Armageddon

Each day I have to wonder if I will have something to write about in this post, convinced I will run out of topics. Yet each day something good, bad or indifferent happens, and today was no exception.

Grady and I watch a TV show every week called "Brad Meltzer Decoded", where a group of people try to prove or debunk various mysteries, myths and conspiracy theories.  This last week, the episode was on the end of the world, due to happen on December 21st of this year, as prophesied by the ancient Mayans. Of course, this is the one time that the whole family sits down to watch, generating many questions. "Is the world really going to end ?", "What will happen?"  "What about Christmas?", "Can I go to the Lego store before it does?" (that was from Grady) etc etc. Interestingly, Lindsay seems to be the most bothered by it. I tell her that as far as I am concerned if the Mayans couldn't foretell their own demise, I don't have much faith in their predictions as they relate to earth today. It takes a while, but I think I've calmed any fears and we are good. Ha !

Fast forward to the weekend, when we were off to Peterborough to see our very good friends, (just covering my bases for when they read this). While Rob was out grabbing some last minute groceries, the dog starting barking and there is a loud knock at the door. I am in the bathroom getting ready, Grady grabs the dog and Lindsay answers the door. Should have known better, it was two Jehovah Witnesses. Now I must say here, I do have respect for every religion, and an appreciation for any individual's beliefs, however I draw the line with having any of these beliefs thrust upon me in my own home.

So, Lindsay opens the door, and I am listening from upstairs. Two very pleasant ladies greeted Lindsay and introduced themselves, but it was their next sentence that struck fear in to my heart "We are here to talk to you about Armageddon. Do you know what Armageddon is dear ?". Oh f*** why did it have to be Armageddon ? I'm pretty sure they're not talking about the Bruce Willis movie. So there is me up in the bathroom, yelling "No, no, not Armageddon, don't mention Armageddon, anything but that". At this point I regret the fact that I have brought Lindsay up to be respectful, (Sid, my other, somewhat belligerent daughter, is a totally different story), because  she stands there politely listening to what the ladies have to say. Meanwhile Grady is also taking it all in, while he is hanging on to the dog, who would have gladly seen the visitors off the property.

So having to speak up in order to be heard above the rabid Cujo, the ladies continue to explain in no uncertain terms what Armageddon means, and graphically describe how the world is going to end, and what is in store for us all, while Lindsay stands there nodding politely. They must have thought they'd caught a live one, because they go on to explain how she is still young enough that she can be saved. I'm still in the bathroom yelling "Don't listen ! don't listen ! Shut the door, set the dog on them" They ask Lindsay her name, by now I'm getting desperate "Tell them it's Lucy - short for Lucifer".  Fortunately at this point Rob arrives home, there is a quick discourse on the doorstep, and the ladies are on their way, but not before they manage to shove a bunch of literature into Lindsay's hand, about - you've guessed it - Armageddon, and if the previous graphic descriptions weren't enough, this came with pictures ! I swear, on some days it seems like the end of the world is probably the best thing that can happen to me.

Tribute To My Father

Today would have been my father's 95th birthday, so for something different, my post this morning is excerpts taken from his life, written in his words.

I came into this world on February 28, 1917, in the middle of World War 1, at a time of blackouts and food rationing. My arrival could hardly have been greeted with expressions of rejoicing. Mother should have dropped me on my head right at the start and saved herself a lot of extra work. The contents of Father’s pay packet did not increase with the arrival of each child. The money just had to stretch a little further. I was child number 6; and there were 3 more children after me.

My home was a very small, old cottage. Sanitation was crude. The lavatory was in a small hut in the garden, about 10 or 20 m from the house. It was primitive in the extreme: a wooden seat with two holes, one large for adults, and one small for children, with buckets underneath. Using the large hole as a child was fraught with danger!

My two years at the infants’ school passed peacefully and pleasantly; I have fond memories of my time there. We learned to spell, to read, to write, and to do mental arithmetic. We had no paper, pencils, or pens. Each child had a large slate framed in wood and a stick of slate the size of a pencil. This made a clearly visible mark on the slate. If you made a mistake, a wet thumb erased it. At the end of arithmetic, the slate was wiped clean with a damp cloth ready for writing or a spelling test.

In 1928, I was 11 years and a few months old. I was offered a place at a Grammar School in Fareham, seven miles away but with a reasonable bus service. Father was not at all happy about that. We were working class. After that, Father took no interest in me whatsoever, and the only contact we had was when I helped him in his allotment or in the garden.

“From now on you earn your keep,” said Father, “I’ll give you a week to find a job. If you can’t, I shall start you off as a length man on the District Council.” This was 1933, a time of depression and large-scale unemployment. Firms everywhere were laying people off rather than taking them on.  The details are hazy now but I was allocated a large mileage of rural roads and lanes. That was my “length” and I had to patrol it, clear water outlets, cut grass when necessary, sweep up any rubbish, and generally keep it all spick and span. With my grammar school education, a large handcart, a shovel, a brush, a rip hook (for cutting grass), I set to work to do my best for King, country, and my Father. My “length” of road presented no problems. It was a simple job for a simple person. However, it kept Father off my back. I was working; he could no longer grumble; he seemed quite content to see me settled in a dead-end job.

 

My brother Gordon went to work for a construction company with contracts all over the South of England, putting telephone cables underground, and I went and worked with him. Then came the declaration of war. Our work was classed as a reserve occupation, so no call up for us. I knew this would last only until our present contracts were completed. I also knew that all those called up could be drafted into any service, even down the coalmines; that I could not risk. If I volunteered, I could choose where to go.  So, I gave in my notice, came home for a few days, paid a few goodbye visits, then off I went to the nearest recruiting center.

My father survived the war, and went on to become a teacher. Sadly, he passed away not long after my daughter Sidney (his namesake) was born, but he touched the lives of many, and he is sorely missed. 

On Aging

I received a rude awakening not too long ago. Like most women (& probably some men), when you reach a certain age you prefer to forget about the number of years under your belt, and maybe even shave off one or two.  Actually that is something I have never done, instead I have always managed to inadvertently add extra to mine. For a whole year I honestly thought I was 45 when I was only 44.

No matter what, you always hope the face looking back at you in the mirror appears younger than the age on your driver's license.  When people underestimate your age by 5 or even 10 years, (I wish) it is certainly a feel good moment. I have had people tell me I look younger than I am (I know some of them were just being polite, but surely not all ?)  and they are all my new best friends.

And then there are the times when you wish that we didn't have such strident gun laws here in Canada. I was out and about with my friend Helene, we'd had a good day antique shopping and I was quite happy when we had to call in at a well known pharmacy chain on the way home.  I'm at the checkout with Helene right behind me when the cashier asks me if I have my Seniors Card. I was convinced there was something wrong with my hearing, but it should have been a dead give away when Helene all but fell on the floor laughing.

Still, giving the girl the benefit of the doubt I said, in what I thought was a reasonable tone, "What did you just say?"  And I gave her my special smile (the one that my husband describes as a crack in the gates of hell, where you can smell the sulfur and hear the cries of the damned). Doesn't she just say it again, with a inane little grin "I said, do you have your seniors card ?"  OK, she'd had her chance, now the gloves were off.  Helene suddenly realises this is no longer a laughing matter and is frantically making signs at the girl to cease and desist, but oh no, the silly bitch obviously didn't appreciate who she was dealing with because she continues in her little sing-song voice "Oh, you know it's not 65 anymore, you're considered a senior at 55 now"  Is this idiot for real ? I am still well on this side of 50 thank you very much, and each time she opened her mouth I was one step closer to lunging over the counter and throttling her.

By now Helene has tears running down her cheeks and has given up any hope of trying to salvage the situation. I am apoplectic, but trying to muster as much dignity as possible, I tell the cashier through gritted teeth that "No, I don't have a seniors card, and before you even ask I don't want one either". She is still smiling through all this, obviously not realising how perilously close she is to getting smacked upside the head.

It was bad enough this woman had now ruined my whole weekend, but even worse that it had to be Helene who was with me. I knew I had to go home and tell my husband what had happened, and then have to put up with the  snickering and the jokes, because if I didn't, my supposed friend would have snitched on me in a heartbeat, and I know her version of the events would have been far worse than mine.

And no I haven't been back to that particular store, and probably never will.

I Know He's Faking It

My eldest daughter is returning to school today after a legitimate absence of two sick days. My son was already PO'd that she got to stay home so it came as no surprise this morning when he started to display symptoms of his own. It is sometimes hard to tell if he is faking it because he is a consummate actor, and, of my three little drama queens, he is the one most destined for the stage.  After all, he is the child who one day kept written track, of not only the quantity but also the velocity of his sneezes, in a vain attempt to convince his teacher he was sick enough to go home. His ingenuity knows no bounds.

So this morning Grady cruises the house, engaged in elaborate coughing fits, having first ensured that I was within earshot. When this is met with a very blunt "Go get a drink of water, and keep the noise down" he realised he was going to have to try harder than that. I am the product of the good old British "Stiff Upper Lip" upbringing, so I am not the most sympathetic of parents. Broken bones or spurting arterial blood warrant my attention, anything else, and it's a case of suck it up cupcake!.

Grady was forced to revert to Plan B and bring out the big guns. This involved laying supine on the couch, under a blanket, clutching his belly and emitting the occasional feeble groan for effect. Even Sid was taken in by this performance, dramatically feeling his forehead and offering her own diagnosis, "He does feel warm mum". Yeah, well so would you, if you were huddled under a thick blanket.


Don't judge me too harshly. After all this, you may wonder how I knew he was faking it ? That was easy, he made a crucial mistake when he started mimicking Lindsay's symptoms. After all his hard work and an Oscar worthy performance, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that menstrual cramps are not contagious.

And no he didn't get to stay home.

All About Meredith

Meredith is the daughter of some long time friends, and I have known her since she was born. She actually accompanied us on the ill fated camping trip I wrote about a while ago, but she was most disconcerted that I hadn't given her a mention. So please indulge me as I dedicate this post to Meredith, now grown into a lovely young lady who I am honoured to know.

A year or so ago Lindsay and I took off for England for two weeks to celebrate my sister's birthday. That left the problem of who would look after the children. My first thought was the local boarding kennels, cages seemed like a good choice, but apparently there are regulations against that sort of thing. Rob was able to take one week off work, but that still left a week where help was required, so we called upon Meredith. The kids love her, so it wasn't much of a stretch to have her move in for a week and take care of them. Meredith thought this was a wonderful idea and eagerly accepted. That was probably her first mistake, as anyone in their right mind would have high-tailed it to the border.

I don't think it was long after she arrived that she realised she had her work cut out for her. Sid & Grady soon got over the initial infatuation, and it didn't take long for their true colours to come shining through. However they met their match with Meredith, and she was not going to put up with any nonsense.

The second evening Rob arrived home, Meredith was sitting casually on the couch flipping through a magazine. The house was quiet, too quiet, and Rob was immediately suspicious. Fearing the worst, he ventured a question "Where are the children ?", to which Meredith replied in what can only be described as a frosty voice "They are in their rooms". Somewhat concerned, Rob made a move towards the stairs, but stopped dead in his tracks as Meredith continued in a tone that brooked no argument "Stop right there. They are to stay in their rooms until I say they can leave".  Rob knows when he is beaten, he bypassed the stairs and headed into the kitchen instead.

The children were eventually allowed out, and meekly acquiesced to Meredith's authority. From what I heard they didn't step out of line after that. I just wish I knew how she did it. However, she did confess to Rob afterwards that our little darlings were not quite what she had expected.  Who'd have thought ?  We love you Meredith ! 

Daily Drudgery

This won't be much of a post today, because I have spent the day ironing. I thoroughly abhor ironing, as far as I am concerned it is an abomination, akin to having bamboo shoots shoved under your finger nails.  Even if I hadn't been tethered to the ironing board all day, and had spare time to blog, I wouldn't because quite simply, the ironing has put me in a vile mood.  I couldn't even belt out the classic rock tunes I'd just downloaded, because Lindsay was home sick, and I didn't have the heart to disturb her. The tunes weren't a problem, it was my singing she objected to.

You may well ask, why I have whiled away the hours with this contemptible task, and the answer is easy, because I love my husband. And that statement right there, has scored me mega points! Maybe not enough to persuade him to buy another horse, or bring home another cat, but it should at least be worth a lie-in or two.  Actually, if I am to be truthful, it has less to do with loving my husband and more to do with the fact that before he left for work this morning, he set up the ironing board and left it in the middle of the room, with piles of wrinkled shirts spread over the furniture. When God was handing out the subtlety gene he obviously completed bypassed my in-laws.

I curse the man that invented the iron, I know it couldn't have been a woman. As far as I am concerned this activity it is a total waste of time. I hate the fact that I iron all my husband's shirts, hang them neatly in his closet and then he has the audacity to wear them. Really what's the point ?  On the plus side, because he only wears these shirts after I have ironed them, and on average I only iron once or maybe twice a year, all his shirts look brand new.  This is purely an accidental by-product of my extreme laziness, but I work with what I've got.  You know I don't iron very often, when Sid upon seeing the ironing board set up this morning, had to ask me what it was for.

Personally, I want to know what happened to nylon and polyester. They may not very stylish, but those were fabrics that were easy to care for. There is a lot to be said for wash and wear.


Now that I think about it, I cooked last week - yes a whole meal from scratch -  and today I'm ironing. All I need to do now is figure out how the vacuum cleaner works, and I can forgo my attempt for "Mother Of The Year" award (I was never a serious contender for that anyway) and put in my bid for "Domestic Goddess" instead.  That will be right after I've started a movement to bring back crimplene.  Now I feel old, the word "crimplene" doesn't even show up in the spell check !

My Son Has A Death Wish

I am convinced there is something fundamentally wrong with my son. It's not that he winds up his younger sister to the point she mashes him to a pulp. It has nothing to do with the fact he is the only boy in his school sporting an earring, or that he wanted to go out at Halloween dressed as a Unicorn (and a pink one at that - his father was so proud !). Although those incidents do make me stop and wonder. As for his obsession with carving bows and arrows, and his would-be pyromaniac tendencies, I can happily blame those on his cousin, (sorry Alex).

Apart from all that, I think the boy has a death wish. How else do you explain him calling his sister a b***h, when she is older, bigger, stronger and faster than he is ? That is just plain suicidal. The boy has had his underwear pulled over his head more times than I can count.

And then there was the incident this afternoon when we were riding.  Lindsay rode first and had Lacey cantering around the field. Grady is up next, but instead of trotting back to where we were waiting,  Lacey decides to canter instead. Grady wasn't expecting it, so he is hanging on for dear life, his face panic stricken, bouncing up and down like a sack of beans yelling "Whoa, whoa, WHOA". Followed by "HELP!  Dad".  I have had my share of watching riding accidents with my children; Sid taking a face plant into a manure pile, which was just funny, another when a horse rolled on top of Lindsay, not so much. So with my heart thudding wildly, and new grey hairs sprouting all over my head, I am expecting Grady to come a cropper any minute, but he hung on and Rob stopped Lacey without incident. No sooner has he stopped than Grady exclaimed "Damn, that was fun. Can we do it again ?".

Honestly, we were just that one chromosome away from having three girls.

Salems Lot ....

....Or why my father was happy when I left home.

This story goes back a few years, to when I was about 17.  I was still living at home in England, and I had started watching a popular TV series at the time called "Salem's Lot". Now for anyone that doesn't harken back to Jurassic  period, (as my dear son likes to describe my childhood), Salem's Lot was about vampires, and not the nicey nice kind from Twilight or The Vampire Diaries, but genuinely terrifying creatures, (at least they were to me) that gained entrance by tapping on a victim's window in the dead of night. Truly the objects nightmares were made of back then.

One night when my father was out, I watched one of the episodes. This was before the age of VCRs, so I didn't really have a choice, but it was probably not the best idea when I was alone in the house with only my 87 year old grandmother for company (my mother had passed away a year earlier).  It also happened to be a typical dark and stormy night, lots of rain and howling wind.

After I had scared myself silly watching the TV,  I bravely went around the house and made sure all the doors were locked, including, as it so happened the dead bolt on the front door. I checked on my grandmother and went to bed. Some time later I was awoken by an urgent tapping on my bedroom window. I lay there frozen in terror, convinced that a pane of glass was all that separated me from a member of the undead. Did I mention that I had a very active imagination ? 

The tapping continued, getting louder and more desperate. I had to act, but what could I do ? Fortunately I was somewhat prepared for such an emergency and didn't go to bed without the obligatory cross on my night table. I would have stashed a few cloves of garlic too, if I had been allowed. Trembling with fear, I got out of bed, grabbed up my cross and crept across the room to the window. I was absolutely petrified, but somehow I managed to fling open the curtain, and pressing the cross up against the glass I yelled "Begone fearsome creature" or something equally foolish, closed the curtains and dashed back to bed.

As my racing heart beat returned to normal, I thought about the chilling apparition that I had seen outside my window. I bet you thought  I was going to say it was a tree branch, but no, there was definitely someone there.  Suddenly it dawned on me, "Oh bloody hell", it was my father outside the window, at the top of a ladder and soaking wet to boot. The recognition process was also helped that by now that he was had lost any degree of subtlety, and was pounding on the glass yelling "Open the front door you stupid woman".

It turns out, that when I slipped the dead bolt, I had inadvertently locked him out. Growing up in a small town, we rarely even locked the doors, so I hadn't realised in my absence (I'd just returned from 6 months in Canada) my father had turned the house into Fort Knox.  So that night, when he returned home and discovered he couldn't get in, he had grabbed a ladder from the garden shed and had at first tried to wake my grandmother on the other side of the house. However ever since the doctor suggested she take a tot of whiskey before bed for "medicinal purposes", she took him at his word and usually ended up retiring for the night blind drunk. She was barely 5' tall and probably weighed no more than 80lb so it didn't take much to knock her out. Still, she lived to the age of 91 so she must have done something right.

Anyway back to my story. Unable to rouse my grandmother, my father shouldered the ladder and trekked over to my window. Apparently he had been tapping on it for some time before I awoke. It didn't help that he'd had to  stumble around in the dark, so he wasn't exactly in the best of moods when I raced downstairs and let him in.  I received a blistering lecture, something about "stupidity, brainless, asinine, imbecile, feeble minded" and the list went on.  I never once heard my father swear, but if he ever came close to it, I think it was that night.

The Irresistible Force Paradox

It's Thursday evening, and we are in the middle of a ten alarm melt-down, and it all started with spelling homework. Sidney has to write out sentences using words such as compassion, considerate and thoughtful, which is not without a touch of irony considering the circumstances. She is bound and determined she is not going to do it, whilst I am bound and determined she is. What was it that Einstein said about the The Irresistible Force Paradox,  "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?" Well, I can tell you what happens, because it is a common occurrence in our house.  Sid has a fit and throws pencils, erasers and her spelling book across the room, whilst I with my steely eyed glare formulate a suitable punishment.  Although, according to any parenting advice I have read (my own not withstanding) you are supposed to provide consequences, not a punishment.  I don't really care what you call it, either way the screaming little banshee is not going to get away with it.  I decide she is going to write out lines as in "I must not throw my spelling book". This is met with a howl of rage, so I tack on another ten, "I must not throw my pencil", met with yet more wails. She is an awful slow learner, so I add on another ten, "I must not scream at my mother".  I could keep this up all night.

Lindsay intervenes at this point, as she can see where this is heading, and does her best to get Sid to co-operate.  To no avail. Sid just sits and wails, and issues a few threats of her own, as in  "I am going to sit here until I'm dead !"  At which point Grady chimes in with his advice "I wouldn't bother doing that Sid,  I tried it once and it didn't work very well"  I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. By this time Lindsay is hissing at Sid to shut up, the dog is cowering under the table, and I'm sure the neighbours must be getting an earful.  I am determined I will not raise my voice, but the trouble is if I don't no-one can hear me above the din.  Sid is at last calming down, so not being one to miss an opportunity,  I point out to her that I expect her lines to be done in her best handwriting and with no spelling errors. That sets off another round of bawling. Why couldn't I just keep my bloody mouth shut? It's on days like this I understand why in some species the mothers eat their young.

Have a great weekend. 

Oops

This was really a mistake, but worth a mention. My husband decides to send me a rather risque text on Valentine's Day. Only one little problem, I was driving home from school when I heard the text come in so I asked my daughter to pick it up and read it to me.  I was certainly not expecting the scream and cries of "Eew! Gross! That's Disgusting! Eew!  I'm going to be years in therapy", when she did. This was accompanied by much wringing of hands, and my phone was flung across the van in horror.

Of course the younger two are in the back wanting to know what was going on, and actually at this point so did I. I still had no idea what had prompted this violent outburst. Lindsay refused to tell them, and anyway, by this time all she was capable of doing was making gagging sounds and uttering "Eew" & "Gross".  I didn't know what was in the text, sort of thinking ignorance is bliss,  but I was still hoping for a red light so I could find my phone and read it. My curiosity was piqued even more when Lindsay exclaimed in disgust "I had no idea you and dad even knew what that was." Now I really have to know what was in that message. 

I had to wait until I got home before I was able to look at my phone. By now Lindsay isn't even talking to me, just casting malevolent glares in my direction - not sure how this became my fault - and muttering under her breath something about "Gross parents", "Therapy" and "Never ever talking to her father again".

As for the text, all it said was "Do you fancy sexting ?"   Obviously not one of his better ideas, but it will be a long time before Lindsay goes anywhere near my phone again.

My First Camping Trip

I have received permission from my good friends Ann & Deborah to relate this tale, as it involves all of us. I hope I do this justice, and I apologise in advance for any lapses in my memory. 

At the time our children were all in school together, and we met up quite frequently. It was on one of those boozy afternoons around Ann's pool that someone suggested we all go camping. I can't remember who made the suggestion, and I'm pretty sure they wouldn't own up to it anyway.  I'd been sipping on a few too many coolers, so I threw caution to the wind and said "Why not ?".  Rob stared at me in horror "Have you lost your mind ? ".  Admittedly, I have always maintained I'd rather have a root canal than sleep in a tent, but really how bad could it be ? The kids were all excited, so what could possibly go wrong ? Everything as it turns out. 

We managed to book 3 campsites together at a provincial park, bought or borrowed all the necessary gear and off we go. By this time I have long sobered up and having serious misgivings. When I voice my concerns to my dear husband, he has no sympathy. "That's what happens when you drink"  he remarked  scornfully. "If you don't come up with a stupid idea yourself, you agree to someone else's. Serves you right".  Wow, I didn't see that coming. However, unfortunately he is right. Get a couple of drinks into me, and I do pretty much agree to anything (but that is a story for another day). 

Anyway, we arrived at a very pretty campsite, with access to a beach and a lake, so maybe this wouldn't turn out so bad after all. The first evening went well, with lots of food and drink. We sat around the campfire, while the stories got funnier as the evening and the drinking progressed. We had noticed a couple of police cars cruise by throughout the evening, but didn't think anything of it, until after we'd turned in, and discovered that we had landed, not in a family camp ground but at party bloody central.  The other campsites which had previously seemed to be at a good distance away, might as well have been on top of us, as we listened to rock, rap and country music battle it out for supremacy, through half the night.  Add to that, the hollering of insults hurled back and forth (I did learn some new choice words) and any thoughts I had of being lulled to sleep by the gentle hoot of an owl, went right out the tent flap.   

I woke up the next morning on a flat air mattress and in a foul mood. I was so stiff I could barely move, and it was a 2 person effort to get me to my feet. I put on a happy face for breakfast, and then while the "women folk" cleared up and prepared a picnic lunch, the men decided to go for a drive. I can't even recall  why at this point. What I do remember, is that it was supposed to be quick and they were to bring back Tim's coffee. Almost 2 hours later they return, looking very sheepish. Supposedly it had taken a while to find a Tim's. We were only 40 minutes from home, so they could have driven to Ajax and back in that time to get the damn coffee. To my knowledge, we never did find out what they got up to. I think it was a little like Fight Club, and the men weren't talking.


Anyway, they return with cold coffees to a stoney silence and we all head down to the beach. We barely have time for lunch before we notice a big thunderstorm rolling in across the lake. We high tail it back to the tents and spend the rest of the day listening to water pounding on the canvas and incessant cries of "I'm bored". We at least fared better than Deb, who unbeknownst to us had spent the afternoon in her car because their tent was in danger of floating away. I won't repeat the string of curses she had for her husband, but I will say they put mine to shame. 


The storm clears up in time for dinner, but by now everything was soaked and the ground was a mud bath. Tempers are a little frayed and we're all trying to figure out who to blame for proposing this debacle in the first place.  After dinner we tried to sit around the fire again, but the rain had brought out all the mosquitoes, so there was no fun in it.  Rob had gone to put our youngest to bed but when I got up after him I slipped in the  mud. The chair collapsed and somehow I got wedged. I was flailing like a turtle stranded on its back, my jacket caught in the chair and my feet waving in the air. Everyone but Grady had gone back to their respective tents, so I sent my dear son to get his father's help. 

He comes back with the message, "Dad say's he's busy, you have to wait" 
I suppose at this point I could have sent him to get Lloyd or Marshall, but I just knew I'd never be allowed to forget it, so instead I send him back to our tent."Tell your father I need him here now". 
Off he trots, only to return again, alone. "Dad says to cool your jets".  
By this time any exposed skin is covered in bug bites, and I am no closer to getting free of the chair, or righting myself. Not surprisingly, rolling around in the mud trying to remove the chair from my arse, hasn't improved my mood and I am far from happy.  

"Tell your father, I don't ****ing care what he's ****ing doing, he's to to get his ****ing ass out here now, and make it ****ing pronto".  I do have a tendency to swear a little more when I get upset. 

Ten minutes go by with no sign of husband or son, so I use that time productively, plotting how to kill them in their sleep. When my knight in rusting armour finally shows up, I am expecting abject apologies when he sees my predicament, but no, I get a lecture on how all people in the surrounding campsites can probably hear me swearing. That man had a death wish.


The rest of the second night was like the first, only much wetter. The next morning, we all agree it's every man, woman & child for themselves, and we can't pack up and get out of there fast enough. I should mention, that first camping trip is also my last.  

So this goes out to Ann & Lloyd, Deborah & Marshall, with fond memories of good times ! .

And Then The Fight Began

A short post today, because now Rob is back at work, I am actually expected to start looking after my children and doing things like cooking, what a drag.


Surely, only in my house can a fight break out between the kids while they are writing Valentines cards for their school friends. So much for loving thoughts. I'm not sure why the fight began, but I do know that Sid resorted to the Double Dog Dare of threats; the infamous "I'm going to go and live in a cardboard box". That is a favourite of hers, only used when she feels particularly put upon. Of course issuing a threat like that in Canada in the middle of winter, doesn't really have much credibility, but each to his (or her) own.

One bright spot for the day, one of the stupid cats picked a fight with a feline three times his size, resulting  in multiple bites and abscesses  - I haven't got to the fun bit yet. Trip to the vets this morning, $173 later and the cat is sent home shaved, with a cone on his head - now that is the fun bit.  Watching him negotiate the stairs is truly a piece worthy of America's Funniest Videos. Even Rob, who had left that same cat on the roof on Friday, felt sorry for him, and ended up removing the cone.  Now what am I supposed to do for fun ? I suppose I can always oil the hamster wheels, that's always good for a laugh.

Happy Valentines Day !

Life Is Good

Finally, order is restored to the house and peace reigns again. Right, like that is going to happen in my lifetime. Rob has been at his new job a week now and loves it, but it has taken some adjustments on the home front and I thought after Monday's less than stellar start, we'd at least fallen into a semblance of a routine. Not so, as I found out on Friday. 

The day starts earlier than usual because Lindsay had her swim meet finals and had to be at the pool by 7:45. However, she didn't realise her clock was an hour fast (how can you not notice that ?)  and consequently her alarm went off at 5:00 instead of 6:00.  She spends the next two hours stressing over the races. As far as I am concerned she can come in dead last, and I'd still be incredible proud of what she has accomplished, but she doesn't see it that way.

I come down stairs and instead of the clean kitchen that I had vacated the night before;  pans, utensils and  dishes are strewn from one end of the counter to the other. It turns out that Rob had decided to cook breakfast for the kids (not for his wife you notice, so that is  going to cost him dearly come Valentine's Day !).  OK, deep breath, I'll deal with the kitchen after I've done lunches, at least the little darlings are fed. Still enough time.  So far, so good.

Next thing I know, Lindsay comes running in the house, to tell me that the cat was on the roof.  Brilliant! Rob is by now dressed for work and point blank refuses to get the ladder out and rescue my cat, which I think was jolly unreasonable of him. His view is, if the cat got up there, then he can get down the same way. So now I have to add "Get cat off roof" and "Make husband pay dearly" to my list of chores.

Moving right along, I go to grab my coffee, only there isn't one, and the coffee machine is unplugged. "What the hell is going on ?" I snarl "Where's my coffee ?" I admit that I'm not at my best first thing in the morning. "Oh you can't have one" replies my husband. The man must have a flippin' death wish. Actually I was thinking something far worse, but after Sid dropped the "F" bomb the other day, I'm trying to clean up my act.  "I found out yesterday the Tassimo has been recalled"  He continues. "They have been exploding in people's faces" Now, I don't know if this is some kind of cosmic joke, but I'm not laughing.  "Screw that" Says I, and plug it back in. No exploding kitchen appliance is going to keep me from my coffee. My son, ever the drama queen, promptly runs for cover, screaming "She's gonna blow"  I thought he was talking about the coffee pot, but it is equally probable he was referring to me. Happily, no explosion, and I got my brew.

By now Rob and Lindsay have left and I am down to just Sid & Grady and they are definitely conspiring against me. Today's fight was about who got to sit on the wooden chair - really ! There is plenty of comfortable seating, but they fight over an old chair I picked up for $20 at an antique barn. When I say fight, I'm not joking. Grady got to it first and then Sid muscled him out the way. Words were exchanged and the name calling began - idiot, meanie-head, and a few more I won't put in print.  Sadly, my arsenal of threats had run dry, so I compromised by separating them, Sid got kicked out of the room, at which point she launches into an Oscar worthy performance,  "It's not fair, nobody likes me, I hate my life,"  Yadda Yadda Yadda.  That girl is destined for the stage. At least I can say they were on time for school, probably because I couldn't get them out the damn house fast enough.

And the cat ? I'm happy to say he made his own way safely down from the roof.  That doesn't mean my husband is off the hook though ......

Where Did I Go Wrong ?

Although I have older three sisters, they had all left home when I was quite young, so essentially I grew up as an only child. This is probably why I never cease to be amazed at how my children can pull out all the stops when it comes to a fight. Where did I go wrong ?

For example, on the last pet day at school, Grady decided to take in a rabbit. I make the mistake of asking Lindsay to help him get the rabbit out of the outside hutch, only to have the neighbours  treated an ever increasing volume of "Oh my god, you are so stupid",  and I'm pretty sure she wasn't talking to the rabbit. 

Then there was the time Sid gave her brother a black eye with a baseball bat. Thank goodness the bat was only plastic, but it still packed a wallop. Sid insists to this day it was an accident, but she had bloody good aim when she clocked him.  


To give Sid credit, she is truthful. When I heard several thumps followed by a big crash and a wail from Grady, I rush to see what happened. Grady said that Sidney pushed him down the stairs. I tell him not to be ridiculous, his sister would never do that to him. To prove it, I turned to Sid and asked" You didn't push your brother down the stairs did you ?" Her answer, without a hint of apology "Of course I did" and off she stomps. 


Poor Grady doesn't just get it from his younger sister, but from his elder sister as well.  He came down in tears one morning, because he had pissed off Lindsay and she retaliated by spraying him with perfume. I was behind with the laundry, consequently he was wearing his last clean uniform shirt, so I did the only thing I could, lied through my teeth, told him I couldn't smell anything, and sent him to school reeking like a Parisian brothel.  

You'd think by now that Grady would know better than to provoke his sisters, but no, he still goes head on. Only this evening, I had to rescue him when I caught Lindsay carrying him through the kitchen by his underwear. It's not easy being the middle child and only boy in our house !. 

Next installment on Monday. Have a great weekend. 

  

Dos & Don'ts With Teenagers

I have enlisted help from Lindsay, my favourite teen and oldest daughter, who, in her never ending quest to improve my parenting skills, has come up with a few helpful (?) suggestions.

When your teen gets her first boyfriend, do not under any circumstances share this exciting news with your family, friends, neighbours and the mailman.  You may think it's cute n' all, but it's guaranteed to piss off your teen.  Of course there is an upside to this, you have successfully doomed the relationship from the start, and she's not going to be in any hurry to repeat the experience. Score one for the parents!

Avoid any subject that has "parents" & "sex" in the same sentence. However, again on the plus side, if there is any  indication that the conversation is heading in that direction, your teen will probably run screaming from the room with their fingers stuck in their ears. Sometimes as the parents of a teenager you just have to fight dirty.  We have also discovered this ploy works just as well with the 10 year old too.

When your teen wants to download a song you are listening to, resist the urge to say "So, old people music isn't so bad huh ?"  You will be wasting your breath, any form of irony, or even sarcasm for that matter is totally lost on your teen.

Finally, embrace the mood swings. Know that just as quickly as you became a forerunner for the "Mother Of The Year" Award, you can also be labelled as the  "WORST.  PARENT.  EVER.", very often in the same breath.

The Mouse That Roared

We awoke this morning to a huge crash from the kitchen. Based on the ensuing wreckage, Rob guessed that at least one of the useless cats had gone after our resident mouse, too bad they trashed the kitchen doing it. No sign of a corpse, but I knew it would show up eventually.

I noticed throughout the day that one of the cats was very interested in the playroom, so I figured the mouse was probably still in the land of the living and would show it's face sooner or later, and promptly forgot all about it. I do tend to be a bit blase about having a mouse in the house.

So here I am this evening, sitting at the computer, minding my own business and working on a different post for tomorrow, when Lindsay comes rocketing down the stairs screaming incoherently. It turns out the cat has finally found the mouse. By this time, Sid and Grady are in on the act too, Sid screaming like her sister and Grady along for the ride. The dog doesn't have a clue what is going on but decides to join the fray anyway and starts barking furiously. It's a flippin' three ring circus.

By the time I get to the playroom, the cat has tired of the game, and the mouse has disappeared. So I start hunting, which is pretty much like the proverbial needle in the haystack, all the while muttering ominous threats. Lindsay and Sid are perched on a chair, clutching each other in fright. Grady has armed himself with a foam sword and is ready to do battle. I see a small brown blur streak across the room and the chase is on. Ten minutes of climbing over, crawling under and moving around furniture, and I have had enough. Frustrated, I do what any good parent does in this situation, and start yelling at the kids. "Look at this bloody mess!! If you didn't have so many toys around, I could have caught the mouse by now"  That's not strictly true, because the little bugger was really fast, but I wasn't going to tell them that.

I have caught many mice, and I learned early on that you do not scoop them in your hand, because, although that is the easiest way, that is also when they sink their little rabid teeth into the fleshy part of your thumb. The safest  way to catch a mouse is by the tail. The trouble is they have really skinny tails, and they are especially hard to grab hold of. This one was no exception. You can't say I don't provide education along with the entertainment.

I instruct the kids to keep a look out for the mouse and to call me if they see it, and go back to my blog. Sure enough five minutes later there is another shriek from upstairs, and back I go. This time Grady has the mouse cornered, and the girls are back up on the chair. I pounce and miss. The mouse darts under the couch. I up-end the couch and it darts under the bookshelf. I am really getting tired of this. I move the bookshelf and a whole pile of books hit the ground. "Way to go mum, now you've killed it" Grady yells. Lindsay starts screaming again, and while I don't register Sid's reaction at first, it's only later I realise that her comment was "Oh F***". I really have to do something about that girl's language. I move the pile of books, they must have missed the mouse because there was no flattened carcass. I know when to admit defeat, the room looks like the aftermath of an earthquake, and I'm pretty sure I buggered up my back when I moved either bookcase or the couch.

Rob is home by this time, and having a good laugh at my expense. The next thing I know, the kids are yelling that they have found the mouse again, I expect my husband to step in at this point, but no he defers to me. My hero ! The mouse meanwhile is staying very still, maybe he did get thumped on the head by the avalanche of books. I was able to grab him by the tail, and he offered no resistance. Unfortunately I promptly dropped him, so if he wasn't stunned before, he was now. I grab him again, and make my way to the back door. I just have one more thing to do and that is advance on my daughters waving the mouse menacingly in their faces.  The resulting screams were well worth it, and the mouse is booted out the door.

Rob did warn me, that if I posted every day I would soon run out of things to write about, but I think in this house that is never going to happen.

PS:  Sitting down for a quiet evening of telly, we notice that another of the cats is very interested in  the fireplace. Lo & behold she pounces, and she has another frigging mouse. Just my luck, Lindsay starts screaming and Grady chases the cat upstairs and straight under our bed. Brilliant ! Only two possible outcomes, the mouse escapes and goes to ground in our bedroom or the cat kills it and leaves it somewhere under our bed. I can't wait to see how this one plays out.

PPS: Rob goes up to bed, only to come straight back down, he's located the mouse in the corner of the bedroom - alive and well and wants me to catch it. Bloody marvelous, two in one night, I'm really on a roll. Mind you, I have the capture fine tuned now, and it doesn't take long to boot mouse #2 out the door. Where upon my husband - get this - complains that I didn't go far enough down the garden to ditch the mouse. It's February in Canada for god's sake and I'm in my PJ's and he expects me to go on a friggin' trek to dispose of a mouse. He'll be lucky if he doesn't wake up and find a mouse head on his pillow tomorrow morning. Can life get any better than this ?

Stay tuned.

I Hate It When He's Right !

For the past couple of weeks, my husband has been warning me that when he starts his new job, I am going to run into problems getting everything done in the mornings.  Of course me, in my usual flippant manner, said "Whatever" and didn't give it another thought, until today.

The day doesn't get off to a good start when Lindsay realises she actually has to walk to school, and she is not happy. She is still in bed at 7:15, when I call up and gently remind her that the dishwasher needs emptying, which is one of her responsibilities. Two minutes later, she arrives in the kitchen and cupboard doors are flung open and banged shut, as she tosses dishes, mugs and glasses onto the shelves. My greeting of "Good morning darling" is met with a icy glare. After the dishwasher has been emptied and slammed shut, she stomps back up stairs to get ready for school, and that was the the last I saw of her. I think she said goodbye as she trudged out the door, but from her tone, it could just as easily have been "Up Yours !".

So having dealt successfully with daughter #1, I turn my attention to the other two. Sid has got up but is sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket.  This does not bode well.  Grady meanwhile has no intention of getting up. I am determined to keep a smile plastered on my face, but my continued requests for my son to get out of bed gradually turn nasty, until I'm issuing death threats with gay abandon. I still have to feed them and finish off their lunches. Beginning to think I should have got up earlier.

No matter what, I am determined to prove my husband wrong and keep everything moving on track. Force-feed Sid her breakfast, beat Grady over the head with a newspaper until he feeds the cats, and test both of them on their spelling which is due today.  So far, so good. I haven't lost my temper (I don't count the death threats) even though I have yet to finish my first, all important cup of coffee.

I was too quick to congratulate myself on a job well done, because I suddenly realised the kids were late for school. I yell at them to get a move on and race out to warm up the van. No sign of my keys, think! think! think!, I can't remember when I last used them, and I'm really hoping I hadn't locked them the van, which wouldn't be the first time. Finally discover them under a pile of newspapers, only now a fight has broken out between Sid and Grady because Sid can't find a glove. By this time they are really late and I'm wailing at them like some kind of demented banshee. The dog has taken cover under the kitchen table, as I'm gathering up kids, lunches and snowsuits and throwing them out the door. 

I don't like to admit it, but they were late for school and my husband was right. I really, really hate it when that happens.  And Sid's missing glove ? My darling son has just admitted that the reason Sid couldn't find it, was because he had hidden it. Next time I'll just let her pummel him.

What A Weekend !!

Rob starts back to work Monday, so we decided to take a mini getaway to a well known water park in Niagara Falls. The kids had a great time, but I have to say, it's not my choice of a vacation spot. Far too noisy, far too crowded and way too many screaming kids, and that was just in our room.

After a day spent frolicking in the water park, (I hunkered down with a good book - I don't frolic) we decided to visit the falls to see them lit up at night. I'm not sure how, but we got totally and utterly lost, and spent almost an hour cruising around downtown Niagara, the Falls ever present in the back ground, but never seeming to get any closer. Lindsay expressed amazement at the number of TGI Fridays in town, and I had to explain to her that there was only one restaurant, we had just driven past it several times.

We finally thought we'd found the right road, only to end up at one of the Casinos. Rob was getting more irate and muttering under his breath. He's usually very calm, so the muttering wasn't a good sign. Meanwhile, Sid was almost inconsolable. She thought we'd never find our way back to the lodge, she didn't care so much about not getting home, but she'd left her souvenirs in the hotel room and thought she'd never see them again !

Grady meanwhile, was convinced that the reason we couldn't get down to the falls was because somehow, unknowingly we had crossed over into the US, and he was worried we'd get caught without passports. I tried to explain that we would have had to have gone through customs, immigration etc, but he was having none of it.

Of course, the more annoyed Rob became, the funnier I thought it was, which didn't really go over a whole bundle. He actually had the gall to tell me that if I had been driving I would have already pulled over and be crying at the side of the road. Bloody cheek !. We eventually made to the falls, took the requisite photographs, listened to the kids whine and moan they were cold, packed up and headed back.

I don't why, but at bedtime, Grady was all of a sudden concerned about bedbugs. I honestly don't know where he gets these notions from. He grizzled and moaned that he couldn't sleep because he was itchy. He kept turning on the light to see if he could "catch" the bedbugs on him. I told him the itching was due to spending almost all day in chlorinated water, but no, nothing would persuade him otherwise. Before long he had his sister going too, and the both of them were carrying on. The lights were flashing on and off so much, it felt like we were in Vegas. Lindsay was getting more and more pissed off and kept snarling at the other two, then Sid would get upset because Lindsay was rude to her. Honestly, I could have listened to all this at home for free. When I went to bed, I think Grady must have brainwashed me because I was itching too. By this time, I was seriously thinking I should have tossed them both over the falls when I had the chance.

Oh well, this is what memories are made of.

Not For The Queasy ....

I was challenged to write a post on rabbit poo. I can certainly write about it, I'm just not so sure that anyone is going to want to read it though ..... so I'll make it a short one.

Seeing as we have six rabbits, we have loads of the stuff. Admittedly, these rabbits stay outside year round  and it goes right on the garden. Occasionally we have had the unfortunate experience when a rabbit; and I'm really drawing down on my descriptive skills here, but there ain't no polite way of putting this, ends up with a giant pile of poo stuck to it's bum.

The first time it happened, my husband kept hoping the poo would drop off it by itself, but it wasn't to be. Eventually when the mound was so big, and the poor rabbit was forced to propel himself around the hutch on his tippy-toes, we embarrassingly admitted defeat and took him to the vets. And by we, I mean Rob and Sid, because there was no way in hell I was going near that one.  You can imagine my surprise when they brought the rabbit home 1lb lighter. The cost - $157.  I'm not sure what gold is currently trading for, but I'm sure it's cheaper than rabbit poo.

You may have noticed I wrote, "the first time it happened" which would suggest it happened again. Sure enough, Rabbit #2.  This time we decided to deal with it in house.  I can honestly say it was the worst experience of my life and I have suffered through childbirth !  It took three of us; me to hold the rabbit, Rob to soak off the shit  and which ever child I could threaten, to hold the clothes peg on my nose. I don't handle these sort of things very well.

I promise, I am not making any of this up. Someone once once told me, "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all".  That can pretty much sum up our house. I cannot believe that I am actually sitting here on a Thursday night blogging about rabbit poo, but maybe it's because Rob has just informed me that this weekend we have to deal with another bunged up bunny.  For anyone one who doesn't believe me, you're welcome to come to our house and record the event for you-tube.  Good times !

So this goes out to Tim & Tracey, who have supplied most of our animals, including the rabbits.

Next installment on Monday. Have a great weekend, I can't wait.

Mouse In The House

We live in an old house, not a Century Home, or anything glamorous, just old. Despite the fact we have 4 (obviously useless) cats, we very often get mice in the walls, and sometimes they venture out. Now my dear husband, who put himself through school working at a vets, hates mice, won't go near them. I won't go as far as to say he screams like a girl, but it comes pretty close.  My kids who, despite the fact they all have pet hamsters, are also terrified of mice, which leaves yours truly, when it comes to catching them.

The mice invasion gets worse during the winter and so one evening recently when we heard a scrabbling in the kitchen walls, we knew we'd have to take action. Believe me, if a mouse gets stuck in the wall and dies, the stench is like nothing else, and usually lasts 2 weeks.  We had a hole cut in the wall and were waiting to trap the critter when it came out, only to have it dart behind the stove.  Rob pulls out the stove, whilst I go in to apprehend the villainous rodent. Rob stayed back at a safe distance, while Lindsay took up look-out duty on a chair. Fortunately Sid and Grady are asleep, because this already has the makings of a scene from The Three Stooges.

Unfortunately, I'm not as swift as I used to be, so the mouse escaped, ran across the floor accompanied by a chorus of screams and took refuge under the fridge. So back goes the stove, and out comes the fridge. Rob, my hero gets a really long stick and starts poking under the fridge hoping to flush out the mouse. Lindsay has the flashlight, but she is hopping about and can't keep it still.  One particularly vicious jab from the stick and the mouse escapes the fridge, only to flee back under the stove.

Back goes the fridge, out comes the stove - again.  By this time it is after midnight, and I've just about had enough. Rob decides to barricade the bottom of the fridge and block off the doorway to the dining room, and back I crawl behind the stove. Can't see worth a dam because no one will come any closer with the flashlight.   But sure enough, there is the poor little creature, cowering in the far corner. I lunge for it, miss, hit my head on the wall, stand up, hit my head on the cupboard, and start a string of curses which I won't repeat here.  Rob and Lindsay think this is hilarious, but as my father always used to say "He who laughs last , laughs the longest", and sure enough the laughter stopped abruptly as Rob & Lindsay trip over themselves trying to get out the way of the mouse, which hot foots it across the floor, up and over Rob's barricade,  into the dining room and under the buffet.

As far as I'm concerned, the mouse has won, and I'm happy to let him have his hard earned victory. Of course, that wasn't the end if it, but I'll save the next episode of the Mouse Wars for another day. And the four cats ? They were nowhere to be seen.

What My Husband Wishes He Could Change About Me

I know, I was just as surprised as everyone else to discover that after almost 26 years of wedded bliss, there are actually things he would like to change about me.  Who knew ?

The first thing he'd like to change about me is that I snore.  There. I have freely admitted it, I snore.  Actually, this is one thing I would like to change as well. Trust me it's no picnic waking up in the middle of night frantically gasping for breath, only to find my  husband looming menacingly over me, a maniacal grin on his face as he is pinching my nostrils closed.  The Rat Bastard has even admitted that he likes to see how long I can go without breathing ! So come the morning that my cold lifeless body is found in bed, you won't need CSI Ajax to know who did it.

That I am a night owl. In a perfect world - which trust me is about as far from my world as you can get - my day would start at noon and go through to 3:00 AM.  Alas that is not to be, but I still try and get as much out of the quiet late night hours as I can. The only trouble is, I can't see worth a dam in the dark and I have a lousy sense of direction, so as as stealthily as I try to  fumble my way to bed in the pitch black, I cannot help but bump into the furniture. The problem is, I don't do it silently, and as much as I try to bite my tongue, when I receive a glancing blow from the corner of the dresser or stub my toe on the bedpost, I will let out a howl of pain, usually followed by a string of curses. But that is nothing compared to the noise level when I step on an unsuspecting cat.  Rob never stirs at the time, so I think I may have gotten away with it, but without fail I receive a scathing lecture in the morning.

Finally, at least for now, he'd like to change the fact that I am colour blind. Apparently something very rare in women, but runs rampant in my family.  In most cases it's not a problem, traffic lights for example are clearly red and green. However when it comes to sorting laundry, the fun begins, as Rob, late for work, hunts frantically through his drawer, looking for the other grey & navy socks that I have inadvertently paired together. Sometimes when he has pissed me off, I even do it deliberately ! 

I'm sure if he sets his mind to it, he'll think of other things he'd like to change, but I'll keep those for another day.