Hubby is beside himself with glee over the Leafs finally making it to round two of a playoff series. Too bad they disappointed him with a loss the first game against the Florida Panthers. If all of this is just words to you, I’m with you. I only know this shit because it radiates from my television screen and like osmosis, I have no choice but to absorb the content. Hockey has always been a part of our relationship. From back in the day when we lived in Toronto and would saunter on down to the Maple Leaf Gardens to see if we could get our hands on tickets for a game that evening, to now, a few years later (*cough, cough*) and a few provinces east, to watch his fave team hopefully make a bid for the elusive cup. Finally. After all this time. We have a deal that if the Toronto Maple Leafs ever made it to the Stanley Cup, we would be in Toronto to see that happen. Could it finally be happening? Should I get online and buy the plane tickets? I’ll have to dig out his Eddie O jersey. I’ll have to clean his Tavares jersey. I think he spilled beer on the front during a tense moment. He is crossing his fingers and toes but remains realistic. We have only yet begun to fight. Or something like that.
I would happily trot on down to the Big Smoke to watch a game or get caught up in the hoopla of a win, but watching game after game on the television, just isn’t the same for me. In person, it’s a different ball game…er, hockey game. It’s lively and entertaining. You can hear the skates on the ice and the sweariness of the players. You can cheer with the crowd and feel a part of the game. At home, I fall asleep after the first period.
As a Canadian, I’m failing at our national pastime. I hope I don’t get kicked out of the country or banned from participating in Canadian things. I’ll dress the dog in her hockey jersey and pretend to root for the team…when I’m awake. I’ll drink beer and say ‘eh. I’ll put little Canadian flags in my garden on July 1st and only buy Canadian maple syrup…and stuff. That should guarantee me a place in my country, even if I suck at hockey trivia, right?
If the Leafs manage to pull off some wins, maybe I’ll get more excited. If not for them, but for Hubby. After all, he has cheered for them for more than 32years and will continue to do so even if they suck. I’ve seen him swear at them and cheer for them. It can get pretty sweary and loud at our house during the playoffs. I hope he can see them finally win the big cup.
Let’s Go Leafs!
There. That should do it. They’re practically a shoo-in now!
You. Are. Welcome.
Go Leafs Go! Mags cheers for anyone who gives her snacks.
I’m not sure if I accomplished anything worthwhile besides trying to convince Hubby he should start packing for our trip. We leave in a week. He’s still trying to decide what to wear. And to complicate matters, we are only packing a carry on. For a two-week vacation. Aside from that, I think I managed to clean the main floor of the house and do a half-assed job at making one dinner, but I think I’ll run down my week, if for no other reason, to make you feel better about yourself. Because even if you got out of bed without hurting yourself or disturbing the dog, you had a banner week! Go you!
10. I drank a lot on Friday night in front of company who have never seen me drunk before and now I think I’ve scared them off. Or at least, had them rethinking their options to be in my company for future drinking. I may send them a greeting card apologizing for my ill-timed nodding off and pretending I wasn’t drunk. Is there a card for that? I need a card for that.
9. I took credit for fixing the dog. She had a red swollen mass develop inside her eye. After much debating and Google-ing and asking our breeder’s opinion, we concluded she had cherry eye. Mags is 10 years old, and those things don’t happen in older dogs. Breeder Lady told me how to massage the eye in hopes the mass would pop back into place. (it’s referred to as their third eye and can pop out when poked or injured. Or for no good reason at all, like it feels like making an appearance so go ahead and deal with it, bitch) After massaging the area for a few times on Saturday, we awoke Sunday to find Mags back to normal. For Mags, ‘normal’ is up for debate. I’m taking credit for her return to her original state. And for not panic-dialing the vet and sobbing on the phone that my dog was deformed by an unknown entity.
8. I went shopping with Hubby multiple times only for him to debate the return of all the new clothes to which I eye-rolled. I also witnessed the trying on of every article of clothing he owned to decide if they were worthy of vacation space and drawer space. He ended up culling drawers and forming multiple piles of clothes of which are to be further determined where they should go. A truly enjoyable experience akin to stabbing oneself in the eyes with cocktail forks. Okay, that’s a little over-the-top even for me, but I’ve had better experiences in line at a grocery store. A really long line. Like back to the back of the store line, where someone is still trying to pay with nickels and forgot to pick up the salad dressing, so the cashier makes a pithy call to the stock kid to go find it, to discover that it has sold out, so now there is only the crappy kind left. That line.
7. I tried to feign my way out of saying I didn’t know something when really, I did know and when asked repeatedly if I knew, I tried to keep up the good fight and say, ‘of course I don’t know!’ until I caved and spilled my guts and confessed, and then it got awkward. Until it didn’t. And the thing I knew was a good thing, but I wasn’t supposed to know the thing, but now I think everyone knows the thing, so now everyone is happy to know. You know?
6. Son requested I send pictures of him when he was young and in hockey. Hubby found some and I got into seeing his face when he was little and then I lamented how fast everyone has grown up and how old I am, which then led to remembering I am a grandmother and then I wanted to day drink. But I resisted and had coffee in my Best Grandmother Ever mug and I felt better.
5. I went to the dentist to have a cleaning, only I couldn’t because I had a hip replacement seven months ago and needed to take antibiotics before having any dental procedure. This information would have been advantageous to know before hijacking daughter to drive me there and back and then to work. Son had the car this week and I’m SOL for independently arriving to appointments and trivial things like work, so payback is awesome when Mommy needs to go to the liquor store at 9am to buy wine! Drive Daughter, drive!
4. I work in an environment where being quiet is paramount. I had students testing last week and decided I needed lunch. I was returning from heating my soup when I opened the door so expertly stealth, I even surprised myself. I was congratulating myself on my silent manoeuvres when I dropped a glass jar, sending it crashing against the door causing a loud bang to which I laughed out loud and slammed the door. The soup survived. The students were alerted to my awkward entrance. There. Perfect.
3. Apparently, there was a big hockey game on Saturday night, and it was a nail biter and exciting, except I slept through the entire thing and even when Hubby tried to wake me up to tell me how great it was, I nodded and went back to sleep. I wonder if this is how it will be when a big event suddenly happens like the world is set to explode or a big sale happens at Marshall’s. I’ll say, “yeah, yeah, I’m sleeping here,” and miss the whole thing. Maybe I need an alarm clock that can tell me when I’m missing a big event and slap me into consciousness. Don’t let me sleep through the big Marshall’s sale, please.
2. I’ve been trying to decide what to wear on the plane. Everyone is saying to dress comfortably, but for me that’s sweatpants, a hoodie, and my hair in a ponytail. I don’t think that will cut it going to Europe. Pajama pants? If they’re pretty? Ah, if only I could wear that and my slippers it would take the word ‘comfortable’ to a whole new level. I could take a squish-mallow and my eye mask. A blankie? Ugh. I guess I’ll wear pants.
1. Before Mags came down with an eye from the Zombies of the Apocalypse, I referred to her as an asshole a couple of times. Then when her eyeball looked like it grew a twin, I felt guilty, and that the Universe was punishing me for calling my companion an asshole. She is the one thing in the house with a heartbeat who lives to see me walk through the door and who doesn’t criticize my cooking. And who tolerates my ridiculous need to put a book in front of my face instead of rubbing her belly, like a proper human should. But, in my defense, she was barking at the other dogs in the ‘hood for no good reason. And then promptly shit all over the floor. Asshole. Face it, she was embarrassing the family and I was forced to call her out on it. Now that she has recovered, I feel less like an asshole myself and more like the loving companion she deserves.
Until tomorrow when she barks at the neighbours and shits on the floor. Asshole.
A recovered Mags. Her eye twin has retreated, until I call her an asshole again. Ugh.
Christmas is over and packed away. January is winding down and the dreaded month of February is rearing its ugly head. NO ONE likes February. There is nothingmagical or lovely about it. Oh sure, there’s Valentine’s Day but that’s brief and fleeting and overly annoying. February is fraught with unpredictable weather (at least here) and blue moods, and muddy porches and dirty windows and bone chilling cold. What exactly is there to like? Even the dog can’t stand February. It’s too cold to go outside to pee, she is cranky that she can’t get in her walks and she gives me that sidelong look when I try to get her to play. At all. It’s like she’s too tired to even lift her head from a pillow and why would I even suggest she chase that stupid ball?!
DON’T YOU KNOW IT’S ALMOST FEBRUARY?!
It’s like I’m being ridiculous for even mentioning life goes on and it’s worth trying to make the best of it, isn’t it?
NO. NO IT ISN’T. IT’S FEBRUARY.
The leastfavouriteof the more popular months, February is like the annoying relative that nobody likes and dreads him arriving to any family gathering. It’s like the other 11 months are sitting around the dinner table all reveling in their own positive energy, and then HE walks in.
There’s December holidaying it up and drinking eggnog. January is still recovering from ringing in a new year with December who steadily hands him water and Ibuprofen, not to mention January trying to keep up with all the resolutions he said he was going to make, but didn’t bother because there was just. Too. Much. Wine. March is sittingstoiclyplaying with hisgreanbeans because he is both feared and loved. The older generation is adhering to the “Beware the Ides of March” bullshit and the younger ones are readying the beer kegs for March break. Duuudddde. Then Aprilis laughing hysterically at the other end of the table aboutthe first day for all the foolish pranks, therain that will undoubtedly ensue and the whole Easter Bunny charade that brings CHOCOLATE. Then he turns to May and starts talkingsmack about how one affects the other. “There would be no flowers without my showers, you idiotic twat!” May sits and laughs because there’s Queen Victoria’s birthday and the traditional May 2-4 weekend which brings yetanother camping extravaganza. Duuuude. June is warming up to July and August who all sit glowing in their inner warmth and bestowing happiness and rainbows to September, who has hit menopause. Her hot flashes give way to cold snaps. One minute she’s too hot and the next she needs a sweater. October ischillin’ it and scaring the crap out of November with a Jack-o’-lantern he just carved and November resumes her knitting of a beautifullymulti-colouredblanket of red, gold and orange. There they are, all sitting waiting for HIM to walk in. Finally, the door swings open and in strides February, soaked with freezing icicles dripping from his nose, his face blue with depression and a random red cinnamon heart stuck to his chest. He takes a seat and his hands shake from the cold.
Everyone stops what they are doing and stares. “Oh. You’re here”they say. “Yeah. What’s for dinner?” says February. And then he starts, “Hey, January are you STILL hungover?! HAHAHA!! Pass the beans, March, don’t hog them. Hey, October that’s one uglywhattya-callit? Geezuz,JuneJulyAugust, can’t you three stop all the happiness and sunshine and rainbows bullshit?! IT’S A BIT MUCHDON’T YOU THINK?”
They all roll their eyes and continue with their dinner. When it comes right down to it, as annoying as he is, he’s family. “Gaawwwdd, did you guys SEE the amount of ICE I brought tothepartay??!! It’s EPIC!”
I just finished reading an opinion piece in the Independent that sounded like, if I were British, and young and still cared about where I put my tuna salad or even ate tuna salad for that matter, it sounded like I wrote it. It got me thinking how I should be writing more opinion pieces and stuff about more important newsy crap like tuna salad and Theresa May’s lipstick, and less about my trials and tribulations of being abandoned by children and having to struggle my way through Menopause. It hit me like trying to remove a sweaty workout bra. Smacking myself in the face while trying to pull the soaked yet suddenly rigid material up over my head. The idea is a good one, it’s the execution that’s tricky. Also, it’s a total piss off and funny as hell at the same time.
Then I thought if I don’t write about the daughter-who-left-me-alone-and-sad or about the Big M, what the hell will I entertain ‘the lot’ about? That’s you all. The Lot. Sounds like a great title for a book. The Lot, a continuing saga about wine-binging children-rearing sweary-sadists who revel in the Writer’s hardships with gravity and battles with people-who-think-they-know-better. Anyway, what would I write about? I’ve listed possible incoming topics to keep everyone happy. They are as follows:
1. Meghan Markle’s ridiculous spelling of her first name and how I hate her hair. Seriously, what the hell is the ‘h’ in there for? Am I supposed to say it ‘Megawn’? Or ‘Meghawn’??? Or Duchess of Sussex, which fills me with unending amounts of joy that it fucking rhymes. I think the Queen did that on purpose as a joke. And her hair! Don’t get me started. It always looks like she slapped it up in a bun completed by the Queen’s pissed off lady-in-waiting and then stood in front of a fan blowing 125km/h to finish the look.
I really just want to run over and spray it down….
2. The merits of reading the news on the internet vs watching that shit on T.V. First, I can yell at the computer, raise my fist and protest in ire and everyone just thinks I’m having a bad day with spelling. Also, I can say nasty things or laugh out loud and colleagues think I’m just reading a memo from the boss. I can get various viewpoints from various sources who are questionable and be like the rest of humanity, and totally buy it. I can also read opinion pieces that inspire me to write opinion pieces that spew my opinion and include tuna salad analogies and Magenta lipstick. And judge Meghawn Markle’s hair. Sorry, Duchess of Sussex. That Queen is such a jokester!
3. Taking a cue from my dog and be done with petty life shit. Seriously, that dog has got some issues with noise, laughter, people, kids, babies and other dogs. She can’t stand loud ringing noises from the T.V., doesn’t enjoy the doorbell, she can’t stand my son. At all. She hates to have someone talk to her unless it’s me, then she can tolerate me in short spurts. She will only eat her food when the dish is COMPLETELY FULL AND NO LESS. Will NOT roll over, give a paw or lay down – those commands are just for dumb dogs who don’t know any better. She cannot stand having her picture taken, doesn’t like baths, insists on diving under the covers because she is cold and sits on top of my head because she knows it pisses me off. She sits on Hubby’s legs, then growls when he tries to pet her, defends her right to be perched on the softest pillow in all the land and DEFINITELY would NEVER eat off of anything other than your fingers or her dish.
“What?! Stop looking at me, Human”
I clearly need boundaries like these.
Now that I have some clear cut topics for future posts and opinion pieces, be sure to pop by to see how I delve into the complexities of these issues…or at least the mystery of where I put my tuna salad.
September winds are on the way. Summer weather is hanging around like a bad house guest who refuses to leave. Pretty soon we’ll be packing the suitcases and hastily pushing them onto the front porch, the awkward goodbyes impetuously tossed around like a kid’s unfinished homework. It was good while it lasted, but for Fallies like me, it’s time to move on to the chilliness, pumpkins and spooks; AKA, THE BEST TIME OF YEAR EVAH.
I love autumn like Mags loves her donuts; fallen onto my lap and gobbled up with feverish joy. The leaves turning colour, the frosty mornings and chilly afternoon sunshine. Early fires and warm coffee with a good book. Warm socks, cozy sweaters and candles lit with vanilla or cinnamon scent. This is the time of year I start the bread making, D1’s birthday, a new school year with challenges and the preparation for Christmas ( I know, I hear you groan). This year, D2 will be coming home after 4 months away and only 2 months left to go in her training. IT’S GOING TO BE AN EPIC CHRISTMAS. She’ll be squished so much, she’ll be begging to go back to the -40 degree temps and desolation of Regina.
The family unit is changing with thoughts of both daughters moving onwards and upwards and the boy starting his second year of Uni peering down the tunnel of med school, career and ultimate move to parts unknown. We’re holding on to the last of the full nest, pondering the future of where they’ll be and where we will end up. It’s a bit daunting, but the natural progression is unstoppable. That train left the station once that new pink fat baby was placed in our arms and we dedicated ourselves to securing her future.
Now, three fat babies later, we have to let them all go. We would rather it be a progression of one at a time, but like a sticky bandage, maybe its better it be ripped off all at once. Maybe it’ll be less painful if all three decided to leave home en masse instead of one at a time.
Or not.
The boy will be home for the duration of Uni, so that guarantees me another three years. Yay! D1 has one foot out the door with the collecting of “things I’ll need when I move out”. Huh. Am I supposed to help her with that? I think I’ve been suggesting dishes and pots and pans, instead of the marble coaster set and random pink throw she bought, but she looks at me like I have three heads. I’ve clearly failed her as a mother. “I CAN’T COOK” Ugh. My reply: “LEARN. RACHEL RAY IS ON TV FOR A REASON” “Okay, Mom.” Of course then I regrettably say things like “Maybe you’ll get a nice boyfriend who can cook for you, then you’ll NEED nice pots and pans.” She looks at me like this:
Ain’t parenting grand?!
As I hungrily await the first fallen leaf, the first bite of air, and the first murmur of “I’M NEVER COOKING MEAT. EVER.”, I remain ever steadfast in my belief that I am one of the lucky ones. The parent that GETS to see her children grow up and move on; I am one of the privileged ones that is allowed to see my fat pink babies have careers and be employed and be secure in their development. I am ever aware of the unique honour it is to have the opportunity to be here for our children as they become adults, help them move out, and say things like “Gee, that handsome Cardiologist is single…”
I really just want to run over and spray it down….
“What?! Stop looking at me, Human”
Kayjai 