April 22, 2011
My 200th entry!
When I started this I had no idea I'd have so much to say!
Okay, maybe that's not all that true, but still. . . .200 entries.
Last night Keith, Em, Stephen and I saw Rio.
Some laughs, but overall, I was disappointed.
Kids will love it, absolutely.
The evil bird is definitely evil.
Stereotypes abound regarding anyone who isn't lily white as criminal.
Even harsh facial features.
Still. . . .
We didn't pay for it, spent time with 2/3 of our children, so as far as I'm concerned it was a good night.
In addition, I spent time with the other 1/3 of our children.
Meredyth and I made a coffee date and even managed to keep it.
A feat for both of us as usually, something comes up for one of us.
But not this time.
We had a lovely time together for an hour before she had to go to work.
I had my Starbucks grande mild.
She had her KFC crunchy chicken something with fries.
I may have nibbled a couple of fries.
But that was all.
Definitely something I will be doing again, regularly.
And then an odd thing happened.
A Thursday.
Suppertime.
I had the car.
Another odd thing.
Usually I am dropped off where ever I have to go and Stephen has the car.
And, there was no reason to rush home for supper because someone had to go somewhere, or be picked up, or there was something I had to do, or somewhere I had to be, or work that had to be started because someone was waiting for it today.
Celebrate the odd things.
So I just wandered around the mall.
Ran into people.
Sat down with my coffee and had a conversation with someone who hadn't come looking for me to help them with a paper, answer a question about an exam, or deal with life crises.
For a brief period, I felt almost normal.
At the same time, there was still the niggling feeling in the back of my brain, the invisible hook between me and home gently tugging at me, suggesting that at this time of day, during this day of the week, I really should be home, setting the table and ladling out the homemade beef barely soup I prepared that morning and allowed to simmer all day long in the crock pot.
Eventually, I had to give in to the gentle tugging.
About 45 minutes.
I thought, given the unusual circumstances, the unanticipated unscheduled time, I thought I did very well.
Thinking that Stephen and the kids would be wondering where I was.
How come I was taking so long.
What I was up to.
I went back to the car and immediately called home.
Stephen answered.
And didn't seem the least bit concerned about where I was or what I was doing.
Come home when you're ready. Everything is fine here.
Leaving me to conclude that the invisible hook is a figment of my imagination.
I need to get out more.
A lot more.
Easter weekend.
Good Friday and Easter Monday, along with Remembrance Day and Boxing Day are the four days a year when nothing is open, no one needs anything and I don't have to be anywhere or do anything I choose not to do.
Another odd thing.
I don't have to go to work, I don't feel obligated to go to work.
Nothing is open so I don't have to do anything responsible, like grocery shopping, bill paying.
If there was any dirty laundry, I could hang it out, should I choose to.
I could do yoga all day if I wanted.
I love these days.
I wish there were more.
Sunday is a different story.
Family dinner.
Although, I think that this one will be a bit more peaceful.
We are providing the venue, a salad, some other veggies. . . .
Everyone else is bringing something. . .food, good conversation, family well being. . .
Who couldn't enjoy that?
I'm looking forward to a nice, relaxing long weekend.
Only four honours theses to read.
Two piles of papers to mark.
Two stacks of exams.
And yet, not feeling worried about it.
Just looking forward to the sunshine, the peace, the quiet, and the opportunity to do what I want to do. . .
. . .and not what I have to do.
Title Lyric: Do What You Want by OK GO
Friday, April 22, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Through these sleepless nights. . . .
April 20, 2011
This afternoon, I did the unthinkable.
I left work around 1.30.
The honours thesis was hand delivered to the second reader.
My duties as second reader on another thesis were completed.
I may be a second reader for yet another thesis, however, I haven't seen it yet so I'm assuming I'm not.
With nothing I needed to do in my office I came home.
I can mark anywhere.
And do I ever have marking.
Being away from the office means I don't have to stare at the huge pile.
Just the smaller pile.
The one that deluded me into thinking I can get all of this done on time.
Alas, marking hasn't been that forthcoming.
When I walked through the door to the loving welcome of my gleefully excited puppies, put down all my bags and sundry items, and basked in that canine love, I realized I was utterly, unquestionably, without a doubt exhausted.
In spite of two nights of rigorous yoga.
Extensive reading and editing.
Dealing with the usual traumas that have come to signify the reality of my everyday life.
Exhausted.
Oh, and last evening was a bit of a shit show in terms of sleeping.
I couldn't sleep.
Things on my mind weren't gracefully melting into the back of my consciousness.
And Stephen's snoring was more than obnoxious.
A LOT more than. . . .
Perhaps I only notice Stephen's snoring when I can't sleep because my brain is full to overflowing with things that won't leave me alone.
Ergo blaming it on Stephen's snoring is just more convenient.
Not withstanding the reasons for my bout of sleeplessness, I still had to contend with the snoring from hell.
As usual, I started with a gentle poke to the shoulder, asking him to roll over onto his stomach.
No response.
As usual.
I did that a couple more times and then resorted to something a little more aggressive.
A definitely less-than-gentle-I-am-not-f***ing-around shove.
THAT got me a response.
Although not the one I intended.
Stephen, roll over.
NO!
I was a bit surprised by his vehemence, however, surprise did not negate my intense, burning desire for a bedroom that didn't sound like the inside of a factory.
And one NO! isn't nearly enough to deter me from my quest.
Neither did several more NOs!
Leaving me no course than to take more aggressive measures.
Like shoves.
Which resulted in a very, very strange occurrence.
A spiel of gibberish I can neither replicate here, nor am I certain I would want to.
Weird, though.
Very weird.
Weirder than when he speaks Ukrainian at me.
Which happens more often than it should, given that I can't understand a word he's saying to me.
When I asked him this afternoon what the gibberish meant, he said all he could remember was that he was dreaming of being on the Great Wall of China.
Pushed off the Great Wall of China next time he keeps me up with his noxious snoring.
And this wasn't the first Stephen-weird incident of the day.
Earlier in the evening, he was driving me to my Tuesday yoga class.
Dogs in the back of the car because immediately after dropping me off, he was taking them to the farm for a run.
One they most desperately needed.
We had just turned from Wetmore to Kimble when a crabby Stephen. . .
. . .crabby because the dogs were so excited they were barking at anything as we drove down the street. . .blowing leaves, pedestrians, other dogs, things we couldn't even see I suspect. . .
meaning that Stephen's nerves were shattered before we were in the car for five minutes.
In a state of shattered nerves, Stephen asked me to reach into the glove box and retrieve his sunglasses.
Something I would have been happy to do had they not already been on his face.
Snugly nestled on the bridge of his nose.
Already providing ample relief from the blinding close to six pm sunshine.
I needed a laugh.
I really did.
An honest to goodness deep down in the belly laugh. . .ones where you're gasping for air.
And you have to take them when they come along.
Cause your never sure when the next one will make an appearance.
And what the hell is 4 20 anyway???
And how come my son is so excited about it?
Title Lyric: Sleepless Nights by Norah Jones
This afternoon, I did the unthinkable.
I left work around 1.30.
The honours thesis was hand delivered to the second reader.
My duties as second reader on another thesis were completed.
I may be a second reader for yet another thesis, however, I haven't seen it yet so I'm assuming I'm not.
With nothing I needed to do in my office I came home.
I can mark anywhere.
And do I ever have marking.
Being away from the office means I don't have to stare at the huge pile.
Just the smaller pile.
The one that deluded me into thinking I can get all of this done on time.
Alas, marking hasn't been that forthcoming.
When I walked through the door to the loving welcome of my gleefully excited puppies, put down all my bags and sundry items, and basked in that canine love, I realized I was utterly, unquestionably, without a doubt exhausted.
In spite of two nights of rigorous yoga.
Extensive reading and editing.
Dealing with the usual traumas that have come to signify the reality of my everyday life.
Exhausted.
Oh, and last evening was a bit of a shit show in terms of sleeping.
I couldn't sleep.
Things on my mind weren't gracefully melting into the back of my consciousness.
And Stephen's snoring was more than obnoxious.
A LOT more than. . . .
Perhaps I only notice Stephen's snoring when I can't sleep because my brain is full to overflowing with things that won't leave me alone.
Ergo blaming it on Stephen's snoring is just more convenient.
Not withstanding the reasons for my bout of sleeplessness, I still had to contend with the snoring from hell.
As usual, I started with a gentle poke to the shoulder, asking him to roll over onto his stomach.
No response.
As usual.
I did that a couple more times and then resorted to something a little more aggressive.
A definitely less-than-gentle-I-am-not-f***ing-around shove.
THAT got me a response.
Although not the one I intended.
Stephen, roll over.
NO!
I was a bit surprised by his vehemence, however, surprise did not negate my intense, burning desire for a bedroom that didn't sound like the inside of a factory.
And one NO! isn't nearly enough to deter me from my quest.
Neither did several more NOs!
Leaving me no course than to take more aggressive measures.
Like shoves.
Which resulted in a very, very strange occurrence.
A spiel of gibberish I can neither replicate here, nor am I certain I would want to.
Weird, though.
Very weird.
Weirder than when he speaks Ukrainian at me.
Which happens more often than it should, given that I can't understand a word he's saying to me.
When I asked him this afternoon what the gibberish meant, he said all he could remember was that he was dreaming of being on the Great Wall of China.
Pushed off the Great Wall of China next time he keeps me up with his noxious snoring.
And this wasn't the first Stephen-weird incident of the day.
Earlier in the evening, he was driving me to my Tuesday yoga class.
Dogs in the back of the car because immediately after dropping me off, he was taking them to the farm for a run.
One they most desperately needed.
We had just turned from Wetmore to Kimble when a crabby Stephen. . .
. . .crabby because the dogs were so excited they were barking at anything as we drove down the street. . .blowing leaves, pedestrians, other dogs, things we couldn't even see I suspect. . .
meaning that Stephen's nerves were shattered before we were in the car for five minutes.
In a state of shattered nerves, Stephen asked me to reach into the glove box and retrieve his sunglasses.
Something I would have been happy to do had they not already been on his face.
Snugly nestled on the bridge of his nose.
Already providing ample relief from the blinding close to six pm sunshine.
I needed a laugh.
I really did.
An honest to goodness deep down in the belly laugh. . .ones where you're gasping for air.
And you have to take them when they come along.
Cause your never sure when the next one will make an appearance.
And what the hell is 4 20 anyway???
And how come my son is so excited about it?
Title Lyric: Sleepless Nights by Norah Jones
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
My first car was an old rust bucket. . .
April 19, 2011
I'd wish for the end of this term to come at the speed of sound, however, the beginning of May brings Intersession.
Which may or may not be any more relaxing that what I'm experiencing right now.
Weeks of getting up at 5.00 am to get Emily up to be on time for school at 8.15 am, to read paper drafts, theses drafts, develop exams, in addition to book launches, birthday parties -- surprise or otherwise, family dinners, has left me more tired than almost any other time in my life.
At least that what it feels like right now.
I am certain there are times when all the kids were sick at the same time, and I was teaching full time while working on the final draft of my dissertation that I was tired.
I just don't remember them right now because they aren't as present as the tired I'm experiencing right now.
Not that I haven't tried to find some time for myself before collapsing into bed at 9.00 pm.
Stephen and I started a yoga class yesterday.
5.15 to 6.45 pm, above a bike store.
My Tuesday yoga class is coming to an end next week, thus leaving me yoga-less unless I found another class.
So I did.
And made Stephen come with me.
Because if anyone needs yoga, it's Stephen.
And anyone who thinks that yoga isn't a full workout, doesn't make you sweat and stretch your muscles to the point where you feel something is going to snap, you haven't tried yoga.
You should.
There is, really, no downside to yoga.
Except. . .
For some reason, yoga releases things in me that should not be released in mixed company.
Or any company for that matter, but doing it in front of family doesn't count.
Farting.
Yoga makes me fart.
Instead of focusing on poses, where my feet should or shouldn't be and if I have my shoulders underneath me. . .
I am clenching my gluteus maximus together with an intensity that would impress my yoga teacher if she knew what I was doing.
I wasn't so lucky tonight.
We tried a new pose.
One where we lie on our side, roll over onto our backs and stretch our legs up against the wall.
In the process of rolling and stretching I farted.
Not a gentle "pooooofffff" kind of fart.
But an obnoxiously loud ppppppppppplllllllllllllppppprrrrrrrrrrttttttpppppppppppttttttttttttrrrrrlllllllllllrrrrrrrrtttttttt
kind of fart.
In a room with acoustics that would make the Met Opera House jealous.
No one acknowledged that they heard it.
But unless they were deaf, had cotton shoved into every orifice of their ears and could feel no vibrations whatsoever in any part of their body, they heard it.
Loud and clear.
And I just laid on the floor, feet against the wall, face redder than the shirt I was wearing pretending it wasn't me who just released a cloud of potentially lethal methane into the serene yoga atmosphere.
Figures.
When you need a dog, there are none to be found.
Em had a big day yesterday.
She got her first car.
Not that she has a licence to operate this car, but that isn't the issue right now.
She has a car.
Given to her by my brother, who purchased a new-to-him vehicle.
The car, in 2000, was my mother's.
My brother and his wife bought it when it was clear my mother's driving days had come to an end.
This is the same car Em used to sit in, driven by my mother, Em in the front seat wearing my mother's cats eyes sunglasses.
With my mother reminding her not to fall asleep.
She'd always fall asleep.
And now, it's her car.
Time goes by far, far too quickly.
A fact I am reminded of each and every day I look at my children.
I've never seen Em so happy or ecstatic.
Ever.
Except maybe when she's been away from Reilley for an extended period of time.
The car?
A 2000 Hyundai Elantra.
It's even the color in the picture.
It does need some work.
Okay, more than a little work.
But, the benefit of not being able to drive it right now is that she'll have the time to work and save money for the repairs.
And I'll have time to get used to Em having a car.
That'll take a lot of time.
My first car was a 1983 Toyota Tercel.
The red one.
I still miss that car.
The giving of the car hasn't happened without some discontent.
Mer-discontent.
Of course.
I expected nothing less.
Mer who forgets that grandma spent the equivalent of a luxury car on her when she lived in Ontario.
Enough said.
Title Lyric: My First Car by Jason Blaine
I'd wish for the end of this term to come at the speed of sound, however, the beginning of May brings Intersession.
Which may or may not be any more relaxing that what I'm experiencing right now.
Weeks of getting up at 5.00 am to get Emily up to be on time for school at 8.15 am, to read paper drafts, theses drafts, develop exams, in addition to book launches, birthday parties -- surprise or otherwise, family dinners, has left me more tired than almost any other time in my life.
At least that what it feels like right now.
I am certain there are times when all the kids were sick at the same time, and I was teaching full time while working on the final draft of my dissertation that I was tired.
I just don't remember them right now because they aren't as present as the tired I'm experiencing right now.
Not that I haven't tried to find some time for myself before collapsing into bed at 9.00 pm.
Stephen and I started a yoga class yesterday.
5.15 to 6.45 pm, above a bike store.
My Tuesday yoga class is coming to an end next week, thus leaving me yoga-less unless I found another class.
So I did.
And made Stephen come with me.
Because if anyone needs yoga, it's Stephen.
And anyone who thinks that yoga isn't a full workout, doesn't make you sweat and stretch your muscles to the point where you feel something is going to snap, you haven't tried yoga.
You should.
There is, really, no downside to yoga.
Except. . .
For some reason, yoga releases things in me that should not be released in mixed company.
Or any company for that matter, but doing it in front of family doesn't count.
Farting.
Yoga makes me fart.
Instead of focusing on poses, where my feet should or shouldn't be and if I have my shoulders underneath me. . .
I am clenching my gluteus maximus together with an intensity that would impress my yoga teacher if she knew what I was doing.
I wasn't so lucky tonight.
We tried a new pose.
One where we lie on our side, roll over onto our backs and stretch our legs up against the wall.
In the process of rolling and stretching I farted.
Not a gentle "pooooofffff" kind of fart.
But an obnoxiously loud ppppppppppplllllllllllllppppprrrrrrrrrrttttttpppppppppppttttttttttttrrrrrlllllllllllrrrrrrrrtttttttt
kind of fart.
In a room with acoustics that would make the Met Opera House jealous.
No one acknowledged that they heard it.
But unless they were deaf, had cotton shoved into every orifice of their ears and could feel no vibrations whatsoever in any part of their body, they heard it.
Loud and clear.
And I just laid on the floor, feet against the wall, face redder than the shirt I was wearing pretending it wasn't me who just released a cloud of potentially lethal methane into the serene yoga atmosphere.
Figures.
When you need a dog, there are none to be found.
Em had a big day yesterday.
She got her first car.
Not that she has a licence to operate this car, but that isn't the issue right now.
She has a car.
Given to her by my brother, who purchased a new-to-him vehicle.
The car, in 2000, was my mother's.
My brother and his wife bought it when it was clear my mother's driving days had come to an end.
This is the same car Em used to sit in, driven by my mother, Em in the front seat wearing my mother's cats eyes sunglasses.
With my mother reminding her not to fall asleep.
She'd always fall asleep.
And now, it's her car.
Time goes by far, far too quickly.
A fact I am reminded of each and every day I look at my children.
I've never seen Em so happy or ecstatic.
Ever.
Except maybe when she's been away from Reilley for an extended period of time.
The car?
A 2000 Hyundai Elantra.
It's even the color in the picture.
It does need some work.
Okay, more than a little work.
But, the benefit of not being able to drive it right now is that she'll have the time to work and save money for the repairs.
And I'll have time to get used to Em having a car.
That'll take a lot of time.
My first car was a 1983 Toyota Tercel.
The red one.
I still miss that car.
The giving of the car hasn't happened without some discontent.
Mer-discontent.
Of course.
I expected nothing less.
Mer who forgets that grandma spent the equivalent of a luxury car on her when she lived in Ontario.
Enough said.
Title Lyric: My First Car by Jason Blaine
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Inky, blinky, electronics. . .better living through electronics. . .gotta lotta electronics. . .
April 17, 2011
Dad's birthday dinner was very nice.
Not that there weren't issues.
It's my family.
Issues are as expected as inappropriate quips and Em asking for dessert.
But they were not the result of Dad.
Meredyth.
The source of malcontent.
Luckily, she was at the opposite end of the table from me.
She was not herself.
Or she was.
In which case I am more scared and more concerned than ever.
My brother bought Dad an Acer laptop for his birthday.
He asked me if I would purchase a router.
Sure, I said.
What's a router?
Look up technologically challenged in the dictionary, and you'll see my picture.
Keith often has to say things like,
MUM! Step away from the remote!
Or, MUM! You don't have to touch the X-Box. Just tell me what you're trying to do!
So telling me to just go into Rogers and ask them what they would recommend was a bit of a gamble.
Definitely moving me out of my comfort zone.
But, I did go in, knowing to some extent what the experience was going to be like before even starting.
Stephen and Mer in tow.
Because neither was willing to just wait in the car.
I approach three young men, all wearing the uniform of a Roger's employee, all looking suitably bored as there were no customers demanding that they at least look as if they're thrilled to be working a minimum wage job serving people who no nothing about electronics, cable or the internet.
Pretty much sums me up.
I asked for a router.
At first they looked at me like I was nuts.
Who doesn't know what a router is?
Then they suggested I upgrade his modem for a nominal monthly fee.
No thanks.
I have enough bills to pay.
And I am certain that Dad wouldn't be thrilled to know I made additions to his monthly bill for his birthday present.
They suggested Future Shop.
I cringed.
Never have I ever gone into Future Shop and purchased anything without some sort of problem.
Which usually manifests itself AFTER I get what I bought home.
But it seemed as if Future Shop was the route I was going to have to take.
Thankfully, my brother prepared me for this potential step in the process.
You may have to go to Future Shop or The Source.
As we were leaving Rogers, I heard one of the three males with whom I had been conversing, lazing in their seats, "working", mumble,
I would have just upgraded the modem.
I stopped.
Turned around.
Looked him square in the eye and said,
Me, too. But it isn't me. And it isn't you. It's my Dad. And I'm not adding anything to his bill for his birthday. Doesn't seem very nice, does it?
And walked out.
Thankfully, the Future Shop employee who helped us. . . .
. . .an experience made much nice as he had a lovely Scottish accent. . . .
knew what I was looking for.
And even where they were located.
Good thing because I had NO idea where to even begin.
I actually despise going into electronic stores.
As soon as I walk in I feel as if I've entered an alternative universe.
Plus they're SO loud.
TVs on different channels, music booming from unseen places, some middle aged man playing an electric guitar hooked up to a computer. . .
Plus,
I never know where to look for what I am supposed to be getting.
Coupled with the fact that I never know what I am actually getting.
Keith asked for an ipod dock one Christmas, and I was convinced it was some sort of gag to make me look like more of an arse in The Source than I do most of the other times I've had to go in there.
Em was with me and assured me that such a thing existed.
Otherwise, I would have never even asked.
Digital tape recorders?
I think not.
I want an actual tape in an actual machine.
Call me old fashioned, but I am having a hard enough time with my fancy normal tape recorder, let alone something that doesn't need a tape.
My brother asks me if I've connected Netflix to Keith's X-Box 360.
No, I reply.
It's so easy! he says.
I ask Keith.
Well, you'll need this cord and this plug in and this wire and this doodad, and this has to be added to the X-box and it'll cost about $100.00.
Easy.
Sure.
I'll just buy a new dvd player thank you very much.
Fate must have smiled upon me because I was actually able to get the router without any difficulty.
Mainly because I made it very clear that I was there not of my own volition, but because I had been asked to, and then explained the circumstances under which I found myself purchasing a router.
I don't care if he needed to know or not.
I needed him to know.
Culpability.
I wish to avoid it.
Because, in typical Dawne fashion, we left all of this to the last minute, I had to go to Dollarama for gift bags.
I don't mind Dollarama.
Because I usually don't go on Saturday.
And I always go for specific things.
Just because something only costs a dollar doesn't mean it should be purchased for a dollar.
Case in point:
Stephen once bought underwear at the Dollarama.
Don't ask me why.
He still hasn't told me.
And I'm not sure I want to know.
No bag, no tags, nothing.
Just picked it from a pile.
I made him throw it out.
Call me an underwear snob.
I don't care.
Like peanut butter and cheez whiz, somethings shouldn't be compromised.
I anticipated a quick in and out, gift bags in hand before I had to pick up my mother.
Anticipation is a nasty bitch.
The place was FULL.
Packed.
People lined up in the aisles.
Of course, because we were in a hurry, there was a woman two people ahead of us with a pile of stuff.
One item in particular struck me as kind of odd, but who am I to judge?
Fake black hair attached to comb-like thingies, whose purpose I ascertained must be to affix said fake hair to someone's head.
One of the combs was broken.
The woman purchasing this item wanted to know if she could get a discount.
The cashier said,
We don't give discounts.
The woman then proceeded to ask the cashier behind her.
Apparently thinking the first cashier was lying to her.
The second cashier looked at this woman wanting to purchase the fake hair affixed to the broken combs and said plainly, bluntly, without any pretense,
We don't do discounts. This is a dollar store. Buy them or leave them.
I liked it.
Clear. Concise. To the point.
And she wasn't rude.
But she wasn't fooling around when the store was packed, people were lining up in the aisles and there is one woman who wants to purchase fake hair?
She bought them.
What I wanted to know was what middle aged woman with short hair was going to do with two combs holding fake black hair.
That seemed to me to be the more interesting question.
After the trauma of Rogers and the Future Shop, the irritation of the Dollarama, I needed the comfort of the real world.
Okay, my real world.
I had one more purchase to make for my dad's birthday.
A book.
Jean Auel's The Land of Painted Caves.
Meaning I had to go to Chapters.
Which restored me.
I no longer felt unbalanced.
It wasn't so much being in Chapters per se, as being surrounded by books.
A restorative on so many levels.
Some of which involve the bathroom and the impact being around books has on my bodily functions.
I'll save that one for later.
Picking up Mum from the nursing home was its own set of trauma.
She likes going out.
But she does not like the change in her routine.
The entire time we're gone she worries about what time we'll get back.
Thinking that if we aren't there by the time the meds are dispensed, they will withhold her medication.
We arrive and she wants to know if she needs to wear her winter coat.
Mum's winter coat is two sizes to big for her, but she wanted it that way in case she needed to put on extra layers underneath.
Getting her into the car with this coat on is a huge challenge, because she can't tell if she's actually on the seat, as the coat is so padded it prevents her from knowing where her parts are.
Sitting in the car is also a challenge.
The coat is so big that once we do manage to get her in there, and secure the seat belt around all of her coat, the coat actually surrounds her head like a nun's wimple.
Her head sits more where her shoulders should be.
So, I made an executive decision and decided we would leave the coat in the closet.
A decision that spurned her to remark she needed a new spring coat.
Which caused me to reply that was no problem, and I would take her to Penningtons to get one.
Because I am no schlepping back and forth between the store and the nursing home a hundred times to ensure she get the right coat that's the right size and the right color.
Been there before.
Not willing to go again.
Of course, the second we get her outside the wind gusts and she gives me a look that says,
I should have worn my coat.
Once in the car, I put on the seat warmer, Stephen turned the heat to 3 and off we went.
From the back seat, I could see sweat forming on Stephen's upper lip from the blasting heat in the front of the car.
And Mum announces that she's just starting to warm up.
This is the woman who, just below her thermostat in her room, has a sign that says,
Meaning, winter, summer, spring or fall, her thermometer is at it's highest setting.
30 degrees Celcius.
Some nights I come out there ten pounds lighter than when I went in.
And we wonder about the causes of global warming.
Title Lyric: I Do Better Electronics by Sad Little Stars
Dad's birthday dinner was very nice.
Not that there weren't issues.
It's my family.
Issues are as expected as inappropriate quips and Em asking for dessert.
But they were not the result of Dad.
Meredyth.
The source of malcontent.
Luckily, she was at the opposite end of the table from me.
She was not herself.
Or she was.
In which case I am more scared and more concerned than ever.
My brother bought Dad an Acer laptop for his birthday.
He asked me if I would purchase a router.
Sure, I said.
What's a router?
Look up technologically challenged in the dictionary, and you'll see my picture.
Keith often has to say things like,
MUM! Step away from the remote!
Or, MUM! You don't have to touch the X-Box. Just tell me what you're trying to do!
So telling me to just go into Rogers and ask them what they would recommend was a bit of a gamble.
Definitely moving me out of my comfort zone.
But, I did go in, knowing to some extent what the experience was going to be like before even starting.
Stephen and Mer in tow.
Because neither was willing to just wait in the car.
I approach three young men, all wearing the uniform of a Roger's employee, all looking suitably bored as there were no customers demanding that they at least look as if they're thrilled to be working a minimum wage job serving people who no nothing about electronics, cable or the internet.
Pretty much sums me up.
I asked for a router.
At first they looked at me like I was nuts.
Who doesn't know what a router is?
Then they suggested I upgrade his modem for a nominal monthly fee.
No thanks.
I have enough bills to pay.
And I am certain that Dad wouldn't be thrilled to know I made additions to his monthly bill for his birthday present.
They suggested Future Shop.
I cringed.
Never have I ever gone into Future Shop and purchased anything without some sort of problem.
Which usually manifests itself AFTER I get what I bought home.
But it seemed as if Future Shop was the route I was going to have to take.
Thankfully, my brother prepared me for this potential step in the process.
You may have to go to Future Shop or The Source.
As we were leaving Rogers, I heard one of the three males with whom I had been conversing, lazing in their seats, "working", mumble,
I would have just upgraded the modem.
I stopped.
Turned around.
Looked him square in the eye and said,
Me, too. But it isn't me. And it isn't you. It's my Dad. And I'm not adding anything to his bill for his birthday. Doesn't seem very nice, does it?
And walked out.
Thankfully, the Future Shop employee who helped us. . . .
. . .an experience made much nice as he had a lovely Scottish accent. . . .
knew what I was looking for.
And even where they were located.
Good thing because I had NO idea where to even begin.
I actually despise going into electronic stores.
As soon as I walk in I feel as if I've entered an alternative universe.
Plus they're SO loud.
TVs on different channels, music booming from unseen places, some middle aged man playing an electric guitar hooked up to a computer. . .
Plus,
I never know where to look for what I am supposed to be getting.
Coupled with the fact that I never know what I am actually getting.
Keith asked for an ipod dock one Christmas, and I was convinced it was some sort of gag to make me look like more of an arse in The Source than I do most of the other times I've had to go in there.
Em was with me and assured me that such a thing existed.
Otherwise, I would have never even asked.
Digital tape recorders?
I think not.
I want an actual tape in an actual machine.
Call me old fashioned, but I am having a hard enough time with my fancy normal tape recorder, let alone something that doesn't need a tape.
My brother asks me if I've connected Netflix to Keith's X-Box 360.
No, I reply.
It's so easy! he says.
I ask Keith.
Well, you'll need this cord and this plug in and this wire and this doodad, and this has to be added to the X-box and it'll cost about $100.00.
Easy.
Sure.
I'll just buy a new dvd player thank you very much.
Fate must have smiled upon me because I was actually able to get the router without any difficulty.
Mainly because I made it very clear that I was there not of my own volition, but because I had been asked to, and then explained the circumstances under which I found myself purchasing a router.
I don't care if he needed to know or not.
I needed him to know.
Culpability.
I wish to avoid it.
Because, in typical Dawne fashion, we left all of this to the last minute, I had to go to Dollarama for gift bags.
I don't mind Dollarama.
Because I usually don't go on Saturday.
And I always go for specific things.
Just because something only costs a dollar doesn't mean it should be purchased for a dollar.
Case in point:
Stephen once bought underwear at the Dollarama.
Don't ask me why.
He still hasn't told me.
And I'm not sure I want to know.
No bag, no tags, nothing.
Just picked it from a pile.
I made him throw it out.
Call me an underwear snob.
I don't care.
Like peanut butter and cheez whiz, somethings shouldn't be compromised.
I anticipated a quick in and out, gift bags in hand before I had to pick up my mother.
Anticipation is a nasty bitch.
The place was FULL.
Packed.
People lined up in the aisles.
Of course, because we were in a hurry, there was a woman two people ahead of us with a pile of stuff.
One item in particular struck me as kind of odd, but who am I to judge?
Fake black hair attached to comb-like thingies, whose purpose I ascertained must be to affix said fake hair to someone's head.
One of the combs was broken.
The woman purchasing this item wanted to know if she could get a discount.
The cashier said,
We don't give discounts.
The woman then proceeded to ask the cashier behind her.
Apparently thinking the first cashier was lying to her.
The second cashier looked at this woman wanting to purchase the fake hair affixed to the broken combs and said plainly, bluntly, without any pretense,
We don't do discounts. This is a dollar store. Buy them or leave them.
I liked it.
Clear. Concise. To the point.
And she wasn't rude.
But she wasn't fooling around when the store was packed, people were lining up in the aisles and there is one woman who wants to purchase fake hair?
She bought them.
What I wanted to know was what middle aged woman with short hair was going to do with two combs holding fake black hair.
That seemed to me to be the more interesting question.
After the trauma of Rogers and the Future Shop, the irritation of the Dollarama, I needed the comfort of the real world.
Okay, my real world.
I had one more purchase to make for my dad's birthday.
A book.
Jean Auel's The Land of Painted Caves.
Meaning I had to go to Chapters.
Which restored me.
I no longer felt unbalanced.
It wasn't so much being in Chapters per se, as being surrounded by books.
A restorative on so many levels.
Some of which involve the bathroom and the impact being around books has on my bodily functions.
I'll save that one for later.
Picking up Mum from the nursing home was its own set of trauma.
She likes going out.
But she does not like the change in her routine.
The entire time we're gone she worries about what time we'll get back.
Thinking that if we aren't there by the time the meds are dispensed, they will withhold her medication.
We arrive and she wants to know if she needs to wear her winter coat.
Mum's winter coat is two sizes to big for her, but she wanted it that way in case she needed to put on extra layers underneath.
Getting her into the car with this coat on is a huge challenge, because she can't tell if she's actually on the seat, as the coat is so padded it prevents her from knowing where her parts are.
Sitting in the car is also a challenge.
The coat is so big that once we do manage to get her in there, and secure the seat belt around all of her coat, the coat actually surrounds her head like a nun's wimple.
Her head sits more where her shoulders should be.
So, I made an executive decision and decided we would leave the coat in the closet.
A decision that spurned her to remark she needed a new spring coat.
Which caused me to reply that was no problem, and I would take her to Penningtons to get one.
Because I am no schlepping back and forth between the store and the nursing home a hundred times to ensure she get the right coat that's the right size and the right color.
Been there before.
Not willing to go again.
Of course, the second we get her outside the wind gusts and she gives me a look that says,
I should have worn my coat.
Once in the car, I put on the seat warmer, Stephen turned the heat to 3 and off we went.
From the back seat, I could see sweat forming on Stephen's upper lip from the blasting heat in the front of the car.
And Mum announces that she's just starting to warm up.
This is the woman who, just below her thermostat in her room, has a sign that says,
DO NOT ADJUST JANET'S THERMOSTAT!
SHE IS ALWAYS COLD!
Meaning, winter, summer, spring or fall, her thermometer is at it's highest setting.
30 degrees Celcius.
Some nights I come out there ten pounds lighter than when I went in.
And we wonder about the causes of global warming.
Title Lyric: I Do Better Electronics by Sad Little Stars
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