Dragging ourselves around yesterday was the theme of the day.
Even the dogs.
Instead of following me to the door in an attempt to prevent me from going to work, to put on the saddest face, droppy ears and all, a look that says, "you're leaving me again aren't you," he just laid on the couch, raised a paw, and said, "see ya when ya get back."
Tikka managed a thump of the tail.
Stephen didn't even get out of bed.
I don't even know if he knew I had gotten up and left for Simply for Life.
Something about being outside surrounded by the ocean wind, fresh air, hot sun. . .
Luckily we were able to bask in the warmth of the sun, because yesterday was all about rain and thunderstorms.
Last evening, after visiting Mum at the nursing home, I stopped at the Superstore for some necessities.
Yogurt, coffee cream, iron pills, fruit. . .
Normally, Stephen would take care of this.
But the grocery store is just a couple minutes drive from the nursing home, so it made more sense for me to do it.
I should have known it wasn't going to be the kind of trip Stephen has: smooth, uneventful. . .
That would be too easy.
As it was 9.00 pm, I anticipated that, at the very least, it would be quiet inside, and checkout would be quick.
Not the case at all.
Three cashiers, each with a line-up of at least seven people.
Resigned that there was no quick way out of this. . . .
. . .other than abandon the cart, everything in it and just leave. . .
. . .I was stuck in the line for the duration.
Not even a decent magazine to peruse.
Those magazines closest to my impatient hands were all about body building.
On the cover of one of these magazines was a naked from the waist up hulk-like man, looking as if he'd been dunked in a vat of Crisco Oil, with an equally slathered blond in a white bikini clinging to him as if he were her eternal salvation (or salivation depending upon how you look at it).
And beside their obviously airbrushed faces was a read-inside-because-we-have-this-life-changing-story. . .
Sexual prowess. . .how to perform better.
A greased up slippery man who is more than likely going to just ruin my sheets is just not my idea of better performance.
That was how enteraining this trip to the grocery store was.
I was reduced to contemplating sex with men who had more oil on them than a McDonald's deep fryer.
Eventually, eventually I was able to get through the check out and pay my measly $61.00. . the cost of my wares.
Walking to the exit of the grocery store I was thinking about how much I was looking forward to going home, putting on my pjs and settling into my bed with a good read.
Perhaps I should have turned from my contemplative powers dial to the please observe that is going on around you dial.
As I stood at the threshold of the grocery store, I noticed that other people were standing there, too.
Instead of leaving, as people are wont to do when they've spent their life savings on food for the week.
How come my shopping companions were still, as if someone has pressed pause on the dvd?
Rain.
Or actually a torrential downpour.
Rain hitting the pavement with such force that it bounced at least three feet off the pavement.
Flashes of thunder lighting up the sky like last weekend's fireworks.
Thunder rumbling and rolling loudy, like someone was really pissed off.
Well, I thought, this is going to make the drive home interesting.
I contemplated staying at the threshold, watching this marvel of nature with my other stranded companions, but the lure of the good book was just too strong for me to resist.
Plus, someone else simply marched outside as if to say, "F-you Mother Nature, I have things to do!"
And he wasn't struck by lightening, nor did he melt on the spot.
Deciding I, too, could be that brave, I started out.
But not before I put my glasses in my pocket.
I hate wet glasses.
Within seconds of stepping inside the maelstrom, I was drenched.
To the skin.
Right down to my undies.
By the time I got to the car and loaded my three bags of groceries into the back seat, I was throroughly saturated.
In the car, water was dripping from my hair into my eyes and there wasn't a dry smitch of clothing anywhere on my person.
Not even my undies.
Resigned to driving home dripping, I engaged the car and headed home.
As I was driving, I noticed that the rain was letting up.
And in my neighbourhood, it hadn't rained at all.
So that when I walked through the front door, dripping wet, carrying equally wet and dripping grocery bags, Stephen remarked,
You're all wet.
He is just so observant.
I don't think it ever did rain up here.
Figures.
The weather is now matching my grocery store moods.
I am all powerful.
The visit with Mum wasn't too bad.
I had missed seeing her Sunday because we didn't arrive home from Murray Corner until 8.00 pm, by which time she is well medicated.
So visiting wasn't really an option.
To make up for missing our usual Sunday Antiques Roadshow/Creatures visit, I went last evening.
With me was the memory card for her digital picture frame, which now boasts almost 1000 pictures for her to engage with at her leisure.
Including the pictures I took at her house Sunday morning.
When she asked me to take these pictures, I admit to have reservations.
On the one hand, I knew she just wanted to see the house and it's surroundings, the plants she'd so carefully tended for so long. . .
On the other, I was very worried that seeing these pictures would unleash a flood of emotions neither one of us would know how to address.
Or rather, ones I did not want to address.
She reacted better than I had anticipated.
In fact, when the nurse came in with her nightly regiment of medications, my mother proudly showed her the pictures of her clematis.
And her house.
But after she left to medicate the other residents, I noticed my mother looking rather wistful.
Knowing I couldn't simply sit there and be obtuse, I asked her if she was okay.
No. I'm not. But I'd better enjoy these pictures because this is as close as I'm going to get to my home.
For the last two summers, she has been repeatedly asking my father to take her to the house.
He promises, but never follows through.
So, deciding enough was enough, I turned to look at my mother's calendar, found the date I was looking for, and said to Mum,
July 17th.
A Sunday.
I will take you to the house.
She was pleased.
And my father will be informed of her pending visit sometime today.
Part of me wishes I could hear THAT conversation.
Especially after the "discussion" they had on Father's Day.
Initially, I had thought of taking her this Sunday.
But then decided that my father may need more time to prepare.
He's going to need as much time as he can get.
I have some concerns about this adventure, but perhaps if she goes home, and sees how difficult it will be for her to maneuver through the house, see how lonely and isolated she would be from everyone, maybe a modicum of peace about being in the nursing home will result.
Or not.
Things could easily become worse.
Either outcome, I'll just have to deal with it when it happens.
Like everything else around here.
Title Lyric: Our House by Madness
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