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.

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

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?

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

I'm breaking dishes up in here. . .

August 9, 2010

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

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.

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

Here we go she knows it all, writes it all down to tell us all. . .

August 6, 2010


In some countries, writing is forbidden. I mean you will die if you are caught writing forbidden.

To this day I can remember how this made me feel. How I had looked at writing as a taken-for-granted thing everyone could do if they wanted to.

I am in the process, the very long and drawn out process, of having my dissertation turned into a book. All the ducks were lined up in a nice, neat row: publisher's acceptance of the manuscript, formatting the manuscript to the publisher's specifications, indexing the manuscript (NOT something you want to do on a regular basis), sending in the final manuscript and then seeing my name in print.

Or so I thought.

Apparently, there were a few decoys messing up my nice, neat row.

A letter appears from the publisher indicating that the final step (where have I heard THAT one before) is to have the manuscript proofread by a professional proofreader who will sign an affidavit atesting to the proofreadiness of the manuscript.

Oh, and I have a month to complete this task.

Well.

Finding a professional proofreader in a city with two univerisities should be a relatively painless task.

It was a logical, if not realistic, conclusion.

It took me two weeks to find a proofreader who lived within the same geographic area and who I could sort of afford. One woman I was referred to lived in New Jersey and was charging $35.00 an hour (USD). Just a little too rich for my blood (and budget!)

And because proofreaders are in short supply, those who do this work are very, very busy, so finding someone was no guarantee that this person would take on my manuscript.

Luckily, she did.

WHAT a humbling experience it is to have a professional proofreader read my manuscript. Evidently, I'm not all that great of a writer. I never thought I was Steinbeck, or Atwood, or Laurence, or any other great writer, but I did think I could string together words to make a sentence that made some sense.

Of course, not many academics are good writers. Howard Becker wrote that "(Academics) will use 20 words where 2 will do." And I've read enough academic journals to believe this. However, academics tend to think of themselves as good writers and are not very gracious when it comes to being told that perhaps they are not all they thought they were.

I do not have the luxury of ignoring criticism. I want to publish a book that people want to read, so I need all the help I can get.

But I also want to finish the damn thing and move on to the dozens of other projects I have on my plate.

Title lyrics: She's Been Writing by Ocean Colour Scene

I know that I've got issues, but you're pretty messed up too

August 5th, 2010

The Holy Grail of apartments is ours!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mer's phone rang. It was Stephen letting us know that the leasing agent called to say my application had been approved.

The real question is where were we when said call was made?

Standing in the parking of lot the apartments-that-were-on-the-bottom-of-our-list-but-we-had-to-keep-our-options-open.

And the building manager was waiting for us in her air conditioned Hyundai Santa Fe.

So, I said to Mer that we were there, so she had to at least look at them, even though we knew that she wasn't going to be renting them.

Meanwhile, Em and I are in car, squealing with delight that Mer would be moving into the Holy Grail of apartments.

Hello pool, gym, mini-theater, social room, sauna and jacuzzi.

A job and an apartment in less than a week. Whodathunkit.




I actually managed to get some work done today. . .the work that brings in the income that sustains us.

Not the apartment/job hunting work that has taken over my life in this past week and made me virtually forget that there are other things I do.

I met with my former honours student/research assistant who is now my colleague because she is going to graduate school.

We're working on a paper we are presenting in Milwaukee this November, at the Film and History conference. The paper is based on her honours thesis, so she is the expert in the area of femme fatales.

But every.single.time we arrange to meet, something happens and I end up doing more crisis management than working.

So today I made it very clear to the girls that we had to have time to write, with no interruptions. Unless someone had limbs dangling, held on with a sliver of skin, bleeding all over the newly renovated mall floor, I didn't want to be disturbed.

And they didn't.

We managed to get the paper narrowed down to two films, with a question we wanted to answer, and the conclusion fleshed out.

This is good news because she is leaving for Ontario at the end of August and experience tells me that she isn't going to have a lot of time to work on this paper while she is in the midst of moving to a new city/setting up her apartment/being introduced to her graduate programme.

This coming from the person who can't manage to get anything done with one adult child moving temporarily into the house I have lived in for the last decade.

It is hotter than Hades today. . . .40 degrees Celcius with the humidex.

One thing that is critical to know about me: I.HATE.HEAT.

I become agitated, cranky, miserable and those are the good things.

Physically, I feel like crap. Nothing works that way its supposed to, or, everything that is only supposed to happen maybe once every two days happens every 15 minutes.

Finally, my hair looks like I am trying to facilitate a revival of 80s big-bar-hair, or that poodles have taken up residence on my head.

So, we I mentioned to Stephen that I might like to spend my evening in the comfort of the air conditioned theater, he reminded me that we have to drive an hour outside of town to look at some sort of stained glass fronted hutch he found on kijiji.

I understand his need to find a hutch, or something that can be construed as a hutch. My grandmother, his parents, his grandparents have inundated us with dishes: entire China dish sets complete with serving dishes, Waterford crystal, novelty mugs, and any other form of dish you can imagine.

Not including, of course, all of the dishes we received when we got married.

And us with absolutely no where to put any of it.

Consequently, we have dishes in boxes all over the house: in the basement, under our bed, in the office, in trunks, in cupboards next to the cat nip and dishwasher pellets.

We need a hutch.

I just don't want to go get it.

I want to sit in an airconditioned theater, eating popcorn and watching movies until at least the middle of September.

Or at least until reasonable temperature return. Something like 15 degrees Celcius.

And I'm going to the theater when we get back. Granted, Em wants to see Charlie St. Cloud, but at this point I'd watch almost anything so long as it there was air conditioning.

Counselling was enlightening. Lots of things were said and reflected upon. Tangible tasks were assigned.

No one wanted to kill anyone when we left.

Most importantly, we're not as dysfunctional as we seem.

Hurrah!

Title lyrics: My Life Would Suck Without You by Kelly Clarkson

Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning. . .

August 4, 2010

Last evening Stephen and I went to a movie.

For most couples this is not a monumental event. For us it is. There is almost nothing Stephen would rather avoid more than seeing a movie. He can't stand crowds and he is loath to sit still.

I still don't know why he agreed to go, but I was glad. I love the movies. The week he was in Montreal, I went to the movies five nights in a row. I teach a film class. I know more about movies than I do my own mother. (Only because she won't tell me anything.)

Of course, having two children who work at the theaters and therefore can take their Mama to the movies for free doesn't hurt.

We wanted to see Inception but it was sold out. . .5.99 movie tickets prices on Tuesdays really draw a crowd. We settled for The Sorcerer's Apprentice, which I had already watched, but knew Stephen would like it.

He did. We had a nice evening. After all of the chaos we've been dealing with in the last week a nice evening is a rare thing indeed.

Nothing lasts forever.

4.45 am Stephen is shaking me awake from a deep and most deserved slumber to tell me that Meredyth is not home. Did I know that?

Well, I did now.

Does she not know that she has her first-day-on-the-new-job at 9.30 am, and that she is not really doing anything to establish a trusting relationship with us?????

I don't know. I'll have to ask her.

Stephen always wants me to do things I cannot do and exert a control I do not have.

And he often violates my own personal motto: don't tell me something is a problem unless you have a solution.

He is fabulous at pointing out the problems. Less fabulous with coming up with solutions.

In fairness, when Stephen and I met he was a 42 year old bachelor, living in an obsessively neat two bedroom apartment, looking after himself and himself only.

I was a 36 year old single parent of three children, one dog, four cats, teaching part-time at the university and working on my PhD.

Culture shock knockin' at the door for Stephen.

Most of the time we make it work, in part because of lots and lots and lots of counselling. Our biggest issue: parenting styles. Mine: the seat of my pants. His: reproducing the rigid Eastern European parenting style of his own parents. The "over-parenting" approach. The you-will-do-what-I-say approach.

This approach worked very well with Stephen; too well if you ask me. Less so with his younger sister. She Who Is Very Similar To Meredyth.

At 5.00 am a car pulls into the driveway and Meredyth emerges. Stephen, being Stephen, wanted me to address this situation RIGHT NOW, and tell Mer that this behaviour WON'T BE TOLERATED.

Thing is, the girl is almost 21, she has lived on her own (well, with the Evil Ex) for a year and Keith has spent the odd night or two out away from home.

How was I going to possibly tell this child that she can't stay out when its okay for Keith?

Hello, double standard.

Needless to say my early morning attempt at trying to get Mer to see Stephen's side of things, and vice versa didn't go very well, at all.

Stephen wasn't willing to back down. He'd been up all night waiting for her to get home. Cranky, out-of-sorts, and unwilling to even consider that she may have a point.

Mer, equally stubborn, with the I-have-lived-on-my-own-and-am-almost-21-years-old argument.

Me: caught in the middle. As usual.

I kept them separate. Finally, around 6.00 am Stephen went to sleep.

When Stephen sleeps, you would dynamite the bed and he wouldn't wake up, so I knew that, for at least the moment, things would be calm.

Action Item: Tonight's counselling appointment. All players will be present and accounted for. Things are going to get messy. I just know it.

Too, too soon, the alarm went off.

8.00 am alarm. Trevor Doyle talking about depleting water tables and how we should be happy for the rain.

I stumbled out of bed at 9.00 am. Mer and Em, ready to go. Me, threw my clothes on, and left without so much as a sniff of coffee. At least I brushed my teeth, but, I missed the big spot of dried dog drool in my shirt. Hello, yes I am a doctor who wants to rent an apartment for my daughter and its just accidental that I look like I slept in my clothes, covered with large dogs, and just crawled out of bed.

But, Mer made it to work.

Em and I went to Great Canadian Bagel. Weak coffee, but enough to get me through looking at even more apartments.

There is a subtle panic pushing forward this apartment search . . .the students-are-returning-to-university-in-the-next-couple-of-weeks-and-there-will not-be-an-apartment-anywhere panic.

The first apartment, a one bedroom. Not in this lifetime. Just because the outside of a building looks nice, you can't assume the inside will be the same.

The second and third apartments, bachelors, reasonably priced, being painted, a possibility.

Across the street is a graveyard, but are we really in a position to be picky??????

Right now, at this very moment, yes. We can afford to be picky.

We are waiting to hear about THE apartment we want. A bachelor, new, click-laminate flooring, balcony, lots of natural light, secure building with a pool, mini-theater, gym, etc. This is the one . . . the Holy Grail of apartments.

But they're taking their sweet time getting back to us.

Why?

Because they can.

When you're the Holy Grail of apartments, you can do whatever you want.

Tomorrow, maybe not so picky.

Title lyrics: Independence Day by Martina McBride