Let me tell you 'bout hard work. . .

May 23, 2011

Our lawn is a bitch to mow.

Which I sort of knew, as our house is on a hill and the backyard is nothing but hills and dips.

But knowing and experiencing are two different things.

Very different.

And I should have known what the afternoon would be like from the less than auspicious beginning.



We have a heavy lawn mower.

Two people, minimum, are required to bring it out of the basement to the back deck.

It also has an adjustable handle. . .

Stephen loosened the handle so I could grasp the front of the lawn mower while he walked backwards up the step with the back end of the lawn mower.

Where the engine is.

So it's heavier.

Such a gentleman, my husband.

Consequently, the adjustable handle, which was supposed to be upright as Stephen tightened it enough. . .

. . .was not tight enough and came down over my shoulders, pinning my arms to my side, and ensuring my hands had no where to go other than where they were, holding the lawn mower.

Pinned by the lawn mower.

A metaphor for the entire afternoon.

Stephen found my predicament hilarious.

I was less than amused.

But, at the same time, aware that 70 pounds ago, the handle would have probably knocked me on the head rendering me unconscious.

Yeah weight loss???

We managed until we got to the top of the stairs, because we were on an angle.

When we were both level. . .

. . .keep your snarky comments to yourselves, please. . .

. . .and Stephen wanted to put the lawn mower down, that became a bit of a challenge.

Because if I let go, the handle would have slipped even further down.

Somehow, we managed to keep the mower at an angle long enough for me to extricate myself from this most unfortunate position.

Nothing is ever easy around here.

Nothing.






Next we had to tackle the weed wacker.

It needed new wire on the spool.

Hmmmm. . . .

I think this calls for a visit across the street to our most friendly neighbour who has a yard care business and knows how to do these things.

He wasn't surprised to see me.

Neither Stephen and I are what you would call machine savvy people.

We can't even put up a clothesline.

He was very patient and showed me how to get the wire onto the spool.

Assuming, most erroneously, that I would remember and be able to do it myself the next time.

Back home.

Spool in weed wacker.

That I do know how to do.

All that was left was to start the thing and let the wacking commence!

Assuming, most erroneously, that I would remember the very precise order of operations necessary to begin said machine.

Back across the street.

More patient demonstrations.

And a roaring weed wacker ready to throw of the winter sloth and begin its hard work.






Weed wacking isn't the hardest thing to do in our yard.

But there is a lot of it.

We have lots of trees and gardens that are not amenable to lawn mowing.

Hence I wack their perimeter, making everything look nice and neat.

Those hills are a pain to mow, and in all honesty, you can't, so I wack those.

The plan was I wack and Stephen mows.

You know what they say about the best laid plans. . . .






Stephen is taking a blood pressure medication that makes his legs swell, his feet hurt, creates fatigue and generally changes his usually industrious and friendly disposition.

He eventually started mowing.

But he'd mow a bit and stop.

Do something else.

Mow some more and stop.

Do something else, perhaps inside the house where I couldn't see him.

Mow some more and stop.

Not the roaring mower pushed to the limits of it's endurance I'd become used to.

He mowed the front yard and called it quits.

I don't think so.

One, the lawn must be cut otherwise we're going to have to hire someone from the city with their handy dandy ride on mowers to come and rescue us from the rapidly encroaching lawn.

Two, the sun is out and who knows when THAT will happen again.

Three, and most important, I wanted it done.

He wasn't budging.

So, I did what any other loving, caring, sympathetic wife would do.

Got angry.

And did it myself.

When I want something done, I want it done and I don't want any whining, bitching, moaning, kvetching, about it.

Just do it.

And I did.

I'd never cut this lawn or used this mower before, and in doing so acquired a greater understanding  of where the weed wacker could be used.

So it was a learning experience.

And, truth be told, I actually didn't mind mowing the lawn.

I can see me doing it again.

Imagine.






As the sun was out, I also insisted on washing all the laundry, bedding, and hanging it all on the clothesline.

Undies and all.

Meaning between wacking and mowing, I was in and out of the house with baskets of laundry.

By the time all was finished, I had a shower, had dinner with all the kids. . .

. . .a rare event and one I normally cook for but was too tired to do so, therefore I made Stephen purchase pizza I couldn't eat, meaning I ate cottage cheese and boneless, skinless chicken breast while they satiated themselves on luscious, cheesy, olive and mushroom pizza. .

. . . made fruit salad and put sunshine dried sweet smelling sheets and blankets on the bed. . .

. . .and was then off to the nursing home.

There was still the underwear to deal with.

Same size as the original purchase.

Not what she wanted.

Back to Sears I go.

And I said to my mother that if she didn't like what I brought back next time, she was coming with me.

Cause I'm tired of returning underwear.






Today I am sore, but it's the kind of sore you get from accomplishing something.

So it's a good sore.

And the day is light.

We're off the the new Pirates of the Carribean movie as soon as Em can remove herself from the shower and beautify herself.

Mer's coming with us, so we'll stop and collect her.

Keith's already at work.

Even Stephen is coming.

A nice way to spend a very cold, very windy Victoria Day.

And the yard. . . .it just looks so good!



Title Lyric: Dear Mr. President by Pink

He used to cut my grass. . . .he was such a nice boy. . .

May 22, 2011

The world didn't end.

Surprise.




More predictable?

Underwear.

As soon as my mother eyeballed the underwear she asked for, she announced they "looked awfully big."

I checked against the underwear in her drawer.

She was right.

One size too big to be exact.

That'll teach me to take messages at 6.15 am and then rush to purchase underwear after work when my brain has officially shut down due to overuse.

You'll have to take them back, she said.

Because that I didn't already know.

Of course, when I took them back for what was supposed to be a straight exchange, there was not one pair of underwear in the size my mother wanted.

I know this because I checked.

Twice.

With Stephen as my witness.

Which will be necessary when I tell her that yes, I got her underwear in the right size, but no, they aren't the same kind.

Every other size?

Piles and piles.

Of course.

What did I do?

Spent 30 minutes looking for replacements as close to what she had as humanly possible.

Instead of the four I returned, I came out with six.

I know she is going to tell me that she doesn't need six pair.

Because now she has nine pair.

And there are only seven days in the week.

But. . . .

The buy three for this price was the only Mum size I could find.

Unless she wanted to wear something shiny and slippery.

And I assumed she didn't.

Tonight will tell the tale.






There was a bonus, however.

Other than getting my mother the right sized underwear.

Chocolate.

As we were leaving Sears, I noticed a sale bin and inside were several bars of the relatively expensive Lindt chocolate bars.

90% cocoa.

Yummy!

And instead of bearing the usual $3.79 pricetag, several bars were sporting $1.80 sale stickers.

I bought all of them.

One of the few things I am allowed to eat on my SFL plan is dark chocolate.

The more cocoa the better.

Usually I stick to the 85%.

But I couldn't pass up such a great sale.

Plus, NO ONE in my house likes them.

Just me.

In normal circumstances, I'd have to hide those chocolate bars somewhere in the house to prevent child consumption.

Or Stephen gobbling.

But not these ones.

Again, it's the little things.







Our grass is getting very long.

Unruly looking.

Downright sloppy.

Seems that's what happens when you have a month of rain with smitches of sunlight thrown in.

We're in the midst of a battle regarding the lawn.

I want it cut, by us, now.

Stephen thinks its gotten too long and wants a one time yard servicing.

AKA he doesn't want to do it.

So, I am going out this afternoon to cut it.

The sun is out.

Which is enough incentive on its own.

But more than that, I just cannot stand looking at it anymore.

All our neighbours have cut their grass.

Meaning the disaster that is masquerading as our grass is even more noticeable.






Growing up, I had to cut the lawn every single Saturday.

Out in the morning, pre-ipod, so all I had to entertain me was my imagination, I would haul our very old lawn mower from the garage and spend at least 30 minutes trying to get the damn thing started, before I began the two hour journey from front to back making the yard look nice.

I didn't mind it so much.

Until the morning I almost mowed over a snake.

That sent me into the house, yelling at my father to get said snake from under the front porch because I was NOT going back out there until it was gone.

I also left the lawn mower running.

Which didn't score points with my dad.

Too bad, so sad.

So I am not unacquainted with the technical aspects of lawn mowing.

But, you know, in the ten years I've lived in this house I've never cut the grass.

Ever.

Weed wack?

You know it.

Nothing I love more than getting out the weed wacker and making the difficult to mow spots of our yard look good.

Plus I like the obliterating everything out feature.

Cause you hear NOTHING when you're weed wacking.

Not even your own thoughts.

Hence why I like it so much.

I spend way too much time with my thoughts as it is.

I don't like that my hands are numb and tingly afterwards, but that's short lived.

So this afternoon is dedicated to yard work.

Maybe even some weeding.

Which should tell you how desperate I am to get outside in the sunshine.

I am looking forward to yard work.

What next?

Housecleaning?

God forbid!




Title Lyric: He Used to Cut My Grass by Frank Zappa

Pile of kittens. . .soft and fuzzy. . .

May 21, 2011


A Saturday morning and a long weekend.

Getting up when I wanted to. . .well sort of. . .

More like getting up when Tikka's full bladder and Frankie's empty stomach could wait no longer. . .

But at least I was able to go back to bed when their morning ablutions were complete.

Coffee and fruit salad in bed when I did decide to get up at 11.30 am.

Reminding me of the Wallace Steven's poem about coffee and oranges. . .

Sunday Morning

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound.
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
2Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.
3Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
4She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
5She says, "But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss."
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
6Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
7Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feel shall manifest.
8She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

I always loved this poem.

Things to do, but not immediately.

The only dance on my card is going to have dinner and a visit with Mum.

This is the kind of day that makes getting up at 5.30 am worthwhile.

Now if the sun would just come out.

For longer than 5 minutes.






Yesterday, my only non-teaching day, was filled to the brim with "things I need to catch up on."

Answering emails.

Downloading assignments.

Grading assignments

Making up exams for next week.

Meeting with my new honours student.

Volunteering at the kitchen.

Coming home and crashing with the collective exhaustion of the last three weeks.

I can't wait for a series of non teaching days to be the norm and not the exception.






Meredyth has a kitten.

Jasper.

Yes, I know he's cute.

But there is something about not being able to look after yourself and trying to look after something else that is just a tad bit annoying.

But he is very, very cute.

We all knew about Jasper.

Meaning Keith, Em and me.

Stephen. . .

Not so much.

In spite of unfounded misconceptions, I actually don't like keeping things from Stephen.

And it was getting harder and harder to do so.

When she called on Wednesday, expressing her need for cat litter and I couldn't figure out how to get it to her without Stephen knowing what I was doing, I simply said to him,

Meredyth needs cat litter.

And watched as the meaning of that statement permeated his consciousness to land squarely on the island of understanding.

She has a cat.

Yes. He's more of a kitten. His name is Jasper.

Um.

Initially, he was about as impressed as I was.

And when we went to pay for the repairs to Em's car, to facilitate more needed repairs, we stopped at the grocery store and bought an 18 kg box of cat litter.

While in the cash line up, I turned to Em and said,

Does she have food for this cat?

Thank God for cell phones.

Yes, she had some food, but more would be needed.

Hence, a bag of cat food was added to our order.

I have yet to meet this kitten, and was going to when we dropped the goods off to her, but, we still hadn't had supper.

It was almost 8.00 pm.

And Stephen was getting crankier and crankier by the millisecond.

Dinner first then.

After which he went to drop off the cat cargo, proclaiming he was going to get the $20.00 back from Mer.

The cost of said cat cargo.

Whatever.

I didn't think to let Mer know that Stephen was delivering the goods.

Apparently, when she opened her apartment door and saw Stephen, she was more than a little shocked.

You know? she asked.

I know, he replied.

Oh, she responded.

Can I see him? Stephen asked.

Sure, she replied.

And the second he looked into those kitteny blue eyes, he was a goner.

Hooked for life.

The she-must-pay-back-the-20.00-proclamation became consider-this-your-cat-warming-gift.

Softie.

Pure softie.

All marshmallow, all the time.

I still have yet to meet this kitten.

By the time I do, he'll be a full grown cat.

I understand Mer's need for companionship.

She doesn't like living alone, and, having something to come to has made a world of difference for her.

Making her more content to live on her own.

And thus making life more content for those of us who don't live with her.

Having said that, as soon as she told me she had a cat, I understood how my parents and my former mother-in-law felt when my ex and I got a dog.

How can you look after a dog when you can barely look after yourselves and, oh, the two children you've had?

I get it now.

I'll have to tell her.

She'll appreciate the acknowledged awareness.

But it'll be hard to admit.

I'm just like that.

Now, I want a kitten.

It's been a long time.

Five years to be exact.

Not since the introduction of Goblet has a kitten graced the threshold of our happy home.

I like cats and kittens.

Another would be more than welcome.

The last time I said to Stephen we should have another child, I got Frankie.

Perhaps it's time to ask for another baby.

Maybe this time I'd even get a pony.

Title Lyric: Pile of Kittens (In My Mind) by Parry Gripp

The way it used to be. . .graduation day. . .

May 20, 2011


The end is near.

Intersession will be over in a few short days.

I think I can make it.






Convocation.

I love Convocation.

I am reminded of all the times I graduated.

And there were a few.

But a STU Convocation is special to me.

I remember walking across that same stage.

The nervousness about not tripping in front of everyone.

Excitement, over finally accomplishing something.

Mer, at five years old, yelling "YEAH MUM!" as I got my degree and hearing its echo through the cavernous Aitken Center.

Mer, who was wearing a bright tangerine colored sweater my grandmother had made for me when I was her age.

In a room that looks like a cavern, she was a little beacon.

I needed to know where everyone was sitting, of course.

And now it's my turn to march in with my colleagues, sit at the stage and watch as the students get their hard earned (at least in most cases) degrees.

Wearing my own version of the tangerine colored sweater.

That's Stephen behind me.
I look like I have a bustle under my robe.

Making sure I don't trip, or fall, or do anything that would compromise my precarious standing position.

I am wearing the doctoral robes and hood of UNB.

University of New Brunswick, where I received my MA and PhD.

The robes and hat were a very expensive gift from my parents.

Even more expensive when you consider I only wear them maybe, at the most, in a good year, twice.

Although they fit me better now than they did when I first got them.






Of course, there is the Convocation Tea afterwards, where all the starving guests, graduates and faculty congregate to recover from the two and half hour long ceremony.

And pictures are taken.

I don't like having my picture taken.

But I realize it's important to the students, so I oblige.

This year, however, Mr. Cranky Pants, aka Stephen, didn't want to stick around for the tea.

He never does.

But this year he was particularly forceful in his demand that we not stay.

He doesn't like crowds.

And as the skies opened on Convocation Day, soaking everyone who was outside for more than 3 seconds, the room was even more crowded. . .with wet people who couldn't escape to the outside.

Hence his being most insistent that we head home asap.

But I did manage a couple of shots.

Me and Josh. . .my Vicar of Dibley compadre:

Me and Ashley. . .and I am really much happier than I look in this picture. I don't know what was going on in my head at the time:

Me and Josh and Jason:

And I can see that I've lost 70 pounds, but, I can also see I have a HELL of a lot more to go.
Still, I am looking better than I did a couple of years ago:

I don't know WHAT I was thinking letting myself get to this state.

Thankfully, I am in the process of moving forward.

People on my Dad's side think I look like my grandmother:

I'd be happy to not look like the Goodyear Blimp.

Title Lyric: Graduation Day by Chris Isaak

I wanna be your underwear. . .

May 17, 2011


I don't know about you, but when the ringing of the phone permeates the sleep fog enfolding my consciousness, I assume the worst.

Stumbling out of bed, narrowly avoiding a nasty fall as Tikka INSISTS on sleeping in the too- small-for-her-space on the floor of my side of the bed, Stephen mumbling, "Is that the phone?", I stagger to our home office and grab the phone as the answering machine kicks in.

Waiting for Stephen's recorded voice to finish his spiel, I spit out an anxious, "Hello?!"

"Dawne?"

"Mum! Is everything okay? Did something happen? Are you hurt?"

"Dawne?"

Okay, can't inundate her with too many questions at once. Better take this slowly.

"Yes Mum. It's Dawne"

"The next time you go to the mall could you get me some more underwear? The girls say I need seven pair, one for everyday of the week."

Immediately, my heart stops racing, the adrenaline coursing through me slows, and I am transported back to Saturday's excursion to the mall, in the lingerie department at Sears, looking at my mother and asking her if she thought perhaps she should get more than three pairs of new underwear, as there were seven days in the week.

She assured me three were plenty.

I should have overridden her decision, but I like to consider myself more democratic than that.

Clearly I need to be more dictator-like in some situations.

"More underwear. Okay. No problem."

"You remember what size I need and what kind I like?"

"Yes. That's not a problem."

"Okay then. I'll talk to you later. Have a good day."

"Bye Mum. Love you."

"Love you, too."

And then I return to bed.

Stephen asks me what's wrong.

Mum needs new underwear I say.

At 6.15 am?

She gets up at 4.30 every morning.

6.15 is her 10.00 am.

But it isn't mine.






The weekend.

Okay.

How much time have you got???

Saturday morning, 10.30 am Em and I pull into the nursing home parking lot, bracing ourselves for Shoe Shopping with Mum, Part II.

As she gets up at 4.30 am, she was most definitely ready for our excursion to the mall.

In fact, she called me at 9.00 am about her bracelet and remembering to bring it so the jeweler could repair it. . . .

already done thank you very much. . . .

but I think the real purpose of her call was to see that I was awake.

Em and I are a well trained team when it comes to my mother, so we had her signed out, all her lunch time pills pocketed, and her ensconced in the front seat of the car, seat warmer turned on, her buckled in, before she even knew what was going on.

"Oh that heat feels so nice on my back! It's always so cold in that place!"

Says the woman whose room is NEVER below 30 degrees, even in the summer, and just to be sure has a sign below the thermostat in her room that reads, loud and clear:

DO NOT TOUCH JANET'S THERMOSTAT. SHE IS ALWAYS COLD.

While driving, I reminder her that I was paying for her new sandals, so there wouldn't be any need to worry about getting the shoes she wanted, or how much they cost.

As we were leaving the nursing home, one of the staff members stopped us to remind Mum she was to get underwear.

Underwear?

My mother hasn't had underwear since she went into the hospital three years ago.

And I was always bothered by this because while my mother is many things, incontinent isn't one of them.

But she didn't want underwear.  She wanted Depends.

And so I filed underwear under Picking My Battles.

Apparently, however, this nurse had a chat with Mum and they decided there was no need for Mum to not have her own panties, so this shopping trip would be a good time to get them.

Added that to the mental list of Things Mum and Emily Wanted to Do at the Mall.

But not without a small sense of dread.

All I could remember was the bra incident.

And that underwear is a bitch to return if it isn't the right size.

The shoes were no problem.

She picked a couple of pairs she liked, we tried them on, the decision was made and off we went with my mother's feet bearing new sandals.

At this point, she was getting a bit parched, so we went to Starbucks for coffee.

My mother likes her coffee scalding and strong.

We used to joke that it was so strong a spoon could stand up in the cup on its own.

And she is unable to have either scalding or strong at the nursing home, so she loves going out for coffee.

No problem.

I get the coffees, doctor them with coffee cream and sweetener. . .

. . .only for me. Mum likes coffee cream, but she would rather not have coffee at all than have coffee with any kind of sweetener. . . .

and we sat and chatted while drinking our coffee and waiting for Em to finish spending her money.

Of course, just like turning on the taps, as soon as the coffee hit my mother's system, she had to pee.

No problem.

Starbucks has a wheelchair stall.

Which was conveniently out of order.

She said we could go to the other bathroom.

"The men's bathroom, Mum? Are you sure?"

Because I would have taken her into the men's bathroom if it meant not having to try and get her into a too-small-for-the-wheelchair-stall.

"Oh no! I can't do that!"

So too small stall it was.

Luckily, she can move her feet in a motion similar to walking, but not for any length of time.

Just long enough, with my help, to get her into the bathroom for what she needed to do.

And then back out again.

By the time we got back to table, Em had returned.

Which meant we could now tackle underwear.

But, wait. . . .

The child implanted GPS located in an unknown site on my person alerted the always astute Mer that I was in her vicinity, which meant we had to make a pit stop at the theaters for Mum to see Mer.

Once the hi-Nanny-how-are-yous? were finished, we were able to leave for Sears.

And then it started.

The clock watching.

Or watch watching.

My mother is loath to go out on Saturday for fear she will miss bingo.

At 2.30.

Hence why I was there at 10.30 am.

Because sandals, three pairs of underwear and lunch couldn't take more than 4 hours.

By noon she moved into her time keeper role.

"Dawne, it's 12.15."

"So that gives us two hours and fifteen minutes Mum to get your underwear and have some lunch. Lots of time."

And so it went, every 15 minutes for the next two hours and fifteen minutes.

Trying to find a 71 year old woman underwear in a mall geared for teenagers is no easy feat.

At one point, it looked as if we may have to look elsewhere.

Because the racks of underwear closest to the aisles were full of lacy, skimpy things in colors no decent woman would even consider appropriate and I could tell by the set of my mother's mouth that she was having NONE of that.

And then I spied a wall of underwear in the far corner of the room.

All we had to do to get to it was slalom the wheelchair through the tightly packed racks of skimpies.

A couple of lower racks of lacy black thongs may have been injured in the process of weaving the wheelchair through the pantie marked enclosures, but we made it.

I only had to pull a couple of pairs out of the wheels of her chair.

And there before us was a wall of granny panties that made my heart swell.

White, beige, and the lightest shade of pink and blue you could image greeted us.

Full briefs. . .ones that would cover you from head to toe should you wish such a thing.

No lace.

No thongs.

No boyfriend cuts.

Just plain, old fashioned, run of the mill underwear.

In all kinds of sizes.

Eureka!

It only took us another 20 minutes to decide which three pairs she wanted.

With me asking her, over and over again, if she didn't think it would be wise to get a few more pair while we were there.

Nope.

Three was plenty.

And she wasn't going to budge.

So three it was.

Wheeling out of Sears, towards Smitty's, she again reminded me of the time.

1.00 pm.

"Mum, it won't take us an hour and a half to eat lunch. Not even at Smitty's."

Smitty's isn't the most wheelchair friendly place.

But we managed to get a booth in an area where I was promised Mum wouldn't be banged around by servers running hither and yon.

First order of business: coffee.

She was parched after the pantie pondering.

I was just tired and grateful to sit down.

Coffee ordered and served, cold drinks for me and Em, lunch items chosen and relayed to our server and then. . .

That's right.

Coffee hitting system = I have to go to the bathroom.

Off we went to the Smitty's bathroom.

Which thankfully had a fully functional wheelchair bathroom.

It's the little things.

Lunch was fine.

There were no sweet potato fries to be had so she was content with the standard fries and a BLT.

By the time we finished lunch, got back to the car, and took her back to the nursing home, I was exhausted.

But she got back in time for bingo so all was well with the world.

I had planned to get groceries after we had finished, but once we got back into the car, I wasn't certain I had the energy to drive home, let alone tackles the Saturday Superstore crowds.

Home it was.

I had to have a nap.

Two hours.

And then up to get ready for dinner with friends.

Which was lovely.

By the time we arrived home, after midnight, I was barely able to get up the stairs to my bed.

Only to remember that Sunday was Convocation.

Which will have to wait for tomorrow.

Because just recounting Shoe Shopping with Mum, Part II has worn me out.

Especially when you factor in the 6.15 pantie call.

Title Lyric: I Wanna be Your Underwear by Bryan Adams

Doin' nine to five and I ain't got nothin' to show. . .

May 14, 2011


Finally feeling better.

Or at least not wanting to throw myself under a bus because of hormones, anyway.

Other things?

Maybe.






Thursday, suppertime, my cousin's husband and her son came by to pick up Em's car.

Causing Frankie to react with such ferocity I almost dropped the large knife in my hand, narrowly missing my toes.

But who needs all ten toes, right?

The battery in the car was dead, so the first thing they had to do was move our car, and then get her car into boosting position.

This poor car.

Whoever was the mechanic for my brother, he should be put out of business.

The car, somehow, had been running on the wrong size battery.

Kat must have been watching over Jer when he was driving it.

That's my only explanation.

Nonetheless, the car is actually in better condition than it looks.

As we were informed last evening.

Making Em a very happy girl.

Now she just needs a driver's licence.






Teaching two classes every day, meaning in the classroom from 9-4.00 with an hour break at lunch, means Friday have become THE day for getting anything done.

Hence Friday is the-day-I-have-to-do-all-my-errands-because-there-is-no-other-time-to-do-them.

And yesterday was a doozy.

Paying bills that could not be paid on line took more than a few minutes, followed by my weekly visit to Simply for Life.

No change.

Which could be construed as good, as it means I have neither gained or lost.

Nonetheless, I was not happy.

Hormones taking charge this week meant I spent the entire week starving.

No matter how often, or what, I ate I was always hungry.

So not gaining in this instance was a good thing.

But I am at least 100 pounds away from my goal weight, if not more, so slowing down and enjoying the 70 pound loss is not an option.

To my office for an hour to answer emails, download assignments sent by email and charge my Kobo.

Home to collect Keith and Stephen for our bimonthly visit to Norma-the-most-amazing-hairdresser-in-the-world at Klub Soda.

They needed haircuts desperately, and I am not yet willing to celebrate the gray.

I would be more than happy to celebrate the gray if it wasn't so scattered and sporadic.

Mostly framing my face.

While Stephen and Keith were getting their locks lopped, I was at Service New Brunswick to set up appointments for Keith and Em to write their driver's test.

You would think this was a simple, easy task.

However, we also have to take into consideration that any service provided by the government is going to be as convoluted as possible.

The man at the Information-Please-Take-A-Number kiosk grabbed a card, circled a phone number and thrust it at me, when I stated the purpose of my visit.

Okay.

Leaving Service New Brunswick, I hauled out my seldom used cell phone and dialed the number.

Seldom used because if I had used it more often, maybe I would have taken into account my surrounding.

Downtown Fredericton at lunch time, me standing smack in the middle of Queen Street trying to maneuver the touch menu and speak with a "representative."

In addition to the din of my lunch seeking sidewalk companions, there was, directly outside of Klub Soda, on the bench I had planned on parking myself throughout the course of this phone call. . . .

. . .which was bound to be long because it was the government. . . .

was a man, his guitar, case opened at his feet expecting change from passersby who were enjoying the music he provided during their one break during the work day.

Which would have provided lovely ambiance for the one time yesterday the sun actually came out if. . .

. . . .he hadn't sounded like he was shaking a box full of angry cats.

I had to walk up and down Queen Street trying to both hear and respond to the woman on the other end of the phone who was asking me all sorts of questions about birth dates and name spellings etc., in order to make this appointment.

The earliest they can write their test is June 2nd.

Which gives Keith time to study.

And how come I didn't call from inside the salon?

Have you ever been inside a hair salon?

Especially a nice one?

Music, hairdryers, ringing phones, conversations. . .

On the street was actually more private.

Em mentioned I should have called from the bathroom.

Yes.

Because nothing makes a conversation with a government employee more enjoyable than doing so from atop a toilet.






After we picked Em up from school and deposited her at work. . .

. . .which is a 10 minute walk but if I hadn't actually picked her up I wouldn't have seen her until today, plus her uniform was in the car and she always carries 100 pounds worth of books with her. . .

we headed to the Community Kitchen.

Commitments had kept us from being able to go for at least two weeks in a row, so it was very, very nice to be able to be there.

The menu consisted of high end sandwiches, which looked like they had been donated by the Delta, coleslaw and soup.

Four different kinds of sandwiches on several different kinds of bread meant for each person I served, I had to give them my spiel:

Tuna, roast beef, egg salad or turkey? Coleslaw? Soup: pea or spicy beef?

I think I was saying that in my sleep last night.

Finally, finally home. Happy puppies joyfully greeting me with wagging tales and all-over-face-kisses.

And at 9.00 I could take it no longer and had to succumb to the call of my bed.






Because this weekend isn't going to be much better.

In one hour, I am leaving for the nursing home, to pick up Mum, and take her shoe shopping and out for lunch.

And we can expect some entertainment from that excursion.

I'd bet my life on it.

Home to get Stephen so we can go grocery shopping.

Because if we don't do it today there will be no opportunity until Tuesday, by which time the kids will be competing with the dogs for kibble.

Later this evening, honouring plans that have been made for quite a while.

Tomorrow, Quaker meeting and then. . . .

Convocation.

Honouring the class of 2011.

Which isn't without it's controversy.

But we'll save that for later.

Unfortunately Convocation will have to be held indoors at the Aiken Center as it is supposed to rain tomorrow.

Surprise. Surprise.

And after Convocation, home for supper and probably collapsing into bed

At some point during this weekend, I have to mark papers, begin my sabbatical application and start filling out a grant form that is so complex they give you until August to do it.

And then back to classroom Monday morning, upon which getting into my office before class, I will ask, "was there a weekend?"

It is indeed a sad comment on your life when work is more relaxing than the weekend.



Title Lyric: Weekend by Billy Joel

I'm feeling raw. . .I don't feel great. . .

May 12, 2011


I feel like crap.

Hauling myself out of bed yesterday afternoon for my film class took all of my energy, including what little I had left in reserve.

Meaning not much.

At 43 years old, I cannot understand how something I have been experiencing for 31 years can still cause me so much trouble.

Almost feels like child rearing and marriage some days.

I've done everything I can to make my monthly visitor comfortable.

Including surgery.

But every once in a while, I am reminded of how little control I have over my body and what it does.

Since Saturday, I have been living with pain so intense I've resorted to heating pads on high, curling into the fetal position and crying.

Menopause can, in no way, be worse than this.

Bring it on.

Today, please.






Meaning most of yesterday, outside of the time it took to show 12 Angry Men and talk about the decline of the courtroom drama, I was in bed.

My only companions were Tikka and Frankie, and my Kobo EReader.

Lots of love was received from my canine compadres, who nestled as close to me as they could, keeping me warm and safe.

At least that's what I can recall through the drug induced haze that was keeping me sane.

Reilley came in a couple of time, meowing his dismay at my prone position, and canine bodyguards as both prevented cuddle time with "grammie."

Yes.

I am "grammie" to Em's cat.

And that is as much of a grammie as I am willing to be right now.






While lying in bed, contemplating the value of stronger narcotics and pondering about how I could obtain them. . .

. . .oh, I wonder if my mother would share her morphine. . .probably not. . .

I did do some reading.

I'd have to feel even worse than I do right now in order to not read.

Our house is nothing if not a satelite site for the public library.

Literally, books are piled in all the places Stephen will allow them to be piled.

And if he doesn't like where books may be stacked, say behind the microwave, he has no problems informing me that perhaps I should consider moving them.

And I do.

Because if I don't, the possibility of finding them at the used book store increases significantly.






I finished the new Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse book, Dead Reckoning.

Disappointing, to say the least.

Normally, I like reading these books.

I know, I know, not exactly on par with War and Peace or Anna Karenina, but sometimes all you want is an enjoyable story that doesn't hurt your brain when you read it.

I've enjoyed the other books in the series, hence I thought I would enjoy this one.

But alas, this was not the case.

The story was missing something. . .I can't quite figure it out.

But when and if I do, I'll share.






This afternoon I'm showing In the Name of the Father, which is enough incentive for me to fight the urge to throw myself under a bus.

But just barely. . . .

Feel free to send any unused narcotics to my house, drop them off in my mailbox. . .
anything.

Please.



Title Lyric: Physical Pain by Joan Armatrading