But all I found were cigarettes. . . .

July 27, 2011

Everyone has their issues.

Phobias.

Things that make them go EEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Make them want to rush to the toilet as fast as they can while holding on to their innards in hopes that they won't make a public appearance before you can actually reach the toilet.

Stephen's thing is dog barf.

And when he encounters a pool of puppy puke he immediately starts to gag and retch, while I'm yelling in the background for him to get the hell out of there before I have two or more puddles to clean up.

For Em, its hairballs.

Slimy, wet presents left for her, usually on her bedroom floor or on her clothes, by Reilley or sometimes even Goblet if she finds herself in possession of a lump of her long locks.

Keith, as far as I know, doesn't have an issue.

Or he hasn't shared it with me at least.

I have an issue.

Stephen thinks it's odd, humorous, overcomeable and no where near as gross and disgusting as dog barf.

Cigarettes.

My issue is cigarettes.

I can't stand the look of them.

Or anything else about them.

On the absolute unforgivable occasion where I've had to actually touch one, I've scrubbed my hands raw because all I can smell on my hands is cigarettes.

The stench of cigarette smoke is enough to make me want to turn on my heels and run.

If I have to meet with someone, talk with someone whose just smoked a cigarette, it takes all off my willpower, energy, strength of purpose and intestinal fortitude to not just walk away.

People smoking in their cars, windows down, their putrid smoke wafting back into my car puts me in a position where I contemplate the merits of rear-ending them.

Women smoking around their children, or while they're pregnant. . .

Let's just say I have scars on my tongue from biting it, and nail marks in my arm where Em has held me saying, in that special tone, "Mum. . . ."

This morning, as I was returning from taking the dogs out for their early morning relief, in the pouring rain with my umbrella in one hand, Frankie's leash with Frankie on the end of it in the other, and a leashless Tikka because she hates the rain so there wasn't any fear of her wandering any further than absolutely possible to relieve herself, there was a half smoked cigarette on my front step.

The only thing that kept me from completely losing it was that it was dry.

Far enough on the step to escape the downpour.

But enough to make me want to hurl on the front step.

Meredyth.

Who else.

And I have to say that of all the issues and concerns regarding her moving back into the nest, her smoking is the one that I am struggling the most with.

Stephen less so.

As a former smoker (it was give up smoking or give up me) he seems to be more sympathetic to her addicted plight than I am.

And I am not, in any way, shape or form, sympathetic.

In fact, I was adamant that she not smoke anywhere on our property while she is living here.

Because I do not want to encounter the disgusting and malodorous ash can when I go outside to hang laundry or whatever else I may be doing to cause me to be on the deck.

I was overruled.

For now.






After three days of absent contractors we finally received word today that everything has been approved.

And that they will be returning tomorrow.

Which is very good, because I was getting ready to drive to Saint John and "chat" with the insurance guy.

The kitchen is getting smaller and smaller.

The kids testier and testier.

Especially Em.

Keith's room is like a little hotel room.

Flat screen television, cable, laptop, internet . . . 

He even keeps snacks in there.

A while ago he requested a bar fridge as the last necessity to meet the hotel like atmosphere in his room.

As the ruling authority of this little kingdom, I vetoed the above request.

Because if he didn't need to come to the kitchen for sustenance, I'd never see him.

But Em. . . .

Em doesn't yet have a flat screen tv in her room.

But she will once Mer moves in.

She doesn't yet have cable in her room.

But we have one more "get another cable feed for $5.00 a month" and we will be putting it in her room.

Because there is only so much Canada's Worst Driver and 16 and Pregnant that I could even contemplate watching.

I don't know if Em has snacks in her room.

I can't tell for the piles of clothes inundating her room.

All of a sudden I got a chill up my spine wondering what things will be like in that room with Em and Mer sharing a room.

An honest-to-goodness genuine chill.

Foreshadowing probably.

Or the finger of Fate gently brushing my spine as a reminder that no matter how well I plan, or how much I think I can control things, at the end of the day everything is out of my hands.






Last night all three of my chicklets worked at New York Fries.

Together.

In tandem.

During Tuesday cheap night, where tickets are $5.99 a piece and people swarm the theaters like bees to pollen filled flowers.

And me without my camera to record it.

I should have gone in and just watched.

But I admit, I was sulking about not have a camera.

Plus, I've seen these people try to wash a few dinner dishes and load the dishwasher.

I KNOW how well they work together.

"Well" being the operative word.

More like dysfunctional, socially impaired, contrary, uncooperative.

Do I really need to witness that in a public venue?

Yes.

I did.

But I also wanted to record it.

Take pictures.

Something to display when they married or experienced other significant life events.

After all, isn't that what children are for?

Abject humiliation.



Title Lyric: Cigarettes and Alcohol by Oasis