Yet again it has not escaped my notice that going to work is more relaxing than the weekends.
Saturday afternoon Stephen and I were FINALLY able to get to Scott's Nursery to purchase a much needed and long overdue order of dirt.
Yes, dirt.
3 cubic feet to be exact.
And because I am more than challenged in any measurement over two cups, I have absolutely NO idea how much dirt that will be.
Perhaps not even enough.
But definitely enough to get us started on our gardening projects for this summer.
Every garden in our yard needs fresh soil.
All the house plants need fresh soil.
Every night this week, after supper, I will be outside repotting.
Or repotting and planning.
We have eight gardens in our yard.
Two in front, one on the left side of our property in the front, a small lily only garden on the right side of the house, in the back a large garden on the extreme right where our property connects with our neighbours, another at the very bottom of our property and two large gardens.
Which are going to become one if we have our way and one of our neighbours is kind enough to till them together.
Spice Girls is running through my head right now. . . ."when two become one. . ."
Must be the dangers of blogging sans coffee.
Putting these two gardens together into one HUGE garden means we will be able to thin out the front gardens, which are lush with ground covers.
Too many ground covers.
Some crowding others out to the point that when I walk by I expect some puny ground cover to wrap itself around my ankles and whisper, "help me. . ."
Meaning that the more aggressive, ground hogging ground covers will be relocating to the back yard.
We also have a wild rose bush that is gorgeous but grows by leaps and bounds, so some of it will be relocated to the back.
Plus it attracts a lot of honey bees, and I love that, but our Frankie seems to think these flying, buzzing orbs are for play and ultimately consumption, so he keeps getting mouthfuls for rose bush thorns in his mouth whch he finds less engaging than the bees.
I often ask him what he thinks is going to happen if he ever actually manages to get a bee in his mouth?
Of course, it is unthinkable to assume that Stephen and I could go to a nursery and only purchase dirt.
We came out with a hanging basket (don't ask me what it is, I don't know), three Genovese basil plants, one rosemary, two woolly thyme, a peppermint plant, eight tomato plants, an impatience, and four terracotta pots.
And, a flowering crab tree.
A baby flowering crab tree mind you, but one nonetheless.
Which will one day, hopefully in my lifetime, look like this:
I have wanted one forever, we have the room, it was a reasonable price, $50.00, so we got it.
Tonight, after yoga and supper, we shall determine where our new addition will be planted and tomorrow, Pookie can begin digging the hole.
Gardening and keeping kids busy.
Plants and trees are wonderful things.
Saturday evening we had dinner with my brother and good friends Darren and LaVonna, at a little restaurant called Relish, http://www.relishme.ca/.
The Oromocto location.
Which, surprisingly, is a much nice location than the one in Fredericton.
Having grown up in and around Oromocto, there isn't much there that excites me.
Depresses me, yes.
Except for Frenchy's and now, Relish.
Mer and Keith had yet to return from their overnight Moncton sojourn, so Em was alone with five adults who think they're funny, but really, they're just loud.
Oh Bunny, your time shall come.
Plus, who can resist a gourmet burger?
I had the L.A is My Lady.
Avocado slices, basil pesto mayo, goat cheese, on a ground turkey burger.
Greek salad on the side.
Excellent conversation.
Who could ask for more?
Whoever said Sunday was a day of rest needs to spend some time in the worlds of working wives/mother/caregivers of older parents.
Look up "Sandwich Generation" in the dictionary and you will see my picture.
Sunday afternoon, after Quaker meeting and a very quick lunch of salad with chick peas and cottage cheese. . .
. . .as an aside, making a ginormous salad on Saturday afternoon proved to be the smartest thing I did this weekend, as it was pretty much the main item for lunch and supper on Sunday. . .
. . .to check in on Emily, who spent all of yesterday sitting at the kitchen table struggling to write about body dismorphic disorder for psychology class.
An issue she understood completely from a sociological perspective.
A problem we have grappled with since she started taking psychology in January.
She is naturally psychology-resistant after years and years and years of hearing issues examined from sociological point of view.
Poor child.
And then it was off to the nursing home to take my mother to the mall.
She received a lovely diamond tennis bracelet from my father for Mother's Day, but, it was too big. . .
A common theme with my mother and things. . .
. . .therefore several links needed to be removed in order to ensure it didn't fall off her wrist.
It was back from it repair trip to Montreal and after the underwear antics, I wasn't taking any chances.
She was coming with me.
Stephen is wheeling her out of her room as I finished signing her out for the afternoon, when I said I'd just be a second while I put her underwear in her room.
She plants her feet on the ground, stopping the forward-to-the-car movement of the wheelchair.
Let me see them, she demands.
Not asks nicely, not suggests kindly.
It was a demand.
So, in the common room amid all sorts of residents, their family, and staff, I take out a pair of this underwear, the fourth time purchased underwear, the underwear that has caused me no small amount of grief, vexation and ructions, the underwear that ensured Stephen knows more about the women's lingerie section of Sears in more intimate detail than he had ever imagined. . .
She grabs them from me, and with her keen, critical eye assesses them.
I stand beside her, barely breathing, wondering if undie-trip five is waiting in the wings, or, if I will be set free from pantie servitude.
And the verdict?
Those look fine, she proclaimed.
Relief flooded my being.
The Hallelujah Chorus was singing in my head.
Free from panties I will be!
At least until she tries them on.
Only then will the verdict be truly determined.
And then, the other shoe drops.
The pyjamas we bought a month ago, she said.
Yes. . . .I warily reply knowing exactly where this was going.
They're too big. Just the blue ones.
But they're the size you asked for, I counter.
Well, they're too big. Take them back.
So, at some point this week, it's back to Pennington's to replace the month old pjs.
I don't even know if I have the receipt.
Another gift card anyone?
The woman is racking up gift cards the way some people have credit cards.
Soon there won't be a place in Fredericton where she doesn't have some sort of gift card credit.
And we hadn't even ventured beyond the common room of the nursing home.
I feared for the remainder of the afternoon.
I really did.
Title Lyric: Busy by Olly Murs
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