Start it up, put it in drive and whip it. . .

August 5, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 16 days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, Pookie suffered through the pain and trauma of a root canal.

His second.

He takes this rather personally, because, like all of us, he works hard to keep his teeth clean.

Why he keeps needing fillings and root canals, then, is a bit of a mystery to him.

While normally the calmest, mellowist person within our small family, Keith does experience much anxiety and white knuckling about going to the dentist.

So much so that our dentist, Dr. Joy Graham, www.drjoygraham.com felt it important to give him a prescription for three Atavan, which he took about 45 minutes before his appointment.

Providing Em and I with mucho entertainment as we drove him across the Westmoreland Street bridge towards the dentist office.

A bit loopy, a bit mellow-everything-is-perfectly-fine-what's-there-to-worry-about Pookie was hanging out in the backseat, finding medicated peace in his surroundings.

As it was a two hour procedure, and for whatever reason I get terrible headaches if I have to wait in her nicely-appointed-complete-with-television waiting room, Stephen offered to pick him up.

I have no logical reason for why waiting in her waiting room causes me such awful headaches and exhaustion.

And I would have stayed there with him if, a. he had wanted me there "I'm twenty years old Mum. I'll be fine." and b. Em was at work.

Em had the day off, and while a day off would be thrilling if I could actually get one, Em sees days off as time to spend with Mum.

I was torn.

Of course.

I did accompany Keith into the dentist's office, let them know he was there and asked him repeatedly if he was going to be okay because if he wasn't, or if he just wanted me to, I would stay with him and it wouldn't be any trouble.

To which he replied, again, I am twenty years old Mum. I'll be fine."

I left, reluctantly.

Called Stephen to remind him that Keith needed to be picked up at 2.30, that he wasn't going to be feeling well, so it was important that he be on time.

We have Meredyth Standard Time.

And Stephen Standard Time.

Both of which are virtually impossible to figure out.

But I keep trying.

I like a challenge.



Em behind the wheel, we headed back across the river to whatever madcap plans she had in store for us.

A movie.

Surprise!

I mean, she comes by this passion for films honestly, genetically, so if there is anyone to blame it's me.

She wanted to see The Smurfs.

On a rainy, miserable Wednesday afternoon.

I don't think so.

By the time we got there, two seats were available.

And as we don't pay for tickets, the likelihood that we would be kicked out of the movie was about 100%.

So while I was standing in the Starbuck's line waiting to get coffee, she comes over from the theater to announce that our viewing plans had changed and we would be seeing Cowboys and Aliens.

Fine.

I am easy to please.

And I was kind of interested in seeing it.

A great cast: Daniel Craig, Harrison Ford, Sam Rockwell, Paul Dano. . . .

I was less than thrilled about Olivia Wilde, as from the previews my sense was she wasn't the strongest female lead for such a role.

But nonetheless, we were to see the low tech cowboys battle it out with the high tech aliens.

Em, of course, purchased her customary order of New York Fries.

No problem.

I can handle that.

Until the seats on the other side of me became occupied with six people, of which the two closest to me were chowing down on NYF poutine and hot dogs smothered in ketchup, mustard and corn relish.

And me?

Stuck in the middle between two sets of hot, salty, delicious French fries?

I hauled out from my purse my bag of baby carrots and munched with a vengeance.

Sipped from my coffee.

And pretended that I didn't care about their vinegary, hot, delicious smelling, ketchup dipped fries.

Meaning I used all my powers for concentration and avoidance and missed half the movie.

I guess I'll have to see it again with Keith.






After the movie ended, I called home to assess Keith's physical and mental well being.

Apparently, the drive home was rough.

Resulting in a brand new use for our biodegradable poop bags.

Car sick bags.

As soon as the car started to move, Keith was sick.

A combination of the anxiety, Atavan and who knows what else they used to keep him calm and pain free during the two hour surgery.

Either that or the $340.00 he paid made him ill.

Keeping in mind that the other 80% was covered by my work benefits.

When I called around 3.30 pm, he was sleeping.

With a bucket beside his bed.






As we were taking Keith to the dentist, my cell phone rang.

Knowing that it is illegal to drive and talk on a cell phone in this province, my handy sidekick Emily answered for me.

I already knew who it was.

Two of the three people who call me the most were already in the car with me.

By process of elimination, that could only mean that the person dialing my number was none other than Mer.

I knew she couldn't possibly want any money as she had just been paid the day before.

I was right about both.

But she did want something.

A drive to work.

So after the movie, and getting gas, Em and I agreed to get Mer and take her to work.

Getting the gas was interesting.

If you're at a very busy gas station located at the corner of one of the major intersections of your fair city, and all the pumps are busy except two, which are being avoided by all other drivers like the plague, you should clue into the fact that there must be something different about these pumps, and perhaps you should investigate before trying to gas up your car.

I'm sitting in the front passenger seat waiting for Em to gas up her car when she says, Mum something isn't working right. Can you come here?

But she wasn't as patient sounding as I have written.

Checking the pump, I realized why no one else was using these pumps.

Pay before you pump, pumps.

Willing to give anything a try at least once, Em followed the steps carefully printed on the pump.

Steps that should have resulted in her being able to fill her tank.

But ultimately resulted in her being informed by the little electronic screen that her PIN was wrong.

Which it wasn't.

Incensed, Em decided to move to another, normal pump.

So she did.

And had no trouble getting her $38.00 worth of gas into her car, and paying for it.

She was in a mood, however.

Em doesn't like things that don't work.

And she is easily upset.

So picking up Meredyth, the Queen of Upset, wasn't something I was looking forward to.

Especially when, during my phone call to Mer to let her know we were on our way and to PLEASE be waiting outside for us, she informed me that Keith had her wallet. . . .

. . . .repercussions from their adventures the night before of which I want to know NOTHING. . .

and she was going to have to stop at the house to get it.

Fine.

Pick her up.

Drive her to the house.

Get her wallet.

Take her to work.

No problem.

Right?

First, we have an already moody Em.

Second, when we arrive Mer was not there.

Surprise.

Third, as soon as we pulled in front of Mer's building, the skies opened and a deluge of rain was upon us.

Fourth, I may have engaged in an unfortunate smelling incident in Em's car.

Not because I wanted to.

And with the rain, we couldn't roll down the windows.

Fifth, Mer finally get to the car, in the pouring rain, opens the door, exclaims, WHAT is that f#&^%$&% stink and oh I forgot my work shoes so I have to go back inside and get them just a minute.

We waited.

And waited.

Eventually she returned and we started to our house so Mer could get her wallet.

Sixth, as a result of my unfortunate, unplanned and not-on-purpose fart in Em's car, Mer had the window down.

In a rain storm.

Soaking, in Em's mind, the backseat interior of her car.

She asked Mer to roll the window up.

Mer refused.

And all the rage that was building inside Em suddenly burst forth and she started driving very recklessly.

Insults were hurled back and forth between the front seat Em and the back seat Mer, like tennis players lobbing a tennis ball.

And me?

I asked Em to drive more carefully.

She didn't.

So by the time we drove from Mer's apartment to our house, a less than 5 minute drive, no one was saying anything to anyone.

Except when I informed Em she wasn't driving her car for two days as a consequence of not driving carefully when asked.

And when I told Mer to get into our car so I could drive her to work.

Meaning with a passed our Pookie and an incensed Em, it was a very quiet evening around here Wednesday evening.

Very quiet.

Board games, laughter and hilarity one night.

Angry shut ins and passed out Pookies the next.

And people wonder why I am crazy.



Title Lyric: Reckless Driving by J Dilla

I'm your girl, you're my man, and we're makin' plans. . . .

August 4, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 17 days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Family shenanigans have put Stephen in a frustrated, confused angry space.

And no, this time it isn't anything to do with the kids or any other member of my side of the family.

He was also tense because the contractors didn't show up Tuesday.

Which only added another specific reasoning for his general crankiness.

I only found out yesterday morning that they did call to see if they could come over, but, they called at 9.30 at which time I was in the car, driving Keith to work.

But as I am the only person who is regularly awake before eight am in this house, and I was out of the house, no one got their call.

And they called again at 3.00.

At that point in the day, however, I had already enacted my scheme to ease Stephen's mind.

A change of scenery.

Getting him out of the house, away from the computer, especially Facebook, a valiant effort to get him to use his energies for good instead of evil.

We went to Starbucks.

Taking work with us, we sat at the mini tables they provide.

Tables that are made for coffee and nibblies.

And not the overloaded piles of paper, books, pens, highlighters, and post it notes that accompanied us for our escape from reality.

Still, we persevered.

For a Tuesday, Starbucks was very, very busy.

There isn't much else to do during a thunder-lightening-rain soaked day in Fredericton except go the the mall.

See a movie perhaps.

Our timing was, in part, to work at Starbucks, drink coffee, perhaps munch on a shared nibblie, while we waited for Keith finished work.

I went into the theaters to tell Keith where we would be when he finished, to which he replied he didn't need a drive because he and his friend were doing something after work, but, Em was no longer working a double shift, and she would be finished by four thirty.

I didn't care who was finished at four thirty, just so long as when I left Starbucks, there was a child of one kind or another in the car with me.



How much work we were able to accomplish probably sits on the side of a very little.

But my scheme to take Stephen's mind off his familial frustrations was a success.

Because it wasn't so much about work that was my motivation.

Just getting him around other people.

Knowing that in Fredericton on a rainy Tuesday at Starbucks, we were bound to run into someone we know.

And we did.

And he joined us for a nice chat about the opera, his recent trip to Europe, the contractor chaos in our house. . . .

Providing Stephen with the much needed conversational outlet he needed.

So that by the time Em showed up actually ready to leave, Stephen was in a much better frame of mind than when we arrived.

I so owe that friend a nice meal.






Stephen was in such better spirits that we decided to go out for dinner.

On our limited budget, on a Tuesday, that means only one thing.

Swiss Chalet.

It was a day, however, where the familiar was comforting.

Welcoming.

Not a day for new things or surprises, but a day where we draw upon the well known to provide the stability we need when we need it.

Stephen partook of the chicken quesadilla with side salad and decaf.

Em, a hamburger, no cheese, no tomato, and of course, fries.

Someone had to get fries.

How else would I have been able to have a couple?

And a chicken club wrap with side salad and diet Pepsi (even though I would much prefer diet Coke) for me.

Just what the doctor ordered.

I am a doctor.

So it worked.

Everyone returned home happy, full bellies, content, ready to take on whatever the evening threw at us.





Sometimes the best plan is no plan.

After coming home from dinner, I settled in for a couple of hours reading.

Anything in a futile attempt to abate the increasing panic over the beginning of classes.

Just as I was getting ready to open my book and begin highlighting, Pookie comes into the kitchen and asks if I'd like to play Scrabble.

Scrabble, you say?

The game no one wants to play with me because I always win?

The game no one wants to play with me because I read a lot and know lots and lots of words?

Yes.

Indeed.

I would love to play Scrabble.

Pushing books, computer, highlighters aside, I prepared for a mind bending, heart racing game of Scrabble.

I do love Scrabble.

And playing with the kids, at their request?

Who could refuse?

Actually, Stephen refused.

He is less fond of Scrabble than I.

Em agreed to play, but her participation was short lived, when during our pre-game-setting-everything-up conversations Keith said something about something that happened at work to which Em replied why did you have to bring that up to which Keith responded because it was funny at which point Em decided she was NOT going to play because she was mad and it would affect her game.

I was so fine with that.

Because there are Scrabble rules and then there are Em-is-playing-Scrabble rules.

Plus, the last time she got mad playing Scrabble she actually threw things.

And she cheats.

But I still love playing with her.

And if she came downstairs right now, at 8.22 am while I am trying to wake up with my venti mug of coffee, waiting for the contractors to show up because they called this morning and said the were coming, I would stop blogging for a game of Scrabble.

I'd pretty much stop anything for a game of Scrabble.




Not playing did not mean Em didn't participate.

Drawing on a tradition started by her grandfather (my father) she sat at the table and commentated.

My father is notorious for this.

When my brother and I were younger, living at home, playing Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Probe, even crazy eights, he would wander in and out of the kitchen offering his two cents here and his two cents there.

All he was really doing was annoying us.

We would threaten him.

Nothing worked.

Em is the same.

She sat while we played, egging Keith on, looking at letters, asking how much longer because she had a game she wanted to play and in the course of concentrating on letters to make words that would blow the opponent out of the water, Keith and I agreed to play her game.

Keith was also supping on some ice cold Kokanee while we were playing and it became clear to me, especially towards the end of the game that the Kokanee was having an effect on him.

He was more relaxed.

Less intense.

Laughing.

I never realized how intense Keith was under normal circumstances.

Growing up with Mer, Em and me would have that effect on any young man I suspect.



I won.

Of course.

But only by 26 points.

Leading me to think that the day when the grasshopper out does the master may be moving closer.

Cottage time will tell.

Because we play a lot of Scrabble at the cottage.

A lot.



After we finished playing Scrabble, we moved on to Em's choice of board game activity.

Smart Ass.

A simple game.

But a lot of fun.

Making you realise how the most obvious things can escape your notice.

And that sometimes you really don't know all that you think you know, and under certain game-intensified caught up in the heightened energy circumstances when all you want to do is get the correct answer so you can roll you blurt out the first thing that comes to you mind before thinking through what it means so that Japan all of a sudden becomes part of Europe.

Now, who would be so competitive as to say something like that?

And while we were playing Stephen returned from his Superstore sojourn, laden with necessities, supplies and treats for the kids.

He loves trivia games.

A lot more than word games.

And so once we had finished our first round of Smart Ass, we began another game that included Stephen.

Stephen is a lot of fun to play with.

On so many different levels.

Board games that require reading trivia cards while wearing the worst pair of glasses you own is one of those Stephen-only experiences.

Leading to such comments as, "and a cult passed through a subway station. . ." instead of "a cult GASSED a subway station. . ."

Further, Stephen is quite competitive.

And excitable.

The more excitable he gets, the louder his responses become.

So that by the end, he was screaming such things as "STATUE OF LIBERTY!!!!!!!!!!!!"  and "CROSSWORD PUZZLE!!!!!!!!!!!!"

When the last game wrapped up at around 10.30 pm, it was clear that a good time was had by all.

A very good time.

Sometimes the best plan is no plan at all.




Title Lyric: Makin' Plans by Miranda Lambert

I'm cleaning out my closet, one more time. . .

August 3, 2011

Vacation Countdown: 18 days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Holiday Monday's are a lot more enjoyable when you experience them during the academic year.

During the summer, long weekends are just another day.

Albeit this one wasn't as quiet as others have been.

When it is around here?



I haven't been sleeping well lately.

Again.

The last couple of nights, around 1.00 am, the rounds of tossing and turning begin.

Pushing Frankie around, forcing him to move from one comfortable position to another.

I did try to go back to bed after having something to eat.

Hunger is usually what rousts me out of bed in the first place.

That or the necessary morning ablutions of my poochies.

But, as often happens when I try to go back to sleep in the morning, Stephen snoring softly beside me, Goblet buzzing around, purring, giving off all the signals that she's looking for some earlobe sucking time. . .

I fall asleep.

But it isn't a fitful sleep.

In fact, I had a dream that Em and I were arguing in a store and she stormed out, me following her, carrying two pairs of skinny jeans valued at $50.00 a piece.

No store alarms went off, me and Em continuing our tete-a-tete, and when we realized that I still had the jeans in my hands, Em responds:

Just keep them.

No one knows.

And when I was on my way back to store to return them, Em no longer angry with me, but protesting my law abiding turn of attitude, saying things let's just keep one pair. . . .

At which point I woke up.

Meaning I'll never know if I would have given in to Em's entreaties for "free" skinny jeans, or if I would have returned them to the store.

I'd like to believe honesty would trump my teenage daughter's fashion fetishes.



Up, finally, not at all rested, to see my husband showered, dressing and getting ready for to head into work.

To which I responded, NO!!!!!!!

Before dozing into the land of lawlessness, I thought it would be nice to have a sit-down-all-together-family-meal.

All three kidlets accounted for.

Meaning I'd have to call Mer and ask her to come over.

Stephen agreed to stay home long enough to have a sit down meal and for me to shower so afterwards, while the kids were doing the dishes and general Mom-made-a-great-meal-cleanup, we'd head into the quiet and serenity of our respective offices.

But first, I had to inform the kids that a homecooked meal was in off.

I encountered Em on the stairs, carrying a yummy toasted bagel, covered with cinnamon sugar.

And I shared my meal plans with her, to which she replied, I can eat more, don't worry.

But, she said, you'd better get to Keith.

How come?

Because he's making scrambled eggs.

Running into the kitchen. . . .

. . .okay, running may be a bit outside the realm of truth. . .walking quickly is probably more accurate. . .

I yell, POOKIE! STOP!

He turns around, spatula in hand, eggs cooking on the stove to reply,

Why?

Because I am going to cook for you.

A nice, home cooked meal.

All of us at the table.

To which he responds, fine.

I can eat more.

So accommodating, my children.



I immediately begin the process of boiling new potatoes, snapping fresh green beans and cooking boneless, skinless chicken breast.

No anything-but-chicken menus here.

Setting Stephen the task of shelling peas and cutting baby carrots.

A veggie laden, high protein, low carb meal.

My favourite kind.

While in the process of preparing veggies and chicken, the phone rang.

Mer.

Even before I had the chance to call her.

She wanted a Mum and Mer Day Out.

Me, too.

But it wasn't in the cards.

For a holiday Monday, anyway.

But I did ask if she'd like to come over for lunch with us.

She agreed and said she was on her way.

I continued to prepare our meal, enlisting Em's help with the baby carrots.

We prepared and waited for Mer.

Until everything was ready and there was still no Mer.

I forgot that while the rest of the people in this region operate on Eastern Time, Mer runs on MST.

Meredyth Standard Time.

Which is impossible to understand, figure out, comprehend, follow.

Meaning in the time it took her to get here, I was able to finish lunch preparations, direct the setting of the table and have a shower.

Meredyth Standard Time.

Slower than any standardized time ever created.






Our meal was a typical all-family-together meal.

I have to admit, I had an agenda.

One of the reasons yesterday wasn't as celebratory as many other holiday Mondays is that Stephen and I both realized that it was August 1st.

And further realizing exactly what had to be accomplished between now and the first day of classes, September 8th.

Which caused considerable anxiety in both of us.

Cottage August 21st-28th.

Mer moving in September 1st.

Which means that Mer has to be ready to move out before we leave for the cottage.

Apartment cleaned to Stephen-standards.

My concern is that she can always find something better to do than what she needs to do.

And I am not cleaning that apartment.

When she moved back here from Ontario, she left the boyfriend in the apartment, having given notice.

Grandma was the signatory on the apartment.

Grandma ended up cleaning the apartment.

I am not cleaning that apartment.

I will collect boxes, store her stuff in the basement, let her live here, feed her, help her get through the things she needs to get through in the next few months.

But I am not cleaning her apartment.

And if it isn't cleaned, and it isn't able to be shown, then she will have to live there another month.

A month I will not be chipping in for the rent.

I am so anxious about this I am losing sleep.

Making me tired and cranky.

And these were some of the reasons why I wanted a family dinner.

Because I needed her to hear my concerns.

Worries.

How I am keeping my controlling tendencies under wraps.

Well, trying to anyway.

Because there isn't a day that goes by that I don't want to go over there and start cleaning and packing to make sure it's done and it's done right.

Especially when Mer's only response to my voiced concerns are

Don't worry.

I got it all under control.






After lunch, Stephen and I headed to the quiet of our offices.

Desperately needed quiet.

We worked for several hours, basking in the knowledge that Mer had returned to her apartment to clean.

That Em was cleaning and clearing her room in preparation for her sister-cum-roommate.

Returning home, not all that willingly, Em's room was spotless, and she had planned on moving several things to the basement to make more room.

Mer?

Sleeping on Keith's bed.

And she wonders, seriously, she does, why we are concerned.




Title Lyric: Cleaning Out My Closet by Eminem

You better never let it go. . . .

August 2, 2011

VACATION COUNTDOWN: 19 days!!!!!!!!!!!

So much was going on Sunday I had to actually break up into two parts.

That's a Sunday!

After all the less than subtle watch glancing from my mother, I took the hint that it was time to take her back to the grove.

We did.

Took all her veggies to the kitchen.

When the kitchen staff saw the bags of fresh veggies she'd returned with, they exclaimed that it'd take her months to eat all those veggies.

She eats about four bites of salad a night.

Always with her ranch dressing.

On a good night.

But try to tell my mother that four peppers can go a long way with one person, and all you'll get is the infamous Janet-stink-eye.

So I just buy the peppers.

And keep my mouth shut.

The two block sojourn with Mum was great for her.

A tease for me.

After we'd taken her back to the nursing home, made certain she was signed back in, settled, and on her way to dinner, I asked Stephen if he was up to a longer walk.

He certainly was.

Which was good because I was aching for a good, long, leg stretching, heart pumping walk on a glorious sunny day complete with gentle breeze.

Whether Stephen wanted to accompany me or not.

Good thing he wanted to.

It had been a while since we'd spent any alone time together.

Time not interrupted by the daily responsibilities of meeting the needs of the people who reside with us, fielding phone calls, addressing construction chaos, succumbing to the doe eyed entreaties of our capricious canines.

Time to talk about serious things, frivolous things, to laugh at one another's eccentricities.

To feel the river breezes blow gently across our faces, as if, for a short time, it was trying to blow away all our cares and concerns.

For that, we'd need gale force winds, but the thought was nice.

To just enjoy being with one another.

But even the most relaxing, enjoyable promenades with loved ones must compete with the harsh realities of everyday life and being human.

Stephen announced as we made our way to King Street that he was hungry.

And that he wanted to take me out for dinner.

Now, who was I to say no to such a lovely invitation? An invitation that would surely extend our time out together.

At first, we thought we might partake of the outside atmosphere of the Lunar Rogue.

However, there were several other groups of people who shared the same thoughts, so we decided to head further down King to see what was happening at Mexicali Rosa's.

Lunar Rogue has a Simply for Life menu.

Mexi's didn't.

But that didn't stop us from thinking that we could find something on that menu that would meet our dietary needs.

If we could find outside seating.

And we were in luck.

Ushered to seats outside, in the corner.

Just the two of us.

Usually when I enjoy the fare at Mexi's I treat myself to a Corona and a chicken chimichanga.

I love the chicken chimi.

Deep fried tortilla stuffed with chicken, mushrooms, some sort of creamy sauce.

On the outside, cheese and a renello sauce.

Rice and beans, with salad on the side.

In spite of the loud voices in my head calling me, begging me to enjoy the mouthwatering flavours of the chicken chimi, I resisted.

And instead dined on the grilled vegetable quesadilla with a side salad.

A diet Pepsi replaced much desired Corona with lime.

Stephen had the anything-but-chicken burrito.

It wasn't called anything-but-chicken in the menu.

Just in Stephen's head.

Because he wanted anything-but-chicken.

Beef it was.

Huge, tender pieces of beef wrapped in a whole wheat tortilla covered with just a smattering of some red, hot sauce.

Also with a salad.

And a Canadian.

On tap.

I wish I was six foot four and could savour the odd treat.






After dinner, we decided to take another walk.

I was doing everything I could possibly think of, that was legal in a public place anyway, to keep the day from ending.

We wandered over to the old cemetery, walked through it to George Street, onward to Charlotte and around to York.

And I could have kept going for hours had the everyday urges of human life not interrupted.

Again.

Stephen was in desperate need for a bathroom.

We stopped at King's Place where we cut through Second Cup and headed for the bathroom.

The wonderful thing about Fredericton is that it's small enough that you can run into people who no longer live in Fredericton, who are visiting, just as you are walking out of King's Place.

And we did.

Someone I knew from my second round of undergraduate studies in the nineties.

The difference from then to now?

He is accompanied by his wife and adorable child.

I am accompanied by Stephen.

And there was a dog.

A three year old and a dog??????

I didn't know who to turn to first.

Catching up was very nice.

Next time you're in town, let me know.

We'll share academic horror stories.






Eventually, Stephen voiced that he was feeling the urge to return home.

The umbilical canine cord tugging a bit harder, a bit longer with every minute we were out.

Me still not wanting to end the magic of the moment.

In spite of my love for my canine compadres.

Adult responsibility won out over teenage desires to stay out just a little longer and we found ourselves back at our car, which was waiting for us, chock full of fresh veggies from the Big Potato and clothes from Jinglers.

Home again, home again jiggity jig.

Happy puppies cavorting at our feet, dancing with delight that we'd returned home and released them from their forced captivity.

And back to the realities of putting purchases away, running the dishwasher, and waiting for phone calls to announce that the kids were finished work.

But our few hours of escape were wonderful and worth holding on to during those days where escaping the real world feels as likely as winning the lottery.




Title Lyric: Lose Yourself by Eminem

A jar of pickles catches the eye. . .

August 1, 2011

VACATION COUNTDOWN: 20 days!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes.

I am that excited.

At the same time, thinking of what has to be done before we are comfortably ensconced in our cottage by the sea is terrifying.

The advantage of vacationing at the end of summer means dealing with fewer vacationers, coming back refreshed, temperatures that are not as hot as they are in July.

Hopefully.

The downside is that when you come back from vacation a week before classes start, you have to have a lot of things finished before you leave.

Perhaps even spend a couple of hours a day working while you're on vacation.

So while very much looking forward to our time away, I am not in a great hurry to wish it away.

Because it'll be over soon enough as it is.

Plus, Mer is moving in a month.

Perhaps I should have two countdowns?

Sunday Adventures: Part I

For a Sunday, yesterday was very busy.

So busy that I'll have to divulge them in two parts.

First, Stephen and I made a quick stop at Jinglers.

He was in need of summer pj pants.

The pair he was wearing yesterday blew a seam in a most unfortunate place.

I probably could have repaired them, but he didn't want to take the chance.

Plus, my mother has been commenting on my Jinglers' purchases.

Capris.

Summer blouses.

Shorts.

And when I told her how inexpensive they were, she commented that she wished she could get clothes that inexpensively.

After I restarted my heart from the shock, I agreed I'd take a look for her.

So I did.

And sure enough, I found a lovely beige sweater with pearl buttons down the front, and a pair of capris.

Also beige.

Bright colors, florals, stripes, plaids. . .

Not my mother's forte.

So I have to purchase carefully.

Luckily, I was able to get her approval for the purchases while we were driving to the Big Potato.

Because Jinglers doesn't do refunds.

And it isn't anywhere near wheelchair accessible, so I can't take her inside with me.

Unless, of course, I leave her in the car and run back and forth with things I think she might like.

Stephen, alas, found no pj pants, but he did find a bathing suit, a pair of shorts and two shirts.

I came out with a pair of work pants.

A light blue sweater.

A blouse.

It was a light day.

Mum and I made plans during our Hoarders viewing to traverse to the Big Potato and then return to downtown Fredericton for coffee and treats of some description.

With Stephen's attendance of course.

Because while I can handle Mum and the wheelchair, Mum, the wheelchair, a mini-grocery cart and a packed Big Potato is a lot more than I can handle.

Plus I just wanted him there.

Kids, renovations, work have not made spending one-on-one time with Stephen easy.

And I like one-on-one time with Stephen.

But the opportunities are few lately.




How can I predict that the Big Potato would be busy?

It's summer.

They're selling fresh, local produce at a fraction of the price of the grocery stores.

For example, broccoli at the Superstore: $2.99.

At the Big Potato: $1.49.

Even with gas prices, it's still cheaper.

Healthier.

And MUCH better tasting than the imported veggies from who-knows-where.

It was also busy because in the Maritimes, as in many other places, it's pickle making season.

Women. . .

. . .yes, all women at the Big Potato with carts full of cucumbers from the Fill The Bag for A Toonie bin.

And while there could be all sorts of other explanations for why women would want several bags filled to the brim with cucumbers, the logical explanation is pickle making.

I've made pickles in the past.

In fact, I quite like making pickles, but given all that must be done in the next three weeks, pickle making really isn't feasible.

Pickle making was a big deal when I was younger.

My mother made the best mustard pickles I've ever had.

And her pickled beets curled my toes.

I can remember sitting at the kitchen table for days at a time cutting cucumbers into small triangles, filling her German-made and bought roaster, bigger and heavier than any roaster I've ever seen with those cucumbers and adding red peppers, onions, cauliflower while Mum stood at the stove and mixed the sugar, vinegar, mustard seed, water concoction that would cover the vegetables before she heated the sweet and tangy mixture over the stove.

One year I thought it would be fun to include pearl onions.

She bought several bags at my urging.

And then watched me peel every. single. one. of those tiny, pearl onions.

I never asked for them again.

In fact, a bag of pearl onions can send me screaming out of the store.

And pickled beets. . . .

Would result in me with hands stained purple for days on end.

But the results. . . .jars and jars of pickles lined up on the shelves in the basement, brewing so they'd be ready in time for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. . .

Who could ask for more?

Maybe I'll find the time.

After all, with no television to tempt me. . . .



In addition to veggies and fruit, the Big Potato sells all sorts of other delights.

Home baked goods, such as breads, biscuits, cookies, squares. . .

Fudge.

Stephen had some.

In fact, when my mother was hospitalized in Oromocto, we'd often stop at the Big Potato to purchase veggies.

And a treat for my mother and her roommate, Eldon.

I've talked about Eldon before.

97 when he was sharing quarters with Mum.

Spent a lot of time in the giant wheel chair.

Three teeth, a glass eye.

Didn't like Stephen.

Thought I was his wife.

Used to yell at me, in his capacity as my husband, that it was time to take him home when he thought I'd spent enough time visiting with Mum.

And he loved fudge.

I'd always bring him some brown sugar or peanut butter or chocolate fudge.

You'd be surprised how fast a 97 year old man with three teeth can eat a piece of fudge.

And my mother, while we were in the line waiting to pay for our selection of veggies, my mother asks me if you can still buy dulce at the Big Potato.

Seaweed.

That's all it is.

Seaweed.

Rubbery, chewy seaweed.

An acquired taste.

My mother loves it.

As a kid, there was always dulse in our house.

And you knew this because not only was it putrid tasting, it smelled like dirty socks left to sit in rotting garbage.

And my mother loves it.

Of course they still sell it at the Big Potato.

So in addition to the other items she wanted, celery, red onions, red, yellow and orange peppers, two cucumbers and two salad cucumbers, my mother added a bag of dulse.

We inadvertently brought the peppers home.

But not the dulse.

Ever.

On the off chance that you've never heard of dulse:

Dulse (Palmaria palmata)
Dulse is a reddish seaweed that grows attached to rocks by a “holdfast” in the North Atlantic and Northwest Pacific. It is commonly used both as food and medicinally, and is shipped around the globe.

Growing from the mid-tide portion of the intertidal zone (the area between the high tide and low tide) and in deep water, dulse fronds vary from 8 to 16 in. From June to September, it is picked by hand at low tide, dried by laying it on netting, and is put through a shaker to remove small shells and other debris. Once dry, it is rolled into large bales to be packaged or processed.

Grand Manan Island is known for the best dulse because of the geography of the island. On the western side, high cliffs shade the intertidal zone, protecting the dulse from bright sunlight during the morning hours. “Dark Harbour dulse” (located on Grand Manan Island) is darker, thicker and more flavourful than that growing elsewhere, including the eastern side of Grand Manan Island and the other islands in the Archipelago. Dulse grows quickly in the summer and the same shores may be picked every two weeks during the season.

Sun-dried dulse can be eaten as-is, or can be ground into flakes or powder. It is sometimes pan-fried quickly (garlic butter optional) into tasty chips, baked in the oven covered with cheese, then add salsa, or microwave it briefly for a crispy treat. It can also be used in soups, chowders, sandwiches and salads, or added to bread or pizza dough. Fresh dulse can be eaten directly off the rocks before sun-drying.

Dulse is a good source of dietary requirements. A handful will provide more than 100% of the daily amount of Vitamin B6, 66% of B12, a day’s supply of iron and fluoride and it's relatively low in sodium and high in potassium. http://www.tourismnewbrunswick.ca/Home/Activities/DiningCuisine/LocalCuisine/Dulse.aspx

It was one of those things my mother never worried would disappear into the gobs of my brother or I.

Following our visit to the Big Potato, everyone was in need of a nice cup of coffee and a nibbly.

We returned to Fredericton and parked on King Street in the government employee parking lot by Tim Horton's.

In addition to coffee, stretching our legs on a gorgeous sunny day, complete with gentle breeze was a must.

Even for my mother.

We remembered, this trip, to bring the "feet" for her wheelchair.

Mum has the ability to hold her feet off the ground for extended periods of time.

Enough to manage a walk around the grounds of the nursing home.

Or a trip to the Big Potato.

For longer hauls, however, it's imperative we bring her feet.

They're easy to put on.

But I always forget which foot attaches to which side.

Mum hasn't had much experience walking around downtown Fredericton in her wheelchair.

And we haven't had much experience pushing her.

Not until you have to push a stroller or wheelchair through a city can you assess the quality of it's sidewalks, curbs, and streets.

Fredericton needs a lot of work.

Taking Mum across the streets was challenging.

The curbs cracked and pitted just enough to catch a front wheel.

Meaning one of us pushed and the other lifted the front of the chair.

Hoping that we could get across the street without hitting a rut or crack that would further slow our progress.

And Mum?

She whiteknuckled each crossing.

Worried that we'd inadvertently dump her into the middle of the street.

After we crossed each street, I had to pry her fingers from the wheelchair arm rest and massage them to reinstate circulation.

The sidewalks weren't any better.

But Stephen was a careful driver and worked hard to ensure she had the smoothest, if not always the straightest, journey.

Now we approach sidewalk walking with a heightened awareness, looking for which sidewalks are more user friendly.

Whodathunk it.

We managed to make it to Read's coffee shop.

Just a couple of blocks from where we parked.

But that was far enough for my mother.

And just as we selected our table, with one seat in full sun for my mother the sun-worshipper and another in the shade for my husband, the sun avoider, we were hailed by our dear friend, G, and his partner, H.

We hadn't seen G in a while, as he hasn't been well.

So I took full advantage of his presence before me for hugs and catch up chat.

While H sat beside my mother and chatted with her.

Both share common work experiences so they had lots and lots to chat about.

That's the nice thing about living in a small city.

You can go out for coffee on a Sunday afternoon and find people you like, care about and genuinely want to talk to.

You can also run into people you'd rather never see or talk with, but that was definitely not the case today.

We had our coffee.

Me: creme brulee.

Mum: her half cup of the smallest serving size they have, complete with cream.

Stephen: decaf.

Always decaf.

Otherwise he'd still be downtown.

Running through the streets singing Motown at the top of his lungs.

A couple of nibblies. . .definitely not Simply for Life approved.

Cinnamon bun, complete with icing for Mum.

Blueberry oatmeal muffin from Happy Baker for me.

And let me say, the Happy Baker does not skimp on their blueberries.

It was almost bursting.

Stephen eating from both.

Once Mum finished her coffee and snack it was clear she was ready to head back to the nursing home.

She didn't have to day anything.

Her checking her watch and then looking at me was all the signal I needed.

I did ask if she'd like to stay with us, go for dinner, and then we'd take her back.

But she was worried about not having her meds.

Note for next time: get the meds.

Just in case.

Title Lyric: Reading Time with Pickle by Regina Spektor

What's for tea, Mum? Heinz baked beans. . . .

July 31, 2011


The last day of July.

Wow!

The summer is moving so quickly.

Too quickly in some ways.

Not fast enough in others.

Either way, it's the end of July.

And in three weeks, I'll be at our little cottage by the sea basking in the sounds of crashing waves, inundated with the tang of salt air, feet still wet from our after supper wandering through the ocean.

LET THE VACATION COUNTDOWN BEGIN!!!!!



Pookie and I went to the movies yesterday.

He has made a life choice change that has caused some unexpected boredom, so I was willing to do whatever it took to assist in his uncomfortable transition period.

Even if meant seeing Horrible Bosses

For the third time.

Sitting in the cold theater, beside him, sipping my soda. . .diet of course, while Mer popped in periodically in her role of theater usher.

THAT is love for your children.

When you watch a movie you've already seen just so you can spend time with them.

Whether they want to spend time with you or not.






All three kidlets were working.

Em bouncing back and forth between concessions and New York Fries.

Mer running around in her capacity as usher.

She likes usher because it allows her to keep moving.

But you're never certain whether or not she's actually doing what she's supposed to be doing.

Pookie at New York Fries with Em.

Which thrilled him, I'm sure.

Mer asked if I had any spare change.

I didn't.

She got it all the last time she asked for spare change.

If a penny saw Mer walking down the street, it would run away in fear.

I swear.


And then all I wanted was a quiet couple of hours at home.

That was the plan for the kid-free-its-raining Saturday afternoon.

Well, as quiet as anything can be around here.

All I wanted was a simple meal and perhaps a 20 minute nap.

I was hungry, so I made myself something to eat from what we have because we've still got to get to the Superstore to collect some essentials.

Hummus, cottage cheese and two pieces of multi grain bread.

Yummy!

I love all three.

When Stephen saw what was decorating my luncheon plate, he replied, "Mush. You're eating mush."

At the time, I thought it was funny, so I put it on Facebook.

37 comments later, the conversation regarding my lunch of mush and birdseed with flour still rages on.

People.

Really.

Nothing better to do????





And then, of course, the nursing home for my Saturday night shenanigans with Mum.

The menu: baked beans and homemade brown bread.

Of course.

More mush.

Gas causing mush, but mush nonetheless.

Mum and I spent an hour outside, in the sunshine, talking, chatting, enjoying the silence.

You know you're comfortable with someone when you can spend time with someone, not say anything, and have that be okay.

After our outside time, we returned to her room, I helped her get ready for bed, a complex process that involves ensuring things get on and off without touching her hair.

She had it done on Friday, and if I so much as gently brush her lacquered locks, I'll have to explain to her how it happened and reassure her that she looks the same as she did before I accidentally touched her head in the process of taking off her shirt and putting on her pj top.

Support stockings removed, turned right side out, and laid on the bed for the nightly washing of the feet.

A nurse once commented that my mother's stockings smelled.

One, she never said it again.

Two, she probably never recovered from the tongue lashing she was privy to at the mouth of my mother.

Three, my mother or I wash the feet of her stocking nightly, hanging them on her dresser drawer handles to dry overnight.

Capris off.

Pj bottoms put on.

Nighttime shoes replacing her daytime sandals.

Sweater put back on.

Bedtime bustle completed, we decided to see what was on the telly.

I haven't watched television since the unplanned-and-unwanted-home-renovations-from-hell started.

Mostly because our television is encased in the television cabinet which is encased in cardboard to prevent mess while the contractors are doing whatever it is their doing in there.

And while I could watch television in Pookie's room, there is something about being in there when he's not home that I find uncomfortable.

Disquieting.

When he is home, I don't want to interrupt his solitude.

So rare lately as he's caught in the middle of a sisterly tug-of-war-for-Pookie's-time.

At the end of the day, or weeks in this case, it has meant no television for Dawne.

It isn't as if I spend hours in front of the television, couch potato-ing, small dribble of drool pooling on my shirt.

What I miss is the choice to watch television.

I am all about my choices.

And I don't like them taken away.

Even for a short period of time.






Scrolling through the channels, looking at what was available for our post outside perusal, I came across Hoarders.

My mother, as far as I know, has never watched an episode of Hoarders.

But she did last night.

With rapt attention.

And the obsession of someone who fascination crosses well over the boarder of morbid.

She kept shaking her head, and muttering, "How CAN people live like that???"

She then commented that she never has to worry about my father engaging in hoarding activities.

Apparently, she was surprised that there was as much furniture in the house as there was when she visited a couple of weeks ago.

My father, much like my husband, is loath to keep anything defined as immediately lacking purpose.

Whether or not it could have a purpose later on is irrelevant.

At that immediate moment of decision making, if it is deemed as unnecessary, off it goes.

So my father becoming a hoarder in his hermitage is as close to unlikely as you can get.

My husband?

Like I say, I await the morning I wake up in the recycling bin.

I'll make sure Stephen takes a picture.




Title Lyric: Heinz Baked Bean by Who