July 29, 2011
One thing about date days with Em.
She takes the "day" part seriously.
I am exhausted this morning from our adventures.
She has to work a double.
On a coldish, rainy day.
I think I'll let her sleep for another hour.
Because Em is Em, I sometimes erroneously assume that she possesses knowledge that perhaps she doesn't have.
For example, while driving to Oromocto yesterday, we had to pass the Irving Big Stop in Lincoln.
A nice, long on ramp from the Big Stop to the highway.
My mistake.
Forgetting that this was Em's first highway driving experience.
And that she didn't realize that when a car is coming down a ramp, and if it is safe (keep that part in mind) you should move into the next lane to allow them access to the highway.
When I realized that she wasn't aware of this little tidbit of info, as her road lessons have thus far only been with me or Stephen and her actual qualified driver's instruction road lessons don't start until September, I said that she needed to move into the next lane.
Knowing that she knew she was supposed to check for any traffic in the passing lane before she actually moved into it.
But she didn't.
The excitement of driving on the highway lead to a system overload.
Luckily, all she did was cut off a car from Ontario.
Which resulted in some nasty faces from the woman driving the car from Ontario.
And rightfully so.
I don't like to be cut off either.
Poor Em took the nasty to faces to heart and was deeply distressed for the remainder of our drive.
In spite of my efforts to calm her, she remained distressed for a while.
Such a sweet, caring child.
I am certain that, with years of driving under her belt, that'll change.
She did, however, redeem herself, not for me but her, when she parallel parked better than I've ever seen anyone parallel park.
On the first try.
Ever.
Much better than I've ever been, or ever will be, able to manage.
My parallel parking resembles something akin to the ten point turn.
I also operate under the assumption that she knows where we're going.
Until she asked me how to get to Oromocto.
I looked at her.
Incredulous.
And asked her what she was doing when we were taking all those trips to my parents.
Reading, she replied.
Listening to my ipod, she replied.
Anything, apparently, but watching where we were going.
Which lead me to wonder how much attention I paid to where I was going when I was younger.
And other people were driving.
Exactly.
After the doctor, and lunch at M&T which was, as always, delicious, Em and I moved onto our secret errand.
Scheduling tattoos.
I have a tattoo from years ago, one I got when I was in a confused place in my life, that doesn't reflect where I am now.
I want it fixed.
So I've designed a tattoo that incorporates the original tattoo into a new one that reflects my love for my family.
And when it is done, which will not be right away because the earliest appointment we could get is in September, I will put up pictures.
Presuming I have my camera back in hand by then.
I'd better.
Em is getting her first tattoo.
Perhaps she'll let me take a picture of it when she's done.
But I won't reveal what it is or how she's gone about designing it.
That would spoil the surprise.
I'm glad she's willing to share that experience with me.
Plus, if she's there, I'll have to be brave about the pain.
It's been at least ten years since my last tattoo, so I only vaguely remember the pain,
I'm sure I'll remember quick enough after the first five minutes.
There are at least two more tattoos I want after this one.
Key word: at least.
I no longer apologize for my love of tattoos.
To anyone.
Stephen knows this about me, and accepts it as part of the magic that is me.
My father, not so much.
He almost had a stroke when he saw my first one, which I had done shortly after Em was born.
He's probably thinking that the older I have gotten the more responsible I'd become.
Um. . . . . .
After hatching our diabolical plan, we headed uptown to see a movie.
Crazy, Stupid Love.
Again, again, much better than I had thought.
Much better.
So I am no longer predicting how I will respond to a film.
Because I have clearly lost my touch.
Clearly.
We came out of the movies at ten to four, and decided at that moment, that we would go to the Community Kitchen.
Chaos and insanity in our lives of late have made it difficult to make it to the kitchen for our usual volunteer time.
Seriously affecting my inner balance and stability.
Reflected in my writing of late.
It's easy to fall into a rut of thinking that the chaos in your kitchen, resulting from the destruction in your living room is worthy of whining and whinging and general misery.
At least I have a house.
However claustrophobic it may be right now.
And eventually it will be put back to rights
Meaning it was time to stop the pity party, and get back to engaging in the real world.
I like being at the kitchen, doing whatever I've been asked to do.
Serving.
Washing up.
Cutting, chopping, grating.
All with my trusty sidekick, Emily, at my side.
Plus, the incredible boost to my self esteem when, while serving, a man on the other side of counter asks you if you've been told today.
Told what, I replied.
That you are beautiful.
Well, no, I said. My husband has failed to tell me that today.
If he doesn't, he replied, you just come to me and I'll tell you all the time.
Now, who doesn't want to hear something like that.
Even if he was a bit drunk and missing some of his teeth.
After we had finished at the kitchen, it was clear that Em was done.
Worn out.
Spending concentrated hours of time with me has that effect on people.
We made a quick stop to the Superstore to collect meds and get something for Em's supper.
Stephen had purchased salad stuff.
Em did not want salad stuff.
So, given that she chauffeured me around for the day, I stopped and got her what she wanted, as well as something for Pookie.
Who was home, hungover.
But still needed to eat.
Just not salad.
Em and I departed from our humble abode at 10.15 am.
Returning at 7.00 pm.
Like I said, a busy day.
One where I hadn't seen much of my hubby.
He was very glad to see me.
And once I told him of my ardent admirer, he reminded me that he bought me salad.
And he thought I was beautiful.
Not wanting to be outdone, he suggested we have our own little outing last evening.
I was tired, but I had missed him, and if he wanted to do something with me, who was I to refuse.
In fact,we've made plans for our own Stephen and Dawne date day next Thursday.
Just the two of us.
Like last night.
When he took me to the PetroCan to try out their new turbo vac with spot remover and scent infusion option.
Vacuuming the car.
That's my husband.
A romantic through and through.
So we reconnected over the din of the turbo vac and the scents of the soap permeating our car.
Attempting to rid the car of the detritus of everyday use.
And the five pounds of dog hair coating the back.
We removed about half of it.
Better than nothing.
I guess.
Title Lyric: Tattoo by The Who
July 29, 2011
Waiting for the contractors.
However, this morning at 7.45 am there was a phone call confirming that they would be arriving around 8.30 this morning.
Hallelujah!!!!!!
Maybe by the end of the day we'll have a new ceiling up and will be able to at least sit on the couch and watch television during the long weekend.
Providing a brief interlude to our kitchen confinement.
THEY'RE HERE!!!!!!!!
THEY'RE HERE!!!!!!!!
THEY'RE ACTUALLY HERE!!!!!!!!!
Working.
Crashing.
Banging.
Drilling.
Other noises I can't identify and I'm not sure I want to.
Frantic Frankie freaking out upstairs, with Stephen.
Who is trying to sleep.
Music to my ears.
These renovations are causing ripples in the placidity of my everyday life.
Well, bigger ripples amid the smaller everyday ripples of my everyday life.
For example, I missed an appointment for bloodwork yesterday morning.
Because I was sitting here waiting for contractors to arrive.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Meaning I will have to approach my doctor, tail between my legs, asking her if she can please, please, please, reschedule this bloodwork for me.
I want my life to return to my normal.
May not be perfect, but it's mine.
I spent several glorious hours in the library yesterday.
Starbucks coffee, ipod, book, pen and highlighter as my only companions.
Peace and quiet.
Lots of reading accomplished.
Articles mined from bursting bibliographies.
And then, when my brain could take no more, and my stomach was protesting its bleak emptiness, I headed to my office for lunch.
Eating, meeting with my research assistant, printing off those mined articles.
It was a glorious afternoon.
I am SO easy to please.
Returning home to Stephen getting ready to leave for a meeting.
Em hanging up her laundry before she engaged in her before work beautification regimes.
While she hung her lazing around the house pants, her work pants, her overpriced Aerie shirts and less than half her underwear collection, I relaxed, lounged, stretched out in a deck chair, watching, talking and joking with her.
She wanted to toss her undies in the dryer.
But my no-dryer-until-November-or-you-will-have-to-sleep-with-one-eye-open policy put paid to that request quickly.
So up went her Aerie purchased panties to dry in the summer breeze..
Whether she liked it or not.
And just the same as the rest of us mere mortals who also have to hang our gotch on the clothesline.
We caught up, as the last couple of weeks we've been slightly disconnected with her work schedule, my attempt to work amid the construction chaos with the resulting confinement doldrums.
Which hasn't exactly made me a chipper bunny the last couple of weeks.
But I am trying.
During our laundry/lounging period, we made plans for today.
Em works a double tomorrow, a double Tuesday, as well as single shifts Sunday and Monday.
So today is a Mummy-Emily date day.
And me with no camera to record it.
No pictures to post.
First, she is schlepping me to my doctor's office.
In her car.
A result of the new provincial government policy dictating that prescription refill requests can only happen in person through a doctor's appointment.
No more calling up and just asking for another six months for my meds.
Next, lunch at M&T.
Then, a secret errand.
One I've been planning for a while.
But am just now putting into place.
Whose purpose will be revealed at a later date.
Perhaps a movie. . . Crazy, Stupid Love maybe.
Who knows other what wild and wacky shenanigans we'll be getting up to this afternoon.
Who knows. . . .
Title Lyric: Going Out by Supergrass
July 28, 2011
Sitting here.
Again.
Waiting.
Again.
For the contractors.
Again.
They did call yesterday to inform us that they'd be here today.
This morning.
So I'm up. Frankie out. Tikka not because she's being stubborn and stayed upstairs, laying on the floor, head down on paws draped over the stair.
Her new default pose.
Eventually her need to pee will trump her stubbornness and she will come to me with that look in her eye, pawing me incessantly.
Showered.
Cars moved out of the driveway to ensure maximum work output.
If they're in the driveway, they're closer to the house.
Fewer steps to the front door.
Maximizing potential production.
Usually they're here by 8.15 am.
It's now 8.22 am.
Concern is already stepping up to the plate.
After I stumbled downstairs this morning, I noticed that the couch. . .
. . .the previously covered in plastic couch. . .
was no longer covered in plastic.
Instead of plastic, a furry brown Goblet was laying on the couch.
Initially, she was lying on top of the plastic in an effort to return some balance and normality to her lately-fraught-with-conflict days.
But apparently, the plastic wasn't all that comfortable.
Or at least not comfortable enough for Her Nibs, the Grande Dame of Dawne and Stephen's Abode.
So, she started her campaign to get rid of the plastic yesterday.
Ripping a hole in the carefully taped plastic shroud covering the couch and crawling underneath it to rest her diva self on the comfort of the cushions underneath.
Terrifying Stephen that she would potentially suffocate herself lying underneath the plastic.
Taking it upon himself to assist Miss Goblet in her mission, he completely removed the plastic.
Leaving me to explain to the contractors what happened to their carefully placed plastic couch shroud.
And trying to convince them that it's disappearance really was the result of the machinations of one, 16 pound cat on a mission.
Think that'll work?
Yesterday I was simply and utterly out of sorts.
Operating on the assumption that Stephen was coming to the library with me, I waited for him.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By noon, after I had been up at 7.45 to take Keith to work for his 8.30 Reel Babies shift. . .
. . .as an aside, they're now training my son for Reel Babies.
Imagining Keith setting up changing tables and toys for tots was the only bright spot in an otherwise frustrating day.
. . .I realized that Stephen had no intention of going into work.
I should have just left.
But for some reason I didn't.
A day sitting, reading Constructing Grounded Theory: A Practical Guide Through Qualitative Analysis.
An interesting book to be sure.
I'll be using it this fall for my Advanced Qualitative Research Methods course.
Reading it seems to be a good idea.
But reading all day about initial, focused and axial coding while sitting still is something I'm not well equipped for anymore.
Before the weight loss (I can see my life framed as Before the Weight Loss and After the Weight Loss), I could sit for hours upon hours, days upon days reading, writing.
No arithmetic.
Everyone has their limits.
However, by 7.00 pm last evening, I'd had enough.
My constitution was screaming for vigorous movement.
Something.
Anything.
So I turned off my computer, grabbed by ipod and went for a vigorous hour long walk, which, by the time I returned home had restored me to some semblance of peace and tranquility.
Making me realize, even more than I already knew, that I am a creature of habit.
I was worried that Stephen would be the one to struggle with the upheaval and chaos in our home.
Apparently, no so.
Me.
I'm the one clawing at the confinement on the inside.
Railing against the clausterphobicness of the house, the walls getting smaller and smaller with each passing day of inactivity.
(They are still not here, its 8.43 am with no presence and no phone call. They said they would be here, they didn't say what time. I guess we should have asked)
In addition to having limited access within my house, the usual summer doldrums have set in.
Highlighting the further realization that I like, need, must have the ebb and flow of the academic year.
The cadence of a day that is structured with time alone and time with others.
Teaching, meeting, talking with students.
Keep me sane.
And allow me to enjoy the time I have alone and by myself.
Which is why I am so drawn to the library Commons.
The background noise of other people's conversations washing over me.
No incentive or invitation to participate.
Just reveling in the comforting glow of the white noise.
Being around people.
Eavesdropping perhaps.
So this is my plan for the day.
Regardless of when the contractors arrive, I am leaving shortly for the comforting embrace of the library, the smell of Starbucks coffee hanging in the air combined with enveloping scent of old books.
Much better than sitting in the kitchen all day, working granted, but lacking the connective sociability of just being around other people.
THE CONTRACTORS ARE HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Which means I'm leaving for the library.
As soon as I have a snack.
Alas, they were just delivering gyprock.
Not staying to install it.
Apparently, that may happen this afternoon, but it's more likely tomorrow.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
Title Lyric: Plastic by Alanis Morissette
July 27, 2011
Everyone has their issues.
Phobias.
Things that make them go EEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Make them want to rush to the toilet as fast as they can while holding on to their innards in hopes that they won't make a public appearance before you can actually reach the toilet.
Stephen's thing is dog barf.
And when he encounters a pool of puppy puke he immediately starts to gag and retch, while I'm yelling in the background for him to get the hell out of there before I have two or more puddles to clean up.
For Em, its hairballs.
Slimy, wet presents left for her, usually on her bedroom floor or on her clothes, by Reilley or sometimes even Goblet if she finds herself in possession of a lump of her long locks.
Keith, as far as I know, doesn't have an issue.
Or he hasn't shared it with me at least.
I have an issue.
Stephen thinks it's odd, humorous, overcomeable and no where near as gross and disgusting as dog barf.
Cigarettes.
My issue is cigarettes.
I can't stand the look of them.
Or anything else about them.
On the absolute unforgivable occasion where I've had to actually touch one, I've scrubbed my hands raw because all I can smell on my hands is cigarettes.
The stench of cigarette smoke is enough to make me want to turn on my heels and run.
If I have to meet with someone, talk with someone whose just smoked a cigarette, it takes all off my willpower, energy, strength of purpose and intestinal fortitude to not just walk away.
People smoking in their cars, windows down, their putrid smoke wafting back into my car puts me in a position where I contemplate the merits of rear-ending them.
Women smoking around their children, or while they're pregnant. . .
Let's just say I have scars on my tongue from biting it, and nail marks in my arm where Em has held me saying, in that special tone, "Mum. . . ."
This morning, as I was returning from taking the dogs out for their early morning relief, in the pouring rain with my umbrella in one hand, Frankie's leash with Frankie on the end of it in the other, and a leashless Tikka because she hates the rain so there wasn't any fear of her wandering any further than absolutely possible to relieve herself, there was a half smoked cigarette on my front step.
The only thing that kept me from completely losing it was that it was dry.
Far enough on the step to escape the downpour.
But enough to make me want to hurl on the front step.
Meredyth.
Who else.
And I have to say that of all the issues and concerns regarding her moving back into the nest, her smoking is the one that I am struggling the most with.
Stephen less so.
As a former smoker (it was give up smoking or give up me) he seems to be more sympathetic to her addicted plight than I am.
And I am not, in any way, shape or form, sympathetic.
In fact, I was adamant that she not smoke anywhere on our property while she is living here.
Because I do not want to encounter the disgusting and malodorous ash can when I go outside to hang laundry or whatever else I may be doing to cause me to be on the deck.
I was overruled.
For now.
After three days of absent contractors we finally received word today that everything has been approved.
And that they will be returning tomorrow.
Which is very good, because I was getting ready to drive to Saint John and "chat" with the insurance guy.
The kitchen is getting smaller and smaller.
The kids testier and testier.
Especially Em.
Keith's room is like a little hotel room.
Flat screen television, cable, laptop, internet . . .
He even keeps snacks in there.
A while ago he requested a bar fridge as the last necessity to meet the hotel like atmosphere in his room.
As the ruling authority of this little kingdom, I vetoed the above request.
Because if he didn't need to come to the kitchen for sustenance, I'd never see him.
But Em. . . .
Em doesn't yet have a flat screen tv in her room.
But she will once Mer moves in.
She doesn't yet have cable in her room.
But we have one more "get another cable feed for $5.00 a month" and we will be putting it in her room.
Because there is only so much Canada's Worst Driver and 16 and Pregnant that I could even contemplate watching.
I don't know if Em has snacks in her room.
I can't tell for the piles of clothes inundating her room.
All of a sudden I got a chill up my spine wondering what things will be like in that room with Em and Mer sharing a room.
An honest-to-goodness genuine chill.
Foreshadowing probably.
Or the finger of Fate gently brushing my spine as a reminder that no matter how well I plan, or how much I think I can control things, at the end of the day everything is out of my hands.
Last night all three of my chicklets worked at New York Fries.
Together.
In tandem.
During Tuesday cheap night, where tickets are $5.99 a piece and people swarm the theaters like bees to pollen filled flowers.
And me without my camera to record it.
I should have gone in and just watched.
But I admit, I was sulking about not have a camera.
Plus, I've seen these people try to wash a few dinner dishes and load the dishwasher.
I KNOW how well they work together.
"Well" being the operative word.
More like dysfunctional, socially impaired, contrary, uncooperative.
Do I really need to witness that in a public venue?
Yes.
I did.
But I also wanted to record it.
Take pictures.
Something to display when they married or experienced other significant life events.
After all, isn't that what children are for?
Abject humiliation.
Title Lyric: Cigarettes and Alcohol by Oasis
July 26, 2011
8.00 am
Sitting here waiting for the contractors.
Again.
Hoping that I'll see their truck pulling into my driveway soon.
Instead of hearing the phone ring, announcing that they're not coming.
Again.
I understand how come they didn't come yesterday.
After the thunderstorms and rain we experienced on the weekend, there were several Monday morning "emergency" calls to our restoration contractors.
Spreading them thin.
Too thin they couldn't get here, apparently.
After waiting for an hour, I called them to see if they're coming.
Nope.
Because they're waiting to hear from the insurance adjuster.
About what I don't know.
I assumed that they had go ahead for everything before they started ripping down ceilings and knocking out walls.
Because if they didn't. . . .
For some unknown reason, the camera, (my camera) the one we purchased for Stephen for Father's Day, is malfunctioning.
A reddish tinge to the photo screen.
Pictures looking like I've taken them through the backdoor screen.
Ask me how upset I am about this.
What am I supposed to do now, when out for walks, or when I am feeling so frustrated that my head feels like it's going to spin off my shoulders. . .
Right now it's at Black's Photography waiting to be sent off for repair.
Something about a sensor.
Like I would know.
She could have told me the camera was suffering from some heretofore unknown mechanical disease that afflicts camera and other kinds of video equipment, and I wouldn't have batted and eye.
As we've had it a little over a month, I am positive it'll be covered by the warranty.
In fact I know it will.
Because if it isn't. . . .
All is not in a state of calamity, however.
Stephen found my cell phone.
It's been MIA for about three weeks.
I only noticed it was missing about ten days ago.
Clearly, then, I wasn't missing it that much.
No ring tones announcing a child on the other end requesting a drive here or a pick up there.
Or wanting me to deal with some crisis or other that I don't want to deal with.
At the same time a niggling thought in the back of my mind that I'm paying for something I can't use was making itself more and more present.
When I walked into the house yesterday after taking Keith to work, and Stephen announced that he'd found the phone under my side of the bed, I was quite happy.
And annoyed.
Because I had already looked there.
Figures I'd look and not see it.
Stephen would and it'd be there waving at him.
Screaming help me! Save me! Release me from this dog hair infested hell!
Well, as dog hair infested as Stephen allows anything in this house to be.
In light of the new living room walls, new paint, Stephen seized the opportunity to resume his campaign for new-to-us living room furniture.
This campaign has been a bone of contention between the two of us.
Him wanting to replace our third hand couch and loveseat set.
Me happy with it.
Now, my happiness could be more the result of complacency rather than actual happiness.
I'll admit that.
But complacency is comfortable and I'm not all that excited about the hunt for new furniture.
Stephen, on the other hand, is overjoyed.
Any excuse to peruse Kijiji, be it for furniture, antiques, old cars, he loves the hunt for something new-to-us, or as I recently heard, "nused."
And he found something.
A pine loveseat.
Reasonably priced.
Very close to where we are.
And a much nicer version than the no-springs, ripped cushions, dog hair ingrained loveseat currently residing in our contractor owned storage place.
The loveseat where I would cuddle up with Frankie for a night of watching back-to-back episodes of Billy the Exterminator.
But loving something and the functionality of that something are inherently different things, so when the living is ready to be returned to rights, the loveseat won't be returning.
Nor will the couch.
But not because it isn't usable.
Mer is bringing with her a new couch that she has graciously consented to allow us to use while she resides in our abode.
So we are in the process of locating a new home for our old couch.
And planning for the purchase of a new couch for the time when Mer moves back out on her own.
Because she isn't living here, with us, forever.
No matter what she thinks.
Title Lyric: Furniture by Amy Studt
July 25, 2011, 7.30 am
Sitting here waiting for the contractors to arrive.
Beginning another week of construction cacophony.
And our confinement to the kitchen.
Although. . .this week is going to be much cooler, which means instead of suffering from humidity inside, I can go outside and enjoy the nice weather.
Garden.
Anything, just to be outside and out of the kitchen.
I'm starting to feel like I live in a bachelor apartment, confined to one room, no where to escape.
And its not like I spend hours in the living room, sitting around, watching television, eating bon bons.
However, it's nice to know that if I wanted to, I could.
But not now.
Family communing is permitted only in the kitchen.
Although Keith has cable in his room, so I suppose, theoretically, we could all descend upon his room, throw ourselves on his bed and watch the CBC New Brunswick News and Coronation Street in his room.
He'd be thrilled.
I'm sure.
Always wanting to see something positive in anything, I will say that having the contractors early morning arrivals as part of our daily routine means that Stephen has to get into and out of bed at normal person times.
A welcome change from his, oh-its-only-noon-I-can-go-back-to-bed-for-a-bit routine.
Or the always frustrating coming-to-bed-at-4.30am-antics.
Yesterday was one of the rare days when both of us could have slept in.
Especially as I had been up half the night for no good reason.
Or at least not one that I could ascertain.
I did get up around 9.30 am knowing that the dogs were in danger of releasing their water works if I didn't get them outside.
Grudgingly, I crawled out of bed with the sole intention of taking them out, feeding them, grabbing a bowl of cereal to quiet my growling stomach, and then back to bed until I bloody well felt like getting up.
However, the Fates had other plans for me.
Or rather, Meredyth had other plans for me.
Sometimes they're one in the same.
No sooner had I sat down to tuck into my yummy bowl of fibre cereal with Balkan yogurt did I see Keith standing in front of me, phone in hand, looking apologetic.
Mum. It's Mer. She has to work at 11.15 and has no way to work.
Which, as an aside, is not entirely true.
She has two feet.
I looked at the clock.
10.00 am.
Tell her I'll be there at 11.00. And to be outside because I am not waiting.
At any point during that hour I could have gladly gone back to sleep.
But knowing how much Mer needs to work was enough incentive to push back the desire for slumber and keep me motivated enough to stay awake.
By the time I picked her up, drove her to the theaters, and returned home, there really wasn't much point in going back to bed as I was just going to have to get up to prepare for another afternoon outing with Mum and Stephen.
Although extra sleep is always welcome before these excursions, it just wasn't happening.
Mum announced, when we arrived at her room to take her our, that it may be best if we meandered through the mall.
Instead of outside, on the trails, in the sunshine.
Seems she wasn't feeling as perky as planned and wanted to ensure quick access to the bathroom should the need arise.
What was I going to do?
Say no.
We're going on the trails as already decided and your and your wonky waste management system can just suck it up.
I don't think so.
Just imagining the look on her face and what would come out of her mouth should I ever think that was something appropriate to say was enough to keep me in check.
Plus I would never say something like that even if I did think it.
All she needed to get back on track was Imodium, but the nurses wouldn't give it to her because it wasn't a part of her "standing" med orders.
Really.
Imodium.
It's not as if she was asking for Oxycontin, or a hit from a bong.
Imodium.
That's all she wanted.
So I did what any daughter would do for her mother, knowing she wasn't feeling up to snuff.
I asked Stephen to drive us to Shoppers Drug Mart.
Bought her Imodium, a bottle of water and made her take two pills to calm her irate insides.
What's the nursing home going to do?
Fish them back out?
I don't think so.
Complain?
Bring it on.
I have all sorts of house related frustrations I am more than willing to release if such an opportunity should arise.
9.00 am
The contractors just called.
They're not coming today.
Ask me how completely not thrilled I am about this.
Someone had better show up tomorrow and get. things. done.
Because I am not a patient woman when confined to the kitchen.
Title Lyric: Medication by Queens of the Stone Age
July 24, 2011
Right this second, it's 3.53 am.
I've been up since 3.14 am.
Can't sleep.
Perhaps because Stephen was exhausted by 8.00 pm and was pestering me to go upstairs with him and read that I succumbed even thought I didn't want to.
I wanted to go for a walk.
At 2.30 my eyes popped open.
Wide awake.
No chance of sleep in the future.
I got up.
Confused the dogs.
Came downstairs to the kitchen-turned-family room-turned office.
Turned on the dishwasher.
Why not?
I'm up.
Em came home around 3.45 am from the Empire Theater staff showing of Captain America and Harry Potter.
Stunned I was wide awake, in the kitchen.
Apparently, Captain America was awful.
Corny.
One of those movies where the previews contained the best parts of the film.
We were supposed to see it later this evening, but now we're not.
We're going to see Harry Potter instead.
Again.
Fine with me.
I need to see movies at least twice.
Once to find out what happens.
Again to see how what happened, happened.
At a more civilized time of day. . . .9.30 am-ish. . .
Yesterday, I gave in to the no longer unavoidable.
Tikka needed a bath.
Desperately.
Not only because she was a tad pungent.
But also because she needed to get rid of her excess hair.
I genuinely like bathing Tikka.
Like Meredyth, Frankie is high maintenance and demanding, making it virtually impossible to even look at Tikka without him thinking that something is happening and he's being left out.
So bath time is also some much needed alone time with my best canine girl.
Although I highly doubt that's how she sees it.
Em and Mer had to work for 11.15 am and 11.30 am respectively, meaning it was an opportune time to put on my Tikka bathing clothes, put her in the car, and go.
Keith and Stephen were engaging in some male bonding time, so it was just me and Tikka.
I could hear Frankie crying and barking from the driveway until I turned the corner.
Broke my heart.
But not enough to turn around and get him.
He does not like being without Tikka.
Which is going to raise a lot of problems at some point.
Not for a long time.
But at some point.
Being in the back of the car sans Frankie should be a signal to Tikka that something is up, and she's not going to like it.
Because the only time she's without Frankie is if she's going to the vet.
Or getting a bath.
We don't bath Frankie.
At least not at this point in his life.
He takes a mere brushing as a personal challenge.
An invitation to engage in some aggressive playtime.
Biting the brush.
Jumping around.
Being a general pain in the ass.
A bath would be the Frantic Frankie version of an extreme sport.
We get off the Hanwell Road, just across the road from Ritchie's Carpet Warehouse and here we are.
U Wash Dog Wash.
Any place that provides elevated bathtubs is a place you want to bath your dog.
Plus there are so many extras.
Gourmet, organic, baked-in-store dogs treats.
Biodegradable poop bags.
Critical in a house where there's more poop than potatoes, and Goblet refuses to use the litter box for her solid waste.
I never purchase fewer than three rolls of 120 at a time.
That's how much shit is generated in this house.
And that's only the animal shit.
Dodads and gegaws of all sorts.
.
Tikka and I were placed in the middle tub.
I love the steps up to the tub.
Because lifting Tikka isn't on a list of things I'd like to experience.
She's always excited when we go inside.
New smells, lots of space, people happy to see her.
The owner commented that I was on my own today.
Usually, I can convince one of the kids, or Stephen, to accompany me.
It really is a lot of work to bath Miss Tikka.
I replied that it was just me and Tikka today.
To which the owner responded,
Well, you're pretty bossy when you're bathing Tikka.
And you know what?
She is absolutely right.
I am.
I know this about myself.
Part of it is genetic.
My father is the same way.
The other part is just wanting everything done right.
Dawne-right.
Which probably explains the impromptu Stephen and Keith bonding time.
And the looks of relief on the girl's faces when they realized they could use work as a viable reason for not joining me at the tub.
Seems bathing Tikka is going to be a Dawne-only activity from now on.
Fine with me.
I have steps, a tub, and all the supplies I need at the ready. . .
Brushes, toe nail clippers, two bottles of shampoo, ear wipes, face wipes, dog treats, special scissors to remove those pesky knots and mats, mini vacuum like blow dryers, towels (for me and Tikka), plus a vinyl apron to reduce wetage caused by shaking dogs.
Alone is just fine with me.
First, we begin with the brushing.
Which can take quite a while, given how much fur Tikka can carry.
After about 30 minutes of brushing, we had amassed a half a bathtub full of hair.
I could have kept going, but Tikka was already indicating that her patience was running thin.
And we had just started.
There are two round, metal dodads that allow you to tether your dog to the wall so they can't jump out of the tub.
If Tikka behaves herself, I don't tether her.
But once she starts voicing her opinion regarding how she feels about being subjected to such undignified treatment, it's time to tether her.
Because after voicing comes active attempts to jump out of the tub.
Especially when she realizes that part and parcel of the bathing experience includes stage two: nail clipping.
When Tikka was younger, she abjectly refused to allow anyone to clip her nails.
Including the vet, who after the one and only time she ever tried to clip A nail, said Tikka would have to be anesthetized to have her nails trimmed.
And then suggested letting her run around on concrete to file them down.
Which lead to a period of allowing Tikka off leash time in a local, enclosed tennis court.
The only enclosed concrete surface I could find.
Thankfully, with age, Tikka has mellowed somewhat, and no longer beliefs nail trimming is tantamount to torture.
Don't confuse her allowing her nails to be trimmed with any sort of assistance on her part.
That would be too simple.
I still have to cajole her, whisper sweet nothing to her, as I try to grasp a paw to trim a nail.
And she firmly plants said paw right back on the bottom of the tub.
Meaning it usually takes about 15 minutes to do something that, with a co-operative dog, and a competent owner, should only take about 5 minutes.
But Tikka isn't co-operative.
And am I competent?
Let's not even go there.
Brushing and nails complete, we move on stage three: the wet down.
Wetting her down is no easy task.
Why should it be?
She's so big, with so many layers of fur, that wetting her down takes a lot of time.
Add the random body shakes, and by the end, I'm just as wet as Tikka
And then, stage three: shampooing.
She was so dirty that the first bottle of shampoo barely raised a lather.
Which meant I had to turn to shampoo bottle number two.
And then half of a third bottle, complete with little red massager dodaddy (the only part Tikka truly enjoys) before we were able to manage this:
She really is all fur.
My father asked me why I didn't shave her.
She was shaved.
Once.
And was so humiliated she refused to come out of the house until some of her fur grew back.
Making pee and poop time even more challenging than it is most days.
So no.
She isn't shaved.
Stage four: rinsing the shampoo out of her fur was when her patience was near its end and the barking and whining commenced.
Luckily, I've listened to Mer and Em whine so often, and for so long, that I had absolutely no trouble tuning Tikka out.
Once I had all the shampoo out, and towel dried her as best I could, it was time to engage in stage five: the dryer.
I had considered letting her dry naturally.
Until I remembered that the back of the car, behind the dog gate, has all sorts of detritus from the dogs and wet dogs are the same as magnets, meaning all my effort would have been for nothing.
So drying her it was.
Once side at a time.
Brushing and massaging ultimately loosen hair, which means that when I turn the dryer on, hair literally blasts out of her.
And like everything else, drying takes time.
Even after an hour, she's still a little damp.
But dry enough to demagnetize her.
Another quick round with the brush and voila!
A fresh, clean, lighter, Tikka who cannot get out of the tub fast enough.
She's digging in my purse for treats.
She was disappointed.
And the MESS!
There was dog hair EVERYWHERE.
Wet, it just laid where it landed.
But the dryer doesn't just dry Tikka and eventually, while drying her, we were treated to hair swirling and falling like snow during a storm.
Dog hair in my purse, my hair, my shoes, my glasses were so coated I had to turn the dryer on them, the supplies were coated, her leash and collar were coated.
But Tikka could have cared less, as she pranced and paraded around the store her entire body yelling "FREEDOM! FREEDOM!"
I peeled off the vinyl apron, which protected my front, only to realize that bathing Tikka in weather where the humidex if 40 degrees means that I was drenched in the back.
Perhaps I should have jumped in the tub myself.
So for $20.00 I was able to brush, clip, wash, shampoo, rinse and dry Tikka.
In two hours.
I'd pay $30.00 to do this.
Because the thought of bathing her at home is just frightening.
Especially when you realize how much mess you make if you bath her the way she should be bathed.
This was the bay before Tikka:
Clean and pristine.
And afterwards. . .
So happy I didn't have to clean up.
Again, I'd pay at least $30.00.
The clean up alone is worth it.
And a fresh, clean Tikka?
Priceless.
But that wasn't the end of the day's adventures.
That would just be hoping for too much.
I had my usual Saturday evening supper with Mum.
And Dad.
The menu.
Not beans.
Hot dogs and potato salad.
And for whatever reason, everyone wanted hotdogs last night.
So by the time I got there, two hot dogs remained.
Fine.
I only needed one.
And no potato salad.
Even better.
The heartburn it causes is excruciating.
Salad it was then.
Light, tasty butterscotch mousse for dessert.
While my father had a heaping plate of shepherd's pie, with green beans, carrots, and three new potatoes.
Whenever he's coming for a meal, Mum always has the kitchen put aside a lunch time meal for him.
Dinner was fine.
Afterwards. . .well. . .
Mum wanted to go outside.
Fine.
They headed for their usual spot in the back, along the river.
I was not excited, as this is the place where the staff hang out on their breaks and smoke like chimneys.
Resulting in the most disgusting, smelly, putrid ash can you could imagine.
As a longtime smoker, my father could care less how anyone feels about his smoking.
So off to the ash can we went.
Me knowing better than to say anything.
Alas, all the chairs were in use, the staff wanting to be outside and smoking.
My mother not wanting to sit with them.
So off we went in search of another spot.
My father proceeded to push her towards a little bench with a canopy over it.
The darkest, shadiest spot on the entire nursing home property.
Because my father will only sit in the shade.
My mother, a sun lover who freezes all winter was having none of that.
WHERE are you taking me????? she asks.
Not very nicely.
When my father shares his seating plan with her, she plants her feet on the ground, stopping the wheel chair and informs him in no uncertain terms that she is NOT sitting in the shade.
But he can, if that is what he so chooses to do.
My father sighs, and asks her where she wants to sit.
And she points to the sunniest, warmest spot at the front of the nursing home.
That is where she and I sat.
While my father sat across from us, in the shade.
Apparently, he takes medication that is not conducive to sun sitting.
My mother takes it, too.
When my father reminded her of this, she fixed an icy gaze upon him and replied,
I am almost 72 years old, I have to be inside all winter, freezing and if I want to sit in the sun, I will sit in the sun and it's none of your business.
And that was that.
My parents.
My children.
My husband.
Who is the most challenging depends solely upon the day.
And the adventures just continue.
This afternoon, Stephen and I taking Mum downtown to the King's Place Flea Market and then for a walk along the paved trails.
There will be no access to perfume counters.
But that won't make much difference.
Something will happen.
It always does.
Title Lyric: Just a Dog by Tindersticks
