I got cabin fever it's burning in my brain . . .

July 1, 2011

Happy Canada Day.

There.

I said it.

Canada Day has never been that big of a deal for me.

Other than one of the few days where I am not at all obligated to do anything.

Perhaps if EVERYONE was able to have the day off I may feel differently.

But all sorts of people have to work on Canada Day to ensure that those who do have the day off can enjoy it as much as they want.

Kind of unfair, really.



I wandered around the house today taking pictures of things in and around the house that would be nice for my mother's digital picture frame.

After a week of 500 photos, she's more than likely ready for some new additions.

My Mum and her sister.

They're 16 years apart.

Emily at nine months.

Frequently, people would stop us just because her eyes were so stunning.

Once, during a trip to the Toronto Zoo we were followed by a flock of Middle Eastern men who wanted to take her picture.

They were very persistent.

My maternal instincts kicked in and I made sure they understood there was no way they were taking her picture.

Later, when I told a friend about this event, she remarked that they were probably fascinated by her eyes, and meant her no harm.

I never thought they meant her any harm.

But my maternal instincts didn't think this was the case at all. 

Meredyth in grade one.

So adorable.

So cute.

So entertaining.

All the things she is now.

And then some.

I wish I could go back and do things differently.

Much, much differently.

Pookie in grade one.

The adorable blond hair.

The sweet cheeks.

A time when I was the most important person in his world.  

The simpler days.

When all he needed was a me to remind him that I was able to take care of everything.

Not so now.

I wish.

My Mum.

I don't know how old she was.

But obviously quite young.

Sometimes I think I look like her.

Em wasn't working today, although she was asked if she wanted to take a shift.

Keith also didn't work and was in no shape to take a shift.

I knew the extent of his physical condition when Stephen came down the stairs with two empty cans of Chef Boyardee with a spoon sticking out of one of them.

Didn't even bother to heat them up.

Like I said, rough shape.

Because Em wasn't working, she made plans.

Plans that included me.

And because today was one of those rare days when I wasn't obligated to do anything, I was more than happy to participate in her plans.

Of course, plans with Em include Em acting as chauffeur.

Which also means Em is in charge of the radio.

I know more Lady Gaga lyrics than I care to.

I may forget how to drive by the time February arrives.

When Em is allowed to take her road test.



First part of her plans for the day: out for lunch.

Her treat.

Swiss Chalet.

Who was I to say no to such a generous offer?

Actually, I tried.

Because I felt guilty that Em wanted to spend what little money she had by buying me lunch.

Em, however, can be very insistent.

So I acquiesced.

And splurged.

Chicken quesadilla with Caesar salad.

And diet Pepsi.

Living on the edge.

That's me.



After lunch, we headed to the theaters for a movie.

We were scheduled to go last evening, but Em did take someone's shift, 8.00 pm-1.30 am.

Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon.

Action was very exciting.

But the movie wasn't as good as I'd hoped.

A bit too long.

But John Malkovitch and Francis McDormand made it somewhat more tolerable.

I returned to the car before Em and noticed that we had company.

As soon as I took the picture he scampered to the roof of the car.

Good thing.

Em has a terrible affliction.

Arachnophobia.

Although had he remained, I may have been allowed to drive my car home.




Before lunch and movies, however, my cousin's husband was very gracious in offering to put the new licence plates on Em's car.

She wanted conservation plates.

I think she just wanted to make the car hers and absolutely hers.

Unfortunately, Stephen's attempt to remove the original plates, the plates that had been on for eleven years, the plates that suffered through more winter days than I've had hot dinners, and the bolts that shared in the crazy days of the car before Em received it were as rusty and corroded as you can imagine they were.

When Stephen removed the front licence plate it was only because the tops of the bolts snapped off.

Leaving the bottom part of the bolt firmly embedded in the front bumper.

After that, he didn't even bother tackling the back plate.

Meaning we had to call upon the expert skills of my cousin's husband.

And he graciously completed the task.

On a holiday no less.

That's family.

Making sure that 17 year old Em isn't driving around the city with plates on her car that do not match the plates listed on her registration.

Because that simply isn't legal.



We do have another issue with Em's car.

The "Check Engine" light is still on.

It isn't the gas cap.

Or the gas.

It isn't blinking.

Which is when we're really supposed to worry.

So we're not sure what to do.

Leave it?

Or deal with it?

Or wait until something really bad happens?

With our luck, option three will occur no matter what we want to do.



After sitting all afternoon, I was very cagey when we got home.

Desperate for movement.

I had done yoga yesterday, because it wasn't very nice out.

Oddly enough though, the sun made an appearance by the time I was ready to go outside and do something.

Stephen was preparing to take the dogs to the farm.

So I thought I'd just go along with him.

However, I was wanted.

Stephen said he was hoping for some "downtime" because while I was dining out and seeing movies, he was hard at work at home reading about nursing homes for his doctoral proposal.

I understood.

He packed the dogs into the car, and headed to the farm.

I grabbed the camera, my ipod and headed out for a walk around our neighbourhood.

Always good exercise as we live in an area with lots of hills.

Great for cardio.

And for pictures.






As I started my journey, I came across this absolutely wonderful shed.

So, so creative.

I can barely paint stick people.

There are lots of trails and woodlands around where I live.

As I was walking along one of them, I spotted a bunny.

This was as close as I was able to get.

The bunny wasn't my only four legged encounter.

This little kitty greeted both at the beginning and the end of my walk.

Very affectionate.

And good at staying where it belonged.

I was worried it would follow me.

But it didn't.

Just as well.

Stephen has put a moratorium on more pets.

Our vet bill Thursday was $438.00

Tikka's recurring ear/itching issues.

The cat's vaccinations.

Expensive things, these pets.

So, at least until the shock of the vet bill wears off, I'll keep my mouth shut about any more pets.

But this kitty is so cute!

Most people in the area where we live have gardens.

I don't know the names of some of these, but if you do, please let me know.

Several of these would look lovely in my gardens.

I do know what these are.

Now this one really intrigues me.

And is definitely something I could see in my yard.

I think it's absolutely gorgeous and actually trespassed to get the pictures.

Open. . . .

Closed. . .

Lots and lots of trails are also available for your walking, biking, dog walking pleasures.

Long, short they're all over the place.

Unfortunately, there are always lots of unwanted things on these trails.

Including Wal-Mart.

It really is everywhere.

And when I came home, loving, happy greetings from my favourite canines.

We actually arrived home at the same time.

And now, it's well after midnight.

I did see the fireworks.

Video was taken.

Too tired for much more for now.

These holidays are exhausting.

Goodnight.



Title Lyric: Cabin Fever by The Muppets

I don't need no credit card. . . .

June 30, 2011


Frankie has a massive load of diarrhea on the front hall tiles this morning.

Stephen found it, cleaned it up.

When he told me about finding the huge pile of steaming poop, I fully admitted it was my fault.

I gave him something I shouldn't have.

Obviously, I won't do that again.

But I am SO happy I didn't have to clean it up.

I am a terrible wife.

I know.







July is going to be far more productive than June.

At least in terms of the house.

Stephen and I have agreed to take the second week of July off in order to paint our bedroom.

I get three weeks vacation, so it seems that using a week in August for basking and basting at the beach still leaves me with two weeks.

And knowing how things happen around here, if it isn't scheduled, it doesn't happen.

Plus Stephen needs time to mentally prepare.

Every other room upstairs has been painted with the exception of our bedroom. . .

. . . and the hallway.

In fact, some rooms that have been painted are actually due for another.

The bathroom for one.

And Em's room.

But Em is paying for the paint for her room.

Purple.

Which isn't any better or worse than her last set of choices.

When she was in grade 7, so about five years ago, she picked out a comforter with green, orange and yellow and then decided those were the colors she wanted in her room.

Consequently, one wall is this gorgeous, vibrant orange.

Another is green.

The green didn't show up as well as it should have. The slice to the left is actually more reminiscent of the color. I would have taken another picture, but Em was sleeping when I snuck into her room to take this.

And I didn't want to risk waking the Kraken.

No picture is worth that.

And the remaining two are yellow.

But now, entering her final year of high school, possessing a beginners drivers licence, owning a car, planning for university, she is ready to update her room to something more in keeping with where she is at this point in her life.

Purple.

She has a lovely satiny purple duvet.

And an incredible eye for color.

All will go well.

Except we'll probably have to prime her room before any painting occurs.

Some of those colors are pretty vibrant.

More than one coat of primer may be required.

We will  help of course.

It's the only way I know they'll help with the kitchen.

Guilt.

A mother's best friend.






We have the paint for our room.

We've had it since last summer.

And if this scheduling plan works, I may take another week off to paint the kitchen cupboards.

With the kids help, of course.

Because that will be a much bigger job.

I first bought this house when I was a graduate student.

Of all the rooms, the kitchen was the most immediately disastrous.

Carpet in the dining room.

The dining room, if you can imagine that.

Although my grandmother had carpet in her dining room.

But it was patterned.

Nothing was visible beyond the whirls and swirls of red, black, yellow, orange, goldenrod.

It was actually hard to eat in there if you looked at the carpet.

It caused vertigo.

But the carpet in this house was not patterned.

It was just a light baby shit brown.

And within a month of three kids eating in the dining room, it looked as if it had been attacked by ravenous, salivating beasts.

Which, in a way, it was.

There was a room divider.

Between the kitchen and the living room.

Floor to ceiling and ugly as sin.

Fake paneling with itty bitty cubbies just big enough to hold knicks knacks and doodads.

That lasted about six months and one day, nauseated by it's ugliness, I tore it out.

And then proceeded to rip up the carpet, thinking that what was underneath couldn't be any worse.

It wasn't.

Just subfloor.

And we lived with that until, for Christmas, my mother bought and paid linoleum and its installation.

My problem: I'm great at deciding what I don't want, but never able to do much to replace it.

The cupboards were a dark, dark color.

Making the kitchen look like a mausoleum.

So I had them painted by a friend of mine.

Pink and green.

I know. I know.

I should have been smoking better drugs.

Not being blessed with Em's sense of color, I never thought about what the colors would look like with the black, yes, black countertop and the funky 70s linoleum.

Ignore the belly begging Frankie.

The point is the floor.

At least not until it was all done and I was able to see it.






Eventually Stephen came along and many of the downstairs household issues were addressed.

New windows in the basement.

Painting of the living room.

Which included the removal of the black, floral border around the room.

Last summer was the installation of the laminate floor.

Things are progressing.

Albeit slowly, but progressing.

The biggest reason for the slow progression is, in part, related to money.

We don't have credit cards.

Not because we can't, but because we made the conscious choice not to.

Quakers are supposed to live simple lives.

Not be concerned with material things.

For the most part, I'm not.

As anyone who has ever been here will tell you.

The nice things we have here have all been given to us.

We don't seek them out.

People find it odd that we don't have credit cards.

Just last night, the topic came up during my book club meeting.

What it means, essentially, is that if we don't have the cash for something, we don't buy it.

Granted, we have to wait for things, or repair things instead of replace them.

But I find this preferable to the panic of receiving credit card bills, worrying about how much they'll be.

I get enough of that with the cell phone bill.






There are times when credit cards are needed.

Like when we rent cars.

Usually my dad will put the rental on his credit card and we just hand him over the cash.

Right away.

Keith has a credit card.

I was worried when he got it.

But I can't make him adopt our philosophy.

And so far, so good.

But he's responsible with money.

He gets it from his grandmother.

Who, along with Stephen's parents is the most financially savvy person I know.






Part of me thinks, keeping in mind of course that I am in no way an economist, that the current financial crisis being experienced in Canada and the US is a result of people having credit and spending money they don't have.

And quite frankly, never will have.

Who lends money to people who can't pay it back?

At least on a national and international scale.

Personally, I can't touch that with a ten foot pole.






Today is going to be busy.

Lunch with a friend I haven't seen for a while.

Tikka and the cats to the vet.

No Frankie.

Frankie is a one pet a time kind of vet issue.

He's staying home with Stephen.

Frankie has NEVER been left in the house alone.

Ever.

And I can count on one hand the times he's been separated from Tikka.

He doesn't like it when she's not here.

So while Goblet is going to the vet for her vaccinations, and Stephen wants to be with her, he's decided to stay home with Frankie.

I don't know why he doesn't trust me with her.

He should be more worried about what she'll do to me.

I was more than willing to stay home.

But he seemed to think that since Tikka was going and I think he never asks the right questions, (which isn't true by the way) I should go.

Thankfully, Em is coming with me.

Because while I could handle two cats and a dog, I don't really want to thank you very much.

Tikka is shaking her head again.

To the point where her legs jump

Not a good sign.

Scratching at her ear to the point where it sounds like Polynesian drummers are in our presence.

Rubbing her ear against the couch.

Of course, Stephen is TERRIFIED that we are looking at the return of sarcoptic mange.

I don't think so.

Otherwise, Frankie would have it.

And he isn't showing the signs.

So what she has is yet again, a mystery.

The cats just need their needles.

And to be weighed.

I am quite interested in learning how much Goblet weighs.

It's wrong to be this interested, I know.

But whatever.

I am.






Stephen has an meeting at 5.30.

Em wants to see Transformers 3 at 6.20.

We can't even take her car because Stephen started taking the old plates off, was able to get the front one off, but, the back one won't move.

And he can't seem to get the new front one on.

So it's either drive with one plate, the one that is no longer associated with the car, and risk getting caught. . .

. . .and we would be caught.

Believe me.

Or suck it up until we can get to my cousins to have it repaired.

We'll take option two I think.

And somewhere in there, I will get work done.

I will.



Title Lyric: Credit Card by Silage

Where are my dentures? I can't find my dentures. . . .

June 28, 2011

This little guy spends his entire summer outside our window.

Every summer.

Him, or a reasonable facsimile.

Given Em's terror for spiders, he makes television watching, spending time in the living room with the kids infinitely more interesting.






Monday was all about the dentist.

For Keith.

Not me.

I actually really dislike waiting at the dentist's office.

Everytime I come out of there I have a headache and feel exhausted.

Wondering how anyone could ever work there.

Maybe it's something in the air.

Although I was able to watch some of Wimbledon while I was waiting.

I used to love watching this tennis match only on television.

But it didn't prevent the headache, being tired, or the subsequent crankiness.

Which was apparently evident when I had been home for a while.

At least according to Stephen.






So, why was Keith at the dentist?

He'd been complaining that one of his molars was bothering him.

Complaining allot.

Stephen called the dentist and voila!

A cancellation had opened up a spot and he was plunked in there lickety split.

I was just happy he said something.

The last time he experienced this much pain in his mouth, he waited to tell me until it was critical.

And by that time he needed a root canal.

This time, in hopes of preventing another root canal, he told us asap.

But it didn't matter.

He still needs a root canal.

Luckily, they can take him really soon.

August 30th.






Since Monday, he's been feeling a bit down.

Worried that I think he doesn't look after his teeth.

No so at all.

He brushes and flosses regularly.

But teeth, like many other things, are partially controlled by genetics.

Neither of my parents have their own teeth.

In fact, both decided at the same time, on the advice of their dentist, to have all their teeth extracted.

And replaced with dentures.

Stephen remarked the other day that he thought dentures might be a good idea.

Seriously.

This is the man who cuts the kernels off his one cob of corn a year, and refuses to eat apples  because he's worried about breaking a tooth.

He was feeling pretty smarmy about his denture decision until I reminded him that my parents were toothless for six months while waiting for the all the extraction sites to heal properly.

Smarmy left pretty quickly.

And. . .

It was gross seeing my parents smoke without their teeth.

It's gross seeing anyone smoke period, but without teeth is a whole other story.

And putting their Thanksgiving dinner in the blender wasn't exactly shits and giggles either.






Yesterday was quite warm.

One of those days you know is going to be uncomfortable from the minute you open your eyes.

Meaning I had a harder time than usual getting out of bed.

So I did what anyone in my position would do.

I took pictures.

I call this series, "What I See from My Bed."

You'll note most of what I see is Frankie.

As soon as I get on the bed to lay down, or read before I go to sleep, he's up there faster than you can say "dog treats."

And as usual, Goblet is perched on one of her favourite spots. This is where she sits and gives me the stink eye each and every night.

No wonder I have trouble sleeping.

Keith coming in to see what is taking me so long to get moving.

Accompanied by his usual bowl of cereal.

As I read, I can reach over and feel the smooth, cool fur of my canine companion.

Sometimes I fall asleep with my arms around him.

He loves having his picture taken.

Or I love taking picture of him.

Tikka used to be able to get up on the bed, and for YEARS she slept with me, keeping me company throughout the night.

Unfortunately, her arthritic hips prevent her from getting on to the bed.

Unless there's thunder and lightening outside.

So I just get on the floor with her for our cuddles.

She's Mummy's best girl.

No matter how long or short Frankie's visits are, they ALWAYS include an on my back belly rub.

We call him a belly bitch because he loves nothing more than having his belly rubbed.

But who couldn't succumb to that face?

Stephen.

That's who.

He is less moved by Frankie's shenanigans than I am .

Which is why I am a terrible dog owner.

I do have pictures of Stephen, but he has threatened me with divorce if I put them up.

Seems Tikka isn't the only camera shy creature in my midst.






Eventually, I did get up.

And spent part of yesterday in my office.

Or, if you prefer. . .

Lately, I have been avoiding going there because it's a mess.

No space is spared. Not even the door.

One Christmas Keith received a movie of the day calendar.

I took all the crime film related ones and put them on my door.

If I had a dollar for every time I came to my office to see someone standing there saying, "I was just reading your door. . ."

Opening the door. . .this is the sight that greets me:

The research my faithful research assistant has been compiling for me over the past two summers. There is another brown accordion file underneath the one here.

 My film collection.

*Sigh*

Long, fascinating conversations have begun with the simple statement, "You have a lot of movies. . ."

 My books, my books.

And this and that at the top of the book shelf.

I can't reach that high.

So Stephen does it for me.

This is Herbert.

He was relocated to my office after Goblet ate some of him, became terribly ill, causing us to rush her to the vet, resulting in a $250.00 vet bill two weeks before we got married.

She hates me.

She did not want us to get married.

You'll never convince me otherwise.

I like to have lots of shoe choices on hand.

I never really know what I want to put on my feet until I get to work.

This is Keith's desk when he is in my office.

You can see how much I respect his territorial claim.

The book on top is an ethnography of Rebel bikers.

Read it.

It is very good.

My desk.

The side I actually use for writing stuff.

I haven't done my end-of-the-year clean out yet.

That's more of a weekend activity.

But it does mean being in there doesn't exactly fill me with excitement.

On the other hand, it's good to know my mess to workability ratio.

I wasn't sure I had one.






If you know Stephen at all, or have been paying even the slightest bit of attention, you know he is a bit of a neat freak.

I prefer ocd personally.

My office makes him looney.

He can't really be in there for any length of time.

Perhaps the point of the mess, huh?

When we were first together, he would attempt to clean in there.

Until I reminded him that this is truly my one and only space in the world.

All that is really just for me.

And he could take his Lysol wipes and his Windex and stick them somewhere far less pleasant.

My office is, most of the time, my sanctuary.

Messy or not.

Some of my most favourite things are in my office.

Several of Emily's paintings. This is my favourite.

Meredyth's inukshuk:

Em painted Marilyn Monroe as a Mother's Day gift:

The fall of 2002 we went to Quebec City for a weekend with the kids' Grandma, who lives in Mississauga.

These were drawn by an artist in Old Quebec City.

Pookie:

Mer Mer:

Emily gave her to her fourth grade teacher.

Broke my heart.

I've also received some very interesting gifts from my students.

This is a gnome.

During an intro class a couple of years ago, one of my students recounted a tale of her and  her friends driving to Ontario to cover the roof of a friend's house with gnomes.

At the end of the year, she gave me this:

An Asian student gave me this wall hanging at the end of an intersession course.

She also gave me the largest piece of jade I've ever seen.

I wear it as a necklace. 

I also have reminders of days gone by.

Guess who this incredibly attractive man is. . .

Along my window sill are reminders of summer adventures and warmer days.

These are especially handy during the long winter months, when I need to remember that there will be sun, beaches and ocean in my future.

As sanctuary like as it is, I still need to get in there and clean.

Dust.

Maybe even vacuum.

Or at least Stephen can vacuum.

A couple of weeks ago, I added a new gadget to my blog page.

"What I'm Reading Now."

I read a lot.

In fact, the greatest thing about my Kobo is that at anytime I have 120 books in my purse.

I read fiction and non-fiction.

Academic stuff. . .this morning I'll be finishing a journal article that explores Hayley Stark in the 2006 film Hard Candy. . . .

. . . .and if you haven't seen this film you should. . . .

. . . .as both Red Riding Hood and the wolf.

Very interesting stuff.

I recently finished Audrey Niffeneger's Her Fearful Symmetry.

She also wrote Time Traveller's Wife.

I quite enjoyed the book.

Good story.

Set in London, always a plus for me.

Ghosts and cemeteries an added bonus.

But the ending made me genuinely angry.

I thought about it for days, asking myself, WHY would Niffeneger do THAT?

Maybe that's the sign of a good book?

Keeps you thinking for days, weeks, months afterwards?

Or a bad book perhaps?

Driving you crazy? Questioning the author's sanity?

I'll have to think about that one.

The point, and there is a point, is that I am ALWAYS on the hunt for books to read.

I'll read pretty much anything, except Westerns.

And romances.

Absolutely no romances.

Share your favourite books with me, and everyone else.

Put them in the Comment's section.

No limit.

Let yourself go.

Sharing books. . . .sigh. . . .is there anything better?

Not really, no.



Title Lyric: Wisdom Lost by Old