April 28, 2011
I won't lie.
A warm glow is spreading through me at the thought of the end of April.
Although that glow is struggling under the wet and soggy conditions we've endured this month in New Brunswick.
The Weather Network is predicting sunshine and warm temps tomorrow.
I hope so.
I need to dry out before Monday.
Monday brings Intersession.
Since beginning teaching in 1999, I have taught Intersession.
Not necessarily because I want to, but more because I have to.
Sort of the same deal with overload teaching during the standard academic year.
This May, Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods is on my dance card for the morning, 9.00-11.20, and Crime and Popular Film, 1.00-4.00 will round out my afternoons.
From Monday to Thursday.
Fridays. . .who knows what I'll do Friday.
Sleep?
Garden?
Nothing?
My bet is on the third option.
Intersession means we'll get through the summer as comfortably as possible.
Normally Stephen teaches, too.
But this year, I put my foot down. . .
. . .but not in a bully like manner, mind you. . . .
and said his energies were needed elsewhere.
For his doctoral proposal and subsequent doctoral research.
He was VERY reluctant about this.
In spite of being an intelligent, for the most part well-rounded kind of guy, he is a man.
And feels if he isn't teaching, if he's drawing Employment Insurance, he is less of a man because he's living from the avails of my teaching.
Bullsh**!
Completing his doctorate is THE most important task Stephen has before him.
Even more important that making sure every will and desire I have is fulfilled.
It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
And it shall be done.
Believe me.
Hence, no teaching for Stephen.
He argues he isn't "contributing."
Money.
This irks me: the man does all the house work around here and he thinks money is the only way to contribute?
If I made ten times the money I make now, which would be nice, it wouldn't compare to what Stephen does around the house.
And housework is another item on my agenda of Things Dawne Needs to Do To Free Stephen To Work on his Doctoral Proposal and Subsequent Dissertation.
This will most definitely prove to be the most challenging shift in how our house works.
As we already know, housework and I mutually dislike one another.
While housework and Stephen are very intimate.
Couple this with Stephen's deeply embedded, and probably accurate belief that he does housework better than I do, and you have a recipe for disaster.
Or compromise.
I don't know which is harder to achieve around here.
But I suspect it's the latter.
I have to suck it up and do for Stephen what he did for me during the final stages of my doctorate.
And he has to let me.
Infinitely harder.
Starting Monday morning, when I arise to get Em up for school, and prepare myself for Intersession, Stephen will also get up and head to campus to thrash out a draft of his proposal.
It'll be ugly until he gets into the swing of things.
Until his brains realizes it can function before noon.
But I will persevere.
Because I love him and know how important this is for him.
And because I am planning on taking a sabbatical and then dropping to a standard teaching load afterwards.
Just givin' him the heads up.
Title Lyric: Helping Hand by Amy Grant
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
I KNOW this game. . .let's put an end to this once and for all. . . .
April 27, 2011
In spite of what you may think, I'm not a fan of conflict.
At the same time, I equally dislike lacking accountability.
Which means it's inevitable that there will be times when conflict occurs because of a lack of accountability.
Yesterday was one of those times.
Without divulging details that could potentially make my life very miserable, I had words yesterday with someone I work with regarding something they had asked me to do.
At the last minute.
And I did it.
Early on doing what I was doing, it was very apparent to me that it was going to take some time.
A lot of time.
Because the person who asked me to do what I was doing did not do what they were supposed to do.
And because this is academia, everything has a deadline.
So there was much pressure to do this and do it well.
I open my email yesterday, and find an email from this person, send Good Friday. . . .
. . . .because apparently I am expected to check my email on religious holidays, wish I had of received that memo. . . .
. . .informing me that the person who was originally supposed to do what I was doing had finally been contacted and therefore what I was doing wasn't necessary but thanks anyway.
Really.
Well.
You can imagine how I felt.
And in fairness to all involved, I broke a rule I have tried very hard not to break.
Emailing when I am angry.
I responded immediately.
I responded clearly.
Translation: blunt.
At no time did I use profanity.
But I laid out the issues as I saw them, in light of spending hours numbering in the double digits doing what this person should have done all along.
And I sent said email.
It only got worse from there.
Let's just say that when this person demanded to speak with me. . . .
. . . something I didn't want to do because I also try not to discuss things when I'm angry, preferring to let some time pass to allow calm to return at which time I am more than willing to talk about what's going on. . .
. . .things escalated.
Quickly.
Voices were not raised.
But things were said that, in spite of an hour and half of vigorous yoga last evening and much reflection, I am still very upset about.
Particularly, that this person, rather than accepting accountability for what they didn't do, chose to lay the responsibility at the feet of a student.
I believe that, above anything else, has me the most upset.
Why?
Because in my mind, in my opinion, it is just plain wrong.
Simple as that.
The day wasn't all bad, though.
Later in the afternoon, a student came by with something I had asked her to do for me.
Like most of us, this talented young woman is unsure about where her life is going, where it should be going. . .
But she is exceptional.
She will find her way.
Her talents, you ask?
Too numerous to mention here.
But one, her artistic abilities, caught my attention.
Artistic abilities that had stagnated a little.
So, I asked her to draw me a tattoo.
I've wanted a new tattoo for a long time. . it's been about ten years since I got my last one.
Stephen is not a fan.
But it is my body thank you very much.
And when I reach my goal weight, I am celebrating by getting a tattoo.
The one she drew for me.
A vine with four leaves, each leaf containing the name and birthdate of Stephen, Meredyth, Keith and Emily.
Took my breath away, it did, when I saw it for the first time.
When I'm longing for chocolate, or strawberry mousse cake from the Happy Baker, I am going to look at this tattoo as a reminder of what I am working for.
Today, I am hoping, will be a better day.
Granted, we are in for another day of rain, I have marking, marking, marking and more marking to do, grades to calculate for students anxious to graduate. . . .
But hopefully there will be no conflict.
At least at work.
At home?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Title Lyric: The Conflict by The Ghost Inside
In spite of what you may think, I'm not a fan of conflict.
At the same time, I equally dislike lacking accountability.
Which means it's inevitable that there will be times when conflict occurs because of a lack of accountability.
Yesterday was one of those times.
Without divulging details that could potentially make my life very miserable, I had words yesterday with someone I work with regarding something they had asked me to do.
At the last minute.
And I did it.
Early on doing what I was doing, it was very apparent to me that it was going to take some time.
A lot of time.
Because the person who asked me to do what I was doing did not do what they were supposed to do.
And because this is academia, everything has a deadline.
So there was much pressure to do this and do it well.
I open my email yesterday, and find an email from this person, send Good Friday. . . .
. . . .because apparently I am expected to check my email on religious holidays, wish I had of received that memo. . . .
. . .informing me that the person who was originally supposed to do what I was doing had finally been contacted and therefore what I was doing wasn't necessary but thanks anyway.
Really.
Well.
You can imagine how I felt.
And in fairness to all involved, I broke a rule I have tried very hard not to break.
Emailing when I am angry.
I responded immediately.
I responded clearly.
Translation: blunt.
At no time did I use profanity.
But I laid out the issues as I saw them, in light of spending hours numbering in the double digits doing what this person should have done all along.
And I sent said email.
It only got worse from there.
Let's just say that when this person demanded to speak with me. . . .
. . . something I didn't want to do because I also try not to discuss things when I'm angry, preferring to let some time pass to allow calm to return at which time I am more than willing to talk about what's going on. . .
. . .things escalated.
Quickly.
Voices were not raised.
But things were said that, in spite of an hour and half of vigorous yoga last evening and much reflection, I am still very upset about.
Particularly, that this person, rather than accepting accountability for what they didn't do, chose to lay the responsibility at the feet of a student.
I believe that, above anything else, has me the most upset.
Why?
Because in my mind, in my opinion, it is just plain wrong.
Simple as that.
The day wasn't all bad, though.
Later in the afternoon, a student came by with something I had asked her to do for me.
Like most of us, this talented young woman is unsure about where her life is going, where it should be going. . .
But she is exceptional.
She will find her way.
Her talents, you ask?
Too numerous to mention here.
But one, her artistic abilities, caught my attention.
Artistic abilities that had stagnated a little.
So, I asked her to draw me a tattoo.
I've wanted a new tattoo for a long time. . it's been about ten years since I got my last one.
Stephen is not a fan.
But it is my body thank you very much.
And when I reach my goal weight, I am celebrating by getting a tattoo.
The one she drew for me.
A vine with four leaves, each leaf containing the name and birthdate of Stephen, Meredyth, Keith and Emily.
Took my breath away, it did, when I saw it for the first time.
When I'm longing for chocolate, or strawberry mousse cake from the Happy Baker, I am going to look at this tattoo as a reminder of what I am working for.
Today, I am hoping, will be a better day.
Granted, we are in for another day of rain, I have marking, marking, marking and more marking to do, grades to calculate for students anxious to graduate. . . .
But hopefully there will be no conflict.
At least at work.
At home?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Title Lyric: The Conflict by The Ghost Inside
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Cos' everybody loves a circus show. . .
April 26, 2011
Last evening Emily and I went to the movies.
Water for Elephants.
As soon as she mentioned wanting to see it, I started my internal struggle.
Always ready and willing to see movies with my Em. . . .
. . . but not wanting to see a movie where animal abuse is part of the story.
When I was younger, my father loved to watch westerns.
I would watch with him, and if, in the process of a gunfight, a cowboy was shot and his horse happened to fall over. . .fall over mind you, not die. . .I was inconsolable.
And if an animal did die, I was apoplectic.
Growing older, I managed to develop a sense of self control.
Not much, but enough that I wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital if I saw something happen to an animal in a film or on tv.
But I would need to leave the room.
And crying was definitely involved.
My Dog Skip had exactly one viewing in my house, me and the kids, before it was thrown in the garbage, never to be seen again.
It took hours to calm everyone down.
So, having read Water for Elephants, and skipping over the parts where Rosie is victim to August's sadism, I knew what was coming.
In a film, however, you're less certain when because of course, the book and the film are NEVER exactly the same.
Resulting in me leaving the theater, coming back, and hiding by the door until I was convinced that the worst was over.
Couple this anxiety with Em's foul mood for most of yesterday, and you have a recipe for a movie experience that probably won't be in my top five.
Animal abuse aside, it wasn't a bad film.
Christoph Waltz is a brilliant actor.
Evidenced by my hatred of his character, August.
Robert Pattinson, so, so easy on the eyes, helped me get through my trauma.
Reese Witherspoon. . .every time I see her, all I can think is that she needs braces.
Hal Holbrook.
Need I say more.
And Rosie, the elephant.
Who is now my hero.
In spite of the fact that for some, this long weekend pays homage to the goddesses and gods of chocolate, I managed to prevent myself from gorging on candy coated chocolate eggs, peanut M&Ms, solid Easter bunnies, popcorn treats at the movies. . . .
But that isn't to say that I didn't indulge in a few candies, garnered when no one was looking.
Yes, sneaking.
Taking candy from my babies.
A few here and there from the kid's stash.
The few sacrificing for the many.
Meaning if I eat a few now, I won't go to the Superstore and buy twice as many bags as they are on sale, thus I can get more for the same price as I would have before Easter.
And I could eat all of them.
Believe me.
And then want more.
But I didn't.
Yeah me.
Hence fruit salad for Easter dessert.
The much better choice.
Tasty, tasty.
I am reminded of childhood Easters, sitting at the kitchen table, eating all my chocolate while devouring the latest Nancy Drew book that accompanied my Easter fare.
Which is probably what got me where I was today.
Damn Nancy Drew!
Title Lyric: The Circus by Take That.
Last evening Emily and I went to the movies.
Water for Elephants.
As soon as she mentioned wanting to see it, I started my internal struggle.
Always ready and willing to see movies with my Em. . . .
. . . but not wanting to see a movie where animal abuse is part of the story.
When I was younger, my father loved to watch westerns.
I would watch with him, and if, in the process of a gunfight, a cowboy was shot and his horse happened to fall over. . .fall over mind you, not die. . .I was inconsolable.
And if an animal did die, I was apoplectic.
Growing older, I managed to develop a sense of self control.
Not much, but enough that I wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital if I saw something happen to an animal in a film or on tv.
But I would need to leave the room.
And crying was definitely involved.
My Dog Skip had exactly one viewing in my house, me and the kids, before it was thrown in the garbage, never to be seen again.
It took hours to calm everyone down.
So, having read Water for Elephants, and skipping over the parts where Rosie is victim to August's sadism, I knew what was coming.
In a film, however, you're less certain when because of course, the book and the film are NEVER exactly the same.
Resulting in me leaving the theater, coming back, and hiding by the door until I was convinced that the worst was over.
Couple this anxiety with Em's foul mood for most of yesterday, and you have a recipe for a movie experience that probably won't be in my top five.
Animal abuse aside, it wasn't a bad film.
Christoph Waltz is a brilliant actor.
Evidenced by my hatred of his character, August.
Robert Pattinson, so, so easy on the eyes, helped me get through my trauma.
Reese Witherspoon. . .every time I see her, all I can think is that she needs braces.
Hal Holbrook.
Need I say more.
And Rosie, the elephant.
Who is now my hero.
In spite of the fact that for some, this long weekend pays homage to the goddesses and gods of chocolate, I managed to prevent myself from gorging on candy coated chocolate eggs, peanut M&Ms, solid Easter bunnies, popcorn treats at the movies. . . .
But that isn't to say that I didn't indulge in a few candies, garnered when no one was looking.
Yes, sneaking.
Taking candy from my babies.
A few here and there from the kid's stash.
The few sacrificing for the many.
Meaning if I eat a few now, I won't go to the Superstore and buy twice as many bags as they are on sale, thus I can get more for the same price as I would have before Easter.
And I could eat all of them.
Believe me.
And then want more.
But I didn't.
Yeah me.
Hence fruit salad for Easter dessert.
The much better choice.
Tasty, tasty.
I am reminded of childhood Easters, sitting at the kitchen table, eating all my chocolate while devouring the latest Nancy Drew book that accompanied my Easter fare.
Which is probably what got me where I was today.
Damn Nancy Drew!
Title Lyric: The Circus by Take That.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Hey! Hey! I need some strong coffee!
April 25, 2011
I didn't have to get up before the sun this morning.
No one had to go to work.
No one had to go to school, because it's a holiday.
Meaning my eyes did not open until 8.45 am.
And only then because Frankie and Tikka's bladders were belting out Ave Maria.
Yesterday started with Quaker meeting.
In the afternoon, I continued reading the thesis-I-was-asked-to-read-as-second-reader-at- the-last-minute.
And then I began the preparations for Easter dinner.
At least my end of the preparations.
My father brought the ham.
My cousin brought the most glorious fresh fruit salad, AND shared a tidbit of knowledge for any one interested in keeping their fruit salad fresh and crisp as the day it was made.
Diet 7-Up.
Once you're salad is made, pour Diet 7-Up over it.
The flavour stays the same. The soda keeps it fresh.
I was so excited to learn this!
Because summer = fresh fruit salad in this house.
Especially this summer.
The Summer of Simply for Life.
Dinner . . .right. . . .
I was in charge of venue and vegetables.
New potatoes, green salad, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots rounded out a wonderful, sumptuous Easter dinner.
Meredyth, who never misses a family dinner, more for the food and less for the company I should add, was in attendance.
Alas, Keith and Em were both working.
My cousin and her husband, along with my dad and Mum meant a full table and lots of wonderful conversation before, during and after dinner.
My other cousin, from the US called, and my mother was absolutely thrilled to talk with her.
She was more excited by hearing her niece's voice than anything else that day.
I love my family. . . .I am truly blessed.
Stephen and my father were in charge of collecting Mum from the Nursing home.
I was in charge of returning her.
The one thing I wish for more than anything during these dinners is that my mother would just relax and enjoy herself.
I'm sure she does enjoy herself to the extent that she's able.
But once the meal is over, dessert and coffee have been served, my mother begins her campaign to go back to the nursing home.
Especially if dinner has taken us anywhere near seven pm.
In spite of the nurses telling her to relax and have a good time, in spite of me reminding her that the nurses have told her to relax and have a good time, my mother is convinced that if she doesn't get back to the nursing home by 7.30 at the absolute latest, the nurses will withhold her pills.
Don't even ask me how she ever came to that conclusion.
Last evening, at 6.50 she turned to me, and mouthed, "Take me back to the Grove."
She always, always, always sits beside me at our family get togethers, so she didn't have far to turn, nor did she actually have to engage her vocal cords, as I have become somewhat adept at my-mother-lip-reading.
She's mouthed these same words to me from inside the car.
She's inside the car. I'm in the kitchen looking out the window.
She was angry because I didn't go and pick and her up, sending Keith and Stephen so I could finish preparing dinner.
I mouthed back NO!
Two can play at that game.
Knowing she had stayed as long as she was going to stay, I began the preparations for her leaving.
Which mostly consists of getting Stephen and my Dad to help me get her out of the house.
My mother has, among many other things, spinal stenosis.
Very, very painful.
It means that she walks at almost a 90 degree angle, and her back is shaped like a leaning-to-the-left-S.
I can help her if all we have to negotiate are flat surfaces, because she can walk with the assistance of her walker, for short periods of time.
However, we, of course, have three steps leading to our front door, a cement block walkway with a wonky block that has started to tip downwards into the three steps that lead to the driveway.
Six steps we walk or run or are dragged by the dogs everyday without a second thought.
But for my mother, those steps are the equivalent of Mt. Everest.
And she can't use her walker to negotiate them.
So it's me on one side, Stephen on the other and Mer moving the walker to all it's appointed places.
Mer?
Not Dad?
He was in the bathroom.
Getting her out of the house and to the car is only the first step.
Next is getting her in the car and buckled in.
When we first started taking her out, way back when she was still in the hospital, getting her into the car was absolutely the most challenging task.
But now, we've done it so often, that we actually have a routine.
Like dancers, we know the next move the other will make, thus ensuring a smooth and hopefully comfortable sitting in the seat.
And then, finally, we are ready to go "back to the Grove" where everything begins again.
But in reverse.
Minus the steps.
And with the wheelchair, which waits patiently for Mum in the nursing home foyer.
Once we were back, she gives me a list of directives:
Then, I check the TV for her the end of Antiques Roadshow and the following All Creatures Great and Small only to find out it's a PBS Membership Drive, meaning her shows are not on.
Once she was settled, everything done, her wanting for absolutely nothing other than her pills, which were something I simply was not getting for her.
One Sunday evening, just a few weeks ago, the medication nurse had the audacity, in my mother's mind, to start the medication at the other end of the hallway.
8.15 and my mother still hadn't had her pills.
I had to go to the bathroom and when I returned, I saw my mother wheeling furiously to the med cart, and demanded the nurse give her her pills because she normally gets them at 7.30 and now it's 8.15.
My mother has become institutionalized.
But I was not, under any circumstances, harassing the nurse for Mum's meds.
She can do that all on her own, as she has demonstrated more than once.
I said I was going to return home because if I didn't, Stephen would end up doing the dishes alone.
And there were a lot of dishes.
She was fine with this.
And I was able to return home to a few hours of conversation with my cousin, her husband and Stephen.
Where no one wanted a warm blanket or their stockings rinsed out.
Stephen is a wonderful man.
We know this.
But, he has a small challenge with the concept of moderation.
A challenge that was made even clearer twice yesterday.
After Quaker meeting, we have a coffee and nibblies.
Stephen brought tzatziki and his own homemade pita chips.
The tzatziki was store bought, and in my humble opinion, very tasty.
But Stephen thought it was lacking and he informed me that he added "a couple of cloves of garlic to it."
Given the size of the container, two cloves of garlic was more than reasonable.
After meeting, I took the tzaztiki out of the fridge, removed the lid, grabbed a spoon and took a taste.
Only to be met with the fiery taste of TOO MUCH garlic.
I should know by now.
This is not a road I haven't travelled before.
"A couple of cloves of garlic" translated into FOUR cloves of garlic.
Information I ascertained when I went back to where we were meeting, tonge on fire, steam pouring from my ears, and asked him EXACTLY how many cloves of garlic did you put into this SMALL container of tzatziki.
One of our Quaker friends had a terrible cold when he came to meeting.
When he left, after a couple of bites of Stephen's doctored tzatziki, he was cured.
But tzatziki was just the beginning.
Stephen also made coffee for everyone both during and after dinner.
Our coffee maker isn't used often, at least by us.
I'm the only one who drinks coffee, so I just use a filter thingy that sits on top of my cup and brews me a nice, hot cup of coffee every morning.
Last night, Stephen took charge of the coffee maker.
One tablespoon of coffee for every cup of water.
12 cups of water then, should equal 12 tablespoons of coffee.
I have no idea how much coffee Stephen added.
Somewhere around 24 tablespoons is my closest estimation.
But I do know that when I poured some for my cousin's husband, it was as thick and dark as over used motor oil.
It had to be halved with addition water added to make it palpable.
My cousin and my mother loved it.
Neither one of them will sleep for a week, but they loved it.
Moderation, Stephen, moderation.
Title Lyric: Strong Coffee by Cat Empire
I didn't have to get up before the sun this morning.
No one had to go to work.
No one had to go to school, because it's a holiday.
Meaning my eyes did not open until 8.45 am.
And only then because Frankie and Tikka's bladders were belting out Ave Maria.
Yesterday started with Quaker meeting.
In the afternoon, I continued reading the thesis-I-was-asked-to-read-as-second-reader-at- the-last-minute.
And then I began the preparations for Easter dinner.
At least my end of the preparations.
My father brought the ham.
My cousin brought the most glorious fresh fruit salad, AND shared a tidbit of knowledge for any one interested in keeping their fruit salad fresh and crisp as the day it was made.
Diet 7-Up.
Once you're salad is made, pour Diet 7-Up over it.
The flavour stays the same. The soda keeps it fresh.
I was so excited to learn this!
Because summer = fresh fruit salad in this house.
Especially this summer.
The Summer of Simply for Life.
Dinner . . .right. . . .
I was in charge of venue and vegetables.
New potatoes, green salad, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots rounded out a wonderful, sumptuous Easter dinner.
Meredyth, who never misses a family dinner, more for the food and less for the company I should add, was in attendance.
Alas, Keith and Em were both working.
My cousin and her husband, along with my dad and Mum meant a full table and lots of wonderful conversation before, during and after dinner.
My other cousin, from the US called, and my mother was absolutely thrilled to talk with her.
She was more excited by hearing her niece's voice than anything else that day.
I love my family. . . .I am truly blessed.
Stephen and my father were in charge of collecting Mum from the Nursing home.
I was in charge of returning her.
The one thing I wish for more than anything during these dinners is that my mother would just relax and enjoy herself.
I'm sure she does enjoy herself to the extent that she's able.
But once the meal is over, dessert and coffee have been served, my mother begins her campaign to go back to the nursing home.
Especially if dinner has taken us anywhere near seven pm.
In spite of the nurses telling her to relax and have a good time, in spite of me reminding her that the nurses have told her to relax and have a good time, my mother is convinced that if she doesn't get back to the nursing home by 7.30 at the absolute latest, the nurses will withhold her pills.
Don't even ask me how she ever came to that conclusion.
Last evening, at 6.50 she turned to me, and mouthed, "Take me back to the Grove."
She always, always, always sits beside me at our family get togethers, so she didn't have far to turn, nor did she actually have to engage her vocal cords, as I have become somewhat adept at my-mother-lip-reading.
She's mouthed these same words to me from inside the car.
She's inside the car. I'm in the kitchen looking out the window.
She was angry because I didn't go and pick and her up, sending Keith and Stephen so I could finish preparing dinner.
I mouthed back NO!
Two can play at that game.
Knowing she had stayed as long as she was going to stay, I began the preparations for her leaving.
Which mostly consists of getting Stephen and my Dad to help me get her out of the house.
My mother has, among many other things, spinal stenosis.
Very, very painful.
It means that she walks at almost a 90 degree angle, and her back is shaped like a leaning-to-the-left-S.
I can help her if all we have to negotiate are flat surfaces, because she can walk with the assistance of her walker, for short periods of time.
However, we, of course, have three steps leading to our front door, a cement block walkway with a wonky block that has started to tip downwards into the three steps that lead to the driveway.
Six steps we walk or run or are dragged by the dogs everyday without a second thought.
But for my mother, those steps are the equivalent of Mt. Everest.
And she can't use her walker to negotiate them.
So it's me on one side, Stephen on the other and Mer moving the walker to all it's appointed places.
Mer?
Not Dad?
He was in the bathroom.
Getting her out of the house and to the car is only the first step.
Next is getting her in the car and buckled in.
When we first started taking her out, way back when she was still in the hospital, getting her into the car was absolutely the most challenging task.
But now, we've done it so often, that we actually have a routine.
Like dancers, we know the next move the other will make, thus ensuring a smooth and hopefully comfortable sitting in the seat.
And then, finally, we are ready to go "back to the Grove" where everything begins again.
But in reverse.
Minus the steps.
And with the wheelchair, which waits patiently for Mum in the nursing home foyer.
Once we were back, she gives me a list of directives:
Light over bed on.
Bathroom curtain drawn back.
PJs on.
Clothes laid out for tomorrow.
Stocking feet only rinsed with warm water and hung to dry in preparation for tomorrow.
Medication nurse informed she has returned, and if possible, cajole, bully or otherwise force said nurse to bring Mum her medications RIGHT NOW.
Cup filled with cranberry juice only to her Sharpie drawn line on the side of the cup.
Warm blanket from the blanket over to wrap around her shoulders, as her always 30 degree Celsius room is too cold.
Then, I check the TV for her the end of Antiques Roadshow and the following All Creatures Great and Small only to find out it's a PBS Membership Drive, meaning her shows are not on.
Once she was settled, everything done, her wanting for absolutely nothing other than her pills, which were something I simply was not getting for her.
One Sunday evening, just a few weeks ago, the medication nurse had the audacity, in my mother's mind, to start the medication at the other end of the hallway.
8.15 and my mother still hadn't had her pills.
I had to go to the bathroom and when I returned, I saw my mother wheeling furiously to the med cart, and demanded the nurse give her her pills because she normally gets them at 7.30 and now it's 8.15.
My mother has become institutionalized.
But I was not, under any circumstances, harassing the nurse for Mum's meds.
She can do that all on her own, as she has demonstrated more than once.
I said I was going to return home because if I didn't, Stephen would end up doing the dishes alone.
And there were a lot of dishes.
She was fine with this.
And I was able to return home to a few hours of conversation with my cousin, her husband and Stephen.
Where no one wanted a warm blanket or their stockings rinsed out.
Stephen is a wonderful man.
We know this.
But, he has a small challenge with the concept of moderation.
A challenge that was made even clearer twice yesterday.
After Quaker meeting, we have a coffee and nibblies.
Stephen brought tzatziki and his own homemade pita chips.
The tzatziki was store bought, and in my humble opinion, very tasty.
But Stephen thought it was lacking and he informed me that he added "a couple of cloves of garlic to it."
Given the size of the container, two cloves of garlic was more than reasonable.
After meeting, I took the tzaztiki out of the fridge, removed the lid, grabbed a spoon and took a taste.
Only to be met with the fiery taste of TOO MUCH garlic.
I should know by now.
This is not a road I haven't travelled before.
"A couple of cloves of garlic" translated into FOUR cloves of garlic.
Information I ascertained when I went back to where we were meeting, tonge on fire, steam pouring from my ears, and asked him EXACTLY how many cloves of garlic did you put into this SMALL container of tzatziki.
One of our Quaker friends had a terrible cold when he came to meeting.
When he left, after a couple of bites of Stephen's doctored tzatziki, he was cured.
But tzatziki was just the beginning.
Stephen also made coffee for everyone both during and after dinner.
Our coffee maker isn't used often, at least by us.
I'm the only one who drinks coffee, so I just use a filter thingy that sits on top of my cup and brews me a nice, hot cup of coffee every morning.
Last night, Stephen took charge of the coffee maker.
One tablespoon of coffee for every cup of water.
12 cups of water then, should equal 12 tablespoons of coffee.
I have no idea how much coffee Stephen added.
Somewhere around 24 tablespoons is my closest estimation.
But I do know that when I poured some for my cousin's husband, it was as thick and dark as over used motor oil.
It had to be halved with addition water added to make it palpable.
My cousin and my mother loved it.
Neither one of them will sleep for a week, but they loved it.
Moderation, Stephen, moderation.
Title Lyric: Strong Coffee by Cat Empire
Friday, April 22, 2011
Do, do, do, do, what you want. . .
April 22, 2011
My 200th entry!
When I started this I had no idea I'd have so much to say!
Okay, maybe that's not all that true, but still. . . .200 entries.
Last night Keith, Em, Stephen and I saw Rio.
Some laughs, but overall, I was disappointed.
Kids will love it, absolutely.
The evil bird is definitely evil.
Stereotypes abound regarding anyone who isn't lily white as criminal.
Even harsh facial features.
Still. . . .
We didn't pay for it, spent time with 2/3 of our children, so as far as I'm concerned it was a good night.
In addition, I spent time with the other 1/3 of our children.
Meredyth and I made a coffee date and even managed to keep it.
A feat for both of us as usually, something comes up for one of us.
But not this time.
We had a lovely time together for an hour before she had to go to work.
I had my Starbucks grande mild.
She had her KFC crunchy chicken something with fries.
I may have nibbled a couple of fries.
But that was all.
Definitely something I will be doing again, regularly.
And then an odd thing happened.
A Thursday.
Suppertime.
I had the car.
Another odd thing.
Usually I am dropped off where ever I have to go and Stephen has the car.
And, there was no reason to rush home for supper because someone had to go somewhere, or be picked up, or there was something I had to do, or somewhere I had to be, or work that had to be started because someone was waiting for it today.
Celebrate the odd things.
So I just wandered around the mall.
Ran into people.
Sat down with my coffee and had a conversation with someone who hadn't come looking for me to help them with a paper, answer a question about an exam, or deal with life crises.
For a brief period, I felt almost normal.
At the same time, there was still the niggling feeling in the back of my brain, the invisible hook between me and home gently tugging at me, suggesting that at this time of day, during this day of the week, I really should be home, setting the table and ladling out the homemade beef barely soup I prepared that morning and allowed to simmer all day long in the crock pot.
Eventually, I had to give in to the gentle tugging.
About 45 minutes.
I thought, given the unusual circumstances, the unanticipated unscheduled time, I thought I did very well.
Thinking that Stephen and the kids would be wondering where I was.
How come I was taking so long.
What I was up to.
I went back to the car and immediately called home.
Stephen answered.
And didn't seem the least bit concerned about where I was or what I was doing.
Come home when you're ready. Everything is fine here.
Leaving me to conclude that the invisible hook is a figment of my imagination.
I need to get out more.
A lot more.
Easter weekend.
Good Friday and Easter Monday, along with Remembrance Day and Boxing Day are the four days a year when nothing is open, no one needs anything and I don't have to be anywhere or do anything I choose not to do.
Another odd thing.
I don't have to go to work, I don't feel obligated to go to work.
Nothing is open so I don't have to do anything responsible, like grocery shopping, bill paying.
If there was any dirty laundry, I could hang it out, should I choose to.
I could do yoga all day if I wanted.
I love these days.
I wish there were more.
Sunday is a different story.
Family dinner.
Although, I think that this one will be a bit more peaceful.
We are providing the venue, a salad, some other veggies. . . .
Everyone else is bringing something. . .food, good conversation, family well being. . .
Who couldn't enjoy that?
I'm looking forward to a nice, relaxing long weekend.
Only four honours theses to read.
Two piles of papers to mark.
Two stacks of exams.
And yet, not feeling worried about it.
Just looking forward to the sunshine, the peace, the quiet, and the opportunity to do what I want to do. . .
. . .and not what I have to do.
Title Lyric: Do What You Want by OK GO
My 200th entry!
When I started this I had no idea I'd have so much to say!
Okay, maybe that's not all that true, but still. . . .200 entries.
Last night Keith, Em, Stephen and I saw Rio.
Some laughs, but overall, I was disappointed.
Kids will love it, absolutely.
The evil bird is definitely evil.
Stereotypes abound regarding anyone who isn't lily white as criminal.
Even harsh facial features.
Still. . . .
We didn't pay for it, spent time with 2/3 of our children, so as far as I'm concerned it was a good night.
In addition, I spent time with the other 1/3 of our children.
Meredyth and I made a coffee date and even managed to keep it.
A feat for both of us as usually, something comes up for one of us.
But not this time.
We had a lovely time together for an hour before she had to go to work.
I had my Starbucks grande mild.
She had her KFC crunchy chicken something with fries.
I may have nibbled a couple of fries.
But that was all.
Definitely something I will be doing again, regularly.
And then an odd thing happened.
A Thursday.
Suppertime.
I had the car.
Another odd thing.
Usually I am dropped off where ever I have to go and Stephen has the car.
And, there was no reason to rush home for supper because someone had to go somewhere, or be picked up, or there was something I had to do, or somewhere I had to be, or work that had to be started because someone was waiting for it today.
Celebrate the odd things.
So I just wandered around the mall.
Ran into people.
Sat down with my coffee and had a conversation with someone who hadn't come looking for me to help them with a paper, answer a question about an exam, or deal with life crises.
For a brief period, I felt almost normal.
At the same time, there was still the niggling feeling in the back of my brain, the invisible hook between me and home gently tugging at me, suggesting that at this time of day, during this day of the week, I really should be home, setting the table and ladling out the homemade beef barely soup I prepared that morning and allowed to simmer all day long in the crock pot.
Eventually, I had to give in to the gentle tugging.
About 45 minutes.
I thought, given the unusual circumstances, the unanticipated unscheduled time, I thought I did very well.
Thinking that Stephen and the kids would be wondering where I was.
How come I was taking so long.
What I was up to.
I went back to the car and immediately called home.
Stephen answered.
And didn't seem the least bit concerned about where I was or what I was doing.
Come home when you're ready. Everything is fine here.
Leaving me to conclude that the invisible hook is a figment of my imagination.
I need to get out more.
A lot more.
Easter weekend.
Good Friday and Easter Monday, along with Remembrance Day and Boxing Day are the four days a year when nothing is open, no one needs anything and I don't have to be anywhere or do anything I choose not to do.
Another odd thing.
I don't have to go to work, I don't feel obligated to go to work.
Nothing is open so I don't have to do anything responsible, like grocery shopping, bill paying.
If there was any dirty laundry, I could hang it out, should I choose to.
I could do yoga all day if I wanted.
I love these days.
I wish there were more.
Sunday is a different story.
Family dinner.
Although, I think that this one will be a bit more peaceful.
We are providing the venue, a salad, some other veggies. . . .
Everyone else is bringing something. . .food, good conversation, family well being. . .
Who couldn't enjoy that?
I'm looking forward to a nice, relaxing long weekend.
Only four honours theses to read.
Two piles of papers to mark.
Two stacks of exams.
And yet, not feeling worried about it.
Just looking forward to the sunshine, the peace, the quiet, and the opportunity to do what I want to do. . .
. . .and not what I have to do.
Title Lyric: Do What You Want by OK GO
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Through these sleepless nights. . . .
April 20, 2011
This afternoon, I did the unthinkable.
I left work around 1.30.
The honours thesis was hand delivered to the second reader.
My duties as second reader on another thesis were completed.
I may be a second reader for yet another thesis, however, I haven't seen it yet so I'm assuming I'm not.
With nothing I needed to do in my office I came home.
I can mark anywhere.
And do I ever have marking.
Being away from the office means I don't have to stare at the huge pile.
Just the smaller pile.
The one that deluded me into thinking I can get all of this done on time.
Alas, marking hasn't been that forthcoming.
When I walked through the door to the loving welcome of my gleefully excited puppies, put down all my bags and sundry items, and basked in that canine love, I realized I was utterly, unquestionably, without a doubt exhausted.
In spite of two nights of rigorous yoga.
Extensive reading and editing.
Dealing with the usual traumas that have come to signify the reality of my everyday life.
Exhausted.
Oh, and last evening was a bit of a shit show in terms of sleeping.
I couldn't sleep.
Things on my mind weren't gracefully melting into the back of my consciousness.
And Stephen's snoring was more than obnoxious.
A LOT more than. . . .
Perhaps I only notice Stephen's snoring when I can't sleep because my brain is full to overflowing with things that won't leave me alone.
Ergo blaming it on Stephen's snoring is just more convenient.
Not withstanding the reasons for my bout of sleeplessness, I still had to contend with the snoring from hell.
As usual, I started with a gentle poke to the shoulder, asking him to roll over onto his stomach.
No response.
As usual.
I did that a couple more times and then resorted to something a little more aggressive.
A definitely less-than-gentle-I-am-not-f***ing-around shove.
THAT got me a response.
Although not the one I intended.
Stephen, roll over.
NO!
I was a bit surprised by his vehemence, however, surprise did not negate my intense, burning desire for a bedroom that didn't sound like the inside of a factory.
And one NO! isn't nearly enough to deter me from my quest.
Neither did several more NOs!
Leaving me no course than to take more aggressive measures.
Like shoves.
Which resulted in a very, very strange occurrence.
A spiel of gibberish I can neither replicate here, nor am I certain I would want to.
Weird, though.
Very weird.
Weirder than when he speaks Ukrainian at me.
Which happens more often than it should, given that I can't understand a word he's saying to me.
When I asked him this afternoon what the gibberish meant, he said all he could remember was that he was dreaming of being on the Great Wall of China.
Pushed off the Great Wall of China next time he keeps me up with his noxious snoring.
And this wasn't the first Stephen-weird incident of the day.
Earlier in the evening, he was driving me to my Tuesday yoga class.
Dogs in the back of the car because immediately after dropping me off, he was taking them to the farm for a run.
One they most desperately needed.
We had just turned from Wetmore to Kimble when a crabby Stephen. . .
. . .crabby because the dogs were so excited they were barking at anything as we drove down the street. . .blowing leaves, pedestrians, other dogs, things we couldn't even see I suspect. . .
meaning that Stephen's nerves were shattered before we were in the car for five minutes.
In a state of shattered nerves, Stephen asked me to reach into the glove box and retrieve his sunglasses.
Something I would have been happy to do had they not already been on his face.
Snugly nestled on the bridge of his nose.
Already providing ample relief from the blinding close to six pm sunshine.
I needed a laugh.
I really did.
An honest to goodness deep down in the belly laugh. . .ones where you're gasping for air.
And you have to take them when they come along.
Cause your never sure when the next one will make an appearance.
And what the hell is 4 20 anyway???
And how come my son is so excited about it?
Title Lyric: Sleepless Nights by Norah Jones
This afternoon, I did the unthinkable.
I left work around 1.30.
The honours thesis was hand delivered to the second reader.
My duties as second reader on another thesis were completed.
I may be a second reader for yet another thesis, however, I haven't seen it yet so I'm assuming I'm not.
With nothing I needed to do in my office I came home.
I can mark anywhere.
And do I ever have marking.
Being away from the office means I don't have to stare at the huge pile.
Just the smaller pile.
The one that deluded me into thinking I can get all of this done on time.
Alas, marking hasn't been that forthcoming.
When I walked through the door to the loving welcome of my gleefully excited puppies, put down all my bags and sundry items, and basked in that canine love, I realized I was utterly, unquestionably, without a doubt exhausted.
In spite of two nights of rigorous yoga.
Extensive reading and editing.
Dealing with the usual traumas that have come to signify the reality of my everyday life.
Exhausted.
Oh, and last evening was a bit of a shit show in terms of sleeping.
I couldn't sleep.
Things on my mind weren't gracefully melting into the back of my consciousness.
And Stephen's snoring was more than obnoxious.
A LOT more than. . . .
Perhaps I only notice Stephen's snoring when I can't sleep because my brain is full to overflowing with things that won't leave me alone.
Ergo blaming it on Stephen's snoring is just more convenient.
Not withstanding the reasons for my bout of sleeplessness, I still had to contend with the snoring from hell.
As usual, I started with a gentle poke to the shoulder, asking him to roll over onto his stomach.
No response.
As usual.
I did that a couple more times and then resorted to something a little more aggressive.
A definitely less-than-gentle-I-am-not-f***ing-around shove.
THAT got me a response.
Although not the one I intended.
Stephen, roll over.
NO!
I was a bit surprised by his vehemence, however, surprise did not negate my intense, burning desire for a bedroom that didn't sound like the inside of a factory.
And one NO! isn't nearly enough to deter me from my quest.
Neither did several more NOs!
Leaving me no course than to take more aggressive measures.
Like shoves.
Which resulted in a very, very strange occurrence.
A spiel of gibberish I can neither replicate here, nor am I certain I would want to.
Weird, though.
Very weird.
Weirder than when he speaks Ukrainian at me.
Which happens more often than it should, given that I can't understand a word he's saying to me.
When I asked him this afternoon what the gibberish meant, he said all he could remember was that he was dreaming of being on the Great Wall of China.
Pushed off the Great Wall of China next time he keeps me up with his noxious snoring.
And this wasn't the first Stephen-weird incident of the day.
Earlier in the evening, he was driving me to my Tuesday yoga class.
Dogs in the back of the car because immediately after dropping me off, he was taking them to the farm for a run.
One they most desperately needed.
We had just turned from Wetmore to Kimble when a crabby Stephen. . .
. . .crabby because the dogs were so excited they were barking at anything as we drove down the street. . .blowing leaves, pedestrians, other dogs, things we couldn't even see I suspect. . .
meaning that Stephen's nerves were shattered before we were in the car for five minutes.
In a state of shattered nerves, Stephen asked me to reach into the glove box and retrieve his sunglasses.
Something I would have been happy to do had they not already been on his face.
Snugly nestled on the bridge of his nose.
Already providing ample relief from the blinding close to six pm sunshine.
I needed a laugh.
I really did.
An honest to goodness deep down in the belly laugh. . .ones where you're gasping for air.
And you have to take them when they come along.
Cause your never sure when the next one will make an appearance.
And what the hell is 4 20 anyway???
And how come my son is so excited about it?
Title Lyric: Sleepless Nights by Norah Jones
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
My first car was an old rust bucket. . .
April 19, 2011
I'd wish for the end of this term to come at the speed of sound, however, the beginning of May brings Intersession.
Which may or may not be any more relaxing that what I'm experiencing right now.
Weeks of getting up at 5.00 am to get Emily up to be on time for school at 8.15 am, to read paper drafts, theses drafts, develop exams, in addition to book launches, birthday parties -- surprise or otherwise, family dinners, has left me more tired than almost any other time in my life.
At least that what it feels like right now.
I am certain there are times when all the kids were sick at the same time, and I was teaching full time while working on the final draft of my dissertation that I was tired.
I just don't remember them right now because they aren't as present as the tired I'm experiencing right now.
Not that I haven't tried to find some time for myself before collapsing into bed at 9.00 pm.
Stephen and I started a yoga class yesterday.
5.15 to 6.45 pm, above a bike store.
My Tuesday yoga class is coming to an end next week, thus leaving me yoga-less unless I found another class.
So I did.
And made Stephen come with me.
Because if anyone needs yoga, it's Stephen.
And anyone who thinks that yoga isn't a full workout, doesn't make you sweat and stretch your muscles to the point where you feel something is going to snap, you haven't tried yoga.
You should.
There is, really, no downside to yoga.
Except. . .
For some reason, yoga releases things in me that should not be released in mixed company.
Or any company for that matter, but doing it in front of family doesn't count.
Farting.
Yoga makes me fart.
Instead of focusing on poses, where my feet should or shouldn't be and if I have my shoulders underneath me. . .
I am clenching my gluteus maximus together with an intensity that would impress my yoga teacher if she knew what I was doing.
I wasn't so lucky tonight.
We tried a new pose.
One where we lie on our side, roll over onto our backs and stretch our legs up against the wall.
In the process of rolling and stretching I farted.
Not a gentle "pooooofffff" kind of fart.
But an obnoxiously loud ppppppppppplllllllllllllppppprrrrrrrrrrttttttpppppppppppttttttttttttrrrrrlllllllllllrrrrrrrrtttttttt
kind of fart.
In a room with acoustics that would make the Met Opera House jealous.
No one acknowledged that they heard it.
But unless they were deaf, had cotton shoved into every orifice of their ears and could feel no vibrations whatsoever in any part of their body, they heard it.
Loud and clear.
And I just laid on the floor, feet against the wall, face redder than the shirt I was wearing pretending it wasn't me who just released a cloud of potentially lethal methane into the serene yoga atmosphere.
Figures.
When you need a dog, there are none to be found.
Em had a big day yesterday.
She got her first car.
Not that she has a licence to operate this car, but that isn't the issue right now.
She has a car.
Given to her by my brother, who purchased a new-to-him vehicle.
The car, in 2000, was my mother's.
My brother and his wife bought it when it was clear my mother's driving days had come to an end.
This is the same car Em used to sit in, driven by my mother, Em in the front seat wearing my mother's cats eyes sunglasses.
With my mother reminding her not to fall asleep.
She'd always fall asleep.
And now, it's her car.
Time goes by far, far too quickly.
A fact I am reminded of each and every day I look at my children.
I've never seen Em so happy or ecstatic.
Ever.
Except maybe when she's been away from Reilley for an extended period of time.
The car?
A 2000 Hyundai Elantra.
It's even the color in the picture.
It does need some work.
Okay, more than a little work.
But, the benefit of not being able to drive it right now is that she'll have the time to work and save money for the repairs.
And I'll have time to get used to Em having a car.
That'll take a lot of time.
My first car was a 1983 Toyota Tercel.
The red one.
I still miss that car.
The giving of the car hasn't happened without some discontent.
Mer-discontent.
Of course.
I expected nothing less.
Mer who forgets that grandma spent the equivalent of a luxury car on her when she lived in Ontario.
Enough said.
Title Lyric: My First Car by Jason Blaine
I'd wish for the end of this term to come at the speed of sound, however, the beginning of May brings Intersession.
Which may or may not be any more relaxing that what I'm experiencing right now.
Weeks of getting up at 5.00 am to get Emily up to be on time for school at 8.15 am, to read paper drafts, theses drafts, develop exams, in addition to book launches, birthday parties -- surprise or otherwise, family dinners, has left me more tired than almost any other time in my life.
At least that what it feels like right now.
I am certain there are times when all the kids were sick at the same time, and I was teaching full time while working on the final draft of my dissertation that I was tired.
I just don't remember them right now because they aren't as present as the tired I'm experiencing right now.
Not that I haven't tried to find some time for myself before collapsing into bed at 9.00 pm.
Stephen and I started a yoga class yesterday.
5.15 to 6.45 pm, above a bike store.
My Tuesday yoga class is coming to an end next week, thus leaving me yoga-less unless I found another class.
So I did.
And made Stephen come with me.
Because if anyone needs yoga, it's Stephen.
And anyone who thinks that yoga isn't a full workout, doesn't make you sweat and stretch your muscles to the point where you feel something is going to snap, you haven't tried yoga.
You should.
There is, really, no downside to yoga.
Except. . .
For some reason, yoga releases things in me that should not be released in mixed company.
Or any company for that matter, but doing it in front of family doesn't count.
Farting.
Yoga makes me fart.
Instead of focusing on poses, where my feet should or shouldn't be and if I have my shoulders underneath me. . .
I am clenching my gluteus maximus together with an intensity that would impress my yoga teacher if she knew what I was doing.
I wasn't so lucky tonight.
We tried a new pose.
One where we lie on our side, roll over onto our backs and stretch our legs up against the wall.
In the process of rolling and stretching I farted.
Not a gentle "pooooofffff" kind of fart.
But an obnoxiously loud ppppppppppplllllllllllllppppprrrrrrrrrrttttttpppppppppppttttttttttttrrrrrlllllllllllrrrrrrrrtttttttt
kind of fart.
In a room with acoustics that would make the Met Opera House jealous.
No one acknowledged that they heard it.
But unless they were deaf, had cotton shoved into every orifice of their ears and could feel no vibrations whatsoever in any part of their body, they heard it.
Loud and clear.
And I just laid on the floor, feet against the wall, face redder than the shirt I was wearing pretending it wasn't me who just released a cloud of potentially lethal methane into the serene yoga atmosphere.
Figures.
When you need a dog, there are none to be found.
Em had a big day yesterday.
She got her first car.
Not that she has a licence to operate this car, but that isn't the issue right now.
She has a car.
Given to her by my brother, who purchased a new-to-him vehicle.
The car, in 2000, was my mother's.
My brother and his wife bought it when it was clear my mother's driving days had come to an end.
This is the same car Em used to sit in, driven by my mother, Em in the front seat wearing my mother's cats eyes sunglasses.
With my mother reminding her not to fall asleep.
She'd always fall asleep.
And now, it's her car.
Time goes by far, far too quickly.
A fact I am reminded of each and every day I look at my children.
I've never seen Em so happy or ecstatic.
Ever.
Except maybe when she's been away from Reilley for an extended period of time.
The car?
A 2000 Hyundai Elantra.
It's even the color in the picture.
It does need some work.
Okay, more than a little work.
But, the benefit of not being able to drive it right now is that she'll have the time to work and save money for the repairs.
And I'll have time to get used to Em having a car.
That'll take a lot of time.
My first car was a 1983 Toyota Tercel.
The red one.
I still miss that car.
The giving of the car hasn't happened without some discontent.
Mer-discontent.
Of course.
I expected nothing less.
Mer who forgets that grandma spent the equivalent of a luxury car on her when she lived in Ontario.
Enough said.
Title Lyric: My First Car by Jason Blaine
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