I be the dumb

In the last few months, I've been a bit distracted. Between my regular job, my contract work, my back injury and subsequent treatment, the house build, the lack of house completion, and all the other things I have going on, I cannot seem to keep a brain in my head.

Brain farts

I didn't think being so distracted was a problem. However...

I have lost my train of thought mid-sentence.

I have searched my brain wildly for a word and not found it.

I have resorted to charades on more than one occasion to get my point across.

I also cannot remember how to spell anything. That makes writing a tad difficult.

Running late

I have been late. To everything.

I'm rarely late.

These days, I'm the freaking White Rabbit.

I have been late to every appointment (of which there has been many - physio, chiro, acupuncture, and massage) as well as church, dates with friends, and bedtime.

I'm early only to yoga because I cannot remember what time the class begins.

Directionless

I keep getting lost.

That was the day I tried to go to church. The church I have been attending for 30 years. The church that is an easy drive from my house. I should have driven down 3 streets - 3 turns - 7 minutes.

Instead, I ended up on the ring road heading to the wrong end of the city.

The other day I tried to drive to an address 2 blocks from my office. 16 blocks away, I realized I had done it again.

I leave one room for another and have no idea why I'm there.

Normally, I would go back to the original room, remember, return, and complete the task.

I've done this cycle three or four times before actually getting it done.

Huh?

I don't know where all the brain power is going, but it's obviously leaking from somewhere. I'm trying to get things done, finish reports, write blog posts, spend time with The Guy, get more things done at the office, and remember to put on deodorant every day.

It's not working.

A friend assures me when we get into our house a huge weight will be lifted off my shoulders and much of my brain smarts will return. I'm not convinced, but I'm hopeful.

Wait... what was I doing here?

A muddy adventure

The hits, they just keep on coming.

I am out in the boonies this week doing interviews for my contract work. I am interviewing elders, chiefs, staff, community, and kids to add some substance to the data and copious amounts of paper I have slogged through.

I went out yesterday to have a couple of hours with the kids and elders. In the span of 3 hours, I had moose meat, watched a young teen skin a muskrat and singe a duck, learned how to dry the skin of an animal, and learned a few Cree words which I have since forgotten.

It was an exiting day considering it took me an extra hour to get there.

A very city girl trying to navigate back roads is rarely a good thing. I missed my first turn and ended up taking the back way in over a bridge that I was well aware was unsafe for human passage. On the other side of the bridge was a deep mud pit.

Once I did arrive at my destination, I told the ladies there "I put it in 4 wheel drive, prayed out loud, and gunned it!"

It worked then, but it didn't work today.

Once again, I got lost. Well, less lost and more misdirected. In fact, I know exactly where I am, but not how to get out.

Rather than returning to the motel of serial killers from my last visit, I made a longer detour into Prince Albert and stayed with a lovely woman who did not mind my last minute drop in.

She's very gracious.

This morning, I got on the road with plenty of time and headed out.  About 20km out of the city, I saw a road I recognized the name of that went straight to the place I wanted to be. How fortuitous! I turned on to it and about 15 ft in, recognized it was nothing but mud.  It was a road. Even a government maintained road, but it was a MUD road.

See? That's mud not road.

I tried to turn around. I had 4 wheel drive after all.  I could do anything.

I. CANNOT. DO. ANYTHING.

Some fancy manoeuvring later, I was facing the other direction, looking at the high way I wanted to be on, and feeling on top of the world.  I was congratulating my little jeep on doing a good job and was thankful it had not gotten worse.

Why do I think things like that? It got worse.

The view out my right window

Suddenly, my back wheels slid in the mud. And ever so slowly, I started to lose control. Inch by minuscule inch, all in slow motion, my back tires slid into the ditch as it gave way. I thought if I could make my front end go in the same direction I could drive along the ditch a bit until I could get better footing.

I am very stupid optimistic.

Now I sit.  Slightly tilty, facing the highway so closely I can read the stop sign. I called the tow truck, but they cannot get out here due to the mud. He has agreed to come out and get a farmer he knows to come rescue me with a tractor.

The highway is right there.  RIGHT THERE.

I will pay through my nose for the service, but at least I will get out.  Eventually.

I hope.

For now, I wait. I wait and I hope the mud stays where it is so I don't fall into the slough that is less than a foot away from me. I have a plan of action if that happens, but I'm not wearing the right shoes for this so I really hope it doesn't.

Contract work is very exciting, I have to say.

Into the cage with you. Or, why my dog hates me.

My dog and I have the same back injury. I've heard of dogs becoming like their owners, but this is ridiculous.

I guess technically it's not the SAME, but it equates to the same thing. We can't do anything and we hurt all over.

Monty has an inflamed disc in his mid back just under his shoulder blades.  The vet is sure it's mostly old age, irritated by his constant running and jumping. I'm not discounting the time he jumped out of the jeep window when we were pulling up to the house.

That is the last time I drive with the window open.

Monty was prescribed anti-inflamatories and bed rest. Bed rest. No running, jumping, stairs, walks, or playing vigourously.

Mopey little puppy

Have you ever tried to put a dog on bed rest?

Yeah. It doesn't work.

We started picking Monty up to put him on the couch.  He would jump down, grab a bone, and jump back up. Put him on the bed? Same thing. If we got the bone for him first, he would jump up before we could get to him.  He would avoid our attempts to carry him and run like the wind towards the other side of whatever we were trying to put him on.

He thinks it's funny.  I only think it's funny when he does it to The Guy.

In a desperate attempt to keep him still while we are out, we had to buy a kennel. Monty was raised for a few years by my father who didn't like kennels. When he got to me, he was so terrified of them, he wouldn't go near them. We have purchased and sold two kennels in Monty's life time trying to get him to use one.

This is number three.

cage of torture and sadness
- with MY blanket so he's comfy

We bribe him with treats and he has twice almost gone in on his own when it was time.  Accidentally he went in while looking for treats that had been left behind.  I say accidentally because when he realized where he was, he panicked and got out as fast as he could.

When he is in there, he meets it with hopelessness and distain. He sits and stares at us with accusing eyes as we get ready to leave the house. He ignores the treats we give him and sighs heavily. He's a drama queen, my boy.

Upon our return, he whimpers and cries. He jumps and wags his tail so hard it makes music on the metal sides. He turns himself inside out to show us how much he appreciates us letting him out of the device that obviously tortures him while we are gone.

I can only assume, it is electrified.

Today was a week since this started. We went on our first walk (5 whole minutes) since he started showing signs he was in pain. I hope it's helping because we move into the new house in two weeks and there are A LOT of stairs there.

Monty will be happier there if we don't have to carry him.

But, we're keeping the cage.

Haunted by the ghost of coincidence

My mom says hi.

At least, that's the joke I have had going this week because of how often things about her have been popping up randomly.  It's been 10 years on April 9th since she died of cancer, so I was aware there would be memorials and pictures and all that, but I didn't expect this.

Last week, after 10 years, I accidentally called my mom's old work number.

image via

Mom used to work for the health district. All numbers in health start with 766 and the last four digits are different. I was calling an agency in the health district that I call numerous times a week. I wasn't thinking about their number because it's ingrained in my head.

Suddenly I looked down at the display on the phone and realized I had not called them. I had called Mom's work number.  I hung up and shook my head.  Where did that come from?

When I mentioned it to my siblings, my brother asked "Did she answer?" and I stole a line that my friend KB used to say when someone asked her about talking to her (deceased) mother "I would be significantly more excited if she had!"

Fast forward to this week.  I had applied for a new credit card to put all my business expenses on (and, honestly, to get a bonus air miles deal).  It arrived in the mail and I set up the activation.  The website reminded me to look at the PIN they sent me for when I make direct purchases. I opened up the little flap and damn near fell over.

It was my mom's four digits of her work phone number.

Mumbling incoherently: my version of pillow talk

Most of the time, I don't sleep very soundly.  It has been a curse of my life (and anyone else in my bed) - I don't sleep through the night, I hear every sound, and I am a miserable blanket hog.

Every once in awhile though, I will sleep the sleep of the dead. Usually this involves a long shift at work, over-the-counter medications, and all the stars aligning in a paisley pattern.

Sometimes, you just have to pass out

Seriously, it's that rare.

I find, when I am sleeping this hard, it is the exact moment someone will call me and need me to think immediately upon answering the phone. It almost always goes like this:

Me: holmewhho?
Them: There is 4 seconds on the count down and I need to know which wire!!! Green or red? DO I CUT GREEN OR RED???? 
Me: mfwenarg
Them: ** KABOOM **

This weekend I experienced a bit of that. With the new title at work, I am on call a lot. On my 4 days of work, if there is a crisis the other workers need help with, I'm the first call.  I don't mind it, I like to help.  The only problem is, I don't always remember what I've said once I wake up the next morning.

A co-worker was laughing at me about her call to me early one morning.  She knew I would be waken out of a dead sleep so tried to ease me into talking by asking how I was and all that. I guess I was a little incoherent because all I could say was "whatveyougot?" mumbled as though my face was still in a pillow.

I can sleep anywhere. Just not well.

It reminded me of the time a room mate told me about a conversation a friend of hers had with me one morning after I had been on night shift.  The friend had called looking for Shannon. I knew Shannon was house sitting for someone. I thought I relayed that to the friend.  I did not.

Instead? I said "Shannon lives in a house."

Then I hung up.

Scaring the JWs away: Post from the Past

This is my friend Lindsay's favourite story. It originally appeared on Buggering Crap Monkies in April of 2011.  I have since wiped it from my memory and only remember it when she brings it up and laughs and laughs.

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For some reason, every house I've lived in has come with its own set of Jehovah's Witnesses. They come around every few months to drop off literature and see if I'm willing to join them on the dark side at their church.

When I moved into my first apartment, a mid-twenties girl arrived.  She asked if she could come in and talk, so -- being that I was lonely and completely naive -- I let her in. It took me about 20 minutes to realize she was a JW, but I liked her and she wasn't very pushy so we chatted quite some time. She visited me about 3 times before being horribly injured in a skiing accident.

Two stern middle-aged women replaced her and it took me ages to figure out how to kick them out of my apartment. In the end, I just stopped answering the door. I would listen to them shuffle outside my apartment and hope they couldn't hear me breathing.

I felt like I was in a terribly lame movie about a girl being chased to her death by women in long flowered dresses and heavy shoes.

When I moved back to my home city, a pair of JWs arrived on my doorstep within days of moving in. I felt like I had been sold out by the Welcome Wagon who had arrived first with baskets of goodies and coupons only to pass my name on as someone willing to open her door to strangers.

This pair of JWs was not as sweet as my first visitor, but not as off putting as her replacements. They continued to come back to the house though I assured them I was happy with my own church and that I did know about Jesus - thank you very much.

Finally, I decided to turn their tactics against them. I had a handout from one of our church functions, so made a point of trying to make them take it and read it and get back to me on what they thought. They never came back.

When I finally bought my own home, a new group came by. Despite me frightening them with bad hair, they continued to return to the house. For my 30th birthday, I allowed myself to ask the most determined of the group to stop coming by. It worked.

Until I moved again.

Now, in our new place, we've had a couple of drive by JWs. They come, ring the bell, and by the time I get there they hand me some paperwork and carry on. None seem to want to make conversation. It could be that every one of them have come before 10am.

Anyone who knows me know I am not awake before 10am very often. And certainly never willingly.

This particular morning, I stumbled from bed with the dog barking madly because the door bell had rung. I threw a zip up sweater on over my tank top and tripped over the dog getting to the door.

Two men stood there. They mumbled something, thrust a paper into my hand and almost ran down the steps. I was glad it didn't take long, but was confused by their reaction.

That is, until I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. One boob was not fully covered by the tank top.

I may be put on the "do not contact" list after this.

Not a toilet seat cover! -- Post from the past

This story of my knitting adventure was posted Jan 17, 2011 when I had my site Buggering Knit Monkies. 

Since I was on a roll with other hats, as soon as I completed the last rainbow hat, I started on a green uber slouchy hat I had seen a pattern for.  I thought it was cute and something I hadn't done before, so I'd give it a whirl.

By the end of the meeting the second day, I had a fair amount done.  It was rapidly growing into something.  And growing.  And growing.  It was the hat that just kept getting BIGGER.

When I pulled out the hat in progress in front of The Guy he jumped back in surprise because it took up THE ENTIRE ROOM.  Not really, but it was quite large considering what I normally work on.  He laughed when I stretched it out the full length and said, "It could be a toilet seat cover!"

It stuck.  Every time I looked at it, I started laughing as I imagined our house covered in knitted doily type things including toilet seat covers of the 70s (but hand made so it's cool!)

Once I neared the end of the project though, it started looking like a real hat.  I'm happy with the end results, but will not be keeping it.  It belongs with someone else!

Side shot.  Ignore me.

Back shot.
This was difficult considering I had my camera over my head.
But look at how small my bum looks!
And it shows my back cleavage.  HOT.

Update: 2014
I sold it to someone who loved it. I'm glad they did. Their toilet must be very warm.

Still taste the dolphin poop: Post from the past

I am in Cuba all week. Here is a story about my very first trip. Originally posted on Feb 5, 2008.
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I have never learned to swim. Never. Nothing more than a "from A to B" and only if I can touch the bottom at some time during the distance.

I am not afraid of water. I am afraid of drowning. But unlike many people, I can be in water and enjoy it. As long as it never goes above my chest. If I can touch the bottom and the water laps just above my breasts, I can contain myself and enjoy the crispness of the water, the way it slides and moves independantly. I can float and relax and let worries glide away from me as the water breathes.

It is when I cannot touch the bottom that the panic sets in. Instantaneously it grips me and causes me to see my life flashing before my eyes. My breath comes in shallow gasps because the water presses so heavily I cannot expand my lungs. The water, rising higher than my chest, acts like a vice and restricts my body from drawing breath of any sort. My heart rate increases to alarming rates and my heart beat fills my ears and drowns out all other noises. I flail and search for anything I can hold on to. My mouth fills with water and my sinuses burn. I choke and gasp and flail and fear I will not make it another second.

And then my foot connects with solid ground and I can slowly bring my breathing back to normal. I can focus and once again be alright with the water around me. But I never forget the panic.

So, imagine my surprise when I was in Cuba on excursion and was given the chance to swim with the dolphins. Normally, I am quite against it - fear of water or not. Dolphins are too intelligent a creature to cage and make perform. They are lovely and majestic and brilliant. But there I was. In the middle of the ocean. At a dolphin area built monsterously huge for the mammals to swim in. And I was given the chance to meet them.

The Guy knew I didn't swim, but I am not sure if he understood the extent of it. He agreed to hold on to me the entire time so I wouldn't be afraid. There were many others there with training and confidence, so it would all be good. And I agreed to go in.

I climbed down the metal rungs that led into the ocean. And after the last one, I knew I could not touch the ground. And panic set in. The Guy hurried into the water to assist me. I could hardly breathe, but I held on tightly to him and kicked with all my might to keep up afloat. I met the dolphins. I felt their cool, smooth and soft skin and patted their warm bellies. I was enamoured. Another traveller spelled The Guy off for a bit so he could rest up and resume his tight grip on my waist to keep both the panic and the drowning at bay.

In the end, I was as brave as I could be. And when I crawled out of the water, I cried.

Equal terror and joy

Lights on, nobody home

When I do particularly dumb things, I like to tell people about them. You would think because it is rare and makes me more like the common people and thus more loved. It's not.

I mean, it's not just that. It's that it happens with such an amazing frequency and a completely stunning level of stupid. It's a wonder I am allowed out of the house on my own.

Even the dog thinks I need an adult.

I tried for 5 minutes to get him to look at me so I could take a picture.
Finally, I had to ask if he wanted food. The look of disbelief is clear in his eyes.
He knew I was faking.

This weekend, we had a friend visiting during the Grey Cup. We hung out lots and had a grand old time.  The first evening, I had to set my car alarm off so we could find where I parked and then I couldn't turn it off.  For possibly the longest 5 minutes of my life.

That wasn't even the dumbest thing I did during the weekend.

On our last night together, I went to let the dog outside. I take him out the side door that I've been using since we moved into this rental in August.  I flipped on the outside light, let the dog out, and waited for him to come back in.

It was then I realized what I had been doing for over 3 months.

When I came back in, I had to share. I had thought the side door light was a motion sensor. It wasn't until that night, I realized it was not -- at all. It just took a long time for the light to warm up and turn on.

Both The Guy and my friend assured me I had nothing to be embarrassed about.  This is when I told them:

You guys don't understand. I've been waving at that light for months to make it turn on.

I muttered to myself about the fact I have two degrees and am still this stupid.  The Guy assured me it was only one now as the University had asked for the other back.

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Hard headed: my first assault on the job

My job with the public in human (social) services has been one filled with adventure and amusement. Most people hear about my work and wonder what kind of person I am to love it as much as I have. Crisis work has lead me to a personal body count, a knowledge of breaking into buildings, and more than one assaults on my person.

None of them are serious, so don't panic.

One of my favourite stories (apart from the time I watched the SWAT team clear a house) is from my first year in the field when I was assaulted.  By an old man.

Two old friends. Not my assailants.

I was green as the grass when I first started working at an advocacy agency that has long since been closed. My job was to go house to house and assess the living conditions. Our clients were poorest of the poor in terrible living conditions which they sometimes left worse.  On the off chance they didn't and were accused of it any way, I was there to make sure there was a record.

One day, I was visiting the home of a middle aged woman. Because of limited resources and a perceived lack of danger, I was on my own that day. I was not a threat, so thus was not considered likely to be threatened. I had already done many assessments without trouble.

I entered the house and was met by the woman at the door. On an old dilapidated couch, sat two old men whom she introduced as her uncles. I introduced myself, explained why I was present, and went about wandering the home looking for things.

Innocuous, right?

One of the old men didn't think so. He did not like a young, naive, bubbly white girl wandering around "judging" things. He mumbled about spoiled brats like me and told me I should get out. The woman told him to be quiet and encouraged me to get my assessment done. I wasn't worried and continued about my way.

I was dumb like that.

Looking back, I'm sure the old man was drunk as a rat. At the time, it didn't dawn on me. I was still learning about the ins and outs of poverty and how people coped with that life.  Now, I would have backed out of the house and made arrangements to come back. No big deal.

I continued my assessment - making notes on my clipboard (oh, Social Workers and their infernal clipboards) - and turned to go into another room.  I heard some motion and a slight whistling noise.

It didn't register what was happening until something thunked against my skull. It didn't hurt, but I whipped around nonetheless.  On the floor beside me was an empty, plastic lotion bottle. The kind with the blue twist on pump.

The old man had hurled it across the room and hit me in the head.  However, being that he was old and likely inebriated - and the bottle was empty and plastic - it barely made to to me and lightly bounced off my skull.

I did what any normal person would do. I burst out laughing.

It must have been the right thing to do because everyone laughed. I finished up my assessment and, when I left, I got a handshake and an offer of a hug.

I love my line of work.

Technological mishaps: A comedy of errors

I used to have a device that wirelessly connected my computer to the TV, so when I moved to the Macbook, I was sad I no longer had that ability.  We made the best of it, watched some shows on my laptop. It was not the same. A 60" TV does not translate well to a 13" computer screen.

I subtly encouraged The Guy to consider Apple TV. In case you haven't heard of it, Apple TV is a device that connects with all your Apple products with your television. You can access your videos, your music, your movies, everything all on your TV. I saw it at a friend's one night and have been coveting it ever since.

After hemming and hawing, we considered waiting to buy it until the new house was finished. But The Guy couldn't resist my nagging charm. He brought it home on Friday.

Setting it up didn't seem to difficult and The Guy started entering all the pertinent information.  The house was quiet and I was in the other room doing dishes while waiting to be entertained.

And I was.

Blasting from the other room came ABBA's Dancing Queen. Knowing that is not Wade's usual preference, I went in to see what was happening.  It wasn't The Guy. Apparently, my MacBook was possessed.

Each time The Guy would press any button on the remote to control the television, my computer would play a different song. 10 seconds of numerous songs in my repertoire sounded through the air. Then, it began bringing up pictures and flashing them across the screen.

The Guy was controlling my computer which he hadn't even connected to the device.

Trying to figure out how to make it stop was impeded by my stomach cramping laughter at The Guy's increasing frustration. I'm a mean wife that way.

Eventually we got it all figured out and disconnected the remote ability to control my computer. The Guy commented on how glad he was he had not turned on his own computer. We laughed and laughed.

The Guy headed to bed early in preparation for his 2am wake up call to go to work. I went about the evening breaking in the new TV connection.  Many movies later, I was getting ready to load up my last TV episode before The Guy woke up.

About 10 minutes to 2am, the computer in the kitchen began screaming some of the loudest and angriest rap music I've ever heard. I thought it was The Guy's alarm but when it continued to play, I realized I had inadvertently turned on The Guy's computer and started up his music.

The Guy stumbled into the kitchen bleary-eyed and wondering why I had started a dance party at 2am. I had to confess I'd done the same thing with the Apple TV remote as he had done earlier.

We likely should become Amish.  We might have less issues.

Instructions for the Dog Sitter: Post from the Past

This weekend, a friend who used to dog sit for me took care of Monty while we were involved in wedding things.  We reminisced about the time I left her an 8 page instruction manual about the three dogs I had at that time.  Below is a compilation of the posts I did about it.  It was originally posted on August 2008.

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A friend has agreed to come to our house and stay with our pups so they do not have to go through the kennel experience again right away. I am so thankful she is able to do this and I don't know if she can possibly know how much it means to me not to have to worry as much about them. However, I am still going to worry a little. Its just who I am. To not worry would be like making water run up hill.

I am going to have to get the house cleaned up to a nice, respectable level in order to not be embarrassed to have her here. Then, I am going to have to have everything ready for her to have an easy time of it with our little terrors. I am not worried they will have a bad time... I am worried that she will never speak to us again.

I have started a list of things she will need to know to have a smooth few weeks with my dogs. It started out as a short list. It is now 6 pages long. It is pathetic. So, I decided to blog it. I want you all to know 1) I am a nutbar, and 2) how to care for my dogs in case I die and leave them all to you in my will.

Montel, Madison, and Vicki

Feeding

Vicki (blue bowl) = 3/4 cup
Montel (red bowl) = 1 cup even-ish
Madison (silver) = 1 heaping cup

Food is in the big blue bin under the counter by the dog bowls. The dogs eat once at supper time. The chews and snacks are there too. Try and leave chew bones (raw hides) [I remembered the word after the fact] out whenever you leave. The dogs are chewers.

If they are annoying you, slather peanut butter (bottom door, top shelf next to the fridge) on the bones. It gets you 20 mins+ of quiet time. [I forgot to include not to dip the bones directly into the peanut butter as it makes Ky VERY angry. She goes all ranty about sanitary things.]

Caution: Don't leave anything you don't want eaten where they can get it. Be careful with your purse. Madison loves lip gloss, gum and lotion. [Also, this week she added Mp3 players to that list.]


Bathroom Habits

Yours:

• Don't leave the human bathroom door open or Maddy will pee on the rug.
• They can go in if you are there. They love to sit in the tub.

Madison watching the tub drain

Outdoor Bathroom:

• In the morning, (First thing and/or before you go to work) put the dogs out.
• You will have to force Madison out (kicking and snarling) as she does not like to go out to pee.
• Montel needs out before you go out the front door (any time) or he thinks you forgot about him and pees anywhere.
• Montel will ring the bell to go out. Madison will either whine or just disappear to sit at the back door. Vicki may growl, but likely won't do anything.
• As soon as you get home, put them out (at least Montel) or he gets excited and pees.
• Block all rooms when you leave the house.

Walking

• The dogs leashes match their collars. The harnesses need to be used on Montel and Vicki or Vicki chokes. She might anyway.
• The chocolate poop bags are on the bench.
• Madison sometimes decides she's a princess and doesn't like walks. If she goes into her kennel, you can put her leash on while she's in there and drag her out. If she snarls just leave her. She can be a jerk.
• If you see a dog or cat: 1) avoid it if you can, 2) walk on the other side of the road, 3) either keep Montel close and let the other two go, or 4) let Vicki hide behind you and Madison will keep Montel in line.
• Montel and Vicki will wrestle occasionally while on walks. They are just playing, not fighting.
• The dogs usually get 2x 20 minute walks a day. Usually after work and before bed. They know the route. Sorry, we're OCD.

Visitors

• They will bark like mad. (The dogs, not the visitors)
• Tell them the people are friends and let them in to stand in the foyer [I don't have a foyer. I meant entry. Which is just a rug.]
• The dogs will settle a bit and then the friends can sit down
• The dogs will climb all over them
• Vicki might hate them. She's temperamental. Hold her for a bit, then let her investigate.
• No dancing or loud, jumpy movements. The dogs are INSANE.

I know. This is way too much info. I've never left them alone this long and I am crazy.

Itsh nisch to meetsh you

I have had pretty good luck with my teeth over the years. Apart from at least one cavity every year since I was betoothed, I have had great teeth. Straight, relatively clean, sharp, usable teeth. I was one of the lucky ones who never needed braces or elastics, retainers or head gear.

Source of these teeth

Since I've become an adult, one problem has arisen. I grind my teeth. Every night, I work at making my teeth into tiny stumps of ineffectual calcium. I grind and clench and squeak my teeth together.  This causes headaches, neck aches, migraines, and jaw pain. The muscles in my jaw are so tight they have relaxed exactly 3 times in the last 10 or so years.

Now, I have no idea if I've always been a clencher/grinder or if it is a relatively new phenomenon. All I know is I have woken not only myself, but other people from down the hall up with my teeth. Maybe I've been doing this all my life, or maybe it's a newly acquired habit, but all I could say is it needed to quit.

First, I was given a night guard by one very lovely dentist who held my hand and assured me everything would be fine. I chewed through the guard in less than 6 months. I got another one made of tougher material. Thankfully, it lasted a lot longer, but I also got married and forgot to put it in some nights.  Night guards are not sexy.  You've seen the scene from Date Night, right?

I've been to physiotherapy. I've had acupuncture. I've been referred to get Botox to freeze my muscles into relaxation.  (I didn't do that. When I get Botox, I want it to be for something awesome.)

For the last few months, I've been going to a new dentist. She is a good friend and I adore her. This causes me a great deal of contradictions as I normally loathe all dentists. Her, though? She's good people.  She has a plan.  A little retainer to wear 24/7 that will retrain my jaw to the correct position and change the way my jaw muscles behave.

On Monday, I got my little device fitted. It slips over my bottom back teeth and hugs snugly. It has a teeny lip that goes over my bottom front teeth and is "hardly noticeable".  You know, except for the fact it feels like I have a hockey puck in my mouth and I am lisping like I have a forked tongue.

So, of course, I went straight from the dentist to work. As a crisis counsellor and child protection worker. Because, nothing is better for clear communication than having a large plastic device taking up all your tongue room. (That's what she said.)

Standing on the porch of a house, a client turned to me after I tried repeatedly to explain why I was there and said "What? I can't understand you? Why can't you talk right?"

Thisch isch going to take awhile.

Oops, I pooped my pants: Post from the Past

Since I posted yesterday about diet and health, I thought I would share one of my favourite stories from the past about the tolls dieting can take on your body.  This was originally posted at Buggering Crap Monkies on May 19, 2008

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I may have mentioned before that I am on a diet. A six week, unforgiving, strictly healthy diet. A diet I am actually dedicated to as I know it has worked before and thus will work for me. If nothing else, it forces me to eat better and more often. I'm not limiting calories by any means. I'm just changing the way I intake them. Before, one day I was eating Cheerios and a handful of jujubes. The next day, I was eating three take out meals. Now, I am eating regular meals and regular intervals of things that actually provide nutrients. I have noticed some changes although not on the scale.

The biggest change has to do with my intestines. You may want to stop reading here. I'm going to ruin the mystery.

Since I normally have the worst eating habits a human has ever had, I tend to be a bit gassy. "A bit" meaning that sometimes I clear all the dogs out of the room causing them to run in fear with a look on their face like "OMG WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE." I figure I learned from the masters. Both my brother and my Dad can do the same. Since starting the DIET FROM HELL, I have noticed a great relief (mostly for those around me).

I have noticed one other thing in relation to my intestines. Now, when I have to "go" I have to GO RIGHT THE FREAKING HECK NOW. Let me provide an illustration.

On Sunday, I worked until 5am. I woke at 3pm and figured I should hit the grocery store before it closed so I could actually eat that night. I got up, had my protein shake and scrambled eggs, and went to Sobey's. I had a few items on the list - most fruit and vegetables, eggs and meat. It was itemized and simple. I was prepared.

Halfway through accumulating the items on the list, I had a rumbly in my tummy. "Oh no," I thought, "I have got to go to the washroom". However, there are no public rest rooms in grocery stores, so I soldiered on. I picked up a few more items and the urgency worsened. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. The extra "squeeze your thumbs and pray" I was trying wasn't seeming to work. My stomach growls of protest were growing louder. I was starting to sweat. And panic.

I hurried as fast as I could waddle to the checkout line. The woman in front of me was painstakingly slow. The cashier was occupied with his two buddies who were bagging groceries and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion. I threw my items on the counter (including the eggs) and perched on the bar separating one till from the other. I waited.

Beads of sweat were starting to form on my forehead. The room was starting to spin. I knew I could not hold on much longer. I swiped my debit card from my perch and waited until the entire transaction had processed before moving. Cheeks firmly clenched, I grabbed my cart and violently swung out in front of people trying for the door. I flew to my car, got my groceries inside and pushed my cart haphazardly towards the cart corral. I sat down and breathed a sigh of relief. And realized I could not possibly make it home.

Now that I was sitting, I realized I could not hold out any longer. I had moments, not minutes before I lost all control. The turmoil of my belly was threatening to make itself public. The sweat was now rolling down my face. I had to find a public washroom. I was two blocks from a Tim Horton's. I threw the car into gear and drove like a mad woman. I squealed the tires pulling into the parking lot and burst from the car. I walked into the coffee shop behind a group travelling across country. A woman in her early twenties was ahead of me, strolling calmly towards the bathroom. I had no choice. I had to follow.

I made it to the washroom and picked a stall two down from the other patron. Zipper down, purse to the floor, relief forthcoming. My bowels released and everything I had eaten in the last 5 years evacuated my body with a speed and force I have never experienced. I thought I would die from the relief and the embarrassment. I could just picture the look on the young woman's face as she sat two down from me and wondered what disease I was surely dying from. Finally, the beast was satiated. I waited (like we all do) for the other woman to clean up and leave the room. As soon as the door closed behind her, I crept from my stall looking around for other witnesses. I washed my hands and braced myself for my entrance.

Then calmly and with determination, I left the safety of the washroom and made a bee line for the door.

I MayB a domestic goddess

I have never claimed to be a good house keeper. In fact, I acknowledge I suck at it. I firmly believe the saying "Mental illness is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results" applies to dusting.

That said, I've thought I improved my level of cleanliness in the last 4 years. I went from living in a way that could only be described as "hoarder chic" to a constantly tidy home. I blame my husband and his hatred of chaos and water spots for that.  Before I moved in, The Guy's house looked like a show home - neat, uncluttered, and spotless.  That was not me.  I used to be comfortable in mess and chaos. Now I cannot keep myself from tidying when I'm a guest in someone's home. Don't worry, when I do it I'm not judging you, I'm just dealing with my OCD issues.

*rocking back and forth muttering about clutter*

I thought I was a cleaner and better person. Sure, I wasn't super Mr. Clean lady but my house was relatively tidy. (By this I mean compared to all my relatives.)  I picked up after myself, I dusted once a week, I cleaned toilets!

I was proven horribly disgustingly wrong.

The day we cleaned out of our house was the day I realized I haven't changed a whole lot.  Even worse, we had a friend who is a supreme neat freak helping us.  Moving the bed frame revealed 4 years of dirt and dust bunnies.  The fridge had a congealed pool of UFG (Unidentified Foreign Grossness) which took our friend almost an hour to scrub out. The lazy-Susan had about 3 loaves of bread crumbs settled at the bottom.  And the stove... oh, the stove.

Our friend mentioned the oven was "self-cleaning" and how happy she was for that because of the level of grime. It was not until she mentioned how hot it got during the cleaning cycle that I realized I had no idea what she was talking about.  I had always cleaned the oven old school style -- spray foamy stuff, let it sit, wipe it out.  Isn't that self-cleaning? Isn't that why I only did it twice in the 4 years we lived there?

Um, no.  Apparently, the entire world knows that a self-cleaning oven is one you hit a button, it locks up tight, heats up to the temperature on the surface of Mars, and burns out anything and everything stuck to it. When I mentioned I had never heard of this, everyone present looked at me like I'd said I didn't know how to use toilet paper.

The friend patiently walked me through the steps of self-cleaning.  It was like discovering a whole new world.  She smiled indulgently as I watched the lock engage and the heat start to climb.  But I had to admit, I felt I had been robbed of this knowledge in the past.  How long had I suffered cleaning stoves when I didn't have to?  Where was I when these things came into existence?

Honestly? I was likely ordering take out.

And then its head popped off

(This post originally appeared at my father's site The Blog Fodder on July 11, 2013. It was this story that made me realize how much I missed writing and how I really needed to share the strange things that happen to me.)

I often come upon adventure when I take my dog, Monty, for a walk.  You would think we would avoid getting into trouble on one of the three routes we take daily, but more often than not, that isn't the case.  There was the time a pack of dogs left their yard and circled Monty doing nothing to him while he screamed as though being murdered.  There was the time he chased a small car into a snow bank and then looked back to me as though he had caught me a great prize.  He weighs 18 lbs, but he gets me into more trouble than most full grown people I know.

But I digress.  This tale is not about Monty, although he was present, it's about another animal. A bird.

A bird I had to kill.

Monty and I were on our walk, minding our own business (as we do), when a City truck drove by.  I thought nothing of it and carried on my way until the truck slammed on his brakes and swerved to the side.  I turned to look and saw a small bird lay on the road.  The two had obviously collided leaving a clear winner.

A middle aged man stepped out of the truck with panic on his face.  He looked like a 70s hippy throw-back with long silver hair and handlebar mustache.  He warily approached the bird and explained he had tried to avoid her, but the bird had swooped right into his tires. 

She was a small robin with a mottled brown chest and a badly damaged lower half.  She breathed heavily, gasping for air, as she lay dying in front of us.  The city worker's eyes began to mist and a single tear rolled down his cheek as he offered to take her to the Humane Society for help.  I assured him it was too late for that.  She was in her last moments. 

The man was overwrought and stood dumbfounded at the little life ending in front of him.  He looked to me for guidance and I found myself offering to take care of her.  To end her suffering so as to end his.  He agreed to hold Monty's leash (thank God the dog had not decided to be brave and eat the poor bird.  I think that would have been the end of the man altogether.)

I had two waste bags in my pocket for the dog and used them because I'd always been told birds carry disease.  I contemplated the fact I had no idea if this was true, but I wasn't taking the chance.  I draped one bag over her body and one over her head.  I picked her up gently and decided the most humane thing was to break her neck.

Being a city girl, I have never done this before. I assumed it would be simple.

I gently twisted.  And twisted.  And twisted.  The bird's head just kept turning while she just kept living. 

I started to panic. Not only was I not helping to end the bird's suffering, I was just torturing the poor thing.  

I was about to give up when I pulled out instead of twisted.

POP! The head came clear off the bird. 

I quickly put the bags back together so the tormented man wouldn't see the mess I made and ran to the garbage bin a block away to disperse of the corpse I had mutilated.  I returned, assured the man it all went well and was not his fault, and walked as fast as I could away from the dump site.

I immediately messaged my sisters to tell them of the horror.  They assured me I was a hero, despite the decapitation.

Next up, chickens.

I MayB not that bright

Being that moving day is always stressful, The Guy and I thought it best to leave the mutt at his sister's for the day.  His mom lives there and they don't hate each other entirely so it would be less stress for him and me to have him out of the way.  He's been a little stressed since we started this packing and moving and selling the house thing (back in May) so I thought this would keep him from pooping in every room just to make a statement.

Montel enjoying the outdoors for a brief period of time.

I messaged my SiL and asked if we could dump Monsieur Montel at their abode for the day.  She readily agreed and asked if I had the code and the keys.  Yup.  I did.

Nope.  I did not.

Well, I had the keys. And technically, I thought I had the code.  But, in this day and age, everything has a code and my brain has limited remembering capacity.  I mean, I know the home phone number of parents of a client of mine from 15 years ago and I know the addresses where one of my homeless guys has lived over the years, but my SiL's alarm code?  TOO MUCH FOR BRAIN TO HANDLE.

I took Monty (who btw knows something is up and is not pleased with it, thank you very much) for a car ride.  We got into the house well enough and then I punched in the code.  Nope, that's our house's code. Try again.  Nope.  Try again.  Nope.  Wait, I know it.  Nope.

And again and again until the alarm started shrieking.  Now, Maddy (Monty's mom and SiL's dog) makes a break for wherever she feels safe because WHAT IS THAT NOISE? and Monty stands and looks at me expectantly, knowing I will fix it because that is what humans do.

To be fair, I've been working nights, had a migraine of epic proportions, and had slept 2 1/2 hours.  But that's not the point.  I have completely forgotten the number.  Entirely. Gone.

Then the house phone rings.  I run, grab the phone, and answer it while desperately trying to get The Guy on the phone. I reach his mother and beg for the code while I accidentally hang up on the Alarm Systems people.  I am sure the police will attend immediately and arrest me.

I haven't even showered and I'm going to go to prison.

My MiL tells me the code, I enter it, and the house goes blissfully silent but for the ringing in my ears.  No wait.  That's the Alarm Company calling back.  I talk to him and explain what happened.  He asks for my name and then explained I would have to tell him the code I just entered so he would know it wasn't a fluke.

You think I could remember it? Nope.

Please make me a cake with a file in it.  My hearing is next week.

Goal: Learn to keep my big mouth shut

When we travel to Cuba, we go to the same resort each time.  I like the familiarity, the low key atmosphere, and the location near town.  Over the last few years, the number of English speaking occupants has gone down drastically and has been replaced with mostly French Canadians and Russians.  I have gotten used to no one but the staff understanding me and I've used that to my advantage.

As much as I have tried to avoid it, I am a lot like my father.  This means I have a terrible sense of humour, a propensity to offend everyone without trying, and the ability to put both my feet in my mouth and still make noise.  It's not something I'm proud of, but some days it's downright mortifying.

One day in Cuba, my companions and I were walking along the main road looking at all the vendors' shops and visiting some of the establishments here and there to get refreshments.  Most of our group is very tall, so we tend to walk briskly even when meandering.

This afternoon, however, we were stuck behind a group of French speaking women and two men who seemed to make it their mission in life to take up as much of the sidewalk as possible and also go as slowly as cows in fresh grass.  There was no way around them unless I wanted to risk getting trampled by a horse drawn carriage or a coconut taxi.  I tried to be patient for the first two blocks but then I got huffy.

I turned to my sister-in-law and said "I know we're on vacation and supposed to be taking it easy, but this is ridiculous!!"

Suddenly, the tall man in the group stopped and said in perfect non-accented English, "Oh! Do you want to go around?"

This is when everyone in my life wishes they did not know me.  My husband looked straight ahead and refused to acknowledge I existed and both my SiL and friend laughed uncomfortably.  I turned 14 shades of purple and died inside.  I apologized profusely, mentioned how hard it was for tall people to meander, and sped past them as quickly as I could.

After that, I refused to slow down for blocks in case it looked like we were holding them up.  I finally felt safe once we got to the main market and we started perusing the shops again.  On the street, some commotion was going on between a tourist and a very handsome cop.

I leaned over to my friend and made a comment about the tight pants and handcuffs.  It was then I heard a familiar voice.  I turned to find the same tall male from earlier.  He grinned at me and said "Yeah, and the boots are pretty hot too."

I decided not to talk the rest of our holiday.