Oh my god, today

I had a lot on my plate today.  Regular Christmas prep coupled with the in-laws visiting tonight meant that I had to: make dinner, clean the house, wrap the gifts, and pick up some groceries - all while caring for a tiny human.  And oh, facing a snowstorm.

It started out fine, as most jerk days do, and then BAM it bit me in the ass.

To begin, my baby monitor randomly died during Fraggle's morning nap.  For those of you who don't know, this is basically a crisis.  First I had the initial OH MY GOD HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN OFF IS SHE ALIVE panic.  The the WHAT IF IT HAD BEEN NIGHTTIME anger.  Followed by the FUCK NOW WHAT frustration - because unless I intend to sit outside her bedroom listening for sounds of life, I need a monitor.  Plus, so. much. to. do.

I tried everything and couldn't fix the fucking thing, so I called the company.

Company lady: "Have you tried plugging it in?"

Me:  *resists snarky comment* "Yes."

Her: "Ok can you [insert troubleshooting obstacle course]."

Me: "Nada."

Her: "Well, we can send you a new one.  First we'll send you a voucher for free shipping.  Then you send us the broken monitor.  Then we send you a new one."

Me: "Oh, so you have teleportation capacity?"

Her: "...?"

Me: "Seriously? What am I supposed to do? Now I have wait weeks for a new monitor - a monitor I'm not sure I want if it's just gonna die.  And in the meantime I have go out to buy a new one. Three days before Christmas."

Her: "What's your address?"

UGH.  So my quick grocery outing became an urgent find a way to function today outing.

The rest of my day included: pushing a grocery cart through a snowy parking lot; terribly short and terribly upsetting baby naps; and, fifteen thousand chores.  I must be a fucking hero because somehow I managed to achieve it all... while watching White Christmas.

To top things off, my brother-in-law's flight was delayed (enter: snowstorm), so my in-laws arrived a couple of hours earlier than expected to kill time.  All  my chores were done (except my DISGUSTING floors which desperately need to be vacuumed), but it doesn't seem to matter because I'm a giant crazy stressball with a sore back and a baby on my boob and an un-shoveled walkway BECAUSE THE NEW STUPID BABY MONITOR DOESN'T WORK OUTSIDE MY FRONT DOOR.

Furthermore, my brother-in-law missed our dinner - lovely festive table setting and all- and I'm exhausted but still staying up to see him because I can't not.

I'm currently sitting here with a cat on either side, a computer on lap, and a crappy baby monitor on my hip, listening to a poorly-rested baby whine, while Hubby and Ma and Pa-in-law drive through a snowstorm to the airport.

I'm trying to find the merry here people.  But we're gonna press on.  We're gonna have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat ass down that chimney, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

I value that

I've struggled for years to define what Remembrance Day means to me.  Like many, I don't generally support war.  But defining "war" can be just as difficult as defining "peace."  I suppose the point is I would always prefer a diplomatic solution - but wouldn't we all.  Unfortunately, war and peace are far more complicated than that, and I cannot begin to understand all the facets and intricacies.

Ultimately, I think I'm coming to the conclusion that Remembrance Day doesn't have to be about war, or about peace.  It can simply be an opportunity to reflect.

Many military "missions" aren't about fighting, rather about peacekeeping, or protecting, or preventing a larger fight.  Even if they are "war" in the traditional sense, regardless of the macro-level political and social intricacies, I think the individuals who provide their service are doing it with a sense of courage, a sense of loyalty -- I think are are doing it for something.  I value that.

I don't know much about my Papa during WWII, but I know that I couldn't have balloons in his house because the popping sound was too traumatic for him.  I know that he met my Nana there, in Italy I think, while they were both serving, and that they married in three separate countries to make sure it was legal.  I value that.

I know that without a father to do "dad" things with, my uncle let me camp in the backyard in his giant army tent.  I know that I fretted for him when he went to Somalia for peacekeeping when I was eight years old.  I know that it was beyond special to speak to him for one minute of his allotted five minute phone allowance while he was there.  I value that.

I know that Hubby's Gramps, now in his 90s, takes immense pride in his service during WWII.  He is so highly appreciated and respected and has achieved some incredible things in his lifetime.  And he loves his family; he loves my Baby Fraggle.  I value that.

This all means that Remembrance Day doesn't have to be about the wars, or the peace.  For me, it can be about these people who have participated in something bigger than themselves, and how it has impacted them.

Lest we forget that.

Texting with Momma is a full time job

Have you heard of the twitter account Texts from last night?

These are texts that people send to their friends, usually while drunk, and then later realize how absurd they were in the clarity of the morning. 

The texts then get tweeted, starting with the area code of the text. 

These tweets are HILARIOUS you guys.

Observe:

 

 

 

 

 

 

See?  Hilarious. 

 

Well, tonight Hubby and I were shopping at Walmart when I got what I can only assume was a drunken "text from last night" from my mother. 

 

Only, it was tonight, not last night.  And she doesn't drink. 

 

Voila:

 



 

 

 

Yes, perhaps we should.   

 





I just want the pony treasure

GOBBLE GOBBLE. 

It's Thanksgiving here in Canada, so Hubby and I ventured down to visit the fam.  We first went to my Aunt and Uncle's house in small-town Ontario on Saturday night, and then yesterday we visited with Hubby's family in Hometown. 

Yesterday afternoon we went out walking at my happy place with Ma and Pa in law, Cousin J and her adorable dog, and Uncle D and Aunt K and their two girls.  (I call them "girls" because in my head they're still 2 and 5 years old.  Never mind the fact that it's been 11 years since I met them.)



My Happy Place.

Only, this wasn't just any ol' nature walk.  This was "geocaching." 

Have you heard of this, this geocaching? 

Here's what I understand:

People all over the world log onto GeoCaching.com and then they go on a treasure hunt.  The "treasures" are hidden in public places by other people and then marked by map coordinates.  Then hunters use their smartphones and GPS devices to locate the treasures (also known as "caches" to people who actually know what they're talking about).  When you find a cache, you sign your name, take a picture, and then log it on the website. 

It's all very exciting.

So we started off on the treasure hunt that Uncle D had planned out for us.  I was totally on board.  I love walking, I love nature, and I love doing fun things with our family. 

I also love treasure. 

So when Uncle D announced that we'd arrived at the GPS coordinates for the first cache, we went eagerly searching through the woods.  This went on for at least 5 minutes before we gave up.  Sorry, folks, but there was no damn treasure there.  Geocachers are LIARS. 

Despite our initial failure, we carried onward and upward.  We found the second, third, fourth, AND fifth caches.  SUCCESS! 

Although, it's possible that by the time we got to the fourth cache, I was losing interest.  I was far more fascinated by Hubby's poking stick. 



This is Hubby's poking stick. Notice its length, making surprise distance poking possible.




This is Hubby's poking face.  He needs to concentrate very carefully. 



This is Pa in Law, after having been mysteriously poked. 

I might have also been distracted by tiny hungry birds.   

That's a tiny hungry bird on Hubby's hand.  Eating birdseed that Hubby stole found.   

 

When Uncle D asked me to dig out the fourth little treasure box, I was mostly just annoyed that it wasn't the My Little Pony theme I had been promised, and that the congratulations letter was way too long. 

So it turns out that I'm not a good geocacher.   In any case, I've learned that geocaching is more about the experience of the hunting, rather than the finding of the treasure.  Just like life. 

(Although I may or may not have subsequently downloaded the geocaching app and learned that there are half a dozen treasures caches RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE.  Maybe.)

 

 

A map of my favourite dead person spot

I went walking with Momma on Sunday.  I have a favourite walking place in Hometown, with gorgeous paths through the woods on the lake.  I love it.  It makes me happy and helps me find peace and it is therefore where you all should throw me when I die.  My ashes, I mean.  Not my body.  That would be weird. 




My favourite spot


I told Momma she'll have to show Hubby where my favourite spot is - you know, for my ashes.  But then it occurred to me that I kinda hope Momma's not still alive when I die.  I mean, OF COURSE I DO, but if I die before her..., I think that's somehow worse, isn't it? 

Although, come to think of it, that'd be WAY easier on me emotionally, so maybe it is a good idea for me to kick the bucket ahead of time.  

In any case, I now think it's important to draw a map of my favourite spot so you will all know where I want to be laid to "rest".  (Not that it really matters.  I'll be dead.  I won't know.)

When you throw me over the edge, you should also be sure to bring some birdseed.  I love feeding the birds at my Happy Place.  Maybe just try not to mix up the ashes and the birdseed.  I don't want birds eating me, if it can be avoided.  (But again, maybe I'll never know.  But maybe I will.  Maybe I'll haunt and follow you all everywhere you go, pointing out all your mistakes and laughing at you.  That sounds like me.)

Me feeding a bird.  Like Mary Poppins. 

If you need any further instructions, you should probably contact Hubby.  Or Momma. Even if she's already dead.  She's a little psychic or something, so I think if you called her, she'd probably just show up.  Watch out though - she's known to sneak up on people. And she's startling when she's alive, so dead? She'd be a friggin heart stopper. 

My Uncle Chong

I had a crazy Uncle Leigh.  Well, he wasn't really "crazy", as much as he was, um, high. 

Uncle Leigh, my mom's brother, was a bit of a nomad.  From what I hear, he took off from the family at a young age and travelled around North America pursuing a relatively lucrative career of importing and exporting. 

He ran into trouble now and then, and he had to take advantage of seek help from the family on a few occasions.  But generally, he kept his distance.  He got married and had two kids, and then eventually found himself alone again. 

As the years passed, he set up a little apartment in a small town, became the building manager, ran an antique furniture refinishing shop out of the storefront below, befriended the kind blind neighbour, and took care of his beloved parakeet. 

This is how I knew him.  Making furniture, smoking dope, and talking to his bird. 

Uncle Leigh wasn't perfect.  However, we learned to accept him for who he was.  We left him alone.  Sometimes we saw his kids, and then their sweet kids after them (my first cousins, once removed, for you ancestry freaks out there).  But that was it. 

Until he got cancer.  Throat cancer of course, given all the smoking.  So Momma and I started visiting more often.  Just a few minutes now and then, but plenty of time - time for me to get to know him. 

As it turns out, Uncle Leigh was friggin awesome.  He was funny, he was honest, he was straightforward, he was genuine.  Just like Momma and her siblings.  Just like all of us. 

So I took this time to ask him questions. 

What was his best story? Well, he was driving somewhere in the southern US, and somehow convinced the cops to not inspect the red convertible that was so obviously not suited for a "roughneck like him".

Did he have any regrets?  Nope.  He lived his life his way.  Sure, he wished some of it had turned out differently, but he tried to make up for some of that now, and otherwise he didn't dwell on it. 

What was the worst part? Well, imagine being radiated to shit until you couldn't produce any saliva, and therefore had to survive on Boost. Boost and pot. Imagine how much time you'd have if you didn't have to shop for, prepare, cook, or clean up food. Imagine if the only way anyone knew how to socialize was to 'go out to eat'.  ...Well, you'd have a LOT of lonely time on your hands, wouldn't you?   Luckily, you could still smoke marijuana. Especially when you had cancer, because even your straight-edge niece can't possibly say 'no' when you ask her if you can light up.

What will he do with his remaining time?  He'll buy a bright yellow sports car and plan one last big road trip, even if he never drives it.  He'll get a pardon and get his European citizenship restored.  He'll show off his new medical marijuana license to his buddies.  He'll play with his grand kids.  And talk to his bird. 

And when I come visit, he'll hug me and call me sweetie; he'll show me pictures of his grandchildren; he'll give me an antique wedding gift from his shop; he'll laugh his gravelly laugh; and he'll make me smile. 

And when he dies, he'll harbour no anger.  He'll not much care how it all turns out.  He'll ask nothing of anyone.  Except to be cremated with his already-dead bird that he sat on top of last year, and to be saved in a nice wooden box on someone's mantel. 

Sure Leigh.  We can do that. 
xo

Num num, rum rum in my tum tum

You guys.  I've made a dramatic discovery.  I've identified the one and only CURE for Ebeneezer-itus.  I can't believe I haven't found it before.  It's so obvious.  Are you ready? 

It comes in the form of eggnog. 

RUM and eggnog. 

Mmmmmm...

I've had fun this week. 

Thursday at work was extremely uneventful, and I may or may not have arrived very late and departed very early.  Maybe. 

Friday was even better.  I got to the office in time for the children's pancake breakfast with my adorable twin-mom friend, LB.  I toured around showing off her babies as if they were my own, and then we ate pancakes.  Well, LB and I ate pancakes.  The babies drank some milk.  Actually, it could've been eggnog. 

When I finally got to my desk, a coworker came into my cubical:

"Ok! Let's go!"

"Let's go?!  I just got here!  I'm LOGGING INTO MY EMAIL RIGHT NOW. It's five minutes to 12, for godsake." 

"K. I'll give you five minutes."

And so we left.  I did send one work-related email, so at least there's that. 

After I battled the Christmas Eve downtown traffic (I don't want to talk about it), Hubby and I went hopping about town shopping and eating and doing all things Christmassy. 

And then it happened.  My Holiday Spirit finally made itself officially known.  Via eggnog.  And RUM. 

We watched the Griswolds and drank rum. 

Click here for Youtubey. 

Yesterday we wrapped gifts and then opened them almost immediately afterward.  I even got a kickass new iPod!  We ate duck breasts for dinner and then drank more rum, and then Tuxedo ran away with a duck breast and left dirty little paw prints across my floor.

As for today, the snow started last night and has been falling at a slow and steady pace ever since.  Even though all the weather experts said it'd be a green Christmas.  But they were wrong, weren't they?  Because CANADA NEVER FAILS.  Want snow? You got it, Canada says. 



See?

The fam comes tomorrow, which of course we're looking forward to.  I just hope I don't run out of rum.   

Happy holidays y'all.  If I can find my Spirit, we know it's not all lost. 

My mother-in-law totally gets me

It's true.  She may not always agree with me ( I don't think - although I have no idea why, given that I'm of course always exactly right), but after 10 years as part of her family she has managed to figure out my sick sense of humour.

A couple of weeks ago she sent me an email complaining about the R-tard sales girl at a local shop who seemed to think it was totally reasonable to place a sample of liquid hand soap out on the cashier's counter.  HAND SOAP.  LIQUID. You know, along with the hand lotion.  So Ma-in-law would pump liquid soap on her hands while standing in line at the cash.  PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS. 

She also sent me these genius ecards which continue to make me smile and nod in agreement every time I see them in my inbox. 

I basically AM each of these people.  Except Freud.  Although he does seem to be speaking my language on this one.

Day 3 - My Zombie Survival Kit

Welcome to Day 3 of my 100-day Blog Challenge!  I'm so glad so many of you are doing this with me.  I added a link-up to the bottom of my Blogger Challenge posts so I can read all your awesome stuff.  So link up!

Day 3 requires me to share a picture of something I cannot live without.  Well, if you know me at all, you know I'm way too selfish to pick only one thing.  So here are a few. 

K, so this picture represents CHOCOLATE. And although I normally like better quality chocolate, I'll stuff my face with eat whatever cocoa-inspired product is placed in front of me. Check HERE for the whole story.

My darling Hubby, of course - who makes me laugh, and rubs my back, and holds me up when I think I might not make it.  And who finally threw out 5 pairs of DISGUSTING underwear today. For the whole story on this pic, click HERE.





Mama!  Basically me, just 32 years sooner.  For some great Mama stories, your positively must click HERE and HERE.

Obviously. These are my children. Patches is fat, but clever. Tuxedo is also getting large, but is, it seems, a total moron. You can read all the adorable stories by selecting their label, but my fav is HERE.

There are so many more things I can't live without!  I'm a spoiled Canadian girl!  Gernally, anything I'd need to have even if zombies took over the world is an un-live-without-able item.  My zombie survival kit, if you will...

In no particular order:

My family, my friends, my computer, my MEDS, my blogs, my blogger girls, my fuchsia x-trainers, my ability to curse like a dirty trucker, my Tetley Bold tea, my backyard, my WINE, my massage therapist, my brain therapist, my many pj pants, my peanut butter, my wedding band, Monica (my GPS device), my books, my mp3 player, my body lotion, my lip conditioner, my toothpaste, my shampoo, and likely my cable tv recorder. 

There's probably more but I need to go to sleep, and worrying about the Zombie Apocalypse is friggin exhausting.

_

I hope Hubby and I are that happy after 60 years

Grandparents.

Something special about grandparents. 

I only really had one set.  My bio-dad's certainly don't' count.  I guess they were around when I was little, but not in a good way.  Except that maybe I learned to eat marzipan and had a favourite homemade polka-dot blankie. 

But Mom's parents?  They were good to me.  I was their favourite.  I mean, obviously.  

Papa used to hide money in his side table from the "Money Fairy".  I used to sit with him in his lazy boy and watch Judge Wapner's People's Court (dun dun dun... dun dun dun), followed by Golden Girls and Polka Dot Door.  Papa had emphysema and couldn't really play with me.  But he did let me mess with the up-and-down buttons on his home hospital bed.

Nana used to make Mom and I dinner every night.  I'd have a little side-dish of frozen peas. I used to pretend they were pills and pop them with my milk.  Shut up.  She also used to sneak me the second half of the Joe Louis that Mom didn't want me to eat.  Nana was English and very proper.  She always wanted me to sit with my legs closed - -n hindsight, a good tip.  She taught me fun little hand games (like "here's the church, here's the steeple," but better).  But she wouldn't let me play in the bird bath - wtf?

Papa died when I was nine.  Nana got Alzheimer's shortly afterward and lived in a nursing home.  She died when I was in high school.  I wish I'd had an adult relationship with them, but no such luck. 

I do have another set of pseudo grandparents that are wonderful.  But they live far away and I don't get to see them very often. 

I have, however, been with Hubby for 10 years.  And if there's one good thing about that, it's that I get to benefit from Hubby's THREE awesome sets of grandparents. 

Grampa Alan, who always treated me like one of the family.  He died a couple of years ago, and sadly, he missed our wedding. 

Gran who has a special place in my heart, and Gramps who is about to be 90 and is basically more lively than I am.  Actually, not basically, he totally is. 

And Nan and Poppy, who are HILARIOUS and sarcastic and so much fun.  Nan who loves Bingo, and Pop who loves his Jack and Pepsi.  Y'all would really get a kick out of them.  They've been together for more than 60 years, and they're as in love as ever.   

But Poppy isn't doing well, and he's not going to make it.  I'll miss him.  I love him.  And I'll cherish my many laughs with him.

Grandparents.  Something special.   
_

Whisky, pig brains, and car sex

Rapid fire weekend updates!  Go!

Friday night:

We had beers and roasted marshmallows with the neighbours.  Hubby swore that the intense smell of the backyard fire pit would be noticeable on him the next day.  Needless to say, Hubby lost the bet and now owes the neighbour a beer.

Saturday:

We drove to Hometown for my cousin's wedding.  We were running late so we drove way too fast the whole way (which I normally don't condone, but in this case the wedding was on an island, so missing the ferry and shuttle bus wasn't an option). 

This is the ferry. But I'm not on it at this particular time.

The wedding was beautiful - on the lake, with the sun breaking through at the exact right time.  It was a musician's wedding, so all the guests were super cool and casual.  I've never seen so many sandals and shorts at a wedding.  And the groom was playing frisbee in the field.  

All the musicians later took the stage for the rock-out of all rock-outs.  Hubby said he brought his guitar pick just in case they found the band's guitarist locked up and gagged in the closet. 

Then one of the drunk groomsmen grabbed the giant pig head left on the table from the roast and brought it to the dance floor to join in the fun.  Best. Dance partner. Ever.

BRAIIIINNNNNSSSS...

The only problem with a wedding in a field is that my shoes were problematic.  Eventually I took them off, which if you wear heels, you know makes it impossible to put them back on afterward.  Swollen feet.  Or my body rejecting them.  Tomato/tomoto. 

The result was the dirtiest feet of all time - caked with mud and grass and I think maybe some pig head juice.  And they only got dirtier when we walked through knee-high grass back to the shuttle bus, and then from the bus to the ferry, then around the ferry (which doesn't allow beer on board, by the way), and then from the ferry back to the car.  Classy.

Sunday: 

First an all-you-can-eat sushi lunch with ma-in-law and some friends.  Turns out that even if mango ice cream isn't on the menu it will mysteriously appear if you just ask.  Bonus.

Then we had a lovely visit with Hubby's Poppy in the hospital.  Poppy has, despite everything, maintained his glorious sense of humour.  When we slipped some Jack Daniels into his Pepsi he said "Oh, that'll living me up." 

Hello, old friend.

From there a visit with the other set of grandparents and then a delicious fajita dinner.  (Minus brother-in-law's birthday cake, which was apparently too much food for one night.)  

Finally we stopped at Mom's to drop off my gift for her tiny dog named Ah-choo.  A dog bikini.  Enough said. 

Then we got stuck in traffic on the way home, which was a giant piss-off, so we said we'd only refer to it as the time we stopped on the roadside and got sexy. 

The end.

_

Not all dads are jackoffs

I heard it's Fathers Day today.  I don't have a father so I wouldn't know. 

Well, I guess I do technically have one - I wasn't a test-tube baby - but he was/is a creepy asshole and I have nothing to do with him.  Jackoff. 

I never, throughout the first 17 years of my life, spent any energy whatsoever thinking about Fathers Day.  I never had to.  Until Hubby and I started dating, and I had to pay some attention - mostly so I could remind him to call his dad. 

But the fact is, I have some great dads in my life.  Even if they aren't mine.  Two dads in particular have become a pseudo dad-type-figures to me. 

For starters, Pops-in-law is adorable.  He's easygoing and goofy and genuine. 

Once we got a postcard from Ma-in-law when they were on vacation.  She said the flight attendant tried to give Pops a little warm towel and he thought it was an appetizer and tried to eat it.  Best. Postcard. Ever. 

He doesn't know how to put his contacts into his cell, so he carries around a list of phone numbers in his wallet. 

He taught Hubby how to play guitar - starting with Hotel California, which we all sing nearly every time we're there. 

He washes my car.  Voluntarily.  And not even because I'm such a pig, but simply because he wants to.

He loves to play games.  Cribbage, Backgammon, or Scrabble.  And he loves a good crossword.  AND he lets me help him with it. 


My other favourite dad (in no particular order, of course) is my mom's partner, Quasi-Stepdad, as he is affectionately known.  He's another good guy to have in your corner.

He has three great kids of his own, but plenty of room for Hubby and I too.  He says if he won the lottery, he's share his winnings with us.  I'd better start buying him some tickets.

He shares our love of music, and jams with Hubby at every opportunity.  He's the biggest Beatles fan in Canada, and he even sang "I Will" at our wedding.  Expertly.

He gets all my stupid Seinfeld and Simpsons references and appreciates my love of making fun of others. 

He sees all the similarities between Mom and I, and he doesn't even hold it against me.  In fact, I think he likes that I understand better than anyone how crazy she is.  Because so am I. 


These two dads are some of the best out there.  And I'm glad I get to share them. 

Happy fathers Day to all the dads out there. 

Except Mine.  Mine's a jackoff. 

_

Puntuality is not my strong suit - sorry Mom

It was Mothers' Day last week, and I started to write this, but then forgot about it.  My bad. 

For my mama on Mothers' Day, a top ten list of my favourite things about her. 

For the record, there are more than ten things I love about her.  Also, the top ten list would likely to change on any given day, but for today, this is what I came up with. 

In no particular order:

Number 10

That she doesn't really care about Mothers' Day - that she knows I love her and appreciate her and she doesn't need a "special" day to prove it.  And that even though it's her special day, she still treated Hubby and I to a nice dinner. 

Number 9

That she didn't keep any of my stupid childhood arts and crafts.  Ok, so maybe there's the occasional paper project, but a couple of years ago she made me take all my shit out of her house, so if there were any such keepsakes I probably have them buried in my own basement now.   

Number 8

Her laugh.  Hysterical and contagious.  And often accompanied by a devilish grin.

Number 7

That she always has chocolate.  In the form of bars or cake or ice cream sandwiches. 

Number 6

That she's always got my back.  Even when I'm anxious and depressed, and even though it's hard to fathom what I'm going through, she still listens and offers to help - despite the fact that nothing really helps.  Or when we're racing to the car and I slip on the ice, falling ass-over-teakettle onto my back, and she laughs hysterically.  Oh, wait... what?

Number 5

That she's an expert snake sticker.   

Number 4

That she made me promise to tell her if she ever became one of those slow old person drivers.  And that a few weeks ago, when I had to gently point out that she was going 30 km/h in a 50 zone, she just said "Oh!", laughed, and stepped on the gas. 

Number 3

That she predicts the end of every movie.  And that she's almost always right. 

Number 2

That when I was little she would wrap me in dryer-warm towels.  And that when I complained I couldn't sleep because my feet were too hot, she would get a cold wet facecloth and drape it over my little toes sticking out the end of the blankets. 

Number 1

That on my wedding day (and every other day, for that matter) she took care of everything.  And that when I was freaking out, she was cool as a friggin cucumber, walking me down the aisle with one hand holding mine, and one hand in the pocket of her black mini dress.   

Très chic.

_

My happy place scared the bejezus out of me

People with Anxiety Disorders are supposed to have a safe place to revert to when a freak-out strikes.  A Happy Place.

I'm reluctant to tell you where my Happy Place is, because I don't want all kinds of weird bloggers messing around in my subconscious, snooping through my stuff and moving all the furniture.

So I can't tell you. 

But I can tell you my SECOND Happy Place.  (Yeah I have two.  So what?) 

It's in Hometown.  It's an amazing conservation-type area called Lemoine.  It has miles of natural wooded trails, and a whole range of wildlife, and waves crashing up on shore.  I love it.  I miss it all the time.  

When I was in Hometown last Friday it was the perfect day for Lemoine.  Sunny and warm(ish) and generally very pleasant.   

But who the eff would have thought that all that Spring niceness and happy wildlife would combine to entirely f-ck up my Happy Place?!

Effing snakes. 

Eleven of them. 

Dirty bastards appearing out of effing nowhere along the trails and scaring the effing bejezus out of an already fragile and volatile Anxiety Disorder patient. 

What the f-ck?

So when I saw the first little asshole (and jumped 5 feet with a shout), I went on an immediate and deliberate hunt for a snake stick. 

The purpose of which was to tap in front of me to scare the snakes away before I came across the bastards under my damn feet. 

Like me, but with more anxiety, and wearing a shirt.

The first stick was too small, so I had to bend over to tap it on the ground ahead of me.  Unnatural walking posture.   

The second stick was a trap.  Upon reaching for it, I jumped 10 feet in the effing air and screamed at the top of my lungs because a damn snake wiggled right. next. to. my. hand. 

The third stick was a bad idea.  Thorns. 

The fourth stick was too big.  If you have to heave your snake stick over your shoulder, it's not appropriate for the task at hand. 

I finally found the perfect snake stick and proceeded to tap it along the trail ahead of me the whole damn time.  True story. 

Then when Mom was too much of a baby (yeah, she's the baby) to walk through a mud patch, she suggested we cross the forest to another trail. 

Mom:  "Let's just walk across here."
Me:  *fearful and nearly trembling* "What about *gulp* the snakes?"
Mom:  "Oh Yeah.  Well... just tap your stick across the brush."
Me:  "Noooooo way.  Your idea, your lead." *handing her the snake stick*
Mom: 

Excellent snake sticking Mom.  If any of those effers were underfoot, they were long gone before I got there.  Way to go, supporting your child - the hopeless neurotic wreck. 

_

Like Kevin Bacon. But worse.

One of my most/least favourite things about Hometown has always been that everyone knows everyone. 

Not necessarily in a weird incestuous sense (because it's not that small), but more in the charming/annoying I-know-where-you-live sense.  

You see, in Hometown, there a maximum of two degrees of separation between everyone.  Like Kevin Bacon.  But worse. 

For example, at our wedding, it turned out that a friend of my family had been battling a long-term feud with a friend of Hubby's family.  Neither side knew to expect the enemy at our humble ceremony, and they seemed to flee in opposite directions upon laying eyes on each other.  

To make matters worse, Hubby and I had seated them all at. the. same. table.  Yeah.  Luckily it worked out, thanks to my mother who quickly repositioned chairs and tables. 

So, when Hubby and I were in Hometown on Friday for Mom's retirement party, you'd think we wouldn't be surprised when the party host ended up being the wife of pa-in-law's friend. 

Or when a girl from Mom's office recognized Hubby from the Havelock Country Jamboree that took place four years ago. 

Or, when... ok - try to follow along...  

...when, ma-in-la's former colleague (who was also my former colleague from a different job) is one of my mom's current colleagues.  And that this same tri-colleague is also marrying the brother of Hubby's former coworker.  And that this former coworker of Hubby's was at one point living in his girlfriend's parents' house, two doors down from ma and pa-in law. 

Wait.  It gets better.

Before the retirement party, I emailed the invitation to a guy mom worked with 20 years ago.  Now, this guy from 20 years ago is also the father of my friend from high school.  (And imagine our surprise a few years ago when Hubby's best Hometown client turned out to be the ex-wife of the guy from 20 years ago - and, of course, my friend's mother.) 

Wait for it. 

I'm about to tie it all together. 

So remember the tri-colleague who is marrying Hubby's former coworker's brother?  Well, this former coworker (who lived two doors down from ma and pa-in-law in his girlfriend's parents' house) also went to our high school.  And, get this, he was really good friends with the daughter of the guy from 20 years ago. 

AND, the girlfriend that Hubby's former coworker was living with has a brother who was actually good friends with Hubby's own little brother. 

AND, finally, (stay with me) Hubby's former coworker's girlfriend's brother once worked with Hubby - at the house of Hubby's best Hometown client (the ex-wife of the guy from 20 years ago). 


And THAT, my friends, is how you play One Degree of Hometown.  


BooYAH.  

_ 

Thanks Mom, for all the cannons

I surprised my mother yesterday by showing up at her retirement party in Hometown.



Surprise!

 In recognition of her awesomeness, I decided to say a few words.  But rather than talking about how great she is (because everyone is already aware of that), I instead reflected on my own experiences throughout my mom's career. 

Ya know, given that the world does, in fact, revolve around me. 

My early years with a single working mother were really fun.  Mom worked at the ultimate local historic attraction.  An old Fort hovering over the city, protecting us from all those "invasive Yankees".  (Don't blame me - I didn't build it.)

It was so cool hanging out at the Fort when I was a kid.  I got to play in Mom's office - complete with limestone walls and cannon-hole window (minus the cannon).  I got to wear the double-XL "event staff" t-shirts at concerts.  And I got to buy rock candy at the parade square, and then eat it sitting perched atop the Fort wall. 

I even remember sitting near the drawbridge watching the Punch and Judy puppet show all by myself.  Not another kid in sight.  It was like I was the Fort Princess, with my own personal Fort Jesters. 

It was such an influential time, that when it came to planning my wedding photo shots, I insisted on taking one with a cannon. 

You don't have to say it.  We know what this looks like.  Don't be disgusting. 

After working at the Fort Mom had other jobs too.  What I remember best was being shuffled around the meet everyone.  And as we passed from one office to another she'd say "Hey, this is my kid", and her smile was contagious. 

And then, for a short time, we worked in the same building.  We got to drive in together, go home together, and eat lunch on her front porch together (delaying our return and eating popsicles - banana and chocolate, so we could trade halves). 

Once I even gave her a taste of her own damn medicine.  I channeled my inner-Ashton, and punked her ass.  It was her birthday.  So we filled a dozen garbage bags with balloons, tip-toed around the outside walls of her cubical, and proceeded to dump them over the side.  First one, then a few more, then a waterfall of balloons piling up around her feet.  

All I've ever heard from Mom about her job was how much she loved it.  Not every day.  But she she appreciated and admired her colleagues and really took pride in her work. 

And now, now that she's leaving this working life (wow, I'm bitter) I don't know what to think.  I don't know what to make of her without this. 

But I'm sure she'll find new and exciting things to be proud of and engaged in.  (I just hope she doesn't start thinking that her four stupid dogs need yet another K9 friend.) 

Congratulations Mom.  Love you. 

_

Somebody get me a time machine

Sometimes you just want to live in the past. 

You might wish you were 10 years old again, when your only problem was your sixth grade love triangle. 

Or, you may wish you were living in an entirely different time altogether.  Maybe hang out in the 1920s with a flapper, sit in the local underground pub, down some hooch, and dance to the tunes of a gramophone.  That'd be the cat's meow. 

And if you grew up during the era of The Beatles, you'd probably wish you could go back to that time and bask in the glow of the yellow submarine.  And even if you didn't grow up during Beatle Mania, you might wish you had. 

What an amazing time.  What a revolution.  Musically, and socially.  [Imagine all the people, living life in peace.] 

And let's be honest, there were all those great drugs too.  [Toe jam football.]

Well, last night we had a blast from the past.  We went to see a Beatles tribute band - The Caverners - and it was effing brilliant.  [Ob La Di, Ob La Da]

These guys had the whole vibe perfected.  From Ringo's grin and Lennon's long hair, to Paul's voice and George's electric guitar.  If you closed your eyes, you'd think: "Hey!  It's The Beatles!"  and if you opened your eyes, you'd think: "Holy f-ck, god save me, Lennon's ALIVE!"

They were so good.  I can't even explain it.  These guys made me wish John, Paul, George, and Ringo would come back and kick that little Beiber shithead's ass. 

I've always loved The Beatles, but last night's show shot my admiration to new levels.  [Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns.]

It made me wish I'd been there, in February 1964 when Ed Sullivan brought these adorable young men to North America...

...and then in the following years when they influenced and inspired a generation.



I wish I was part of that generation. 

Even now, those songs inspire me.  Bring me joy and make me smile.  [Little darling, it's been a long cold and lonely winter.]

These songs speak to me. 

When I was younger, so much younger than today
I never needed anybody's help in any way
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round
Help me, get my feet back on the ground
Won't you please, please help me, help me

And I wish I'd been there to experience it first hand - the giddiness, and hysterical crying fits, and the freedom - and wishing I knew what it was like to be of my mother's generation, sitting watching this tribute band 40 years later and really, truly knowing exactly what it was like. 




This was taken about 30 seconds before we burst into tears and rushed the stage. 

 

Just call me Penny Lane.

_

Being positive was harder than I thought

This is my 101st posting.  Tah-dah!

I was tempted to just leave it at that, but that's not really fair to you, my loyal readers, now is it?

So then I thought, how could I make this post special?  I could make it exactly 101 words long, or I could post 101 pictures, or I could make it really introductory. 

But I decided that in honour of 101 posts (most of which in some way bitch about shit that bugs me, or people that piss me off), I'm going to turn over a new leaf.  For one post.

So, here are 101 of my favourite things.  In no particular order (because that would be way too much work). 


  1)  The sound of Patches purring on my pillow.
  2)  Nurturing my love-hate relationship with The Young and the Restless.
  3)  The fact that my childhood baby sitter's husband was the one to introduce me to The Young and the Restless.
  4)  When Hubby adds "midget" to the grocery list. 
  5)  Jenny The Bloggess.
  6)  Rick's road trips. 
  7)  When, in an effort to soothe my headache, Hubby makes me a grilled cheese sandwich and he reads my mind and puts a bowl of pickles on the side even though I didn't even have to ask for them. 
  8)  Ellen. 
  9)  The fact that I'm so Hip it's Tragic. 
 10) Dairy Queen ice cream cakes.   
 11) Fireworks.
 12) Kiwis. 
 13) Listening to Hubby play You Belong To Me on the guitar. 
 14) My new-found love of books.
 15) Including Gone With the Wind.
 16) And Jane Eyre.
 17) And the Twilight Saga.
 18) And the fact that Pa-In-Law was the one to introduce me to the Twilight Saga. 
 19) The 1990s.   
 20) Russel Brand. 
 21) My parka cape. 
 22) The fact that Mom knew to buy me a parka cape. 
 23) Swimming - in a pool - when it's hot out. 
 24) The SUN.  Hot and glowing and soaking into my soul. 
 25) Andy Dancing.
 26) Sexy vampires.
 27) Sunlight streaming through the clouds in the morning. 
 28) Rainbows. (And here too.)
 29) The fact that the Honey Badger doesn't give a shit.
 30) Leo. (*Doctor Evil whisper*)
 31) Looking at my high school yearbooks. 
 32) Crying at cheesy movies. 
 33) Hubby massaging my neck. 
 34) Hot, strong, bold, caffeinated tea. 
 35) My Pledge pet hair eraser. 
 36) My wedding. 
 37) Paris. 
 38) And Nice. 
 39) The Beatles. 
 40) Peeing when I really have to go. 
 41) Sleeping in. 
 42) Going to bed early. 
 43) Hand lotion.
 44) Lip balm.
 45) Fresh local raspberries. 
 46) Saying the 'p' in rasPberries. 
 47) Windmills.  The new kind, and the old kind. 
 48) Walking in the wilderness.
 49) Boxing.
 50) Pointy high-heeled pumps in random colours.
 51) Sitting on my back deck in the summer. 
 52) A bath so hot that it burns my skin. 
 53) An hysterical contagious laughing fit with my Mom. 
 54) The fact that I take a moral (and slightly irrational) stand against over-hyped movies, such as Lord of the Rings and Avatar.
 55) Getting Hubby to slow dance with me in the kitchen - so rare but SO worth the effort. 
 56) Shooting stars. 
 57) Being reminded that this cannot possibly be all there is. 
 58) Pajamas.
 59) CHOCOLATE.
 60) Chocolate for breakfast.
 61) Chocolate on rasPberries. 
 62) Hubby fixing everything around the house. 
 63) Email.
 64) Pretending to like gardening. 
 65) My dish heater. 
 66) My dish washer. 
 67) Wii.
 68) Having a good Yoga day. 
 69) Friends, the sitcom. 
 70) Friends, the real thing. 
 71) Learning something new about Hubby that I never knew before. 
 72) Coming to the realization that my mother had a life before me. 
 73) Tuxedo head-butting my face. 
 74) Candles.
 75) Toasted marshmallows. 
 76) Halloween.
 77) The smell of lilacs.
 78) The first time every summer when I can wear a tank top outside at night and not be cold. 
 79) Sunsets. 
 80) Blowing bubbles - soap and gum. 
 81) Ice-cold water when I'm really thirsty. 
 82) The fact that my head fits right into the crook between Hubby's shoulder and collarbone. 
 83) Songs that remind me of specific moments in time. 
 84) Talking about people who have died.  Remembering them.  Missing them.
 85) French fries.  With ketchup and vinegar.  Or with gravy and cheese curd.  
 86) Kraft friggin Dinner.  
 87) Having an adult conversation with smart young women / girls.  
 88) Seeing a live band. 
 89) Seeing a celebrity. 
 90) Goat cheese.  
 91) Hubby's 1988 shit box - ahem - white Chevy Cavalier with spray-painted white hubcaps and ghetto sub woofer. 
 92) Spearmint gum.
 93) Thin-crust crispy pizza. 
 94) Mangoes.
 95) Slippers that are so comfy they're gross. 
 96) Franglais (the effective and hilarious combination of English and French).
 97) The acoustic version of any song. 
 98) The fact that Hubby only needs to sing one line of a song for it to be stuck in my head for hours. 
 99) Making fun of strangers (sorry).
100) Stainless steel wine glasses.
101) Blogging, and the world wide interwebs. 

_