January 1, 2011
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
New Year.
New Look.
And if I decide later that I don't like it, I'll change it back.
But for now, let's be adventurous.
As predicted, Stephen and I were about as wild and crazy yesterday as two fleas who found each other on Frankie.
We volunteered as the Community Kitchen, which was an example of feast or famine.
Either there aren't enough volunteers, or there are too many.
Last night there were so many, I spent my evening talking with people who'd come in for a meal, and flitting about looking for something to do.
But better too many than not enough.
Before going to the kitchen, I cleaned out my closet and drawers of things I will never wear again.
If I didn't, Stephen was going to, which would have left me with nothing to wear but a pair of granny panties and my academic robes.
Thank you.
But no.
After the kitchen, we came home and while Stephen made dinner, I called my mother.
It was only 7.00 pm, but experience dictates that she was going to be out in the land of Nod by midnight.
And given the meds she takes each evening, she was out of range and commission until morning.
So unless I wanted to risk her rebuke today, it was best that I called her and wished her a Happy New Year.
Really, it was already 2011 somewhere in the world, so I wasn't completely off base.
Stephen prepared a lovely meal.
Pasta, sauce, chicken breast with some hot and spicy antipasto for some kick.
I'll feel that later.
Believe me.
Keith popped in around 9.30.
Long enough to collect his Sailor Jerry's and head over to his sister's house for their what-they-think-are-obligatory-New-Year's-shenanigans.
Upstairs and down again in less than 10 seconds, the compulsory hug-kiss-happy-New-Year-combo (without the toy) and he was out the door again, leaving me to wonder if that was real or just imagined.
As I have gotten older, it occurs to me that bringing in the New Year while intoxicated and inebriated seems odd.
But my son, daughter, and their assorted friends have yet to experience this epiphany.
At times like this, I wonder if they ever will.
I worked until it was time to collect Em from work, at which time Stephen insisted we watch something New Year'sish, together.
After reminding him that in New York with Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest (the thought of which left me rubbery and icky on the inside) were an hour behind us, he settled for watching the first episode of the BBC One series, Sherlock.
I had caught the first bit at my mother's months ago, and have been waiting to see it the rest of it.
I LOVED IT!
But, at 11.50 reminded me of my promise to watch something that resembled New Years.
The only thing we could find in our time zone was the BT New Year's broadcast.
From Halifax.
Featuring people we had never heard of.
But, the requisite last 10 second countdown was included, which met Stephen's condition, so we watched it.
Kissed at the end of the countdown.
And then he went upstairs to check his email.
While I resumed watching Sherlock.
PARTY ANIMALS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Stephen was a bit crazier when he was younger.
Each New Years, while his Baba (grandmother), whose name was Anastasia, or in Ukrainian Ctuniya was still living Stephen would engage in some of his own New Year's Eve shenanigans and high-jinxes.
His fondest was the year he was visiting his Baba's during the day.
And while his 70+ year old Baba was visiting with Stephen's mother and father, Stephen ran around her house and set EVERY ONE OF HER ALARM CLOCKS to go off at midnight.
Apparently, she had several of the old fashioned wind up alarm clocks.
ALL over the house.
Hence, at midnight, his 70+ year old Baba, who was sleeping fitfully in her bed, snuggled into the warmth of her covers, dreaming of making homemade chicken soup for her loving grandson, was awakened in a full fledged state of panic, agitation, confusion, consternation, horror, dismay, terror to a crescendo, cacophony, racket, clamour of what must have felt like millions off key alarm clocks screaming off key, simultaneously.
Who knows how long it took her to recover.
It's a wonder she ever had another New Year's after this one.
But. . .
. . .when she did, she called her loving, caring, nasty, capricious grandson, and asked, grumbling, "I wonder what little helper set all my alarm clocks???"
WHO would do that to an 70+ year old woman?
Stephen.
That's who.
Underneath that quirky yet adorable facade lies a malicious, devious, scheming man.
For those of you who happened to be deluded into thinking that there was just one side to my loving husband. . . .
. . .think again.
It may be January 1st, but here, it would seem Mother Nature is again in the throes of menopause and has decided to be temperamental with the weather.
+5 degrees Celsius.
Disappearing ice.
Yeah!
Melting snow.
Yeah!!!!!!!! . . . .
Well, sort of yeah.
Once the snow melts, it exposes the piles of poo and puddles of piss dotting the landscape of our yard.
And now that they are at the mercy of melting snow, they stink.
Walking outside risks being assaulted by methane gas.
And it isn't because of wilful laziness and refusal to pick it up.
At least not for Stephen.
Our dogs love to poop at the top of snow piled up as the result of shoveling.
Or as far away as their leashes will allow.
Leaving me, inevitably out with them in my slippers, to promise to come and get it "the next time I'm out with my boots on."
Actually, it's more like the next time Stephen goes out with his boots on. . .
Several people on our small, humble court hosted parties last evening.
At one point, our little court looked like a $20.00 an hour parking lot near the Princess of Wales Theater in Toronto.
While taking our hounds out for their morning ablutions, I witnessed several people stumbling out of houses, keys clutched in their fists, trying to figure out where the hell they parked their cars.
Had I been smart, I would have thrown on Stephen's day-go orange running vest with the fluorescent X across the back and directed them to their car.
For a nominal fee.
Plans for next year, then.
Title Lyric: Alarm Clocks by Rumble Strips
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