April 28, 2011
I won't lie.
A warm glow is spreading through me at the thought of the end of April.
Although that glow is struggling under the wet and soggy conditions we've endured this month in New Brunswick.
The Weather Network is predicting sunshine and warm temps tomorrow.
I hope so.
I need to dry out before Monday.
Monday brings Intersession.
Since beginning teaching in 1999, I have taught Intersession.
Not necessarily because I want to, but more because I have to.
Sort of the same deal with overload teaching during the standard academic year.
This May, Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods is on my dance card for the morning, 9.00-11.20, and Crime and Popular Film, 1.00-4.00 will round out my afternoons.
From Monday to Thursday.
Fridays. . .who knows what I'll do Friday.
Sleep?
Garden?
Nothing?
My bet is on the third option.
Intersession means we'll get through the summer as comfortably as possible.
Normally Stephen teaches, too.
But this year, I put my foot down. . .
. . .but not in a bully like manner, mind you. . . .
and said his energies were needed elsewhere.
For his doctoral proposal and subsequent doctoral research.
He was VERY reluctant about this.
In spite of being an intelligent, for the most part well-rounded kind of guy, he is a man.
And feels if he isn't teaching, if he's drawing Employment Insurance, he is less of a man because he's living from the avails of my teaching.
Bullsh**!
Completing his doctorate is THE most important task Stephen has before him.
Even more important that making sure every will and desire I have is fulfilled.
It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
And it shall be done.
Believe me.
Hence, no teaching for Stephen.
He argues he isn't "contributing."
Money.
This irks me: the man does all the house work around here and he thinks money is the only way to contribute?
If I made ten times the money I make now, which would be nice, it wouldn't compare to what Stephen does around the house.
And housework is another item on my agenda of Things Dawne Needs to Do To Free Stephen To Work on his Doctoral Proposal and Subsequent Dissertation.
This will most definitely prove to be the most challenging shift in how our house works.
As we already know, housework and I mutually dislike one another.
While housework and Stephen are very intimate.
Couple this with Stephen's deeply embedded, and probably accurate belief that he does housework better than I do, and you have a recipe for disaster.
Or compromise.
I don't know which is harder to achieve around here.
But I suspect it's the latter.
I have to suck it up and do for Stephen what he did for me during the final stages of my doctorate.
And he has to let me.
Infinitely harder.
Starting Monday morning, when I arise to get Em up for school, and prepare myself for Intersession, Stephen will also get up and head to campus to thrash out a draft of his proposal.
It'll be ugly until he gets into the swing of things.
Until his brains realizes it can function before noon.
But I will persevere.
Because I love him and know how important this is for him.
And because I am planning on taking a sabbatical and then dropping to a standard teaching load afterwards.
Just givin' him the heads up.
Title Lyric: Helping Hand by Amy Grant
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
I KNOW this game. . .let's put an end to this once and for all. . . .
April 27, 2011
In spite of what you may think, I'm not a fan of conflict.
At the same time, I equally dislike lacking accountability.
Which means it's inevitable that there will be times when conflict occurs because of a lack of accountability.
Yesterday was one of those times.
Without divulging details that could potentially make my life very miserable, I had words yesterday with someone I work with regarding something they had asked me to do.
At the last minute.
And I did it.
Early on doing what I was doing, it was very apparent to me that it was going to take some time.
A lot of time.
Because the person who asked me to do what I was doing did not do what they were supposed to do.
And because this is academia, everything has a deadline.
So there was much pressure to do this and do it well.
I open my email yesterday, and find an email from this person, send Good Friday. . . .
. . . .because apparently I am expected to check my email on religious holidays, wish I had of received that memo. . . .
. . .informing me that the person who was originally supposed to do what I was doing had finally been contacted and therefore what I was doing wasn't necessary but thanks anyway.
Really.
Well.
You can imagine how I felt.
And in fairness to all involved, I broke a rule I have tried very hard not to break.
Emailing when I am angry.
I responded immediately.
I responded clearly.
Translation: blunt.
At no time did I use profanity.
But I laid out the issues as I saw them, in light of spending hours numbering in the double digits doing what this person should have done all along.
And I sent said email.
It only got worse from there.
Let's just say that when this person demanded to speak with me. . . .
. . . something I didn't want to do because I also try not to discuss things when I'm angry, preferring to let some time pass to allow calm to return at which time I am more than willing to talk about what's going on. . .
. . .things escalated.
Quickly.
Voices were not raised.
But things were said that, in spite of an hour and half of vigorous yoga last evening and much reflection, I am still very upset about.
Particularly, that this person, rather than accepting accountability for what they didn't do, chose to lay the responsibility at the feet of a student.
I believe that, above anything else, has me the most upset.
Why?
Because in my mind, in my opinion, it is just plain wrong.
Simple as that.
The day wasn't all bad, though.
Later in the afternoon, a student came by with something I had asked her to do for me.
Like most of us, this talented young woman is unsure about where her life is going, where it should be going. . .
But she is exceptional.
She will find her way.
Her talents, you ask?
Too numerous to mention here.
But one, her artistic abilities, caught my attention.
Artistic abilities that had stagnated a little.
So, I asked her to draw me a tattoo.
I've wanted a new tattoo for a long time. . it's been about ten years since I got my last one.
Stephen is not a fan.
But it is my body thank you very much.
And when I reach my goal weight, I am celebrating by getting a tattoo.
The one she drew for me.
A vine with four leaves, each leaf containing the name and birthdate of Stephen, Meredyth, Keith and Emily.
Took my breath away, it did, when I saw it for the first time.
When I'm longing for chocolate, or strawberry mousse cake from the Happy Baker, I am going to look at this tattoo as a reminder of what I am working for.
Today, I am hoping, will be a better day.
Granted, we are in for another day of rain, I have marking, marking, marking and more marking to do, grades to calculate for students anxious to graduate. . . .
But hopefully there will be no conflict.
At least at work.
At home?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Title Lyric: The Conflict by The Ghost Inside
In spite of what you may think, I'm not a fan of conflict.
At the same time, I equally dislike lacking accountability.
Which means it's inevitable that there will be times when conflict occurs because of a lack of accountability.
Yesterday was one of those times.
Without divulging details that could potentially make my life very miserable, I had words yesterday with someone I work with regarding something they had asked me to do.
At the last minute.
And I did it.
Early on doing what I was doing, it was very apparent to me that it was going to take some time.
A lot of time.
Because the person who asked me to do what I was doing did not do what they were supposed to do.
And because this is academia, everything has a deadline.
So there was much pressure to do this and do it well.
I open my email yesterday, and find an email from this person, send Good Friday. . . .
. . . .because apparently I am expected to check my email on religious holidays, wish I had of received that memo. . . .
. . .informing me that the person who was originally supposed to do what I was doing had finally been contacted and therefore what I was doing wasn't necessary but thanks anyway.
Really.
Well.
You can imagine how I felt.
And in fairness to all involved, I broke a rule I have tried very hard not to break.
Emailing when I am angry.
I responded immediately.
I responded clearly.
Translation: blunt.
At no time did I use profanity.
But I laid out the issues as I saw them, in light of spending hours numbering in the double digits doing what this person should have done all along.
And I sent said email.
It only got worse from there.
Let's just say that when this person demanded to speak with me. . . .
. . . something I didn't want to do because I also try not to discuss things when I'm angry, preferring to let some time pass to allow calm to return at which time I am more than willing to talk about what's going on. . .
. . .things escalated.
Quickly.
Voices were not raised.
But things were said that, in spite of an hour and half of vigorous yoga last evening and much reflection, I am still very upset about.
Particularly, that this person, rather than accepting accountability for what they didn't do, chose to lay the responsibility at the feet of a student.
I believe that, above anything else, has me the most upset.
Why?
Because in my mind, in my opinion, it is just plain wrong.
Simple as that.
The day wasn't all bad, though.
Later in the afternoon, a student came by with something I had asked her to do for me.
Like most of us, this talented young woman is unsure about where her life is going, where it should be going. . .
But she is exceptional.
She will find her way.
Her talents, you ask?
Too numerous to mention here.
But one, her artistic abilities, caught my attention.
Artistic abilities that had stagnated a little.
So, I asked her to draw me a tattoo.
I've wanted a new tattoo for a long time. . it's been about ten years since I got my last one.
Stephen is not a fan.
But it is my body thank you very much.
And when I reach my goal weight, I am celebrating by getting a tattoo.
The one she drew for me.
A vine with four leaves, each leaf containing the name and birthdate of Stephen, Meredyth, Keith and Emily.
Took my breath away, it did, when I saw it for the first time.
When I'm longing for chocolate, or strawberry mousse cake from the Happy Baker, I am going to look at this tattoo as a reminder of what I am working for.
Today, I am hoping, will be a better day.
Granted, we are in for another day of rain, I have marking, marking, marking and more marking to do, grades to calculate for students anxious to graduate. . . .
But hopefully there will be no conflict.
At least at work.
At home?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Title Lyric: The Conflict by The Ghost Inside
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Cos' everybody loves a circus show. . .
April 26, 2011
Last evening Emily and I went to the movies.
Water for Elephants.
As soon as she mentioned wanting to see it, I started my internal struggle.
Always ready and willing to see movies with my Em. . . .
. . . but not wanting to see a movie where animal abuse is part of the story.
When I was younger, my father loved to watch westerns.
I would watch with him, and if, in the process of a gunfight, a cowboy was shot and his horse happened to fall over. . .fall over mind you, not die. . .I was inconsolable.
And if an animal did die, I was apoplectic.
Growing older, I managed to develop a sense of self control.
Not much, but enough that I wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital if I saw something happen to an animal in a film or on tv.
But I would need to leave the room.
And crying was definitely involved.
My Dog Skip had exactly one viewing in my house, me and the kids, before it was thrown in the garbage, never to be seen again.
It took hours to calm everyone down.
So, having read Water for Elephants, and skipping over the parts where Rosie is victim to August's sadism, I knew what was coming.
In a film, however, you're less certain when because of course, the book and the film are NEVER exactly the same.
Resulting in me leaving the theater, coming back, and hiding by the door until I was convinced that the worst was over.
Couple this anxiety with Em's foul mood for most of yesterday, and you have a recipe for a movie experience that probably won't be in my top five.
Animal abuse aside, it wasn't a bad film.
Christoph Waltz is a brilliant actor.
Evidenced by my hatred of his character, August.
Robert Pattinson, so, so easy on the eyes, helped me get through my trauma.
Reese Witherspoon. . .every time I see her, all I can think is that she needs braces.
Hal Holbrook.
Need I say more.
And Rosie, the elephant.
Who is now my hero.
In spite of the fact that for some, this long weekend pays homage to the goddesses and gods of chocolate, I managed to prevent myself from gorging on candy coated chocolate eggs, peanut M&Ms, solid Easter bunnies, popcorn treats at the movies. . . .
But that isn't to say that I didn't indulge in a few candies, garnered when no one was looking.
Yes, sneaking.
Taking candy from my babies.
A few here and there from the kid's stash.
The few sacrificing for the many.
Meaning if I eat a few now, I won't go to the Superstore and buy twice as many bags as they are on sale, thus I can get more for the same price as I would have before Easter.
And I could eat all of them.
Believe me.
And then want more.
But I didn't.
Yeah me.
Hence fruit salad for Easter dessert.
The much better choice.
Tasty, tasty.
I am reminded of childhood Easters, sitting at the kitchen table, eating all my chocolate while devouring the latest Nancy Drew book that accompanied my Easter fare.
Which is probably what got me where I was today.
Damn Nancy Drew!
Title Lyric: The Circus by Take That.
Last evening Emily and I went to the movies.
Water for Elephants.
As soon as she mentioned wanting to see it, I started my internal struggle.
Always ready and willing to see movies with my Em. . . .
. . . but not wanting to see a movie where animal abuse is part of the story.
When I was younger, my father loved to watch westerns.
I would watch with him, and if, in the process of a gunfight, a cowboy was shot and his horse happened to fall over. . .fall over mind you, not die. . .I was inconsolable.
And if an animal did die, I was apoplectic.
Growing older, I managed to develop a sense of self control.
Not much, but enough that I wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital if I saw something happen to an animal in a film or on tv.
But I would need to leave the room.
And crying was definitely involved.
My Dog Skip had exactly one viewing in my house, me and the kids, before it was thrown in the garbage, never to be seen again.
It took hours to calm everyone down.
So, having read Water for Elephants, and skipping over the parts where Rosie is victim to August's sadism, I knew what was coming.
In a film, however, you're less certain when because of course, the book and the film are NEVER exactly the same.
Resulting in me leaving the theater, coming back, and hiding by the door until I was convinced that the worst was over.
Couple this anxiety with Em's foul mood for most of yesterday, and you have a recipe for a movie experience that probably won't be in my top five.
Animal abuse aside, it wasn't a bad film.
Christoph Waltz is a brilliant actor.
Evidenced by my hatred of his character, August.
Robert Pattinson, so, so easy on the eyes, helped me get through my trauma.
Reese Witherspoon. . .every time I see her, all I can think is that she needs braces.
Hal Holbrook.
Need I say more.
And Rosie, the elephant.
Who is now my hero.
In spite of the fact that for some, this long weekend pays homage to the goddesses and gods of chocolate, I managed to prevent myself from gorging on candy coated chocolate eggs, peanut M&Ms, solid Easter bunnies, popcorn treats at the movies. . . .
But that isn't to say that I didn't indulge in a few candies, garnered when no one was looking.
Yes, sneaking.
Taking candy from my babies.
A few here and there from the kid's stash.
The few sacrificing for the many.
Meaning if I eat a few now, I won't go to the Superstore and buy twice as many bags as they are on sale, thus I can get more for the same price as I would have before Easter.
And I could eat all of them.
Believe me.
And then want more.
But I didn't.
Yeah me.
Hence fruit salad for Easter dessert.
The much better choice.
Tasty, tasty.
I am reminded of childhood Easters, sitting at the kitchen table, eating all my chocolate while devouring the latest Nancy Drew book that accompanied my Easter fare.
Which is probably what got me where I was today.
Damn Nancy Drew!
Title Lyric: The Circus by Take That.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Hey! Hey! I need some strong coffee!
April 25, 2011
I didn't have to get up before the sun this morning.
No one had to go to work.
No one had to go to school, because it's a holiday.
Meaning my eyes did not open until 8.45 am.
And only then because Frankie and Tikka's bladders were belting out Ave Maria.
Yesterday started with Quaker meeting.
In the afternoon, I continued reading the thesis-I-was-asked-to-read-as-second-reader-at- the-last-minute.
And then I began the preparations for Easter dinner.
At least my end of the preparations.
My father brought the ham.
My cousin brought the most glorious fresh fruit salad, AND shared a tidbit of knowledge for any one interested in keeping their fruit salad fresh and crisp as the day it was made.
Diet 7-Up.
Once you're salad is made, pour Diet 7-Up over it.
The flavour stays the same. The soda keeps it fresh.
I was so excited to learn this!
Because summer = fresh fruit salad in this house.
Especially this summer.
The Summer of Simply for Life.
Dinner . . .right. . . .
I was in charge of venue and vegetables.
New potatoes, green salad, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots rounded out a wonderful, sumptuous Easter dinner.
Meredyth, who never misses a family dinner, more for the food and less for the company I should add, was in attendance.
Alas, Keith and Em were both working.
My cousin and her husband, along with my dad and Mum meant a full table and lots of wonderful conversation before, during and after dinner.
My other cousin, from the US called, and my mother was absolutely thrilled to talk with her.
She was more excited by hearing her niece's voice than anything else that day.
I love my family. . . .I am truly blessed.
Stephen and my father were in charge of collecting Mum from the Nursing home.
I was in charge of returning her.
The one thing I wish for more than anything during these dinners is that my mother would just relax and enjoy herself.
I'm sure she does enjoy herself to the extent that she's able.
But once the meal is over, dessert and coffee have been served, my mother begins her campaign to go back to the nursing home.
Especially if dinner has taken us anywhere near seven pm.
In spite of the nurses telling her to relax and have a good time, in spite of me reminding her that the nurses have told her to relax and have a good time, my mother is convinced that if she doesn't get back to the nursing home by 7.30 at the absolute latest, the nurses will withhold her pills.
Don't even ask me how she ever came to that conclusion.
Last evening, at 6.50 she turned to me, and mouthed, "Take me back to the Grove."
She always, always, always sits beside me at our family get togethers, so she didn't have far to turn, nor did she actually have to engage her vocal cords, as I have become somewhat adept at my-mother-lip-reading.
She's mouthed these same words to me from inside the car.
She's inside the car. I'm in the kitchen looking out the window.
She was angry because I didn't go and pick and her up, sending Keith and Stephen so I could finish preparing dinner.
I mouthed back NO!
Two can play at that game.
Knowing she had stayed as long as she was going to stay, I began the preparations for her leaving.
Which mostly consists of getting Stephen and my Dad to help me get her out of the house.
My mother has, among many other things, spinal stenosis.
Very, very painful.
It means that she walks at almost a 90 degree angle, and her back is shaped like a leaning-to-the-left-S.
I can help her if all we have to negotiate are flat surfaces, because she can walk with the assistance of her walker, for short periods of time.
However, we, of course, have three steps leading to our front door, a cement block walkway with a wonky block that has started to tip downwards into the three steps that lead to the driveway.
Six steps we walk or run or are dragged by the dogs everyday without a second thought.
But for my mother, those steps are the equivalent of Mt. Everest.
And she can't use her walker to negotiate them.
So it's me on one side, Stephen on the other and Mer moving the walker to all it's appointed places.
Mer?
Not Dad?
He was in the bathroom.
Getting her out of the house and to the car is only the first step.
Next is getting her in the car and buckled in.
When we first started taking her out, way back when she was still in the hospital, getting her into the car was absolutely the most challenging task.
But now, we've done it so often, that we actually have a routine.
Like dancers, we know the next move the other will make, thus ensuring a smooth and hopefully comfortable sitting in the seat.
And then, finally, we are ready to go "back to the Grove" where everything begins again.
But in reverse.
Minus the steps.
And with the wheelchair, which waits patiently for Mum in the nursing home foyer.
Once we were back, she gives me a list of directives:
Then, I check the TV for her the end of Antiques Roadshow and the following All Creatures Great and Small only to find out it's a PBS Membership Drive, meaning her shows are not on.
Once she was settled, everything done, her wanting for absolutely nothing other than her pills, which were something I simply was not getting for her.
One Sunday evening, just a few weeks ago, the medication nurse had the audacity, in my mother's mind, to start the medication at the other end of the hallway.
8.15 and my mother still hadn't had her pills.
I had to go to the bathroom and when I returned, I saw my mother wheeling furiously to the med cart, and demanded the nurse give her her pills because she normally gets them at 7.30 and now it's 8.15.
My mother has become institutionalized.
But I was not, under any circumstances, harassing the nurse for Mum's meds.
She can do that all on her own, as she has demonstrated more than once.
I said I was going to return home because if I didn't, Stephen would end up doing the dishes alone.
And there were a lot of dishes.
She was fine with this.
And I was able to return home to a few hours of conversation with my cousin, her husband and Stephen.
Where no one wanted a warm blanket or their stockings rinsed out.
Stephen is a wonderful man.
We know this.
But, he has a small challenge with the concept of moderation.
A challenge that was made even clearer twice yesterday.
After Quaker meeting, we have a coffee and nibblies.
Stephen brought tzatziki and his own homemade pita chips.
The tzatziki was store bought, and in my humble opinion, very tasty.
But Stephen thought it was lacking and he informed me that he added "a couple of cloves of garlic to it."
Given the size of the container, two cloves of garlic was more than reasonable.
After meeting, I took the tzaztiki out of the fridge, removed the lid, grabbed a spoon and took a taste.
Only to be met with the fiery taste of TOO MUCH garlic.
I should know by now.
This is not a road I haven't travelled before.
"A couple of cloves of garlic" translated into FOUR cloves of garlic.
Information I ascertained when I went back to where we were meeting, tonge on fire, steam pouring from my ears, and asked him EXACTLY how many cloves of garlic did you put into this SMALL container of tzatziki.
One of our Quaker friends had a terrible cold when he came to meeting.
When he left, after a couple of bites of Stephen's doctored tzatziki, he was cured.
But tzatziki was just the beginning.
Stephen also made coffee for everyone both during and after dinner.
Our coffee maker isn't used often, at least by us.
I'm the only one who drinks coffee, so I just use a filter thingy that sits on top of my cup and brews me a nice, hot cup of coffee every morning.
Last night, Stephen took charge of the coffee maker.
One tablespoon of coffee for every cup of water.
12 cups of water then, should equal 12 tablespoons of coffee.
I have no idea how much coffee Stephen added.
Somewhere around 24 tablespoons is my closest estimation.
But I do know that when I poured some for my cousin's husband, it was as thick and dark as over used motor oil.
It had to be halved with addition water added to make it palpable.
My cousin and my mother loved it.
Neither one of them will sleep for a week, but they loved it.
Moderation, Stephen, moderation.
Title Lyric: Strong Coffee by Cat Empire
I didn't have to get up before the sun this morning.
No one had to go to work.
No one had to go to school, because it's a holiday.
Meaning my eyes did not open until 8.45 am.
And only then because Frankie and Tikka's bladders were belting out Ave Maria.
Yesterday started with Quaker meeting.
In the afternoon, I continued reading the thesis-I-was-asked-to-read-as-second-reader-at- the-last-minute.
And then I began the preparations for Easter dinner.
At least my end of the preparations.
My father brought the ham.
My cousin brought the most glorious fresh fruit salad, AND shared a tidbit of knowledge for any one interested in keeping their fruit salad fresh and crisp as the day it was made.
Diet 7-Up.
Once you're salad is made, pour Diet 7-Up over it.
The flavour stays the same. The soda keeps it fresh.
I was so excited to learn this!
Because summer = fresh fruit salad in this house.
Especially this summer.
The Summer of Simply for Life.
Dinner . . .right. . . .
I was in charge of venue and vegetables.
New potatoes, green salad, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots rounded out a wonderful, sumptuous Easter dinner.
Meredyth, who never misses a family dinner, more for the food and less for the company I should add, was in attendance.
Alas, Keith and Em were both working.
My cousin and her husband, along with my dad and Mum meant a full table and lots of wonderful conversation before, during and after dinner.
My other cousin, from the US called, and my mother was absolutely thrilled to talk with her.
She was more excited by hearing her niece's voice than anything else that day.
I love my family. . . .I am truly blessed.
Stephen and my father were in charge of collecting Mum from the Nursing home.
I was in charge of returning her.
The one thing I wish for more than anything during these dinners is that my mother would just relax and enjoy herself.
I'm sure she does enjoy herself to the extent that she's able.
But once the meal is over, dessert and coffee have been served, my mother begins her campaign to go back to the nursing home.
Especially if dinner has taken us anywhere near seven pm.
In spite of the nurses telling her to relax and have a good time, in spite of me reminding her that the nurses have told her to relax and have a good time, my mother is convinced that if she doesn't get back to the nursing home by 7.30 at the absolute latest, the nurses will withhold her pills.
Don't even ask me how she ever came to that conclusion.
Last evening, at 6.50 she turned to me, and mouthed, "Take me back to the Grove."
She always, always, always sits beside me at our family get togethers, so she didn't have far to turn, nor did she actually have to engage her vocal cords, as I have become somewhat adept at my-mother-lip-reading.
She's mouthed these same words to me from inside the car.
She's inside the car. I'm in the kitchen looking out the window.
She was angry because I didn't go and pick and her up, sending Keith and Stephen so I could finish preparing dinner.
I mouthed back NO!
Two can play at that game.
Knowing she had stayed as long as she was going to stay, I began the preparations for her leaving.
Which mostly consists of getting Stephen and my Dad to help me get her out of the house.
My mother has, among many other things, spinal stenosis.
Very, very painful.
It means that she walks at almost a 90 degree angle, and her back is shaped like a leaning-to-the-left-S.
I can help her if all we have to negotiate are flat surfaces, because she can walk with the assistance of her walker, for short periods of time.
However, we, of course, have three steps leading to our front door, a cement block walkway with a wonky block that has started to tip downwards into the three steps that lead to the driveway.
Six steps we walk or run or are dragged by the dogs everyday without a second thought.
But for my mother, those steps are the equivalent of Mt. Everest.
And she can't use her walker to negotiate them.
So it's me on one side, Stephen on the other and Mer moving the walker to all it's appointed places.
Mer?
Not Dad?
He was in the bathroom.
Getting her out of the house and to the car is only the first step.
Next is getting her in the car and buckled in.
When we first started taking her out, way back when she was still in the hospital, getting her into the car was absolutely the most challenging task.
But now, we've done it so often, that we actually have a routine.
Like dancers, we know the next move the other will make, thus ensuring a smooth and hopefully comfortable sitting in the seat.
And then, finally, we are ready to go "back to the Grove" where everything begins again.
But in reverse.
Minus the steps.
And with the wheelchair, which waits patiently for Mum in the nursing home foyer.
Once we were back, she gives me a list of directives:
Light over bed on.
Bathroom curtain drawn back.
PJs on.
Clothes laid out for tomorrow.
Stocking feet only rinsed with warm water and hung to dry in preparation for tomorrow.
Medication nurse informed she has returned, and if possible, cajole, bully or otherwise force said nurse to bring Mum her medications RIGHT NOW.
Cup filled with cranberry juice only to her Sharpie drawn line on the side of the cup.
Warm blanket from the blanket over to wrap around her shoulders, as her always 30 degree Celsius room is too cold.
Then, I check the TV for her the end of Antiques Roadshow and the following All Creatures Great and Small only to find out it's a PBS Membership Drive, meaning her shows are not on.
Once she was settled, everything done, her wanting for absolutely nothing other than her pills, which were something I simply was not getting for her.
One Sunday evening, just a few weeks ago, the medication nurse had the audacity, in my mother's mind, to start the medication at the other end of the hallway.
8.15 and my mother still hadn't had her pills.
I had to go to the bathroom and when I returned, I saw my mother wheeling furiously to the med cart, and demanded the nurse give her her pills because she normally gets them at 7.30 and now it's 8.15.
My mother has become institutionalized.
But I was not, under any circumstances, harassing the nurse for Mum's meds.
She can do that all on her own, as she has demonstrated more than once.
I said I was going to return home because if I didn't, Stephen would end up doing the dishes alone.
And there were a lot of dishes.
She was fine with this.
And I was able to return home to a few hours of conversation with my cousin, her husband and Stephen.
Where no one wanted a warm blanket or their stockings rinsed out.
Stephen is a wonderful man.
We know this.
But, he has a small challenge with the concept of moderation.
A challenge that was made even clearer twice yesterday.
After Quaker meeting, we have a coffee and nibblies.
Stephen brought tzatziki and his own homemade pita chips.
The tzatziki was store bought, and in my humble opinion, very tasty.
But Stephen thought it was lacking and he informed me that he added "a couple of cloves of garlic to it."
Given the size of the container, two cloves of garlic was more than reasonable.
After meeting, I took the tzaztiki out of the fridge, removed the lid, grabbed a spoon and took a taste.
Only to be met with the fiery taste of TOO MUCH garlic.
I should know by now.
This is not a road I haven't travelled before.
"A couple of cloves of garlic" translated into FOUR cloves of garlic.
Information I ascertained when I went back to where we were meeting, tonge on fire, steam pouring from my ears, and asked him EXACTLY how many cloves of garlic did you put into this SMALL container of tzatziki.
One of our Quaker friends had a terrible cold when he came to meeting.
When he left, after a couple of bites of Stephen's doctored tzatziki, he was cured.
But tzatziki was just the beginning.
Stephen also made coffee for everyone both during and after dinner.
Our coffee maker isn't used often, at least by us.
I'm the only one who drinks coffee, so I just use a filter thingy that sits on top of my cup and brews me a nice, hot cup of coffee every morning.
Last night, Stephen took charge of the coffee maker.
One tablespoon of coffee for every cup of water.
12 cups of water then, should equal 12 tablespoons of coffee.
I have no idea how much coffee Stephen added.
Somewhere around 24 tablespoons is my closest estimation.
But I do know that when I poured some for my cousin's husband, it was as thick and dark as over used motor oil.
It had to be halved with addition water added to make it palpable.
My cousin and my mother loved it.
Neither one of them will sleep for a week, but they loved it.
Moderation, Stephen, moderation.
Title Lyric: Strong Coffee by Cat Empire
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