what I want to read during my pre-sleeping period, and I like to keep my options open.
So, I never read just one book at a time.And I am always looking for books to read.
In fact, if there is a book you really like, and you think I would like, please let me know.
I have pile in my small corner of the bedroom.
Occassionally books will rest in either of the bathrooms.
I always have books in my purse because you never know what will happen that will require you wait for an indeterminate amount of time.
And I detest not having something to do while I wait.
I may forget to put underwear on, but I would never forget to pack a book, or five, in my purse.
My seminar class, Ethnography and Crime, which has 4 students (you have NO idea how happy this makes me) is reading Empire of Scrounge.
It's a fascinating book by Jeff Ferrell, a cultural criminologist, based on his own experiences as an urban scrounger and about people who survive on what other people throw out. . .people who literally dig through garbage bags, Dumpsters, who pick things up from the street, woods, trails, sidewalks, etc. for the sole purpose of using them, or, giving them away to other people who can use them.
I can relate to this book.
I keep everything.
Or at least I try to keep everything.
And this book provides me with the justification I need to keep everything because you never know when you'll be able to use something.
This drives my cleaning obsessed husband crazy.
I suspect the only thing between me becoming a hoarder, and me just liking to keep everything because it has a purpose, is my husband.
Because I know, when I'm not home, or I'm not paying attention, he is throwing things out.
I think its what the people in this book find that upsets me the most. . .that people will throw out completely useful, fine, things because they don't want them anymore.
Or because a new, improved version has hit the market.
Cell phones, for example. Or computers. You buy one, and, just like cars, they depreciate as soon as you take them out of the box.
It makes me crazy.
We have in our basement a microwave.
I LOVE this microwave. The new microwaves are no where near as big as the microwave sitting in my basement.
So how come I'm not using it?
How come there is a shiny, new, stainless steel, smaller microwave gracing the counter of my kitchen?
How come my nice, large, able to hold almost anything microwave is taking up floor space in my basement?
Stephen.
How come the nice, large microwave that can hold almost anything is even in my basement at all?
Me.
Stephen and I are engaged in a battle of wills over this microwave.
I can't let it go. There is nothing wrong with it. There is no logical reason for it being in the basement, unused, and until I can figure out a way to ensure that it will be used, I refuse to let it go anywhere.
Really, there is nothing wrong with it.
Okay, well, a *couple* of times, while people were defrosting something, or warming a snack, or heating something up, a few, and I mean few, very few, almost inconsquential blue sparks may have, on the rarest of occasions, appeared.
You know, the kind of sparks you get when you accidentally put tinfoil in the microwave.
They appeared in the midst of a sort of prolonged "bzzzztzz" sound; sort of like a hive of bees has inhabited the microwave for a few short seconds.
Nonetheless, these rarely occurring incidences had repercussions that lead to the banishing of the perfectly fine microwave to the basement.
Emily was convinced that the microwave hated her. She became quiet dramatic over it really, in a way only a 16-but-really-closer-to-17-year-old-girl can get.
And Stephen that he was being irradiated.
But Stephen can *sometimes* overreact, so I'm not convinced there is a problem.
And Keith worried that he may be rendered sterile.
I'm not touching that.
I could, but I won't
*I* think they were all over-reacting, but I was outvoted.
So the microwave rests forlornly in the basement, waiting for the time when I can overthrow the dictatorial naysayers in my house and return the perfectly fine microwave to its rightful place on the kitchen counter.
Until then, it must wait with all of the other things in the basement I refuse to part with.
And if you see me digging through your trash, humour me.
Monday, October 11, 2010
They say its your birthday, we're gonna have a good time. . .
October 12, 2010
Today is Meredyth's birthday.
21 years ago yesterday, 7.00 am, my ex-husband had just left for work, and I went to the bathroom.
And what was waiting for me was the beginning of labour.
I didn't say anything to anyone for the day, because I wasn't actually sure what was going on. But given the way I was feeling, it was relatively easy for me to come to the logical conclusion.
By the time my ex arrived home, I was definitely sure that I was in labour. Because that kind of pain couldn't be anything else.
Midnight. Everyone, including my ex and I had gone to bed. 15 minutes later, I said I couldn't deal with the pain anymore, we got up, got dressed, and while we were in the kitchen, my ex tying my shoes I said,
"I'm gonna pee my pants, or my water's gonna break. Either way, you should probably move your head."
That was, without a doubt, the. longest.night.of.my.life.
Never have I experienced such pain.
At 9.00 am, 26 hours later, the ob/gyn came in and said he was going to do a c-section because the baby was experiencing fetal stress and the mother wasn't doing much better.
At 9.30 am, Meredyth Mae Ardith Van Every made her grand entrance into the world.
And she has been making grand entrances ever since.
I once had a therapist who argued that Mer was the way she was because she had such a difficult birth, which traumatized her, hence shaping the way she is now.
There may be some creedence to that.
Life with Meredyth has always been challenging.
Most of the time in a good way.
She has a strength I am in awe of; if she wants to do something, there is nothing or no one who can stop her.
At 20 months, after receiving her first tricycle, she decided she wanted to go for a ride.
It was one o'clock in the morning.
She crawled out of her crib, opened her bedroom door, walked down the stairs, dragged a chair from the kitchen to the front door, climbed onto the chair, unlocked the chain lock, unlocked the deadbolt lock, unlocked the screen door lock, and proceeded to bike around our court.
The phone rings. I reach over, answer it, listen to our neighbour on the other end of the line, ask her to wait a minute and hand the phone to my ex-husband saying,
"You can deal with this."
At 2 years old, she wanted to know if cats had blood, and if so, could their ears bleed. She cut just the tips of his ears off.
Another time she slathered him with margarine and put him in the fridge. You can imagine my surprise when I opened the fridge.
She would routinely call my parents at 6.00 am or earlier, as they were on speed dial. My phone bill was astronomical and after calling my parents, figured out what had been going on.
At her grandmother's 42th birthday, with the house full of friends and relatives, Mer emerges from her grandparent's bedroom. holding on to something that had been buried at the very bottom of grandma's laundry hamper.
It was a joke birthday gift from the Newfoundland contingent of the family.
A large, and I mean large, orange dildo with a solid black stand.
"Grandma, what's this??"
Grandma was a shade of red I had never seen on another person before or since. She runs to Meredyth and says,
"It's an ear cleaner!"
Mer, having been informed of the use of this odd looking object, turns it on and tries to stick it in her ear.
"Grandma, it doesn't work!"
The chaos and cacophany that occured afterwards is almost beyond explanation.
But Mer never went scavenging through Grandma's bedroom again, or, at least for not a long time.
Mer was very upset when I told her we were moving to New Brunswick.
She retailated by going to the basement and cutting her hair.
The right side only.
She looked like she had mange on one side of her head.
Her hair had been beautiful. . .all one length, down to her shoulders, cutest little bangs. . .
After taking her to the salon, where they did the best they could with what they had, I had to dress Mer in pink to ensure that people wouldn't comment on my two handsome sons.
There are so many Meredyth stories, I could probably fill an entire blog with them.
But if I did that, I wouldn't have any to share for her next birthday, or the ones after that.
And what fun would that be??
Today is Meredyth's birthday.
21 years ago yesterday, 7.00 am, my ex-husband had just left for work, and I went to the bathroom.
And what was waiting for me was the beginning of labour.
I didn't say anything to anyone for the day, because I wasn't actually sure what was going on. But given the way I was feeling, it was relatively easy for me to come to the logical conclusion.
By the time my ex arrived home, I was definitely sure that I was in labour. Because that kind of pain couldn't be anything else.
Midnight. Everyone, including my ex and I had gone to bed. 15 minutes later, I said I couldn't deal with the pain anymore, we got up, got dressed, and while we were in the kitchen, my ex tying my shoes I said,
"I'm gonna pee my pants, or my water's gonna break. Either way, you should probably move your head."
That was, without a doubt, the. longest.night.of.my.life.
Never have I experienced such pain.
At 9.00 am, 26 hours later, the ob/gyn came in and said he was going to do a c-section because the baby was experiencing fetal stress and the mother wasn't doing much better.
At 9.30 am, Meredyth Mae Ardith Van Every made her grand entrance into the world.
And she has been making grand entrances ever since.
I once had a therapist who argued that Mer was the way she was because she had such a difficult birth, which traumatized her, hence shaping the way she is now.
There may be some creedence to that.
Life with Meredyth has always been challenging.
Most of the time in a good way.
She has a strength I am in awe of; if she wants to do something, there is nothing or no one who can stop her.
At 20 months, after receiving her first tricycle, she decided she wanted to go for a ride.
It was one o'clock in the morning.
She crawled out of her crib, opened her bedroom door, walked down the stairs, dragged a chair from the kitchen to the front door, climbed onto the chair, unlocked the chain lock, unlocked the deadbolt lock, unlocked the screen door lock, and proceeded to bike around our court.
The phone rings. I reach over, answer it, listen to our neighbour on the other end of the line, ask her to wait a minute and hand the phone to my ex-husband saying,
"You can deal with this."
At 2 years old, she wanted to know if cats had blood, and if so, could their ears bleed. She cut just the tips of his ears off.
Another time she slathered him with margarine and put him in the fridge. You can imagine my surprise when I opened the fridge.
She would routinely call my parents at 6.00 am or earlier, as they were on speed dial. My phone bill was astronomical and after calling my parents, figured out what had been going on.
At her grandmother's 42th birthday, with the house full of friends and relatives, Mer emerges from her grandparent's bedroom. holding on to something that had been buried at the very bottom of grandma's laundry hamper.
It was a joke birthday gift from the Newfoundland contingent of the family.
A large, and I mean large, orange dildo with a solid black stand.
"Grandma, what's this??"
Grandma was a shade of red I had never seen on another person before or since. She runs to Meredyth and says,
"It's an ear cleaner!"
Mer, having been informed of the use of this odd looking object, turns it on and tries to stick it in her ear.
"Grandma, it doesn't work!"
The chaos and cacophany that occured afterwards is almost beyond explanation.
But Mer never went scavenging through Grandma's bedroom again, or, at least for not a long time.
Mer was very upset when I told her we were moving to New Brunswick.
She retailated by going to the basement and cutting her hair.
The right side only.
She looked like she had mange on one side of her head.
Her hair had been beautiful. . .all one length, down to her shoulders, cutest little bangs. . .
After taking her to the salon, where they did the best they could with what they had, I had to dress Mer in pink to ensure that people wouldn't comment on my two handsome sons.
There are so many Meredyth stories, I could probably fill an entire blog with them.
But if I did that, I wouldn't have any to share for her next birthday, or the ones after that.
And what fun would that be??
Mer, like most 21 year olds, is trying to find her way and her place in this world. And if past evidence is any predictor, she will do it her way, with a bang.
Happy Birthday to my beautiful, strong, intelligent, gregarious Meredyth. I love you more.
Title Lyric: Birthday by The Beatles
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Cats moaning at night, out on the prowl they scratch and bite. . .who knows if they love you???
October 10, 2010
Another Thanksgiving dinner done and over.
The table was groaning under the weight of this feast: two turkeys, stuffing, ham, sweet potatoes with cream cheese and maple syrup, carrots with brown sugar, parsnips in a tarragon cream sauce, homemade cranberry sauce, steamed broccoli, homemade herb biscuits, and "Kat's potatoes", a special recipe which, until yesterday, resided solely with my sister-in-law.
And for dessert: 3 homemade-by-Emily pumpkin pies with freshly whipped whipping cream, one apple pie and an Oreo Blizzard cake, to celebrate Mere's birthday.
Just thinking about it makes me hungry and nauseous at the same time.
Clean up was something else altogether. After dinner, and after Dad left, the kids went upstairs and Stephen and I surveyed the kitchen.
No matter how much I try to clean while cooking, there is something about the last minute preparations that turn my nicely cleaned kitchen into a culinary war zone.
I started at 7.30 and by 9.30 I had washed everything that couldn't fit into the dishwasher or, was determined by Stephen to be too precious to put into the dishwasher. I then turned the dishwasher on and flopped down on the loveseat, channel surfing in hopes of something half decent to watch.
All those new cable channels and nothing to watch.
I briefly considered watching re-runs of America's Funniest Home Videos, but even exhausted, I wasn't willing to sucuumb to a mind-numbing humour, comprised of crotch shots, women who can't dance and animal amusement that borders, in some instances, on cruelty.
I went to bed.
Burying myself in the literary masterpeice, East of Eden, I am suddenly pulled from my reading reverie by a soft thud, followed by padded footsteps moving up the bed in my direction.
I lower my book, and stare straight into the eyes of my sometime nemesis.
Goblet.
Purring.
Which means nothing good.
She wants to suckle.
In particular, she wants to suckle my earlobes.
Normally, this special thrill is bestowed only upon Stephen, but, in times of intense need, she has been known to turn to me.
I'm her sloppy seconds.
Unless you've had a leather tongued cat latch onto your earlobe and suck for all its worth (I am grateful she is good about keeping her teeth to herself), while she kneeds her paws into the side of your head, unless of course she it positioning your head the way she wants it, it is difficult to describe the sensation.
Even worse, she purrs, loudly, when she does this, and inevitably I fall asleep.
I know, its weird, but it always puts me to sleep.
She prefers Stephen. . .and especially his right earlobe. For some reason, its wider than your average earlobe, and she'll suck on it until she draws blood.
Nothing is scarier than waking up in the middle of the night to her yellow eyes boring into your soul while she challenges you to try remove her.
Stephen has tried. There have been times where she actually makes his earlobes raw and sore and yet she still comes back for more.
Trying to dissuade her is impossible. She just keeps coming back until you give in, or lock her out of the bedroom.
Her response to being booted out: cry until Stephen feels so bad he lets her back in.
Makes you wonder who controls whom, doesn't it?
This afternoon we drove to Saint John to visit my sister-in-law, who has been admitted to the Saint John Regional Hospital for an indefinate period of time.
She has an incredibly rare disease called Behcets.
And, because she is part of our family, she has the rarest form of Behcets, Neurological Behcets.
However, because she is part of our family, she tries her best to manage all that is going on with humour.
I called her yesterday, asking for her potato recipe. She replied, "You want a recipe from someone with a brain disease. This could take awhile."
Saint John is about an hour's drive from where we are, which meant in my mind, "ROADTRIP!"
The kids are packed into the backseat, Stephen is manning the wheel, and I am riding shotgun with my car pillow as my compadre.
Five minutes into the drive I am sound asleep.
However, not all roadtrips have been so pleasant.
One of my favourites was the first Christmas we went to Montreal to visit Stephen's parents. Coincidentally, it was the first trip where Stephen's parents met the kids, but I'll save that for another time.
The first problem was Meredyth. She does not like roadtrips unless we rent an SUV.
All we had was the 2001 Hyundai Sonata I was driving when Stephen and I got together.
She had a cold.
Meaning she coughed.
A lot.
And each cough had a secondary, involuntary action.
Farting.
One cough = one nasty, smelly, putrid fart.
One nasty, smelly, putrid fart = all windows being rolled down via our electric windows.
And she coughed a lot.
The drive back wasn't much better.
The window regulators were worn out from being called to duty during the drive to Montreal, especially the driver's side passenger window.
At Montmagny, while trying to put the window up, it just stops.
In the dead of winter, we have a window that won't go up all the way.
Stephen, in a Red Green moment of inspiration, get duct tape from the trunk of the car and tapes the window to the frame.
Duct tape on the window.
Doesn't get much more hillbilly than that.
And this drive had more joy to lavish upon us.
Again, packed into the backseat, tired, cranky, with all of the extras we brought back with us, and we ALWAYS bring back piles of stuff from Montreal, the kids were unhappy campers.
Stephen and I always take turns driving, and it happened that I was driving at the time that Meredyth decided it would be a very good idea to unleash a square cookie tin from the bag wedged between her feet and throw it at her brother's head.
Given the distance between her and her brother (Emily was always in the middle in an attempt to lessen the blood and bruises between Mer and Keith) there wasn't much chance she was going to miss.
We were close to the second last Irving gas station before we crossed the border into New Brunswick. Mer wallops Keith in the head with the cookie tin, and Stephen, with a speed I didn't know he possessed, whipped his head around and gave Mer a death stare I didn't know he was capable of.
He is always surprising me.
To me, he says, "Turn into this gas station."
I do, completely unable to predict what was going to happen, but the tone of his voice implied that negotiating with him was not an option.
Once the car is in the parking lot, and stopped, he turn around in the car, looks the kids right in eye, and reminds them that we still have a three hour drive ahead of us, that Mer could have taken out Keith's eye and we had no idea where the hospital was and if they couldn't behave for the remainder of the drive, they could walk back to Fredericton, and that was going to take a long time given that it was dark, cold and they weren't allowed to hitchhike.
Mer says she was never so scared in her entire life.
But there was no more trouble among the kids for the rest of the drive.
It was actually quite peaceful.
Title Lyric: Cats by Barnes and Barnes
Another Thanksgiving dinner done and over.
The table was groaning under the weight of this feast: two turkeys, stuffing, ham, sweet potatoes with cream cheese and maple syrup, carrots with brown sugar, parsnips in a tarragon cream sauce, homemade cranberry sauce, steamed broccoli, homemade herb biscuits, and "Kat's potatoes", a special recipe which, until yesterday, resided solely with my sister-in-law.
And for dessert: 3 homemade-by-Emily pumpkin pies with freshly whipped whipping cream, one apple pie and an Oreo Blizzard cake, to celebrate Mere's birthday.
Just thinking about it makes me hungry and nauseous at the same time.
Clean up was something else altogether. After dinner, and after Dad left, the kids went upstairs and Stephen and I surveyed the kitchen.
No matter how much I try to clean while cooking, there is something about the last minute preparations that turn my nicely cleaned kitchen into a culinary war zone.
I started at 7.30 and by 9.30 I had washed everything that couldn't fit into the dishwasher or, was determined by Stephen to be too precious to put into the dishwasher. I then turned the dishwasher on and flopped down on the loveseat, channel surfing in hopes of something half decent to watch.
All those new cable channels and nothing to watch.
I briefly considered watching re-runs of America's Funniest Home Videos, but even exhausted, I wasn't willing to sucuumb to a mind-numbing humour, comprised of crotch shots, women who can't dance and animal amusement that borders, in some instances, on cruelty.
I went to bed.
Burying myself in the literary masterpeice, East of Eden, I am suddenly pulled from my reading reverie by a soft thud, followed by padded footsteps moving up the bed in my direction.
I lower my book, and stare straight into the eyes of my sometime nemesis.
Goblet.
Purring.
Which means nothing good.
She wants to suckle.
In particular, she wants to suckle my earlobes.
Normally, this special thrill is bestowed only upon Stephen, but, in times of intense need, she has been known to turn to me.
I'm her sloppy seconds.
Unless you've had a leather tongued cat latch onto your earlobe and suck for all its worth (I am grateful she is good about keeping her teeth to herself), while she kneeds her paws into the side of your head, unless of course she it positioning your head the way she wants it, it is difficult to describe the sensation.
Even worse, she purrs, loudly, when she does this, and inevitably I fall asleep.
I know, its weird, but it always puts me to sleep.
She prefers Stephen. . .and especially his right earlobe. For some reason, its wider than your average earlobe, and she'll suck on it until she draws blood.
Nothing is scarier than waking up in the middle of the night to her yellow eyes boring into your soul while she challenges you to try remove her.
Stephen has tried. There have been times where she actually makes his earlobes raw and sore and yet she still comes back for more.
Trying to dissuade her is impossible. She just keeps coming back until you give in, or lock her out of the bedroom.
Her response to being booted out: cry until Stephen feels so bad he lets her back in.
Makes you wonder who controls whom, doesn't it?
This afternoon we drove to Saint John to visit my sister-in-law, who has been admitted to the Saint John Regional Hospital for an indefinate period of time.
She has an incredibly rare disease called Behcets.
And, because she is part of our family, she has the rarest form of Behcets, Neurological Behcets.
However, because she is part of our family, she tries her best to manage all that is going on with humour.
I called her yesterday, asking for her potato recipe. She replied, "You want a recipe from someone with a brain disease. This could take awhile."
Saint John is about an hour's drive from where we are, which meant in my mind, "ROADTRIP!"
The kids are packed into the backseat, Stephen is manning the wheel, and I am riding shotgun with my car pillow as my compadre.
Five minutes into the drive I am sound asleep.
However, not all roadtrips have been so pleasant.
One of my favourites was the first Christmas we went to Montreal to visit Stephen's parents. Coincidentally, it was the first trip where Stephen's parents met the kids, but I'll save that for another time.
The first problem was Meredyth. She does not like roadtrips unless we rent an SUV.
All we had was the 2001 Hyundai Sonata I was driving when Stephen and I got together.
She had a cold.
Meaning she coughed.
A lot.
And each cough had a secondary, involuntary action.
Farting.
One cough = one nasty, smelly, putrid fart.
One nasty, smelly, putrid fart = all windows being rolled down via our electric windows.
And she coughed a lot.
The drive back wasn't much better.
The window regulators were worn out from being called to duty during the drive to Montreal, especially the driver's side passenger window.
At Montmagny, while trying to put the window up, it just stops.
In the dead of winter, we have a window that won't go up all the way.
Stephen, in a Red Green moment of inspiration, get duct tape from the trunk of the car and tapes the window to the frame.
Duct tape on the window.
Doesn't get much more hillbilly than that.
And this drive had more joy to lavish upon us.
Again, packed into the backseat, tired, cranky, with all of the extras we brought back with us, and we ALWAYS bring back piles of stuff from Montreal, the kids were unhappy campers.
Stephen and I always take turns driving, and it happened that I was driving at the time that Meredyth decided it would be a very good idea to unleash a square cookie tin from the bag wedged between her feet and throw it at her brother's head.
Given the distance between her and her brother (Emily was always in the middle in an attempt to lessen the blood and bruises between Mer and Keith) there wasn't much chance she was going to miss.
We were close to the second last Irving gas station before we crossed the border into New Brunswick. Mer wallops Keith in the head with the cookie tin, and Stephen, with a speed I didn't know he possessed, whipped his head around and gave Mer a death stare I didn't know he was capable of.
He is always surprising me.
To me, he says, "Turn into this gas station."
I do, completely unable to predict what was going to happen, but the tone of his voice implied that negotiating with him was not an option.
Once the car is in the parking lot, and stopped, he turn around in the car, looks the kids right in eye, and reminds them that we still have a three hour drive ahead of us, that Mer could have taken out Keith's eye and we had no idea where the hospital was and if they couldn't behave for the remainder of the drive, they could walk back to Fredericton, and that was going to take a long time given that it was dark, cold and they weren't allowed to hitchhike.
Mer says she was never so scared in her entire life.
But there was no more trouble among the kids for the rest of the drive.
It was actually quite peaceful.
Title Lyric: Cats by Barnes and Barnes
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