Come those crazy cats, crazy cats. . .

July 11, 2011


During the late hours of the overnight, while we were all sleeping soundly, fur bearing creatures were plotting to punish us.

For what?

Who knows.

I am in the kitchen making coffee, feeding the dogs, listening to Reilley scream at me for his morning fix of coffee cream, when a bare-chested Keith meanders beside me and announced that Goblet is in the front hallway throwing up her breakfast.

He didn't exactly phrase it like this but I'm not caffeinated enough to include what he actually said.

It's probably just a hairball, I said, hopeful that's really all it was.

No. It's not. There's a lot of it, he replied.

Upon inspection of ground zero, it would appear he was right.

It was a lot more than just a hairball.

She was eating Reilley's food.

Again.

And then gorged herself further with water.

Causing overload in her more-than-average-size stomach.

And expelling said overload all over the hallway.






Back in the kitchen, while I was reaching for the paper towel, Keith graciously says,

Do you want me to clean that up?

Yes, I said as I handed him the paper towel.

Oh, he replied, I didn't actually think you'd want me to clean it. I just wanted to be polite.

I gave him a withering look.

A pre-caffeinated withering look.

And then proceeded to ground zero to begin cleaning up the mess.

Frankie and Tikka were hovering.

Thinking: snack time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Part of me just wanted to let them at it.

It would save me the trouble.

But, given how things have been here lately with bodily functions. . . .

. . . .let's not forget yesterday's piss and shitfest. . . 

punishment I am sure for our going to Montreal and no one can convince me otherwise, I thought better of it.

I did, however, announce to Stephen that his precious-I-hate-Dawne-never-does-anything-bad-or-upsetting-always-angelic-grossly-overpampered-oh-so-misunderstood-and-maligned feline had voided the contents of her stomach all over the hallway.

If it had of been any other fur bearing creature other than Goblet, all hell would have broken loose.

Piles and piles of previous empirical evidence supports this.

But because it was the Queen Herself, all we heard was a "GOB-LET" and I'd better go check on her to see if she's alright.

And that's when I stopped cleaning and told him he could he finish cleaning it up himself.

Double standards.

There are double standards afoot.






Stephen, as we know, has an incredibly low tolerance for bodily fluids.

Bucket of warm water in one hand, cloths in the other, he headed toward ground zero gagging all the way.

Cleaning and gagging.

While I contentedly made my coffee and breakfast, knowing that he would, hopefully, think twice before engaging in such open exhibitions of his so obvious higher tolerance for all of Goblet's misdeeds.

But I doubt it.






Unfortunately, this would not be the end of our expulsion of bodily fluids.

Remember, late night plans were afoot.

As soon as I settled into my chair and turned on my computer, ready to begin my blog, I hear the always recognizable, fear inducing sounds of Frankie getting ready to bring up something.

I turned and there was a small puddle.

Still sounding like there was more to come, I looked at him and I said, STOP!

I didn't think it would work.

But it did.

He stopped.

A kleenex size puddle of water I can handle.

Science project-like explosions from favoured felines?

I just don't think so.






Yesterday was most productive.

After Em drove us to school. . . .

. . .as an aside, since receiving her beginner's licence, I haven't had to drive anywhere Em and I have been going. It's been quite lovely being chauffeured around. . .

. . .I headed to the Harriet Irving Library.

And spent the morning "old school style" reading through a draft of my journal article about tyranny of the immediate as a sensitizing concept, drinking Starbucks, and basking in the much missed sounds and smells of the library.

Not without a small glitch, however.

Of course.

Just as I had settled in, anticipating a wonderfully productive morning, my cell phone starts dinging, announcing I have a text message.

It's Emily.

MUM! I LEFT MY PHONE IN THE CAR!

My spidey senses knew what the unasked for request was.

I write back, Em, this won't kill you. I know you believe it will. But it won't.

A few minutes later, she replies, "MUMMMMM. PLLLLLEEEEAAAAASEEEEEE. . . I REALLY NEED MY PHONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Knowing Em as I do, I knew this could continue on until she got her way, so I replied,  Em, I am working. At the library. I am not bringing you your phone.

And then I turned my phone off.

Adding another ingredient to the air of bliss and contentment surrounding me.






But no good deed goes unpunished.

I arrive home around 1.15 because it's sunny, breezy and there is gardening to be done.

As soon as I walk into the house, canines cavorting in full swing, Stephen is marching down the stairs, not yelling but close, SICK!

SICK!

SICK!

SICK!

I have been worried sick about you. I called your office, I called your cellphone, no one answered, SICK!

I was at the library. I told you I was going to the library last night. And I turned my cell phone off.  I was at the library afterall.

You could have at least left me a note.

I did.

Where? he insolently replied.

In my blog.

Read it.



Title Lyric:  Crazy Cats by Budda Monk

'Cos they say thunder and they say lightning. . . .

June 10, 2011


4.00 o'clock this morning.

I am wide awake.

Dark outside.

Stephen snoring fitfully beside me.

Keith and his friend Rossco stumbling back and forth between Keith's room and the bathroom is who knows what state of mind.

Dogs sound asleep.

Me laying beside the cacophanous Stephen, thinking of all the work I had to do, work that involves word processing programs and not hoes and spades.

Which was enough to get me out of bed at 5.00 am.

Who could possibly sleep with the knowledge of grant applications, journal articles, textbooks pressing in on their conscience?

Not me.






Resigned to wakefulness, I wander downstairs to make coffee, feed the hounds, who were now awake because I was, and take them out for their morning ablutions.

Even in the semi dark of 5.00 am I noticed there were vaguely familiar lumps in the front hallway.

Tentatively I touch one of these lumps.

Yup.

Poop.

It would seem that Stephen fell asleep before taking Tikka out for her final hurrah before bed.

Now, in Stephen's defence, Tikka had kept him up most of the night before.

He was exhausted.

I should have probably taken her out, but he assured me he was fine, it would be done, no problems.

Until someone shits in the hallway.






The real question is how come Stephen was up the previous night with Miss Tikka?

Thunder and lightening.

We had a loud and long lasting thunderstorm Wednesday evening.

Sheets of rain pouring from the sky?

No problem.

But throw in the flashes of lightening, and booming thunderclaps, and you have a 13 year old, 85 pound Belgian shepherd who doesn't know what the hell to do.

So she tries to dig holes in the bedroom floor.

Or, if we're really lucky, she attempts to scale our bodies.

Which is quite painful.

And we all bear the scars of her valiant attempts to crawl inside of our skin for safety and protection.

There have been nights were either Stephen or myself, or both, have been on either side of Tikka, on the floor, her tight between us, in an effort to sooth her shattered nerves.

Wednesday night, I hoisted her up on the bed with me, which kept her calm until Stephen came home with Keith and she had to give her Pookie his after work greeting, even though she was absolutely terrified a clap of thunder would strike her on the stairs.

And Frankie?

We actually don't know if he's afraid of thunder and lightening.

He just does whatever Tikka does.






I've been having a difficult time getting into a rhythm at work.

Plans for how to tackle work and enjoy the summer sun were made during our eight hour drive to Montreal.

Completely reasonable, doable plans.

Plans that would ensure the grant application was written, the journal article was finished, Stephen's proposal was finished and his ethics course complete.

Plans that guarantee all kinds of gardening time, dog walking time, hanging laundry to dry in the sun time. . .

But I just don't want to be in my office.

In front of my computer.

I want to be outside.

Alas, gardening isn't going to get anything written.

Nor is hanging laundry, or walking the dogs.

Therefore it would seem I have to work harder at implementing my plan.

Work until 2.00 pm, and then spend the rest of the day doing all my outside things.

Em finishes school next week, so theoretically, I could be to work by 7.00 am, which would mean seven hours of writing time.

Home for the remainder of the day, digging and planting and weeding and pulling.

So simple and logical on paper.

So difficult to implement.

The warm sun is calling me, calling me to come outside and enjoy the blue sky and gentle breezes.

What a time to decide to take up gardening.






I've faced tougher challenges than this.

Raising kids, Meredyth and Stephen in particular.

I can do this.

This morning, I am heading to the library.

No computers.

Just my very unpolished article, a pad of paper, a pen.

"Old school" according to my faithful Research Assistant.

Starbucks coffee.

Huge windows to remind me of what awaits me once my work is done for the day.

Now all I need is discipline.

If anyone has some to spare, you can find me on the main floor of the Harriet Irving Library.

I'll be the one staring out the windows with the venti Starbucks coffee cooling beside me, the unpolished article, pad of paper and pen sitting on the table, untouched.



Title Lyric: Thunder and Lightening by Phil Collins

The toiling ghosts spring. . . .

June 9, 2011


Stephen is Ukrainian.

Prior to meeting Stephen my knowledge of Ukrainian customs and culture was pretty much nil.

Not anymore.

I know about the food, which is fabulous.

Stephen's mum served home made perogies one night.

Or varenyky (var-ann-e-kea) in Ukrainian.

With sour cream, or the tzatziki from Adonis. . . .uuummmmmmmm. . .

Cabbage rolls. . .or Holubtsi

I'm going to make some this weekend, because apparently it's not too hard.

We'll see.

Stephen's mother has been making them for over 50 years.

Of course they're easy for her.

Not for eating but very interesting: Ukrainian Easter eggs.

Stephen's mum has a biggest-brandy-snifter-I've-ever-seen full of them.

Clothing. . .

But I still have lots and lots to learn.

Sunday, after the church service, because I always insist that we go to St. Sophies Ukrainian Orthodox Church if we are in Montreal on a Sunday, we did our usual rounds.

Talking with Father Kushnir, with long time friends of Stephen's parents who have known Stephen since he was in short pants. . . .

We were at the front of the church when Stephen asked me if I had a napkin, kleenex, something in my purse that would hold bread.

Hold bread?

I actually had a small plastic container in my purse that I use to hold almonds in case I get hungry while I'm out.

Anything to prevent me from grabbing the nearest Oh! Henry, or ten.

I gave him the container and he put three bits of bread from the round and braided loaf that was at the front of the church.

What's that for? I asked, thinking that if that little bit of bread was to stave of hunger until supper time, we were in big trouble.

Twenty Oh! Henry kind of trouble.

For the tombstones.

I like this last one.

Makes me think of Edgar Allen Poe.

We visited the gravesites for Stephen and Maryann's grandparents on both sides, and at each tombstone, Stephen put a piece of the bread on top of the headstone.

Maryann left pennies.

I weeded.

I was amazed at the lovely plants people had placed around their loved one's headstone.

And equally amazed that they didn't weed them.

So while Stephen and Maryann wandered from tombstone to tombstone, I weeded around tombstones of people I'd never met.

And I'm not likely to.

At dinner, I mentioned this to Stephen's parents and his Aunt Irene.

Oh! Irene said, that perfectly normal. My mother (Stephen's Baba) did that all the time. You're becoming Ukrainian.

 Дякую

That's "thank you" in Ukrainian.

At least I hope it is.

With my like luck I could be telling everyone to f*** off.

If it isn't right, I hope Stephen has the common sense to tell me. 

The best thing about visiting Montreal isn't the shopping, or going to church or learning gardening techniques from Stephen's parents.

Although all of those things are very nice.

The best thing is the sitting-around-the-table-after-dinner-drinking-tea conversations.

Everyone likes to talk.

It's a great opportunity to ask questions about Stephen's parent's parents who immigrated from the Ukraine in the 1920s.

What their life was like, what it was like growing up in Montreal, all sorts of things.

I'll sit there until I'm practically asleep at the table, listening to their stories, trying to capture them for our grandchildren.

Maybe next time I'll take a tape recorder.

Title Lyric: Cemeteries of London by Coldplay

We're dancing in gardens . . . .

June 8, 2011


Our visit to Montreal, this time, was to spend the weekend with Stephen's parents, and his sister, who lives in Vancouver.

Stephen, Mary Ann and someone else, 1971.

We don't often get a chance to see her.

 Some things never change.

Flying to Vancouver right now is too expensive for us, but we could most definitely manage a trip to Montreal.

So we did.






Saturday morning, Mary Ann came with us to one of our favourite haunts, Adonis. http://www.adonisproducts.com/pages/accueil_en.asp 

I indulged in my Montreal-visits-only treat, gelato.

This time is was lemon.

And it really was lemony!

The insides of my mouth were forced together with a sour inducing suction that could have allowed me to scale walls with my lips.

It was sooooo good.

And thick, creamy tzatziki with just the faintest touch of mint.

We purchased our usual staples, Herb de Provence in its keg size container and a half dozen more Adonis reusable bags, the ones that make us the envy of our fellow Superstore shoppers.

Petit fours for the kids.

This is just one small section of the pastry counter from which were selected our petit fours.

 And all sorts of other goodies we both needed and wanted, including a 3 liter container of extra virgin olive oil on sale for $8.99.






After Adonis, we ventured to the SAQ.

Quebec's haven for wine and spirits.

We browsed through the aisles looking for a wine we had during our visit with Donna and Andrij in March, to Quebec City's Petit Champlain.

The hunt for this wine is becoming almost an obsession.

And while we didn't find that particular wine, we did manage to purchase a half dozen bottles.

And therefore received 15% off our purchase.

Buying in bulk really is the way to go.

We also managed to purchase a couple of other bottles of wine at Maxi's, lost amid the piles of egg bread and egg buns we brought back for the kids.

Because remember, in Quebec, a far more liberal province when it comes to alcohol, you can buy it almost anywhere.

So civilized. . . .






Exhausted from our morning of shopping, we returned to Stephen's parents for some lunch, which included the tzatziki from heaven.

And then after lunch, we spent the afternoon outside, in the warmth and sun, gardening.

It was the best kind of gardening.

No one knew for certain what they'd be doing when they started, but when we finished several hours later, there was much that had been accomplished.

Stephen's parents have a large, corner lot.

Large by Montreal standards.

And on their property are several absolutely gorgeous gardens.

With virtually no weeds.

I have to remember to ask Stephen's father how he manages that.

They also have cedar trees.

And if you know anything about cedar trees, while lovely, they can become quite large and therefore in need of trimming.

Climbing-up-on-a-ladder-kind-of-trimming that neither of Stephen's parents should be doing.

So, being 6 foot 4 inches, the tallest among us, Stephen took to the ladder and started hacking away at the cedar trees.

I held the ladder.

Which meant that at least twice cedar branches of varying thicknesses decended upon my head.

I will continue to labour under the delusion that the branches to head was accidental.

Good thing I have a hard head.

I was even permitted to shape the trees from the middle downwards.

The only places I could reach.






Stephen's mother then showed me how to trim the "candles" from their large and sprawling mugo pine.

This one is about 1/8 of the size of Stephen's parents.

I REALLY have to get a digital camera.

Keep in mind that Stephen's mother has never let me do much of anything other than a few dishes, and maybe take the sheet of the hide-a-bed.

Either she's resigned herself to the fact that if I'm there I may as well do something, or, she is beginning to trust me.

Or a bit of both.

Regardless, I spent an hour trimming this massive shrub, talking with Mary Ann and just enjoyed being outside, no cell phones, no texting, doing something useful.

It really is the little things.



Title Lyric: Wild Gardens by Magneta Lane

Send you a postcard. . . .

June 7, 2011


Our latest trek to the land of family and friends, looney drivers, fabulous food, egg bread, at least 50 loaves of bread and buns, Adonis, Maxis, flea markets, gardening, wine, SAQs and shopping, shopping and more shopping has sadly come to an end.

This visit was as much a whirlwind as the last.

Two days driving + two days visiting = one very, very, very tired Dawne and Stephen.

Stephen is actually upstairs, warmly snuggled into his side of the bed.

I set my alarm to get up at six to go into work.

I like to challenge myself.

And then accept that some challenges simply cannot be met under the current circumstances.

I was barely able to open my eyes this morning, at 9.45, when Tikka was pawing at the bed, reminding me that they had yet to be fed and did I plan at any point in time to move my arse out of bed to meet their sustenance needs?

Otherwise, I'd still be in bed right now.







During the drive there and back Stephen and I didn't even turn the radio on.

We talked.

Shocking, I know.

You should have seen the look of Em's face when I told her that we drove sans musique.

I love these drives for so many reasons, but the most important is spending time with Stephen, just the two of us, talking.

About serious things and not so serious things.

Or sitting together companionably, just enjoying being together.

We were very lucky, as both Friday and Monday were lovely driving days, sun shining, blue sky, white fluffy clouds, the St. Lawrence River around La Pocatiere magnificent. . .

Yet again Stephen and I were reminded that we MUST get  digital camera.

It's now on our BUY list, ahead of the barbecue.






We stopped for lunch just before Riverie du Loup, ate our salad, pita and tzatziki, shared it with the birds, sat in the sun. . .

Stephen opted for shade, but, his incessant need to turn on the air conditioning full blast, forcing me to sit bundled up as if I am awaiting the storm of the century, forced me to make an executive decision that sitting in the sun would facilitate my thawing.

Afterwards, as all good travellers must, we went to the bathroom.

Quebec roadside bathrooms are all the same.

Except this time, when I went into stall, I was greeted with a sign.

A sign in each and every stall, (I know, cause I looked) bolted to the wall on to the right of the toilet.

Translated into English, the sign basically said,

"The magic eye isn't working. Use the button."

I paused.

Looked around.

Magic eyes in toilet?

Just what I needed.

A piss camera.






My new favourite phrase?

Marche au Puce!

Flea market, open Thursday to Sunday and chock full of all sorts of goodies!

My bank account is much lighter after our sojourn to the land of never end stalls with more things to buy than you could imagine.

Stalls enticingly crammed together so that you're brain just managed to process the contents of one stall before you're confronted with the next.

A veritable cornucopia of shoes, socks, underwear, computers, gorgeous showers, paintings, flowers, candy, lps, cds, dvds, suits, jeans, pajamas, slippers, shirts, leather wear, sheets, duvets, pillows, kids clothes, men's clothes, women's clothes, Juicy Couture purses, wigs, xxx stall (Stephen wouldn't go into this one. . .but it was advertising a do-it-yourself-pole dancing kit. . . .), Persian rugs, bathroom mats, towels, toys, games, puzzles, dolls, furniture, rings, watches, earrings, necklaces, crystal, tailors. . . .

All that was missing were books.

But I managed given everything else that we had to explore.

Again, I had to leave before I was able to see everything.

I guess I'll just have to make another trip the next time we are in Montreal.





And of course, because we were out of town, Emily got sick.

A nasty cold.

I called her Saturday evening and she announced, "I'm sick."

Really Em?

Cause I couldn't tell, even though you sound like you have a roll of toilet paper shoved into each nostril.

And she was sick.

When we arrived home last evening, she was fevered, but very, very happy we had returned.

As were the hounds.

We always come into the house without anything to hinder the jumping and kissing and carousing that occurs as soon as they sense that our car has turned onto our street and will soon we stopping in our driveway.

One day I will capture the looks on their faces.

Priceless.

A combination of anger, relief, joy. . . .

Reilley ran out of the house, in a desperate attempt to avoid being trampled by the canine stampede.

Goblet stared at us from the top of the stairs and then stomped off towards the bedroom.

It took her a couple of hours to come around and allow Stephen to pick her up, mollifying her and promising no more trips for a while.

The drama, the drama.

Who needs soap operas?????






There is SO much more to tell.

But I've completely depleted by resources.

And I have to go out later and get some groceries.

Milk, fruit, veggies. . .

Mer is coming with us.

It's payday and she needs food.

Hence why I need more energy.

A nap?

I think oui. . . 


Title Lyric: Vacation by Young Jeezy