A new dance was invented by me this morning.
The 5.30 FreeFall.
You, too, can learn this dance!
First, you have to get up very early, and made certain you are blurry eyed, still asleep, and moving on auto-pilot.
Next, make certain a very large dog has co-opted the space between the end of the bed and the bedroom door, making it difficult, if not impossible to pass through this space while under the blurry-eyed-still-asleep-autopilot-combo.
Then, while attempted to maneuver around the large-space-hogging-dog, insert the big toe of your left foot into the right cuff of your pajamas-that-are-too-big-but-you-love-them-and-can't-give-them-up-plus-they-are-zebra-striped-flannel-so-who-would-want-to-give-them-away.
Once toe is nicely caught in the pajama pant, make certain to fall forward, falling squarely on the right knee (the really bad knee) and skin your elbow on the 1970s goldenrod colored carpet.
Your partner should, upon hearing the colossal BANG! of your body hitting the bedroom floor, sit straight up, turn the light on, and ask you what you're doing on the floor, while at the same time your two year old puppy is happily kissing you all over the face because you are now shorter than he is.
And the dog who refused to move? The catalyst for this cataclysmic event?
Make certain you're sitting on her.
But just a little because she has bad hips.
And now you have to steps to the 5.30 FreeFall!
Carpet burn on my elbow.
There is so much I could say about that.
But I am trying to keep this blog PG.
Last evening, after supper and while the kids were doing the dishes, Stephen and I went out for a walk.
This time we parked in the first UNB parking lot off Windsor and did a loop from Waterloo Row and up University Avenue, incorporating paved trails along the way.
Perfect walking weather.
Not to cold, but cold enough for mittens.
The melting of the snow has resulted in the carpet of sidewalk dirt, remnants of City attempts to prevent bi-pedal slippage, that always makes it appearance this time of year.
Little grains of which inevitably end up in the shoes.
Enough of them require me to stop, take my shoes off and dump the offending particles out.
Stephen theorizes that the reason they get into my shoes is because my shoes aren't tight enough.
And he can fix this.
Creating a disturbing yet entertaining tableau for all drivers-by.
The almost 50 year old man bending down to tie his still overweight wife's shoes.
He was right.
No dirt.
But, within 15 minutes of his wundercure, no circulation in Dawne's feet.
Just a sense of moving blocks of flesh below me.
Hence, another stop.
And the retying of the shoes.
Again making a public spectacle of ourselves.
Because he was the one who put the double knots in the laces, and had I tried to bend over and untie them, I would have passed out from depriving my body the necessary blood in all of its other parts.
Whoever said walking was simple never went with Stephen on sand carpeted sidewalks.
And I really had to pee by the time we got back to the car.
No problem.
We had to go to the Superstore for the vinegar we had forgotten during our Sunday visit.
Also, it would seem Stephen needed to replace a bag of PC Buffalo Wing and Blue Cheese chips.
Em's bag of PC Buffalo Wing and Blue Cheese Chips.
Why this was necessary is something I won't get into here.
But words were said.
Believe me.
I didn't know PC Buffalo Wing and Blue Cheese Chips were a part of the Simply for Life Menu.
As soon as we entered the store we went straight to the bathrooms.
Apparently, Stephen's bladder was singing Ave Maria as well.
And because it was me, and I had to pee, I am greeted with this when I reach the women's bathroom:
Bathroom closed for cleaning.
We apologize for the inconvenience.
You will be if you don't get the hell out of there.
Stephen was in and out in seconds.
Me, I stood there waiting for the male bathroom cleaner to finish his cleaning ablutions so I could go in and relieve my bladder.
Sending Stephen off to get what was needed was a strategy to prevent me from going psycho on his butt.
Consequently, while I am standing on the upper deck of the Superstore, looking down on the shoppers below, crossing my legs in a valiant attempt to not pee all over the floor, I see my soon to be 50 year old husband in the housewares aisle, waving his arms at me as if communicating in some bastardized version of flag semaphore.
I know he was just being his loving self, but he made me laugh, which made me dribble, which added to my already increasing annoyance.
FINALLY the cleaning guy comes out and tells me I can go in.
Relief is really spelled p-e-e-i-n-g.
Title Lyric: Sand in Your Shoes by This Providence
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