June 3, 2011
We are off to Montreal this morning.
Two days in the city, two days driving.
We return Monday.
And oh the tales I'll have to tell!
A new legal driver is in our midst.
Emily wrote and passed her beginner's yesterday.
Let the games begin!
Of course, like everything government and bureaucratic in this province, it wasn't simply a matter of going downtown and writing the test.
Oh no.
THAT would be too easy.
First, you have to line up.
And when it is your turn tell the person-whose-sole-job-is-to-direct-lost-and-wayward-souls-by-finding-out-what-they-are-there-for-and-giving-them-the-appropriate-number.
Because you must pay to pass or fail the written portion of the driver's test.
How else could all those civil servants, including the ticket man, be paid?
After being given your number you sit.
And wait.
Until your letter/number combination flashes on the screen above you and directs you to the appropriate wicket.
I was just there to pay.
So we sat.
We waited.
Everytime a little ding was heard announcing an open wicket, the heads of the seated turned upward to read if, please, please, it was our turn.
Eventually A140 was called.
And Em was directed to the wicket directly in front of where we were seated.
I was reading.
I just passed Em my debit card.
I was just there to pay.
Perhaps also to provide the kind of support only a mother can provide.
After paying and being given the next key to move to the next level of the bureaucratic labyrinth that is Service New Brunswick, it was time to engage in the procedures necessary to write the test.
My signature was required.
So I was there to pay, provide maternal support, and sign things.
And then I just sat and waited.
First for Em to write the test.
While she was busy identifying signs and answering the twenty question test, pouring from brain to paper all the knowledge she had acquired from Driver's Ed, I sat in the waiting area and chatted with a school friend of Mer's.
Passing the time pleasantly until The-Bundle-Of-Nerves-Now-Known-As-Emily returned from writing the test to await confirmation of passing or failing.
At this juncture, I became aware of an internal struggle.
On the one hand, of course I wanted Em to pass. She has a car, already. She has been ready to drive since she was first behind the wheel of a car, at three years old. She is mature, intelligent, took the driver's ed course, but most importantly, if she didn't pass it would scar her emotionally.
And that would take a lot of work to overcome.
For both of us.
On the other hand, I have first hand experience of how completely and utterly idiotic and moronic Fredericton drivers are and I don't know if I am emotionally ready for my child, my baby, to throw herself into the midst of such lunacy.
I kept this internal conundrum to myself.
Em was nervous and anxious enough without being made aware that her own mother was waging an internal battle.
She just needed to hear me repeat, over and over, that of course she was going to pass. It would be fine. She knew everything she needed to know and then some, so she had nothing to worry about.
Which is what I did.
We waited and waited for her test to be graded, and for her to be called back into the test area to be informed of the outcome.
Would she return with the paperwork key that would allow her to advance to the next level, or, would she be denied entry and forced to exit the premises until the next time she was able to negotiate the labyrinth again?
We saw her fellow testees fall into both categories.
Those who returned to their anxious, waiting parents to excitedly and happily inform them that their child was now being granted the legal permission to operate a motor vehicle.
So long as they had a licenced driver accompany them, but, they were still legally permitted to drive.
And those poor, unfortunate souls who did not pass, who didn't greet their parents, but came out of the testing area only to make eye contact, barely shake their head no, and proceed to exit the building with the relieved parent running to catch up with them.
We watched the minute dramas unfold in front us, while Em kept asking over and over how come it is taking so long? How hard can it be to grade a twenty question test and a few road signs? Oh my God I failed . . . .
Her name was called.
EMILY!
Off she went, turning to look at me just before she returned to the testing area to be informed of what direction her life would take from this moment on.
I sat in my chair, legs crossed, eyes crossed, fingers crossed, praying that she would pass and preparing myself for the emotional meltdown of she didn't.
She was in there a long time.
A good sign.
And when she came out bearing the tools for passage to the next level, her little face lit up like a Christmas tree, repeating over and over and over, I passed! I passed! I passed! I knew that my life and hers had entered an entirely new dimension and I would perhaps never sleep a full night again once she started driving on her own.
Clutching the key for passage to the next level, she went BACK to the line up for the numbers, and returned clutching a new number: B70.
And when her name was called, my debit card in hand, she went back to the wickets and paid for her driver's licence.
The one with the picture on it.
. . hence why she took so long getting ready yesterday morning. . .
. . .while I called and texted Stephen, her siblings, my brother about her success.
I had no reply from Keith but Em did.
Mer texted back congratulating Em and happily informing us that she now had another person to drive her back and forth to work.
And eventually the photographer came over to Em bearing her licence and Em was an official driver.
She wanted to drive out of downtown Fredericton at what was now lunchtime from a parallel parking space that took me forever to get into, in which we were now sandwiched tightly between two driver's who didn't know how to leave enough space in front and back when you parallel park.
Plus my nerves were shot.
So I drove uptown for lunch at Swiss Chalet.
All the while listening to Em repeat over and over how happy she was.
The entire process took an hour and a half.
Not bad for the labyrinth of bureaucracy.
The cost of driver's ed: $590.00
The cost of writing the test: $25.00
The cost of the driver's licence: $80.00
The cost of the celebratory lunch: $40.00
The cost of repairs to her car, thus far: $480.00
TOTAL: $1215.00
The look on Em's face as she successfully negotiated each step of the driving bureaucracy: PRICELESS.
Title Lyric: Signs by The Five Man Electrical Band
Friday, June 3, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
It began in the moment. . .I dropped the phone (in the toilet. . .again)!!!!!
June 2, 2011
Em writes her beginner's this morning.
Having her own car was one thing.
Actually driving it is completely different.
My ass hurts.
More specifically, the muscles in my gluteous very-maximus are singing in pain from my gardening adventures yesterday afternoon.
I started in the garden nearest our neighbour's bank of lilac bushes, so while I was digging in the dirt, hauling out weeds with a vehemence that surprised even me, and encountering all sorts of bugs and worms, (which is fine, just no snakes please) I was at least basking in the gorgeous scent of lilacs brought to me on the lovely breeze.
In two hours I accomplished what I had planned.
Completely cleaning a spot that had been riddled with weeds and dandelions as high as my knees, and planting a piece of our wild rose bush there as it has taken over our front yard.
We put another piece at the bottom of our property.
Stephen dug the holes.
I brought the fresh soil.
Keith complained to me that he was bored as I was sitting in the garden, hauling and digging the offensive weeds.
Big mistake.
Because now, in addition to cutting the grass today, he will be digging a hole for the flowering crab because it must be planted before we leave for Montreal tomorrow morning, and, he is removing all the rocks from the side garden because one time they looked nice, now they just provide housing for the illegal weeds.
Off they go.
And there are LOTS of them.
Next time, I bet Keith keeps his boredom to himself.
I had lots of time to reflect upon the state of our gardens yesterday.
Leading me to conclude that we put in too many gardens too fast.
Or rather, Stephen did.
Because until this summer my interest in gardening stopped once the gardening supplies -- plants, dirt, implements-- were purchased.
Granted, I was always ready with directives, suggestions, supervising.
Yes. I left it all for my obsessive compulsive husband.
I am terrible.
I know.
Having actually taken the time to do the gardening in this past week, I am astounded at how much work is involved in maintaining gardens.
It's no wonder Stephen was overwhelmed and frustrated.
So I am publicly apologizing for my lack of interest and participation.
I'll try to make up for it this summer.
Now, unlike Stephen, I don't look at all the gardens and pull a MacCaulay Culkin at how much work there is to do.
I tend to decide what piece I will work on in the time I have and work to complete that specific task.
Trying to be realistic about balancing my academic work with my digging in the dirt play.
Gardening is both a form of exercise, as my muscles can attest this morning, and therapeutic.
And I refuse to get worked up about it.
Abjectly refuse.
Cell phones continue to plague my life, act as the bane of my existence.
Em calls me yesterday at lunch time and says,
I have something to tell you and you're not going to like it.
A MILLION things ran through my head that could come from this child and meet that rather broad criteria.
Turns out Miss-I-Must-Carry-My-Cellphone-In-My-Back-Pocket-So-I-Can-Use-It-When-I-Am-In-The-Bathroom-During-Class dropped another, yes another, as in the second time, as in number two, numero deux cellphone in the toilet.
Another cellphone meeting it's end in a toilet in the girl's bathroom at FHS.
She was calling to deliver this sad news on her friend Kyle's cell phone.
Insert Marge Simpson UMMMMMM here. . .
Off to the mall after supper it was.
Dropped Keith off at work.
And trudged into Telus -- our version of Cheers! because everyone there knows our name.
I hate going to Telus.
It's like a vortex for time.
So while Em sorted her toilet inspired debacle, I sat with a friend and drank my venti Starbucks mild, the only thing to prevent me from falling asleep at the wheel during our drive home.
Leaving long enough to put my signature on some papers before returning to said seat area and encountering a former student, who chatted with me until Miss Em had finished her phone haggling.
She got an IPhone.
Which means nothing to me.
But a lot to her and her friends.
Doesn't matter.
I didn't have to pay.
We're off to Montreal tomorrow, but not before we run the errands-that-always-preclude-our-going-to-Montreal.
Primarily groceries.
Wouldn't want the little kidlets to starve while we were away now would we?
Packing this evening.
At the sign of a suitcase, Tikka and Frankie immediately move into more-agitated-than-usual because they know nothing good ever comes from the bringing out of the suitcases.
Meaning I'll spend the post packing period trying to assuage their hurt feelings.
Dog therapy.
Who knew the breadth of my talents.
Title Lyric: Drop the Phone by Shy Child
Em writes her beginner's this morning.
Having her own car was one thing.
Actually driving it is completely different.
My ass hurts.
More specifically, the muscles in my gluteous very-maximus are singing in pain from my gardening adventures yesterday afternoon.
I started in the garden nearest our neighbour's bank of lilac bushes, so while I was digging in the dirt, hauling out weeds with a vehemence that surprised even me, and encountering all sorts of bugs and worms, (which is fine, just no snakes please) I was at least basking in the gorgeous scent of lilacs brought to me on the lovely breeze.
In two hours I accomplished what I had planned.
Completely cleaning a spot that had been riddled with weeds and dandelions as high as my knees, and planting a piece of our wild rose bush there as it has taken over our front yard.
We put another piece at the bottom of our property.
Stephen dug the holes.
I brought the fresh soil.
Keith complained to me that he was bored as I was sitting in the garden, hauling and digging the offensive weeds.
Big mistake.
Because now, in addition to cutting the grass today, he will be digging a hole for the flowering crab because it must be planted before we leave for Montreal tomorrow morning, and, he is removing all the rocks from the side garden because one time they looked nice, now they just provide housing for the illegal weeds.
Off they go.
And there are LOTS of them.
Next time, I bet Keith keeps his boredom to himself.
I had lots of time to reflect upon the state of our gardens yesterday.
Leading me to conclude that we put in too many gardens too fast.
Or rather, Stephen did.
Because until this summer my interest in gardening stopped once the gardening supplies -- plants, dirt, implements-- were purchased.
Granted, I was always ready with directives, suggestions, supervising.
Yes. I left it all for my obsessive compulsive husband.
I am terrible.
I know.
Having actually taken the time to do the gardening in this past week, I am astounded at how much work is involved in maintaining gardens.
It's no wonder Stephen was overwhelmed and frustrated.
So I am publicly apologizing for my lack of interest and participation.
I'll try to make up for it this summer.
Now, unlike Stephen, I don't look at all the gardens and pull a MacCaulay Culkin at how much work there is to do.
I tend to decide what piece I will work on in the time I have and work to complete that specific task.
Trying to be realistic about balancing my academic work with my digging in the dirt play.
Gardening is both a form of exercise, as my muscles can attest this morning, and therapeutic.
And I refuse to get worked up about it.
Abjectly refuse.
Cell phones continue to plague my life, act as the bane of my existence.
Em calls me yesterday at lunch time and says,
I have something to tell you and you're not going to like it.
A MILLION things ran through my head that could come from this child and meet that rather broad criteria.
Turns out Miss-I-Must-Carry-My-Cellphone-In-My-Back-Pocket-So-I-Can-Use-It-When-I-Am-In-The-Bathroom-During-Class dropped another, yes another, as in the second time, as in number two, numero deux cellphone in the toilet.
Another cellphone meeting it's end in a toilet in the girl's bathroom at FHS.
She was calling to deliver this sad news on her friend Kyle's cell phone.
Insert Marge Simpson UMMMMMM here. . .
Off to the mall after supper it was.
Dropped Keith off at work.
And trudged into Telus -- our version of Cheers! because everyone there knows our name.
I hate going to Telus.
It's like a vortex for time.
So while Em sorted her toilet inspired debacle, I sat with a friend and drank my venti Starbucks mild, the only thing to prevent me from falling asleep at the wheel during our drive home.
Leaving long enough to put my signature on some papers before returning to said seat area and encountering a former student, who chatted with me until Miss Em had finished her phone haggling.
She got an IPhone.
Which means nothing to me.
But a lot to her and her friends.
Doesn't matter.
I didn't have to pay.
We're off to Montreal tomorrow, but not before we run the errands-that-always-preclude-our-going-to-Montreal.
Primarily groceries.
Wouldn't want the little kidlets to starve while we were away now would we?
Packing this evening.
At the sign of a suitcase, Tikka and Frankie immediately move into more-agitated-than-usual because they know nothing good ever comes from the bringing out of the suitcases.
Meaning I'll spend the post packing period trying to assuage their hurt feelings.
Dog therapy.
Who knew the breadth of my talents.
Title Lyric: Drop the Phone by Shy Child
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I am suffering from the itchy, scratchy hell. . . .
June 1, 2011
Happy June 1st!!!!!
Sunny days, gardening, long walks with the dogs, day trips, sunburns, beachcombing. . . .
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. . . .
This is what I wait for during the long winter months, when the sightline impairing snow is piled so high at the driveway that going anywhere is akin to playing Russian roulette.
Lest you think my sophomoric waxing about June 1st has rendered me unable to recognize the frustrations of summer, think again.
Last evening, after supper, Stephen and I resumed Gardenfest 2011.
He was putting the miracle compound piled in our driveway under the various trees in our backyard.
I was weedwacking.
And I love it.
Except for the mosquitoes.
And nothing bring my blood in contact with mosquitoes more than weedwacking.
The little sh*** live in the weeds and long grass and take great offence when I come in there, weedwacker whirring and buzzing like a thousand chainsaws, hacking and slashing at their home environment.
And they retaliate in kind with their special brand of vengeance.
The mosquito bite.
Making me look, at the end of the evening, as if I've had an attack of hives.
And then there is the fact that I haven't any yardwork-Stephen-approved-footwear.
Mainly because the old sneakers I had, the ones that served me well through countless summers, were disposed of by the very same Stephen.
Because as we know, if Stephen cannot envision an IMMEDIATE need for something, it goes.
Without saying anything to anyone until you go looking for it and he replies, his face bearing an impish, almost boyish grin,
Opps!
So I was weedwacking in Birkenstocks.
Stephen hadn't noticed.
I was doing fine.
And then my brother shows up and comments on the fact that I shouldn't be weedwacking with Birkenstocks as the only protection between my toes and whirring wire.
Faster than the speed of sound Stephen is in the house and back outside again bearing socks, and . . .
. . .my old, ugly, black, heavy, hot, winter boots.
I looked even more fashion challenged than I normally do.
But my toes were safe.
My grip was sure.
Even if my feet felt like they'd been thrown into hell.
And there are aspects of weedwacking with our weedwacker that are less appealing.
For example, when the wire thingie that spins at such speeds it can take out small trees becomes too short, I am just supposed to have to slow the wacker down, tap the bottom of it, and voila! the line extends.
Except ours doesn't.
Meaning every ten minutes, less if I've been wacking through dense, high grasses, weeds and those infernal-always-there dandelions, I have to stop the weed wacker.
Turn it upside down.
Unscrew the dohickey that holds the spool in the wacking mechanism.
And manually pull out the wacking line.
Not difficult.
Not challenging.
Not mind boggling.
Just annoying.
Very, very annoying.
Nonetheless, I persevered and after two hours, our front and back yards look much better.
In fact, one spot has been trimmed so well it is now ready for me to descend upon it and pull out the offending weeds, lay down new soil, and plant a piece of our steroid enhanced wild rose bush.
My plans for this morning, in fact, are to do just that.
Provided that it doesn't rain.
I want to be outside with the sunshine warming my back while I dig in the dirt.
Being peppered with rain isn't part of the plan.
Luckily, I have rainy day contingencies.
It's called work.
I was coming home the other day for lunch -- my attempt at trying to infuse some non-academic work time into my day.
Lovely, sun filled blue sky open all the windows in the car breezy day.
And then a one time convergence of events took place.
Just as I was sitting at the red light at Forest Hill Road and Kimble, a huge gust of wind blows through the car, dislodging my $125.00 STU faculty parking pass from its home on the rearview mirror, forcing it out the driver's side window and onto the street.
Everything happened so fast, I wasn't sure it happened at all, until I looked at the rearview mirror and saw no parking pass hanging there.
The light turned green and as I proceeded down Kimble, I briefly toyed with just leaving it lying on the road, as we are now into the summer months and the number of student cars wanting to take up residence in the faculty parking spaces has dwindled to almost none and it doesn't matter anyway because campus police don't ticket in the summer meaning everyone parks where ever they want.
However, my green self quickly rebelled against such a heinous suggestion as leaving something in the middle of road.
Then I thought about how Stephen would react.
'Nuff said.
This conversation in my head took place in the 5 seconds it took me to get to the first street from which I could turn around, go back to the lights, turn back onto Forest Hill and stop the car, four ways flashing like a strobe light in a night club, and run back to get the pass.
Except that it was lunch time, there was a lot of traffic, and I was dodging between and around cars like I was John McLean in a Die Hard film.
All for a piece of plastic.
But it was the meaning of the piece of plastic.
And again, my concerns over how Stephen would respond when finding out that the pass blew out the window and I just left it there.
Apoplectic.
We ventured to the Congress Book Fair after dropping Em off at school yesterday morning.
I swear I heard angels sing when I walked in the huge room, and saw at least 30 publishing houses with their wares displayed like a Medieval market.
For a minute I thought, this is what heaven will look like.
Stephen was my Sherpa on this mystical, wonderful journey through this land of ideas.
We even managed to get a couple of biodegradable pens, made of corn of all things, from the University of Manitoba Press booth.
I was impressed.
An hour and a half later I had several new books in my possession and numerous Spring 2011 and Fall and Winter 2011 catalogues to peruse.
I've already started.
And the list of books-I'm-gonna-order is growing longer with every catalogue.
Stephen just shakes his head.
And sighs.
A man who knows he simply cannot battle a force as strong as my desire for books.
A man resigned to a fate he is powerless to change or challenge.
Which is a good man, indeed.
Title Lyric: Mosquitoes by Shoen Knife
Happy June 1st!!!!!
Sunny days, gardening, long walks with the dogs, day trips, sunburns, beachcombing. . . .
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. . . .
This is what I wait for during the long winter months, when the sightline impairing snow is piled so high at the driveway that going anywhere is akin to playing Russian roulette.
Lest you think my sophomoric waxing about June 1st has rendered me unable to recognize the frustrations of summer, think again.
Last evening, after supper, Stephen and I resumed Gardenfest 2011.
He was putting the miracle compound piled in our driveway under the various trees in our backyard.
I was weedwacking.
And I love it.
Except for the mosquitoes.
And nothing bring my blood in contact with mosquitoes more than weedwacking.
The little sh*** live in the weeds and long grass and take great offence when I come in there, weedwacker whirring and buzzing like a thousand chainsaws, hacking and slashing at their home environment.
And they retaliate in kind with their special brand of vengeance.
The mosquito bite.
Making me look, at the end of the evening, as if I've had an attack of hives.
And then there is the fact that I haven't any yardwork-Stephen-approved-footwear.
Mainly because the old sneakers I had, the ones that served me well through countless summers, were disposed of by the very same Stephen.
Because as we know, if Stephen cannot envision an IMMEDIATE need for something, it goes.
Without saying anything to anyone until you go looking for it and he replies, his face bearing an impish, almost boyish grin,
Opps!
So I was weedwacking in Birkenstocks.
Stephen hadn't noticed.
I was doing fine.
And then my brother shows up and comments on the fact that I shouldn't be weedwacking with Birkenstocks as the only protection between my toes and whirring wire.
Faster than the speed of sound Stephen is in the house and back outside again bearing socks, and . . .
. . .my old, ugly, black, heavy, hot, winter boots.
I looked even more fashion challenged than I normally do.
But my toes were safe.
My grip was sure.
Even if my feet felt like they'd been thrown into hell.
And there are aspects of weedwacking with our weedwacker that are less appealing.
For example, when the wire thingie that spins at such speeds it can take out small trees becomes too short, I am just supposed to have to slow the wacker down, tap the bottom of it, and voila! the line extends.
Except ours doesn't.
Meaning every ten minutes, less if I've been wacking through dense, high grasses, weeds and those infernal-always-there dandelions, I have to stop the weed wacker.
Turn it upside down.
Unscrew the dohickey that holds the spool in the wacking mechanism.
And manually pull out the wacking line.
Not difficult.
Not challenging.
Not mind boggling.
Just annoying.
Very, very annoying.
Nonetheless, I persevered and after two hours, our front and back yards look much better.
In fact, one spot has been trimmed so well it is now ready for me to descend upon it and pull out the offending weeds, lay down new soil, and plant a piece of our steroid enhanced wild rose bush.
My plans for this morning, in fact, are to do just that.
Provided that it doesn't rain.
I want to be outside with the sunshine warming my back while I dig in the dirt.
Being peppered with rain isn't part of the plan.
Luckily, I have rainy day contingencies.
It's called work.
I was coming home the other day for lunch -- my attempt at trying to infuse some non-academic work time into my day.
Lovely, sun filled blue sky open all the windows in the car breezy day.
And then a one time convergence of events took place.
Just as I was sitting at the red light at Forest Hill Road and Kimble, a huge gust of wind blows through the car, dislodging my $125.00 STU faculty parking pass from its home on the rearview mirror, forcing it out the driver's side window and onto the street.
Everything happened so fast, I wasn't sure it happened at all, until I looked at the rearview mirror and saw no parking pass hanging there.
The light turned green and as I proceeded down Kimble, I briefly toyed with just leaving it lying on the road, as we are now into the summer months and the number of student cars wanting to take up residence in the faculty parking spaces has dwindled to almost none and it doesn't matter anyway because campus police don't ticket in the summer meaning everyone parks where ever they want.
However, my green self quickly rebelled against such a heinous suggestion as leaving something in the middle of road.
Then I thought about how Stephen would react.
'Nuff said.
This conversation in my head took place in the 5 seconds it took me to get to the first street from which I could turn around, go back to the lights, turn back onto Forest Hill and stop the car, four ways flashing like a strobe light in a night club, and run back to get the pass.
Except that it was lunch time, there was a lot of traffic, and I was dodging between and around cars like I was John McLean in a Die Hard film.
All for a piece of plastic.
But it was the meaning of the piece of plastic.
And again, my concerns over how Stephen would respond when finding out that the pass blew out the window and I just left it there.
Apoplectic.
We ventured to the Congress Book Fair after dropping Em off at school yesterday morning.
I swear I heard angels sing when I walked in the huge room, and saw at least 30 publishing houses with their wares displayed like a Medieval market.
For a minute I thought, this is what heaven will look like.
Stephen was my Sherpa on this mystical, wonderful journey through this land of ideas.
We even managed to get a couple of biodegradable pens, made of corn of all things, from the University of Manitoba Press booth.
I was impressed.
An hour and a half later I had several new books in my possession and numerous Spring 2011 and Fall and Winter 2011 catalogues to peruse.
I've already started.
And the list of books-I'm-gonna-order is growing longer with every catalogue.
Stephen just shakes his head.
And sighs.
A man who knows he simply cannot battle a force as strong as my desire for books.
A man resigned to a fate he is powerless to change or challenge.
Which is a good man, indeed.
Title Lyric: Mosquitoes by Shoen Knife
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Pull my, pull my weeds. . . .
May 31, 2011
Sabbatical application is in!
If awarded, I will be on sabbatical starting next July 1st.
Keeps fingers, eyes, anything crossed in hopes that a year long sabbatical will come my way.
I'll know in September.
Sunday afternoon with my mother wasn't too bad.
It was warm outside, so that always perks her up.
Congress is in town, bringing with it 6000 scholars from across the globe, so it would stand to reason that we would run into a few people we hadn't seen for a while.
At the mall.
It was a bit overwhelming for me so I can't imagine what it would be like Mum.
By the time we sat down for coffee we were all more than ready.
Plus Stephen and I needed to refuel, because after we took Mum back to the nursing home, we stopped at the Superstore for a roast chicken.
Which ended up being a roast chicken for Em and chicken wings for Stephen and Keith.
Only one of them actually needed the chicken wings.
Guess which one.
Back to the mall, pick up Keith from work, dash home for another salad dinner for me and Fat and Sodiumfest 2011 for Stephen and then we were out the door again heading for the university to hear a talk by Jeff Ferrell.
Dumpster diver, graffiti writer, anarchist criminologist extraordinaire.
And he's just a really nice guy.
He's coming back in September for the annual ACQRA lecture and workshop http://w3.stu.ca/stu/sites/acqra/index.html.
Both of which I will be attending.
I can't wait.
You should, at the very least read his book: Empire of Scrounge: Inside the Urban Underground of Dumpster Diving, Trash Picking, and Street Scavenging.
It's riveting.
My dirt arrived yesterday.
3 cubic feet is a lot of dirt.
After dinner last evening, I moved the largest houseplants, the ficus tree, jade tree and an ivy that was desperate for new soil, outside for replanting.
Hands in the dirt.
Hoisting soil laden pots up and down the deck stairs as the dirt pile wasn't on the deck, but the ground.
Imagine.
Hearing the plants whisper sighs of relief as they rested their roots into the rich, heavy, compost laden soil.
The persistent ache in my lower back from bending and lifting.
It was glorious.
And all the herbs are potted, on the deck and when I looked out on everything this morning, because I kept everything outside overnight and will probably keep them outside as long as I can, I swear they almost waved at me.
Giving me the thumbs up for finally noticing that they were in need of new soil.
Later this week I'm bringing home the plants from my office.
Some, for example Herbert, will remain home.
Herbert is some kind of tropical tree Stephen had before we even got together.
And he only ended up in my office because Greedy Guts Goblet decided to snack on him, requiring an emergency trip to the vet, two weeks before we got married, to the tune of $225.00.
However, she seems to have moved past her plant partaking, so we decided it was time to bring Herbert home from banishment.
Plus, quite frankly, he takes up a lot of room in my office.
And if you've ever been in my office, you know there isn't much room to be had.
This afternoon then, under the warm and welcoming sunshine, the yardwork will commence.
Weedwacking and supervising for me.
Hole digging and perhaps some grass cutting for Keith.
Stephen will be cutting and trimming under plants and trees before generously laying the rich, luxurious dirt around them.
Our neighbour kindly agreed to re-till the back garden and till the space between them.
At which time I'll put in the tomato plants, move ground covers. . . .
And the weeding!
That will be an all summer long project.
I did try to tackle some of them last night.
Stephen bought one of those weed stick thingies.
I was really looking forward to using it, thinking it would be a great help with some of the deeper rooted dandelions.
If dandelions were considered a precious flower, we'd be rich.
After using said weed dodaddy, two words came to mind.
Tits and bull.
Because that is how useful it is.
Good thing it wasn't expensive.
Other than something like Roundup, or the organic product we saw on tv last night, one we are willing to try, it seems to me the only way to really get weeds out is to just get down on your hands and knees and pull the damn things out.
So I did.
It worked.
Imagine.
This morning, before we go to our offices, Stephen and are will be partaking of the Congress Book Fair.
Just the thought of what treasures may await me makes my heart flutter.
Because who needs to eat?
Right?
Title Lyric: Pulling Weeds by Faster Pussycat
Sabbatical application is in!
If awarded, I will be on sabbatical starting next July 1st.
Keeps fingers, eyes, anything crossed in hopes that a year long sabbatical will come my way.
I'll know in September.
Sunday afternoon with my mother wasn't too bad.
It was warm outside, so that always perks her up.
Congress is in town, bringing with it 6000 scholars from across the globe, so it would stand to reason that we would run into a few people we hadn't seen for a while.
At the mall.
It was a bit overwhelming for me so I can't imagine what it would be like Mum.
By the time we sat down for coffee we were all more than ready.
Plus Stephen and I needed to refuel, because after we took Mum back to the nursing home, we stopped at the Superstore for a roast chicken.
Which ended up being a roast chicken for Em and chicken wings for Stephen and Keith.
Only one of them actually needed the chicken wings.
Guess which one.
Back to the mall, pick up Keith from work, dash home for another salad dinner for me and Fat and Sodiumfest 2011 for Stephen and then we were out the door again heading for the university to hear a talk by Jeff Ferrell.
Dumpster diver, graffiti writer, anarchist criminologist extraordinaire.
And he's just a really nice guy.
He's coming back in September for the annual ACQRA lecture and workshop http://w3.stu.ca/stu/sites/acqra/index.html.
Both of which I will be attending.
I can't wait.
You should, at the very least read his book: Empire of Scrounge: Inside the Urban Underground of Dumpster Diving, Trash Picking, and Street Scavenging.
It's riveting.
My dirt arrived yesterday.
3 cubic feet is a lot of dirt.
After dinner last evening, I moved the largest houseplants, the ficus tree, jade tree and an ivy that was desperate for new soil, outside for replanting.
Hands in the dirt.
Hoisting soil laden pots up and down the deck stairs as the dirt pile wasn't on the deck, but the ground.
Imagine.
Hearing the plants whisper sighs of relief as they rested their roots into the rich, heavy, compost laden soil.
The persistent ache in my lower back from bending and lifting.
It was glorious.
And all the herbs are potted, on the deck and when I looked out on everything this morning, because I kept everything outside overnight and will probably keep them outside as long as I can, I swear they almost waved at me.
Giving me the thumbs up for finally noticing that they were in need of new soil.
Later this week I'm bringing home the plants from my office.
Some, for example Herbert, will remain home.
Herbert is some kind of tropical tree Stephen had before we even got together.
And he only ended up in my office because Greedy Guts Goblet decided to snack on him, requiring an emergency trip to the vet, two weeks before we got married, to the tune of $225.00.
However, she seems to have moved past her plant partaking, so we decided it was time to bring Herbert home from banishment.
Plus, quite frankly, he takes up a lot of room in my office.
And if you've ever been in my office, you know there isn't much room to be had.
This afternoon then, under the warm and welcoming sunshine, the yardwork will commence.
Weedwacking and supervising for me.
Hole digging and perhaps some grass cutting for Keith.
Stephen will be cutting and trimming under plants and trees before generously laying the rich, luxurious dirt around them.
Our neighbour kindly agreed to re-till the back garden and till the space between them.
At which time I'll put in the tomato plants, move ground covers. . . .
And the weeding!
That will be an all summer long project.
I did try to tackle some of them last night.
Stephen bought one of those weed stick thingies.
I was really looking forward to using it, thinking it would be a great help with some of the deeper rooted dandelions.
If dandelions were considered a precious flower, we'd be rich.
After using said weed dodaddy, two words came to mind.
Tits and bull.
Because that is how useful it is.
Good thing it wasn't expensive.
Other than something like Roundup, or the organic product we saw on tv last night, one we are willing to try, it seems to me the only way to really get weeds out is to just get down on your hands and knees and pull the damn things out.
So I did.
It worked.
Imagine.
This morning, before we go to our offices, Stephen and are will be partaking of the Congress Book Fair.
Just the thought of what treasures may await me makes my heart flutter.
Because who needs to eat?
Right?
Title Lyric: Pulling Weeds by Faster Pussycat
Monday, May 30, 2011
We spend all our time running for our lives. . . .
May 30, 2011
Yet again it has not escaped my notice that going to work is more relaxing than the weekends.
Saturday afternoon Stephen and I were FINALLY able to get to Scott's Nursery to purchase a much needed and long overdue order of dirt.
Yes, dirt.
3 cubic feet to be exact.
And because I am more than challenged in any measurement over two cups, I have absolutely NO idea how much dirt that will be.
Perhaps not even enough.
But definitely enough to get us started on our gardening projects for this summer.
Every garden in our yard needs fresh soil.
All the house plants need fresh soil.
Every night this week, after supper, I will be outside repotting.
Or repotting and planning.
We have eight gardens in our yard.
Two in front, one on the left side of our property in the front, a small lily only garden on the right side of the house, in the back a large garden on the extreme right where our property connects with our neighbours, another at the very bottom of our property and two large gardens.
Which are going to become one if we have our way and one of our neighbours is kind enough to till them together.
Spice Girls is running through my head right now. . . ."when two become one. . ."
Must be the dangers of blogging sans coffee.
Putting these two gardens together into one HUGE garden means we will be able to thin out the front gardens, which are lush with ground covers.
Too many ground covers.
Some crowding others out to the point that when I walk by I expect some puny ground cover to wrap itself around my ankles and whisper, "help me. . ."
Meaning that the more aggressive, ground hogging ground covers will be relocating to the back yard.
We also have a wild rose bush that is gorgeous but grows by leaps and bounds, so some of it will be relocated to the back.
Plus it attracts a lot of honey bees, and I love that, but our Frankie seems to think these flying, buzzing orbs are for play and ultimately consumption, so he keeps getting mouthfuls for rose bush thorns in his mouth whch he finds less engaging than the bees.
I often ask him what he thinks is going to happen if he ever actually manages to get a bee in his mouth?
Of course, it is unthinkable to assume that Stephen and I could go to a nursery and only purchase dirt.
We came out with a hanging basket (don't ask me what it is, I don't know), three Genovese basil plants, one rosemary, two woolly thyme, a peppermint plant, eight tomato plants, an impatience, and four terracotta pots.
And, a flowering crab tree.
A baby flowering crab tree mind you, but one nonetheless.
Which will one day, hopefully in my lifetime, look like this:
I have wanted one forever, we have the room, it was a reasonable price, $50.00, so we got it.
Tonight, after yoga and supper, we shall determine where our new addition will be planted and tomorrow, Pookie can begin digging the hole.
Gardening and keeping kids busy.
Plants and trees are wonderful things.
Saturday evening we had dinner with my brother and good friends Darren and LaVonna, at a little restaurant called Relish, http://www.relishme.ca/.
The Oromocto location.
Which, surprisingly, is a much nice location than the one in Fredericton.
Having grown up in and around Oromocto, there isn't much there that excites me.
Depresses me, yes.
Except for Frenchy's and now, Relish.
Mer and Keith had yet to return from their overnight Moncton sojourn, so Em was alone with five adults who think they're funny, but really, they're just loud.
Oh Bunny, your time shall come.
Plus, who can resist a gourmet burger?
I had the L.A is My Lady.
Avocado slices, basil pesto mayo, goat cheese, on a ground turkey burger.
Greek salad on the side.
Excellent conversation.
Who could ask for more?
Whoever said Sunday was a day of rest needs to spend some time in the worlds of working wives/mother/caregivers of older parents.
Look up "Sandwich Generation" in the dictionary and you will see my picture.
Sunday afternoon, after Quaker meeting and a very quick lunch of salad with chick peas and cottage cheese. . .
. . .as an aside, making a ginormous salad on Saturday afternoon proved to be the smartest thing I did this weekend, as it was pretty much the main item for lunch and supper on Sunday. . .
. . .to check in on Emily, who spent all of yesterday sitting at the kitchen table struggling to write about body dismorphic disorder for psychology class.
An issue she understood completely from a sociological perspective.
A problem we have grappled with since she started taking psychology in January.
She is naturally psychology-resistant after years and years and years of hearing issues examined from sociological point of view.
Poor child.
And then it was off to the nursing home to take my mother to the mall.
She received a lovely diamond tennis bracelet from my father for Mother's Day, but, it was too big. . .
A common theme with my mother and things. . .
. . .therefore several links needed to be removed in order to ensure it didn't fall off her wrist.
It was back from it repair trip to Montreal and after the underwear antics, I wasn't taking any chances.
She was coming with me.
Stephen is wheeling her out of her room as I finished signing her out for the afternoon, when I said I'd just be a second while I put her underwear in her room.
She plants her feet on the ground, stopping the forward-to-the-car movement of the wheelchair.
Let me see them, she demands.
Not asks nicely, not suggests kindly.
It was a demand.
So, in the common room amid all sorts of residents, their family, and staff, I take out a pair of this underwear, the fourth time purchased underwear, the underwear that has caused me no small amount of grief, vexation and ructions, the underwear that ensured Stephen knows more about the women's lingerie section of Sears in more intimate detail than he had ever imagined. . .
She grabs them from me, and with her keen, critical eye assesses them.
I stand beside her, barely breathing, wondering if undie-trip five is waiting in the wings, or, if I will be set free from pantie servitude.
And the verdict?
Those look fine, she proclaimed.
Relief flooded my being.
The Hallelujah Chorus was singing in my head.
Free from panties I will be!
At least until she tries them on.
Only then will the verdict be truly determined.
And then, the other shoe drops.
The pyjamas we bought a month ago, she said.
Yes. . . .I warily reply knowing exactly where this was going.
They're too big. Just the blue ones.
But they're the size you asked for, I counter.
Well, they're too big. Take them back.
So, at some point this week, it's back to Pennington's to replace the month old pjs.
I don't even know if I have the receipt.
Another gift card anyone?
The woman is racking up gift cards the way some people have credit cards.
Soon there won't be a place in Fredericton where she doesn't have some sort of gift card credit.
And we hadn't even ventured beyond the common room of the nursing home.
I feared for the remainder of the afternoon.
I really did.
Title Lyric: Busy by Olly Murs
Yet again it has not escaped my notice that going to work is more relaxing than the weekends.
Saturday afternoon Stephen and I were FINALLY able to get to Scott's Nursery to purchase a much needed and long overdue order of dirt.
Yes, dirt.
3 cubic feet to be exact.
And because I am more than challenged in any measurement over two cups, I have absolutely NO idea how much dirt that will be.
Perhaps not even enough.
But definitely enough to get us started on our gardening projects for this summer.
Every garden in our yard needs fresh soil.
All the house plants need fresh soil.
Every night this week, after supper, I will be outside repotting.
Or repotting and planning.
We have eight gardens in our yard.
Two in front, one on the left side of our property in the front, a small lily only garden on the right side of the house, in the back a large garden on the extreme right where our property connects with our neighbours, another at the very bottom of our property and two large gardens.
Which are going to become one if we have our way and one of our neighbours is kind enough to till them together.
Spice Girls is running through my head right now. . . ."when two become one. . ."
Must be the dangers of blogging sans coffee.
Putting these two gardens together into one HUGE garden means we will be able to thin out the front gardens, which are lush with ground covers.
Too many ground covers.
Some crowding others out to the point that when I walk by I expect some puny ground cover to wrap itself around my ankles and whisper, "help me. . ."
Meaning that the more aggressive, ground hogging ground covers will be relocating to the back yard.
We also have a wild rose bush that is gorgeous but grows by leaps and bounds, so some of it will be relocated to the back.
Plus it attracts a lot of honey bees, and I love that, but our Frankie seems to think these flying, buzzing orbs are for play and ultimately consumption, so he keeps getting mouthfuls for rose bush thorns in his mouth whch he finds less engaging than the bees.
I often ask him what he thinks is going to happen if he ever actually manages to get a bee in his mouth?
Of course, it is unthinkable to assume that Stephen and I could go to a nursery and only purchase dirt.
We came out with a hanging basket (don't ask me what it is, I don't know), three Genovese basil plants, one rosemary, two woolly thyme, a peppermint plant, eight tomato plants, an impatience, and four terracotta pots.
And, a flowering crab tree.
A baby flowering crab tree mind you, but one nonetheless.
Which will one day, hopefully in my lifetime, look like this:
I have wanted one forever, we have the room, it was a reasonable price, $50.00, so we got it.
Tonight, after yoga and supper, we shall determine where our new addition will be planted and tomorrow, Pookie can begin digging the hole.
Gardening and keeping kids busy.
Plants and trees are wonderful things.
Saturday evening we had dinner with my brother and good friends Darren and LaVonna, at a little restaurant called Relish, http://www.relishme.ca/.
The Oromocto location.
Which, surprisingly, is a much nice location than the one in Fredericton.
Having grown up in and around Oromocto, there isn't much there that excites me.
Depresses me, yes.
Except for Frenchy's and now, Relish.
Mer and Keith had yet to return from their overnight Moncton sojourn, so Em was alone with five adults who think they're funny, but really, they're just loud.
Oh Bunny, your time shall come.
Plus, who can resist a gourmet burger?
I had the L.A is My Lady.
Avocado slices, basil pesto mayo, goat cheese, on a ground turkey burger.
Greek salad on the side.
Excellent conversation.
Who could ask for more?
Whoever said Sunday was a day of rest needs to spend some time in the worlds of working wives/mother/caregivers of older parents.
Look up "Sandwich Generation" in the dictionary and you will see my picture.
Sunday afternoon, after Quaker meeting and a very quick lunch of salad with chick peas and cottage cheese. . .
. . .as an aside, making a ginormous salad on Saturday afternoon proved to be the smartest thing I did this weekend, as it was pretty much the main item for lunch and supper on Sunday. . .
. . .to check in on Emily, who spent all of yesterday sitting at the kitchen table struggling to write about body dismorphic disorder for psychology class.
An issue she understood completely from a sociological perspective.
A problem we have grappled with since she started taking psychology in January.
She is naturally psychology-resistant after years and years and years of hearing issues examined from sociological point of view.
Poor child.
And then it was off to the nursing home to take my mother to the mall.
She received a lovely diamond tennis bracelet from my father for Mother's Day, but, it was too big. . .
A common theme with my mother and things. . .
. . .therefore several links needed to be removed in order to ensure it didn't fall off her wrist.
It was back from it repair trip to Montreal and after the underwear antics, I wasn't taking any chances.
She was coming with me.
Stephen is wheeling her out of her room as I finished signing her out for the afternoon, when I said I'd just be a second while I put her underwear in her room.
She plants her feet on the ground, stopping the forward-to-the-car movement of the wheelchair.
Let me see them, she demands.
Not asks nicely, not suggests kindly.
It was a demand.
So, in the common room amid all sorts of residents, their family, and staff, I take out a pair of this underwear, the fourth time purchased underwear, the underwear that has caused me no small amount of grief, vexation and ructions, the underwear that ensured Stephen knows more about the women's lingerie section of Sears in more intimate detail than he had ever imagined. . .
She grabs them from me, and with her keen, critical eye assesses them.
I stand beside her, barely breathing, wondering if undie-trip five is waiting in the wings, or, if I will be set free from pantie servitude.
And the verdict?
Those look fine, she proclaimed.
Relief flooded my being.
The Hallelujah Chorus was singing in my head.
Free from panties I will be!
At least until she tries them on.
Only then will the verdict be truly determined.
And then, the other shoe drops.
The pyjamas we bought a month ago, she said.
Yes. . . .I warily reply knowing exactly where this was going.
They're too big. Just the blue ones.
But they're the size you asked for, I counter.
Well, they're too big. Take them back.
So, at some point this week, it's back to Pennington's to replace the month old pjs.
I don't even know if I have the receipt.
Another gift card anyone?
The woman is racking up gift cards the way some people have credit cards.
Soon there won't be a place in Fredericton where she doesn't have some sort of gift card credit.
And we hadn't even ventured beyond the common room of the nursing home.
I feared for the remainder of the afternoon.
I really did.
Title Lyric: Busy by Olly Murs
Sunday, May 29, 2011
These shorts look smart if put on right . . . .
May 29, 2011
Another busy, busy day ahead.
Quaker meeting.
Out with Mum this afternoon, for bracelet pick ups and coffee as a means of assuaging my guilt over not seeing her yesterday.
Home to weed if time, weather, and most importantly energy, permits.
Dinner.
6.00 lecture featuring Jeff Ferrell, anarchist criminologist extraordinaire.
Coffee with friends afterwards.
As I said, busy.
Sears was having a sale yesterday.
And when Sears has a sale, they have a sale.
Lagostina frying pans, regular $120.00 for $40.00.
I got two. . .one was 16.99 and the other was 21.99.
I love new kitchenware!
As I was there, I thought I'd look into underwear for Stephen and Keith.
Underwear has been a dominant theme in my life lately, so I figured I may as well continue the focus.
Keith was lamenting the other day that he was in need of boxers.
Not boxer briefs by boxers. . .the tradition cotton ones.
I have no idea how he wears them. . .seems to me they would bunch at his legs, but apparently not.
He likes them.
They were on sale.
I even found his size.
Or Em did.
Keith is very slim so finding him things that fit at his waist is often a challenge.
Now Stephen on the other hand is, in theory, an easy underwear buy.
I know what he likes.
I found them.
Bought them.
Brought them home.
Initially he was pleased that I had remembered he needed new drawers.
However, he tried them on.
And complained.
I don't mean to sound like your mother but. . . .he said from the top of the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, I replied, then don't.
The elastic waist band is too big.
And then he proceeded to bring down the last underwear I bought from him to compare against the new underwear.
Because clearly I needed a visual lesson in order to comprehend and then accept his legitimate complaint.
After he was finished his object lesson, I looked at him and said,
As I recall I did buy your last underpants, and therefore know what you like. If I didn't buy those exact undies, it means that there were none so this is what you got.
Wear them.
Be happy.
Some people don't have any.
End of discussion.
What is it with people in my life and underwear????????
I've spent much time over the last few days facing some rather hard truths.
Among them, that Mer doesn't really concern herself with how her actions affect others.
She has not a care, from what I can see, about how her tantrums, hissy fits, explosions, self centeredness impact me, Stephen, Keith and Em.
How her constant requests for money are draining emotionally and financially.
In fact, now that intersession is over and I'm not teaching overload, there is no extra money.
None.
She's on her own.
How the phone calls, one after another on everyone's phone until she reaches us has made us contemplate plugging in the phone at all.
Sometimes, there are reasons I don't answer the phone.
I'm not home.
I'm at work, working. Meeting with students. Doing my job.
I just don't have the energy to deal with yet another Meredyth drama. . . .that one is becoming far more frequent.
How, until she does what needs to be done nothing is going to change, no matter where she goes, who she's with, what she's doing. . .
She can get as angry as she wants with me, blame me for all the ills that have befallen her, blame every one else for the outcomes of choices she has made, and nothing will change.
Well, one thing will change.
People's willingness to tolerate her behaviour.
Mine is changing.
I am fed up.
And, as I have come to accept, I know I cannot change Mer, I can only change how I react, interact, engage with Mer.
I can only change me.
And I am.
And it hurts.
I love this child more than life itself, but loving her isn't the issue, apparently.
Because sometimes love isn't enough and you have to resort to alternative measures.
There really isn't much I can do for Mer.
But there are things she can do for herself.
But she won't like them, and because she is legally an adult, there is nothing I can make her do.
If she decides, however, that she wants to do what needs to be done, I will be there for her 1000%.
Next move is hers.
Title Lyric: Sears Commercial Lyrics by Vanessa Hudgens
Another busy, busy day ahead.
Quaker meeting.
Out with Mum this afternoon, for bracelet pick ups and coffee as a means of assuaging my guilt over not seeing her yesterday.
Home to weed if time, weather, and most importantly energy, permits.
Dinner.
6.00 lecture featuring Jeff Ferrell, anarchist criminologist extraordinaire.
Coffee with friends afterwards.
As I said, busy.
Sears was having a sale yesterday.
And when Sears has a sale, they have a sale.
Lagostina frying pans, regular $120.00 for $40.00.
I got two. . .one was 16.99 and the other was 21.99.
I love new kitchenware!
As I was there, I thought I'd look into underwear for Stephen and Keith.
Underwear has been a dominant theme in my life lately, so I figured I may as well continue the focus.
Keith was lamenting the other day that he was in need of boxers.
Not boxer briefs by boxers. . .the tradition cotton ones.
I have no idea how he wears them. . .seems to me they would bunch at his legs, but apparently not.
He likes them.
They were on sale.
I even found his size.
Or Em did.
Keith is very slim so finding him things that fit at his waist is often a challenge.
Now Stephen on the other hand is, in theory, an easy underwear buy.
I know what he likes.
I found them.
Bought them.
Brought them home.
Initially he was pleased that I had remembered he needed new drawers.
However, he tried them on.
And complained.
I don't mean to sound like your mother but. . . .he said from the top of the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, I replied, then don't.
The elastic waist band is too big.
And then he proceeded to bring down the last underwear I bought from him to compare against the new underwear.
Because clearly I needed a visual lesson in order to comprehend and then accept his legitimate complaint.
After he was finished his object lesson, I looked at him and said,
As I recall I did buy your last underpants, and therefore know what you like. If I didn't buy those exact undies, it means that there were none so this is what you got.
Wear them.
Be happy.
Some people don't have any.
End of discussion.
What is it with people in my life and underwear????????
I've spent much time over the last few days facing some rather hard truths.
Among them, that Mer doesn't really concern herself with how her actions affect others.
She has not a care, from what I can see, about how her tantrums, hissy fits, explosions, self centeredness impact me, Stephen, Keith and Em.
How her constant requests for money are draining emotionally and financially.
In fact, now that intersession is over and I'm not teaching overload, there is no extra money.
None.
She's on her own.
How the phone calls, one after another on everyone's phone until she reaches us has made us contemplate plugging in the phone at all.
Sometimes, there are reasons I don't answer the phone.
I'm not home.
I'm at work, working. Meeting with students. Doing my job.
I just don't have the energy to deal with yet another Meredyth drama. . . .that one is becoming far more frequent.
How, until she does what needs to be done nothing is going to change, no matter where she goes, who she's with, what she's doing. . .
She can get as angry as she wants with me, blame me for all the ills that have befallen her, blame every one else for the outcomes of choices she has made, and nothing will change.
Well, one thing will change.
People's willingness to tolerate her behaviour.
Mine is changing.
I am fed up.
And, as I have come to accept, I know I cannot change Mer, I can only change how I react, interact, engage with Mer.
I can only change me.
And I am.
And it hurts.
I love this child more than life itself, but loving her isn't the issue, apparently.
Because sometimes love isn't enough and you have to resort to alternative measures.
There really isn't much I can do for Mer.
But there are things she can do for herself.
But she won't like them, and because she is legally an adult, there is nothing I can make her do.
If she decides, however, that she wants to do what needs to be done, I will be there for her 1000%.
Next move is hers.
Title Lyric: Sears Commercial Lyrics by Vanessa Hudgens
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