Call all you want, but there's no one home, you're not going to reach my telephone. . .

August 10, 2010



I have had a long and painful history with cell phones. The last cell phone I had resulted in a $700.00 + bill, the product of a miscommunication between me and my brother.


Needless to say, I'm gun-shy when it comes to anything to do with cell phones.


Mer has been absolutely lost without her cell phone. I thought that she could take her existing cell phone to Telus, get a number, and Bob's-your-uncle, Mer has an active cell phone.


I thought this because it was the logical scenario.


One of the other reasons I don't like cell phones is because there is absolutely nothing logical about the administration of cell phones.


One and a half hours of my life, which I will never get back, was spent today trying to negotiate my way through the myriad of inter-continental red tape associated with cell phones.


All I wanted was a family plan. . .you know, something where I can call the kids and they can call me without accumulating ridiculously astronomical charges.


The we-want-a-plan-part was fine.


It was the how-can-we-transfer-Em's-pay-as-you-go-phone to a family plan, and the what-so-you-mean-Mer-can't-use-her-exisitng-phone that was the challenge.


And because the phone was in Em's name, Em had to cancel the phone. Should have been a simple phone call to the Telus office from the Telus store.


(As an aside, how come you can buy the phone from a Telus store, but you can't do any of the administrative stuff there????)


But it wasn't, of course.


First, Em could not understand one.single.word. this woman was saying.


Second, the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone, who happened to be in India, couldn't understand what Em wanted.


A very frustrated Emily calls me over to engage in a conversation with the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone.


I then understood how come Em was so frustrated.


I couldn't get through to this woman that Em just wanted her phone cancelled.


That's it.


Cancelled.


Meaning no more pay as you go cell.


I felt like I was in the first Rush Hour (1998) where Jackie Chan is saying to Chris Tucker, "Don't you understand what I am saying?"


And Chris Tucker says, "Ain't nobody understand what you tryin' to say!"


Things deteriorated so quickly that the in-store Telus guy who was helping us had to actually get on the phone himself.


Then he understood how come Em and I were so frustrated.


At the end of the long and unproductive phone conversation with the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone, Em's phone was FINALLY cancelled.


But her number and existing phone were not going to be transfered. She was going to have to get a new phone and a new number.


One happy, happy Em + one happy, happy Mer = one tired and confused Mum.


Stephen stood there, quiet but supportive. At one point, when it looked like I was going to hurl the phone through the window, he came and stood by my side.



So now we have a family plan, with three phones, and we also have two other phones that are perfectly good phones, but couldn't be transfered into a family plan.


My entire don't-waste-composte-everything-pick-composte-and-recycling-out-of-the-garbage- reuse-everything self is enraged.


What the hell am I supposed to do with these cell phones?

During all this, Mer was the primary focus of the Telus guy's attention. Not me, the one who is paying for everything, but my beautiful daughter.

And can she turn it on.

During the period when I had to walk away from the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone and leave the Telus guy to deal with her, one of my students walked by.

We started chatting about the summer, what he was doing, etc., when I feel someone come over, put her arm around my shoulder and say "Hi Mum."

Mer's radar alerted her to the face that her mother was talking with a rather handsome young man, who clearly spent a lot of time at the gym.

Mer reminds me of the southern belles you'd find in books like Gone With the Wind. You just never let the opportunity pass by to flirt with a handsome, young man.

As soon as I introduced them, and they started talking to one another, I was merely the middle-aged women standing there.

Oh, to be young and beautiful.

I'd settle for just being young.

The Telus guy texted Mer as soon as he was off work.

Like I said, the girl can work it.






Title Lyrics: Telephone by Lady Gaga

I'm breaking dishes up in here. . .

August 9, 2010

I'm feeling out of sorts today.

Part of it's money, part of it's work, part of it may be I'm coming down from the coffee I had late this afternoon.

No matter what, I'm feeling out of sorts.

I'm still struggling with this manuscript and how to take control of it, while balancing the let's-turn-this-into-a-creative-writing-peice with my intense need to get it off my plate.

And then there is my father. I saw him last night when I was at the nursing home.

I love my dad, don't get me wrong. But he sure knows how to press my buttons. Even when he isn't doing it on purpose.

He's coming with us on our vacation. He did last year, and he enjoyed it very much. But there were also more people with us to keep him occupied -- Stephen's parents, his aunt, Keith and Em were all with us. Dad spent lots of time playing cribbage with Stephen's dad, and watching me and the kids play Scrabble with Stephen's mum and aunt.

This summer it's just me, Stephen, Em and dad. My brother and his wife were going to come with us, but my sister-in-law is very, very ill. She has taken a turn for the worst and has multiple doctor's appointments next week.

Keith has been promoted to supervisor at the theater, and there are multiple theather staff weddings next week, so he couldn't get the time off.

Mer was thinking about coming, but she has just started her new job and didn't feel she was in a position to ask for a week off. Especially when that week was the week after she started.

So it's the four of us and the dogs.

Less is more, right?

As much of my last post was about my Frankie-Doodle, I think it appropriate to share his latest escapade.

Saturday morning, after Annette-the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world, departed for another dog-addled client, I was loading the dishwasher.

Frankie LOVES the dishwasher. It is his buffet. As soon as he hears the dishwasher opening, he comes on a dead tear, waiting to "sanitize" the dishes far better than we could ever do.

This is a somewhat annoying, fighting with Frankie for space to load the dishwasher.

I am loading the dishwasher, reorganizing it because no one ever loads it the way I want it loaded. They load with the express purpose of just getting the dishes in there. . .I load it for maximum capacity.

I consider dishwasher loading an art form.

Frankie was sniffing around as usual, I am loading as usual, and Frankie somehow manages to snag his collar on a dishwasher tine.

Chaos ensued.

Frankie, naturally, panics. He starts to pull back and whine, I am trying to get a grip on his collar and untangle him. He gets louder and louder and I try harder and harder to get a grip on his collar, and then suddenly he yanks back as hard as he can.

More chaos ensues.

A cacophany of crashing plates, bouncing bowls and clanging cutlery followed. Frankie, mercifully disengaged, is running from the dishwasher, ki-yi-ying and wailing, Tikka is barking and me. . .

I'm laughing so hard I almost peed my pants.

Mer and Stephen rushing into the kitchen, Mer thinking the newly acquired china cabinet has met its end, and Stephen thinking the roof has just caved in.

Frankie is now giving the dishwasher a wide berth, growling at it each time he walks by.

Last night Stephen, Em and I saw The Other Guys. Funny film, just what we needed, but I wouldn't pay to see it again.

I love Will Ferrell. Stepbrothers was a terrible film, but the sleepwalking scene makes me laugh so hard I lose my breath.

But the very best Will Ferrel, ever, is when he impersonates Harry Caray:

www.ebaumsworld.com/videos/watch/985394

If this doesn't make you laugh, you have no soul.

Title Lyric: Breaking Dishes by Rhianna

Frankie, do you remember me? I looked into your big eyes. . .

August 8, 2010



The story of how Frankie came into our lives is a sad one. Suffice to say that when we got him at 3 months old, we were already his third family.


Hello, issues.


He is so cute. . .a shepherd/rottweiler mix, more shepherd with silky smooth floppy ears and brown eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts (provided he wasn't lunging at you with his death stare).


Lots of love and patience and more love and a whole lot more patience were enough to tackle some of the lesser issues.


Tikka, our almost 13 year old Belgian shepherd tackled some of the issues. She is no nonsense when it comes to Frankie. Plus she was the only being in the house who could put him in his place.


But, how much dog training can you realistically ask from your almost 13 year old dog. . .really.


A good friend recommended a dog trainer. The trainer was wonderful, however, she was more of a consultant, coming over when we needed help with something, but not a long haul kind of trainer.


If we could have afforded it, we would have flown in Cesar Milan and made him live with us for as long as it would take to make Frankie the dog we knew he could be. I mean, if Cesar could train Cartman, he could train anyone.

But our budget this month just didn't seem to cover flying in Cesar Milan for a month.

We muddled along, making changes in our lives to manage Frankie's beahviours. We realized at one point that we had pretty much become prisoners in the house. . . at least in the sense that we couldn't have anyone over, so entertaining was out, and the only places we could walk Frankie were places where he could run off leash.


Walking him on leash was not worth the replacement of limbs.


The kids were fed up, embarrased and were at the point where they wanted nothing to do with him.


Em had it the worst. . .destroyed hair extensions, chewed shoes, clothes, her room was a veritable playground for Frankie.


Stephen and I suffered through the humiliation of underwear missing the crotches.


Nothing like crotchless panties to start off your day.


The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the day Frankie was hit by a car.


Coming home from a long, unleased run, he bolted out of the back our station wagon when he caught sight of a crow in our across the street neighbour's driveway. The crow, obviously, flew off in terror when seeing the sleek brown bullet that was Frankie careening his way.


Did Frankie return home after his prey took off for greater heights?


No.


Our adrenaline amped pup saw this as an opportunity to have his way with neighbourhood. No crow, no problem. There was a whole world out there, filled with crows and squirrels, moving vehicles, blowing leaves, motorcycles, bicycles, people taking leisurely walks, innocent bystanders, and most importantly, other dogs, just waiting for him.


He made it to the end of the street, when he was hit by a car, driven by the elderly woman who lives in the next court.


And was contact with her plastic bumper, at 30 kms an hour, enough to stop our Frankie.


Not. Even. Close.


He just ran off, red leash trailing behind him, a metaphorical beacon of his freedom.


In the midst of all this, my never-really-calm husband is in a state of full blown panic. And for some cosmically unknown reason, I happened to call home.


My son answers the phone. We chat about how his day has been, does he have to work tonight, if not, what are his plans, etc, and then I ask if Stephen is there.


Keith says no, then, wait, here he is.


Stephen gets on the phone and he is speaking at the speed of sound. All I managed to hear was:

Frankie was hit by a car !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He was in no state to answer any of my calmly asked questions. So I did the only thing I could do. I came home from work.


And when I came into the house, Frankie is bounding down the hallway, tail wagging, ears flopping, waiting to tell me all about his exciting adventure.


Running down the hallway = no broken bones. Good.


I try to get the story from Stephen but he is just not in any state to talk.


And then I started to get angry. The question, how did Frankie manage to bolt out of the back of the car faster than greased lightening? was bouncing around my brain.


The answer: Stephen fully flung open the back of our car and he didn't have a hold on Frankie's leash when he did so.


Um.Hum.


I called the vet. He seemed fine, but I wanted to be sure.


I called the very shaken elderly woman whose car made contact with Frankie. She was devastated. "We love dogs here" she said.


And then she said that our beloved pup caused $1000.00 damage to her plastic bumper and would it be too much trouble for us to pay half?


I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Half???? We should be so lucky.


Finally, I made the phone call I should have made months ago. I called Barkbusters. (http://www.barkbusters.ca/)


I spoke to our soon-to-be saviour Annette. The first time she came over to our house she was here 5 hours. She has come over every two weeks for the last two months, and progress has been made with our Frankie.


But he is still very much a work in progress.


Tikka is mellow, calm, a wee bit stubborn, but for the most part, easy to get along with. Frankie is high energy-I-must-be-in-control-of-all-that-is-around-me-all-of-the-time.


The multiple gigantic windows in our house, for me, are full of all of the beauty of summer.


For Frankie: mega-flat screen televisions. This week, we are working on trying to turn off the tv for him without having to board up all of our windows. He bark, jumps, and carries on like a lunatic at everything he sees: dogs, cats, people, cars, birds, leaves, squirrels . . . anything that moves.


And we won't even talk about the mailman.


This little adventure ended up costing us $1200.00. No painting the kitchen cupboards for me.


Title Lyric: Frankie by Sister Sledge