And out in public it's embarrassing. . .

August 13, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 8 days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Let it be!!!!!!!

Me and the ocean, seven days.

Let it be!!!!!!!

Before my sanity leaves me alone, bereft and struggling for purchase in this crazy world.






Stephen made the most delectable, sumptuous chili yesterday.

Just the way I like it.

A lovely red tinge to the juices, bursting with kidney beans, chick peas, black eyed beans, celery, lean, lean ground beef that was then washed in hot water once it had been cooked to remove any last traces of fat from the lean ground beef.

Because apparently, even lean ground beef has some fat.

It was bursting with spices, flavour, it was glorious.

At the same time, it was bursting with something else: three large jalapeno peppers.

Stephen's favourite kind.

The peppers, coupled with a liberal helping of Louisiana hot sauce made for a rather spicy chili.

A lot spicier than the chili I regularly make.

I knew the minute I finished the first bowl that I was going to be in trouble.

So the second bowl was just punishment.

But it was so good. . . . .that's my only defence.

And sure enough, the chili make it's presence known within an hour of eating it.

While I was in the Superstore.

More specifically, the condiment aisle.

Engaged in the search for vinegar.

The aisle was busy with other shoppers searching for pickles to compliment their evening meal, or other such sundry items that can be found in the pack shelves of a Superstore condiment et al. aisle.

Stephen is ahead of me, eager for the vinegar.

I'm a little bit behind him, pushing a small cart containing a bag of milk and a box of kosher salt.

And then it happened.

No warning.

No internal voice in my head saying, something is going to happen, prepare.

Nothing.

Making me just as surprised as everyone else in the condiment aisle when I opened my mouth and out came the most obnoxious, loudest, noisiest, wet sounding BELCH.

Burp.

Whatever you want to call it.

It was loud.

Very loud.

Surround sound, bass turned up to it's highest setting loud.

As if in slow motion, Stephen turns around and looks at me, eyes wide with astonishment, the corners of his mouth beginning to curl into a smile which will eventually fill out into a full bodied belly laugh.

A young couple out for their Friday night shop turned and looked at me with such surprise, laced with a tinge of disgust.

Others in the aisle were polite enough to avert their eyes as I walked past them towards Stephen so he could put his f***ing vinegar in the cart and we could get the hell out of there.

In front of me was a cloud of chili smelling belch that I, and thankfully only I, was subjected to.

Not to mention the chili that made a return visit to my mouth.

Resulting in the addition of a box of Eno to small grocery cart.







Punishment for enjoying Stephen's chili continued throughout the evening.

There were several more belches while in the vicinity of the Superstore.

In the car.

All the way from the northside to the theater.

And each one was as bad as, if not worse than the preceding belch.

I was so glad to get home where I could Eno up and belch in peace.

Only having to live amid the snickers and sly looks of my family.

As opposed to the Friday night Superstore shoppers.






A decision has been made in this house regarding the "putting up" of dill pickles.

Hence the reason for our being at the Superstore during BELCHFEST 2011.

In spite of the time crunch we've experienced this month, and the looming closeness of the beginning of the term, spending today and tomorrow making dill pickles isn't the worst thing we could do.

May even be fun.

At this moment, gleaming Mason jars, 25 in all, are lined up like toy soldiers on the counter.

Three large containers of white vinegar are standing straight beside a large box of kosher salt.

All we need are the actual cucumbers.

A mission that will be accomplished this morning, once Em has been dropped off to work and we can get to the Big Potato for purchasing.








We were on our way to get cucumbers last evening.

Keith in the backseat wanting to spend time with us, or, just wanting to go for the drive.

Either way, he was with us and I was happy he was there.

However, we were waylaid just as we crossed the Westmoreland Street Bridge with a phone call from Em, indicating that she had finished early and was more than ready to come home.

She was also feeling very, very ill.

The result of eating a Spam sandwich sometime between midnight and two am Friday morning.

No one should eat Spam.

And never in late night/wee hours of the morning.

Em has such a sensitive digestive system, which has been in direct opposition to her competitive nature to the point that it has been completely ignored.

Until yesterday.

Because her digestive system may be more subtle than her competitive nature, but it is certainly more powerful and was determined it would be heard.

Given full attention.

Resulting in Em and me on the couch last evening, just sitting watching television while she relaxed and did nothing.

Attempting mininal recovery.

For a little while.

Until she was feeling somewhat restored, at least enough to make a pop up book for this scavenger hunt.

While watching Jersey Shore.

At which point, I left, because even a tummy troubled Em can't keep in the living room with Jersey Shore on the tv.

But only with the explicit agreement that she get herself into bed by midnight, because what she needed more than anything was a decent night's sleep.

And not to stay up until all hours of the morning preparing things for the scavenger hunt.







She is also extremely distraught because she has misplaced her phone.

Again.

It was last seen Thursday evening, at the theater and sometimes between midnight and when she arrived home at 2.00 am, her phone became MIA.

Causing Em much distress.

Much.

We've torn her room apart, even dismantling Reilley's carefully made nest of blankets, much to his chagrin.

The nest needs to be washed.

Her purse has been dismantled.

All that's left is to search a co-worker's car (if he'll let me), see if the theater cleaning crew found anything, and put out a general plea for human decency and return her phone if they have it.

Em's sanity and mine rest upon good faith and human decency.

Are we ever in trouble.




Title Lyric: Baby Likes Burping by Weird Al Yankovic

I'll get most everything i wanted, except for Farrah Fawcett . . . .

August 11, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 10 days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am starting to worry, though, because Black's has yet to call about the return of my camera.

Which means I'll be requesting a loaner if it isn't here before I leave.

Request may be a bit gentle for what I will do if I don't have a camera for my vacation.







The big news?

OUR. HOUSE. IS. ALL. PUT. BACK. TOGETHER.

And, at least at this minute, we don't have to pay the $250.00 deductible.

Yesterday the "cleaning woman" came over.

Keith remarked on the obvious when he said it was rather ironic that men did all the managing, administering and repairing, and this one woman was present only when we were packing the breakables and the final cleanup needed to be done.

She was here ALL morning.

She cleaned up things I didn't even know needed cleaning.

One of the many reasons Stephen does all the cleaning.

She hadn't even finished cleaning when this big truck is backing into the driveway.

Containing our furniture, Persian rug, etc.

Oh Happy Day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The rug rolled out, all the heavy pieces brought in, arranged where we wanted them, and for the first time in a month, I was able to sit down and watch television.

It took five minutes for me to realize there was nothing on.

But at least I had to choice to determine there was nothing on, and to decide if I wanted to sit there just because I could.

Frankie was on the couch within seconds of my butt hitting the cushion.

The couch that will soon be on its way to my brother's house.

So I'd better enjoy it while I can.

We still have knick knacks to put around the living room and pictures to return to the walls, but at least we can sit in there, watch the news, and Em has her place of rest and relaxation back.

Meaning Keith should no longer feel as if he is a stranger in his own room.






Yesterday afternoon Mer and I went to see The Help: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1454029/.

Brilliant film.

Definitely worth seeing if you can.

But at least a five hanky film.

At least that's how many I used.

I tried reading the book previously, but for some reason stopped at the halfway point.

I've restarted it.

In fact, it was such a good film that Mer and I, along with Stephen, Keith and Em saw it this afternoon.

Stephen isn't a film goer in the same way I am, but, he was gracious about it and acquiesced to my request.

I admit, I was surprised.

Our last film experience left Stephen saying a moratorium on film going was necessary.

The cause of the moratorium?

The Change-Up.

Em convinced us to see it Sunday evening.

Not a film I would ever see again.

Or recommend to anyone under 18 or over 25.

At least not on the big screen.

For whatever reason, there were a lot of boobies in this film

A lot.

Em and I were so uncomfortable, for ourselves and for Stephen.

But, if you can get through the first part, the second part of the film isn't that bad.

Unfortunately, you only come to this conclusion after reflecting on the film.

Most of the first part I spent wondering if I just shouldn't leave.






Seeing The Help for the second time this afternoon was just as good.

The only difference?

I didn't cry quite as much, but when I did cry, I cried.

Stephen and I sat together with our venti Starbuck's in hand

The kids sat in front of us, cradling their NYF trays, laden with fries, poutine, hotdogs, soda.

I didn't buy it.

I wouldn't.

And I was very glad they sat in front of me instead of beside me.

Because that would be more temptation than I could manage on a rainy Thursday.

The only stain on our afternoon's movie viewing experience were the two women sitting behind us.

One woman, throughout the entire film, provided a running commentary of what she was seeing and how she felt about what she was seeing.

It took everything I had to not say anything to her.

Although I did turn around at one point and look at her.

Not that it made much difference.

The commentary just continued.

Coupled with the peanut gallery trio in front of us, the one I had to, a couple of times, interrupt, the movie going experience was not as great as it usually is.

But the film was certainly worth it.






The kids have been involved in the annual Empire Theaters Employee Scavenger Hunt.

Well, Keith and Em.

Mer was participating on a team, however, with other commitments it was more than she could manage and still hold on to what little sanity she has right now.

Em decided as soon as she was put on a team and got the 172 item list of things to collect that she was going to win.

I never realized how competitive my little Bunny is.

And she is determined to win.

The second she came home from the Scavenger Hunt meeting, she was running around the house collecting up the things she could that would count towards her team's points.

Each team of four is given a day off together to engage in those scavenger hunt activities that require pictures, videos and for the team to be together.

Keith was out all day Tuesday.

And I mean for 12 hours.

He returned home sunburnt, but happy, having thoroughly enjoyed the antics he and his fellow Empire employees got up to during the day.

Em's was yesterday.

It rained all day.

But that didn't seem to dampen their team spirits as when I arrived home the movie with Mer, Em and her teammates were coming out of the house and the next thing I knew I was taking pictures of people in Frankie's pool, and later heard of a video that involved Tikka and a sheet and her poor performance as Lassie.

I can't imagine what that was about.

But I want copies of all the pics and videos.

Oh yes I do.

And maybe I'll even put some up here, if I get the appropriate permission.

When we came back from the movies this afternoon, Em cooked up a pan of green scrambeled eggs, the sight of which may prevent me from eating for the rest of the day.

And then she fried up an entire container of Spam.

The smell is hovering in the kitchen like a malicious and diabolical cloud.

Meaning I will not eat again for the rest of the day.

Keith ate an entire can of Spam on Wednesday.

When he returned home, I had some concerns regarding whether or not he'd be able to hold onto said Spam.

I don't know if he did or didn't.

And I don't want to know.

One of the items on the list is a poster of Farrah Fawcett.

I immediately thought of this one, as it was plastered everywhere during the 70s.

If you have one and can get it to me before Saturday, please do.

I'll get it back to you asap.

You can't imagine how hard it is to find one.




Title Lyric: Farrah Fawcett by Super Deluxe

The cat came back the very next day. . . .

August 10, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 11 Days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And after these past few weeks, I need a vacation.

Desperately.



The painting is finished.

Trims, too.

All the heavy machinery has been removed, as has the cardboard floor mats that have decorated our front entry way for the past month.

I won't miss tripping over it.

Getting caught up in it when the dogs decide first thing in the morning that it's cool to be unco-operative.

Which is just about every morning.

Today, we await the arrival of the "cleaning woman" who will come in and clean up the remainder of the mess, in preparation for the return of our furniture Thursday.

We will be able to move our computers, our work, ourselves back into our home office, meaning the kitchen table will no longer look like as if it's suffering from multiple personality disorder.

Imagine eating at the table without having to shove everything to one side, or pile crap on top of Frankie's crate.

I can't wait to walk into the kitchen and NOT be greeted by the jungle of plants, the piles of boxes, the laminate floor pieces stacked up against the cupboards.

Thursday evening, we will be sitting in our living room, watching television, and celebrating our return to "normal."

A highly subjective and open to a vast array of interpretations word in this house, but it's my normal, and I have really, really missed it.



Having said that, there will be a weekend in September where we will experience a brief revisit of the upheaval associated with painting.

Our bedroom, the only room upstairs to have never been painted since we moved in here in 2001, the room scheduled to be painted the week the leak was discovered, will be painted.

By someone else.

We have made the arrangements.

A reasonable price has been agreed upon.

It will be done.

Oh yes.

It will.



One of the things I've learned from this experience is that there are times in your life when you the only choice you have in the face of the experiences before you is to just let them happen.

Toss aside the controlling part of your personality, and let what has to happen, happen.

Not to say that I did this.

I did try.


Really.

But with the absolute absence of any grace or decorum.

There are other things, too, I have come to realize I can't control.

Primarily, other people.

My children to be exact.

In this instance, I have come to some realizations about my son.

I had a lot of time to think about him last evening when I was outside cutting the grass.

The grass he was supposed to cut.

He did cut part of the lawn Sunday before he went to work.

But, if he was honest and really thought about it, he hasn't exactly been as willing as I would have liked him to be about cutting the lawn this summer.

In fact, there have been times when it has felt like pulling teeth trying to get him outside, cutting the lawn, properly.

Ah.

There's the rub.

What does properly mean?

And how come he always manages to cut the entire lawn, and we have a big yard with a lot of lawn, in an hour and a half?

I was outside this evening for almost two hours, with only about two thirds of the grass to cut, and when Stephen finally dragged me in because it was getting to dark to cut safely. . . .

. . .I would have continued, but there was some concern over falling in one of the many dips and valleys in our yard, perhaps severing a limb or something like that. . . .

and I still haven't finished.

In fairness to Keith, I am not a 20 year old slender male with strong arms and legs.

I am a 43 year old woman who is overweight, soft and the heaviest thing I have to lift is a knife.

Plus, I don't own grass cutting sneakers.

Last time I cut the grass, remember, I wore my winter boots.

It was that or sandals.

I like my toes.

All of them.

This time, however, I did find a pair of sneakers.

Under Em's bed.

A pair of black sneakers with Velcro instead of laces that she was forced to buy for work one evening because she left her work shoes at home.

$14.99 Walmart special.

I didn't care what they looked like or how much they didn't cost, just so long as I was spared wearing my old winter boots.

There was one, small problem, however.

Em's feet are a bit bigger than mine.

So there were some instances of my feet slipping and sliding inside my too big grass cutting shoes.
Which partially explains why it would take me longer than Keith to cut the grass.

But age, strength, too big shoes and softness doesn't fully explain how come it takes me longer than Keith.

And then, while cutting, I realized what the difference was.

How much grass was cut.

My son knows that I love to weedwack.

Therefore, any part of the lawn he deems to much trouble to cut he leaves alone, justifying it with the assumption that I'll get it with the weedwacker.

All those parts of the lawn he routinely ignores were cut this evening.

By me.

With the lawn mower.

Not the weedwacker.

And that, my dear readers, is the reason why it takes me longer than Keith to cut the grass.

The question is, with my new found knowledge of the super stupendous powers of our LawnBoy lawn mover, how long will it take Keith to "properly" cut the lawn?

Only Saturday will tell.



A crisis of catastrophic proportions was narrowly averted last evening by the anal retentiveness of my dear husband.

As he was going through the newly painted living room, engaging in his end of the day inspection of the state of things in Denmark, me in the kitchen typing away at my blog and wondering just how long it will take to get the wet grass from underneath my fingernails, Stephen YELLS, panic stricken,

DAWNE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAVE YOU SEEN GOBLET????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is never a good question for Stephen to ask.

At any time.

But it is even less palpable in the evenings, after the sun goes down.

I responded, calmly and carefully,

Yes. I saw her when we came in from cutting the grass and you shoooed her upstairs. Why?

BECAUSE ONE OF THE PAINTERS LEFT THE LIVINGROOM WINDOW WITH NO SCREEN ON IT OPEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I can not only hear the panic in his voice, but feel it vibrating from every fiber of his being.

Getting up from the kitchen table, contemplating the oh-so-glorious night we were going to have if she wasn't in the house, and questioning whether we could get a search party together, along with some military assistance, I headed to the basement to see if she was chowing down, again, as Stephen pounded upstairs to the bedrooms to see if she was lazing on anyone's bed, or sitting on the "Goblet Box" in our room.

As I was looking through the basement for her furry little self, I wondered how long it would take us to find her in the dark.

One evening I pulled into the driveway after collecting Keith from work, to see Stephen caught in the light from the headlights, in his jammies, holding onto a flashlight and a bag of cat treat.

Keith, in the backseat, tired and worn out from a grueling shift at the theaters simply said,

Shit.

Goblet got out.

Another night, actually it was when Stephen's parents and Aunt Irene arrived in Fredericton for our wedding, his father decided there was something he needed in his car and walked outside leaving the front door wide open.

And that was all the temptation Goblet needed.

Out she walked calm as can be, and seconds after his father had walked out the door he left open, Stephen comes by, and hears the little bell on her collar jingling.

From the front yard.

Stephen went outside, tentatively approaching her as she watched him get closer and closer and just as she was about to make her break for freedom, he tackled her as if he was a quarterback and she was football.

And then returned in the house, clutching Goblet to his chest, and referring to his parents as "You people" made it very clear to them how he felt about the front door being left open.

I'm surprised they stayed for the wedding.

So when I came up from the basement to hear him say that she was safe and sound upstairs, I felt a relief so deep my knees almost gave out.

Because every time she gets out, which has thankfully only been three times that I recall, it has cut Stephen so deep he literally can't function.

Except to think about all the horrible things that could happen to her.

And he has a VERY active imagination.

Too active if you ask me.




Title Lyric: The Cat Came Back by Raffi

I just flip em' the bird and keep going. . . .

August 9, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 12 Days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I picked an alternative color for the living room.

A deep, rich chocolate brown.


Making you feel, when you're in the living room, that you're being enveloped by a 90% cocoa bar of Lindt chocolate.

The first coat was on the wall yesterday, done while I was napping in an attempt to recover some sanity from the morning's mayhem.

I. So. Wish. I. Had. My. Camera.

In fact, I think I'll call Black's right now and see if they can give me an update on my little camera's status.


Of course, it isn't ready yet.


It better be before we go on vacation.



My mother, the grocery store and my ever dwindling sense of sanity.

Like small children who need strollers and all sort of other paraphernalia when they leave their natural habitat, taking my mother out requires some advanced planning.

Which we usually do during our Saturday evening visits.

I was a bit nervous proposing the grocery store escapade, because as everyone knows, I detest the grocery store, and can't imagine how anyone would want to schlep through the aisles of their local cash cow willingly, knowingly, consciously if they didn't absolutely have to.

And I had to.

No milk, cereal, cheese, lunch meat, Em's gluten free lactose free vegan margarine. . . .

I either sucked up that a trip to the grocery store was necessary, or risk the kids chowing on dog food.

According to my mother, I was a regular dog food fiend when I was younger, which is why my teeth are good today.

Um.

As usual, I underestimated my mother's need to get out of home as often as possible until the cold weather finds her sitting in her room, heat blasting at 30 degrees Celsius, wrapped in flannel jammies, a heavy sweater and a warm blanket.

She was thrilled.

I'll go anywhere, she said.

I just want to get out.

So we picked her up at 1.30 pm, signed her out, loaded her into the car, her wheelchair into the trunk and off we went to the grocery store.

Mum sitting up front with Stephen, shrinking further and further into the seat every week, regaling us with tales of her shenanigans from the time I left last evening until we picked her up.

It was a short regaling.

At the grocery store we park illegally in the fire lane long enough to assist Mum with her disembarking from the car routine.

I move her legs from the car to the ground.

Stephen has the wheelchair at the ready, brakes on, and she grabbed the door handle, my hands underneath her arm, providing a bit of extra help.

But just a bit.

She grabs onto her well braked wheelchair, and sort of just falls into it.

Adjusting herself accordingly, she looks at me and says,

We can go now.

If my mother is in a wheelchair, logic would dictate that she have a handicapped parking pass.

Logic would be right.

She does have one.

In my father's car.

The one she's never been inside of and in all likelihood, never will be.

Leaving all sorts of room for a very pertinent question: How come the parking pass doesn't stay with Mum so we can use it when we, the only people who engage in taking her out, take her out?

Because my father claims he needs it.

For his back.

I argue that if this is the case, he should go to his own doctor and ask for his own parking pass.

In fact, I am going to insist on it.

Because one day, as logic would dictate, I am going to get a ticket for parking in a handicapped parking spot without the appropriate sticker.

And that doesn't even address the guilt I experience when I do have to park in a spot without the appropriate sticker.

Nor the fear of having someone with a sticker confront me, at which time I would probably thrust my mother's wheelchair in their face.

This actually happened once.

But at the time we had no wheelchair seated mother with us.

It was Christmas time.

The parking lot of the Canadian Tire plaza on Smythe Street was completely, utterly full.

Stephen just needed to run into the CIBC Bank for something or other that required his actual physical presence at the bank.

So he parked in the only available space.

A handicapped space.

Leaving me in the car, he gets out, and as he is walking around the front of the car, the man parked next to us gets Stephen's attention.

Stephen points at me and keeps on walking.

Deep in the pit of my being I knew this wasn't going to go well.

Immediately, for me.

Later for Stephen.

Sure enough, Stephen's backside isn't even in the bank and this man is rapping on the front passenger side window with his knuckles.

I lower the window to hear him state the obvious.

You're parked illegally in a handicapped spot. I sit here every Christmas time and watch for people like you and your husband who think that they're needs are more important that the needs of those people who actually require this space.

What did my husband say to you?

He said to talk to you.

I did the only thing I could do.

Moved the car to the fire lane in front of the bank and waited for Stephen to come out.

He did.

Tail between his legs because he knew I was NOT happy.

And he was right.

I wasn't.

Hence my fear of being confronted by people who legitimately need the handicapped parking spot.

Clearly my father doesn't have these worries.

But he soon will.

Because I am taking the pass from his car and asking him to please make an appointment with his doctor because if he really needs a handicapped parking dodaddy, he can get one of his own.

Until then, a sign perhaps?

I HAVE NO STICKER BUT MY MOTHER IS IN A WHEELCHAIR, LIVES IN A NURSING HOME AND THIS IS HER ONE AND ONLY OUTING OF THE WEEK. PLEASE TAKE PITY ON US. 

And then post a picture of the two of us beside the sign.




Once inside the grocery store we wait for Stephen to meet us.

Because pushing a cart and my mother in her wheelchair requires far advanced motor skills.

Ones I simply do not possess.

And then we begin.

She refused to bring her wheelchair feet, so I worried the entire time we were there that her legs were getting tired.

Hence there was a lot of stopping for rests.

Initiated by me.

She had her own little agenda.

A list of things she wanted.

Two oranges, a red pepper and container of strawberries for my father.


She felt the oranges in the display box with such vigour I thought she was trying to make juice.


Not a red pepper was free from her taloned grip as she tested several, leading to a queue of customers waiting for their opportunity to molest the produce.


After the veggies and deli we headed into the bread section.

You would think that getting bread is a simple process of selecting a couple of loaves and off you go.

Not in our house.

All the loaves and loaves of glorious egg bread brought back from Montreal in May are now gone.

And Em is very, very fussy.

She only likes D'Italiano white or wholewheat bread.

If I am buying, it's wholewheat.

Stephen and I only eat multigrain wholewheat breads, or black breads.

So we end up going through the checkout looking as if we're carb starved with all the bread we have to buy.

Now, the only part of the grocery store experience I enjoy, other than leaving, is slicing the bread.

There is an automated bread slicer at the bakery and every time we need bread, I get unsliced bread so I can slice it.

As thinly as possible.

They have a range of slice thickness, from 1/2 to 1.5 inches.

I ALWAYS get the 1/2.

Stephen ALWAYS wants the 1.5 inches.

I am never swayed.

Ever.

My mother was quite taken with this automatic bread slicer.

Although her primary concern was the loss of fingers.






And of course, because my mother was with us, the grocery store had increased its air conditioning.

Resulting in my mother remarking the entire trip throughout the store that it was REALLY cold.

Actually, it was.

In fact, I wish I had taken a sweater with me.

Something I rarely think of in August when the temperature is 29 degrees BEFORE humidity.

As we were wandering through the store, my mother was, with her eagle eyes, taking in the prices labelled on the shelves.

My mother hasn't been responsible for grocery shopping in at least seven years.

The prices of groceries have gone up considerably since the time she last passed her debit card through a grocery store checkout.

She was certainly not impressed with the fact that a normal, non-club pack size box of cereal was over six dollars.

Not that we purchase anything considered normal sized.

It's all about the club packs in this house.

The bigger the box, the better.

The more cereal we can bring home, the happier Keith is.

And as we were perusing the pickles, because Stephen has finally accepted that it is not likely that we'll be making pickles this month and he so wanted a bottle of Vlasic kosher dills, my brother arrived.

I knew he was coming.

He called earlier in the morning to assess what Clan Clarke-Pidwysocky had on the docket for the day and when he heard we were heading to the grocery store with Mum, he just couldn't resist

Mum was not aware her one and only son would be making an appearance.

Surprise!

You really can find anything at the Superstore.

At least according to my mother.






My mother doesn't see my brother as much as she would like.

Meaning she sees her visits with him as akin to the second coming of Christ.

She was so happy to see him, ecstatic really.

He took over pushing her chair through the grocery store, leaving me free to toss our needed items into the cart.

While we laid out our booty on the conveyor belt, my brother sat with Mum on a bench in front of the cashier.

Because knowing what we get and realizing how much it costs was more than I thought my mother could handle.

I know for a fact it's more than I can handle.






Having my brother in attendance was actually serendipitous.

Because in the excitement of taking Mum to the grocery store, wheelchair in the back of the car, I inadvertently forgot that trips to the grocery store usually lead to several bags being stored in said back of car.

Alas, there was no room.

But my brother rescued us by putting Mum's wheelchair in the back of his car.

Me with Mum in our little red Focus, her eagle eye trained on my brother to ensure that he was treating her wheelchair with the dignity and reverence it deserves.

Stephen with my brother in his Subaru.

A tough experience for him as he loves Subarus and is always remarking about how he'd like his next vehicle to be a Subaru.

In fact, during our drive up the hill to Starbucks, where we were heading for a much need caffeine boost, my mother remarked that she was concerned that when we traded in our car we would get something she wouldn't be able to get into or out of.

I reassured her that such a thing would never happen.

One, the likelihood of our trading in the car anytime soon is completely nil.

Not a chance.

I love that car, and right now, we have more outflow than incoming so another car is just not in the cards.

Two, I had already taken into consideration that whatever vehicle we have, in addition to having the capacity to cart around canines, it needs to be able to chauffeur my mother in the style and comfort to which she has become accustomed.

Or at least that I can afford with soon-to-be-three university tuition's plus all the other expenses incurred around here.






As we were departing the Superstore on a rainy, humid Sunday afternoon, when the traffic is heavy and the drivers idiots, I had a little encounter with another driver.

One of my numerous pet peeves regarding other drivers is when they see you waiting to make a left hand turn at a busy spot and they choose to not use their signal to let you know that, in this case, they, too, are headed to the Superstore, not continuing along the street, so it's okay for you to make the left hand turn provided that there is no oncoming traffic in the left hand lane.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And just when it was clear on my right, I looked over to see a silver something or other headed in my direction, so there was no way I was going to be able to go.

And then that silver car turned into the Superstore.

I could have gone.

And me being me, with my window down, and seeing that the female driver of the other car had her window down, I took the opportunity to "thank" her for her courtesy and consideration.

She flipped me the bird.

The only reason that finger remains on her finger to flip someone else off is because my mother was in the car beside me and I didn't want her to be an accessory to anything that would have happened had I turned around and followed that woman to share with her my interpretation of her response.

Not to mention how Stephen would have reacted had his normally mild mannered wife engaged in some road rage retribution.





Title Lyric: Criminal by Eminem

I'm so frustrated, falling behind. . .

August 8, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 13 Days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My usual Monday morning bliss was shattered by one after another after another construction cockups.

The contractor called me this morning at 7.45 am to ask if someone was going to be home so they could come in and sand walls, paint the living room ceiling and paint the office.

Of course someone will be home.

Just like someone has been home all the other mornings they chose not to come.

Fine.

Good.

Progress.

He calls back a few minutes later, wanting to conflab about the red paint.

I told him I was going to the paint place in an hour, when it opened, to look at alternative colors, because I wasn't taking any chances that the red paint wouldn't need additional coats of paint.

Coats of paint I couldn't afford.

Because remember, I am only allowed two.

Things went from tolerable to pain in the ass shortly after they arrived.

Because no one told us what their plans were for the day.

And when we were informed that today's activities included painting the office, it occurred to us that things would, obviously, have to be moved from the office to somewhere else.

All of which would have been done had they informed us Friday of their plans.

But they didn't.

So while contractor guy 1 was sanding the newly replaced office wall, completely cocooned in a plastic semi circle that extended from ceiling to floor, Stephen and I removed what needed to be removed from the office.

Stephen, I have to say, was pissed.

How come they didn't say that this needed to be done for today? We could have had it all done before they even arrived? he whispered to me as we were transferring plants, pictures, children's desks, lamps, chairs and other bits and pieces from office to our bedroom.

Now simply known as the storage space.



Everything moved, it was time for me to chauffeur the children to Empire Theaters for a morning meeting about the employee scavenger hunt.

Keith and Em had worked quite late last evening, so neither of them were happy about being rousted from their slumber at such an inhumane hour.

I didn't really care.

Unfortunately, Keith tried to transferred some of his pent up frustration in my direction.

In addition to the meeting, he wanted me to commit to taking him to get his glasses adjusted, and then take him downtown.

I was in a bit of a mood because the construction cockups and no confirmation about end of meeting times meant my Simply for Life appointment had to be postponed.

Because no one, not contractors, not children, not husbands, could seem to understand that I can't be in more than one place at a time.

And that the only place I wanted to be was at Simply for Life.

The only place I had to get to was Color Your World to get paint chips for the living room.

So I was harbouring some resentments.

Couple that with Keith's demeanour and demands and you had a recipe for a less than pleasant drive to the theaters.

I said that the best thing at that moment was that no one speak.

And even though I know the boy comprehends English, he just kept talking.

And talking.

Because he was hell bent to have his say.

Which is how I know he's my child.



We arrive at the theater.

They go to their meeting.

I head to Starbucks because if there was ever a morning when I needed a venti Pike Place roast it was this morning.

Of course, in all the frustration and confusion, I forgot to ensure I had reading material with me.

Luckily, there was a full and complete Globe and Mail at Starbucks, so I read it while I drank my coffee, waited for Chapters to open, and waited for the kids to finish what was supposed to be a 15 minute meeting.

But wasn't.

Eventually, Keith showed up, his friend in tow, to tell me that his friend was taking him to get his glasses adjusted and that he'd see me later.

Given how miserable he was, later was fine with me.

Leaving me to wonder where Em was because I needed to get those paint chips and get back home so the contractors could get the paint mixed.

Eventually I gave in and called Em.

Who said she was meeting with her scavenger hunt team and would be with me shortly.

I wasn't in the mood for shortly.

Finally Em shows up.

We leave.

Head to the paint store.

Em stays in the car while I peruse paint colors.

Enjoying a brief interlude from the chaos and cacophony.

Until Em comes in bearing my cell phone telling me Stephen is on the phone.

Meaning, another crisis was unfolding.

Hi honey! What's up?

Did you tell them that you wanted the green in the office changed because they're getting ready to put on a putrid color green. Their on break now, but they want to paint when they come back in AND they want to paint the office without repainting the office ceiling. They said it isn't covered by the insurance so they won't paint it.

I could hear, feel, smell and taste his overwhelmedness.

So I grabbed some paint chips and left, barrelling home to address the latest construction crisis.

I come home, walking towards the house and hear,

My wife is right here.

One, the paint color was the one I had selected.

Stephen is on the fence about it.

At this point, they could paint the room chartreuse and puce and I wouldn't care.

The ceiling was another issue.

They were not going to paint it.

So, I did the only thing I could think of on the spot.

I asked contractor man 1 if he would be interested in painting the office ceiling and how much he'd charge for it.

$50.00.

After work.

SOLD!

After 5.00 pm he'll return and paint the ceiling.

Stephen offered to, but given his frustrations, I figured letting him loose with paint may result in our ceiling looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.



Fires put out for the time being, I moved on to the next crisis of the day.

As I was waiting for the kids in Starbucks, my cell phone rang.

The only reason I answered was because I thought it was the SFL people returning my call.

Nope.

Guess who?

Her Nibs.

Meredyth.

She started with her "hi's" and "how are you's" but I was just not in the mood.

Mer, what do you want?

I already knew.

But I wanted to hear what she had to say.

I need a drive to work. For 11.00.

I'll be there at 10.45. Be outside. Be ready.

Em, sensing my stress, offered her car and chauffeuring services.

Good.

Because I wasn't feeling very driveworthy at the moment.



And this all before 11.00 am on a Monday morning.



The after 11.00 am shits and giggles weren't much better.

Stephen, frustrated and angry was wandering through the house muttering about what he'd like to say to the head contractor, and how there was a serious lack of communication during this whole process that he found completely unacceptable.

All of which was overhead by the contractors working upstairs and downstairs.

At lunch time the head contractor showed up.

Setting Stephen, the love of my life, but the all-talk-no-action-peace-loving-man-that-he-is, into a bit of a flutter.

Time to haul out the hose and put out some more fires.

Through communication and patience we were able to sort out all of the issues.

Including that of the red paint.

Remember that second contractor call this morning?

Seems there was no communication between the head contractor and the other contractor and the red paint had been mixed in spite of my saying I no longer wanted the red paint.

Head contractor wasn't a happy guy.

Which is why they need to talk to one another as well as to us.

By the time twelve thirty rolled around, it looked as if we were to be contractor free for the remainder of the day.

Frankie out of the crate, celebrating his new found liberty.

Goblet and her bell jingling throughout the house, joyous at her release from the claustrophobic confines of our bedroom.

And a contractor's van pulled into our driveway.

The floor guy.

Coming to re-install the floor.

He looks like Santa would if Santa just came off seven day bender.

Oh happy Monday!






I will share the fun of taking Mum to the grocery store.

But it'll have to wait for tomorrow.

Because it's only 1.33 pm and I am ready to crawl back into bed, hide under the covers, and come out only when all the chaos and crap has ended.

Meaning I'd be in bed for the rest of my life.

Some books, water, the occasional cracker.

I could handle it.



Title Lyric: Masterpeice Theater III by Mariana's Trench

And they can almost fly into your eye. . . .

August 7, 2011

14 days to Vacation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Two weeks from tonight I will be walking along the shores of the Northumberland Strait.

Taking pictures.

Watching the dogs frolic in the waves.

After experiencing the construction chaos of the last three weeks, the peace and tranquility of the seaside will be sorely needed.

And the construction chaos peaked on Friday when the contractor informed Stephen. . .

. . I wasn't home, of course. I was at the three hour Friday morning meeting that was postponed.

Because if I had of been home, this would have been resolved immediately. . . .

. . .that I was not going to be able to have the deep, rich red I selected because we were only allowed two coats of paint, as per the instructions of the insurance company, so they would bring the paint samples back Monday morning so I could make another choice.

I will get my rich, red paint.

Or those paint chips will be going to a place much darker than the red paint I selected.

Last evening was another round of baked beans and brown bread at the nursing home.

But time, just to shake things up coleslaw was also added to the menu.

Just when you thought things were patterned and routinized.

What was also a little unusual was the size of the helping of baked beans I was offered.

Accepting that you will eat nursing home helpings while dining with nursing home residents is part and parcel of the nursing home experience.

For some reason, last evening's head cook, who is perhaps the most surly, unpleasant human being I have ever met, was uber generous with her plate of beans.

And having been brought up to eat everything on my plate, I did.

Resulting in the at-the-table-oh-my-gawd-I-can-feel-it-happening-right-this-second-expansion of my middle.

Caused not by beans.

Gas.

That stayed with me for the duration of what turned out to be a very long evening.

And provided my children and husband with much mirth and amusement.

Yesterday was indeed a long day.

After the nursing home, Stephen met me downtown and we went for a nice, long walk.

Desperately needed for so many reasons not including the public, open air expulsion of the bean causing gas.

We walked for about an hour and a half, chatting, laughing, enjoying being away from the construction caused claustrophobic atmosphere.

We arrived home to the heat and humidity trapped inside in spite of the open windows, and numerous fans attempting in vain to sweep out the heat.

Now, normally after noshing at the nursing home and legging it around downtown, I would come home, greet my capering canines, greet my children who have taken to hermiting themselves in their bedrooms, I would move to the peace and comfort of my own bedroom, change into my jammies and crawl into bed with Kobo in hand, ready for a nice, long, leisurely read interrupted only by visits from my children, husband and loving licks from Frankie and Tikka.

All of that happened.

But with a twist.

No jammies.

Laid on top of the bed, Kobo in hand, Frankie at my side, fully clothed, watching the clock.

Because there was still one more event on my Saturday calendar.

The Birds.

Tippi Hedren.

Suzanne Pleshette.

Jessica Tandy.

And a whole lot of birds.

On the big screen, original 1963 print.

Part of Empire Theaters Fan Favourites series.

Only a movie could entice me enough to leave the house for an 11.55 pm viewing.

Only a movie.

This treat was provided by my loving Bunny.

She bought the tickets ages ago as an early, all family for Mum's birthday celebration.

My birthday is approaching.

But we will be at the cottage when the event occurs.

And Em wanted do to something while we were all together.

Something she knew I would absolutely love.

And she was right.

We arrived at Mer's apartment at 11.20 pm.

Of course, she wasn't ready and Em had to engage in recon to find out what was up.

She was asleep.

Keith did predict this from his place in the backseat.

His very I-am-being-a-right-cranky-git space.

Stephen, ever the night owl was quiet excited about viewing this film.

Odd, given that in any other movie going experience save seeing the Harry Potter films trying to get him to a movie is like akin to getting Em to clean her room and Mer to be financially responsible.

His usually-movie-challenging nature was, I suspect, dampened by his love of Tippi Hendren.

Then. . .

Now. . .

Look familiar?

She's Melanie Griffith's mother.  

I never thought I'd ever have a reason to write about Melanie Griffiths.

But I am not sinking so low as to include a picture of her.

I have standards.

And these Fan Favourite Nights are not just about seeing great films on the big screen.

There are prizes, too.

One of the prizes in particular had Stephen's heart pumping.

A signed photo of Tippi Hedren.

Alas, we did not win that prize.

But, we did win a family pass to the Hopewell Rocks.

A favourite family haunt, so I was most excited about the opportunity to spend a day wandering around the rocks during low tide:

And at high tide:

Ending the day with the requisite visit to Alma, and in particular Kelly's Bakery for one of the world's best sticky buns.

Better than a photo of Tippi Hendren any day!

And this wasn't the only prize won by our little family.

Mer, too won a prize.

While nibbling on a large tray of movie nachos complete with extra cheese and washing it down with an upsized soda, Mer won herself an hour with a nutritionist and physical trainer.

The irony was JUST too glaring to ignore.

And even it wasn't, I couldn't have ignored it if I tried.

By the time we managed to get to the car, after the movie, she had traded her healthy prize for five hours of pool at Dooly's.

That's my child.

Of course, the movie was wonderful.

The Birds is one of those movies that stays with you because one, it's terrifying and two, (and this is a spoiler so if you haven't seen and want to, close your eyes and move forward) there is no explanation provided for how come the birds attacked this small, bay community.

Not uncommon for Hitchcock who actually did the same thing in Psycho.

Initially, he wanted the film to end with Lila Crane finding Norman's mother in the basement, being attacked by Norman who was then held back by Sam Loomis just before Bates was able to actually hurt Lila.

But. . .

The studio refused to release the film until Hitchcock added a scene where someone, an expert, in this case a psychiatrist, explained what was wrong with Norman and how come he did what he did.

How come?

The studio didn't believe that the 1960s American film viewer could handle seeing the handsome, boy-next-door-turned-serial-killer and experience his crimes and subsequent capture without leaving the theater with an explanation for his abominable behaviour.

Part of the mystique of The Birds is not having that explanation.

In my opinion.

Not in the opinion of my adorable, loving and sometimes uncultured children.

Mer: I didn't like that movie at all!

Me: How come?

Mer: There was nothing to say how come the birds attacked everyone.

Me (excitedly) But Mer! That's part of the magic. Hitchcock did the same thing in Psycho. . .

Mer (cutting me off) Mom. Stop. I wanted a reason.

So, the majority of 1960s America and Mer want answers for how come what happened, happened.

I was not impressed with her cutting me off.

For the remainder of our time together that evening, including when she was walking to her apartment building, I randomly yelled out,

CAW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

By the time we arrived home, took the dogs out for a night light pee and poo, put on my jammies, crawled into bed and I turned on my Kobo, it was almost 3.00 am.

Well past my 9.00 pm-in-bed-to-read-for-an-hour-before-I-fall-asleep-with-my-glasses-on-and-Stephen-has-to-come-in-take-off-my-glasses-and-turn-out-the-light, routine.

And of course, I had to be up and energetic the next day for another Sunday afternoon adventure with my Mum.

This Sunday's activity of choice?

My choice, not Mum's. . . .

The Superstore.

We desperately needed groceries.

Mum desperately needed to get out.

But the Superstore is only open from 12-5.

I did what any other mother of three who is in need of groceries and promised her mother and outing could do.

Combined the two.

Thankfully, I have a mother who just wants to get out, so her standards for where she goes are fairly low.

And it was an adventure.

Mum, me and Stephen in the grocery store on a very busy, rainy, overcast Sunday?

Of course it was an adventure.

But it'll have to wait until tomorrow.

Title Lyric: Birds by Kate Nash