February 12, 2011
Yesterday was a sad, sad day for Stephen. Adios to The Behemoth.
Stephen agreed to do so, although reluctantly.
Academically, he understood why we couldn't keep the truck.
We couldn't afford to fill the tank was the very least of it.
Morally, environmentally, commonsensically, it made no sense for two professors, who only have two dogs and three kids to haul around on a daily basis, to have a vehicle that can pull a dozen mobile home at once, in their driveway.
The heaviest thing we have to haul is me, and I don't think that I need a F-350 Super Duty Extended Cab to do that.
At least I hope not.
Our replacement: a 2011 Ford Fiesta.
A shock to the system to say the least.
Sirius satellite radio, so Stephen can listen to the 70s on 7 to his heart's delight.
Which, I hope, makes up for his legs being wrapped around his ears while he sits in the passenger seat.
But at least my boobs won't leave permanent dents in the windshield because I had to move the seat up to reach the gas pedal.
And I won't have the metallic taste in my mouth from my tongue coming into contact with said windshield every time I open my mouth to say something.
Imagine how clean the inside of that windshield is.
While it is smaller, and Mer thinks we've been shafted big time and she wants us to march right back to the rental agency and demand something bigger, I am not afraid to drive it.
To park it.
To move among my fellow road warriors without fear of running one of them over.
Even if I thought running one of them over might be a good idea.
Getting our weekly groceries into it may be a problem.
In all probability, we can't get all three kids into the back at the same time.
But, we can afford to fill the gas tank and feel safe, and that is all that matters.
If Mer wants more she can get a driver's licence, get her own vehicle, have someone rear end her, and then demand her own truck from the rental agency.
Today is date day for me and Stephen.
For Christmas, he bought me two tickets to the Metropolitan Opera House's production of Nixon in China, http://www.metoperafamily.org/metopera/ which we will watch on the big screen at Empire Theaters.
I love the opera.
LOVE IT!
We only get to see about two a season, but I relish every second.
In part it's because there is always so much going on here most Saturdays.
Working kids, grocery shopping, running errands, marking papers, coding data, and most importantly, visiting my mother.
Because I won't be able to see her this evening, I'm going to have lunch with her.
Stephen will collect me at 1.00, because, believe it or not, if you don't get to the opera early, you may not get a seat anywhere except the front row.
And nothing is easy to watch when your sitting in the front row of the theater.
But being at the opera makes it a little bit easier.
I've never experienced an opera in English.
Afterwards, Stephen is taking me out for a Simply for Life approved meal at the Lunar Rogue.
The kids will have to manage getting themselves back and forth to work.
I feel so decadent and deviant all at the same time.
Disappearing for an entire Saturday afternoon and evening.
I can't wait.
And the future of our Ford Focus station wagon, which I have realized is the perfect vehicle for our family, our dogs, our needs, our budget, remains up in the air.
Not knowing what will happen is causing me mucho sadness.
I want my car back.
A lot.
I'm surprised by this.
Each time Stephen brings up the possibility that we may not get our car back, I get this awful, gut wrenching feeling in my insides.
To the point where I've told him the dire life consequences if brings it up again.
Because I KNOW we are getting my car back.
I will insist upon it.
Part of it is selfish.
I don't want to have to look for another car, worry about financing it, on and on and on.
Because I already have the perfect car.
And I don't want another one.
Title Lyric: Cars by Gary Numan
February 11, 2011
Adventures with The Behemoth continue.
I did drive the kids to work yesterday.
Mer wanted me to pick her up 15 minutes before she was supposed to be at work.
She needed time to shower.
Tough.
Go to work stinky.
Because there is no way I was putting myself in the position where I had to drive that thing while panicking about getting kids to work on time.
Thank you very much.
Seeing that protesting about the time I had set to her pick up wasn't going to get her anywhere, she changed tack.
Asking if she, she of the no-driver's-licence, could drive The Behemoth.
It would seem that I am not able to appreciate the full power and magnitude of this beast.
That my not tapping into its full horsepower potential is insulting to the truck and everyone who loves driving these things.
And she was more than willing to show me the awesomeness of its power and glory.
Edging me on to jump that curb and try plowing through that snowbank.
Drive over the car that just cut me off.
You can probably figure out for yourself how that turned out.
And in spite of my insistence that last evening's child labour taxi would be my last, I may have to drive it again this morning.
The kids, I have been informed, feel safer if I'm driving this monstrosity.
Apparently, my gentle, caring, peace loving, cleaning-obsessed husband morphs into a testosterone infused Incredible Hulk-like being when he's behind the wheel of The Behemoth.
News to me.
Everytime I've been in this thing, I've been behind the wheel.
So last evening, after Stephen had finished teaching, I informed him that he was driving.
Let me just say that getting in and out of the passenger side of this gargantuan monolith is actually harder than getting in on the driver's side.
There is no steering wheel for me to grab onto as an aid in my most ungraceful and unladylike climb into the front seat.
I had to grab onto Stephen.
And as soon as he started up the engine, I knew what Em was talking about.
The glint in his eyes.
How his hands gripped the steering wheel with such obvious excitement and delight.
His entire demeanor shifted from peace maker to where's-the-nearest-woodland-so-I-can-let-loose-with-this-baby-and-see-what-she-can-REALLY-do.
If he had turned the radio station to country music, I would have made him stop, booted him out and he could walk the remainder of the way home.
I have my limits.
As it is necessary I will drive around in a truck the size of a bus.
I will even drive the thing myself, if it is required.
But I will NOT listen to country music.
I insist on retaining some modicum of dignity.
I called the car rental agency yesterday afternoon to inquire about exchanging the truck for a car.
Which is something we WILL be doing today.
No matter what anyone thinks.
Unfortunately, there was not a normal sized car anywhere to be found.
Until later today.
I shared with the man who owns the car rental agency some of my anxiety regarding the maneuvering of The Behemoth.
As a means of trying to ease my stress, comfort me, he said his wife, who is five feet, feels exactly the same way.
Perhaps this is one of those situations where four inches really would make a difference.
I expect tears in Stephen's eyes when we bid adieu to The Behemoth.
He'll wipe them away as he gently caresses her, whispering sweet nothings to her, promising they'll meet again.
I'll have to pull him away as he looks over his shoulder, gazing longingly at what was and what could have been.
And when we climb into the car, and at this point, a Ford Fiesta would be fine for me, he'll begin to reminisce about the spacious front seat, the ease of movement.
At least I wouldn't worry about plowing over small children, and drivers will stop looking at me with absolute terror in their eyes when they look up, way up, at me.
No longer will the ten point turn be required to get out of just about anywhere smaller than a football field.
Parking will not mean taking up three spaces because I need at least that much room to park it and get the doors open.
And I won't have to pass the hat for all the onlookers who have stopped to gawk and gleefully laugh at my trying to get in and out of this thing.
Although the extra cash has come in handy.
Title Lyric: Pick Up Man by Joe Diffie
February 10, 2011
Yesterday was a morning full of s**t and giggles.
Emphasis on the former.
I knew something was up when I couldn't figure out what to wear.
This is usually not an issue for me.
I have clothes.
I put them on.
Always hoping that I don't end up looking like I got dressed in the dark.
And the extra time this took, plus some early morning road lunacy lead to a morning I won't be forgetting for a long time.
The second sign that something was up in Denmark was when we were sitting at the corner of Stoneybrook and Kimble, watching drivers pass one another.
In a residential area.
Because the roads were very slippery.
Kimble is a rather steep hill.
Fredericton is a rather steep hill.
And this causes lots of difficulty, especially when we have snowfall and mild temperatures one day. . .
. . .and sunshine and below -20 degrees Celsius temperatures the next day. . .
. . . and not everyone has the means to afford snow tires so they're driving on all seasons.
Who has all seasons is easy to figure out when you sitting at a corner watching cars literally stopped in the middle of the hill because they cannot get one smitch of traction. . .not even enough to make it look like they're moving.
Because this is Fredericton, rather than get out to help these struggling drivers, people just pass them.
Of course, this is a city where drivers pass city buses if they stop for more than 3 seconds, so I wasn't surprised.
Disgusted.
But not surprised.
We finally managed to join the throng of morning commuters, when we reached the light at Kimble and Forest Hill and it turned red.
Leading us to the realization, when it turned green, that snowtires meant nothing on the glacial pathways formerly known as roads.
Once we stopped for the red light, and made the decision to turn onto Forest Hill rather than remain on Kimble to get to the highway to take Em to school we had set in motion a chain of events no one could have predicted.
And I wouldn't have believed them if they did.
Just past Meredyth's apartment building, approaching a school zone, one lone red Ford Focus station wagon amid a passel of early morning commuters, including the big orange school bus behind us, every driver anxious to get to where they were going, and stunned at how icy the roads were, jawing about how poorly the city had sanded the roads. . .
. . .because they actually hadn't sanded them at all. . .
. . .we were rear ended.
By a university student, though not from our university, who lives in the same building as Mer and who was trying to get behind us and in front of the school bus so she didn't have to bear the burden of a stopping and starting school bus for her morning commute.
Because apparently she is special.
So, in icy road conditions, she shoved her foot on the gas, shot out of the driveway of her apartment building, promptly hit black ice, and used our back end as the buffer between her and the snow bank.
And did she ever use our back end.
Of course, I'm driving because Stephen is never awake enough to manage the hurly burly of early morning traffic.
Stephen is sitting in the passenger seat.
Em in the back.
We're talking about the roads.
And then. . . .BOOM!
I hate surprises.
I don't like the unexpected.
And there is nothing quite so unexpected as being hit in the rear by a moving vehicle powered by someone who thinks racing school buses should be an Olympic event.
Stephen IMMEDIATELY starts yelling at me to pull over.
While I IMMEDIATELY let out a string of expletives that won't be repeated here but began with "What the. . . .?!?!?!?!?"
And Em was in the back, shocked look on her face, big blue eyes dilated to the point where she looked like one of the cats when they see birds and can't get them.
I don't know why Stephen was yelling at me.
Where did he think I was going to go?
And then we got out of the car, and thus found ourselves in starring roles in early morning commuter theater for our fellow commuters.
Because icy road conditions may not be enough to slow down drivers who believe where they are going is oh so much more important than where anyone else is going . . .
. . .but the opportunity to gasp and gawk at the fate of others who were not so fortunate in their morning travels ALWAYS makes people slow down.
To assess the damage to the vehicles and thank God that it wasn't them.
Of course, this would be the morning where I'd actually remembered to charge my cell phone, and then promptly left it on the kitchen counter between the microwave and slow cooker.
Em had to call 911 and request police assistance.
I then made the next critical phone call.
To our departmental assistant asking her if she would put notices on our classroom doors that our 9.00 am classes were cancelled.
We experienced this debacle at around 8.20.
I knew the chances of us getting to class for 9.00 am were slim.
I was right.
The police arrived, and the filling out of reports, explaining the situation, assessing blame, exchanging of information started.
Out poor car.
It looks like the rear passenger side was opened with a giant can opener operated by a two year old.
No back lights.
You could actually see into the trunk.
But, the car still drove.
I took that as a good sign.
The policeman gave us permission to head on our merry ways and we made a bee line to our insurance agent.
And started the next step of our morning mishap journey.
We reiterated the entire event to the claims guy who then forwarded our info to the adjuster who would be calling us sometime in the next three hours.
Okay. My next class was at 2.30, so we were good.
Someone would be there to man the phones.
I hate the phone.
Most days my phone rarely rings.
Just the way I like it.
However, because I was actually awaiting a phone call, wanting to hear from the adjuster, the phone rang non-frickin'-stop.
And none of them were the adjuster.
By two, there was still no adjuster phone call, so I had to give up my post at the phones and let Stephen take over.
My control freak self balked at this prospect.
I was worried.
We needed a rental.
Stephen, after dropping me and Em at my office, drove over to the insurance agent sanctioned collision center.
Our car was deemed undriveable.
Something about no back lights as a safety issue, and oh, the leaking of exhaust fumes into the car from the hole into the trunk.
I would have been perfectly content to drive the car under those conditions.
But Stephen, imagine, was not.
I called the rental agency we always use.
They didn't have any cars.
But we should come by and fill out all the paperwork just to get things moving.
We arranged for as late in the day as possible hoping they would have someone return something by then.
Vehiclelessness is not a happy state to be in around here.
No luck.
No cars.
But they had vehicles.
So when I returned to my office at 5.30, Stephen met me at the elevator, his face lit up like a kid at Christmas.
Right away I knew something was up.
He informed me they still didn't have any cars.
But he had a vehicle.
And at that moment, I knew, I KNEW, exactly what kind of vehicle we were in possession of.
A pick up truck.
The light, the glint, the glee in Stephen's eyes were enough of an indicator, but I asked hoping that in my state of exhaustion that perhaps, perchance, I was misreading his oh-so-obvious delight.
No. Such. Luck.
And then he handed me the key to the Ford F-350 Super Duty Extended Cab pick up truck that would be providing us our much needed transportation.
One look at this monstrosity, and I nicknamed it The Behemoth.
Kudos to those Simpson fans out there who got the reference.
I can say without reservation that I hate driving this thing.
For me, it is simply, plainly, overwhelmingly just too big.
No one who lives in a city and doesn't do construction work or heavy duty hauling is in no need of such a vehicle.
At least in my humble opinion.
I can't even get out of the driveway without making the 10 point turn.
Backing into the driveway.
Not even.
No winter tires, either.
Somehow, I can't see Stephen and the kids pushing on this frightful mutation of vehicleness.
We had a moment of panic at Stoneybrook and Kimble.
No traction.
Me behind the wheel because Stephen refuses to drive first thing in the morning.
Advice from the peanut gallery in the front and back.
Stephen offered to take over driving after we dropped Keith off at STU.
However, I didn't welcome trying to jump the two feet down from the seat to the ground only to have to negotiate my way to the other side of the truck to have to climb up another two feet to get back into this colossal hunk of machinery.
Two feet off the ground.
I am five foot four.
The steering wheel, when I am standing on the ground, surpasses the top of my ears.
The help-you-up-handle is only useful if you can actually reach it when you're standing on the ground.
Watching me haul myself into the seat is just not pretty.
At all.
I was going to wear a skirt today.
However, I didn't think flashing the entire campus my orange striped granny panties was necessary.
I then thought about dress pants.
And tossed that out because I didn't know if I could keep them in one piece.
Jeans then, were the covering of the day.
The only other option was track pants.
And I was just not willing to stoop that low to climb that high into a truck I don't even like.
Once we pulled into the parking lot at work, when I was finally able to exit the vehicle, not at all gracefully and not without Stephen's help, I make it very clear to Stephen that under no circumstances was I driving this vehicle again.
Except for one more trip driving the kids to work later this afternoon.
Only because Stephen is in class.
I'd actually like to teach his class over having to drive this thing again.
Meaning he WILL be getting up tomorrow morning early enough to wake up in time to be able to drive this thing tomorrow morning.
I will take the bus rather than drive that gargantuan melange of metal and fibreglass.
And if there wasn't enough going on this morning, Stephen decided to have words with the guy who picked up the recycling.
He came around our corner, saw the blue recycling bags on the corner and drove past them.
Perplexing Stephen.
Who, in his pajamas, chased the recycling truck to uncover how come our recycling wasn't good enough for him.
Next thing I know, from my perch in the Behemoth, I see the recycling truck come back to our driveway and take our recycling.
Stephen climbs into the truck with a lot more grace than I did to inform me that the recycling guy, who was not our regular recycling guy, thought we had garbage mixed in with our recycling.
For a clean obsessed individual like my husband, this was just insulting.
Luckily, the fear of me behind the wheel of the Behemoth overrode his issues regarding the recycling.
Just another wonderful morning commute.
Tomorrow, the truck is going back to the rental agency.
We are picking up a car.
Or Stephen will be doing ALL of the driving until my little Ford Focus station wagon is returned.
Cause Mama doesn't drive trucks.
Title Lyric: We Rode in Trucks by Luke Bryan
February 9, 2011
On many occasions I have extolled the virtues of young people having jobs.
Especially the young people who inhabit my house.
Or the satellite bachelor apartment a 5 minute walk from my house.
However, last evening, I experienced the downside of forcing my chicks from the nest into the harsh realities of the work world.
And having a husband who teaches a night class.
Meaning last evening, after supper, while Stephen is pulling out of the driveway, heading back to campus for his class, while Keith is at work because he picked up an extra shift at my urging, while Em is in the kitchen cleaning up the supper dishes, and the dogs have their little faces pressed to the front window in the kitchen, I am outside.
At night.
Shoveling the driveway.
Alone.
Well, me and whatever was playing on my ipod at the time.
So, while singing Glee's rendition of "Fire" and Rhianna and Drake's, "What's My Name" along with several other songs I shouldn't be singing in my head let alone out loud for all the neighbours to hear, I am moving snow to the sides of the driveway and hoping that the piles don't get too much taller or I won't be able to hurl snow over them.
It's heavy, wet snow.
And because it is heavy, wet snow, I am wearing a hat.
Hats and I have a hate/hate relationship.
I have a friend who contends there is a hat out there for every head.
I agree, with one slight modification.
Every head except for mine.
My children all look lovely in a wide variety of hats.
Stephen looks special when he wears hats, but still, he can pull it off.
Me.
Not. Even. Close.
I look like I have some birth disorder not yet named to the annals of medicine.
Believe me, I've tried on every hat I've ever come across and have yet to find one that doesn't make me look challenged.
Last night, however, it was dark and snowing, so I didn't much care what I looked like, so long as it kept the top of my head from turning into a ice cap.
And not one from Tim Horton's although that would have been a welcome energy boost.
It took me an hour to clear up the day's snowfall.
And another hour for Mother Nature to scoff at my efforts and fill it all back up again.
She is just being a royal bitch lately.
I may have to have words with her.
One bitch to another.
At one point during the emptying of the driveway, I notice a shape close to the front steps, wearing my other coat.
Emily.
Who was engaging in a very life endangering activity.
Bringing the dogs out.
Which I thought was odd, because Stephen had them out before he left for his class.
I removed my earbuds to inquire as to how come she was outside, wearing my coat, with Frankie at the end of the leash.
"Poop."
I'm assuming she meant Frankie and not herself.
Em will take the dogs out if she is the only one in the house.
Or if I ask (demand) her.
But I think it's safe to say that leashing almost 200 pounds of virtually unmanageable dog to the end of leashes with the sole purpose of taking them out in a blizzard isn't top of Em's things-I-want-to-do-in-my-life list.
So I was surprised to see her.
Then she asked if she could bring Frankie over to see me.
And then I knew what was going on.
She'd had enough.
Enough of being in the house, alone with the dogs, and their CONSTANT back and forth, back and forth, back and forth from the kitchen window to the sidelight, the incessant whining, whining, whining from the two of them, and without even having the decency to whine in harmony, because I was outside shoveling the driveway and they weren't with me.
Tikka could have come out.
But ultimately, that would have been much, much worse.
Because Frankie would have stepped up the whining to barking.
Non-stop, never-ending, continuing until you want to shove a tea towel in this mouth and duct tape in there for good measure kind of non stop barking.
An intelligent person would inquire as to how come I didn't bring them out with me, knowing how much they would have enjoyed it.
Trying to shovel the driveway with Frankie and Tikka cavorting and frolicking around me would be akin to Gordon Ramsay trying to make a gourmet meal with a room full of two year olds.
I know this because I've tried to shovel with my canine companions frolicking around me.
Sort of a tv inspired image of loving dog owners and their equally adoring and obeying canine compadres outside together during a gentle snow fall, whilst shoveling and snowball throwing occurs, small children clapping their hands gleefully, and neighbours milling around with smiles on their faces.
Instead, I get a smack of reality where in the loving dog owner attempts to corral the canine companions into the yard during a blizzard of heavy, wet snow meaning there is neither time, energy nor desire to throw snowballs, small children are crying because they don't want to be outside but inside watching tv and there are no milling neighbours because they're inside, drinking hot toddys because they have freakin' snowblowers and don't have to be outside shoveling!
So when Em inquired about whether or not she should bring Frankie down the driveway to see me, I simply replied, "No."
I had more than enough to keep me busy, thank you very much.
Plus I don't think Frankie much enjoys my singing.
The lengths I have to go to for a little alone time.
Today is Wednesday, so its Intro to Crim this morning and Crime and Popular Film this afternoon.
Angels With Dirty Faces.
Far more enjoyable than shoveling snow.
Although the plow just drove by and I may have to shovel the end of the driveway to ensure we can get out.
Because cars plowing through piles of snow only works on tv.
I know.
I've tried.
I got stuck.
And why me?
Because no one else will even be remotely ready to leave the house, let alone be prepared to join me in removing the snow from the end of the driveway.
Another thing experience has taught me.
I should just be thankful they all get in the car on time.
It's the small things.
Title Lyric: Bo Hard Labour by The Counting Crows
February 8, 2011
It's only 11.56 am and it is already a banner day.
Seriously.
First, I am FINALLY able to wear the shirt Stephen's mother bought me for my birthday. . . in August. . .because I've lost enough weight to properly button it.
Meaning it fits now and it didn't then.
WooHoo!
Whether or not it actually looks any good is a wholly other issue.
One I have yet to entertain.
I can worry about that later.
Right now, I can just revel in the joy of being able to button it.
And the second reason it has been a banner day, already, is that I received 5 copies of my first published book.
Weird is the only word I can think of to describe the feeling.
And some relief.
After all the burning hoops of fire I had to jump through to get through the writing and editing and publishing process, relief is definitely being felt right now.
Although the relief does turn to nausea when I turn the book over to the author picture on the back cover.
And much like having children, no matter how painful the process is, it's something you'll do again.
That is also weird.
As yesterday was Monday and we didn't have to teach, we took the dogs for a run at the UNB Woodlot.
It hadn't been plowed, so it was a tough slog.
I enjoyed it, loved watching the dogs frolic with other dogs, watching Stephen with his 9 foot long legs breeze through the heavy, wet snow as if it weren't even there.
For him it wasn't.
For the dogs, it was just another day in paradise.
While I, as usual, am behind the three of them, with my stumpy, chubby, 2 foot long legs trudging through the snow, hair frizzy, face sweaty, legs already protesting against the oh-this-will-be-fun-won't-it mantra running through my head.
I am feeling it today.
You know that Oh-my-gawd-I-am-so-out-of-shape-and-when-did-I-get-muscles-there? feeling.
Coupled with the protesting muscles from the driveway shoveling the day before, I am hobbling around campus today.
And will probably be hobbling tomorrow, as we are, right now, in the midst of another Nor'easter, which is dumping an additional 15 cms of snow onto my driveway.
The aching muscles made themselves well known last night.
Making the late night pee parade a bit challenging.
Nothing like walking over a Tikka who absolutely refuses to move. . .
AT ALL. . .
. . .to make you realize how hard it can be to lift those sore, tired, aching muscles.
Or a Frankie, who has managed to get up on your bed while you slumber, (with the help of your husband), and who insists on sleeping against you, to make you realize how hard it can be to simply turn over in your bed.
Insists on sleeping against me.
Never against Stephen.
Never on his side of the bed.
Me.
Always me.
I'm all for being loved, but if you're in the way when I stumble to the bathroom for my late night voiding, or you prevent me from being comfortable and properly under my blankets in my own bed, I may become a tad bit crabby with you in the morning.
The Pasta e Lenticchie turned out very nicely.
Here's a link to the recipe:
http://recipes.howstuffworks.com/pasta-e-lenticchie-recipe.htm/printable
I added some cilantro, and instead of a Parmesan rind, I added Parmesan.
And I learned that I need to wait to add the Parmesan until the boiling part is over.
I didn't add all the additional olive oil, because olive oil has 120 calories per tablespoon, and I didn't think that was necessary.
It was good, though.
Really good.
Something I'll definitely make again.
And more of it, because I think it's one of those recipes that will freeze really, really well.
Title Lyric: While I Shovel the Snow by The Walkmen
February 7, 2011
Stephen has joined Simply for Life.
We are now a lifestyle changing couple.
He wants to lose about 40 pounds.
It's a little weird sharing my meeting times with Stephen, but it isn't a bad thing.
I plan on having him around for a VERY long time, therefore, I must be willing to do whatever I have to do to keep him around, healthy, here with me.
Because I hate housework.
Plus I kinda like him.
A lot.
Keeping him around is my primary objective.
Yesterday was about cleaning the driveway.
It was supposed to be about visiting my brother, but the snowstorm put that option on the backburner.
Needing to see Jerry on a weekly basis, if not more often, is as important to me as eating and breathing.
So I wasn't very pleased that I couldn't get out there.
Today is about feeling the pain that resulted from cleaning the driveway.
The back deck.
The front step.
The garbage dolly path.
Pookie's pot path.
No path to underneath the back deck means smoking on the front step.
I am open minded.
Obviously.
But not THAT open minded.
Neither are my neighbours.
And I like most of my neighbours, so upsetting them isn't on the agenda.
Before the shoveling was the fueling of the body for shoveling.
Victory had fresh turkeys on sale for 1.89 a pound.
So, at 8.30 am, I put this gorgeous, 12 pound turkey in the oven, along with sweet potatoes and white potatoes.
By noon, the house was infused with the smells of roasted turkey.
Heavenly.
Absolutely heavenly.
To accompany this turkey, I had turnip, carrots and cauliflower.
A feast for bodies that would spend the afternoon moving heavy, wet, packed snow.
Keith was with us, but Em, who has been home for the last few days, sick, stayed inside to manage the kitchen cleanup, post turkey dinner.
I wouldn't be so cruel as to take her outside to shovel the driveway.
But I wasn't adverse to her cleaning up the kitchen, containing the leftovers, loading the dishwasher.
Because there was no way I was going to clean the kitchen after shoveling the driveway.
Today is about marking the papers I haven't finished marking.
Taking the dogs for a walk.
Going to the UNB Bookstore.
Trying to infuse some normality into my day.
And making dinner. . .a recipe I saw last week from the Kitchen Boss.
The Cake Boss cooking things that are not cakes.
But still look really, really good.
Pasta e Lenticchie.
I'll let you know how it turns out.
And how many modifications I have to make to keep it healthy.
Hopefully very few.
I am so excited! I love cooking new things!
Enjoy the small things.
Because sometimes that's all there is.
Title Lyric: From Small Things (Big Things One Day Come) by Bruce Springsteen
February 6, 2011
My plan of attack for yesterday was to remain as busy as possible.
Busy makes the time pass, and prevents me from thinking too much.
It worked.
First order of business was to take Tikka to the vet.
Her ears are driving her crazy, they're so itchy, and the red color inside of them was making me nervous.
So off we went.
Sans Frankie.
We debated about taking him.
Stephen wanted him to come along because he doesn't appreciate being left without Tikka.
I wanted him home because taking Frankie to the vet when he doesn't have to go is cruel for him.
And us.
He doesn't like it there.
And he makes sure everyone knows he doesn't like it there.
I won.
He stayed home with Em.
Tikka came with us.
Stephen agonized the entire time we were gone.
And don't think I didn't care that my Frankie doodle was upset.
Laying on the mat in front of the front door, staring out the window, waiting for us to bring Tikka back.
I did care.
He's been separated from Tikka maybe three times in the almost two years we've had him.
But I still content keeping him in his house, with his Em, was the best choice.
The vet verdict.
Sarcoptic mange is attempting to make a comeback.
Thanks for the offer, but I think we'll decline.
We're still traumatized from the last visit.
Luckily, we caught it early.
Confined to her ears only.
Much easier to treat.
And she needed her vaccinations, so we got that over with, too.
Tikka loves the vet.
Or at least she loves going in the car to see people she knows will ohhhh and ahhhh over her.
What they do to her while she's there is another issue entirely.
After the vet and the vet bill, we decided to stop at the U Wash Dog Wash http://www.uwashdogwash.com/ because we were almost out of the biodegradable poop bags that have become a staple of clean household living.
One for the car.
One for the front hallway.
One for the basement.
The basement you ask?
Goblet.
And her absolute abject refusal to poop in the litter box.
Running out of these bags is akin to running out of milk around here.
Which I why I always purchase a minimum of 3 rolls, 120 bags per roll, whenever we're there.
And, since we were there, with Tikka, together, no Frankie, it seemed to me a perfect opportunity to give Tikka something else she desperately needed.
A bath.
Tikka is a Tervuran Belgian shepherd.
Which is a fancy name for dog-with-long-hair-who-sheds-constantly-and-gets-knots-in-all-the-wrong-places.
She should be bathed once every two months.
We don't quite manage that, but at least we get her there, eventually.
For $20.00, U Wash Dog Wash provides the facilities, the shampoos, brushes, knot removers, toenail clippers, vacuum like doggie dryers. . .
SO much easier than trying to bath her at home.
It's a minimum two hour job to bathe her properly.
Stephen was informed of this prior to beginning, as he can, sometimes, become impatient.
Starting with the 45 minute brushing regiment.
The goal: remove as much hair as possible.
And because there is so much of it, there's no fear she'll come out of her forced grooming bald.
The soaking.
Again, a daunting task, as you have to get at her undercoat.
The shampooing.
Two different types: the oatmeal for her dry skin and the coconut-smelling one for shedding.
The rinsing.
The drying.
The brushing.
Stephen more interested in cleaning the tub area and putting things away before I'm finished with them.
Locating Tikka's knots are a bit like a game of Where's Waldo.
Some are much harder to locate than others.
Meaning that I may not find one until we're in the after-shampoo rinsing phase of our operation.
Reaching for the scissors that weren't there, I found myself saying more than once, while up to my eyeballs in shampoo, water and wet, unhappy dog, "where are the scissors?" only to be told they'd been put away but hold on to my pantiloons, he'd go get them.
But the time and effort were worth it.
Tikka looks so good after a good bath and brush.
So pretty.
Smells so good.
Although I expect she was wondering what in God's name she'd done that was so bad she had to have needles and a bath in the same day.
After vet and bath, we returned home long enough to refuel while waiting for Em to shower before heading to the grocery store.
I had my day well planned.
Minute to minute.
And then the sort-of-but-really-why-didn't-I-expect-it unexpected.
A phone call from Meredyth detailing her latest crisis and what I had to do to get her sorted out.
This put me in a foul mood.
For, as with most of Mer's crises, everything could have been avoided with common sense, responsibility and the realization that Meredyth-Party-Fun-Time is not a life aspiration.
But that is taking far longer for Mer to realize.
And I'm left wondering how many more dealing with Mer crises I have left in me.
I know Stephen is running on empty.
But we managed to get groceries, get me to the nursing home and sort out the latest Mer crisis.
And all before the snow storm arrived.
I was supposed to go to Jerry's today.
But with 30 cms of snow, that is not possible.
I wanted to see him, too.
Needed to see him, actually.
I will be okay. I'll get through this, work through my grief and my disappointment in myself.
Writing is how I do that. . . getting it out of me and on paper, so to speak.
I will be fine.
No worries.
Just have to do it my way.
A way that doesn't include peanut butter macaroons or brandy.
Because neither is really helping me in the long run.
Title Lyric: Dirty Dog by Switchblade Symphony
