August 28, 2010
Yesterday I spent 10 hours in Meredyth's apartment waiting for Leon's to deliver her furniture: a bed, a dresser, and a desk.
I thought everything was going to be tikkety-boo when the first delivery of her couch and tv stand arrived at 11.15 am.
Two deliveries you ask? Why are two deliveries, from the exact same store, necessary you ask??
This is a very good question.
Because the couch and tv stand were bought in the Clearance Section of Leon's. The bed, dresser, and desk were bought from the Leon's showroom.
And is the Clearance Section in another location? A separate building?
Another very good question. . .you guys are really smart!
No, it is not. In fact you have to go through the showroom to get to the Clearance Section.
Leon's wisdom goes like this:
If you buy something from the Clearance Section, they won't deliver it. They contract Clearance deliveries to Premiere Shipping.
For, of course, a $50.00 fee payable upon the delivery of goods.
If you buy something from the showroom, Leon's, or someone else they contract deliveries to, will deliver your goods, with no extra delivery fee.
This makes as much as sense as a tick that can knit sweaters.
At 2.30, we called Leon's to inquire about the showroom delivery. They responded that the delivery truck had arrived at 10.00 am and we were not there.
That's because the person who called me at 8.15 yesterday morning said they would be there between 11.00-1.00.
So why would I be there at 10.00?
We were then told that they would be delivering the goods later that afternoon, before 5.00.
At 5.00, I called again.
The person at Leon's said she would call the delivery people and have them call me. I gave her my cell phone number.
At 6.30 Meredyth called. No delivery people had called, and when was her furniture going to arrive.
We'll call them again, the Leon's people said.
At 7.30, alone in Mer's apartment, I called Leon's again.
"Oh", said the pleasant voice on the other end of the phone, "your delivery slip is here."
"How come", I said.
"Because they tried to deliver the furniture and no one was there."
"That is not true," I said, "because I have been here since 10.00 this morning, and no one, except the Clearance delivery people, a plumber, and a lost Spanish man have been here."
"They said they called all three of your contact numbers and no one answered."
"Really", I said, my voice getting a little louder, "because I have been sitting here since 10.00 am and the only phone calls I have received are from my kids, my husband, and Canada Post. My phone is working, and I think I would have remembered if delivery people had called."
"Well, what about the other two contact numbers?" and then she read these two numbers.
"The first one is my home phone. And there have been people at my house all day. The second phone is my daughter, who has been SITTING ON THE COUCH BESIDE ME SINCE 10.00 AM SO CLEARLY NO DELIVERY PEOPLE CALLED HER EITHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I was gettting upset. I may have said something about how much money was spent on said furniture and how they managed to function with such incompetence among their delivery staff.
So, no furniture delivery today. I then started the process of negotiating when the furniture would be delivered.
"Given the level of incompetence on your end, I want that furniture on a truck Monday morning and I want it to be the first delivery of the day. My daughter has taken two days off work to move into her apartment. I took today off work to help her move into her apartment, and now you tell me that there won't be a delivery until Monday, when everyone is supposed to be at work."
"Let me get in touch with our warehouse manager and see if a Monday delivery is possible."
"Excuse me. Possible. How about assured. First delivery of the day."
She then took my cell phone number, again, and said she would be in touch with me today about whether or not the furniture would be delivered Monday.
After I hung up, I thought things were sorted out. I was more amicable on the phone, with the Leon's lady than I felt, but I did get my point across, and it seemed that Mer's furniture would be delivered Monday.
And then I had to take the next step: and this one I feared more than anything.
I called Mer.
To decrease the stress in Mer's bachelor apartment, I sent her out with Stephen to go to Sears to pick up bedding. They were also going to the grocery store, because not even Mer could live on icing sugar and bread crumbs alone.
She has been in the apartment all day, with me, and keeping Mer anywhere for a prolonged period of time is akin to caging a pride of lions.
Especially if that prolonged period of confinement is with me.
I calmly explained to her that her delivery wouldn't be happening today. I told her what the woman at Leon's told me.
I could hear the anger building in her voice. I knew where this was going and there was no possible way I could prevent it.
Mer called Leon's.
Again.
And at this point, she was in Sears, at the catalogue counter, picking up the bedding her grandmother had bought for her.
This counter is typically manned by older Pentecostal women.
Meredyth is pacing back and forth in front of the counter spewing explitatives that would make an inmate blush.
The older Pentecostal women were aghast. . .blood drained out of their faces at the sight of this very angry 20 year old girl, pacing in front of them while cussing out Leon's.
Stephen, of course, was mortified, and tried to manage the situation the best he could.
But when Mer gets like that, the only thing to do is step back and wait for the fury to pass.
The furniture saga continues. . . .
This morning, while typing this entry and drinking a much needed cup of coffee, the house phone rings. Its about 10.00 am.
Its the warehouse manager from Leon's.
They don't make Saturday deliveries, but they are willing to make an exception, and they will be at Mer's apartment in one hour.
Yeah, right??????
Sort of.
Mer wasn't home and I didn't have her keys. Her cell phone was dead and I didn't have her keys.
I texted Keith, who is in Moncton for the weekend, looking for the number for his friend's house, because his best friend is currently Mer's "friend" and that is where she was.
Knowing the state my son was probably in this morning, waiting for him to get back to me was not an option. (He eventually did get back to me, but not until 3 hours post-crisis.)
I did what any self-respecting mother would do in this kind of desperate situation.
I drove over to where I knew Mer was.
I had dropped Keith off there numerous times, and I knew the apartment number, but I had never been inside. It isn't a secured building, so there was no problem getting in. Up three flights of stairs and there I was, standing at the door of the apartment. I knocked a couple of times, then knocked louder a couple of more times, and no one came to the door.
I tried the doorknob. It wasn't locked. (this is starting to sound like a mystery novel, isn't it)
So, I walked in.
And it looked exactly the way an apartment shared by two young men in their early 20s would look.
I fought the urge to wash the dishes.
Tentatively, I begin walking through the kitchen, calling Mer's name. The kitchen lead me to a short hallway. On either side of the hallway were the bedrooms. The bedroom on the left had a closed door, the bedroom on the right had an open door. In the bed there was a young man with dark hair.
I am standing there, calling Mer's name, when the young man rolled over.
He was the roommate. We had never met before.
I say, "you must be (name)."
He, half asleep, holds out his hand and says, "And you must be Dawne."
And from the other bedroom emerges Mer, looking more than a little embarrased that her mother had come traipsing through the apartment, calling her name.
I looked at her. There were so many things I could have said, so many things I wanted to say.
Instead, I just said, "Hustle honey buns. Leon's is delivering your furniture today. Now. In the next 15 minutes."
Mer's "friend" wasn't there. He had left to get his mother's car to help Mer move the rest of her things.
As soon as we left, the roommate texted the "friend" and said he had met Keith and Mer's mother and he now believed all the stories were true.
The furniture has arrived.
Mer and the "friend" have taken all the remaining bags of clothes and other assorted things to Mer's apartment. The bedding is there. She has Stephen's tools to get things put together. All that is left is for us to take her to get some groceries, because Stephen wasn't taking her anywhere else last evening while the fury was in full swing.
The Furniture Crisis and Moving of Meredyth are complete.
Now, I'll just sit back and wait for the next crisis to rear its ugly head.
Because experience tells me there will be another one and it will be here soon.
Title Lyric: Irreplaceable by Beyonce
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Grow old along with me, whatever fate decrees, we will see it through. . .
August 25th, 2010
Today, Stephen and I have been married for 3 years.
We didn't intentionally plan our wedding two days after my birthday, but, a convergence of events beyond our control lead to our wedding happening two days after my birthday.
Those events: Stephen's sister, Mary Ann, and her husband, Roman, along with Meredyth, were all going to be in the vicinity of the East coast. It seemed like an opportune time to get married.
Nothing about our being together has been conventional. He was a 42 year old bachelor, living in a nice two bedroom apartment, neat and clean, knowing where everything was all the time.
I was a single parent of three children, living in a four bedroom house, not neat and clean, where we often didn't know where things were.
And we had dogs and cats.
Somehow, in spite of being complete opposites, we manage to make it work. I think it's because of our winning combindation of therapy, love, patience and lots of melatonin.
Its hard being married. I knew this before I married Stephen, having been married before. But until you are married, you don't really know how much work it really is.
I didn't need to marry Stephen, to be with him. I love him, and would have been content to be with him without any sort of official ceremony linking us together.
Stephen, however, had never been married, and it was important for him, so we got married.
Again, not a conventional wedding ceremony. Being Quakers, we didn't have a minister, nor were we married in a church. The ceremony included everyone we invited, and when we were lead to, we got stood in front of our family and friends and exchanged the vows we had written. We then had more silence. Eventually, people who felt led to speak about me and Stephen, or just one of us, did so.
And that was it.
There was a pot luck reception, with wonderful food, apparently. Stephen and I were "doing pictures" (perhaps the only traditional part of our wedding) so we only heard about the food.
Stephen has had much to adjust to since we got together. There are lots of times when I question how come he has stayed. Life with me and the kids isn't easy, anyone with teenagers will tell you that. He definitely wasn't prepared for the drama that accompanies teenage girls, nor the was he ready for their understanding, or lack thereof, of "cause and effect." In Stephen's world, when you ask someone to do something, it is done shortly after you ask.
And you never have to ask more than once.
In the kid's worlds, you can ask, and eventually whatever you have asked to be done will be done.
But maybe not as quickly as you would have wanted it done.
So with the kids its more like "cause, and eventually, at some point, when there is enough time and energy to do so, there will be an effect."
This makes Stephen crazy.
One of the unforseen happenings of our getting together has been the developement of a game called "Mum-Dawne in the middle."
This is a well loved and often played game among Stephen and the kids.
The sole objective of this game is for Stephen to communicate with the kids, and vice versa, through me.
This makes me crazy.
And they know this.
I cannot seem to make them communicate with one another. And this has really been the source of more than one family discussion. In fairness, as the kids get older, they have become somewhat more willing to talk with Stephen about things, without involving me.
But there is still room for A LOT of improvement.
I also know that this is not a phenomenon that exists solely within blended families or step-families.
When I was growing up, my brother and I often "talked" to our father through our mother.
My dad wasn't easy to talk to, and while he is easier to talk with now than he was when I was younger, I'm not comfortable talking with him. Everything is compared. Contrasted. A contest to see who is the worse off.
Most of the time he wants to compare his living situation, at home, alone, looking only after himself, with my mother's: living in a nursing home, not at home. He doesn't want to be in a nursing home, but he resents that my mother is, and that she is being looked after.
And he resents that he "has" to come into town to see her every second day. He is also very vocal about this.
Unfortunately, I have no sympathy for his tale of woe. I remind him that this woman is his wife of almost 50 years, and she is in a place she doesn't want to be, and he is in the place where she wants to be. He can come and go as he pleases, has a new car to get around in, takes the odd vacation to visit family in Nova Scotia.
My fear is that Stephen and I will become more and more like our parents as we get older.
God, I hope not.
I am happy, every day, that Stephen thought marrying me would be a good idea.
Title Lyric: Grow Old with Me by John Lennon
Today, Stephen and I have been married for 3 years.
We didn't intentionally plan our wedding two days after my birthday, but, a convergence of events beyond our control lead to our wedding happening two days after my birthday.
Those events: Stephen's sister, Mary Ann, and her husband, Roman, along with Meredyth, were all going to be in the vicinity of the East coast. It seemed like an opportune time to get married.
Nothing about our being together has been conventional. He was a 42 year old bachelor, living in a nice two bedroom apartment, neat and clean, knowing where everything was all the time.
I was a single parent of three children, living in a four bedroom house, not neat and clean, where we often didn't know where things were.
And we had dogs and cats.
Somehow, in spite of being complete opposites, we manage to make it work. I think it's because of our winning combindation of therapy, love, patience and lots of melatonin.
Its hard being married. I knew this before I married Stephen, having been married before. But until you are married, you don't really know how much work it really is.
I didn't need to marry Stephen, to be with him. I love him, and would have been content to be with him without any sort of official ceremony linking us together.
Stephen, however, had never been married, and it was important for him, so we got married.
Again, not a conventional wedding ceremony. Being Quakers, we didn't have a minister, nor were we married in a church. The ceremony included everyone we invited, and when we were lead to, we got stood in front of our family and friends and exchanged the vows we had written. We then had more silence. Eventually, people who felt led to speak about me and Stephen, or just one of us, did so.
And that was it.
There was a pot luck reception, with wonderful food, apparently. Stephen and I were "doing pictures" (perhaps the only traditional part of our wedding) so we only heard about the food.
Stephen has had much to adjust to since we got together. There are lots of times when I question how come he has stayed. Life with me and the kids isn't easy, anyone with teenagers will tell you that. He definitely wasn't prepared for the drama that accompanies teenage girls, nor the was he ready for their understanding, or lack thereof, of "cause and effect." In Stephen's world, when you ask someone to do something, it is done shortly after you ask.
And you never have to ask more than once.
In the kid's worlds, you can ask, and eventually whatever you have asked to be done will be done.
But maybe not as quickly as you would have wanted it done.
So with the kids its more like "cause, and eventually, at some point, when there is enough time and energy to do so, there will be an effect."
This makes Stephen crazy.
One of the unforseen happenings of our getting together has been the developement of a game called "Mum-Dawne in the middle."
This is a well loved and often played game among Stephen and the kids.
The sole objective of this game is for Stephen to communicate with the kids, and vice versa, through me.
This makes me crazy.
And they know this.
I cannot seem to make them communicate with one another. And this has really been the source of more than one family discussion. In fairness, as the kids get older, they have become somewhat more willing to talk with Stephen about things, without involving me.
But there is still room for A LOT of improvement.
I also know that this is not a phenomenon that exists solely within blended families or step-families.
When I was growing up, my brother and I often "talked" to our father through our mother.
My dad wasn't easy to talk to, and while he is easier to talk with now than he was when I was younger, I'm not comfortable talking with him. Everything is compared. Contrasted. A contest to see who is the worse off.
Most of the time he wants to compare his living situation, at home, alone, looking only after himself, with my mother's: living in a nursing home, not at home. He doesn't want to be in a nursing home, but he resents that my mother is, and that she is being looked after.
And he resents that he "has" to come into town to see her every second day. He is also very vocal about this.
Unfortunately, I have no sympathy for his tale of woe. I remind him that this woman is his wife of almost 50 years, and she is in a place she doesn't want to be, and he is in the place where she wants to be. He can come and go as he pleases, has a new car to get around in, takes the odd vacation to visit family in Nova Scotia.
My fear is that Stephen and I will become more and more like our parents as we get older.
God, I hope not.
I am happy, every day, that Stephen thought marrying me would be a good idea.
Title Lyric: Grow Old with Me by John Lennon
Monday, August 23, 2010
We gon' party like it's yo birthday
August 23, 2010
43 years old today.
I'm not big on birthdays. For the kids, yes, but not for me. I don't have age issues, or anything like that, I just have never been that excited about my birthday.
Emily, on the other hand, is always excited about my birthday. This morning, she came bouncing downstairs with gifts and cards in hand, gifts she had bought with her own money from her own job.
A lovely new wallet and the 10th Sookie Stackhouse book are now mine!
Keith, with no bouncing, hands me a Chapters bag, with apologizes for the gift inside not being wrapped. Inside was the third Steig Larrson book.
Oh my kids know their Mama; they know the direct line to her heart.
Stephen bought me a lovely china cabinet and a wrought iron floor lamp, from Kijiji. Its our new favourite place to shop.
And then, the "icing on the cake" so to speak, was the brunch at the Diplomat paid for by my children.
All in all it was a good birthday for someone who isn't that big on birthdays.
Title Lyrics: In Da Club by 50 Cent
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Vacations all I ever wanted. . .vacation have to get away. . .
August 21, 2010
After a week at the beach in Mergomish we have returned home.
This week was a lesson in being happy with what we know. Last summer, we spent a week in a small cabin right on the Northumberland Straight. It had the potential to be the world's best vacation and in many ways, it was.
Except for the fact that for our first family vacation ever, we invited my dad, Stephen's parents and his Aunt Irene. The ad for the cabin said that it could comfortably sleep 8 people, and we took that to mean we could invite 8 people.
There were some tense moments during that week, but we got by because the Atlantic Ocean was literally right at our front door.
So this summer, after much searching on Stephen's part, we went to an "ecclectic farmhouse" in Mergomish. Farmhouse was good, right, because we would be more comfortable in a larger space. And it, too, was right on the Atlantic Ocean.
Stephen and I, Emily, and my father were the only people going, so it would be very comfortable, lots of room, the dogs wouldn't be under eveyone's feet.
It was roomy. And that was about all that was accurate.
As we were driving on the Shore Road, I knew there were problems. Number one, there was no shore.
Number two: ecclectic farmhouse is a loose translation for a farmhouse that reeked of must, had paint peeling from the ceilings, a bed as hard as rocks, with no ocean to be seen.
Number three: the ocean, the ocean I had waited all winter for, was a 15 minute drive, one way.
Number four: just because the tides go out in Northport as far as the eye can see, doesn't mean that the tides in Mergomish work the same way. Not once did we see the beach at low tide.
Not. Once.
I burst into tears five minutes after we walked inside, and once I was done, it was either go home or make the best of it.
And so we drove to the beach twice a day, there and back, for the entire week. Frankie had a ball. We think he is part otter so being in the water for him makes him happier than anything else. Tikka is not a big water fan, but she'll go out up to her belly and then bark at us, incessently, until we come back to shore. Or close enough to make her happy anyway.
Title Song: Vacation by The Go Gos
After a week at the beach in Mergomish we have returned home.
This week was a lesson in being happy with what we know. Last summer, we spent a week in a small cabin right on the Northumberland Straight. It had the potential to be the world's best vacation and in many ways, it was.
Except for the fact that for our first family vacation ever, we invited my dad, Stephen's parents and his Aunt Irene. The ad for the cabin said that it could comfortably sleep 8 people, and we took that to mean we could invite 8 people.
There were some tense moments during that week, but we got by because the Atlantic Ocean was literally right at our front door.
So this summer, after much searching on Stephen's part, we went to an "ecclectic farmhouse" in Mergomish. Farmhouse was good, right, because we would be more comfortable in a larger space. And it, too, was right on the Atlantic Ocean.
Stephen and I, Emily, and my father were the only people going, so it would be very comfortable, lots of room, the dogs wouldn't be under eveyone's feet.
It was roomy. And that was about all that was accurate.
As we were driving on the Shore Road, I knew there were problems. Number one, there was no shore.
Number two: ecclectic farmhouse is a loose translation for a farmhouse that reeked of must, had paint peeling from the ceilings, a bed as hard as rocks, with no ocean to be seen.
Number three: the ocean, the ocean I had waited all winter for, was a 15 minute drive, one way.
Number four: just because the tides go out in Northport as far as the eye can see, doesn't mean that the tides in Mergomish work the same way. Not once did we see the beach at low tide.
Not. Once.
I burst into tears five minutes after we walked inside, and once I was done, it was either go home or make the best of it.
And so we drove to the beach twice a day, there and back, for the entire week. Frankie had a ball. We think he is part otter so being in the water for him makes him happier than anything else. Tikka is not a big water fan, but she'll go out up to her belly and then bark at us, incessently, until we come back to shore. Or close enough to make her happy anyway.
Em was miserable, but made do. Each night we played board games, and by far the most fun was playing Trivial Pursuit, the original game. Lots of hints were needed, but a good time was definitely had by all.
We found a used bookstore in Antigonish, so I was very happy. I picked up a book called A Map of the World by Jane Hamilton and so far it is an intriguing book. I was reading at the kitchen table the other morning, after we returned, and Keith looked at me and asked, "Why are you reading a book from 1994?"
Youth. Go figure.
Thankfully for Em there was an Empire Theater in New Glasgow. We saw The Other Guys one afternoon, and Wednesday evening, at my Dad's request, we saw The Expendables.
Not much to say except the movie may have 45 minutes of less than mediocre dialogue.
In other words, we tried to make the best of the situation, and I think for the most part we did.
But we were glad to get home.
Title Song: Vacation by The Go Gos
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Call all you want, but there's no one home, you're not going to reach my telephone. . .
August 10, 2010
I have had a long and painful history with cell phones. The last cell phone I had resulted in a $700.00 + bill, the product of a miscommunication between me and my brother.
Needless to say, I'm gun-shy when it comes to anything to do with cell phones.
Mer has been absolutely lost without her cell phone. I thought that she could take her existing cell phone to Telus, get a number, and Bob's-your-uncle, Mer has an active cell phone.
I thought this because it was the logical scenario.
One of the other reasons I don't like cell phones is because there is absolutely nothing logical about the administration of cell phones.
One and a half hours of my life, which I will never get back, was spent today trying to negotiate my way through the myriad of inter-continental red tape associated with cell phones.
All I wanted was a family plan. . .you know, something where I can call the kids and they can call me without accumulating ridiculously astronomical charges.
The we-want-a-plan-part was fine.
It was the how-can-we-transfer-Em's-pay-as-you-go-phone to a family plan, and the what-so-you-mean-Mer-can't-use-her-exisitng-phone that was the challenge.
And because the phone was in Em's name, Em had to cancel the phone. Should have been a simple phone call to the Telus office from the Telus store.
(As an aside, how come you can buy the phone from a Telus store, but you can't do any of the administrative stuff there????)
But it wasn't, of course.
First, Em could not understand one.single.word. this woman was saying.
Second, the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone, who happened to be in India, couldn't understand what Em wanted.
A very frustrated Emily calls me over to engage in a conversation with the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone.
I then understood how come Em was so frustrated.
I couldn't get through to this woman that Em just wanted her phone cancelled.
That's it.
Cancelled.
Meaning no more pay as you go cell.
I felt like I was in the first Rush Hour (1998) where Jackie Chan is saying to Chris Tucker, "Don't you understand what I am saying?"
And Chris Tucker says, "Ain't nobody understand what you tryin' to say!"
Things deteriorated so quickly that the in-store Telus guy who was helping us had to actually get on the phone himself.
Then he understood how come Em and I were so frustrated.
At the end of the long and unproductive phone conversation with the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone, Em's phone was FINALLY cancelled.
But her number and existing phone were not going to be transfered. She was going to have to get a new phone and a new number.
One happy, happy Em + one happy, happy Mer = one tired and confused Mum.
Stephen stood there, quiet but supportive. At one point, when it looked like I was going to hurl the phone through the window, he came and stood by my side.
So now we have a family plan, with three phones, and we also have two other phones that are perfectly good phones, but couldn't be transfered into a family plan.
My entire don't-waste-composte-everything-pick-composte-and-recycling-out-of-the-garbage- reuse-everything self is enraged.
What the hell am I supposed to do with these cell phones?
Title Lyrics: Telephone by Lady Gaga
I have had a long and painful history with cell phones. The last cell phone I had resulted in a $700.00 + bill, the product of a miscommunication between me and my brother.
Needless to say, I'm gun-shy when it comes to anything to do with cell phones.
Mer has been absolutely lost without her cell phone. I thought that she could take her existing cell phone to Telus, get a number, and Bob's-your-uncle, Mer has an active cell phone.
I thought this because it was the logical scenario.
One of the other reasons I don't like cell phones is because there is absolutely nothing logical about the administration of cell phones.
One and a half hours of my life, which I will never get back, was spent today trying to negotiate my way through the myriad of inter-continental red tape associated with cell phones.
All I wanted was a family plan. . .you know, something where I can call the kids and they can call me without accumulating ridiculously astronomical charges.
The we-want-a-plan-part was fine.
It was the how-can-we-transfer-Em's-pay-as-you-go-phone to a family plan, and the what-so-you-mean-Mer-can't-use-her-exisitng-phone that was the challenge.
And because the phone was in Em's name, Em had to cancel the phone. Should have been a simple phone call to the Telus office from the Telus store.
(As an aside, how come you can buy the phone from a Telus store, but you can't do any of the administrative stuff there????)
But it wasn't, of course.
First, Em could not understand one.single.word. this woman was saying.
Second, the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone, who happened to be in India, couldn't understand what Em wanted.
A very frustrated Emily calls me over to engage in a conversation with the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone.
I then understood how come Em was so frustrated.
I couldn't get through to this woman that Em just wanted her phone cancelled.
That's it.
Cancelled.
Meaning no more pay as you go cell.
I felt like I was in the first Rush Hour (1998) where Jackie Chan is saying to Chris Tucker, "Don't you understand what I am saying?"
And Chris Tucker says, "Ain't nobody understand what you tryin' to say!"
Things deteriorated so quickly that the in-store Telus guy who was helping us had to actually get on the phone himself.
Then he understood how come Em and I were so frustrated.
At the end of the long and unproductive phone conversation with the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone, Em's phone was FINALLY cancelled.
But her number and existing phone were not going to be transfered. She was going to have to get a new phone and a new number.
One happy, happy Em + one happy, happy Mer = one tired and confused Mum.
Stephen stood there, quiet but supportive. At one point, when it looked like I was going to hurl the phone through the window, he came and stood by my side.
So now we have a family plan, with three phones, and we also have two other phones that are perfectly good phones, but couldn't be transfered into a family plan.
My entire don't-waste-composte-everything-pick-composte-and-recycling-out-of-the-garbage- reuse-everything self is enraged.
What the hell am I supposed to do with these cell phones?
During all this, Mer was the primary focus of the Telus guy's attention. Not me, the one who is paying for everything, but my beautiful daughter.
And can she turn it on.
During the period when I had to walk away from the Woman-on-the-Other-End-of-the-Phone and leave the Telus guy to deal with her, one of my students walked by.
We started chatting about the summer, what he was doing, etc., when I feel someone come over, put her arm around my shoulder and say "Hi Mum."
Mer's radar alerted her to the face that her mother was talking with a rather handsome young man, who clearly spent a lot of time at the gym.
Mer reminds me of the southern belles you'd find in books like Gone With the Wind. You just never let the opportunity pass by to flirt with a handsome, young man.
As soon as I introduced them, and they started talking to one another, I was merely the middle-aged women standing there.
Oh, to be young and beautiful.
I'd settle for just being young.
The Telus guy texted Mer as soon as he was off work.
Like I said, the girl can work it.Title Lyrics: Telephone by Lady Gaga
Monday, August 9, 2010
I'm breaking dishes up in here. . .
August 9, 2010
No matter what, I'm feeling out of sorts.
I'm still struggling with this manuscript and how to take control of it, while balancing the let's-turn-this-into-a-creative-writing-peice with my intense need to get it off my plate.
And then there is my father. I saw him last night when I was at the nursing home.
I love my dad, don't get me wrong. But he sure knows how to press my buttons. Even when he isn't doing it on purpose.
He's coming with us on our vacation. He did last year, and he enjoyed it very much. But there were also more people with us to keep him occupied -- Stephen's parents, his aunt, Keith and Em were all with us. Dad spent lots of time playing cribbage with Stephen's dad, and watching me and the kids play Scrabble with Stephen's mum and aunt.
This summer it's just me, Stephen, Em and dad. My brother and his wife were going to come with us, but my sister-in-law is very, very ill. She has taken a turn for the worst and has multiple doctor's appointments next week.
Keith has been promoted to supervisor at the theater, and there are multiple theather staff weddings next week, so he couldn't get the time off.
Mer was thinking about coming, but she has just started her new job and didn't feel she was in a position to ask for a week off. Especially when that week was the week after she started.
So it's the four of us and the dogs.
Less is more, right?
I'm feeling out of sorts today.
Part of it's money, part of it's work, part of it may be I'm coming down from the coffee I had late this afternoon.No matter what, I'm feeling out of sorts.
I'm still struggling with this manuscript and how to take control of it, while balancing the let's-turn-this-into-a-creative-writing-peice with my intense need to get it off my plate.
And then there is my father. I saw him last night when I was at the nursing home.
I love my dad, don't get me wrong. But he sure knows how to press my buttons. Even when he isn't doing it on purpose.
He's coming with us on our vacation. He did last year, and he enjoyed it very much. But there were also more people with us to keep him occupied -- Stephen's parents, his aunt, Keith and Em were all with us. Dad spent lots of time playing cribbage with Stephen's dad, and watching me and the kids play Scrabble with Stephen's mum and aunt.
This summer it's just me, Stephen, Em and dad. My brother and his wife were going to come with us, but my sister-in-law is very, very ill. She has taken a turn for the worst and has multiple doctor's appointments next week.
Keith has been promoted to supervisor at the theater, and there are multiple theather staff weddings next week, so he couldn't get the time off.
Mer was thinking about coming, but she has just started her new job and didn't feel she was in a position to ask for a week off. Especially when that week was the week after she started.
So it's the four of us and the dogs.
Less is more, right?
As much of my last post was about my Frankie-Doodle, I think it appropriate to share his latest escapade.
Saturday morning, after Annette-the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world, departed for another dog-addled client, I was loading the dishwasher.
Frankie LOVES the dishwasher. It is his buffet. As soon as he hears the dishwasher opening, he comes on a dead tear, waiting to "sanitize" the dishes far better than we could ever do.
This is a somewhat annoying, fighting with Frankie for space to load the dishwasher.
I am loading the dishwasher, reorganizing it because no one ever loads it the way I want it loaded. They load with the express purpose of just getting the dishes in there. . .I load it for maximum capacity.
I consider dishwasher loading an art form.
Frankie was sniffing around as usual, I am loading as usual, and Frankie somehow manages to snag his collar on a dishwasher tine.
Chaos ensued.
Frankie, naturally, panics. He starts to pull back and whine, I am trying to get a grip on his collar and untangle him. He gets louder and louder and I try harder and harder to get a grip on his collar, and then suddenly he yanks back as hard as he can.
More chaos ensues.
A cacophany of crashing plates, bouncing bowls and clanging cutlery followed. Frankie, mercifully disengaged, is running from the dishwasher, ki-yi-ying and wailing, Tikka is barking and me. . .
I'm laughing so hard I almost peed my pants.
Mer and Stephen rushing into the kitchen, Mer thinking the newly acquired china cabinet has met its end, and Stephen thinking the roof has just caved in.
Frankie is now giving the dishwasher a wide berth, growling at it each time he walks by.
Last night Stephen, Em and I saw The Other Guys. Funny film, just what we needed, but I wouldn't pay to see it again.
I love Will Ferrell. Stepbrothers was a terrible film, but the sleepwalking scene makes me laugh so hard I lose my breath.
But the very best Will Ferrel, ever, is when he impersonates Harry Caray:
www.ebaumsworld.com/videos/watch/985394
If this doesn't make you laugh, you have no soul.
Title Lyric: Breaking Dishes by Rhianna
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Frankie, do you remember me? I looked into your big eyes. . .
August 8, 2010
The story of how Frankie came into our lives is a sad one. Suffice to say that when we got him at 3 months old, we were already his third family.
Hello, issues.
He is so cute. . .a shepherd/rottweiler mix, more shepherd with silky smooth floppy ears and brown eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts (provided he wasn't lunging at you with his death stare).
Lots of love and patience and more love and a whole lot more patience were enough to tackle some of the lesser issues.
Tikka, our almost 13 year old Belgian shepherd tackled some of the issues. She is no nonsense when it comes to Frankie. Plus she was the only being in the house who could put him in his place.
But, how much dog training can you realistically ask from your almost 13 year old dog. . .really.
A good friend recommended a dog trainer. The trainer was wonderful, however, she was more of a consultant, coming over when we needed help with something, but not a long haul kind of trainer.
If we could have afforded it, we would have flown in Cesar Milan and made him live with us for as long as it would take to make Frankie the dog we knew he could be. I mean, if Cesar could train Cartman, he could train anyone.
Walking him on leash was not worth the replacement of limbs.
The kids were fed up, embarrased and were at the point where they wanted nothing to do with him.
Em had it the worst. . .destroyed hair extensions, chewed shoes, clothes, her room was a veritable playground for Frankie.
Stephen and I suffered through the humiliation of underwear missing the crotches.
Nothing like crotchless panties to start off your day.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the day Frankie was hit by a car.
Coming home from a long, unleased run, he bolted out of the back our station wagon when he caught sight of a crow in our across the street neighbour's driveway. The crow, obviously, flew off in terror when seeing the sleek brown bullet that was Frankie careening his way.
Did Frankie return home after his prey took off for greater heights?
No.
Our adrenaline amped pup saw this as an opportunity to have his way with neighbourhood. No crow, no problem. There was a whole world out there, filled with crows and squirrels, moving vehicles, blowing leaves, motorcycles, bicycles, people taking leisurely walks, innocent bystanders, and most importantly, other dogs, just waiting for him.
He made it to the end of the street, when he was hit by a car, driven by the elderly woman who lives in the next court.
And was contact with her plastic bumper, at 30 kms an hour, enough to stop our Frankie.
Not. Even. Close.
He just ran off, red leash trailing behind him, a metaphorical beacon of his freedom.
In the midst of all this, my never-really-calm husband is in a state of full blown panic. And for some cosmically unknown reason, I happened to call home.
My son answers the phone. We chat about how his day has been, does he have to work tonight, if not, what are his plans, etc, and then I ask if Stephen is there.
Keith says no, then, wait, here he is.
Stephen gets on the phone and he is speaking at the speed of sound. All I managed to hear was:
He was in no state to answer any of my calmly asked questions. So I did the only thing I could do. I came home from work.
And when I came into the house, Frankie is bounding down the hallway, tail wagging, ears flopping, waiting to tell me all about his exciting adventure.
Running down the hallway = no broken bones. Good.
I try to get the story from Stephen but he is just not in any state to talk.
And then I started to get angry. The question, how did Frankie manage to bolt out of the back of the car faster than greased lightening? was bouncing around my brain.
The answer: Stephen fully flung open the back of our car and he didn't have a hold on Frankie's leash when he did so.
Um.Hum.
I called the vet. He seemed fine, but I wanted to be sure.
I called the very shaken elderly woman whose car made contact with Frankie. She was devastated. "We love dogs here" she said.
And then she said that our beloved pup caused $1000.00 damage to her plastic bumper and would it be too much trouble for us to pay half?
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Half???? We should be so lucky.
Finally, I made the phone call I should have made months ago. I called Barkbusters. (http://www.barkbusters.ca/)
I spoke to our soon-to-be saviour Annette. The first time she came over to our house she was here 5 hours. She has come over every two weeks for the last two months, and progress has been made with our Frankie.
But he is still very much a work in progress.
Tikka is mellow, calm, a wee bit stubborn, but for the most part, easy to get along with. Frankie is high energy-I-must-be-in-control-of-all-that-is-around-me-all-of-the-time.
The multiple gigantic windows in our house, for me, are full of all of the beauty of summer.
For Frankie: mega-flat screen televisions. This week, we are working on trying to turn off the tv for him without having to board up all of our windows. He bark, jumps, and carries on like a lunatic at everything he sees: dogs, cats, people, cars, birds, leaves, squirrels . . . anything that moves.
And we won't even talk about the mailman.
This little adventure ended up costing us $1200.00. No painting the kitchen cupboards for me.
Title Lyric: Frankie by Sister Sledge
The story of how Frankie came into our lives is a sad one. Suffice to say that when we got him at 3 months old, we were already his third family.
Hello, issues.
He is so cute. . .a shepherd/rottweiler mix, more shepherd with silky smooth floppy ears and brown eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts (provided he wasn't lunging at you with his death stare).
Lots of love and patience and more love and a whole lot more patience were enough to tackle some of the lesser issues.
Tikka, our almost 13 year old Belgian shepherd tackled some of the issues. She is no nonsense when it comes to Frankie. Plus she was the only being in the house who could put him in his place.
But, how much dog training can you realistically ask from your almost 13 year old dog. . .really.
A good friend recommended a dog trainer. The trainer was wonderful, however, she was more of a consultant, coming over when we needed help with something, but not a long haul kind of trainer.
If we could have afforded it, we would have flown in Cesar Milan and made him live with us for as long as it would take to make Frankie the dog we knew he could be. I mean, if Cesar could train Cartman, he could train anyone.
But our budget this month just didn't seem to cover flying in Cesar Milan for a month.
We muddled along, making changes in our lives to manage Frankie's beahviours. We realized at one point that we had pretty much become prisoners in the house. . . at least in the sense that we couldn't have anyone over, so entertaining was out, and the only places we could walk Frankie were places where he could run off leash.Walking him on leash was not worth the replacement of limbs.
The kids were fed up, embarrased and were at the point where they wanted nothing to do with him.
Em had it the worst. . .destroyed hair extensions, chewed shoes, clothes, her room was a veritable playground for Frankie.
Stephen and I suffered through the humiliation of underwear missing the crotches.
Nothing like crotchless panties to start off your day.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the day Frankie was hit by a car.
Coming home from a long, unleased run, he bolted out of the back our station wagon when he caught sight of a crow in our across the street neighbour's driveway. The crow, obviously, flew off in terror when seeing the sleek brown bullet that was Frankie careening his way.
Did Frankie return home after his prey took off for greater heights?
No.
Our adrenaline amped pup saw this as an opportunity to have his way with neighbourhood. No crow, no problem. There was a whole world out there, filled with crows and squirrels, moving vehicles, blowing leaves, motorcycles, bicycles, people taking leisurely walks, innocent bystanders, and most importantly, other dogs, just waiting for him.
He made it to the end of the street, when he was hit by a car, driven by the elderly woman who lives in the next court.
And was contact with her plastic bumper, at 30 kms an hour, enough to stop our Frankie.
Not. Even. Close.
He just ran off, red leash trailing behind him, a metaphorical beacon of his freedom.
In the midst of all this, my never-really-calm husband is in a state of full blown panic. And for some cosmically unknown reason, I happened to call home.
My son answers the phone. We chat about how his day has been, does he have to work tonight, if not, what are his plans, etc, and then I ask if Stephen is there.
Keith says no, then, wait, here he is.
Stephen gets on the phone and he is speaking at the speed of sound. All I managed to hear was:
Frankie was hit by a car !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He was in no state to answer any of my calmly asked questions. So I did the only thing I could do. I came home from work.
And when I came into the house, Frankie is bounding down the hallway, tail wagging, ears flopping, waiting to tell me all about his exciting adventure.
Running down the hallway = no broken bones. Good.
I try to get the story from Stephen but he is just not in any state to talk.
And then I started to get angry. The question, how did Frankie manage to bolt out of the back of the car faster than greased lightening? was bouncing around my brain.
The answer: Stephen fully flung open the back of our car and he didn't have a hold on Frankie's leash when he did so.
Um.Hum.
I called the vet. He seemed fine, but I wanted to be sure.
I called the very shaken elderly woman whose car made contact with Frankie. She was devastated. "We love dogs here" she said.
And then she said that our beloved pup caused $1000.00 damage to her plastic bumper and would it be too much trouble for us to pay half?
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Half???? We should be so lucky.
Finally, I made the phone call I should have made months ago. I called Barkbusters. (http://www.barkbusters.ca/)
I spoke to our soon-to-be saviour Annette. The first time she came over to our house she was here 5 hours. She has come over every two weeks for the last two months, and progress has been made with our Frankie.
But he is still very much a work in progress.
Tikka is mellow, calm, a wee bit stubborn, but for the most part, easy to get along with. Frankie is high energy-I-must-be-in-control-of-all-that-is-around-me-all-of-the-time.
The multiple gigantic windows in our house, for me, are full of all of the beauty of summer.
For Frankie: mega-flat screen televisions. This week, we are working on trying to turn off the tv for him without having to board up all of our windows. He bark, jumps, and carries on like a lunatic at everything he sees: dogs, cats, people, cars, birds, leaves, squirrels . . . anything that moves.
And we won't even talk about the mailman.
This little adventure ended up costing us $1200.00. No painting the kitchen cupboards for me.
Title Lyric: Frankie by Sister Sledge
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