November 13, 2010
Yesterday, I was out of sorts.
Not myself.
Still internally and emotionally reeling from the family dinner from hell the previous evening, and the subsequent post-dinner combat.
Family.
You love them, but you don't always like them.
Nor should you.
Cause that would be unnatural.
And of course, conflict between Mer and me is almost expected.
I've come to the conclusion that we are simply too much alike.
Niether one willing to back down, willing to take full responsibility for whatever has happened, because both of us are completely aware that neither one of us is fully responsible.
But when you throw the ultimate fighter into the mix, add another estrogen filled Flemming-gene carrier, well then, you have an all. out. war.
Because my mother is never one to sit back and just watch conflict.
She jumps in the ring before she's even been tagged.
Making her spontaneous and unpredictable.
Meaning you never know when that well filed, razor sharp, elongated fingernail will point at you with the woman at the end of that nail telling you exactly where the bear shit in the buckwheat.
Angry jumped to volatile when Mum tagged herself into ring.
Making a long night interminably longer.
And the following day not much better.
But, ever the optimist, I'm holding on to hope that today will be better.
Even a modicum of better would be welcome.
Luckily, I had Frankie and Tikka to come home to last evening, once we had finished our volunteer time at the Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/).
If I didn't have my weekly jolt of real world living, I don't know if I'd make it through the week.
Seriously.
So, when we arrived home last evening to the unlimited love and adolation of my happy hounds, I felt some of the day's tension immediately drain away.
But. . .
Because there is always a but. . .
Frankie has developed this terribly annoying habit.
A result of his I-have-to-pee-every-two-hours-because-you're-forcing-antihistamines-down-my-throat-every-12-hours-so-it-just-sucks-to-be-you.
In spite of not having antihistamines shoved down his throat every two hours, he had convinced himself that we need to get up when he wants us to get up.
For the last month, at least, as early as 4.30 some mornings, Frankie stands in the threshold of our bedroom and starts whining.
Quietly at first.
But, as time passes and we do not respond, immediately, his whining becomes louder.
More demanding.
And if we have the audacity to ignore the increasingly louder whining, the whining that increases in volume as each minute passes, then he moves into phase three of his early morning assault.
Barking.
Not ferocious, hackle raised barking.
Thankfully.
But minute yips.
Sending little jolts of puppy persistence into my sleep addled consciousness.
Most frustrating, however, is that Stephen is beside me, snuggled deep into the duvet, head nestled into the pillow, completely aware of what is going on.
And completely ignoring it.
Because he knows that of the two of us, I'm the one who will give in to Frankie's pre-sunrise solicitations.
How come?
My deep seeded desire to not step into a cold puddle of pee during my trek to the kitchen when I am supposed to haul myself out of bed.
And Frankie knows this.
So, as long as he stands there, yipping, whining, carrying on in his desperate attempt to get one of us out of bed, he knows eventually, I will force myself out of bed.
Slip on a pair of wool socks, cause its cold outside at 5.00 am.
Put on my slippers.
And begin my stagger downstairs.
Grab their leashes, because neither one of them would come back if they were, perchace, enticed by some early morning, hungry, garbage rooting critter, and I am NOT chasing dogs through my neighbours' yards at 5.00 am.
And stumble outside.
Eyes half closed.
Standing in my zebra print pjs, ears tuned to the sounds of my canine companions hunt for the perfect place to evacuate.
While my nose is assaulted with the stench of early morning puppy pee.
They maneuver me back inside the house, where they being their we're-gettin'-breakfast shenanigans.
And depend on the time, I may sucuumb to the power of their digestive dancing and feed them.
Or, if its just too early to even contemplate the idea of walking into the kitchen, flicking on the harsh, unfriendly light to haul out the Rubbermaid bins filled to the brim with dog food, pick up the empty dog bowls, fill them, and then place them in their appointed spaces, I will just head back upstairs to nestle into the warmth of my bed.
I love those dog food commercials where dogs run to their side-by-side dog bowls, and eat from only one of those bowls, harmoniously, happy, content to just be together during dinner.
Here, we have to put as much distance between Frankie and Tikka as possible.
And even then, Tikka will sometimes lay herself in front of Frankie's bowl, prohibiting him from eating his breakfast.
Because she is Tikka, stubborn to the very fiber of her being, she WILL NOT move until one of us comes along and forcibly moves her to her own food bowl.
While she grumbled the entire time.
And if we don't move her, Frankie begins another onslaught of wailing and whining and yipping until some does come along to vacate Tikka from Frankie's food premises.
Tikka is a lazy eater.
She throws herself on the floor and eats slowly.
Frankie, on the other hand, puts his paw inside his bowl, and moves to whereever he wants to eat at that minute, and throws himself into his food with such gusto you can't help but admire his excitement.
He is, without a doubt, the loudest eater I have ever encountered.
Apart from Keith and Stephen.
Everyone is a 10 kilometer radius knows when Frankie is eating.
Drinking is the same way.
He doesn't drink water so much as chew it.
Lifting his head from the bowl, water dripping from his snout all over the floor, he looks like he's been bobbing for apples.
So, unless I feel the need to become fully wakened to the sounds of my frantically eating Frankie, I go back to bed.
While listening to the sounds of my dry doggies shuffling around, arranging their blankets and pillows to resume sleeping. . . .
. . .and Stephen, who has been resting peacefully in our bed, listening to the pre-daytime one act pee play enacted every morning, who opens one eye and asks in a fake sympathetic tone,
"Do you need any help, honey?"
Ummmm.
And he sleeps the rest of the morning with that one eye open.
Believe me
Title Lyric: Shake Dog Shake by The Cure
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
I can tell you're used to dealing with chicken heads who have no kind of class. . .we should go out for lunch or dinner sometime. . .
November 12, 2010
Normally, at 9.00 am on a Friday morning, between the months of September and April, I am standing in front of my Introduction to Criminology class; a room brimming with bright eyed students, keen to learn about the critical examination of criminology.
Not this morning though.
Ten years of teaching has taught me that if the university is closed on Thursday and open on Friday, the likelihood of students putting their bums in the seats of my intro class decreases significantly.
However, don't fear.
They didn't get the class off.
They're just not in the physical classroom space.
And I am here.
I wanted to go to the library, but, recent trauma has prevented me from being there.
And what would be that trauma?
A family dinner.
As I have become older, I have come to the conclusion that family dinners are very stressful.
Not so much those family dinner that occur at my house.
But those family dinners that occur in public.
Like Swiss Chalet.
Last night.
When my father suggested that we take Mum out for dinner, I was fine with that, but I was also a little wary.
I agreed to fetch my mother from the nursing home, because my car allows me to put the wheelchair in the back of the car without disassembling the wheelchair, a confusing and labourious process.
But in my life, it isn't as simple as getting Mum and going for dinner.
In my life, it means getting Stephen to move himself along quickly enough to get be ready on time, moving Em forward to ensure that she is ready for work, uniform on, work-approved shoes on her feet, Empire hat covering her head, and making sure that the very sick Pookie was going to be alright for a little bit on his own, with the dogs.
And then picking up Mum and dropping off Em and picking up Mer, who was sitting on the front steps of the theater entrance, waiting for me to take her along to dinner with us.
Easy right?
Wrong.
Meaning that we arrived at Swiss Chalet at 4.20.
My father arrived at Swiss Chalet at 3.50.
For 30 minutes he waited in his car.
Rather than going into the resturant and getting a table.
So by the time we arrived, he was already crabby.
Instead of the usual, "Hi! How are you." we were greeted with,
"There were 6 cars in the parking lot when I got here."
Okay.
I get it.
You were here and we weren't.
And the additional 14 cars in the parking lot of a restaurant that seats 150 people didn't seem to me to be an issue, given that I was late because I was running all over the city picking people up and dropping them off, while all my father had to do was get himself in the car and get to the restaurant.
But I knew what awaited me for the remainder of the meal.
Everything that would go wrong would be blamed on the fact that he sat in the parking lot for 30 minutes.
Because I wasn't there when he thought I should be.
In spite of the fact that I told him I wasn't getting Mum until 4.00.
Communication.
How come it is so hard to communicate with my father?
And this event set the stage for the remainder of the meal.
A convergence of events that were completely and utterly beyond my control.
I knew that.
Everyone in the restaurant knew that.
Except my father.
A take out order of proportions hitherto never witnessed before at a Swiss Chalet outlet in the entire Western world resulted in an absence of white meat chicken.
Until more white chicken could be procured.
This upset a number of people; in fact a family sitting across the aisle from us left because they were not sympathetic to the plight of the kitchen staff.
No white meat and a dining room full of customers.
And to add to this already toxic concoction of stress and agitation, in an effort to ensure cost saving, the management of Swiss Chalet deduced that yesterday was considered a "stat" holiday in the work world, meaning time and a half, or double time, which meant that if they reduced the number of staff on a day where they weren't anticipating a large number of customers, they wouldn't have to pay an increased staff wage for the day.
This might have worked if the restaurant hadn't been overflowing with diners, to the point where they were lined up outside the restaurant.
I don't know how the management of Swiss Chalet could come to such a faux pas conclusion, because I have never been at Swiss Chalet when the dining room wasn't full.
Unless I was there at 3.00 in the afternoon.
So, just to keep everyone on the same page, I was late, there was no white meat chicken, the restaurant was understaffed, and I was there with my parents, Stephen and Meredyth.
We order.
My mother has spent the last year in the nursing home being fed three times a day, at the same time, each and everyday.
Meaning that when she is off her routine, she becomes agitated.
10 minutes after we order, our drinks arrive.
Wine for Mer and Stephen, tea for Dad, coffee for Mum, Diet Pepsi for me.
I doctor Mum's coffee, one cream, and pass it to her.
As soon as the cup touched her lips, she made a scrunchy face, and pronouced the coffee, "stone cold, and I can't drink it."
Translation: Dawne, I need you to get me another cup of coffee.
So, in a restaurant, teeming with diners waiting for white chicken, I track down our patient, harried, stressed waitress and ask if she could put my mother's coffee in the microwave and warm it up.
She makes my mother a whole new pot of coffee.
Meanwhile, my father, who ordered tea, has finished his first "pot" and begins the opening and closing of the lid which, I think, was supposed to signal our harried waitress to the fact that he wanted more hot water.
And in the din of dining room, the minute clanging of the pot lid to the pot rim wasn't being heard.
Except by our table.
I asked him what was wrong.
"I want more hot water", he replied, "there isn't enough in this little pot."
Eventually, he captures our waitress while she is practically running by, and requests more hot water.
And then remarks that none of this would have been a problem at 3.50 when there were six cars in the parking lot.
We sit there a little bit more, while Mer regales my 70+ parents with tales of Tim and his wonky knee.
She said something about how hard it was for him to walk when he got up this morning.
She is sitting beside my father.
He asks if they are living together.
She and I reply, at the same time, with a vehement, "NO!"
Which lead him to ask if they weren't living together how does she know what his knee feels like in the morning?
At this point, I just wanted to crawl under the table with a bottle of brandy clutched in my hand, rocking back and forth muttering, "this will end soon" to myself over and over again.
We wait a bit longer, when my father stops our waitress again to ask how come things were taking so long.
And this is when we hear the saga of the white meat chicken, and the massive take out order.
She leaves, and my father remarks that he doesn't know how come people insist in white meat chicken.
He then asks me if I know the difference between white meat and dark meat.
What he was really trying to tell me was that if Stephen and I hadn't insisted on white meat chicken, we'd be eating by now.
I simply replied that I had been on Simply for Life regime for two week already, lost 9 pounds and wasn't going eat anything but white meat chicken.
Because I was already giving up the glorious, Swiss Chalet fries with ketchup and tangy sauce, so I wasn't budging on the white meat chicken.
Which resulted in another, none of this would have been a problem at 3.50 when there were six cars in the parking lot.
And that is when I snapped.
I looked my father right in the eye and reminded him that I had already apologized for not being there when he was, and that I was running all over Fredericton picking people up and taking them to work and that I wasn't apologizing again, that what was happening in the restaurant wasn't my fault and I didn't want to hear anything more about the six cars in the parking lot when he arrived, by himself, free of any running around except after himself.
Peace reigned for about 10 minutes.
Next up, my mother turns to me and reminds me that she has taken her pills.
I knew where this was going.
She wanted to eat because it encourages her body's absorption of her meds.
But there wasn't anything I could do about it.
She seemed resigned to this, and things were good for a few minutes, until she said to me,
"I told Bonnie I would be back by 6.00. I won't get back for then. I need you to call her and tell her I'll be late."
My father jumps in and tells her that they won't be looking for her at 6.00, that they just want her to enjoy herself while she's out.
Now that was definitely not going to work with my mother.
And it didn't.
Which lead to me, outside the restaurant, on Mer's cell phone calling the nursing home trying to track down the nurse working my mother's wing at a time when the nursing home is engaged in the controlled daily chaos known as dinner.
I managed, after calling two times, to get the right extension for the nurses station, which lead me to Bonnie.
I explained to her my mother's concern.
She said that she was on until 11.00 pm. Mum shouldn't worry, she should enjoy herself and get back whenever she gets back.
I get back to the table to reassure my mother that they're not going to withhold her pills if she isn't back by 6.00 on the dot to the most glorious scence.
Dinner had arrived.
This meant that for the next few minutes, at least, things should be calm while everyone ate their meals.
And it was.
Sort of.
My mother was having difficulty cutting the broccoli in her chicken stir-fry. I cut it for her, with my father's background commentary,
"You can't cut it Janet because the knives have no edge."
Which was supported by Mer, who chimes in,
"I know. Whenever you serve meat, a special knive that will actually cut the meat is supposed to come with the meal."
More eating.
Less conversation.
Until my father reaches the end of his dark meat chicken.
And the bone was somewhat red.
Leading him to conclude that the very end of his chicken was raw, because they were so rushed in the kitchen that they were plating raw food just to get it out.
So, after eating 90% of his chicken and 100% of his meal, he calls over our harried, stressed and wonderful waitress and tells her that his chicken was raw.
She then calls the manager, who replies that the chicken was cooked the way it was always cooked but she would take the meal off his bill.
So he got his meal for free.
I was paying for me, Stephen and Em.
Leaving Dad to pay for Mum's meal.
Paying for the meal is stressful in an of itself.
I paid, and left the waitress a generous tip for all she had put up with from our table.
Then my dad paid.
The debit machine wasn't chip compatible.
My dad isn't debit machine compatible.
The first try came back incomplete.
Mer was beside him so she assisted him with which buttons needed to be pressed.
And then it came time for the tip.
He looks at me, while the waitress is standing there, and says, "You took care of the tip, right."
Well, yeah. For me, Stephen and Mer.
So, the man who got his meal free didn't tip the waitress, who stood there the entire time.
Tipping has been a battle between my father and I for a long time.
He once tipped $5.00 on a $100.00 meal bill.
And that was only after I said he simply couldn't leave a toonie.
And when he wasn't looking, I slipped our waitress another $10.00 because that was all I had in my wallet at the time.
After our waitress left, I said taht it was customary, when there was more than one bill, that each bill tips the waitress.
15%
He just waves his hand at me and said he tips a toonie, and he'd do that if I wanted.
I put Mum's coat on and just left.
Sort of.
But what happened between leaving the restaurant and getting into the car, along with the incidents in the car while taking my mother back to the nursing home are not fit for public consumption.
At least not right now.
The emotional and mental scarring has to fade first.
Let's just say that I was so upset about this family dinner that I *almost* didn't go to a movie last night with my husband.
Almost.
But we had planned on seeing RED and Stephen wasn't letting me get out of it, so off we went.
Going to the movie was good.
I relaxed.
Laughed.
Enjoyed myself enough that I was able to come home and actually sleep fitfully until 8.45 this morning.
I didn't remember to set the alarm.
Meaning Em is now very late for school.
Somehow she doesn't seem to upset.
She worked last night and came home with us, around 11.30.
But equilibrium will be restored when this afternoon I find myself at the Community Kitchen.
Because nothing pulls you out of your own self pity by seeing those who are struggling with real hardships.
And not those caused by routinized aging parents.
Title Lyric: Lunch or Dinner by Sunshine Anderson
Normally, at 9.00 am on a Friday morning, between the months of September and April, I am standing in front of my Introduction to Criminology class; a room brimming with bright eyed students, keen to learn about the critical examination of criminology.
Not this morning though.
Ten years of teaching has taught me that if the university is closed on Thursday and open on Friday, the likelihood of students putting their bums in the seats of my intro class decreases significantly.
However, don't fear.
They didn't get the class off.
They're just not in the physical classroom space.
And I am here.
I wanted to go to the library, but, recent trauma has prevented me from being there.
And what would be that trauma?
A family dinner.
As I have become older, I have come to the conclusion that family dinners are very stressful.
Not so much those family dinner that occur at my house.
But those family dinners that occur in public.
Like Swiss Chalet.
Last night.
When my father suggested that we take Mum out for dinner, I was fine with that, but I was also a little wary.
I agreed to fetch my mother from the nursing home, because my car allows me to put the wheelchair in the back of the car without disassembling the wheelchair, a confusing and labourious process.
But in my life, it isn't as simple as getting Mum and going for dinner.
In my life, it means getting Stephen to move himself along quickly enough to get be ready on time, moving Em forward to ensure that she is ready for work, uniform on, work-approved shoes on her feet, Empire hat covering her head, and making sure that the very sick Pookie was going to be alright for a little bit on his own, with the dogs.
And then picking up Mum and dropping off Em and picking up Mer, who was sitting on the front steps of the theater entrance, waiting for me to take her along to dinner with us.
Easy right?
Wrong.
Meaning that we arrived at Swiss Chalet at 4.20.
My father arrived at Swiss Chalet at 3.50.
For 30 minutes he waited in his car.
Rather than going into the resturant and getting a table.
So by the time we arrived, he was already crabby.
Instead of the usual, "Hi! How are you." we were greeted with,
"There were 6 cars in the parking lot when I got here."
Okay.
I get it.
You were here and we weren't.
And the additional 14 cars in the parking lot of a restaurant that seats 150 people didn't seem to me to be an issue, given that I was late because I was running all over the city picking people up and dropping them off, while all my father had to do was get himself in the car and get to the restaurant.
But I knew what awaited me for the remainder of the meal.
Everything that would go wrong would be blamed on the fact that he sat in the parking lot for 30 minutes.
Because I wasn't there when he thought I should be.
In spite of the fact that I told him I wasn't getting Mum until 4.00.
Communication.
How come it is so hard to communicate with my father?
And this event set the stage for the remainder of the meal.
A convergence of events that were completely and utterly beyond my control.
I knew that.
Everyone in the restaurant knew that.
Except my father.
A take out order of proportions hitherto never witnessed before at a Swiss Chalet outlet in the entire Western world resulted in an absence of white meat chicken.
Until more white chicken could be procured.
This upset a number of people; in fact a family sitting across the aisle from us left because they were not sympathetic to the plight of the kitchen staff.
No white meat and a dining room full of customers.
And to add to this already toxic concoction of stress and agitation, in an effort to ensure cost saving, the management of Swiss Chalet deduced that yesterday was considered a "stat" holiday in the work world, meaning time and a half, or double time, which meant that if they reduced the number of staff on a day where they weren't anticipating a large number of customers, they wouldn't have to pay an increased staff wage for the day.
This might have worked if the restaurant hadn't been overflowing with diners, to the point where they were lined up outside the restaurant.
I don't know how the management of Swiss Chalet could come to such a faux pas conclusion, because I have never been at Swiss Chalet when the dining room wasn't full.
Unless I was there at 3.00 in the afternoon.
So, just to keep everyone on the same page, I was late, there was no white meat chicken, the restaurant was understaffed, and I was there with my parents, Stephen and Meredyth.
We order.
My mother has spent the last year in the nursing home being fed three times a day, at the same time, each and everyday.
Meaning that when she is off her routine, she becomes agitated.
10 minutes after we order, our drinks arrive.
Wine for Mer and Stephen, tea for Dad, coffee for Mum, Diet Pepsi for me.
I doctor Mum's coffee, one cream, and pass it to her.
As soon as the cup touched her lips, she made a scrunchy face, and pronouced the coffee, "stone cold, and I can't drink it."
Translation: Dawne, I need you to get me another cup of coffee.
So, in a restaurant, teeming with diners waiting for white chicken, I track down our patient, harried, stressed waitress and ask if she could put my mother's coffee in the microwave and warm it up.
She makes my mother a whole new pot of coffee.
Meanwhile, my father, who ordered tea, has finished his first "pot" and begins the opening and closing of the lid which, I think, was supposed to signal our harried waitress to the fact that he wanted more hot water.
And in the din of dining room, the minute clanging of the pot lid to the pot rim wasn't being heard.
Except by our table.
I asked him what was wrong.
"I want more hot water", he replied, "there isn't enough in this little pot."
Eventually, he captures our waitress while she is practically running by, and requests more hot water.
And then remarks that none of this would have been a problem at 3.50 when there were six cars in the parking lot.
We sit there a little bit more, while Mer regales my 70+ parents with tales of Tim and his wonky knee.
She said something about how hard it was for him to walk when he got up this morning.
She is sitting beside my father.
He asks if they are living together.
She and I reply, at the same time, with a vehement, "NO!"
Which lead him to ask if they weren't living together how does she know what his knee feels like in the morning?
At this point, I just wanted to crawl under the table with a bottle of brandy clutched in my hand, rocking back and forth muttering, "this will end soon" to myself over and over again.
We wait a bit longer, when my father stops our waitress again to ask how come things were taking so long.
And this is when we hear the saga of the white meat chicken, and the massive take out order.
She leaves, and my father remarks that he doesn't know how come people insist in white meat chicken.
He then asks me if I know the difference between white meat and dark meat.
What he was really trying to tell me was that if Stephen and I hadn't insisted on white meat chicken, we'd be eating by now.
I simply replied that I had been on Simply for Life regime for two week already, lost 9 pounds and wasn't going eat anything but white meat chicken.
Because I was already giving up the glorious, Swiss Chalet fries with ketchup and tangy sauce, so I wasn't budging on the white meat chicken.
Which resulted in another, none of this would have been a problem at 3.50 when there were six cars in the parking lot.
And that is when I snapped.
I looked my father right in the eye and reminded him that I had already apologized for not being there when he was, and that I was running all over Fredericton picking people up and taking them to work and that I wasn't apologizing again, that what was happening in the restaurant wasn't my fault and I didn't want to hear anything more about the six cars in the parking lot when he arrived, by himself, free of any running around except after himself.
Peace reigned for about 10 minutes.
Next up, my mother turns to me and reminds me that she has taken her pills.
I knew where this was going.
She wanted to eat because it encourages her body's absorption of her meds.
But there wasn't anything I could do about it.
She seemed resigned to this, and things were good for a few minutes, until she said to me,
"I told Bonnie I would be back by 6.00. I won't get back for then. I need you to call her and tell her I'll be late."
My father jumps in and tells her that they won't be looking for her at 6.00, that they just want her to enjoy herself while she's out.
Now that was definitely not going to work with my mother.
And it didn't.
Which lead to me, outside the restaurant, on Mer's cell phone calling the nursing home trying to track down the nurse working my mother's wing at a time when the nursing home is engaged in the controlled daily chaos known as dinner.
I managed, after calling two times, to get the right extension for the nurses station, which lead me to Bonnie.
I explained to her my mother's concern.
She said that she was on until 11.00 pm. Mum shouldn't worry, she should enjoy herself and get back whenever she gets back.
I get back to the table to reassure my mother that they're not going to withhold her pills if she isn't back by 6.00 on the dot to the most glorious scence.
Dinner had arrived.
This meant that for the next few minutes, at least, things should be calm while everyone ate their meals.
And it was.
Sort of.
My mother was having difficulty cutting the broccoli in her chicken stir-fry. I cut it for her, with my father's background commentary,
"You can't cut it Janet because the knives have no edge."
Which was supported by Mer, who chimes in,
"I know. Whenever you serve meat, a special knive that will actually cut the meat is supposed to come with the meal."
More eating.
Less conversation.
Until my father reaches the end of his dark meat chicken.
And the bone was somewhat red.
Leading him to conclude that the very end of his chicken was raw, because they were so rushed in the kitchen that they were plating raw food just to get it out.
So, after eating 90% of his chicken and 100% of his meal, he calls over our harried, stressed and wonderful waitress and tells her that his chicken was raw.
She then calls the manager, who replies that the chicken was cooked the way it was always cooked but she would take the meal off his bill.
So he got his meal for free.
I was paying for me, Stephen and Em.
Leaving Dad to pay for Mum's meal.
Paying for the meal is stressful in an of itself.
I paid, and left the waitress a generous tip for all she had put up with from our table.
Then my dad paid.
The debit machine wasn't chip compatible.
My dad isn't debit machine compatible.
The first try came back incomplete.
Mer was beside him so she assisted him with which buttons needed to be pressed.
And then it came time for the tip.
He looks at me, while the waitress is standing there, and says, "You took care of the tip, right."
Well, yeah. For me, Stephen and Mer.
So, the man who got his meal free didn't tip the waitress, who stood there the entire time.
Tipping has been a battle between my father and I for a long time.
He once tipped $5.00 on a $100.00 meal bill.
And that was only after I said he simply couldn't leave a toonie.
And when he wasn't looking, I slipped our waitress another $10.00 because that was all I had in my wallet at the time.
After our waitress left, I said taht it was customary, when there was more than one bill, that each bill tips the waitress.
15%
He just waves his hand at me and said he tips a toonie, and he'd do that if I wanted.
I put Mum's coat on and just left.
Sort of.
But what happened between leaving the restaurant and getting into the car, along with the incidents in the car while taking my mother back to the nursing home are not fit for public consumption.
At least not right now.
The emotional and mental scarring has to fade first.
Let's just say that I was so upset about this family dinner that I *almost* didn't go to a movie last night with my husband.
Almost.
But we had planned on seeing RED and Stephen wasn't letting me get out of it, so off we went.
Going to the movie was good.
I relaxed.
Laughed.
Enjoyed myself enough that I was able to come home and actually sleep fitfully until 8.45 this morning.
I didn't remember to set the alarm.
Meaning Em is now very late for school.
Somehow she doesn't seem to upset.
She worked last night and came home with us, around 11.30.
But equilibrium will be restored when this afternoon I find myself at the Community Kitchen.
Because nothing pulls you out of your own self pity by seeing those who are struggling with real hardships.
And not those caused by routinized aging parents.
Title Lyric: Lunch or Dinner by Sunshine Anderson
Thursday, November 11, 2010
One girl, one boy, some grief, some joy, memories are made of this. . .
November 11, 2010
Today is my mother's 71st birthday.
When I was really young, I used to think that my mother's birthday was so important that everyone was given a day off.
Ah, the adoration of children who have just completed kindergarten.
So, to honour my mother's birthday, I am going to share some of her favourite Dawne and Jerry stories from our youth.
Favourite only because she's still uncertain how we survived them.
I have some very vivid memories of kindergarten.
In 1972, my kindergarten was held in the back of the Oromocto Fire Station.
I know. . .I know. . . .weird.
Several of the kids who were in my kindergarten class ended up in my high school graduation class.
Even with living in a military community.
I took a cab to kindergarten.
I don't know if this was part of the program, or, an extra my parents paid for.
I'll ask today.
There have been times in my life where I did things with no real understanding of my motivation for doing such things.
Marriage is usually at the top of that list.
But this kink in my makeup has been around for a long time, long before I was married.
Either time.
One lovely sunny day, in the front seat of a cab with a cab driver who regularly gave us peices of Doublemint gum. . .
Now that I think about it, it may have been a service, because I remember there were other kids in the backseat.
. . .just as we were pulling into the backdoor of the firehouse cum kindergarten, I jumped out of the still moving vehicle.
I have no idea what prompted such a bold, carefree, reckless, insane, dangerous and completely stupid move.
And I wonder how Meredyth acquired her propensity for asinine activities.
While I completely remember the actual event, I don't recall what happened afterwards.
Selective memory.
Or, I just blocked out the ensuing shit storm that followed.
And there was a shit storm, believe me.
Involving such characters as my kindergarten teacher, my mother, my father, and of course, the beleagured and permanently scarred cab driver.
From that moment on, I was never allowed to sit in the front seat again.
I was always in the back, between other children, and buckled in.
Because at this time in our vehicular history, seat belts were not manadatory.
Had then been, it would have taken me longer to jump out.
But I bet I still would have done it.
My brother, and I hope he will forgive me for sharing his stories, had a propensity for science and creativity at a very young age.
While sitting in the kitchen of our PMQ on St. John Avenue, my father quizzing me about spelling, and my mother drying dishes, me wearing my plaid jumper with the navy blue fringe running the length of the jumper, we were interrupted in our afterdinner activites by the smell of smoke.
Followed by pounding on the bathroom door.
From the inside.
My brother, probably around 4 or 5 years old, had decided, since everyone else was busy doing something, that he would engage in a little science experiment.
Involving toilet paper and a match.
His research questions: How does toilet paper respond to fire? How long does toilet paper take to burn?
My father dashes from the kitchen table to the bathroom, kicks the door open, releasing my scared and bawling little brother, and gazing on the inferno engulfing our bathroom.
Because, as my already intellectual brother found out, toilet paper burns VERY quickly, and when it does, it will take with it hostages.
Face cloths.
Over the toilet bathroom shelving units, in pink no less.
Towels.
Sections of wall.
So, he had an answer for his questions.
And he scared the beejezus out of my father and mother.
Me, I was wondering how I was supposed to know these spelling words without my father's help.
Again, shades of Meredyth.
There were several incidents where my brother and I coluded to create chaos.
My mother worked shift work, so, if she was home during the day, or had the day off, she spent it at home doing what women do when they're home with a day off.
Clean.
Cook.
Child care.
And because this was the early 70s and day care didn't seem to exist, my mother did what all women on our court, because at this time we lived on Victoria Court.
She put us outside.
But I was probably three and a half, Jerry was two so we weren't running around the neighbourhood creating chaos.
That came later.
We were in the backyard creating chaos.
Today, many people will dog leases affixed to their clothes line.
My mother had one of those.
For Jerry.
Along with a harness.
Dogs and children.
And strikingly similar methods for social control.
Jerry would be harnessed and attached to the clothes line.
Me, I was allowed to run free in the yard.
Mistake number one.
Because as soon as she turned her back from the kitchen window, I would unleash Jerry.
Then, I would take him out of his harnass.
And then, I would unlatch the backyard gate, and Jerry and I would wander through Victoria Court.
Were we destroying private property?
No.
Were we running on the streets?
No.
Were we terrorizing other children, teasing them as they were leashed and harnessed in their backyard cages lacking the intestinal fortitude and wherewithall to execute their own escape?
Maybe.
But the reason for our desire to escape the confines of my mother's watchful eye and our backyard prison was cookies.
We spent our on-the-lam-time going door to door begging the neighbourhood mothers for cookies.
We were not interested in destroying private property or running the wild and crazy streets of Oromocto in the early 70s.
We wanted to see what cookies other mothers possessed and if they were better than the cookies our mother had.
This activity not only landed us in a pile of it when my mother caught up to us,
Or when one of the neighbour mothers called her to tell us what we were doing,
It also spoiled lunch.
And made for an obscenely early nap time.
Looking back, its no wonder my mother smoked.
My brother quickly learned how to escape all on his own.
And he was particularly fond of wandering off in public places.
I don't remember this incident very well.
But my mother does.
As if it happened yesterday.
We were in the Oromocto Mall, which at that time, was more like a strip mall than an enclosed mall.
Meaning you had to go outside of one store to get to another.
There was a Reitman's in the mall.
Still is.
But it looked very different then.
It had two windowcases on either side of the front door, where the women Reitman's employees would dress mannequins in the latest styles trying to entice female buyers to spend their money.
Oh, those wacky seventies!
My brother wandered off, probably while my mother was trying to deal with me.
My father never joined us on these shopping junkets.
Leaving my mother to wrangle two toddlers on her own.
I remember my brother was frantically looking for my brother.
Wandering up and down the mall, eyes peeled for the tow head with the sparkling eyes.
On our third trek, her dragging me along behind her, she spotted something literally out of the corner of her eye.
My brother.
In the almost always locked Reitman's display case.
Frolicking and cavorting amid the naked mannequins.
One little boy displaying to the public how little boys behave when the are making merry with mannequins.
Perhaps it was the crowd beginning to build around the display case that alerted my mother's maternal spidey senses that something was not right and it involved one of her offspring.
The real question here is why?
Why was my brother in the Reitman's display case with naked mannequins?
Because what curious little boy is going to pass up the opportunity to open an almost always locked display case door to see what it looks like from the inside?
Keith probably.
But not my little brother.
Found amid boobies and butt, a big smile on his cherubic little face.
Today, at 43 and almost 42, I am sure my mother remembers all of these nuggets of nonsense my brother and I engaged in.
And many, many more I'm willing to bet.
With time, some of the mental and emotional scarring has faded.
But not the memories.
Definitely not the memories.
And while dining at Swiss Chalet later today (her choice) we will probably revisit some of these stories, she will laugh, and another round of family storytelling will be complete.
Happy Birthday Mum!
Title Lyric: Memories are Made of This by Dean Martin
Today is my mother's 71st birthday.
When I was really young, I used to think that my mother's birthday was so important that everyone was given a day off.
Ah, the adoration of children who have just completed kindergarten.
So, to honour my mother's birthday, I am going to share some of her favourite Dawne and Jerry stories from our youth.
Favourite only because she's still uncertain how we survived them.
I have some very vivid memories of kindergarten.
In 1972, my kindergarten was held in the back of the Oromocto Fire Station.
I know. . .I know. . . .weird.
Several of the kids who were in my kindergarten class ended up in my high school graduation class.
Even with living in a military community.
I took a cab to kindergarten.
I don't know if this was part of the program, or, an extra my parents paid for.
I'll ask today.
There have been times in my life where I did things with no real understanding of my motivation for doing such things.
Marriage is usually at the top of that list.
But this kink in my makeup has been around for a long time, long before I was married.
Either time.
One lovely sunny day, in the front seat of a cab with a cab driver who regularly gave us peices of Doublemint gum. . .
Now that I think about it, it may have been a service, because I remember there were other kids in the backseat.
. . .just as we were pulling into the backdoor of the firehouse cum kindergarten, I jumped out of the still moving vehicle.
I have no idea what prompted such a bold, carefree, reckless, insane, dangerous and completely stupid move.
And I wonder how Meredyth acquired her propensity for asinine activities.
While I completely remember the actual event, I don't recall what happened afterwards.
Selective memory.
Or, I just blocked out the ensuing shit storm that followed.
And there was a shit storm, believe me.
Involving such characters as my kindergarten teacher, my mother, my father, and of course, the beleagured and permanently scarred cab driver.
From that moment on, I was never allowed to sit in the front seat again.
I was always in the back, between other children, and buckled in.
Because at this time in our vehicular history, seat belts were not manadatory.
Had then been, it would have taken me longer to jump out.
But I bet I still would have done it.
My brother, and I hope he will forgive me for sharing his stories, had a propensity for science and creativity at a very young age.
While sitting in the kitchen of our PMQ on St. John Avenue, my father quizzing me about spelling, and my mother drying dishes, me wearing my plaid jumper with the navy blue fringe running the length of the jumper, we were interrupted in our afterdinner activites by the smell of smoke.
Followed by pounding on the bathroom door.
From the inside.
My brother, probably around 4 or 5 years old, had decided, since everyone else was busy doing something, that he would engage in a little science experiment.
Involving toilet paper and a match.
His research questions: How does toilet paper respond to fire? How long does toilet paper take to burn?
My father dashes from the kitchen table to the bathroom, kicks the door open, releasing my scared and bawling little brother, and gazing on the inferno engulfing our bathroom.
Because, as my already intellectual brother found out, toilet paper burns VERY quickly, and when it does, it will take with it hostages.
Face cloths.
Over the toilet bathroom shelving units, in pink no less.
Towels.
Sections of wall.
So, he had an answer for his questions.
And he scared the beejezus out of my father and mother.
Me, I was wondering how I was supposed to know these spelling words without my father's help.
Again, shades of Meredyth.
There were several incidents where my brother and I coluded to create chaos.
My mother worked shift work, so, if she was home during the day, or had the day off, she spent it at home doing what women do when they're home with a day off.
Clean.
Cook.
Child care.
And because this was the early 70s and day care didn't seem to exist, my mother did what all women on our court, because at this time we lived on Victoria Court.
She put us outside.
But I was probably three and a half, Jerry was two so we weren't running around the neighbourhood creating chaos.
That came later.
We were in the backyard creating chaos.
Today, many people will dog leases affixed to their clothes line.
My mother had one of those.
For Jerry.
Along with a harness.
Dogs and children.
And strikingly similar methods for social control.
Jerry would be harnessed and attached to the clothes line.
Me, I was allowed to run free in the yard.
Mistake number one.
Because as soon as she turned her back from the kitchen window, I would unleash Jerry.
Then, I would take him out of his harnass.
And then, I would unlatch the backyard gate, and Jerry and I would wander through Victoria Court.
Were we destroying private property?
No.
Were we running on the streets?
No.
Were we terrorizing other children, teasing them as they were leashed and harnessed in their backyard cages lacking the intestinal fortitude and wherewithall to execute their own escape?
Maybe.
But the reason for our desire to escape the confines of my mother's watchful eye and our backyard prison was cookies.
We spent our on-the-lam-time going door to door begging the neighbourhood mothers for cookies.
We were not interested in destroying private property or running the wild and crazy streets of Oromocto in the early 70s.
We wanted to see what cookies other mothers possessed and if they were better than the cookies our mother had.
This activity not only landed us in a pile of it when my mother caught up to us,
Or when one of the neighbour mothers called her to tell us what we were doing,
It also spoiled lunch.
And made for an obscenely early nap time.
Looking back, its no wonder my mother smoked.
My brother quickly learned how to escape all on his own.
And he was particularly fond of wandering off in public places.
I don't remember this incident very well.
But my mother does.
As if it happened yesterday.
We were in the Oromocto Mall, which at that time, was more like a strip mall than an enclosed mall.
Meaning you had to go outside of one store to get to another.
There was a Reitman's in the mall.
Still is.
But it looked very different then.
It had two windowcases on either side of the front door, where the women Reitman's employees would dress mannequins in the latest styles trying to entice female buyers to spend their money.
Oh, those wacky seventies!
My brother wandered off, probably while my mother was trying to deal with me.
My father never joined us on these shopping junkets.
Leaving my mother to wrangle two toddlers on her own.
I remember my brother was frantically looking for my brother.
Wandering up and down the mall, eyes peeled for the tow head with the sparkling eyes.
On our third trek, her dragging me along behind her, she spotted something literally out of the corner of her eye.
My brother.
In the almost always locked Reitman's display case.
Frolicking and cavorting amid the naked mannequins.
One little boy displaying to the public how little boys behave when the are making merry with mannequins.
Perhaps it was the crowd beginning to build around the display case that alerted my mother's maternal spidey senses that something was not right and it involved one of her offspring.
The real question here is why?
Why was my brother in the Reitman's display case with naked mannequins?
Because what curious little boy is going to pass up the opportunity to open an almost always locked display case door to see what it looks like from the inside?
Keith probably.
But not my little brother.
Found amid boobies and butt, a big smile on his cherubic little face.
Today, at 43 and almost 42, I am sure my mother remembers all of these nuggets of nonsense my brother and I engaged in.
And many, many more I'm willing to bet.
With time, some of the mental and emotional scarring has faded.
But not the memories.
Definitely not the memories.
And while dining at Swiss Chalet later today (her choice) we will probably revisit some of these stories, she will laugh, and another round of family storytelling will be complete.
Happy Birthday Mum!
Title Lyric: Memories are Made of This by Dean Martin
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I don't wanna meet your kids. . . .
November 10, 2010
Meredyth has secured another job.
Two jobs, now.
Hallellujah!
Harsh measures and tough love were the companions, the catalysts, the bouncers that, in part, lead to this glorious event.
The real question is how were harsh measures and tough love called into battle?
Their arrival was the result of a conversation between me and Mer's money tree.
AKA Grandma.
A lenghty conversation on a Sunday evening concluded with the shared acceptance that we were, perhaps, enabling our lovely, talented, spirited Mer.
Loving her as we do, and believe me we do, we were encouraging financial dependence.
Instead of teaching our little butterfly to fly on her own.
Mer, being a smart, intelligent young woman ascertained quickly the repercussions of the severe trimming of the money tree.
Her inital reaction to the sound of the chainsaw cutting down the cash laden branches was anger.
At me.
Because Grandma would never have even thought of, or considered inflicting such henious cruelty as refusing a request for a donation to Meredyth.
Really, that child could be her own registered charity.
Such cruelty, brutality, coldheartedness, savagery and persecution could only have occured at the behest of a third party.
The wheels in Mer's mind turned and twisted until she deduced, came to the only logical conclusion about the identity of the malicious third party.
Resulting in a phone call one morning.
I am in my office, clutching my "Good Morning" tea in my hands, hoping for some sort of herbal tea inspired jab to wake me up enough to teach my first class, when I am interrupted by the wretched ring of my office telephone.
Stunned, because the ringer is usually turned off, I reached my hand to answer it, knowing that whoever was calling this early in the morning, it wasn't because they wanted to remind me how much I was loved and adored.
Got that in one.
Mer, because she is who she is and because my DNA courses through her veins, let me know in short order how she felt about the dismembering of the money tree.
She then said I would see her no more at my table breaking bread.
The familial thread that bound us was effectively cut.
I would see her no more.
Two days later she is sitting across from me during dinner.
One week later she had her second job.
Mission accomplished!
My little bird is learning to spread her wings.
There will be more bumps, falls, cataclysmic events that shake her faith in herself.
But she is much stronger than she gives herself credit for, a gift she possess, that when used for good instead of evil results in a force of nature that can move mountains, shake trees (especially money trees) and take her mother head on.
Its the good instead of evil part we're struggling with.
Good Mer.
Good = sandals.
What capitalist empire is now the proud owner of my oldest child's labour power?
Exploiting her and her personality, her skills, her hair whipping alacrity for their own benefit?
Empire Theaters.
And for all you smart cookies out there who have been keeping up, you know that means that all three of my lovely children are now the serfs at the mercy of the feudal Empire Theaters.
While not on the schedule as of yet, she did attend her first Saturday morning 8 am staff meeting last weekend.
And when the new people were being introduced, the manager of the theater looked at her and said,
"Aren't you another Van Every??"
To which my astute daughter replied,
"Yes. And we are taking over."
Keith is lovingly referring to the three of them as the "Van Clan."
I can't wait until the first time Keith, in his role as supervisor, has both Mer and Em as his underlings.
Really.
I am going to park myself on one of those high stools not fit for anyone under eight feet tall for the duration of their shift and delight in the angst, anger, frustration, annoyance that will flit across Mer's face when her little brother is telling her what to do.
Because no one tells Mer what to do.
Em is the same, except, Em possesses this little voice in her head that reminds her that they are not at home, and whatever revenge she wishes to bestow upon her brother can wait until he is sleeping.
Mer has no voice in her head.
She silenced it a long time ago.
And that's assuming it ever had the opportunity to voice an opinion in the first place.
Nor has Mer ever understood that revenge is a dish best served cold, meaning, waiting is sometimes a good thing.
No.
My Mer is an on-the-spot dealer of all things unpleasant.
But, as she has been told by me, her brother and her sister, this is going to be a learning experience for her.
Because if her brother sends her into the backroom to wash dishes, that is what she will do.
Whether she likes it or not.
Whether Keith has to sleep with one eye open for the rest of his life.
Whether Emily has to change her name and get plastic surgery to distance herself from her familial association with Mer.
It will be done.
I'm sure Mer will be fine.
Because there is only one force stronger enough to counter Mer's on-the-spot reactions.
A very powerful, daunting, life affirming force.
The only force powerful enough to compensate for the missing little voice in Mer's head.
Her love of money.
Cash.
A debit card that, when swiped, results in "approved."
And not "insufficient funds."
Mer and money.
A sometimes loving but mostly volatile relationship that energizes her to suck it up when the situation calls for sucking it up.
Still, their first shift together, I. Am. There.
Because I love entertainment.
And what are movie theaters for if not entertainment?
Not all the entertainment has to be on screen.
In lobby is sometimes far more enjoyable.
And blog worthy.
Em has been trained in a new field of expertise at the theater.
Usher.
Wanting a change of scenery from the yelling in her Bunny voice, "I CAN HELP THE NEXT GUEST!" she requested, begged, pleaded for the opportunity to expand her Empire horizons.
Thus, she spent her last two shifts being trained as an usher.
Ticket taker and 3-D glasses giver.
That person who walks into the theater, down the aisle, across the front of the screen, and up the other aisle, checking for tenacious teenagers with thier feet on the seats, to silence gaggles of giggling girls tittering over the hunk of the hour gracing the screen, to make the requisite check marks on the small peice of paper in the theater.
She is that girl.
But the most exciting part of being usher?
Cleaning up the most obvious and disgusting messes between the movies.
Staff don't clean clean the theaters.
There is a dedicated crew of underemployed cleaners who come and do all the real grimy stuff, like swabbing bathrooms, etc.
The Empire ushers merely collect the refuse that would impede the next hoard of viewers from enjoying their film in an optimal environment.
And Em, because she has flawless timing, was awarded usher status on the weekend Megamind was released.
Children's movies make for exciting viewing.
I love sitting in the audience with children oooohhhing and ahhhhing over the lastest Disney/Pixar creation.
Or any other production company kid concoction.
Their wonder, energy, excitement, is catching.
Like my children in the lobby, children in the audience of a children's movie are just as entertaining.
The one exception were the three children sitting behind me during the Broadway show The Sound of Music.
They just wouldn't stop talking.
Parents oblivious.
Ushers called to intervene.
But in the movies, the noise is usually enough to drown most of the background cacophany.
So Em, in her role as usher, had to clean up the chaos resulting from small children's encounter with Megamind.
When she came home Saturday evening, having just come off a 6 hour usher shift during a Saturday afternoon, prime kid movie watching time, she looked like she has been hit by a car driven by five year olds.
Several of them.
Cars and five year olds.
With two feet and two hands and who lacked the appopriate motor capabilities to put popcorn to mouth, or soda straw to lips.
She spent the evening on the couch, ensconsed tightly in her Snuggie and all other blankets she could get her hands on, Reilley nestled in the crook of her knees.
The only movement I could discern was the blinking of eyes and the pushing of remote buttons.
When she came out of her kid-induced-exhausted haze, she looked at me and uttered the only words she said to me that evening,
"Kids are messy."
Yes, Bunny, they are.
Title Lyric: In the Club by Messy Marv
Meredyth has secured another job.
Two jobs, now.
Hallellujah!
Harsh measures and tough love were the companions, the catalysts, the bouncers that, in part, lead to this glorious event.
The real question is how were harsh measures and tough love called into battle?
Their arrival was the result of a conversation between me and Mer's money tree.
AKA Grandma.
A lenghty conversation on a Sunday evening concluded with the shared acceptance that we were, perhaps, enabling our lovely, talented, spirited Mer.
Loving her as we do, and believe me we do, we were encouraging financial dependence.
Instead of teaching our little butterfly to fly on her own.
Mer, being a smart, intelligent young woman ascertained quickly the repercussions of the severe trimming of the money tree.
Her inital reaction to the sound of the chainsaw cutting down the cash laden branches was anger.
At me.
Because Grandma would never have even thought of, or considered inflicting such henious cruelty as refusing a request for a donation to Meredyth.
Really, that child could be her own registered charity.
Such cruelty, brutality, coldheartedness, savagery and persecution could only have occured at the behest of a third party.
The wheels in Mer's mind turned and twisted until she deduced, came to the only logical conclusion about the identity of the malicious third party.
Resulting in a phone call one morning.
I am in my office, clutching my "Good Morning" tea in my hands, hoping for some sort of herbal tea inspired jab to wake me up enough to teach my first class, when I am interrupted by the wretched ring of my office telephone.
Stunned, because the ringer is usually turned off, I reached my hand to answer it, knowing that whoever was calling this early in the morning, it wasn't because they wanted to remind me how much I was loved and adored.
Got that in one.
Mer, because she is who she is and because my DNA courses through her veins, let me know in short order how she felt about the dismembering of the money tree.
She then said I would see her no more at my table breaking bread.
The familial thread that bound us was effectively cut.
I would see her no more.
Two days later she is sitting across from me during dinner.
One week later she had her second job.
Mission accomplished!
My little bird is learning to spread her wings.
There will be more bumps, falls, cataclysmic events that shake her faith in herself.
But she is much stronger than she gives herself credit for, a gift she possess, that when used for good instead of evil results in a force of nature that can move mountains, shake trees (especially money trees) and take her mother head on.
Its the good instead of evil part we're struggling with.
Good Mer.
Good = sandals.
What capitalist empire is now the proud owner of my oldest child's labour power?
Exploiting her and her personality, her skills, her hair whipping alacrity for their own benefit?
Empire Theaters.
And for all you smart cookies out there who have been keeping up, you know that means that all three of my lovely children are now the serfs at the mercy of the feudal Empire Theaters.
While not on the schedule as of yet, she did attend her first Saturday morning 8 am staff meeting last weekend.
And when the new people were being introduced, the manager of the theater looked at her and said,
"Aren't you another Van Every??"
To which my astute daughter replied,
"Yes. And we are taking over."
Keith is lovingly referring to the three of them as the "Van Clan."
I can't wait until the first time Keith, in his role as supervisor, has both Mer and Em as his underlings.
Really.
I am going to park myself on one of those high stools not fit for anyone under eight feet tall for the duration of their shift and delight in the angst, anger, frustration, annoyance that will flit across Mer's face when her little brother is telling her what to do.
Because no one tells Mer what to do.
Em is the same, except, Em possesses this little voice in her head that reminds her that they are not at home, and whatever revenge she wishes to bestow upon her brother can wait until he is sleeping.
Mer has no voice in her head.
She silenced it a long time ago.
And that's assuming it ever had the opportunity to voice an opinion in the first place.
Nor has Mer ever understood that revenge is a dish best served cold, meaning, waiting is sometimes a good thing.
No.
My Mer is an on-the-spot dealer of all things unpleasant.
But, as she has been told by me, her brother and her sister, this is going to be a learning experience for her.
Because if her brother sends her into the backroom to wash dishes, that is what she will do.
Whether she likes it or not.
Whether Keith has to sleep with one eye open for the rest of his life.
Whether Emily has to change her name and get plastic surgery to distance herself from her familial association with Mer.
It will be done.
I'm sure Mer will be fine.
Because there is only one force stronger enough to counter Mer's on-the-spot reactions.
A very powerful, daunting, life affirming force.
The only force powerful enough to compensate for the missing little voice in Mer's head.
Her love of money.
Cash.
A debit card that, when swiped, results in "approved."
And not "insufficient funds."
Mer and money.
A sometimes loving but mostly volatile relationship that energizes her to suck it up when the situation calls for sucking it up.
Still, their first shift together, I. Am. There.
Because I love entertainment.
And what are movie theaters for if not entertainment?
Not all the entertainment has to be on screen.
In lobby is sometimes far more enjoyable.
And blog worthy.
Em has been trained in a new field of expertise at the theater.
Usher.
Wanting a change of scenery from the yelling in her Bunny voice, "I CAN HELP THE NEXT GUEST!" she requested, begged, pleaded for the opportunity to expand her Empire horizons.
Thus, she spent her last two shifts being trained as an usher.
Ticket taker and 3-D glasses giver.
That person who walks into the theater, down the aisle, across the front of the screen, and up the other aisle, checking for tenacious teenagers with thier feet on the seats, to silence gaggles of giggling girls tittering over the hunk of the hour gracing the screen, to make the requisite check marks on the small peice of paper in the theater.
She is that girl.
But the most exciting part of being usher?
Cleaning up the most obvious and disgusting messes between the movies.
Staff don't clean clean the theaters.
There is a dedicated crew of underemployed cleaners who come and do all the real grimy stuff, like swabbing bathrooms, etc.
The Empire ushers merely collect the refuse that would impede the next hoard of viewers from enjoying their film in an optimal environment.
And Em, because she has flawless timing, was awarded usher status on the weekend Megamind was released.
Children's movies make for exciting viewing.
I love sitting in the audience with children oooohhhing and ahhhhing over the lastest Disney/Pixar creation.
Or any other production company kid concoction.
Their wonder, energy, excitement, is catching.
Like my children in the lobby, children in the audience of a children's movie are just as entertaining.
The one exception were the three children sitting behind me during the Broadway show The Sound of Music.
They just wouldn't stop talking.
Parents oblivious.
Ushers called to intervene.
But in the movies, the noise is usually enough to drown most of the background cacophany.
So Em, in her role as usher, had to clean up the chaos resulting from small children's encounter with Megamind.
When she came home Saturday evening, having just come off a 6 hour usher shift during a Saturday afternoon, prime kid movie watching time, she looked like she has been hit by a car driven by five year olds.
Several of them.
Cars and five year olds.
With two feet and two hands and who lacked the appopriate motor capabilities to put popcorn to mouth, or soda straw to lips.
She spent the evening on the couch, ensconsed tightly in her Snuggie and all other blankets she could get her hands on, Reilley nestled in the crook of her knees.
The only movement I could discern was the blinking of eyes and the pushing of remote buttons.
When she came out of her kid-induced-exhausted haze, she looked at me and uttered the only words she said to me that evening,
"Kids are messy."
Yes, Bunny, they are.
Title Lyric: In the Club by Messy Marv
Monday, November 8, 2010
If you can't do the math, then nothing adds up.
November 8, 2010
Another quiet, uneventful day.
My favourite kind.
Kids in school, Stephen at the university, me at home with a nice, hot cup of tea, a Reilley sitting on my arms to prevent working, and a stack of 50 intro papers about discrimination based on sex and gender, as it occurs in the criminal justice system.
Oh.
Happy.
Day.
I hate marking.
Deplore it.
Abhor making decisions about the "value" of one paper compared to the value of another.
The A papers are easy.
The F papers are easy.
Its the in-between ones.
The B's.
What is the difference between a B+ and B?
Really challenging are those in the C range.
Which is where most of the papers will land.
Whether the students feel the same way or not.
I have a policy.
A 48 hour policy.
Don't even think, contemplate, ponder, assume, consider, envisage, suppose that it is in your best interest to approach me about your grade before 48 hours has passed between the time you get the paper and the time you consider that maybe now, possibly, is the time to approach me about your grade.
And if the 48 hours happens to end on a weekend, well then, you're just gonna have to wait until Monday.
Ten years of teaching has taught me that students are emotional after they get a paper back.
And research indicates they even have a variety of strategies to either hide or share their grade.
Students, I have learned, don't always necessarily understand the gap between what they think they should get. . .
. . .and what their work suggests that they should get.
And this is a big gap.
Like, Grand Canyon.
No matter how long or how many comments I labour over, how much of the paper I cover in red or purple or green ink, the spelling and grammar corrections I point out, the hours I spend marking, there are those students who believe, feel, have convinced themselves that they deserve a better grade.
These students were the impetus behind the 48 hour policy.
The catalyst, as it were.
One time having an angry, disgruntled, annoyed, bellyaching, crabby, petulant, sulky student charge AT you, violently waving their paper at you, proclaiming loudly that YOU will be THE reason for THEIR not getting into graduate school, leaving them no choice but to sell pencils on Younge Street is too many times.
So, to avoid students from saying things they don't mean. . .
. . .and to prevent me from saying this I probably would mean. . .
I established the 48 hour rule.
Safety first!
There's and mine.
As a student, I can remember the anxiety, fear, concern I would experience when anticipating the return of a paper or exam.
Not so much if I knew I had done well.
High school English.
Canadian Literature.
Modern Novel.
Irish Literature.
I knew I'd do well.
Math.
Science.
Biology.
Political Science.
French.
Not so much.
During those times, I could wear a case of Secret Anti-Perspirant, coupled with two maxi pads under each arm and I would still sweat buckets wondering if whether or not I'd just passed or barely failed.
Math was excrutiatingly difficult for me.
I can remember as far back as grade two how hard I struggled with math.
Greater or less than.
I was in my thirties before I realized the less than sign was shaped like this: <.
Sort of like an L.
I would randomly put < or > in the yellow colored circle.
Make designs.
Patterns.
I figured I had a 50/50 chance of being right.
By the time I finished grade six I had convinced my elementary school teachers that I understood math.
Or at least that's what they let me think.
Junior High was a completely different story.
I had the worst grade seven math teacher to ever receive a B.Ed.
Rather than teach math, she was more interested in sharing fashion ideas.
She was actually my first encounter with stilettos.
Everyday, she would come in teetering and tottering on the tinest pair of high heels.
In retrospect, I think that she was a poor math teacher because she had to use all her energy and skill to keep herself from falling over.
And substitutes.
I hated substitutes.
As soon as they started checking attendance, I'd begin to fidget.
Perspire.
Swelter.
My heart would race.
Hands shaking.
How come?
My name.
DawnE ClarkE.
For some reason I have yet to be able to figure out, if you put an E at the end of something, no one knows how to pronounce it.
So in addition to being overweight and bright in some subjects, I'd have to suffer through the indignity, and the chuckles of my classmates as the substitute would inquire:
Dwayne Clerk.
So, no good at math, hating every minute I had to sit through slopes, quadratic equations, algebra.
I could live with that.
Until I would walk into my math class and see behind the desk the substitute of all detrimental, deletirious, vicious, vile, wicked substitutes.
We'll call her Mrs. Many.
And Mrs. Many was retired.
Very retired. Very old school.
Where my grade seven math teacher, Mrs. Pylon would teach us everything but math and treated most of us with indifference (unless you were the same size as her sister, which meant you could try on clothes to see if they would fit her). . .
Mrs. Many would drill, beat, hammer, pound, scare frighten, terrorize, intimidate math into you.
Especially if you were not arithmatically accomplished.
When Mrs. Many was manning the desk, I knew math class was going to be akin to having the Titanic captained by Attila the Hun.
One day I tried sitting in the front, thinking if I was up front, she would ignore me.
Didn't work.
And Mrs. Many was well endowed.
Like many well endowed women of her generation, Mrs. Many wore a bra that was the span of my hands on the size, straps the width of napkins, cups shaped like missles and everything reinforced, with steel, I think.
As it happened, she happened to ask me a question.
Leaning in while she asked it.
And two buttons of her striped blouse were gaping.
Open.
Wide.
Yawning.
At eye level.
Revealing the level of reinforcements required to keep her all in.
I laughed.
I couldn't help it.
What happened next I don't remember.
Except the beady eyes of Mrs. Many boring into my wide, oh-shit-I-probably-shouldn't-have-done-that-deer-in-headlights-look.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, trying to shake the memory of those eyes, which occasionally haunt me in my dreams.
Or nightmares.
Usually brought on from marking.
Let the circle be unbroken.
Title Lyric: The Math by Hilary Duff.
Another quiet, uneventful day.
My favourite kind.
Kids in school, Stephen at the university, me at home with a nice, hot cup of tea, a Reilley sitting on my arms to prevent working, and a stack of 50 intro papers about discrimination based on sex and gender, as it occurs in the criminal justice system.
Oh.
Happy.
Day.
I hate marking.
Deplore it.
Abhor making decisions about the "value" of one paper compared to the value of another.
The A papers are easy.
The F papers are easy.
Its the in-between ones.
The B's.
What is the difference between a B+ and B?
Really challenging are those in the C range.
Which is where most of the papers will land.
Whether the students feel the same way or not.
I have a policy.
A 48 hour policy.
Don't even think, contemplate, ponder, assume, consider, envisage, suppose that it is in your best interest to approach me about your grade before 48 hours has passed between the time you get the paper and the time you consider that maybe now, possibly, is the time to approach me about your grade.
And if the 48 hours happens to end on a weekend, well then, you're just gonna have to wait until Monday.
Ten years of teaching has taught me that students are emotional after they get a paper back.
And research indicates they even have a variety of strategies to either hide or share their grade.
Students, I have learned, don't always necessarily understand the gap between what they think they should get. . .
. . .and what their work suggests that they should get.
And this is a big gap.
Like, Grand Canyon.
No matter how long or how many comments I labour over, how much of the paper I cover in red or purple or green ink, the spelling and grammar corrections I point out, the hours I spend marking, there are those students who believe, feel, have convinced themselves that they deserve a better grade.
These students were the impetus behind the 48 hour policy.
The catalyst, as it were.
One time having an angry, disgruntled, annoyed, bellyaching, crabby, petulant, sulky student charge AT you, violently waving their paper at you, proclaiming loudly that YOU will be THE reason for THEIR not getting into graduate school, leaving them no choice but to sell pencils on Younge Street is too many times.
So, to avoid students from saying things they don't mean. . .
. . .and to prevent me from saying this I probably would mean. . .
I established the 48 hour rule.
Safety first!
There's and mine.
As a student, I can remember the anxiety, fear, concern I would experience when anticipating the return of a paper or exam.
Not so much if I knew I had done well.
High school English.
Canadian Literature.
Modern Novel.
Irish Literature.
I knew I'd do well.
Math.
Science.
Biology.
Political Science.
French.
Not so much.
During those times, I could wear a case of Secret Anti-Perspirant, coupled with two maxi pads under each arm and I would still sweat buckets wondering if whether or not I'd just passed or barely failed.
Math was excrutiatingly difficult for me.
I can remember as far back as grade two how hard I struggled with math.
Greater or less than.
I was in my thirties before I realized the less than sign was shaped like this: <.
Sort of like an L.
I would randomly put < or > in the yellow colored circle.
Make designs.
Patterns.
I figured I had a 50/50 chance of being right.
By the time I finished grade six I had convinced my elementary school teachers that I understood math.
Or at least that's what they let me think.
Junior High was a completely different story.
I had the worst grade seven math teacher to ever receive a B.Ed.
Rather than teach math, she was more interested in sharing fashion ideas.
She was actually my first encounter with stilettos.
Everyday, she would come in teetering and tottering on the tinest pair of high heels.
In retrospect, I think that she was a poor math teacher because she had to use all her energy and skill to keep herself from falling over.
And substitutes.
I hated substitutes.
As soon as they started checking attendance, I'd begin to fidget.
Perspire.
Swelter.
My heart would race.
Hands shaking.
How come?
My name.
DawnE ClarkE.
For some reason I have yet to be able to figure out, if you put an E at the end of something, no one knows how to pronounce it.
So in addition to being overweight and bright in some subjects, I'd have to suffer through the indignity, and the chuckles of my classmates as the substitute would inquire:
Dwayne Clerk.
So, no good at math, hating every minute I had to sit through slopes, quadratic equations, algebra.
I could live with that.
Until I would walk into my math class and see behind the desk the substitute of all detrimental, deletirious, vicious, vile, wicked substitutes.
We'll call her Mrs. Many.
And Mrs. Many was retired.
Very retired. Very old school.
Where my grade seven math teacher, Mrs. Pylon would teach us everything but math and treated most of us with indifference (unless you were the same size as her sister, which meant you could try on clothes to see if they would fit her). . .
Mrs. Many would drill, beat, hammer, pound, scare frighten, terrorize, intimidate math into you.
Especially if you were not arithmatically accomplished.
When Mrs. Many was manning the desk, I knew math class was going to be akin to having the Titanic captained by Attila the Hun.
One day I tried sitting in the front, thinking if I was up front, she would ignore me.
Didn't work.
And Mrs. Many was well endowed.
Like many well endowed women of her generation, Mrs. Many wore a bra that was the span of my hands on the size, straps the width of napkins, cups shaped like missles and everything reinforced, with steel, I think.
As it happened, she happened to ask me a question.
Leaning in while she asked it.
And two buttons of her striped blouse were gaping.
Open.
Wide.
Yawning.
At eye level.
Revealing the level of reinforcements required to keep her all in.
I laughed.
I couldn't help it.
What happened next I don't remember.
Except the beady eyes of Mrs. Many boring into my wide, oh-shit-I-probably-shouldn't-have-done-that-deer-in-headlights-look.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, trying to shake the memory of those eyes, which occasionally haunt me in my dreams.
Or nightmares.
Usually brought on from marking.
Let the circle be unbroken.
Title Lyric: The Math by Hilary Duff.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Mum and Dad are not at home, it's party time, I'm all alone. . .
November 7, 2010
It's a weekend the coming together of occurences so rare that to have several in the same weekend is almost unheard of.
Almost.
One, the time change.
Fall back.
One hour.
I purposely change the clocks slowly.
Sometimes it will take me all day.
How come?
Because by changing them at different points during the day, I get to experience the thrill, the excitement, the fluttery feeling in my tummy each and every time I put the clock back one hour.
Tricking my simplistic self into believing that I gain not one hour from turning the clock back, but multiple hours.
I can gain an hour 5 different times a day.
I know.
It's a delusion.
Chicanery.
Deceptiveness.
A hoax; an illusion of more time that I play on myself.
And it works.
So don't bother trying to tell me that I am beguiling myself.
I already know that.
And I don't care.
Two, a Sunday afternoon all alone.
All.
Alone.
I will occasionally have child free evenings, the result of forcing my children into the harsh work world, but Stephen is almost always home with me.
So while I can achieve child free status, completely-alone-because-the-kids-AND-Stephen-aren't-home-status is something I don't remember happening more than once or twice.
This is a rare day, indeed.
Keith and Emily are both working, the same shift (another rarity), so from 11-5 they will be selling their labour power to Empire Theaters for the afternoon.
Meredyth typically uses Sunday to a) recover, and b) clean her apartment. She will most likely break bread with us later today, but she certainly won't spend her Sunday afternoon here.
And Stephen?
Where is he traversing on this bleak Sunday morning in November?
St. Andrews.
He and some of the Quakers from our meeting are enjoying the lovely drive to St. Andrews to participate in meeting with the St. Andrew's Quakers; a meeting of 3 people.
Apparently, although I don't know the details, there is some strife among the group members, and because they are so small, it's hard to ignore.
So, the Meetings around St. Andrews are visiting on Sunday's to bolster their membership, and hopefully their morale.
Food is involved.
Meaning I was up at 8.00 am making homemade biscuits for Stephen to take with him.
He offered to make them himself, but, there are just some things I am not willing to share with others.
My biscuit recipe.
And my shortbread cookie recipe.
Further, while Stephen has made inroads in his cooking of meals and such, baking is entirely different, and quite frankly, I'm not willing to give up my Queen Bee Baker status.
So the biscuits were made by me.
Just enough for him to take with him and two each for Keith and Em.
Because if you bake them . . .
I will come.
With butter and strawberry jam as company.
And how come I am not joining Stephen on this adventure?
The car.
Given its outlaw status this week, the fact that it had the audacity to require a new alternator to the tune of $600.00, not including the cab fares to ferry everyone hither and yon in the 24 hours we were vehicle-less, Stephen and I decided that it would be financially more feasible for him to go and me to stay.
Both kids working and no buses in this city on Sunday meant that I would have had to provide even more cab fare to get them to work, plus the cost of tank of gas, meaning that for us, a trip to St. Andrews would have cost about $60.00.
Money we have, but, could use for other things.
Groceries, for instance.
While most people have credit cards, we don't.
We have.
But, our lives have become, for the most part, far less complex as a result of not worrying about credit card payments.
So, while we sometimes have to make executive decisions about things such as whether or not both of us can go to St. Andrews, we are also spared the debilitating anxiety that accompanies the use of credit cards.
We just don't want them.
We've managed quite well without them.
Stephen, therefore, is car-pooling with Friends from Fredericton, while I am forced to spend a Sunday afternoon, at home, alone.
Oh woe is me.
Whatever shall I do?
Work probably.
Three, work without feeling guilty.
Another rarity.
Tomorrow is my next weigh in.
It's been a challenging week.
The car sent me into such a tailspin that it took everything I had to fight my natural instinct to throw myself into a vat of dark chocolate, with little islands of chocolate cheese cake and Dairy Queen Pumpkin Pie Blizzards, plates of Swiss Chalet french fries, sweet potato fries, nachoes with extra sour cream floating around me.
But I didn't not succumb, and instead ate celery.
Friday evening, while engaging in my weekly volunteering at the Fredericton Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/) I was asked to cut, into eight slices each, 30 homemade, church-lady-baked apple pies.
Pie crusts so flaky I couldn't comprehend what was holding them together. Apples covered in a sugar-nutmeg-cinnamon-concoction sweetly beckoned me to just take.one.taste.
Other volunteers were enjoying small slices of this heavenly delight.
Me, I cut those pies and plated them with lightening speed.
I didn't even lick my fingers when they happened to come into contact with the sticky sweetness.
Four, an effort of such colossal willpower, devoted self-discipline, rigorous resolve, gigantic grit that a tickertape parade wouldn't have been enough to acknowledge my unfettered self-restraint.
I had to suffice with my mother's "I'm so proud of you."
And really, that was enough.
Really.
It was.
Me, the hounds and the two cats.
All alone on a Sunday.
Wow.
But to be completely honest, by the time everyone trickles back, I will be more than ready to welcome them into the warmth of my sanctuary.
Because too much of a good thing can be dangerous for your health.
And for the most part, I enjoy the subtle sounds of people in my house.
Okay, maybe not so subtle, but I like knowing that the kids are hiding upstairs or stretched out in the living room watching old movies or Family Guy; that Stephen is wiling away his life on kijiji looking for the affordable classic car that he knows will one day be his even if he has to sell a kidney to get it; that the dogs are lying under my feet, groaning and yipping in response to their canine dreams, and that at any moment, cats will cavort all over the kitchen table, hindering my marking progress.
I admit to being happily enslaved to my routine, my comforts.
But a little break away. . . . . .
Title Lyric: Home Alone by Special D
It's a weekend the coming together of occurences so rare that to have several in the same weekend is almost unheard of.
Almost.
One, the time change.
Fall back.
One hour.
I purposely change the clocks slowly.
Sometimes it will take me all day.
How come?
Because by changing them at different points during the day, I get to experience the thrill, the excitement, the fluttery feeling in my tummy each and every time I put the clock back one hour.
Tricking my simplistic self into believing that I gain not one hour from turning the clock back, but multiple hours.
I can gain an hour 5 different times a day.
I know.
It's a delusion.
Chicanery.
Deceptiveness.
A hoax; an illusion of more time that I play on myself.
And it works.
So don't bother trying to tell me that I am beguiling myself.
I already know that.
And I don't care.
Two, a Sunday afternoon all alone.
All.
Alone.
I will occasionally have child free evenings, the result of forcing my children into the harsh work world, but Stephen is almost always home with me.
So while I can achieve child free status, completely-alone-because-the-kids-AND-Stephen-aren't-home-status is something I don't remember happening more than once or twice.
This is a rare day, indeed.
Keith and Emily are both working, the same shift (another rarity), so from 11-5 they will be selling their labour power to Empire Theaters for the afternoon.
Meredyth typically uses Sunday to a) recover, and b) clean her apartment. She will most likely break bread with us later today, but she certainly won't spend her Sunday afternoon here.
And Stephen?
Where is he traversing on this bleak Sunday morning in November?
St. Andrews.
He and some of the Quakers from our meeting are enjoying the lovely drive to St. Andrews to participate in meeting with the St. Andrew's Quakers; a meeting of 3 people.
Apparently, although I don't know the details, there is some strife among the group members, and because they are so small, it's hard to ignore.
So, the Meetings around St. Andrews are visiting on Sunday's to bolster their membership, and hopefully their morale.
Food is involved.
Meaning I was up at 8.00 am making homemade biscuits for Stephen to take with him.
He offered to make them himself, but, there are just some things I am not willing to share with others.
My biscuit recipe.
And my shortbread cookie recipe.
Further, while Stephen has made inroads in his cooking of meals and such, baking is entirely different, and quite frankly, I'm not willing to give up my Queen Bee Baker status.
So the biscuits were made by me.
Just enough for him to take with him and two each for Keith and Em.
Because if you bake them . . .
I will come.
With butter and strawberry jam as company.
And how come I am not joining Stephen on this adventure?
The car.
Given its outlaw status this week, the fact that it had the audacity to require a new alternator to the tune of $600.00, not including the cab fares to ferry everyone hither and yon in the 24 hours we were vehicle-less, Stephen and I decided that it would be financially more feasible for him to go and me to stay.
Both kids working and no buses in this city on Sunday meant that I would have had to provide even more cab fare to get them to work, plus the cost of tank of gas, meaning that for us, a trip to St. Andrews would have cost about $60.00.
Money we have, but, could use for other things.
Groceries, for instance.
While most people have credit cards, we don't.
We have.
But, our lives have become, for the most part, far less complex as a result of not worrying about credit card payments.
So, while we sometimes have to make executive decisions about things such as whether or not both of us can go to St. Andrews, we are also spared the debilitating anxiety that accompanies the use of credit cards.
We just don't want them.
We've managed quite well without them.
Stephen, therefore, is car-pooling with Friends from Fredericton, while I am forced to spend a Sunday afternoon, at home, alone.
Oh woe is me.
Whatever shall I do?
Work probably.
Three, work without feeling guilty.
Another rarity.
Tomorrow is my next weigh in.
It's been a challenging week.
The car sent me into such a tailspin that it took everything I had to fight my natural instinct to throw myself into a vat of dark chocolate, with little islands of chocolate cheese cake and Dairy Queen Pumpkin Pie Blizzards, plates of Swiss Chalet french fries, sweet potato fries, nachoes with extra sour cream floating around me.
But I didn't not succumb, and instead ate celery.
Friday evening, while engaging in my weekly volunteering at the Fredericton Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/) I was asked to cut, into eight slices each, 30 homemade, church-lady-baked apple pies.
Pie crusts so flaky I couldn't comprehend what was holding them together. Apples covered in a sugar-nutmeg-cinnamon-concoction sweetly beckoned me to just take.one.taste.
Other volunteers were enjoying small slices of this heavenly delight.
Me, I cut those pies and plated them with lightening speed.
I didn't even lick my fingers when they happened to come into contact with the sticky sweetness.
Four, an effort of such colossal willpower, devoted self-discipline, rigorous resolve, gigantic grit that a tickertape parade wouldn't have been enough to acknowledge my unfettered self-restraint.
I had to suffice with my mother's "I'm so proud of you."
And really, that was enough.
Really.
It was.
Me, the hounds and the two cats.
All alone on a Sunday.
Wow.
But to be completely honest, by the time everyone trickles back, I will be more than ready to welcome them into the warmth of my sanctuary.
Because too much of a good thing can be dangerous for your health.
And for the most part, I enjoy the subtle sounds of people in my house.
Okay, maybe not so subtle, but I like knowing that the kids are hiding upstairs or stretched out in the living room watching old movies or Family Guy; that Stephen is wiling away his life on kijiji looking for the affordable classic car that he knows will one day be his even if he has to sell a kidney to get it; that the dogs are lying under my feet, groaning and yipping in response to their canine dreams, and that at any moment, cats will cavort all over the kitchen table, hindering my marking progress.
I admit to being happily enslaved to my routine, my comforts.
But a little break away. . . . . .
Title Lyric: Home Alone by Special D
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