Going Elsewhere

Okay, okay. I know. I stopped posting here.

Sorry.

This is done and I've moved on to something else. If you'd like to know what that is, gimme a shout.

Christmas Torture

Winter weather is here, which means that Zelda is starting to molt and turn into a snowman.


It also means that Oliver can put his obedience training to use and stoke the fire like we taught him to. Put another log in the stove for mama! Good boy!!


Mark and I went on our annual "Let's Fight All Day and Buy Christmas Present in the City" field trip. Has anyone else ever tried to go shopping with Mark? Other than grocery shopping I mean. If it's for groceries, he's all over that. Shopping for presents though? A new pair of shoes? Or, perish the thought, new pants because SOMEBODY doesn't have a SINGLE pair of jeans that still contain an intact hem because he fidgets and picks them apart all day? No way. It's the only time he gets tense and uptight.

He stands stiffly inside the store, his jaw clenches, and he asks repeatedly if we're done yet, even though he knows the answer. It's the closest that we come to fighting every year. Over time, we've developed a strategy that works for both of us (more or less). We have to make a gigantic, detailed list of what we need to get for everybody on our Christmas list. I tell Mark which day we are going to go into "The City" to go shopping, and then he books a band practice on that day. I make him cancel it. I book the dogs into the kennel for the day. As the date approaches he makes plans to go hiking with a friend on the agreed-upon shopping day. I make him cancel it. He apologizes by claiming to have forgotten we were going shopping.

The fateful day arrives and we start out on the two-hour drive, stopping halfway to refuel on Just Us Coffee. Then the shopping begins, and we pick at each other for being too impatient (Mark) /slow (Julie), or too unrealistic (Mark) / unfocused (Julie). He tells me to hurry; I tell him to help me pick a gift then. He walks morosely behind me and I pretend not to notice that he's DYING because we're SHOPPING WAY TOO MUCH.

Magically, we end up tired and broken at the end of the day in Chapters. It's the same every year. The sun will have set and my feet ache. Our stamina is gone and we wander giddily around the store searching against all hope for the last elusive perfect present for our cherished friends and family.

Winter is here and the sun's strength has left us. It's less than a month until Christmas and we've made it back from The City relatively unscathed, and now we can look forward to chocolates, tinsel, family, friends, and warm celebration on cold, dark nights.

Rainy Days

It's been raining - no, POURING for five days now. Our beautiful little Valley is so waterlogged that it's scary. Roads, even highways, are inaccessible and some of the outlying communities have been evacuated. I was driving by the river with Chani and we saw pumpkins - dozens of them - floating downstream in a big herd. It was surreal. Some farmer further upstream probably lost his whole crop, and I'm sure he's not the only one. The Annapolis River has jumped its banks in many locations, and who knows how bad this will get with the continuing rain in the forecast.

Stop it, Nova Scotia! I should have escaped this when I moved away from Vancouver Island!


Anyway.

So I'm taking a little road trip with my mom this week. She has to take care of some family stuff and wanted me to help her. It's so strange to be asked to help my mother. My mom is a strong person and has always been so reliable it's ridiculous. Have you ever been involved in an emergency, or a situation where stress is high and the right decision has to be made? My mom is seriously the person to have with you when that sort of stuff goes down.

So now I am the one to help the person who is usually helping others. I'm not a "people person" AT ALL, but when it comes to family I'm there. That's a big reason Mark and I moved back here from Vancouver Island (besides the fact that houses cost like a million dollars out there and I didn't have a million dollars at the time).

When we lived out there, visiting parents involved much prior planning, at least $2,000, and about eight hours in planes and airports. Now, we can be at Mark's mom's place in an hour and a half, and at my parents in just a little longer than that. When Mark's mom needs wood chopped or has a blueberry pie that needs eating, we can be there. When my parents need us to babysit the dog or take a chocolate-zucchini loaf off their hands, we can do it.

I've always gotten along with my mom and dad well. I was never the rebel child at all (unless you count all those damned tattoos I keep getting). I'm glad to live here now and be able to see my parents every now and again, even if we have many differing opinions. Which we do.

The thing is, you only get one family. Always do whatever you can to make the most of it.

Country Cops

So I'm driving along one of the secondary highways outside of town when I hear police sirens. I look in the rear-view mirror and see the blue-and-red right behind me. Ack!!

Maybe he just got a call about an emergency up ahead. Yeah, that must be it. I pull over to let him pass me, but the damned cop car pulls in right behind me. I wrack my brain... I wasn't speeding... my stickers are up-to-date... what's the matter?

I try my best to remain calm, and roll down my window as the cop opens his door. I look in my mirror to see a familiar, jovial figure with a big grin plastered on his face, carrying something in his hand and waving.

I immediately yell at the cop for scaring me. It's an acquaintance and I know by now that I've been pulled over for a social call.

He approaches my car, still grinning, and says "I thought that was you!"

I laugh as he hands me the object in his hand. It's a little doggy rain jacket for Oliver, our Miniature Pinscher. This RCMP officer is a fellow animal lover and has shown up at my door in the past with little t-shirts and such for Oliver, whom he has taken quite a liking to. We chit-chat for a minute before going our separate ways.

I can only assume that city cops never pull these kinds of stunts.

On Sharp Objects

I'm not good with knives. Actually, I'm pretty bad in general with sharp kitchen instruments, including knives. Many years ago when Mark and I had our first 'nice' date, it was at a quiet little dimly lit restaurant with white-shirted waiters and dark red linen napkins.

You certainly see where this is going.

It was a rare treat for two broke university students to eat at a place that didn't serve pub food or pizza, and we were enjoying ourselves quite a bit in the luxurious and subdued atmosphere. Then I ruined the mood completely by cutting open the entire palm of my hand while trying to slice a roll. I spent the rest of the meal with the dark red linen napkin clenched in my fist while Mark smirked at me. Romantic it was not.

Then there was that time a few weeks ago when I plunged my hand into a sink full of dishwater and dishes and cleanly sliced open my finger on the blade of a food processor, from my knuckle to my fingernail. Dripping blood, I went up to Mark's office looking for pity and bandages.

He knows I do this. In fact, it's an established rule in our house that I do not cut bread or bagels. Every morning before work, even if he's rushed, he will cut me two slices of bread with which to make a sandwich for my lunch. If he sees me trying to perform this sort of stunt on my own, he removes the knife from my hand - carefully, as though it might explode - and asks me what I think I am doing. Over the last few weeks the slice on my finger has healed to a fine white line surrounded by new pink skin.

Now, Mark has been out of town for a couple of weeks and is currently in British Columbia. On my own, I've managed to haul a giant double headboard, double boxspring, and mattress down our winding staircase and out to the curb for big garbage day (otherwise known as free yard sale day). I did not injure myself during this process. I've also moved our Ikea bed frame from the master bedroom to the guest room, and set up a 200 year old antique bed frame in the master bedroom. Still not injured! Add to that various little construction projects around the house, and the handling of dozens of dogs at work, and I'm still safe and free from injury.

But the loaf of sourdough bread from the farmer's market. Oh, that lovely sourdough bread with the crispy golden crust. I got cocky, and thought I could cut it with our big serrated bread knife.

Yep. Into the finger it went. I stared at the jagged, dripping edges of this latest clumsy misadventure and considered going to the hospital for a few stitches. I hadn't had lunch though, and the dogs would need to go outside. Also, it's at least a 20 minute drive to the hospital. On top of that, the new foster dog has a vet appointment this afternoon.

Meh.

Earl did nothing.

We survived a hurricane on Labour Day weekend. Of course, by "survived", I mean that we watched it rain and then nothing else happened. Everyone around here goes all nuts since Juan hit like a million years before I moved here, and whenever there's a hurricane in the forecast, they all buy out the bottled water from the grocery store, and gossip breathlessly about how bad the upcoming hurricane might be, or how since the water's so warm it will be a terrible storm, or that the trajectory indicates that blah blah blah whatever.

It rained.

Also, these guys came and went.


Also, this guy is here.


Also, SOMEONE TURNED A GAZILLION YEARS OLD OMG.

Captain D's Birthday

It was Captain D's birthday last week, and to celebrate we had a canoe expedition up the Annapolis River.


After getting slightly swamped and almost tipping in some minor rapids, we were on our way.


I rode with Laurie and Ernest, and Mark was in with hot ladies Shannon and Mickie.


Nay, Jay, and Chani piled into the last canoe.


Captain D, the man of the day, was the lone wolf in his kayak.


It seemed that my boat was both the coolest and the fastest by far, so after about an hour we decided we'd pull up on a rocky little beach to celebrate happy hour and give the slowpokes a chance to catch up. We drank our beers and watched the other canoes float by across the river.


After happy hour, we launched again. As we rounded a bend in the river, I saw the property Mark and I had bought this past spring! Sadly, we still haven't named it. Here it is, as seen from the river.


As the coolest and fastest canoe, we managed to overtake the other slow boats and land first at our ultimate destination, even though we had stopped for drinks and the others hadn't.

There was just one problem, though. We'd originally launched from a pre-arranged dock, but we hadn't really thought about where we would land. We pulled up onto a random little beach in the correct general area only to discover that the ground was not solid, but squelching, sucking, sinking mud. Ernest hopped over a little brook and landed in even squelchier mud. Then he discovered that he couldn't get back. He was stranded!


Jay bravely decided he would rescue Ernest in his canoe.


Then Jay got stuck in the shallows.


Chani waded out to rescue Jay. Meanwhile, Ernest got away. We never did rescue him.


After some minor chaos wherein many canoes went in different directions and people hauled themselves up the river bank at various different points, we all reconvened at Chani and Captain D's place for a birthday supper of tacos and pie!




Good times. Happy birthday, Captain D. You are older than I am, and that's the important part.

Hurricane Mark

So we're trying to figure out what to have for lunch when I notice that Buddy, the latest foster dog, is chewing on something under the kitchen table. Because I am an EXPERT at this, I immediately know that he is not chewing on a dog toy.

I shoo him away and find the cut-off end of one of those infuriating molded plastic packages that make new purchases so very difficult to access. The rest of the package, empty of its treasure, is on the kitchen table and has been since yesterday.

I leave the end of the package on the floor. Am I being passive-aggressive? I don't know. When Mark re-enters the kitchen, I ask him to put his trash from the previous day in the recycling. I ask nicely, but even by voicing the request, the overtones of an oft-repeated-in-many-different-moods conversation are present. This is one of our 'things' that we have fightscussions about. We don't have many of these 'things', and the ones we do have are not bad, and this is one of them.

By this point in time, the kitten has found the plastic end of the package and scooted off into the living room with it. Mark follows her out to get it, returns, and makes funny faces at me until he feels that I am happy again.

I contemplate my role in this household, and wonder whether it would be better to be a silent maid or a nagging equal. I work less hours than him; should I just clean this crap up? On the other hand, I'm neater than him; why should his messes be my responsibility?

I ask him if there's any way I can get him to stop dropping things all over the house mid-stride. He ponders this for a moment but has no solution.

We make our lunches - a bagel for me and a sandwich for him. He takes the last sub bun from the bag and fills it with all sorts of fun vegetables. The empty bag remains on the counter.

We eat lunch, and because there is a client emergency this weekend, Mark goes upstairs to work for a while. The empty bag remains on the counter.

I rip up our bathroom floor for a while. I go back into the kitchen. The empty bag is staring at me.

I put it in the recycling.