Garbage in, garbage out. What goes in, is found out

October 13, 2010





Thanksgiving is one of three days during the entire year when I can say with complete certainty that I can stay home.


Do whatever I want.


Sleep for as long I want.


Easter and Remembrance Day are the other two days.


How come such bliss is only afforded to me for three days a year?


Because.


Because nothing is open, there is no place where driving, in particular mine, is required.


There isn't anyone I have to visit, because all the visiting is done.


No meals to cook because cooking for two days straight means I am allowed the pleasure of no cooking without feeling any guilt.


I savour these days.


Covet them.


And usually spend them sleeping.


Which consequently screws up my sleeping for the next couple of days.


But because these days are so rare, I rarely remember that my sleep is screwed up until I am lying awake all night because I can't sleep because I slept too much during the day.


Which makes the day after, in this case Tuesday, as in yesterday, a major pain in the ass.


Why?


Because I was tired.


Cranky.


Not feeling the love for much of anything.


Not even back-to-back episodes of Bill the Exterminator, plus seemingly unlimited adoration from the dogs were enough to keep my butt planted on the love seat.


Grabbing my copy of Empire of Scrounge: Inside the Urban Underground of Dumpster Diving, Trash Picking and Street Scavenging, and my neon yellow highlighter, I made my way upstairs to my warm, comfortable, beckoning bed, where I planned on spending the couple of hours before sleep wisked me away to Land of Nod, reading and highlighting my book.


What actually happened, as far as I can tell because no one has confirmed any of my speculation, is that I fell asleep long before the end of the couple of hours, with book and hightlighter in hand, and glasses still on my face.


I supposed I should be thankful that I didn't wake up with highlighter all over my face.


Actually, I'm kinda surprised that didn't happen.


Goblet was on the bed.


She does not like me.


She is smart.


She could have colored my face a neon yellow that would have only been rivaled by the bright lights of Las Vegas.


I could have been my own kleig light, shooting beams of neon yellow into the night sky, perhaps even confusing a plane or two into thinking my front yard was actually a landing strip.


But she didn't.


This time.


However, I am neither stupid enough, or trusting enough, to assume that she will, in some way, reinforce my belief that she doesn't like me by doing something.

The fact that she can put me to sleep by sucking my earlobes is very disconcerting.


It means she has power over me.


Not a safe thing in a cat.


Yes, I am paranoid, but you haven't seen how she looks at me.


Paranoia is completely justified.

I often fall asleep while reading.


In fact, if I didn't read, I'd never get to sleep.


I can't turn my brain off, no matter how hard I try, so the only option is to distract it long enough for me to relax.


Hence, I read a lot.


Because it can often take a long time for me to relax enough to fall asleep.


Right now, in addition to reading Empire of Scrounge I am reading John Steinbeck's East of Eden.

And Amphibian by Carla Gunn

And Steig Larsson's The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.


And Katherine Howe's The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane.


And Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin.

And Sidewalk by Mitchell Duneier.

I'm never sure what I want to read during my pre-sleeping period, and I like to keep my options open.

So, I never read just one book at a time.

And I am always looking for books to read.

In fact, if there is a book you really like, and you think I would like, please let me know.


I have pile in my small corner of the bedroom.

Occassionally books will rest in either of the bathrooms.

I always have books in my purse because you never know what will happen that will require you wait for an indeterminate amount of time.

And I detest not having something to do while I wait.



I may forget to put underwear on, but I would never forget to pack a book, or five, in my purse.










My seminar class, Ethnography and Crime, which has 4 students (you have NO idea how happy this makes me) is reading Empire of Scrounge.


It's a fascinating book by Jeff Ferrell, a cultural criminologist, based on his own experiences as an urban scrounger and about people who survive on what other people throw out. . .people who literally dig through garbage bags, Dumpsters, who pick things up from the street, woods, trails, sidewalks, etc. for the sole purpose of using them, or, giving them away to other people who can use them.


I can relate to this book.


I keep everything.

Or at least I try to keep everything.

And this book provides me with the justification I need to keep everything because you never know when you'll be able to use something.

This drives my cleaning obsessed husband crazy.


I suspect the only thing between me becoming a hoarder, and me just liking to keep everything because it has a purpose, is my husband.


Because I know, when I'm not home, or I'm not paying attention, he is throwing things out.


I think its what the people in this book find that upsets me the most. . .that people will throw out completely useful, fine, things because they don't want them anymore.


Or because a new, improved version has hit the market.


Cell phones, for example. Or computers. You buy one, and, just like cars, they depreciate as soon as you take them out of the box.


It makes me crazy.


We have in our basement a microwave.


I LOVE this microwave. The new microwaves are no where near as big as the microwave sitting in my basement.


So how come I'm not using it?


How come there is a shiny, new, stainless steel, smaller microwave gracing the counter of my kitchen?


How come my nice, large, able to hold almost anything microwave is taking up floor space in my basement?


Stephen.


How come the nice, large microwave that can hold almost anything is even in my basement at all?


Me.


Stephen and I are engaged in a battle of wills over this microwave.


I can't let it go. There is nothing wrong with it. There is no logical reason for it being in the basement, unused, and until I can figure out a way to ensure that it will be used, I refuse to let it go anywhere.


Really, there is nothing wrong with it.


Okay, well, a *couple* of times, while people were defrosting something, or warming a snack, or heating something up, a few, and I mean few, very few, almost inconsquential blue sparks may have, on the rarest of occasions, appeared.


You know, the kind of sparks you get when you accidentally put tinfoil in the microwave.


They appeared in the midst of a sort of prolonged "bzzzztzz" sound; sort of like a hive of bees has inhabited the microwave for a few short seconds.


Nonetheless, these rarely occurring incidences had repercussions that lead to the banishing of the perfectly fine microwave to the basement.


Emily was convinced that the microwave hated her. She became quiet dramatic over it really, in a way only a 16-but-really-closer-to-17-year-old-girl can get.


And Stephen that he was being irradiated.


But Stephen can *sometimes* overreact, so I'm not convinced there is a problem.


And Keith worried that he may be rendered sterile.


I'm not touching that.

I could, but I won't




*I* think they were all over-reacting, but I was outvoted.

So the microwave rests forlornly in the basement, waiting for the time when I can overthrow the dictatorial naysayers in my house and return the perfectly fine microwave to its rightful place on the kitchen counter.

Until then, it must wait with all of the other things in the basement I refuse to part with.

And if you see me digging through your trash, humour me.

Title Lyric: Garbage by Tal and Acacia

They say its your birthday, we're gonna have a good time. . .

October 12, 2010



Today is Meredyth's birthday.


21 years ago yesterday, 7.00 am, my ex-husband had just left for work, and I went to the bathroom.


And what was waiting for me was the beginning of labour.


I didn't say anything to anyone for the day, because I wasn't actually sure what was going on. But given the way I was feeling, it was relatively easy for me to come to the logical conclusion.


By the time my ex arrived home, I was definitely sure that I was in labour. Because that kind of pain couldn't be anything else.


Midnight. Everyone, including my ex and I had gone to bed. 15 minutes later, I said I couldn't deal with the pain anymore, we got up, got dressed, and while we were in the kitchen, my ex tying my shoes I said,


"I'm gonna pee my pants, or my water's gonna break. Either way, you should probably move your head."


That was, without a doubt, the. longest.night.of.my.life.


Never have I experienced such pain.


At 9.00 am, 26 hours later, the ob/gyn came in and said he was going to do a c-section because the baby was experiencing fetal stress and the mother wasn't doing much better.


At 9.30 am, Meredyth Mae Ardith Van Every made her grand entrance into the world.


And she has been making grand entrances ever since.







I once had a therapist who argued that Mer was the way she was because she had such a difficult birth, which traumatized her, hence shaping the way she is now.


There may be some creedence to that.


Life with Meredyth has always been challenging.


Most of the time in a good way.


She has a strength I am in awe of; if she wants to do something, there is nothing or no one who can stop her.


At 20 months, after receiving her first tricycle, she decided she wanted to go for a ride.


It was one o'clock in the morning.


She crawled out of her crib, opened her bedroom door, walked down the stairs, dragged a chair from the kitchen to the front door, climbed onto the chair, unlocked the chain lock, unlocked the deadbolt lock, unlocked the screen door lock, and proceeded to bike around our court.


The phone rings. I reach over, answer it, listen to our neighbour on the other end of the line, ask her to wait a minute and hand the phone to my ex-husband saying,


"You can deal with this."


At 2 years old, she wanted to know if cats had blood, and if so, could their ears bleed. She cut just the tips of his ears off.


Another time she slathered him with margarine and put him in the fridge. You can imagine my surprise when I opened the fridge.


She would routinely call my parents at 6.00 am or earlier, as they were on speed dial. My phone bill was astronomical and after calling my parents, figured out what had been going on.


At her grandmother's 42th birthday, with the house full of friends and relatives, Mer emerges from her grandparent's bedroom. holding on to something that had been buried at the very bottom of grandma's laundry hamper.


It was a joke birthday gift from the Newfoundland contingent of the family.


A large, and I mean large, orange dildo with a solid black stand.


"Grandma, what's this??"


Grandma was a shade of red I had never seen on another person before or since. She runs to Meredyth and says,


"It's an ear cleaner!"


Mer, having been informed of the use of this odd looking object, turns it on and tries to stick it in her ear.


"Grandma, it doesn't work!"


The chaos and cacophany that occured afterwards is almost beyond explanation.


But Mer never went scavenging through Grandma's bedroom again, or, at least for not a long time.




Mer was very upset when I told her we were moving to New Brunswick.


She retailated by going to the basement and cutting her hair.


The right side only.


She looked like she had mange on one side of her head.


Her hair had been beautiful. . .all one length, down to her shoulders, cutest little bangs. . .


After taking her to the salon, where they did the best they could with what they had, I had to dress Mer in pink to ensure that people wouldn't comment on my two handsome sons.





There are so many Meredyth stories, I could probably fill an entire blog with them.

But if I did that, I wouldn't have any to share for her next birthday, or the ones after that.

And what fun would that be??

Mer, like most 21 year olds, is trying to find her way and her place in this world. And if past evidence is any predictor, she will do it her way, with a bang.

Happy Birthday to my beautiful, strong, intelligent, gregarious Meredyth. I love you more.

Title Lyric: Birthday by The Beatles

Cats moaning at night, out on the prowl they scratch and bite. . .who knows if they love you???

October 10, 2010


Another Thanksgiving dinner done and over.

The table was groaning under the weight of this feast: two turkeys, stuffing, ham, sweet potatoes with cream cheese and maple syrup, carrots with brown sugar, parsnips in a tarragon cream sauce, homemade cranberry sauce, steamed broccoli, homemade herb biscuits, and "Kat's potatoes", a special recipe which, until yesterday, resided solely with my sister-in-law.

And for dessert: 3 homemade-by-Emily pumpkin pies with freshly whipped whipping cream, one apple pie and an Oreo Blizzard cake, to celebrate Mere's birthday.

Just thinking about it makes me hungry and nauseous at the same time.

Clean up was something else altogether. After dinner, and after Dad left, the kids went upstairs and Stephen and I surveyed the kitchen.

No matter how much I try to clean while cooking, there is something about the last minute preparations that turn my nicely cleaned kitchen into a culinary war zone.

I started at 7.30 and by 9.30 I had washed everything that couldn't fit into the dishwasher or, was determined by Stephen to be too precious to put into the dishwasher. I then turned the dishwasher on and flopped down on the loveseat, channel surfing in hopes of something half decent to watch.

All those new cable channels and nothing to watch.

I briefly considered watching re-runs of America's Funniest Home Videos, but even exhausted, I wasn't willing to sucuumb to a mind-numbing humour, comprised of crotch shots, women who can't dance and animal amusement that borders, in some instances, on cruelty.

I went to bed.

Burying myself in the literary masterpeice, East of Eden, I am suddenly pulled from my reading reverie by a soft thud, followed by padded footsteps moving up the bed in my direction.

I lower my book, and stare straight into the eyes of my sometime nemesis.

Goblet.

Purring.

Which means nothing good.

She wants to suckle.

In particular, she wants to suckle my earlobes.

Normally, this special thrill is bestowed only upon Stephen, but, in times of intense need, she has been known to turn to me.

I'm her sloppy seconds.

Unless you've had a leather tongued cat latch onto your earlobe and suck for all its worth (I am grateful she is good about keeping her teeth to herself), while she kneeds her paws into the side of your head, unless of course she it positioning your head the way she wants it, it is difficult to describe the sensation.

Even worse, she purrs, loudly, when she does this, and inevitably I fall asleep.

I know, its weird, but it always puts me to sleep.

She prefers Stephen. . .and especially his right earlobe. For some reason, its wider than your average earlobe, and she'll suck on it until she draws blood.

Nothing is scarier than waking up in the middle of the night to her yellow eyes boring into your soul while she challenges you to try remove her.

Stephen has tried. There have been times where she actually makes his earlobes raw and sore and yet she still comes back for more.

Trying to dissuade her is impossible. She just keeps coming back until you give in, or lock her out of the bedroom.

Her response to being booted out: cry until Stephen feels so bad he lets her back in.

Makes you wonder who controls whom, doesn't it?





This afternoon we drove to Saint John to visit my sister-in-law, who has been admitted to the Saint John Regional Hospital for an indefinate period of time.

She has an incredibly rare disease called Behcets.

And, because she is part of our family, she has the rarest form of Behcets, Neurological Behcets.

However, because she is part of our family, she tries her best to manage all that is going on with humour.

I called her yesterday, asking for her potato recipe. She replied, "You want a recipe from someone with a brain disease. This could take awhile."





Saint John is about an hour's drive from where we are, which meant in my mind, "ROADTRIP!"

The kids are packed into the backseat, Stephen is manning the wheel, and I am riding shotgun with my car pillow as my compadre.

Five minutes into the drive I am sound asleep.

However, not all roadtrips have been so pleasant.

One of my favourites was the first Christmas we went to Montreal to visit Stephen's parents. Coincidentally, it was the first trip where Stephen's parents met the kids, but I'll save that for another time.

The first problem was Meredyth. She does not like roadtrips unless we rent an SUV.

All we had was the 2001 Hyundai Sonata I was driving when Stephen and I got together.

She had a cold.

Meaning she coughed.

A lot.

And each cough had a secondary, involuntary action.

Farting.

One cough = one nasty, smelly, putrid fart.

One nasty, smelly, putrid fart = all windows being rolled down via our electric windows.

And she coughed a lot.




The drive back wasn't much better.

The window regulators were worn out from being called to duty during the drive to Montreal, especially the driver's side passenger window.

At Montmagny, while trying to put the window up, it just stops.

In the dead of winter, we have a window that won't go up all the way.

Stephen, in a Red Green moment of inspiration, get duct tape from the trunk of the car and tapes the window to the frame.

Duct tape on the window.

Doesn't get much more hillbilly than that.




And this drive had more joy to lavish upon us.

Again, packed into the backseat, tired, cranky, with all of the extras we brought back with us, and we ALWAYS bring back piles of stuff from Montreal, the kids were unhappy campers.

Stephen and I always take turns driving, and it happened that I was driving at the time that Meredyth decided it would be a very good idea to unleash a square cookie tin from the bag wedged between her feet and throw it at her brother's head.

Given the distance between her and her brother (Emily was always in the middle in an attempt to lessen the blood and bruises between Mer and Keith) there wasn't much chance she was going to miss.

We were close to the second last Irving gas station before we crossed the border into New Brunswick. Mer wallops Keith in the head with the cookie tin, and Stephen, with a speed I didn't know he possessed, whipped his head around and gave Mer a death stare I didn't know he was capable of.

He is always surprising me.

To me, he says, "Turn into this gas station."

I do, completely unable to predict what was going to happen, but the tone of his voice implied that negotiating with him was not an option.

Once the car is in the parking lot, and stopped, he turn around in the car, looks the kids right in eye, and reminds them that we still have a three hour drive ahead of us, that Mer could have taken out Keith's eye and we had no idea where the hospital was and if they couldn't behave for the remainder of the drive, they could walk back to Fredericton, and that was going to take a long time given that it was dark, cold and they weren't allowed to hitchhike.

Mer says she was never so scared in her entire life.

But there was no more trouble among the kids for the rest of the drive.

It was actually quite peaceful.


Title Lyric: Cats by Barnes and Barnes

Might as well go for a soda, nobody hurts and nobody cries. . . .

October 9, 2010

I love Thanksgiving.

Even more than Christmas.

The older I get the more cynical I get about Christmas.

The commercialism.

The consumerism.

The humanity that fleetingly appears at Christmas, and then disappears until the same time next year.

Thanksgiving is during my favourite time of year, it isn't really cold, just comfortable, the leaves are at their peak, the sun is bright, and there is no snow to mar driving.

I'm not sitting at home or in my office marking papers and final exams, wondering if I shouldn't just walk to a staircase, close me eyes, and throw them down stairs-assigned-a grade, collect them, slap on a grade and go home to make cookies.

I'm not trying to calculate final grades, wondering just how far my limited math skills can get me before I crack.

Thanksgiving is perfect.

A-less-stressful-than-Christmas-holiday.

While Thanksgiving is less stressful than Christmas, there are some aspects that make both a challenge, no matter how much you love them.

And number one challenge on my list: going to the grocery store to get those last minute items you planned on getting days ago but never managed to.

Superstore pre-long weekend holiday = bad.

Superstore on Friday afternoon = bad.

Superstore on a Friday afternoon pre-long weekend holiday = catastrophic.

Some testosterone filled brainiac decided it would be a good time to put apple and pumpkin pies on sale for 3.97.

You can't make them for that.

And I can't make them at all, so I was hell bent to get my pies.

Another testosterone filled brainiac figured it would be a good idea to put cases of Pepsi AND Coke on sale for $1.99, limit three per family.

A stampede of pie loving cola freaks came out of every corner of the greater Fredericton region driven by their sugar and caffeine animal instincts to get, and get as many as possible no matter what the cost, financial, lives lost, or otherwise.

I overheard a woman saying she was going to get the last case of A&W diet rootbeer, even though she didn't like it, but because it was on sale and she didn't want anyone else to get it.

Um hum.

Pepsi fared better or worse depending on how you look at it, as there were at least some cases of Pepsi and Diet Pepsi left post consumer feeding frenzy.

The Coke shelves were barren, empty, lifeless, attempting to recover from the snatch and grab antics of the cola deranged and hysteria filled consumers.

I just wanted out, in one peice, with my carbonated, flavoured water, my pies and a few other items not generally sought out by the cola delerious masses.

Just when we thought Frankie's uncontrollable urinary output was under control. . . .

Last evening, I'm actually laying on the couch as exhaustion fueled by grocery shopping antics was calling all the shots.

If I'm in the living room at all during the evening, I normally sit on the loveseat, a dog beside me, and watch television or work on the computer.

The last two nights, for reasons I could probably figure out if I just took the time to do so but won't because then I may have to actually deal with somethine, I found myself laying on the couch.

Frankie interprets my being at eye-level with him as "Mummy wants to play!!!!!!!!!!!"

He brings whatever toy he has at the time, the "bad rope" or the obnoxiously squeeky football, and lays its saliva coated self beside my head.

At first glance, you'd think he just wants me to throw it for him.

But I know better and I have the scars to prove it.

Just as you are about to wrap your hands around his drool coated, loathsomely sounding toy, he lunges forward, snatching it, and of your fingers that happen to be in the way.

He'll just keep doing it, too. No matter how often you tell him that you're not going to play tug-of-war with him.

Last night, he's doing this, repeatedly.

As usual.

And then, for no reason I can think of other than insolent, I'm-going-to-get-you-revenge, he walk behind the couch, and lets out a stream of pee that would have sunk a battleship.

The sound alerted me first.

And then Stephen's cry of anguish and anger and frustration because Frankie was peeing on the Persian rug we inherited from Stephen's parents, who inherited it from Stephen's grandmother.

Adrenaline overpowered my exhaustion and I leaped off the couch with such speed I mentally paused in surprise, and ran for a bucket of hot, soapy water.

Frankie knew immediately that he was in the deepest of shit, and he ran straight into his crate.

Had he opposable thumbs, I think he would have shut the door and locked himself in.

And we were having such a peaceful evening.

No permanent damage to the carpet.

Just Stephen muttering under his breath about a house with no pets and we will never be able to have anything nice, ever, so we may as well throw everything out and live in a barn, and do I know what his grandmother is thinking right now, saying right now, and I should be grateful that I don't because it wouldn't be very nice.

Crisis addressed, at the least the physical aspects anyway because the emotional scars Stephen is going to carry will take a lot longer to get over, we settled back into our respective place to attempt to recoup some of the pre-pee-on-the-carpet-state.

The phone rings.

It's Stephen's sister from Vancouver.

The last thing I hear is something about Frankie and Baba's carpet and I'm asleep.

Only to be awakened and hour and a half later when Em calls, shift at Empire finished and wanting to come home.

George Strombolopolous is on the tv interviewing the guy who plays Jasper in Twilight, while I stumble around in my still sleep stage trying to locate my car keys.

Luckily, the cold and blustery wind, plus the frigid interior of the car shocked my sleep-warm body into a state of wakefulness sufficient to operate a motor vehicle.

Its the little things.

The remainder of today will be spent getting ready for the 13 person Thanksgiving meal I am preparing for 5.00.

My parents, the kids and their friends, my jack-in-the-box husband. . .

You just know something is going to happen that will end up here.

You just know.

Title Lyric: Go for Soda, by Kim Mitchell

Nothing could get better. . . .than a family get together

October 7, 2010


One more day and the weekend begins!

Normally, this would be the source of glee and excitement.

However, weekends that involve family dinners do carry with them a modicum of stress.

At least for me.

So when Stephen mentioned this morning that he thinks he's getting sick, I had a mild panic attack.

Because while I can cook for two days straight, cleaning is an entirely different issue.

One of the nice things about being married to Stephen is that, in some ways, we compliment each other.

While I slave over a hot stove for two days, he cleans the house.

While I panic over the last minute preparations, he puts the table together and sets it with our two sets of silverware.

While I have a nervous breakdown because I've run out of brown sugar, he locates all of our serving dishes and puts them in a pile on the counter for me.

So in spite of all my issues over family dinners, the house is always clean and the table is set.

And in my mind that means more than half the battle has been won.





I can't say exactly when the responsibility for family dinners fell to me.

When I returned from Ontario in 1993, bringing with me two children aged 3 1/2 and 2, and pregnant with a third (unknown to me at that time) having just left my first husband, family dinners took place at my parent's house.

Somewhere along the line, a subtle rite de passage took place: dinners came to be at my house.

The benefit: serving dishes.

After the Thanksgiving dinner where I served the meal on cookie sheets and cake tins, my parents started giving me serving dishes.

Now, I spend the week before the meal planning when I will cook what, what needs to be done first, what has to be done last minute, when to squeeze in shopping, figuring out how will I find the time to get to the Big Potato for fresh veggies, and should I try, again, to make pie crust, or should I spare myself the humiliation and indignity of explaining my patchwork pie crust and just buy them.

For some reason, the intricate art of pie crust making has eluded me.

My mother, both grandmothers, former mother-in-law, current mother-in-law all make beautiful pie crust.

Flaky.

Moist.

Tender.

Sumptuously delicious.

My pie crust is the opposite.

Think press board, hockey pucks, door stops that look as if they have been made of spare parts.

And you have MY pie crust.

When I was a teenager, I once tried making a pie crust.

My dad had to take the paint scraper and literally scrape the hardened, cement-like mass off the counter.

He may have taken some counter with him, if memory serves.

I've tried every recipe I can find, and nothing works.

But every Thanksgiving and Christmas I try to make homemade pies, because the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting the same results.

And every Thanksgiving and Christmas, I end up racing to the Superstore, in a panic, hoping that I won't have to get into a full-fledged brawl with some other stressed out woman who has grabbed the last pie and now has to get said pie past me.

Cause when I want pie, I'll get pie, regardless of who I may have to take out to get it.

How come? Is a pie that important?

Yes.

Why?

Emily.

She thinks pumpkin pie is in a class of food all its own.

Rather than birthday cakes, she wants pumpkin pie.

Which looks rather odd with candles in it, but what Emmy wants. . .

And I would rather risk arrest for possible assault and battery over a pumpkin pie than have to face Em and tell her we will be pumpkin pie-less for Thanksgiving.

Em can be very scary when she wants to.

Especially if there is pumpkin pie involved.




If anyone has a fail-safe recipe for pie crust, and is willing to share, I'll give you my first born child.




Planning the menu can be a challenge as well. I have to make sure the expected dishes are present: brown sugar carrots, parsnips in a tarragon cream sauce, home made biscuits, roast turkey, bread stuffing, home made cranberry sauce (cause if I served canned cranberries, I'd be forced to eat in my room, alone).

But then I try to incorporate something different: red cabbage with apple, onion, brown sugar, vinegar. . .

My dad makes these amazing, decadent, completely illegal sweet potatoes with cream cheese. . .

They are to. die. for.

My sister-in-law, Kathryn, always makes a potato dish that makes my Stephen and the kids transform from rational beings to salivating animals.

And her broccoli/cauliflower salad with bacon and a vinegrette is so good I could eat with my hands.

Cause forks just slow me down.





Now that the kids are older, its nice to have them participate in preparing these family dinners.

Whether they want to or not.

But they still manage to avoid the clean up.

Stephen, on the other hand, starts cleaning up while people are still eating.

When we first got together, one of the things that really irritated me about eating with Stephen was that as soon as he was finished eating, he would get up from the table and start to clean up

The result of years of living alone and eating by himself.

We are literally sitting at the table, the kids and I, eating, talking, and he is removing things around us.

You can imagine I didn't let that go on for long.

But, every once in a while, usually when we are having people for dinner, he will revert to his table clearing obsession.

I spend the meal constantly asking him to sit down.

Me: Stephen, please come and sit with us.

SJP: Yeah, in a minute.

Me: Stephen, PLEASE come and sit with us. (said through a tight smile)

SJP: Coming. I'm coming. (he's getting impatient)

Now, instead of trying to gently cajole him into returning to the table, I get up, go the counter or sink or where ever he has planted himself, and say, while smiling through gritted teeth:

Me (whispering): STEPHEN GET BACK TO THE TABLE BECAUSE I AM NOT ENTERTAINING ALL THESE PEOPLE ON MY OWN AND IF YOU DON'T YOU'LL BE SLEEPING IN THE CAR FOR THE NEXT WEEK AND ITS OCTOBER WHICH MEANS YOU WILL BE VERY COLD!!!!!!!!

SJP: gives me "the look" but does come back to the table.

I'm considering tying him to the chair.




This is Mer's first Thanksgiving at home in 5 years.

Its also her 21st birthday.

We will, then, be having a combination Thanksgiving-Mer-turns-21-gathering.

Mer informs me that she will be drinking prior to the meal to celebrate turning 21.

I don't see the connection between blood alcohol poisoning and birthdays.

I really don't.

But I put the kibosh on that.

There will be no alcohol consumption before dinner.

What the kids and their friends decide to afterward, I can live with.

But no one, unless it's me, will be inebriated during dinner.

Is it because I am trying to preserve the sanctity of the family dinner?

Nope.

It's because of my father.




Everyone has *that* family member who makes family dinners entertaining and frustrating simultaneously.

In our family, this is sometimes my dad.

When we were younger, it was easier because my mother was very good at keeping him in line.

But he would still do things like eat half our dessert when we left the table to go to the bathroom.

Now, however, he lives on his own, mum is in a nursing home, and dad sometimes thinks he has carte blanche to do and say what he wants.

It usually begins with him elbowing Pookie and saying, "Hey Keith, I have a joke for you. . ." and typically goes down hill from there.

At the same time, I couldn't imagine him not being with us, and not being himself.

My mother can't hear anything, and if she can, she is an expert in pretending she can't.

She sits beside me, so I can get her anything she needs, and if someone says anything to her, she just smiles and nods.

And this Thanksgiving, we are adding several of the kids' friends to the mix, as this is a combined birthday party/family dinner.

Meaning, a whole new brand of chaos will be introduced into an already chaotic situation.

I may have to tie everyone to their chairs.





The sad thing about this Thanksgiving will be the absence of my sister-in-law.

She is in the hospital, dealing with the pain and agony of chemotherapy. She was recently, and finally, diagosed with Bechet's Syndrome.

It will be an empty table with out her.

Stephen, the kids and I are driving an hour away from our house to see her, on Sunday, and to take her Thnaksgiving dinner and to try and pick her spirits up a bit.

Being able to see her reminds me that there is still lots to be thankful for.


Title Lyric: Family Dinner by Parokya Ni Edgar

Slow death injectable, narcosis terminal . . . Satellite sickness TV junk

October 5, 2010




I love teaching.


There is a certain pleasure you gain from teaching a required course; the knowledge that you're audience must listen to you. They can't run, they can't hide.


They're stuck with you.





I hope that in some way I have been able to combine teaching and entertainment.


My mother always said that you will attract more flies with honey than vinegar.


I interpret that as meaning I can get my students to be more engaged in what I'm talking about if I make it interesting and entertaining. . .


. . .as opposed to as dry as a popcorn fart.


I have never understood how come some professors want to, even seek to, be as dry and boring as humanly possible.

Or try to scare their students on the first day so they won't come back.

I teach a course that's required for majors and honours students in criminology.

Meaning, if they choose to leave, eventually they're gonna have to come back: you can run, but you can't hide!

My favourite teachers and professors were always the ones who were engaging and entertaining.


Learning and laughing.


Simultaneously.


Imagine.

I, too, find my students entertaining. In eleven years of teaching, I have read some wild and strange things.

For example,

The student from my deviance course, who wrote in their paper that "Jesus was scared." I believe he was.

I think this student meant,"sacred."

All for the want of being able to proofread.


The group in my introduction to qualitative research methods course who submitted a draft of their first assignment, where they outline different research questions they could ask based on a problem statement they devised.


Their question: How do morals come into play when the ligths are turned on?

In my head, I ran through ALL sorts of possibilities, none of which I dared assume was what they meant.

In 11 years of teaching this course, this was the first question I encountered where I had absolutely NO IDEA what they were asking.

Or at least I didn't want to know.

Now I know.

If anyone gets it, I'll give you a prize.

But you can't be from the intro methods class.

Another incident, again in my intro qualitative class, we were talking about what we can learn about people by looking at what they wear, carry with, etc.

I used the example of bookbags, knapsacks, sports bags, etc. Asking permission, I reached into a student's bag and. . .

. . . pulled out a half full liquor bottle.

Really. . .I knew that I can sometimes be difficult to deal with, but erring on the side of intoxication seems a bit extreme . . .

One of the other reasons I like teaching is because I'm convinced I was a stand-up comic in a previous life.

The problem: in this life, its hard to do when you're a single parent of three children.

I have more material than I know what to do with, but, alas, there seemed to be no time and no where to share this material.

Hence, teaching.

Captive audience, or audience held captive.

Either way, they can't leave.

My children don't appreciate it when my students, and their friends, actually find me funny. Pookie says things like, "Don't encourage her! She'll just keep trying."

Speaking of funny. . .

Last evening, I was nursing a bit of a buzz. . .

Brought on my going over my self-imposed limit of one glass of white wine.

Where would I have access to alcohol at 4.30 in the afternoon?

Why, the university of course!

And surely I would have had drink several glasses of wine to facilitate such a buzz?

Nope.

Just one glass over my one glass limit.

For you non-math majors that equals two.

Two small glasses of white wine, on an empty stomach, and I was experiencing the world through alcohol addled brain that accelerated my already-too-easy-to-accelerate-inhibitions,
forcing Emily to stare me in the eye at the theaters, before checking her hours for the week, and firmly state, "You will stand here, still, and talk to no one until I get back" then giving Stephen the okay to forcibly remove me from the theater if I was too loud, while Keith attempts to mask his fear of oh-gawd-my-mother-is-here-and-she's-hard-enough-to-deal-with-when-she-isn't-tipsy while serving the hoards of customers wanting into the movies for $5.99 a ticket, when his mother is mouthing, "I love you Pookie!"

Let me just state that I was in no way incapacitated, out-of-control-falling-down-and-urinating-on-myself-drunk.

Those days, thankfully, are way behind me.

And I never urinated on myself.

I was just feeling a bit giggly.

Happy.

Loving the world.

And like all enjoyable things when you become older, it was finished too soon.

Once we were back in the car, on our way home, me ensconced in the front seat while Stephen drove, the effects were already starting to wear off.

Leaving me ready for bed at 6.30.

Knowing I could easily go to bed at 6.30 and sleep through the night, didn't mean I should go to bed at 6.30 and sleep through the night.

Not really wanting to do anything, I decided I would check out these amazing cable channels we have, with some trepidation, let into our home.

Trepidation, you say? How come? What could be so wrong with a few cable channels?

Because I can become absolutely enamoured with things I would normally never become enamoured with.

Last evening, in an effort to not go to bed at 6.30, I turned on the television and met someone I would never meet in a 100 years.

Because I just wouldn't be that lucky.

Bill.

The Exterminator.

A&E, which seems to be more about entertainment than art, was running back-to-back episodes of Bill the Exterminator.

I love it!

Donnie, that's me, according to my children, if I was older, thinner, with the Louisiana twang, and a bouffant hair-do straight out of the 1950s!

Plus, we're both afraid of snakes.

Bill's hair, too, is a marvel of nature. Long in the back, spiked on the sides, and two long peices framing either side of his face.

It's hard to take someone seriously when they look like they had their hair cut, with the lights off in the dead of night, by a giggling gaggle of 5 year old girls.

Nonetheless, I am hooked tighter than a rattlesnake in a snake tong.

And apparently, I can watch as many episodes as I want, because we have free Rogers on Demand.

For now.

Just what I need: another television obsession.

I'll be talking Louisiana twang for weeks!

Title Lyric: Exterminator by Primal Scream

Look out weekend cause, here I come, because weekends were werrrre. . . .

October 4, 2010


For the first time in a long time, I had a relatively peaceful weekend.

In spite of getting up every three hours to take the dogs out to pee, poo or whatever else they have to do as a result of the medication they are taking for their sarcoptic mange.

Several times over the weekend, Emily came to me, pointing out one spot or another, asking if she had sarcoptic mange.

She spent Saturday evening cleaning her room, after working all day. Stripping her bed, vacuuming, insisting she annhiliate even the possibility that there may be been a molecule of the sarcoptic mite in her room.


Die mites, die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




Saturday, Stephen drove the kids to work for 11.00 am, leaving me in bed until I felt like getting up.


Around 11.38 because my need to pee superceded my desire to stay in bed.


I spent the day working on the proofreading-edits-from-hell until 3.00, when I hung out laundry, had a shower and then did the one thing I hate doing on the weekend.


Or any day for that matter.


Grocery shopping.


And while I had every intention of being at the grocery store for 3.30, it was actually 4.10 before we found a spot in the Superstore parking lot.

Of course, because I was in a hurry, the store was packed.

And my mother is not a patient woman. I called to ensure her that I would be at the nursing home by 5.15 at the latest. I also asked if she needed anything; granola bars because my dad never get the kind she likes, Sweet and Salty. . .I know there's something there, but I can't quite put my finger on it; cranberry juice because she thinks they water down the juice at the nursing home, or anything else she thought she may need.

She claims she understood that I'd be there, and that I was at the grocery store.

Not 5 minutes later, she calls my cell phone.

I say, "Hello, Mum" because I knew it was her.

She yells at me, "DAWNE! IS THAT YOU???????"

On more than one occassion, she has commented on how little faith she has in cell phones.

And she feels that yelling is the only way to confirm that she is actually talking to me, and that I can hear her.

She then says, "ARE YOU GOING TO THE GROCERY STORE??"

Me: "Yes Mum. Would you like something?"

Mum: "I NEED BIRDSEED."

Not for her to eat.

For the birdfeeder we bought her for Mother's Day. It hangs on a branch of a tree outside my mother's window.

She loves to watch the birds, and squirrels, the fox and groundhogs that roam the wooded area outside her window.

She doesn't like crows, and yells at them when they try to eat out of the birdfeeder.

They're scared shitless of her.

Mum: "ARE YOU COMING FOR SUPPER?"

Me: "Yes Mum. I'll be there no later than 5.15."

Mum: "DON'T BE LATER THAN 5.15, OR I'LL HAVE TO START WITHOUT YOU."

We say our goodbyes, I rub my ear to establish that I have some feeling left, and continue to run through the grocery store like a crazy person.

Because I wouldn't want to be late for pizza and garlic fingers, chocolate macaroons and the CTV News Channel.

Seriously, it was really good.





How come, when you're in a hurry, you run into people you actually want to talk to?

So I run by people, yelling behind me that I am happy to see them, and would love to talk, but I have to get to the nursing home by 5.15!

With Stephen behind me, trying to keep up with me, because inevitably, I pick the cart with the wonky wheel, or the cart leans to the right or left, meaning if we're not careful we would end up walking in circles.

Our grocery cart full, but probably not with everything we needed, we get to the checkout line by 4.50.

As inescapable as it is to run into people you know while in a hurry is the absolute certainty that you end up at a checkout manned by the.slowest.cashier.

Sure enough.

There I am.

There he is.

I don't want to name names, or describe this person, but suffice to say, I usually take great pains to prevent being in his lane.

But because I was propelled by my mother's disapproval, I didn't bother to take the 3 seconds I needed to ascertain exactly who was the captain of the cash register.

We are talking about someone who is so slow, I could put my empty cart in his line of one, and run all over the grocery store getting what I needed, and he still would't be ready to begin processing my order.

He looks at every item.

He comments on every item.

Even the way he speaks is slow.

It is beyond painful.

Stephen, the-man-who-loves-grocery-stores-and-has-more-patience-than-anyone-I-know, even gets frustrated to the point of wanting to get behind the cash register, push the cashier out of the way, and scan the groceries himself.

I try to be patient.

I really do.

The first, and I so hoped, only time we had this cashier, I tried to be patient, kind, gentle.

However, in spite of my best efforts, he just wasn't getting the fact that I really needed to get out of the grocery store.

He actually said to me that if I was in such a hurry, I should probably get to the grocery store sooner.

Even he wasn't so oblivious to the scathing look I gave him, peircing him through to the very core of his being.





Sunday I spend the afternoon cooking and baking.

But not until it became very clear that in our rushed panic through the grocery store, I missed several things.

So Stephen had to make another run to the grocery store to get the things I needed: potatoes, onions, milk, shortening. . . .

But the end result was worth it:

Corn chowder and homemade cheese and herb biscuits.

Stew, made early so it will season while sitting in the fridge until at least tomorrow.

And chicken parmegan for tonight.





I experienced a rare bliss: Sunday afternoon at home.

So quiet was yesterday afternoon, I was able to watch a movie. Not a good movie, but the point was I sat, watched it, and was not interrupted.

Silent Hill.

I'm not certain I got the point of the movie, which is too bad, because it had potential. Unfortunately, all the dots weren't connected and lots of questions were left unanswered.

Only Saturday evening was I informed that our cable package includes being able to order movies from the comfort of my own home.

Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!

Of course, this means I will have to practice a level of restraint never seen in the modern world.

Or face the Wrath-of-Stephen when the cable bill arrives, because its 50 pages long.




In the future, when I experience the normal weekend I will be able to reflect back upon this heavenly and unusally blissful weekend, and cling to it like a person clinging to a buoy with great white sharks circling around them, just waiting for blood.


Title Lyric: Weekend by Black Eyed Peas