I call it my "Remembering Notebook."
It's got a bright pink cover.
Spiral bound.
I don't remember where I put it.
Dangit.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Incorrect Assumption that the Weather Mirrors Our Moods...
I'm not actually in a bad mood today. In fact, a rain day is good because it forces me to do jobs I usually put off because I have to be outside.
Well... to be totally honest, I never run out of jobs, I'm easily distracted, and I'm pretty good at procrastinating.
In any case, it's pouring out there today. It has been since last night. The corral is soaked, the eavestroughs on the house are overflowing, and the horses smell like wet horse. It's not as bad as wet dog.
That lovely spotted gelding of mine is wearing pretty purple bandages on his hind legs since yesterday afternoon when I went to pick his hooves before a ride and discovered he wouldn't put any weight on his left hind. I don't think it's a severe injury. He's already walking much better this morning. Yesterday evening he came loping into the corral on 3 1/2 legs and I figured he'd live. He's supposed to work tomorrow after school. I hope he's okay.
Of course it could still be raining by then. I can work around that, though. I just give Phoenix the day off while the kid and I sit in the tack room learning about bits and bridles.
I still hope he's okay. Partly, I worry about the potential vet bill, but also I just hate seeing him sore. He's a real sweet guy and I prefer to see his face all relaxed and happy. Mind you, I'm convinced he kind of likes the occasional ouchie. He looooves the attention.
I spent close to two hours in the open shed with my two horses. I changed Phoenix's bandages. I washed Copper's eyes, and rubbed zinc cream on her muzzle to heal up the last of the sunburn scabs. I reminded myself that even if it isn't hot anymore, the sun is still strong enough to burn her little pink nose. I combed my fingers through Phoenix's white forelock. They each got enough of a forehead scratch to make them close their eyes, and twitch their droopy lips in happiness.
I love that.
Some days, I love fussing over them even more than riding them.
We stood under the doorway as the rain drilled past us. I thought about getting the Old Order Mennonite guys out to put eavestroughs on the south side of the barn roof. They'd have it done in a day, easily. Then I wouldn't get drenched on days like these, just trying to get in the barn door.
Eventually I took down the ropes blocking the doorways, and the horses eagerly stepped out into the rain. They don't give a crap about rain. It's not cold today. There's nice juicy grass to eat in the pasture.
I watched them cross the sticky wet corral. Phoenix walked more carefully than usual. Each hoof slid slightly, but there was only a slight hesitation on the sore leg. The Little Lady followed him walking all ladylike and polite. Once he got out to the grass, Phoenix trotted like he was testing out the new legs, and then loped lazily to the other end of the field. After I put all my stuff away, I peeked out and saw them at the far fence, grazing like normal.
In the house, my Pug was curled up on a couch cushion, looking at me like he was waiting there all morning for me to join him. He'll have to go out in the rain for a walk (and a dump) one of these hours, but he clearly believes that a rain day means a slow day.
It's grey, trucks swish by on the highway, and I'm thinking maybe it's me who mirrors the weather, not the other way around.
Well... to be totally honest, I never run out of jobs, I'm easily distracted, and I'm pretty good at procrastinating.
In any case, it's pouring out there today. It has been since last night. The corral is soaked, the eavestroughs on the house are overflowing, and the horses smell like wet horse. It's not as bad as wet dog.
That lovely spotted gelding of mine is wearing pretty purple bandages on his hind legs since yesterday afternoon when I went to pick his hooves before a ride and discovered he wouldn't put any weight on his left hind. I don't think it's a severe injury. He's already walking much better this morning. Yesterday evening he came loping into the corral on 3 1/2 legs and I figured he'd live. He's supposed to work tomorrow after school. I hope he's okay.
Of course it could still be raining by then. I can work around that, though. I just give Phoenix the day off while the kid and I sit in the tack room learning about bits and bridles.
I still hope he's okay. Partly, I worry about the potential vet bill, but also I just hate seeing him sore. He's a real sweet guy and I prefer to see his face all relaxed and happy. Mind you, I'm convinced he kind of likes the occasional ouchie. He looooves the attention.
I spent close to two hours in the open shed with my two horses. I changed Phoenix's bandages. I washed Copper's eyes, and rubbed zinc cream on her muzzle to heal up the last of the sunburn scabs. I reminded myself that even if it isn't hot anymore, the sun is still strong enough to burn her little pink nose. I combed my fingers through Phoenix's white forelock. They each got enough of a forehead scratch to make them close their eyes, and twitch their droopy lips in happiness.
I love that.
Some days, I love fussing over them even more than riding them.
We stood under the doorway as the rain drilled past us. I thought about getting the Old Order Mennonite guys out to put eavestroughs on the south side of the barn roof. They'd have it done in a day, easily. Then I wouldn't get drenched on days like these, just trying to get in the barn door.
Eventually I took down the ropes blocking the doorways, and the horses eagerly stepped out into the rain. They don't give a crap about rain. It's not cold today. There's nice juicy grass to eat in the pasture.
I watched them cross the sticky wet corral. Phoenix walked more carefully than usual. Each hoof slid slightly, but there was only a slight hesitation on the sore leg. The Little Lady followed him walking all ladylike and polite. Once he got out to the grass, Phoenix trotted like he was testing out the new legs, and then loped lazily to the other end of the field. After I put all my stuff away, I peeked out and saw them at the far fence, grazing like normal.
In the house, my Pug was curled up on a couch cushion, looking at me like he was waiting there all morning for me to join him. He'll have to go out in the rain for a walk (and a dump) one of these hours, but he clearly believes that a rain day means a slow day.
It's grey, trucks swish by on the highway, and I'm thinking maybe it's me who mirrors the weather, not the other way around.
Monday, September 27, 2010
My horse is a landmark!
I bought a saddle from a horse trainer on the weekend. Of course this led to a quick chat about who we are and what we do. She teaches riding lessons and retrains problem horses; I teach western / wenglish lessons to 10 year old girls. She told me which horse farm she usually trains out of, and I knew exactly where it is. I told her where I live with my husband and kids and parents, and which town our place is on the way to, and how it's just around that curve, with the pasture up by the road and the two Appaloosas.
"Oh, you're the one with the Appaloosa! I love your horse!"
She'd driven by here on her way to the local tack shop and admired my freckled knucklehead!
Now when I give directions I can say, "Turn right at the Appaloosa."
"Oh, you're the one with the Appaloosa! I love your horse!"
Now when I give directions I can say, "Turn right at the Appaloosa."
Friday, September 24, 2010
How to dress up to go out to dinner
The handkerchief hanging out of the pocket is very practical and I don't know why we don't carry them around with us. Kleenex has ruined us.
Don't throw away an old hat just because it has a hole in it. It's just getting comfy at that point. Same with shirts. A good plaid shirt should be worn until it's a rag with sleeves. (Then you cut it into squares and stash it in a box intending to make a quilt out of it.)
Here's another hint: if you happen to be working as an actor and the role requires some makeup to create an effect of facial gnarliness, leave the face on after work. Keeps people guessing as to why you're out and about all scraped up. If you look particularly infectious you might even get to enjoy a meal undisturbed. At the very least you can tell people they should see the other guy.
Most of all be sure to accessorize with a favourite gnarly indestructible legendary rock star. Bonus points for matching hats and shades. If your rock star has the guts to pull off bright turquoise sneakers you collectively are in my Style Hall Of Brilliance.
(But don't trust my judgement. I'm in my jammies right now.)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Hope for a Cure for a brutal disease!!! and why you should read SOME KIND OF NORMAL by Heidi Willis
This morning on the national news, there was a story on stem cell research going on in Toronto. I watched it with my jaw dropped, muttering disbelief and prayers -- these scientists were growing new pancreas cells. They were producing insulin.
Although I am not diabetic, I am affected by diabetes. I have loved ones who deal with it. I'm so thankful for the technology that keeps them alive. A hundred years ago, diabetes spelled death. Since the discovery of insulin, a diabetic person can live and thrive, although the struggles never go away. What the hell, jabbing yourself with needles and keeping track of every bit of food is better than dying.
But it's an evil disease, because the food eaten to stay alive is what makes you sick or worse.
I want a cure. I want a teenage girl to be able to go to a friend's house and not worry about checking her blood or taking a shot. I want to be able to go to a movie with a loved one and not worry about fitting our fun in between meals or making sure she's not going low or thinking that when we're home she might not wake up that night because she's gone into a coma. I want a cure.
Here's the address to the site carrying the video: (Lisa Ray and Seamus explore stem cells)
http://www.ctv.ca/canadaam/
I don't know how long it'll be up on that site so look at it NOW.
And now I'll direct your attention a writer you need to know about if you don't yet:
SOME KIND OF NORMAL is a novel about a family dealing with this exact situation. It's happening in the story like it's happening in real life. But this isn't just a story about a disease. This is about what it does to a family, and how the neighbours want to pray the diabetes out of the girl, and the extremes taken to keep this kid alive. It's a about LIFE. It's about HOPE. We can't give up. Ever.
Also it's so well written you'll be silently cheering and weeping and even chuckling a few times.
I'm not just saying this because the author is cute and friendly and has a great name.
She wrote a work of fiction that I know for a fact could be real life to a lot of people.
So READ! WATCH! SHARE! GET HEIDI'S BOOK! Spread the word and most of all, KEEP THE HOPE ALIVE!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Have I ever mentioned that I hate rodents?
I do. I hate them. I hate mice, I super-hate rats, and honestly, I'm not even completely comfortable around hamsters.
I hate mice.
I just hate them.
Little twitchy noses and icky tails and beady eyes. Hate. Burning, serious hate.
I love critters but I hate rodents.
That is all. Good day.
I hate mice.
I just hate them.
Little twitchy noses and icky tails and beady eyes. Hate. Burning, serious hate.
I love critters but I hate rodents.
That is all. Good day.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Water Pressure: it's not just for townies anymore!
I unofficially moved in with the parents a year ago. In that time we've had to adjust to the extremely weak water flow coming out of the taps. It would take ten minutes to fill the claw-foot bathtub. If you wanted to wash dishes while somebody had a bath, you had to fill one or the other but not both at the same time. And the washing machine, which took close to an hour to go through a cycle, had to have the water all to itself or nobody got anything.
My kids did the majority of their growing up in town and were spoiled soft by all that powerful water coming out of taps all over our house. After our big basement renovation, we had not one but TWO bathrooms, and get this - one bathroom could be used at the same time as the other!!! The washing machine could run while the shower was on!!!
I never lost my amazement at that.
It never fully occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, there are other people living on farms with two simultaneously functional bathrooms in the house. Or maybe, washing machines that fill in five minutes instead of twenty.
And don't even get me started on rusty water that turns the toilet bowl brown a day after it gets scrubbed. I just assumed that every rural house is like that. I did wonder though if ours is the only farm family avoiding white clothes, because they always turn yellowish brown from the water. Was that normal?
I just sort of didn't think of it. That is, until we moved out here.
Part of what jogged my brain was the sharing of one house. Think about it. Four adults. Two teenagers. One of whom is a girl. Now add slooooow water flow to the equation. The amount of planning needed to get things and people clean has been staggering. I mean, in a way it's good, because planning is a good skill to have. I have had a hard time thinking of that when I've got to wash two loads of clothes, one load of towels, and make sure three other people get their baths before bedtime.
I started to wonder if our house was normal. I mean, I'm not plumber (most of my pants cover my butt) and I sort of knew that town water systems are stronger but... THIS was really getting stupid out here.
My parents started looking at the old water tank and thinking it needed repair. Don't ask me how it worked, but they had to fill it with air to get any pressure at all, and it was needing refilling more often than it should. Jethro was gently pushing to get somebody in to look at it. Last week, a big dude who had to be over 6 ft tall came to our house, squeezed himself into our cellar with its 5'7" ceiling height (and that's after ducking to get under the heating ducts) and did some fixin'. I hunch over down in that cellar and I'm 5'1" and Jethro avoids going there at all.
Mr Pipes the Plumber took many trips out to his van and back under the house again. Hours later, with his hat covered in cobwebs, he emerged from the cellar to tell us what was going on.
He'd changed a few pipes. Apparently they were full of rust. Well that's no surprise, really. He did some soldering and some wrenching and had us turning taps on and off. Thick brownish red water spurted out and splashed all over the sinks. I was in the barn, and he had me turn on the tap out there. The rusty water gushed out hard, but in less than a minute it was clear. And fast.
Wow!
This big plumber (whose pants fit, yay!) wasn't horrified at all by our ancient cellar. Folks, it is a CELLAR. It is not a basement. In the oldest part of the house, the beams have big axe marks like the beams in the barn. The walls are about 2 ft thick and bumpy from the stones under the plaster. The floor is bricks pressed into clay. If it wasn't so damp and spidery and scary it would be wicked cool! Mr Pipes said he's been in worse. Wha...? Oh yeah. In one cellar, it was floor to ceiling cobwebs with a tunnel back to the pump and breaker panel. You may all collectively shudder now.
He talked to my dad about the well system, which still works, but could be better, and the possibility of getting a new pump someday, which may or may not be necessary since that 35 year old pump could go for another twenty years or crap out in two. He recommended getting our well tested, which Dad and I figured Mom has probably done already but I didn't live here at the time and he doesn't remember. Mr Pipes talked about getting this big filter system to get the rust out. He also told us we likely won't have as big a rust problem now with our spanky new pipes and all. However, rust builds up over time, so...
All I know is, the tub fills up by the time I run upstairs to get my jammies and come back down. The washing machine time has been cut in half. The water coming out of the kitchen sink is so strong I can - get this- get gunk off the plates just by rinsing! I know! Cool!
Seriously, my mother and I have been looking at each other in relief and remarking on how GREAT and EASY and SO MUCH BETTER OUR LIVES ARE NOW.
Mom grew up without any indoor plumbing at all. I think about that a lot. Sometimes I think it didn't really occur to her that the water system here was kind of substandard because she's just pleased to have it in any form. I have moments when I wash my hands and think, "Oh my gosh, hot running water is the best invention EVER." I don't know if that's normal for someone who has not yet reached age 40 in this new millennium of ours, but maybe it should be.
Seriously, good plumbing is like, it's like, it's... wonderful!
My kids did the majority of their growing up in town and were spoiled soft by all that powerful water coming out of taps all over our house. After our big basement renovation, we had not one but TWO bathrooms, and get this - one bathroom could be used at the same time as the other!!! The washing machine could run while the shower was on!!!
I never lost my amazement at that.
It never fully occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, there are other people living on farms with two simultaneously functional bathrooms in the house. Or maybe, washing machines that fill in five minutes instead of twenty.
And don't even get me started on rusty water that turns the toilet bowl brown a day after it gets scrubbed. I just assumed that every rural house is like that. I did wonder though if ours is the only farm family avoiding white clothes, because they always turn yellowish brown from the water. Was that normal?
I just sort of didn't think of it. That is, until we moved out here.
Part of what jogged my brain was the sharing of one house. Think about it. Four adults. Two teenagers. One of whom is a girl. Now add slooooow water flow to the equation. The amount of planning needed to get things and people clean has been staggering. I mean, in a way it's good, because planning is a good skill to have. I have had a hard time thinking of that when I've got to wash two loads of clothes, one load of towels, and make sure three other people get their baths before bedtime.
I started to wonder if our house was normal. I mean, I'm not plumber (most of my pants cover my butt) and I sort of knew that town water systems are stronger but... THIS was really getting stupid out here.
My parents started looking at the old water tank and thinking it needed repair. Don't ask me how it worked, but they had to fill it with air to get any pressure at all, and it was needing refilling more often than it should. Jethro was gently pushing to get somebody in to look at it. Last week, a big dude who had to be over 6 ft tall came to our house, squeezed himself into our cellar with its 5'7" ceiling height (and that's after ducking to get under the heating ducts) and did some fixin'. I hunch over down in that cellar and I'm 5'1" and Jethro avoids going there at all.
Mr Pipes the Plumber took many trips out to his van and back under the house again. Hours later, with his hat covered in cobwebs, he emerged from the cellar to tell us what was going on.
He'd changed a few pipes. Apparently they were full of rust. Well that's no surprise, really. He did some soldering and some wrenching and had us turning taps on and off. Thick brownish red water spurted out and splashed all over the sinks. I was in the barn, and he had me turn on the tap out there. The rusty water gushed out hard, but in less than a minute it was clear. And fast.
Wow!
This big plumber (whose pants fit, yay!) wasn't horrified at all by our ancient cellar. Folks, it is a CELLAR. It is not a basement. In the oldest part of the house, the beams have big axe marks like the beams in the barn. The walls are about 2 ft thick and bumpy from the stones under the plaster. The floor is bricks pressed into clay. If it wasn't so damp and spidery and scary it would be wicked cool! Mr Pipes said he's been in worse. Wha...? Oh yeah. In one cellar, it was floor to ceiling cobwebs with a tunnel back to the pump and breaker panel. You may all collectively shudder now.
He talked to my dad about the well system, which still works, but could be better, and the possibility of getting a new pump someday, which may or may not be necessary since that 35 year old pump could go for another twenty years or crap out in two. He recommended getting our well tested, which Dad and I figured Mom has probably done already but I didn't live here at the time and he doesn't remember. Mr Pipes talked about getting this big filter system to get the rust out. He also told us we likely won't have as big a rust problem now with our spanky new pipes and all. However, rust builds up over time, so...
All I know is, the tub fills up by the time I run upstairs to get my jammies and come back down. The washing machine time has been cut in half. The water coming out of the kitchen sink is so strong I can - get this- get gunk off the plates just by rinsing! I know! Cool!
Seriously, my mother and I have been looking at each other in relief and remarking on how GREAT and EASY and SO MUCH BETTER OUR LIVES ARE NOW.
Mom grew up without any indoor plumbing at all. I think about that a lot. Sometimes I think it didn't really occur to her that the water system here was kind of substandard because she's just pleased to have it in any form. I have moments when I wash my hands and think, "Oh my gosh, hot running water is the best invention EVER." I don't know if that's normal for someone who has not yet reached age 40 in this new millennium of ours, but maybe it should be.
Seriously, good plumbing is like, it's like, it's... wonderful!
Monday, September 20, 2010
First we got our kid baptized, then we went to the smash-up derby!
And that's how we do things around here in Mennonite country.
(Annyong did a very sincere, short and sweet testimony, and I am amazed over and over at how honest, good, and smart she is. One nice lady complimented me on bringing my daughter to Jesus but I replied that it really was my daughter's decision... after all that is one major component of the faith.)
(We even had a few special-guest-loved-ones join us for church!)
(Also there were several broken axles, a couple of minor fires under the hood, and a couple incidents of one car leapfrogging another. I took a picture but my iGadget appears to be snubbing my MacBook so I can't get it here. Sorrayyyy.)
(Nobody got hurt. A lot of Caprice and Crown Vics got messed up pretty bad though.)
(PRAISE JESUS!)
(Annyong did a very sincere, short and sweet testimony, and I am amazed over and over at how honest, good, and smart she is. One nice lady complimented me on bringing my daughter to Jesus but I replied that it really was my daughter's decision... after all that is one major component of the faith.)
(We even had a few special-guest-loved-ones join us for church!)
(Also there were several broken axles, a couple of minor fires under the hood, and a couple incidents of one car leapfrogging another. I took a picture but my iGadget appears to be snubbing my MacBook so I can't get it here. Sorrayyyy.)
(Nobody got hurt. A lot of Caprice and Crown Vics got messed up pretty bad though.)
(PRAISE JESUS!)
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Heard every year at the fall fair...
AC/DC Shook me all night long (or various dance mixes, I'm not kidding)
Thank God I'm a country boy
Cotton-eye Joe
The Macarena
The chicken dance
She thinks my tractor's sexy
Whiskey for my men, beer for my horses
Save a horse, ride a cowboy
Welcome to the jungle
Redneck woman
And that's just during the 4-cylinder figure 8 race and demolition!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
We now interrupt this blog for a brief venue change.
Nothing going on here today because all the action is over here at my evil twin's place. Go on, check it out, you know you wanna.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Things change, and things stay the same: a nice visit to the old neighbourhood
There's never enough time to visit. I'm bad at keeping in touch. I'm not good at planning things.
There, now that's out of the way, and I can write about the good stuff!
The occasion was the official release of the Aurora Writers Group's third anthology, cleverly titled, "Aurora Storyalis III" The first anthology made me join the group; the second had four entries of mine. This time around, I took part long distance, which did complicate things, but was worth it. I love being part of that big, diverse group. Seeing everybody again was wonderful! I even got up and read a poem despite my scratchy throat.
I tried not to spread my germs around, I really did, but that's difficult for a hugger like me.
Jethro likes when I have a cold. It always hits me in the throat, and he likes my husky voice. I figure he likes it when I'm raspy and quiet and lethargic, for a change. He says it's nice, cuz my defences are down. Ha. Ha.
I ran around the room with a pen trying to get signatures from all my fellow writers. It really was like the last day of high school with yearbooks. Great, now I'll start having high school nightmares again.
I made all kinds of promises to stay in touch and be more regular about it and if any of you are reading, including my Tiny Writers: I MEAN IT!!!
Hey, if you are a solitary writer? Get yourself into a group. Even if the group is only one other person, do it. You'll not only have somebody to help you with an objective eye for your work, but you won't feel so alone in your craziness. It's nice to have somebody else understand your imaginary friends.
Later on we ended up back on the old block. I was put on a couch and given a nice hot bowl of soup to soothe my sore throat. Awwww! We moved up one house and it turns out I was totally right about the people who bought our house. They are the right family. She had us in for over an hour, gave us the tour, fed us, gave us hugs and sent us away with tomatoes!!! She thanked us for selling them that sweet house. I thanked her for enjoying that house. Then we all laughed and told her about the giant pit the gang of kids dug in the back yard, and the plastic skeletons we buried when we filled in the pit. Yeah, welcome to the neighbourhood!!!
The place sure looks great. It's a lot cleaner, now that it's theirs...
One thing that stayed the same is the presence of two boys who used to spend a lot of time in that house and that backyard, known here as Not So Little M and Cute Stuff. Turns out, they still end up there quite often! They've adopted the new teenage boys. All the boys, including Bucky on a borrowed bike, went on a long ride up the ravine hill and back.
Apparently it's not normal for a seller to choose the house's next inhabitants.
Well, I'm also the girl who names pickup trucks and computers, and is part of three writers groups.
A few old neighbours weren't home when I knocked on the door, but that just means we have to go back again. We rounded out the evening up the street with pizza, laughs, music and sloppy Bernese Mountain Dog kisses. Just like old times, only instead of a quick stagger down the street, it was an hour and a half drive home.
Home...
There, now that's out of the way, and I can write about the good stuff!
The occasion was the official release of the Aurora Writers Group's third anthology, cleverly titled, "Aurora Storyalis III" The first anthology made me join the group; the second had four entries of mine. This time around, I took part long distance, which did complicate things, but was worth it. I love being part of that big, diverse group. Seeing everybody again was wonderful! I even got up and read a poem despite my scratchy throat.
I tried not to spread my germs around, I really did, but that's difficult for a hugger like me.
Jethro likes when I have a cold. It always hits me in the throat, and he likes my husky voice. I figure he likes it when I'm raspy and quiet and lethargic, for a change. He says it's nice, cuz my defences are down. Ha. Ha.
I ran around the room with a pen trying to get signatures from all my fellow writers. It really was like the last day of high school with yearbooks. Great, now I'll start having high school nightmares again.
I made all kinds of promises to stay in touch and be more regular about it and if any of you are reading, including my Tiny Writers: I MEAN IT!!!
Hey, if you are a solitary writer? Get yourself into a group. Even if the group is only one other person, do it. You'll not only have somebody to help you with an objective eye for your work, but you won't feel so alone in your craziness. It's nice to have somebody else understand your imaginary friends.
Later on we ended up back on the old block. I was put on a couch and given a nice hot bowl of soup to soothe my sore throat. Awwww! We moved up one house and it turns out I was totally right about the people who bought our house. They are the right family. She had us in for over an hour, gave us the tour, fed us, gave us hugs and sent us away with tomatoes!!! She thanked us for selling them that sweet house. I thanked her for enjoying that house. Then we all laughed and told her about the giant pit the gang of kids dug in the back yard, and the plastic skeletons we buried when we filled in the pit. Yeah, welcome to the neighbourhood!!!
The place sure looks great. It's a lot cleaner, now that it's theirs...
One thing that stayed the same is the presence of two boys who used to spend a lot of time in that house and that backyard, known here as Not So Little M and Cute Stuff. Turns out, they still end up there quite often! They've adopted the new teenage boys. All the boys, including Bucky on a borrowed bike, went on a long ride up the ravine hill and back.
Apparently it's not normal for a seller to choose the house's next inhabitants.
Well, I'm also the girl who names pickup trucks and computers, and is part of three writers groups.
A few old neighbours weren't home when I knocked on the door, but that just means we have to go back again. We rounded out the evening up the street with pizza, laughs, music and sloppy Bernese Mountain Dog kisses. Just like old times, only instead of a quick stagger down the street, it was an hour and a half drive home.
Home...
Thursday, September 09, 2010
SNOOZE FEST!!! (Only not really.) The story of my trip to the Sleep Lab
My loved ones tell me I snore. I didn't believe them until I woke myself up with a snort. I've known for years that I talk in my sleep. I give my husband heck all the time for stuff he did in some alternate universe. I know I clench my jaw because I feel it when I wake up. Apparently I also twitch, kick, sit up and yell.
That's why last night, Jethro drove me to the sleep lab. I was worried. Nervous. Anxious. He assured me I'd live. He's done it twice. He lived. He told me all about what to expect and how it would go. They'd give me a room, I'd get all ready for bed, and then they'd strap me up with belts and wires stick things to me. Once I was jammied and tooth-brushed they'd get me all wired up.
Here's a pic to demonstrate not only my crooked nose but also how wired I was, literally. See the little white sticker on the top of my head? There were a few more of those around the back. See the colourful wires hanging over my shoulder? That's what the stickers are attached to. The other end was stuck to a little blue box which hung around my neck by that dark wire on my chest. There was a strange little red ring under my nose attached by a white cord.
See the wires taped to my legs? Yeah I shaved my legs before I went in. I thought that would make one less thing to get uptight about. Of course I busted out the woolly socks.
And just to make me feel a little bit happier, I wore my Paw Prints and Dog Bones jammies.
In this next picture you can see that blue thing that the head wires attached to. Later I took it off and set it on the bed next to me. I got a little pulse reader taped to my finger.
Then I got to go to sleep like that.
I was stupidly tired by lights-out at 11:30, since I'd been awake since before 6 am. I'd been reading for awhile before sleep time. I was almost done MOCKINGJAY (which is incredible on so many levels by the way) and had a hard time putting it away but my eyes were going sideways. My room was dark enough to rest but a small amount of light came in through the curtain so I could at least see the intercom is I needed anything. You know, like needing to be unplugged if I needed a trip to a can.
I don't know how long it took to fall asleep. It felt like it took forever but I've had that feeling before and it's never as long as I think. It felt like about two minutes later the door opened and it was time to get my tapes ripped off.
I groggily changed into my clothes, filled out my questionnaire, then stumbled into the elevator.
Jethro drove me home as the sun came up.
And guess what? He was right - I survived!
I hope after all this we can figure out why I'm so tired all the time. And man am I ever gonna sleep good tonight.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Shiny Chrome, Flawless Paint, and a Functioning Radio. (What's THAT?)
**Now edited to include results of the truck investigation trip!!!! Scroll down to the end!!!!
Today I'm heading into town to visit the car dealers. You know, Ford, Chevy, Dodge, not necessarily in that order, the Big Three. I like all the trucks. Chevy Dodge Ford. All of them.
I'm thinking two things right now. One, how did I go from looking in the $2500 range to um, well, add another zero after that and prepare for a visit to the bank. Two, I've never owned anything from the current decade.
And one more thing: new vehicles kinda terrify me. When we bought our Jetta, seven long years ago, it was such a BIG DEAL for me. Understand, in the 70s my dad drove a truck from the 50s. In the 90s, my dad drove... the same truck from the 50s. Guess what he drives now? Yup. In my 80s high school days, I drove either a 1973 Ambassador station wagon, or a 1974 Dodge Dart, or a 1971 Beetle. Or that truck. Sometimes. Anything newer than fifteen years old has been considered NEW. So imagine me with this perfect, shiny, clean little Volkswagen. I wanted to wash it every day and keep it that way.
Jethro's over it. The Jetta has become his mobile office and as such, is covered in what I call a thin layer of Drive-thru; his usual Cup of Sticky and Bag of Crumbs. The little silver car has some road rash from all those trips down the 401. It's got about 280,000 km on it. I don't know how many miles that is. I'm guessing, like, a million or something like that. Not real good with numbers.
All I know is, the first scratch on that car was like a personal injury.
And I think you know what happens to trucks, right?
But look how shiny and magnificent these guys look, like they've just spent hours in Hair and Makeup, with a wind machine gently tickling their mirrors...
I am telling myself that I'm only going to the dealerships to LOOK and DISCUSS and TALK NUMBERS. Oh, that last one should be good eh? Hit me with the numbers, dude. I'll pretend I'm not blanking out.
The whole story of how we got from 2500 to possibly 25,000 is a whole other story, but the end result is that a three year old diesel pickup is roughly the same price as a brand spankin' new gas powered truck.
Both require some scrambling in the financing department. Jethro looked at me one evening and said, "You know, if we buy something new we get a better warranty. Look at this," as he shook a full page ad in the newspaper, "they're doing zero down. They're practically giving these things away. They're begging us to buy their trucks."
Um, okay...
Meanwhile a steady stream of scary things goes around in the background.
We can't afford this.
I don't deserve a truck this nice.
We need a truck.
I hate having a loan.
I hate monthly payments.
Ah'm skeert.
My mom really wants me to get another truck so's me an' her don't have to keep sharing her car. Also the Pug isn't allowed in Grandma's car because of the shedding problem...
I'd like to stop feeling so stranded and kind of lost! Unhorsed.
I just needs me a truck.
(look how shiny that sucker is eh?)
THE RESULTS OF THE CHECKING OUT OF TRUCKS:
So it turns out, good ol' Chrysler puts a full page ad in the paper - one I had a hard time believing - that really is too good to be true. Sure they'll sell you that truck, but good luck finding that exact configuration at this time of year. I asked the dude if the ad is just to get people into the dealership. "Sure it is," he replied. I like this guy. He even put the newspaper in his recycling box for me.
End result: the $10,000 cost of the diesel option isn't really worth it. Yeah.
Also? The most amazing news which I did not know? Ready?
THE BIG 8 CYLINDER HEMI IS MORE FUEL EFFICIENT THAN THE STANDARD 6 CYLINDER ENGINE.
I'm friggin serious!!!!! Turns out, the legendary Hemispherical head blah blah grunt grunt engine re-introduced in 2005 is quite the redesign. When cruising down the road at highway speeds, the engine shuts down four of the cylinders. Croooooze efficiently. Then when you put your foot on the pedal, vrooooom and it's all there.
So I'm like, duh! Yeah!!!
I gotta pinch myself because regardless, we cannot afford the payments on a new truck.
Anyways I sat in a 2008 and I liked it. A lot. I could see over the dash, reach the pedals, everything. Too bad it's already sold. But it got me thinking.
Took a cruise over to the GM dealer. Sigh. Darnit, Generous Motors, you have me. And then you lose me. You keep playing with my heart. I hated the 1999-2006 (or whatever) generation of trucks. Now I like the newest body style, but man that is a cheap interior. All brittle looking plastic. Cheeeep. Plus I had to lift my chin to see over the hood - what the heck with THAT?
Also, the GM salesman wore too much cologne and said my name too often. Yeeesh.
So there it is.
Dodge - better fuel mileage, better interior, good looking exterior, AND a few thousand dollars less.
Looks like Dodge might be stealing this GM girl's heart good and for real.
Today I'm heading into town to visit the car dealers. You know, Ford, Chevy, Dodge, not necessarily in that order, the Big Three. I like all the trucks. Chevy Dodge Ford. All of them.
I'm thinking two things right now. One, how did I go from looking in the $2500 range to um, well, add another zero after that and prepare for a visit to the bank. Two, I've never owned anything from the current decade.
And one more thing: new vehicles kinda terrify me. When we bought our Jetta, seven long years ago, it was such a BIG DEAL for me. Understand, in the 70s my dad drove a truck from the 50s. In the 90s, my dad drove... the same truck from the 50s. Guess what he drives now? Yup. In my 80s high school days, I drove either a 1973 Ambassador station wagon, or a 1974 Dodge Dart, or a 1971 Beetle. Or that truck. Sometimes. Anything newer than fifteen years old has been considered NEW. So imagine me with this perfect, shiny, clean little Volkswagen. I wanted to wash it every day and keep it that way.
Jethro's over it. The Jetta has become his mobile office and as such, is covered in what I call a thin layer of Drive-thru; his usual Cup of Sticky and Bag of Crumbs. The little silver car has some road rash from all those trips down the 401. It's got about 280,000 km on it. I don't know how many miles that is. I'm guessing, like, a million or something like that. Not real good with numbers.
All I know is, the first scratch on that car was like a personal injury.
And I think you know what happens to trucks, right?
Sometimes they get a little roughed up.
But look how shiny and magnificent these guys look, like they've just spent hours in Hair and Makeup, with a wind machine gently tickling their mirrors...
I am telling myself that I'm only going to the dealerships to LOOK and DISCUSS and TALK NUMBERS. Oh, that last one should be good eh? Hit me with the numbers, dude. I'll pretend I'm not blanking out.
The whole story of how we got from 2500 to possibly 25,000 is a whole other story, but the end result is that a three year old diesel pickup is roughly the same price as a brand spankin' new gas powered truck.
Both require some scrambling in the financing department. Jethro looked at me one evening and said, "You know, if we buy something new we get a better warranty. Look at this," as he shook a full page ad in the newspaper, "they're doing zero down. They're practically giving these things away. They're begging us to buy their trucks."
Um, okay...
Meanwhile a steady stream of scary things goes around in the background.
We can't afford this.
I don't deserve a truck this nice.
We need a truck.
I hate having a loan.
I hate monthly payments.
Ah'm skeert.
My mom really wants me to get another truck so's me an' her don't have to keep sharing her car. Also the Pug isn't allowed in Grandma's car because of the shedding problem...
I'd like to stop feeling so stranded and kind of lost! Unhorsed.
I just needs me a truck.
(look how shiny that sucker is eh?)
THE RESULTS OF THE CHECKING OUT OF TRUCKS:
So it turns out, good ol' Chrysler puts a full page ad in the paper - one I had a hard time believing - that really is too good to be true. Sure they'll sell you that truck, but good luck finding that exact configuration at this time of year. I asked the dude if the ad is just to get people into the dealership. "Sure it is," he replied. I like this guy. He even put the newspaper in his recycling box for me.
End result: the $10,000 cost of the diesel option isn't really worth it. Yeah.
Also? The most amazing news which I did not know? Ready?
THE BIG 8 CYLINDER HEMI IS MORE FUEL EFFICIENT THAN THE STANDARD 6 CYLINDER ENGINE.
I'm friggin serious!!!!! Turns out, the legendary Hemispherical head blah blah grunt grunt engine re-introduced in 2005 is quite the redesign. When cruising down the road at highway speeds, the engine shuts down four of the cylinders. Croooooze efficiently. Then when you put your foot on the pedal, vrooooom and it's all there.
So I'm like, duh! Yeah!!!
I gotta pinch myself because regardless, we cannot afford the payments on a new truck.
Anyways I sat in a 2008 and I liked it. A lot. I could see over the dash, reach the pedals, everything. Too bad it's already sold. But it got me thinking.
Took a cruise over to the GM dealer. Sigh. Darnit, Generous Motors, you have me. And then you lose me. You keep playing with my heart. I hated the 1999-2006 (or whatever) generation of trucks. Now I like the newest body style, but man that is a cheap interior. All brittle looking plastic. Cheeeep. Plus I had to lift my chin to see over the hood - what the heck with THAT?
Also, the GM salesman wore too much cologne and said my name too often. Yeeesh.
So there it is.
Dodge - better fuel mileage, better interior, good looking exterior, AND a few thousand dollars less.
Looks like Dodge might be stealing this GM girl's heart good and for real.
Friday, September 03, 2010
Sometimes when things get really crazy here, I ask myself, "What would Johnny do?"
I don't really ask myself that. I just kept thinking it would be a great title for a blog on a Friday. You know, cuz I like to feature Mr Depp on a regular kind of basis.
Today I drag out that title because I can't remember what the heck I planned for today. At about 4 am I woke up to a strange chirping, squeaking, shrieking noise. That time of night, in a dream state so deep I was seeing fractals in front of my eyes whether the eyelids were open or shut, I had to hang onto the walls to get down the steps to the bathroom. On the way back up I realized the sound hadn't stopped. There was a lot of thumping to go with it. And cat noises. I had a memory of Nigel in his feline prime bringing me a mouse in the dead of night, with its little paws twitching and a steady piercing squeak coming out of it. I could see the twitching from the hall light. He jumped onto my bed making proud little gurgling meows in the back of his throat.
Did you know that I hate mice? I do. I hate them. Yeesh.
I really didn't want that thing on my bed. But Nigel was so darn proud, bringing me his prize, and after all he was totally doing the right thing. "Oh, good boy, Nigel, you good cat," I whispered, as I carefully, gingerly, reluctantly, oh so gently picked him up, twitchy shrieky mouse and all. I set him on the floor. I petted him. "You are the best hunter and I'm so proud of you. Now go eat your mouse."
And back in the present, I slowly put it all together and realized that Crazy Insane Hot-Wired Lucy, The Feral Housecat, had brought me something squeaky on a hot night with the Pug snoring and the fan blowing cool air on us. Okay. I laid down and listened to the squeaking and thumping. Yeesh. Shudder. Eyelid fractals.
Only... it wasn't squeaking exactly. It was more like an intermittent squeak. It was actually terrifying enough to penetrate my fuzzy brain.
That's about when Annyong stumbled across the hall into my room. "Mom. Got a problem."
"Mmmff?"
"Yeah. Lucy's killing a bat in my room."
A bat. That's why it sounded different.
I think I might have groaned.
"I closed the door and they're in there and I don't know what to do..."
"Come in. There's nothing we can do about it now."
We blinked into the dark while Lucy thrashed around torturing the winged varmint.
Annyong said, "You know, I actually like bats."
"So do I. They eat mosquitoes."
"And they're not as ugly as people think they are."
"Mm. But that one's done for. We can't save it."
"I wish we could catch it in a pillowcase and set it free outside like we did the one last summer."
"Me too... but it's probably already beyond saving."
More fan droning and squeaking thrashing, then she said, "I hope she kills it fast."
I agreed but darn well knew she wouldn't. I think Annyong knew it too. Cats are soft and cuddly and pretty but they're also vicious and sadistic.
A 6 when I got up with the Pug I opened the door. Lucy bounced out, literally bright eyed and bushy tailed, purrrting and mewing her excited little cat noises. Across the room, a tiny furry body was still, on its back, broken leathery wings curled defensively. In the early light I could see the smears of blood all over the floor.
Later on this morning, after a few phone calls to find out if that bat needed to be tested for rabies or anything, Annyong and I went in there like a CSI team. Bucky was downstairs yammering about Lucy the Murderer and how evil she is and how he's sure he's next. I assured him that if she wanted to kill him he'd be dead by now. I picked up the dead body with a zip lock bag. I mopped the floor with disinfectant, just in case.
Annyong has recovered from the trauma and lack of sleep. Her room's clean. I found Lucy curled up on the rug in mom's sewing room, all happy and dangerous and adorable looking.
Of course then I had to get on the road and do all the appointments and things, plus laundry and dishes and stuff, and right now I can hear my teenagers downstairs having some kind of disagreement. Three loads of laundry wait for me plus a sink full of dishes. I didn't ride yesterday and it looks like the horses are getting another day off today. I wish I had more time to write.
So what would Johnny do with a bat murder in the middle of the night?
I dunno. Maybe call Tim Burton?
Sure, I think of it now, like thirteen hours later...
Today I drag out that title because I can't remember what the heck I planned for today. At about 4 am I woke up to a strange chirping, squeaking, shrieking noise. That time of night, in a dream state so deep I was seeing fractals in front of my eyes whether the eyelids were open or shut, I had to hang onto the walls to get down the steps to the bathroom. On the way back up I realized the sound hadn't stopped. There was a lot of thumping to go with it. And cat noises. I had a memory of Nigel in his feline prime bringing me a mouse in the dead of night, with its little paws twitching and a steady piercing squeak coming out of it. I could see the twitching from the hall light. He jumped onto my bed making proud little gurgling meows in the back of his throat.
Did you know that I hate mice? I do. I hate them. Yeesh.
I really didn't want that thing on my bed. But Nigel was so darn proud, bringing me his prize, and after all he was totally doing the right thing. "Oh, good boy, Nigel, you good cat," I whispered, as I carefully, gingerly, reluctantly, oh so gently picked him up, twitchy shrieky mouse and all. I set him on the floor. I petted him. "You are the best hunter and I'm so proud of you. Now go eat your mouse."
And back in the present, I slowly put it all together and realized that Crazy Insane Hot-Wired Lucy, The Feral Housecat, had brought me something squeaky on a hot night with the Pug snoring and the fan blowing cool air on us. Okay. I laid down and listened to the squeaking and thumping. Yeesh. Shudder. Eyelid fractals.
Only... it wasn't squeaking exactly. It was more like an intermittent squeak. It was actually terrifying enough to penetrate my fuzzy brain.
That's about when Annyong stumbled across the hall into my room. "Mom. Got a problem."
"Mmmff?"
"Yeah. Lucy's killing a bat in my room."
A bat. That's why it sounded different.
I think I might have groaned.
"I closed the door and they're in there and I don't know what to do..."
"Come in. There's nothing we can do about it now."
We blinked into the dark while Lucy thrashed around torturing the winged varmint.
Annyong said, "You know, I actually like bats."
"So do I. They eat mosquitoes."
"And they're not as ugly as people think they are."
"Mm. But that one's done for. We can't save it."
"I wish we could catch it in a pillowcase and set it free outside like we did the one last summer."
"Me too... but it's probably already beyond saving."
More fan droning and squeaking thrashing, then she said, "I hope she kills it fast."
I agreed but darn well knew she wouldn't. I think Annyong knew it too. Cats are soft and cuddly and pretty but they're also vicious and sadistic.
A 6 when I got up with the Pug I opened the door. Lucy bounced out, literally bright eyed and bushy tailed, purrrting and mewing her excited little cat noises. Across the room, a tiny furry body was still, on its back, broken leathery wings curled defensively. In the early light I could see the smears of blood all over the floor.
Later on this morning, after a few phone calls to find out if that bat needed to be tested for rabies or anything, Annyong and I went in there like a CSI team. Bucky was downstairs yammering about Lucy the Murderer and how evil she is and how he's sure he's next. I assured him that if she wanted to kill him he'd be dead by now. I picked up the dead body with a zip lock bag. I mopped the floor with disinfectant, just in case.
Annyong has recovered from the trauma and lack of sleep. Her room's clean. I found Lucy curled up on the rug in mom's sewing room, all happy and dangerous and adorable looking.
Of course then I had to get on the road and do all the appointments and things, plus laundry and dishes and stuff, and right now I can hear my teenagers downstairs having some kind of disagreement. Three loads of laundry wait for me plus a sink full of dishes. I didn't ride yesterday and it looks like the horses are getting another day off today. I wish I had more time to write.
So what would Johnny do with a bat murder in the middle of the night?
I dunno. Maybe call Tim Burton?
Sure, I think of it now, like thirteen hours later...
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