Happy Birthday Dad & Gramma Edie!

Today is double birthday day. My father was born on his mom's birthday, way back when. I was talking to Cathy today at work about it, and got to thinking about different birthday, Logan's, my own, Mom's, Dad's and David's. Sometimes I wonder whether the memories that I carry with me are REALLY the way things transpired, or whether my recollections are 100% true.


I remember 'driving' the truck from our house in Newmarket to the dump in Aurora, when I was about 4 years old. I sat on Dad's knee and steered, while he worked the pedals. I remember driving to the dump one Saturday morning and going to McDonald's afterwards for breakfast, just Dad and I. Strangely enough, I remember the funny squeaky noise the plastic knives made on the styrofoam hotcakes container.


I remember Bo, our little pug puppy, running down the driveway and up the street to steal a hamburger from Sonya who was about 5 years old. Bo grabbed the burger, and got half way back up our driveway before Sonya could recover enough to scream. Nobody was hurt.


I remember going to the hospital with Aunt Blanche to visit Baby Stephen and his mother. Then Blanche took me to a restaurant in the Old Plaza where we ate the biggest strawberry waffles I'd ever seen.


I remember racing my bike up and down the main road of our subdivision because Uncle Glenn and Aunt Nancy were coming for a day at our pool. The best part about their visits was that they always brought Jaime, who is 9 years younger than I am, and Gramma. I guess Matthew must have come with them because he's only maybe three or four years older than Jaime - but I don't really remember his presence. Nice eh?


I remember asking Grandma Morton (Mom's mom) if I could eat some of the 'yummy stuff' out of a jar in her fridge. The yummy stuff was sticky fruit peel (for fruitcake), and she let me eat it by the spoonfull. That might just be the oldest memory I've got, because Grandma moved in with us in 1978 or 79, so I was probably 3 or four years old. I also remember she kept a small margerine tub full of rat poison behind her washing machine. I don't remember being warned not to touch it - and yet I know it was there. Strange.


On the wall above the door in Grandma's kitchen, there were three or four ceramic Canada Geese. They hung all in a row as if they were flying south, with their bellies flush to the wall. One day a little girl came running into the kitchen and let the door bang shut behind her, and one of those geese crashed to the floor and broke. I don't remember whether I was the guilty party (I like to think it was my cousin, Marlene), but I do remember all of the geese hanging together on the wall, so I guess someone fixed the broken one.


I remember leaving all my toys after supper on Christmas Day to go home for a sleepover at Aunt Gwen & Uncle George's. I did it every weekend (or at least every other) so Christmas was no exception. I would imagine I brought at least one of my Christmas presents with me.


I remember enough that I think I'll do another one of these posts another day!

Lest Ye Be Judged

This one is directed to the ogre-lady at the rehabilitation centre where Evelyn is recuperating and getting intensive physiotherapy for her newly installed bionic hip.

Just because someone has white hair does not mean a thing. It means they have white hair, so you can logically assume they've been around for a while, yes. White hair doesn't make you deaf, and it most certainly doesn't make you stupid.

I think the #1 rule in dealing with patients should be that you TALK TO THE PATIENT. Barring unconciousness, or dementia, most people know who they are and where they are. Evelyn can answer all of your questions without 'assistance' from anyone else. She speaks English. She reads and writes it very well, too. Imagine that! She had a total hip replacement, not a brain-ectomy, for goodness sake!

Evelyn and I were heading outside to check out the grounds at the rehabilitation centre; she was on wheels and I was pushing the chair in which she sat. One of the nurses told me that if I brought her back before 7pm they would give her some more medication. "OKAY MRS. BUCK? SHE WILL BRING YOU BACK SO WE CAN GIVE YOU YOUR MEDICATION!!" It wasn't so much what she said, as how she said it. She used exactly the same tone you'd use with a three year old while encouraging them to pick up their toys so they can have a cookie. Like, if she remembered to come back inside they would give her some yummy medication, and wouldn't that be fun!?

Um, okay. If the bribery tactic is what you need to use to keep people in your institution - I think you might want to revisit some of your methods of communication. She's not deaf, nor lacking in any lucidity. I'm not her keeper, but I was tempted to roll her right out to my car, and take her home. I had one other brief conversation with the ogre (while Evelyn was talking with someone else, filling out forms, etc."

Ogre-lady said to me, quite knowingly, "So, I'll just write retired under 'occupation' on her chart".

Me - "No, she's not retired - she's a municipal politicial."

OL - "A muni..muci...mu....politician?"

Me - "Yeah, mark that down on her chart"

OL - "Ok. M...U...N....I then what?"

Me - (spelled it out in full including politician)

OL - "Ok.. muni (mumble mumble) politician.

Sorry lady, you lose. If you can't say it, can't pronounce it... and are going to assume that my friend is deaf and stupid and whatever else you wanted to assume - then I am going to assume that you're the dumb one.

I can't think of anything more demeaning then having someone direct a question to whomever I'm with, when I'm right there and able to speak for myself.

I noticed the same thing when George had his knee replaced about 10 years ago. I was there through the whole thing, at the hospital every day, etc. And more and more was directed to me instead of him. Same thing when Gwen had a hip replacement. I'm happy to be the appointed spokesperson when invited to be - but don't just assume.

George likes to tell me that he's forgotten more than I'll ever know. I believe that. Gwen used to ask me "Do you think I got this white hair from walking through a snowstorm? No - I earned every last one of them!" I believe her too.

I know that this ogre-lady was just trying to do her job. But I left there this afternoon very frustrated with the whole turn of events. Argh!

The hip replacement in itself was a success, thank goodness.

On a side note, no house for Logan and I just yet. I am too chicken to take the plunge. I could maintain the townhouse we looked at - but I don't want to start out totally broke. So I'm still saving. Like crazy. In the last week I've spent slightly more than $7. Crazy, eh? My car needs gas this week, so that will be a big expense. Between all the phone calls I made yesterday to the real estate guy, the mortgage broker, etc... I'm sick of talking on the phone too. Not good when that's 'what I do for a living'. But, life goes on. This weekend it's just me and my boy and I can't wait!

Yikes!

I've found a small house that would suit our needs very well. I talked to the bank and have been approved for the mortgage. The next step is to make an offer, and all of a sudden I'm scared sh!tless! I don't know if it's my Dad's influence, "Never buy anything on credit! Never pay interest!". I'm sure at one point he qualified that for himself with "if you don't have to.", because he had a mortgage at one point too.

I'm all by myself in this venture though. I think that I know I can do it. I've run the numbers through a spreadsheet. Income vs. Expenses. The numbers do not lie. There will be money left at the end of the month. I know that 100%. The bank won't loan money if you can't handle it financially.

I'm a good saver. I'm a frugal person. I'm NOT a spender. I think I can, I think I can. A home of our own can only mean good things for Logan and I. And yet I'm hesitant.

But the little voice in my head is saying "No, not just yet". So who do I listen to - everyone else, or myself? I need someone bigger than me to tell me to go for it. Jump in with both feet. But - I'm all on my own on this one. Every time someone suggests to me that I should just go for it, I want to yell at them and tell them it's my decision to make and I'll make it when I'm ready. I know they mean well, really I do. I think I have Gwen to thank for this stubborn streak - but really, I want to do things MY way, not anyone else's. That way, if it all works out, I get ALL the credit.

I haven't made too many bad decisions in my lifetime - I don't think. I hope I make the right one this time. Yikes! Is it bad to want to cross my fingers that **I** make the right decision?

Just Me and My Gramma

Thursdays Suck!

Thursdays suck. I like Mondays, because they're the start of a brand new week. My desk is clean, my head is clear, and I love the feeling of turning to a fresh page in my office notebook and writing the date at the top, then underlining it in red (thanks Mr. Lunney, wherever you are, that one stuck!). Logan is home with me on Monday nights and we always do something 'special', either supper out, or a walk to the park, or a round of video games.

Tuesdays are exciting because they're traditionally busy days at the office. After work I hustle down to Aurora to have supper with Evelyn and Theresa before Evelyn and I head to the council meeting. I've met so many interesting people from hanging around at the town hall. Apart from the geographical challenge; had there been a by-election for the recently vacated council seat, I may have certainly put my name in as a candidate. If nothing else it would be a great experience.

Our Tuesday nights are ridiculously late, so Wednesday mornings always get off to a slow start. But... by the time I'm at work I'm hopped up on caffeine and sugary breakfast cereal, and I'm good to go till the day's end. I use Wednesday night's for me. Simply put, I do just exactly whatever I want to do. Oftentimes I curl up in a corner with a blanket and a book.

Thursdays are Logan's return. I look forward to seeing him on Thursday nights right from the time I get up out of bed in the morning. I think that's why Thursday's suck - because I spend it in anticipation of going home to my family. Tonight we're having a family supper, and then, barring rain, or a deluge of homework on his part, I'd like us both to go for a walk. Once he's snug in his bed my plan is to clean my room like the good 'kid' that I am. I also have to find a battery for my smoke detector - the beeping nearly drove me insane on Monday night. I will have to check the unit itself. It's entirely possible that I damaged it in my frenzied effort to stop the ear-splitting beeping.

Tomorrow is Friday. Friday's are easy going. Friday night is often quiet. Every once in a while I get invited out, or invite someone to go somewhere and make the best of the fact that I do not have to go to work the next day. Not that I sleep in very late on Saturdays - but the idea that I am able to if I so desire is pleasure enough.

Saturdays are 'get stuff done' days. Shopping, etc. Family time when Logan is home. Social time when he's not. This Saturday is going to be a blast. Theresa and I are running in the Mitsubishi City Chase in Toronto. I can't wait. It's another one of those things that I'm excited about and I know will be a great experience.

Sundays are my catch all. I love Sunday. Sundays are for nothing at all. If I'm not at home, I go home on Sundays. If I am home on Sunday, I stay home - frequently in my pj's. No staying home this Sunday. I've been invited out for brunch with friends. I am looking forward to it, and hoping that I'm not too sore from all the exercise on Saturday. We'll see.

And then, all of a sudden it's Monday all over again. I love how when I was typing this, I could detail exactly what happens on any given day of the week - and yet each day is always a surprise.

Arggghhhhh!

I just spent nearly 20 minutes typing out a wonderful series of thoughts that I've had in my head for a couple of days. I highlighted the entire thing and was just about to click the 'font' window to change it to arial font, and the WHOLE BLOODY THING disappeared.

Drat!!! Don't you just hate when that happens. That will teach me to type my posts somewhere else and simply paste them in to the blogger interface. Or, I should say, that MAY teach me - because this isn't exactly the first time I've done the same thing.

Oh well. C'est la vie. But I don't have to like it!!



So instead, I'll post a picture of someone that I do like! Here's our Charlie:

The Best Mother's Day Gift......

I have had the very best Mother's Day ever this weekend. It started on Friday night with homemade pizza. Logan did a fine job of slicing pepperoni, spreading sauce and cheese, and peering through the oven door till everything was cooked and melted. The only thing he didn't do was remove the finished product from the oven. Mom helped with that step.

Friday night when I tucked him into his bed he was busy setting his alarm for Saturday morning. We didn't have to go anywhere, but knowing that he likely had something up his sleeve, I didn't ask too many questions. I did check his clock once he was asleep - he had set it to wake him up at 5:27 in the morning, so I shut it off. That's way too early, even for a weekday. I did NOT want to get up that early on a Saturday, and normally once he's up, so am I.

When I did finally get up on Saturday morning, it was about 8:30. There was a lot of very industrious sound coming from the kitchen. Minutes after I arrived upstairs, I was served a delicious breakfast of strawberry pancakes, juice, and coffee. Am I spoiled or what?

We spent the day with family, and for supper Logan made "Ready Already Alfredo" from the Magic Bullet cookbook. He went a little overboard with the garlic, but the sauce was good nonetheless. All I had to do was boil some pasta. I had picked up a broccoli salad, and some pomegranate juice that we sipped from wine glasses - just to romanticize the whole evening further.

So, I had breakfast, family time, supper, more family time on Saturday. Today Logan and I were outside most of the morning, then we headed over to the mall to ride the charity Ferris Wheel. The Persechini Run-Walk-A-Thon is sometime around the 28th of May - so this weekend they had the midway running in the mall parking lot to raise money. $5 each for a ferris wheel ride is a VERY GOOD deal when the money goes directly to a charity. That's the same price we'd pay for a ferris wheel ride anywhere else, and who knows where the money goes if you're somewhere else.

Then (and this is the best part), Logan and I went in to the mall, and wandered around Coles book store. FOR TWO HOURS. TOGETHER. We read snippets to each other. We sat on the floor and read side by side. We meandered around looking at books that interested us individually, and we always seemed to meet up just a second before my sense of panic set in. We each chose a book to buy, and tonight after supper, we sat side by side on the couch. Reading. Together. I'm absolutely thrilled!

Charles Hamish Aloysius Sisman IV

My last post was incredibly hard to write. This one is going to flow much easier, I'm sure. Lots of changes in the last few weeks.... losing Muffy was the toughest one.
One night this week we drove up to Victoria Corners to pick up this little guy. His name is Charles Hamish Aloysius Sisman IV - we call him Charlie for short. Finding the puppy for us was easy - there were two left, one black pug, and one fawn pug. For a long time my folks have always said they'd like to have a black pug. That was the easy part.

Naming him presented other challenges entirely. I looked through websites listing "popular dog names", determined NOT to use any of them. Jaime and I emailed back and forth one day trying to come up with something suitable. I like the idea of using a human name for a dog. I liked Hamish. Dad didn't like Hamish. Mom thought it was "Hammish". But I still really liked the name Hamish. I thought I was the first person to transfer this name from the human population to the canine family - but no. Evelyn's son has a dog named Hamish. I am not confident that I knew that though.

This poor puppy was so small, and so sluggish, and so chubby that I thought Lummox was also an appropriate name. Dad didn't like that on either. Mom suggested all kinds of girly names. I don't want the poor dog to have identity issues when he's all grown up. Imagine...three or four years from now when he's sitting at the pub, drinking ale and smoking cigars. Some cute cocker spaniel would approach and ask him his name.

"Momma calls me Angel."

Nope. That wouldn't work at all.

At least with a flexible name like Charlie - he can vary his name to suit the company he's keeping. I have no doubt he'll be Chuck when he's watching football with the guys. He'll introduce himself as Charles when he goes for his first job interview, and when he gets accepted into the Political Science program at the university. But, for right here and right now, he's just plain ol' Charlie. And we're all wrapped around his little paws!

Our Muffy

Today is a very sad day. Our little Muffy has gone to dog heaven. To me, she wasn't just a dog, she was my little sister in a dog costume.

Muffy has been in our family for fourteen years. We got her from Blanche's family when she was only a few weeks old. I went up to Sutton with Mom and Grandma Edie to bring her home on New Year's Eve that year. Muffy rode home in the back seat of the van, nestled into my coat. As a young puppy, she had the colouring of a Rottweiller. As she grew, so did her hair, and its colour changed from black and brown to silver and blonde.

I'd often joke about how it was so obvious that Muffy was related to me; we had the same hair colour afterall.

Fourteen years is a long life for a dog. And Muffy had a good one. From trips to the cottage, rides in the car, squirrel hunts in the backyard - she was well travelled, because she was easy to take everywhere. When I first moved out on my own I used to bring her to my house for sleepovers. Sometimes they ended at nine o'clock when she'd stand at the front door and look at me as if to say, "Okay, you, it's time to take me home." Other times she'd curl up on a blanket or a pile of clothes on the floor, and just go to sleep.

A few years back a lady stopped on her walk by the house and asked Mom how old our dog was. Mom told her that the dog was seven, and the lady chatted for a while and continued on her stroll. i knew Muffy wasn't seven, because we'd adopted her when our friend's son, Garrod, was just a baby - and now he's a teenager. I rummaged around in the filing cabinet until I found her registration papers, and discoverd that no, she wasn't seven, she was thirteen. We laughed nearly every day about what a spry dog she was for being as old as seven.

I came home at lunch today, fearing the worst, and yet knowing that prolonging her suffering would just be selfish, and wrong. I sat and cried with Mom and Dad for a while, ate some lunch that had no taste at all (funny how shock does that to you), and went back to work where I tried to keep myself composed all afternoon.

I was afraid of how to break the news to Logan... but by the time I got home, Dad had already told him. Logan greeted me with a big hug when I walked around the house to the backyard.

"Are you sad about Muffy, Mom?"

That's when I lost it. After a lot of tissue, lots of sniffles and a few more hugs, we talked about Muffy and how she was old and it was her time to go.

"Poppa told me that it's okay to be sad, but that I shouldn't be too sad because Muffy's gone to a better place...so I'm not too sad, even though I'm sad", was Logan's synopsis of how he was feeling. Then he wandered off to play some more.

I'm proud of my father for knowing when it was time to end Muffy's suffering. If I ever get to the point where my body is failing, I'd like to think that someone who loves me can help me to get to a better place where there is no pain, and there are no struggles.

I shouldn't be too sad either. And I know that with each passing day, the grief that I'm feeling, and the empty sound of the house when someone rings the doorbell, and the little corner of the livingroom where Muffy's bed is - well, that will all turn from sadness into memories. I won't ever forget her.

I think I'll get to a point where I can talk about her, and all of the memories that I have, without tearing up. It's strange how grieving makes you remember all of the other things that you've lost. Muffy wasn't the first fur-person who was a part of my life, and she won't be the last, but she was with me the longest.

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." Anatole France.

Comfort

A friend of mine got a phone call this morning that I'm sure every mother dreads. Her adult daughter was in a bad relationship, and had come to the decision that she was leaving, so off we drove, to do a 'snatch and grab'. We loaded a bunch of stuff into the car, and were back home in no time at all.

It bothered me slightly, not because I was 'inconvenienced' or anything... but because I've been there. I know, and I have always known that I can always go home. So did she. Some people don't ever have that option. The idea of not being able to go home is not something I can even fathom. Every day I learn how important family is.

I spent a fun afternoon downtown with my cousin Jaime yesterday. We've got more in common than I ever imagined - physically, emotionally, and intellectually. There's a lot to be said for genetics, and even more to be said for parents who raise their children how they themselves were raised.

This afternoon I sat outside enjoying the weather, thinking just how thankful I am that I have the family that I've got.

I'll try to remember that when we're all driving each other crazy!

Surely I'm not the only one...

...who would like one of these as a pet!? It's called an aye aye (Daubentonia madagascariensis). I think I need one. I'd call him Dauby. Or Maddy. Yep!

Beijing? Or not?

My ears are bleeding from listening to all the radio announcers talk about the Olympics in Bejing. I say Bay-/zh/-ing (I think it's 'alveolar fricative'), not Beijing where the 'jing' sounds like jingle.

Have I been misprounouncing it forever and ever?

Sometimes being a thinker is enough to make me crazy. Especially when it starts early in the morning. I woke up thinking about this, wracking my brain to decide whether this warranted digging out my university linguistics course textbook.

How do YOU say it ?

Lean That Way...

I think this is the best picture so far. Notice my father and David are pointing with their fingers instead of their thumbs? Rebels!

Gak! I hate being sick!

My sinuses feel like they're exploding, and any time I bend forward I feel like my brains are pouring out through my nostrils. I stayed home from work today because I feel absolutely terrible. Not just slightly under the weather. It wasn't even one of those days where I dread going to work. Lately, work has been very satisfying. I just feel like I've been steamrolled and all the pressure is building in my head.

And, I'm coughing like a....like an I don't know what. I'm not barking like a seal, I'm simply coughing. All the time. After every second breath. It's one of those 'I want to smother you in your sleep' kind of coughs. Thankfully nobody else thought of that while I coughed all night long. I was advised, though, to take a handfull of pills and shut up. Sinutab is a wonderful thing.

Fever, chills, sweats, I've got it all. It's the kind of day where I just want to curl up under a blanket, hug a box of tissue, and read a book. And, that's exactly what I've done so far today.

I just hope I don't pass this along to anyone else. Nobody deserves to feel like this, and frankly, I'd want to smother them if they caught the same cough. It's much safer for ME to be the one who's ill. But still, I don't have to like it!

Happy Anniversary Amanda and David

Yesterday was Amanda and David's 6th Wedding Anniversary. We all celebrated by having some family pictures taken at Madsen's Greenhouse in Newmarket, and further by a renewal of their vows, dinner and dancing at the Mt. Albert Lion's Hall.

Here are a few pictures. I'll post more as I receive them!

Happy Anniversary Dave & Manda!!

Yes, I Did Argue

In Evelyn's blog post today titled "Songs of Praise" she writes about all of the comments she gets on her blog. Some of them are fantastic. Just this week someone commented that she was of the 'same' vintage as my friend, and was very impressed with her computer skills. I can understand why Evelyn would be pleased with such a relevant comment. Heck, I'm impressed with the skills Evelyn's learned at this point. It all sheds a new light on the adage about dogs and tricks, doesn't it?

Some of the comments, though, are downright nasty. When the ugly ones start to roll in, I try to post them right away. They are the ones that provide opportunity for discussion - or I see it that way anyway. As much as the nice comments show praise and often indicate support, how does one respond to that? By saying "By Jove I'm good, aren't I?" ?

That is why I argued that ALL of the comments have their place. I think that the whole 'debate' side of politics is the part to which I'm drawn to most often. I like to hear both sides of the debate, and form my own opinions based on the information that's presented. And, as much as the blog is Evelyn's and she can post things exactly as she sees them - it's the feedback that leads to a discussion, and quite often a few emails back and forth on the topic - but only if you put your email address in the comment box.

Alternatively, you can email her directly from the link on the blog itself. Give it a try. I bet she responds immediately!

You're Only As Insane as They Perceive....

I just finished reading "Running with Scissors" by Augusten Burroughs. I've attached a link to the Chapter's page so you can go and read all about it. What an awesome story. I wish I'd thought to look up the author when Jaime first recommended this one to me, because there is a second book in the series, "Dry".

"Running With Scissors" was definitely, inexplicably weird. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything else, when the lone review that I read before purchasing the book said that it was about a young boy who was 'given up' by his delusional mother. How could a child with a delusional mother not end up with some kind of eccentricities?

I was sucked in to the book right from page one. I only received the book on Friday, and I stayed up half the night reading, and continued for most of the afternoon today. As much as the strangeness of the storyline and the characters was surprising, by the time I was halfway through the book, nothing that transpired was particularly shocking.

The author and his 'sister' decided, on a whim, to demolish the drywall ceiling in the kitchen, because it was too low, and they both found it smothering and stifling. So, what did they use to remove the ceiling? A skillet and a rock, of course. And, at the time, that made perfect sense to me.

That in itself makes me see ever clearer that you're only ever as insane as other people think you are. It's not what you think of yourself that counts (well, it is on one level - the one you use to convince yourself that you're okay, you're not toothpaste sandwich nuts), but it's what OTHER people think that can really cause an impact. Or not, as in this book!

Within the circle of people who make up my 'family' (including a few non-related people who have become enveloped in with the rest of us), I'm pretty normal, I think. And, for the most part, my family all seems pretty normal to me. Look at us through someone else's eyes though, and our apparent normalcy fades mighty quickly.

Seems to me that a toothpaste sandwich wouldn't be a bad idea, provided there was water to rinse with afterwards. Then again, maybe not!

Crazy Zany People - or - Maybe it's Me?

Not that one has anything to do with the other, but:

Part One:

There is a guy at work, let's call him Joe. Joe walks by my desk everyday and says "Good morning, Heather." In return, I offer up a hearty "Good morning, Joe."

A few minutes later, Joe winds his way back through our cubicle farm to the printer.

"Good morning, Heather."
"Hi Joe."

The next trip he makes is to the water cooler.

"Good morning, Heather."
"G'day, Joe."

Then, he wanders through again to the fax machine.

"Good morning Heather!"
"Mmmmhmmmm..."

And on it goes. By lunch time I'd be okay if he were sucked into the water cooler. At least watching the bubbles would be entertaining for a while, right?

Part Two:

I bought Mom a new blouse last week from a store in the mall. We both fell in love with a pantsuit, but they didn't have the top in her size in the colour she wanted. She tried on the right size in a different colour and we asked the sales lady, who said that she could order it for us.

I headed to the counter to pay for both pieces, the pants that we were taking, and the blouse that we were ordering. Saleslady asked me for my credit card. I told her I intended to pay cash. Her garbled response (spoken with obvious frustration, she's done this a million times before I bet) was that to order things in, they need to use a credit card.

"So my money isn't good enough?" I was willing to pay upfront, afterall. I figured as long as I got a receipt, I was good to go.

She said no... orders are credit card only. Then she proceeded to copy my Mastercard number out into a binder that contained everybody else's Mastercard number who'd ordered before me. Now bells are ringing in my head and I can hear my father lecturing "You should have.." and "I told you...", and "What's wrong with you....?".

I let it go though. That's a stink I'll raise at another time with the store manager. The sales clerk was just doing her job.

Today, Mom went to pick up the blouse that I'd lovingly paid for with my credit card. Get this.... I paid for two. Yes, there were two blouses there waiting for her... but we only ordered one. Why does anyone need two of the exact same tops? (Unless of course they're white tank tops, but that's another story altogether).

Mom had to beat up a few people... and after the tussle she emerged from the wreckage like a phoenix from the smouldering ashes, with ONE blouse in hand, and a credit card receipt showing that I was only paying for ONE beautiful blouse.

I tell you, this week I've had just about enough people exposure. If I could find a cave with a good reading light, I'd be in it, at least till Sunday!

This Time Last Year

This time last year I wrote:

Have you ever had the feeling that you’ve forgotten
something? Well, for me, today, that’s how I feel - not that I’ve forgotten
something mundane like to brush my teeth or to turn the furnace down before I
left the house this morning – but that I’ve forgotten something of paramount
importance.

I have scoured my calendar, it’s not my mother’s birthday,
it’s not anybody’s anniversary. Today I didn’t have any appointments scheduled
at all. My office calendar is clear too. All of my bills are paid in full, and
there is still money in the bank for the next round.

Yet, I have this feeling in the bottom of my stomach that
at any minute someone will pounce on me, leaping out of the shadows waving a
calendar or an invoice and shouting “You forgot! How dare you?”"Well, the Ides of March are come. Ay, they are
come, but they are not gone."

And, strangely enough, that's just how I feel today. I haven't had any major upheavals in a while. There's nothing particularly gruelling about being Heather Sisman, not right now anyway.

Since Christmas time I've successfully navigated my way through some bad weather, a couple of bad dates, a few business meetings, a couple of good dates and an old knee injury that keeps reminding me that it's there. For a couple of weeks I worried about a relative who wasn't well, and another who was. Things have finally settled down.

I spent eight hours in two airports on Friday. I had been in Montreal for a business meeting and stayed over on Thursday evening. My 7:45 pm flight was the only one I could book using our company's online travel booking tool. My meeting was over by 2:30, so the Ex-Lax man drove me to Trudeau airport where I changed my ticket for a 3pm flight. Apparently it was snowing in Toronto so my flight was cancelled. The lovely lady at Westjet did some fancy typing and got me on a 4pm flight that was subsequently delayed, then cancelled. Then there were rumours of a 6pm flight.

At that point I thought all was well, I'd still be home relatively early in the evening, and a little bit of snow had never stopped me before. My 6pm flight was delayed till 7:30 (fifteen minutes earlier than my 'later' flight) - but, due to some delays, we never boarded the plane till past eight o'clock and finally were airborne around 8:30.

I was safely on home turf by 9:30 pm. Sadly, my luggage never emerged on the baggage carousel till closer to 10:30. I rode home in an airport taxi wishing desperately that the man in the driver's seat would notice his own white knuckles and just let me drive the car already. He never took his eyes off the road, which is a good thing given the snow that was still falling, and I didn't walk through the front door till nearly midnight.

All's well that ends well. So why do I feel like there's still something I've forgotten? Last year's 'unsettledness' (which I doubt is a real word, but it's the perfect word for right now) never amounted to anything. I only hope that this year it's the same!

The Newest Addition to the Blogosphere

This weekend Logan and I spent some time at Evelyn's house. In an effort to keep him occupied before our shopping trip, I gave him a pencil, some pencil crayons, and a whole bunch of paper.

Twenty-minutes later he had produced a whole group of comic book characters. Evelyn told him that he has a talent that should be explored (a phrase I've heard 50 times since then from Logan himself), and so this link was born:

Logan's Comics