December 31, 2011
And the marking is finished.
Grades entered.
Email to students reminding them that I am not willing to discuss their grades with them until we return to classes.
In theory, this would imply that I am done working until classes being.
Theory and reality are two very different beasts.
I might take a nap, but after that, it's back to the computer to prepare for next term.
No rest for the wicked.
In an effort to get out of the house and to keep the marking train moving, I went to Starbuck's yesterday for a few hours.
Marked several papers.
And then took a break.
Treated myself to a little browsing through Chapters with the gift cards I accrued over the holidays.
Resulting in two new purchases.
The latest Alan Bradley book, I am Half-Sick of Shadows, detailing the trials and tribulations of 11 year old Flavia Deluce, whose been described as a cross between Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie. http://www.flaviadeluce.com/
And the book that won the Man Booker Prize, Julian Barnes A Sense of an Ending.
New books.
Good books.
Just what I need to escape the reality of my painful, everyday world.
Frankie is so sad and despondent.
We may have to get him a companion sooner than we would have ever contemplated in a similar situation.
I don't know how I feel about it, but I do know that Frankie is not Frankie and I won't lose another pet over pride.
My fear: that people will think we're trying to replace Tikka.
Anyone who knew Tikka would know that there is no way that could ever happen.
She is irreplaceable.
If I had my way, it would be Frankie and the Four Cats.
A rock band like no other.
But Frankie is my baby boy.
He is here.
And I need to care for him.
If that means a trip to the SPCA to locate a friend for Frankie, than so be it.
Pride or not.
Nothing will heal the black hole in my soul.
No matter how kind, how cute, how friendly, how adorable.
I miss my baby girl so much.
Tomorrow is the beginning of a new year.
The last one has been a doozy.
I am actually a bit anxious about what could happen in the next 365 days.
As it would appear that as much as I want to think I have control over all that happens, I am not in possession of the kind of control I think I have.
That I'd like to have.
So who knows what the next year will bring.
The best would be nice.
But we'll see.
Happy New Year everyone.
Stay safe.
Title Lyric: by Jamie Fraser
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
December 30, 2011
Tikka passed away Tuesday.
Cancer.
What we mistook for problems with her hips was actually exhaustion from the cancer, the not eating, drinking.
Not using the bathroom.
Obviously she was sicker than we had thought.
I can't go into the details of the last couple of hours we spent with her.
Reliving them in my head every second of the last few day has been more than challenging.
Tikka was a big dog, taking up lots and lots of space physically.
There isn't a nook, a cranny, hidey hole, in this house that is absent of her presence.
Everything, everywhere.
Her presence wasn't only physical.
We are feeling emotionally bereft.
Tikka was my constant tether to the real world.
No matter how bleak, sad, frustrating, happy, joyful I was, SHE was always the same.
Happy to see me.
Excited I was home.
Pulling into the driveway and not seeing her face at the kitchen window, ears down, tail wagging because I'm home is so hard to deal with I haven't really gone anywhere in the last couple of days.
Opening baby carrots last evening caused me to break down, as she could sense the bag being opened from the farthest reaches of the house, and would always come in search of a little snack.
Stephen hasn't been able to go to the farm.
The kids are devastated.
She was our dog.
Our first dog to move on.
Frankie is almost inconsolable.
Wandering around the house, aimlessly.
Hoping that she will appear and put things back to rights.
I've told him what happened.
But he, too, is struggling to accept her being gone, although I think it has started to sink in.
He isn't eating.
When he isn't wandering he just lays on the floor and sighs.
His fur has soaked up a lot of my tears as I cry on his shoulder, sharing my feelings with him, knowing that deep down he understands.
I don't.
I want my baby girl back home with me.
She will be.
Her ashes placed in the china cabinet.
At least then she'll be near me.
At home.
Where she loved to be.
I love you baby girl.
I know where you are that you are pain free.
No more tumors.
No more heavy breathing.
Running, jumping, playing.
Being Tikka.
Title Lyric: by Jamie Fisher
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
And dosey-dose the cranberry sauce . . .
December 27, 2011
Christmas Day.
Unlike past Christmases, where the kids were awake and all gifts open by 6.00 am, where I spent the entire day building the Bat Cave, when the kids learned that the Easy Bake mixes were indeed better when cooked, this Christmas morning started peacefully enough.
Peacefully enough after getting up every two hours to the metronomic beat of Frankie's bowels.
At 9.10 my three children, aged 22, 20 and almost 18 were at my bedroom door, hot coffee in my favourite mug in Em's hands.
I guess it was time to get up.
Watching the kids open their gifts is the best part of Christmas for me.
As is watching Stephen.
Because he never knows what I am going to get him.
Mer was stymied by the $100.00 gift card for the Superstore.
Apparently, groceries are the in gift this year.
Keith was thrilled with his Kobo ereader, envisioning all the books he was going to download, read and then tell me all about.
And Em's eyes lit up brighter than the tree when she realized that after 10 years of asking and waiting, she finally received her footie pjs.
There were other things, too.
New tires for Em's car, constituting both a Christmas and birthday gift.
A winter coat for Mer.
The Game of Thrones series for Keith.
And the traditional family board game.
This year: Payday.
My brother and I spent hours playing this game.
If I could only find some time to play it now.
Jasper jumping in and out of the discarded wrapping paper.
Attacking bows, tags, anything that could have been construed as ready and waiting for attack.
Stephen received new winter boots.
Ones he can wear everyday.
As opposed to the other pair he owns.
Lovely.
Warm.
Too warm, actually.
Wearing them cause his feet to heat up so intensely that he can't wear them unless it is the coldest of colds.
Hence a new pair.
Less prone to intense heat.
More prone to daily wear.
A Stephen less prone to complaining about hot feet.
That is a real Christmas present.
And me: the complete 4 seasons of Big Bang Theory, gorgeous Italian glass earrings, the usual gift card from Chapters and opera tickets for the January 21st premiere of The Enchanted Island streamed live from the Metropolitan Opera House:
In one extraordinary new work, lovers of Baroque opera have it all: the world’s best singers, glorious music of the Baroque masters, and a story drawn from Shakespeare. In The Enchanted Island, the lovers from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream are shipwrecked on his other-worldly island of The Tempest. Inspired by the musical pastiches and masques of the 18th century, the work showcases arias and ensembles by Handel, Vivaldi, Rameau, and others, and a new libretto by Jeremy Sams. Eminent conductor William Christie leads an all-star cast with David Daniels (Prospero) and Joyce DiDonato (Sycorax) as the formidable foes, Plácido Domingo as Neptune, Danielle de Niese as Ariel, and Luca Pisaroni as Caliban. Lisette Oropesa and Anthony Roth Costanzo play Miranda and Ferdinand. The dazzling production is directed and designed by Phelim McDermott and Julian Crouch. (http://www.metoperafamily.org/opera/the-enchanted-island-tickets.aspx)
A wonderful Christmas.
Absolutely.
Immediately after opening the gifts, it was in the shower for me in preparation for Christmas lunch at the nursing home.
For once, because it was Christmas perhaps, I actually arrived on time.
My father?
No.
Leaving my mother in a state of fretting, muttering over and over again about how he is NEVER on time for ANYTHING and that after all these years you'd think she'd be used to it but she's not and she doesn't think she will be any time soon.
So she and I proceeded to the line-up.
And when it was our turn to locate a suitable seating area, I felt like I was in middle school all over again.
This seat is taken.
And so is this one.
Until we finally located three seats at the table, seats that suited my mother, as she was able to sit in between me and, if he ever showed up, my dad.
Mum putting my sweater on the empty seat for my dad, so she could have her turn informing chair seekers that this seat was, indeed, taken.
If the seatee would ever show up.
Eventually he did.
I knew he would.
For all his faults, my father would NEVER not show up for the nursing home Christmas dinner.
Not unless he wanted a Janet inspired shit storm of epic proportions reign down on him for the remainder of his days.
And it would.
I've seen those storms.
They can last forever.
His explanation: his alarm didn't go off.
He woke at 11.15.
He walked into the nursing home at 12.00.
Not bad considering he lives about 30 minutes away.
But grumpy?????
Oh yeah.
No tea.
No meds.
No toast.
He didn't start coming around until after dinner.
When he'd been tea'd and fed.
Full belly, happy boy.
After dinner and gift exchanges, I headed back home.
I had my own Christmas dinner to finish.
To be served and finished before Mer worked at 5.30 pm.
Along with the Van Clan was the addition of one of the kids' friends.
Who is always more than welcome at my table.
Polite, considerate.
I have no idea what he's doing hanging around my kids.
A 30 pound turkey, the stock pot of stuffing, oven roasted potatoes, brown sugar carrots, parsnips in cream sauce, homemade Ukrainian dill pickles, cranberry sauce, gravy, mincemeat and pumpkin pie.
This years cranberry sauce was a bit if a debacle.
I ALWAYS make my own cranberry sauce.
Because I ALWAYS have cranberries.
And I do this year.
For some reason, no one can find them, and I didn't have time to look.
Resulting in a quick stop at a convenience store after the nursing home.
Canned cranberry sauce was definitely not a hit in our house.
Dinner was finished in time for the kids' friend to drive Mer to work.
Dishes done, kitchen cleaned up and all before 5.00 pm.
The remainder of the evening was spent playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone while watching the Big Bang Marathon on the Comedy channel.
A wonderful ending to an exhausting few days.
Actually, it was all I could manage by the time the end of Christmas day rolled around.
Mind numbing video games while listening to the funniest program ever made.
Title Lyric: Christmas Dinner Country Style by Bing Crosby
Christmas Day.
Unlike past Christmases, where the kids were awake and all gifts open by 6.00 am, where I spent the entire day building the Bat Cave, when the kids learned that the Easy Bake mixes were indeed better when cooked, this Christmas morning started peacefully enough.
Peacefully enough after getting up every two hours to the metronomic beat of Frankie's bowels.
At 9.10 my three children, aged 22, 20 and almost 18 were at my bedroom door, hot coffee in my favourite mug in Em's hands.
I guess it was time to get up.
Watching the kids open their gifts is the best part of Christmas for me.
As is watching Stephen.
Because he never knows what I am going to get him.
Mer was stymied by the $100.00 gift card for the Superstore.
Apparently, groceries are the in gift this year.
Keith was thrilled with his Kobo ereader, envisioning all the books he was going to download, read and then tell me all about.
And Em's eyes lit up brighter than the tree when she realized that after 10 years of asking and waiting, she finally received her footie pjs.
There were other things, too.
New tires for Em's car, constituting both a Christmas and birthday gift.
A winter coat for Mer.
The Game of Thrones series for Keith.
And the traditional family board game.
This year: Payday.
My brother and I spent hours playing this game.
If I could only find some time to play it now.
Jasper jumping in and out of the discarded wrapping paper.
Attacking bows, tags, anything that could have been construed as ready and waiting for attack.
Stephen received new winter boots.
Ones he can wear everyday.
As opposed to the other pair he owns.
Lovely.
Warm.
Too warm, actually.
Wearing them cause his feet to heat up so intensely that he can't wear them unless it is the coldest of colds.
Hence a new pair.
Less prone to intense heat.
More prone to daily wear.
A Stephen less prone to complaining about hot feet.
That is a real Christmas present.
And me: the complete 4 seasons of Big Bang Theory, gorgeous Italian glass earrings, the usual gift card from Chapters and opera tickets for the January 21st premiere of The Enchanted Island streamed live from the Metropolitan Opera House:
In one extraordinary new work, lovers of Baroque opera have it all: the world’s best singers, glorious music of the Baroque masters, and a story drawn from Shakespeare. In The Enchanted Island, the lovers from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream are shipwrecked on his other-worldly island of The Tempest. Inspired by the musical pastiches and masques of the 18th century, the work showcases arias and ensembles by Handel, Vivaldi, Rameau, and others, and a new libretto by Jeremy Sams. Eminent conductor William Christie leads an all-star cast with David Daniels (Prospero) and Joyce DiDonato (Sycorax) as the formidable foes, Plácido Domingo as Neptune, Danielle de Niese as Ariel, and Luca Pisaroni as Caliban. Lisette Oropesa and Anthony Roth Costanzo play Miranda and Ferdinand. The dazzling production is directed and designed by Phelim McDermott and Julian Crouch. (http://www.metoperafamily.org/opera/the-enchanted-island-tickets.aspx)
A wonderful Christmas.
Absolutely.
Immediately after opening the gifts, it was in the shower for me in preparation for Christmas lunch at the nursing home.
For once, because it was Christmas perhaps, I actually arrived on time.
My father?
No.
Leaving my mother in a state of fretting, muttering over and over again about how he is NEVER on time for ANYTHING and that after all these years you'd think she'd be used to it but she's not and she doesn't think she will be any time soon.
So she and I proceeded to the line-up.
And when it was our turn to locate a suitable seating area, I felt like I was in middle school all over again.
This seat is taken.
And so is this one.
Until we finally located three seats at the table, seats that suited my mother, as she was able to sit in between me and, if he ever showed up, my dad.
Mum putting my sweater on the empty seat for my dad, so she could have her turn informing chair seekers that this seat was, indeed, taken.
If the seatee would ever show up.
Eventually he did.
I knew he would.
For all his faults, my father would NEVER not show up for the nursing home Christmas dinner.
Not unless he wanted a Janet inspired shit storm of epic proportions reign down on him for the remainder of his days.
And it would.
I've seen those storms.
They can last forever.
His explanation: his alarm didn't go off.
He woke at 11.15.
He walked into the nursing home at 12.00.
Not bad considering he lives about 30 minutes away.
But grumpy?????
Oh yeah.
No tea.
No meds.
No toast.
He didn't start coming around until after dinner.
When he'd been tea'd and fed.
Full belly, happy boy.
After dinner and gift exchanges, I headed back home.
I had my own Christmas dinner to finish.
To be served and finished before Mer worked at 5.30 pm.
Along with the Van Clan was the addition of one of the kids' friends.
Who is always more than welcome at my table.
Polite, considerate.
I have no idea what he's doing hanging around my kids.
A 30 pound turkey, the stock pot of stuffing, oven roasted potatoes, brown sugar carrots, parsnips in cream sauce, homemade Ukrainian dill pickles, cranberry sauce, gravy, mincemeat and pumpkin pie.
This years cranberry sauce was a bit if a debacle.
I ALWAYS make my own cranberry sauce.
Because I ALWAYS have cranberries.
And I do this year.
For some reason, no one can find them, and I didn't have time to look.
Resulting in a quick stop at a convenience store after the nursing home.
Canned cranberry sauce was definitely not a hit in our house.
Dinner was finished in time for the kids' friend to drive Mer to work.
Dishes done, kitchen cleaned up and all before 5.00 pm.
The remainder of the evening was spent playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone while watching the Big Bang Marathon on the Comedy channel.
A wonderful ending to an exhausting few days.
Actually, it was all I could manage by the time the end of Christmas day rolled around.
Mind numbing video games while listening to the funniest program ever made.
Title Lyric: Christmas Dinner Country Style by Bing Crosby
Monday, December 26, 2011
Complications my claim to fame. . .
December 26, 2011
Boxing Day.
One of the two days a year when nothing is open and my obligations stretch only to include driving the kids to and from work.
The other day: Easter Monday.
My plans for today: marking.
In my pjs.
And definitely not cooking.
As Stephen remarked a few minutes ago: today is a day for reheating, not cooking.
I'll second that.
The day before Christmas in this house is always anything but peaceful and calming.
More like crazy and chaotic.
Up first thing in the morning to stuff the turkey and put it in the oven.
A stock pot full to the brim with stuffing.
Stock pot.
That was how much bread Stephen and Em prepared for drying that would eventually find itself into the turkey.
Or the overflow container.
I did manage to get the turkey into the roaster.
In spite of the fact that the roaster wasn't really big enough for the turkey.
I got it in there.
That was all that mattered.
Until the fat from the turkey literally bursting from the roaster started dripping onto the element and smoke started pouring out of the oven.
After about a half hour of trying to come up with solutions that would prevent the calling of the fire department, I did what I should have done from the beginning.
Cut the legs and wings off the turkey to cook separately, while allowing the remainder of the turkey to rest in the roaster and lessening the likelihood of a visit from the fire department.
Because we didn't want that, did we?
And while this turkey trauma was unfolding, I was becoming more and more anxious over Tikka.
She hasn't been herself the last few days.
Laboured breathing.
Difficulty walking.
Green discharge coming from her right eye.
Not eating.
Not drinking.
Not willing to eat any of the treats I was giving her in an effort to get her to eat something.
Anything.
After I sorted out the turkey, I did the only thing I could do.
Called the vet.
On Christmas Eve.
When they're not open.
Thus resulting in the emergency services fee that was automatically attached to the fee before we even walked out of our front door.
I didn't care.
Whatever the cost, she was going to be looked at by someone who had some semblance of what may have been wrong with her.
The eye infection was easy to treat: a steroid enhanced eye drops three times a day.
Her hips.
She is 13.
I get that.
But up until the last couple of days she has been fine.
The vet indicated that she was in some pain (d'uh. . like I didn't know that myself) and gave her some anti-inflammatories.
And suggested some glucosamine with chondroitin.
Feed her several smaller meals a day.
And then wait for Tuesday when they reopen.
The last two days have been difficult.
Even doing everything the vet suggested, her breathing is still laboured.
And the movement isn't much better.
Still, I am hopeful.
She is 13.
I get that.
But I want to see her digging under the tree next Christmas.
On the beach with me in July.
She and I have talked about this. She seems to understand what I am saying.
And at the end of the day, if something happens to her, I cannot even fathom my reaction.
So hope for the best.
A happy, healthy, mobile enough to enjoy a walk at the farm Tikka.
Please hope.
I've been with Tikka longer than I've been with Stephen.
She holds all my secrets.
She never asks for money or drives.
Lots of love and attention are all she really wants from me.
So please hope.
While I was at the vet, Stephen was cleaning the oven enough to insert the bird back in to hopefully cook.
Because I was destined for the nursing home, the usual Saturday night fare of baked beans and homemade bread.
Not going wasn't an option.
So like it or not, the turkey was on it's own.
After the visit with Mum, I returned home to make 200 shortbread cookies.
Not because I wanted to, but because Stephen was nagging me to do it.
All day nagging, as a matter of fact.
Why?
Because he wanted to take cookies and a jar of homemade Ukrainian pickles to our neighbour's house.
Not because he wanted to spread the love and joy of Christmas.
No.
He wanted to find out how come the front bumper of the neighbour's car was no longer affixed to the car.
Hence I stood at the counter and made the cookies.
But not willingly.
I just wanted the nagging to stop.
Imagine that.
And finally, at 9.00 pm on Christmas Eve I did the thing I had been trying to do all day.
Wrap gifts.
While all three children were in the living room tee-heeing and taa-hawing at whatever they were watching, I was upstairs wrapping Kobo e-readers, footie pjs, underwear, grocery gift cards.
By 10.30 pm, presents for Mum and Dad waiting for their glossy Christmas covers, I finished for the night and fell, exhausted, into bed.
Only to awaken every two hours from then until I finally got up Christmas morning at 9.00 am, to Frankie.
Or more precisely, Frankie's bowels.
In an effort to get Tikka to eat, I gave her a smitch of homemade turkey soup.
Frankie was feeling more than neglected and left out at the thought of Tikka as being the sole recipient of such largess, so I gave him a little.
Which resulted in a lot.
Of diarrhea.
So that every two hours he launched himself off the bed, went to the bedroom door, emitted a "Rowwwrrrr" which caused me to jump out of bed like a scalded cat to get him outside before any fecal explosions occurred.
Christmas morning our front yard, once pristine with white snow, looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The lesson: turkey soup isn't good for dogs.
No matter how natural and organic it is.
Christmas Day you ask?
That'll have to wait for later.
Just reliving Christmas Eve has been enough to require a nap.
After all three children are safely taken to work.
NOW that's a Christmas holiday!
And these smiling, happy faces post-present unwrapping, makes all the exhaustion worth it.
If only they would remain this way.
Yes.
Keithie is getting a haircut next week.
Or I'll be hauling out the cat clippers.
Title Lyric: Chaos by Mute Math
Boxing Day.
One of the two days a year when nothing is open and my obligations stretch only to include driving the kids to and from work.
The other day: Easter Monday.
My plans for today: marking.
In my pjs.
And definitely not cooking.
As Stephen remarked a few minutes ago: today is a day for reheating, not cooking.
I'll second that.
The day before Christmas in this house is always anything but peaceful and calming.
More like crazy and chaotic.
Up first thing in the morning to stuff the turkey and put it in the oven.
A stock pot full to the brim with stuffing.
Stock pot.
That was how much bread Stephen and Em prepared for drying that would eventually find itself into the turkey.
Or the overflow container.
I did manage to get the turkey into the roaster.
In spite of the fact that the roaster wasn't really big enough for the turkey.
I got it in there.
That was all that mattered.
Until the fat from the turkey literally bursting from the roaster started dripping onto the element and smoke started pouring out of the oven.
After about a half hour of trying to come up with solutions that would prevent the calling of the fire department, I did what I should have done from the beginning.
Cut the legs and wings off the turkey to cook separately, while allowing the remainder of the turkey to rest in the roaster and lessening the likelihood of a visit from the fire department.
Because we didn't want that, did we?
And while this turkey trauma was unfolding, I was becoming more and more anxious over Tikka.
She hasn't been herself the last few days.
Laboured breathing.
Difficulty walking.
Green discharge coming from her right eye.
Not eating.
Not drinking.
Not willing to eat any of the treats I was giving her in an effort to get her to eat something.
Anything.
After I sorted out the turkey, I did the only thing I could do.
Called the vet.
On Christmas Eve.
When they're not open.
Thus resulting in the emergency services fee that was automatically attached to the fee before we even walked out of our front door.
I didn't care.
Whatever the cost, she was going to be looked at by someone who had some semblance of what may have been wrong with her.
The eye infection was easy to treat: a steroid enhanced eye drops three times a day.
Her hips.
She is 13.
I get that.
But up until the last couple of days she has been fine.
The vet indicated that she was in some pain (d'uh. . like I didn't know that myself) and gave her some anti-inflammatories.
And suggested some glucosamine with chondroitin.
Feed her several smaller meals a day.
And then wait for Tuesday when they reopen.
The last two days have been difficult.
Even doing everything the vet suggested, her breathing is still laboured.
And the movement isn't much better.
Still, I am hopeful.
She is 13.
I get that.
But I want to see her digging under the tree next Christmas.
On the beach with me in July.
She and I have talked about this. She seems to understand what I am saying.
And at the end of the day, if something happens to her, I cannot even fathom my reaction.
So hope for the best.
A happy, healthy, mobile enough to enjoy a walk at the farm Tikka.
Please hope.
I've been with Tikka longer than I've been with Stephen.
She holds all my secrets.
She never asks for money or drives.
Lots of love and attention are all she really wants from me.
So please hope.
While I was at the vet, Stephen was cleaning the oven enough to insert the bird back in to hopefully cook.
Because I was destined for the nursing home, the usual Saturday night fare of baked beans and homemade bread.
Not going wasn't an option.
So like it or not, the turkey was on it's own.
After the visit with Mum, I returned home to make 200 shortbread cookies.
Not because I wanted to, but because Stephen was nagging me to do it.
All day nagging, as a matter of fact.
Why?
Because he wanted to take cookies and a jar of homemade Ukrainian pickles to our neighbour's house.
Not because he wanted to spread the love and joy of Christmas.
No.
He wanted to find out how come the front bumper of the neighbour's car was no longer affixed to the car.
Hence I stood at the counter and made the cookies.
But not willingly.
I just wanted the nagging to stop.
Imagine that.
And finally, at 9.00 pm on Christmas Eve I did the thing I had been trying to do all day.
Wrap gifts.
While all three children were in the living room tee-heeing and taa-hawing at whatever they were watching, I was upstairs wrapping Kobo e-readers, footie pjs, underwear, grocery gift cards.
By 10.30 pm, presents for Mum and Dad waiting for their glossy Christmas covers, I finished for the night and fell, exhausted, into bed.
Only to awaken every two hours from then until I finally got up Christmas morning at 9.00 am, to Frankie.
Or more precisely, Frankie's bowels.
In an effort to get Tikka to eat, I gave her a smitch of homemade turkey soup.
Frankie was feeling more than neglected and left out at the thought of Tikka as being the sole recipient of such largess, so I gave him a little.
Which resulted in a lot.
Of diarrhea.
So that every two hours he launched himself off the bed, went to the bedroom door, emitted a "Rowwwrrrr" which caused me to jump out of bed like a scalded cat to get him outside before any fecal explosions occurred.
Christmas morning our front yard, once pristine with white snow, looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The lesson: turkey soup isn't good for dogs.
No matter how natural and organic it is.
Christmas Day you ask?
That'll have to wait for later.
Just reliving Christmas Eve has been enough to require a nap.
After all three children are safely taken to work.
NOW that's a Christmas holiday!
And these smiling, happy faces post-present unwrapping, makes all the exhaustion worth it.
If only they would remain this way.
Yes.
Keithie is getting a haircut next week.
Or I'll be hauling out the cat clippers.
Title Lyric: Chaos by Mute Math
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