My old dog Dez: Post from the past

Rescue Dog

She was a runway no one wanted.

She had roamed the streets for a bit and picked up a few others like her on the way. You would think that would harden a girl, but when I got to her she was still the happiest, most carefree thing on the planet.

She looked at me with puppy dog eyes and tried to crawl under her cage door in her excitement to meet me. I named her Desdemona.

That smile

Happiness is contagious

Dez loved everyone with ferocious intensity.

She met every person at the door with a well placed two front paws to the groin and a plan to lick the heck out of them before they left the house.

She chased a lot of guys off that way.

She had an amazing ability to put your entire forearm into her mouth and lick you with both sides of her tongue. You would be dripping with dog slobber by the time you could disengage yourself.

Odd dog toy

Her favourite toy was a doll I got from Value Village.

She tore it to bits and left little pieces of baby throughout the house. You could say "Dez, go get your baby head" and she would trot off and bring back the doll's head with such pride.

She played with balloons and tennis balls and ropes, but her most favourite thing was people.

Dezi's best friends

She loved a few people more than others.

Our friend and room mate, Shannon was one of her favourites.

Shannon would get down on the floor with her and give "Dezi hugs". Dez pretended she was not impressed, but secretly she loved them. Shannon would take her running around the lake and Dez would be more energetic when she got home than when she left.

The dog was born to run.

Desdemona also loved one of Shannon's friends named Chris, our room mate Dave and babies.

Dez loved little kids. I think for lunch, but that was never proved.

Her two favourite things - babies and bath

Reluctant owner

When I brought Desdemona home, my mother was not impressed.

I hadn't gotten permission from her.

In fact, the only reason I got her was that my Dad felt that Davy (my sister, Ky's dog) would be lonely while Dad was working in Europe. As he was leaving for 3 months, he suggested I go pick a dog out from the Humane Society.

I feel like he thought that out pretty well.

I promised Mom she wouldn't get any bigger.

I lied. She was only 7 months when I brought her home.

She got bigger.

Mom's champion

Dez loved Mom.

Mom used to play with her despite claiming she had no time for it. Mom would take her out on walks and run Dez down a block and back just for fun.

When Mom first got sick, it was Dez that noticed.

She would sit by Mom's chair with her head on the armrest and whimper.

She sat for hours like that making sure Mom was okay.

Before Mom's first hospital visit, I had to force Dez to go outside to pee. She didn't want to leave Mom's side and she was none too happy that I would even suggest it.

Keeping Mom company

Neighbours

Dez met her best friend when she was 4.

She heard Lexi on the other side of the fence and knew she had to do something. So, she tore the fence down.

Lexi and she played for hours back and forth, chasing each other, eating things they shouldn't and playing fetch. They had a system when Lexi would catch the ball and present it to Dez with flair so that Dez could return it and get the praise.

Lexi was a bit over zealous at times and Dez was the only one who could keep her in line.

Lexi (left) and Dez (right)

Sports injury

One day when they were playing, something happened and Dez hurt herself.

She hobbled for a week or so and it got so bad we took her in for X-rays.

She had sliced a piece of bone off her back leg. The piece was the size of a glass shard, but held all her tendons.

It couldn't be repaired easily.

They hoped it would right itself and we put Dez in her kennel for 30 days on serious amounts of Valium. She was so sad I could hardly bear it. And, the month didn't help.

So we let her roam again, but the worse the pain got, the worse she got.

One day she ran from the house and attacked another dog.

We knew it was time.

Saying goodbye

We made the appointment at the vet's office and Lyn, Dad and I went with her.

Saying goodbye to Dez was the hardest thing any of us had ever done. I don't think I ever saw Dad cry that hard.

Mom was going to be in the hospital that week so had to say goodbye before she went.

Later Mom would say she was happy Dez had to go before she was really sick because Dez just wouldn't have understood.

Dez saying bye to Dad

Foreshadowing

I was hit with such devastation after Dez died I didn't know how to recover.

Looking back, I think it was the knowledge of what was to come.

If I had to say goodbye to Dez, it meant I may have to say goodbye to other people and things I loved.

To help me make sense of things, Mom and I went out to Mom's favourite relaxation place, the cabin by the lake. We spent the afternoon one day making a memory book and filling a shoe box full of Dez's things.

I painted it white with Dez's name in blue and lovingly placed into it Dez's brush, collar and baby doll head.

The Librarian: a post from the past

I originally wrote this post in April of 2010. Librarians played such an integral part of my childhood and now many people I know and tolerate love (including my sister) are librarians.

As I am currently researching and writing for my contract work, I thought fondly of doing papers with the support and knowledge of our local librarians.

If you know a librarian, or you know how to find anything about any topic, thank them for enriching your mind and our lives.

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The Librarian

Since the beginning of time, or at least the beginning of our lives in this city, my family has been going to the same library.

Every weekend, my mother would bundle the four of us kids up and we would begin the trek down the street to the library.  It was not a far walk, by any means, but it seemed that way to us.  A baby in a stroller, an older toddler, a geeky trouble maker, me (practically perfect in every way), and Mom wandered down the 4 or 5 blocks to the library.

Can't you just smell the knowledge?

We had certain rules and guidelines before we were let loose in the library.  No running, no yelling, and only as many books as we can carry home.  This usually meant 10 - 15 children's books for me.  It wasn't near enough, but I knew we would be coming back the next week.

Many of the librarians in our library were there from the beginning.  There is the lady who looks like Dave Foley in drag, the lady with the really long hair and low voice, the other lady, and the one who we moved next door to about 15 years later.  They were the staples of our library.  They knew our names, what we liked to read, what grade we were in, and which movies were playing on Kid's Movie Day.

I never really thought about them much.  I knew they would always be there.  I knew that the one with the long hair would sneak me racy Western novels when I was 13 and Mom wasn't looking.  I knew they existed in the library, but didn't think of them in the outside world.  To me, they would just always be there.

Old timey librarians (via)

This week, I went in to get a new library card.  The long haired librarian with the smokey voice was there.  She instantly knew who I was despite the fact it had been years since I had seen her.  She asked about my sisters, my brother, my father in Ukraine.  She was thrilled that I had gotten married and wanted to know all about it.

We talked about the last time I got a new card (I was 12 and thus allowed to check out books without Mom's permission!) and how many years it had been since I had been visiting the branch.  We thought about it and realized it has been over 25 years.  She laughed.  The first time she met our family, she was 10 years younger than I am today.

Getting older is a bitch.

We chatted for a bit and I carried on my way with a handful of knitting books and a promise to come in and visit more often.  I thought about it and realized how lucky we are.  It is a rare place indeed where the staff of an establishment watches you grow up and becomes such a huge part of your life.

I like how small the world is some days.

My life in places: my first apartment

Yesterday, I introduced you to the first house I ever owned. A friend then reminded me of my first apartment ever. I thought it would be a nice addition to the list -- especially on Throwback Thursday!

My apartment building 

Freedom

When I was 19, I moved out of my parent's home. I knew the only way to do that was to go to school in another city, so I transferred all my credits and went to Saskatoon.

I rented a tiny bachelor suite in a building that smelled like cat pee.

I have no idea how I rented the suite because I didn't see it until I got there with all my things, but there I was. My mom and I brought the family van packed to the gills with all the things I'd been collecting since I was 14 so I could move out.

You would think they starved and beat me, I was so desperate to move, but that wasn't the case.

My new apartment building was within walking distance from the University. I could walk through the park, across the longest bridge ever, and be at my class within 25 minutes. I made that walk no matter the temperature or time of day.

I was too scared to learn how to use the bus system.

I also washed my clothes in the bathtub because the basement laundry was too scary.

I don't like new things.

Security

The building was 2 blocks from my cousin and his room mate as well as a half-way house. I didn't learn about the half-way house until I was already moved in for a month and I smartly did not tell my mother about it.

It would not have gone well.  The first night we moved in, my mother saw there was only a chain and a handle lock, so she slept between me and the door until the landlord could put a dead bolt in. I can imagine what she would have done if there were criminals next door.

Quality

The apartment was $210 a month (out of my $500/mo living allowance). At the time, I thought that was unreal. Now? I think it would go for at least $600, even with it's flaws (of which there were many.)

The front window was broken. It was one of the coldest winters that year, so I stuffed a sleeping bag in the window and duct taped it in place. It stayed like that until I moved that summer.  The heat was an old radiator in front of the window and I'm not sure who controlled it.

I can safely say it wasn't me. For the entire 10 months I lived there, the heat was full blast. I turned off all the knobs, but I'm pretty sure they didn't work any way. However, with the wind blasting through the window and the heat blasting from the rad, I think the temp evened out eventually.

My first layout

It was small, but I loved it. The kitchen was tiny, but I think I cooked twice that year anyway. You had to close the door to watch TV and it fit about 6 people in the room comfortably, but it was the first place I was solely responsible for.

Friends and neighbours

While it wasn't the place to be all the time, my small home did become a regular hangout for a few friends -- like the one who came to stay for a week and never moved out (Hi Carla!) It was just a place to be comfortable, hang out watching my 2 TV channels, and listen to my downstairs neighbours speak loudly in Chinese.

The day I moved out was the day I met my hall neighbour. I was carrying my last box into the hall when a tiny little woman peeked her head out of her doorway, squeaked, and slammed the door again.

She seemed nice.


*****
Somewhere in the recesses of packed boxes, there is a photo album with pictures of this place. If I ever find it, I will have to scan them. Stupid technology.

My life in places: My first house

For most of my life, the only thing I ever really wanted was a house of my own.

Home

It wasn't about the picket fence and the family for me; a home of my own was about putting down roots. It was about taking something and saying "This is where I am."

I've always been a home-body. I would get homesick on sleepovers until I was a teenager. I needed that sense of security.

Stability.

My mom, my brother, and I shared that need. The rest of our family was happy planning for what strange land they would visit, while we wanted nothing more to be at home with the people we loved.

My mom and I spent hours going through magazines and the Sears catalogue cutting out pictures of things we would decorate with if we only had the money.  We wandered through the neighbourhood peering into people's windows for decorating inspiration (and sheer nosiness!)  We loved to see how others lived and talk about what we would have done instead.

For both of us, having a home where people could come and be themselves was top on our lists.

Let the rest of my family travel.  I want my own bed. My own bathroom.

When my mom died, I used my inheritance for one thing I knew she would understand.  A BRAND NEW CAR!!!!!!!

No, wait.  That's The Price is Right.

What I did was use a big chunk of it for a downpayment on a house.

Deciding to buy

My dad did what they always tell people not to do in the first few months of grief -- he made major life decisions.  He sold the house where he, my mother, and my sister lived and bought a condo.  My sister was suddenly homeless and our family had no centre.

I felt like I needed to create a new base to make up for the one we had all lost when Mom died.

So, you know, I made a major life decision.

I spent a long time looking for the house of my dreams.  I'm sure we looked at 20 before I found the one I wanted. I saw a lot of houses, but the ranged from the "meh" to the "ugh".

Finally, I walked into the house on Chinook.  It was very 70s and not the good retro kind. Old cupboards with older hardware. Wooden spindles creating room separation.  A backyard that was all garden (aka: a weed plot)  It wasn't much, but I knew it could be home.

I bought it and less than two months later was in the doors.

My very first house.  It had a ton of hydrengeas which I happily tore out.

Much to the dismay of everyone else in the neighbourhood.

My first home

My sister, Lyn, moved in with me.

We went to town picking out paint chips, deciding on room layout, painting, and decorating. I made a hundred to scale room designs complete with cut out furniture I could arrange and rearrange.

We started painting almost immediately and had a lot of it done before we moved in.

When the time came, I had a house that was almost totally me. I painted almost every inch of the house.

Of course, being the procrastinators we were (are), we decided to wait until we moved in to paint the kitchen a gorgeous cherry red.

In the 3 years we lived there, it never got done.

I left the paint for the next owners.

My living room: Eggplant on the main wall, Lilac on the other.  

I bought the blue furniture brand new and won a trip to Mexico.

Mine

I loved that house.  Every room had my touch (except Lyn's room... I wouldn't touch that if you paid me) and it all meant a lot to me.  I scoured books to learn how to do electrical work and I changed every outlet on my own.

I fixed things and built things and hung shelves and pictures.

It was exactly how I wanted it to be.

It broke my heart that my mom couldn't see it.  But, I was doing what she couldn't anymore -- I was trying to create a home for my family to migrate to.

My bedroom displaying my paintings and the plant I kept alive for 3 years.  

Thanks to Ky.  She watered it everytime she came to visit.  Once a month.

Despite all the trouble there was in that place -- a ever-renewing lake in the basement, an entire yard of weeds that were supposed to be a garden, the biggest lawn known to mankind -- it was my home.

I loved it.

Too much of a good thing

When my sister Ky moved in with Lyn and I, we were the happiest bunch of happies that ever happed. We were three sisters living the dream.

We watched a lot of So You Think You Can Dance and ate a lot of take out, but we had a great time.

Then one day,  the neighbours mentioned to me how great it was to see the place as it was meant to be.  They explained how three spinster sisters had moved to the house in the 70s and lived there until the last one of them died just before I bought the house.

I joined Lava Life the next day.

The rest is history.

My life in places: North Battleford Church Camp

Yesterday, I described my childhood home and what it meant to me.

Today, I want to tell you about my home away from home. North Battleford, Saskatchewan.

Church Camp

I have to admit, when you think of a great place that impacted every moment of your life, North Battleford is not the place you normally go to first.

It is a small city (two small cities, really) on the road to nowhere.  It is a beautiful community with lots of greenery, a river flowing through it, and the worse options of restaurants in the province.

I mean, unless Pizza Hut and A&W are your thing.  Then you're golden.

For my family, North Battleford was the epicentre of our summers.  It was not the town itself; it was the little section of land off Airport Road where we grew up: Sharon Schools.

Originally grounds housing a bible school and orphanage, this quiet little community made up of old airplane hangers and pilot barracks holds church camps at least twice a year.  My grandparents moved there in the 60s to take over supervising the orphanage and never left.  Grandma stayed nearly 50 years until we had to move her to a care home in Lloydminster.

Family

My mother grew up here.  Her childhood is here.  My grandparents adopted my two uncles and all but adopted my auntie.  They impacted more lives than we can ever know with their love and open door.  My grandpa built the hockey rink every winter and tended flowers every summer.  My grandma spent time in the gardens.

Every hug my grandfather ever gave me is here.

Every piece of advice my grandma gave is here.

My family spent a lot of time there and it is where my heart feels at peace.

The church at Sharon Schools.  Where my mom and dad got married.

As I planned to write this piece, I looked through all my photos for pictures to show.  I have none.  I went online and found some a friend had taken and he graciously allowed me to use them here.  Of course, he has none of my Grandparent's home, but he looked for me.

Sometimes, you are in a place so long, you forget that you might want to see pictures of it in your future.

Every year for a weekend at Easter and a week in July, between 300 - 500 people arrive to go to church meetings.

Togetherness

Everyone stays in the dorms that boast retro décor -- retro meaning that everything is from the 40s.  Not much has changed except the mattresses are no longer stuffed with straw.

We all go to church twice a day, eat together at the dining hall, play sports on one of the many areas dedicated to it, sit around the camp-fire, snack at the canteen, and soak up as much time with each other as possible.

The H building (it's built in the shape of an H -- clever) and the men's dorm.

The girls all stayed in the girl's dorm at the far east end of the grounds.  From 13 years to married, we all crowded into 6 rooms with two plug ins and one mirror each.  One large bathroom to share and a furnace room that held all late night conferences.

I have so many great memories of that place -- staying up all night talking, singing as loud as we could, exchanging clothes, and laughing past lights out until the dorm mothers came to yell at us.

Grandma

Once I was too old for the dorm, but not yet married (stupid old person biases on the importance of having a man in your life bollocks!!) I returned to my grandma's home during those weeks.

It was then I got to rekindle my relationship with Grandma.  She has provided me with a lot of amusement, wonder, frustration and love.

The main road from the centre of the grounds looking west.

This small area outside of the little city has been where I have experienced so much.

I have met life long friends, most of my old boyfriends, and people who have been my mentors and guides. It has been a part of my life before I had life and will continue to be important to me for many years to come.

I know every inch of this land and have spent hours exploring every building and piece of grass.

It is the home of my family.  The home of my friends.

It is where I know I belong.


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Please note: all photos used here have been generously provided by my friend Dale.  He's a good chap.

My life in places: Sunset Drive

The Guy and I are preparing to move into our new home sometime this week. We are busy packing and working and stewing and planning. I thought while we were doing that, I would share my life in 5 places with you. I came across this question a few years ago and wrote about it on my old site. No one read it, so I figured it would be okay to pretend it was brand new!

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?

I love questions with that kind of history and depth to them. Also, I like when someone or something else tells me what to do. Also, I can take this to mean anything -- cities, locations, houses, etc.  That is why I've decided to show you the 5 most important places that have shaped my life.

This is the first in a five part series:

My childhood home

We moved to Regina the fall I turned 7 years old.  The house on Sunset Drive is the house in my memory when I think of being a child.

Shaped like a milk carton and decorated with bits of stone and glass, it was a perfect house for small kids: three houses from the school, a huge backyard, near tons of other kids, and close enough to walk to the library.

This house is the background for my favourite memories.

It is the place where my playhouse was built.  The place where I soaked my neighbour's birthday party with the garden hose.

It's where we tied my little sister to the tree and where she ran away to Canadian Tire before anyone noticed she was gone.  It's where my brother broke the window playing baseball and where my Mom watched us play out the kitchen window while she baked bread.

It is the house where Dad and I would put lights on the huge fir tree in front during the coldest blizzard in November using two long sticks nailed together with a T bar on the top.

Front of our house on Sunset Drive.

It is the backyard that holds the most importance for me here.  It is where we spent most of our time.

It's where the neighbourhood kids congregated and where I felt the safest.

It was also where I spent a lot of time being grounded for doing stupid things outside the yard, but that's a different story.

The left quarter was where Mom's little garden was and our playhouse was built on top of the sandbox once we outgrew it.  Three lilic trees grew along the back fence and created a perfect hideaway for scented excursions.

But the best was the playset.

The centre of my childhood. The swingset my Dad built for us.

Dad installed this shortly after we moved in.  We spent hours climbing the rope, swinging the swing as high as it would go, trying to make the entire structure sway.

It was part of the set up in our elaborate game of K!ll the Russians (can you tell we knew all about the Cold War?) where you had to climb the rope, jump down, climb the fence, run around the house, climb the gate, climb the tree, jump off the playhouse, and get back to the swing set.

I'm not sure what the rules of this game was, but I know we didn't actually kill anyone.  And, honestly, we like Russians now. (Hi Russian Step-Mom!)  -- Note, this part was written before all the mess between Russia and Ukraine where my dad and stepmom live. I'm not a huge fan of those ones.

We moved from this house when I turned 12.  My sisters remember the house, but don't have the same attachment to it that I did.  They have childhood memories in the house on Pasqua whereas I was a surly teen who stayed in my room for 4 years.

I drove past this house the other day when I was in the neighbourhood.  They have cut the huge Christmas tree down from the front yard.  They removed the playset from the backyard and painted all the trim on the house blue.  It is no longer the same home I knew and has likely seen many other families since ours roamed it's narrow halls.

I loved that house and the time we spent there.

While it's true you can't go home again, it will always be one of my favourite places.

Gluten, gluten, gluten - Post from the Past

I originally posted this in April 2010 - in honour of Celiac Awareness month, I'm posted it again.

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I know, you're tired of hearing about it.  You're all like "Bron, we get that you used to be gassy and depressed, but seriously, if we have to hear about your diet one more time, we're going to force feed you pasta."  I know.  Shush, it's okay.

SUCK IT UP.  It's my site and I will talk about farts and wheat if I want to.

This week has been a bit of an eye opener for me.  Celiac disease in my own home is relatively easy.  Sure, I sometimes want to bury my face in flour and breathe deeply, but that could happen to anyone.  For the most part, I make good food for me and am a responsible Gluten-holic.  I can't have it, but I want it desperately.  I behave, but only because I know if I don't, it will hurt me.

This week, I've been at a conference.  One where I did not have time nor place to tell them I could not eat gluten.  One that has served meals of pancakes (breakfast), pasta (lunch on Thurs), pirogies (lunch on Friday -- I always thought it was spelled perogies?) and snacks of cookies and pecan pie.

I came awful close to attacking people for what was on their plates.  I talked to the wait staff and the chef has been amazing enough to make me special meals.  He's been a dream and the serving staff have been awesome.  PS, the Saskatoon Radisson rocks.  Even though their sleep beds suck, but they can't help that.

However, on Thursday night, unbeknown to me, I got some gluten in something at a local restaurant.  The one who swore that item was gluten free.  Not so much, but what can you do?

Well, what I can do is be thankful I had a room alone.

Now, today I felt a ton better and I started talking to a couple of like minded souls about our bowels.  It lead me to think about how grateful I am for this diagnosis and the things I had which I do not have any longer.  Without futher ado, I give you the list!

Bold is what I had.  Striked is what I no longer have.  After 20 ish days!!!  Get ready to have TMI!!!


Signs & Symptoms of Celiac Disease*

Alopecia  (I don't know what this means. UPDATE: It means hair loss.  Nope!)
Anemias, especially iron and folic (working on this!)
Anorexia
Autism
Autoimmune arthritis
Autoimmune connective tissue diseases
Autoimmune thyroiditis
Cerebellar ataxia
Cerebral and cerebellar atrophy
Cerebral calcifications
Chromosome aberrations
Chronic fatigue (getting better, now I just can't sleep!)
Chronic liver disease
Colitis
Constipation
Delayed puberty
Dental enamel defects (permanent damage)
Depression
Down’s syndrome
Early menopause
Febrile seizures
Gallbladder dysfunction
Gallstones
IgA deficiency
IgA nephropathy
infertility (scariest possibility)
Insulin-dependent diabetes mellitus
Intestinal Cancers
Kidney Stones
Low Calcium
Low Iron
Low Magnesium
Low Vitamin A
Low Vitamin D
Low Vitamin K
Low Zinc
Mild ataxia
Monoarthritis
Muscular hypotonia
Neurological disorders
Obesity (well, I'm "overweight" so says Wii, but I'm getting better!)
Obstructive pulmonary disease
Osteomalacia
Osteoporosis (on my way, but putting a stop to it!)
Pancreatic insufficiency
Pica
Pulmonary bleeding
Retarded motor development
Rickets
Sacroileitis
Schizophrenia
Short stature
Single generalized seizures
Spontaneous, low-impact fractures
Systemic lupus erythematosus
White-matter brain lesions


Symptoms and Conditions Associated with Gluten Sensitivity

Craving for wheat/gluten or inability to stop eating it
Obesity
Allergies, asthma
Sinus congestion, post-nasal drip
Arthritis
Joint and muscle aches
Diarrhea and/or constipation
Gas, bloating, abdominal pain
IBS, colitis, gastritis
Psoriasis, eczema or unexplained rash
Depression, anxiety or mood-swings
Hormonal imbalance
Neurological disorders
Memory loss
Unexplained Chronic Fatigue
Fibromyalgia
Increased liver enzymes
Frequent canker sores
Iron-deficiency anemia
Headaches / Migraines (near headache free for the first time in ~ 7 years!)
Hyperactivity
Osteoporosis
Dental problems
Short stature

*Info from glutendoctors.com

This is the greatest thing for me.  The pain is going away.  If I keep this up, I will not be in pain except for rare occasions rather than all the time.  It keeps me going.

It keeps me from killing small children for their chicken fingers.  And that is all that matters.

Dogs on a plane - how Vicki travelled cross-country

Montel and the women (Madison and Vicki)

Before I got married in 2009, I had to go from 3 dogs down to 1. Somehow, this occurred all within a week. I'm still not sure how it worked out.

This is the story of taking one dog, Vicki, on a plane ride. Vicki has since moved from my house to my sister, Ky, to my Grandma, and finally has settled in with my uncle.  She is no less trouble.

I prepared the best I could. I bought a travel carrier. I went to the vet and got medication to help calm Vicki during the flight and make her sleep as much as possible. I assured myself I could do this.

Vicki loved the airport. There were new sites and sounds and people to adore her and children to growl at. Everyone oohed and aahed over her. She was in her glory. She sniffed and snorted, growled and wagged. Finally, she got a bit dopey and settled down.

Of course, our plane was late and her drugs wore off before we even got on the plane.

At the boarding call for our first flight, I tried to get Vicki into the carrier I had purchased.

I had tried once before to put her in so she would be prepared for the trip. She hated it, so I decided not to traumatize her until the plane ride. So -- smart person that I am -- I am standing in the middle of the airport trying to shove a dog into a small bag.

At first I thought I could coax her.

Not so much.

Then I shoved. She put her little paws on either side of the carrier and strained for all she was worth.

Another passenger took pity on me and helped. I put Vicki's leash on her and threaded it through the bag. The lady pulled the leash as I shoved Vicki's bum.

Finally, I just tipped the carrier on one end and dumped Vicki in there. She was not happy with me, but it worked.

There is a time and place for finesse and patience. That wasn't the time for either.

We made it onto the plane with little problem. I thought "This will be a piece of cake." Then they started the engines.

Vicki peed.

She then tried to scratch her way to freedom through the mesh of the bag. By the time we took off, she had three good holes made in the bag. I spent the entire flight bent over at the waist with my hand in the bag alternately soothing her and pushing her paws away from doing any more damage.

This is when the man in front of me decided to lean his chair back all the way.

We stopped in Edmonton for 30 mins. I took Vicki out of the carrier for a bit and then went through the same process to get her back in. I gave her another dose of meds (praying I wouldn't overdose her) and went back on the same plane we had just left.

Once again, takeoff scared 3 years off Vicki's life. But she did marginally better for that trip.

Vicki with "fly away" hair

The lady sitting next to me realized I had a dog with me and took the carrier onto the seat beside her. She then unzipped it and spent the rest of the flight giving Vicki kisses and saying "I wish I had known you were giving her away!! I would have taken her."

Um, lady... we just met.

The crew gave us a little bit of grief for having Vicki out, so I put her back on the floor and the lady spent the rest of the flight in the same position I had been in for the first flight.

While we were in the air, they announced we were going to have yet another stop over. They felt they did not need to tell us this prior to the flight as most of us wouldn't be getting off the plane. So, my little flight with my jumpy dog turned from one stop to 3!! Had I known I would not have picked that flight.

The third flight was a lot less problematic. A guy who looked just like David Crosby sat next to me and made small talk while Vicki slept. The meds had finally kicked in and she was stoned as a hippy. We made jokes she needed Doritos.

Finally, we landed for the last time. Vicki was alive and the carrier was all in one piece.

Also, we determined that the dog can pee at least three times in the carrier without it smelling until after you take the dog out. This is important information.

Vicki a little dopey
(pic by Ky)

Vicki's eyes finally cleared from the meds about 7 hours later. She settled into her new home and seemed to enjoy it. However, the cat from upstairs came to visit (at the window) and Vicki made her unhappiness known. She spent the next few hours on cat watch and shaking.

After a couple of months, my sister's landlord asked that Vicki go live somewhere else. Her decision to bark for hours and hours while Ky wasn't home, made for an interesting soundtrack to their life.  She went to live with my Grandmother and made the next 3 years a joy for all the old ladies in the complex.

Grandma and Vicki 2013 Grey Cup

Vicki now lives with my Uncle and is spoiled rotten (yet never better behaving). She goes on sleepovers with Grandma every once in awhile at the care home and looks foreword to her half of everything Grandma eats.

I will never take a dog on a plane again.

Top 10 tweets I've ever posted since the beginning of time. I'm funny.

I was planning on doing an entire post on the plans I have for the front entry, but I will do that for another day. It's been a busy week and I accidentally got lost looking at all my most favourited and retweeted tweets on Twitter. Here are my favourites.

Bronwyn‏@Bronwyn_MayB

Most of my conversations with my husband end with me sighing deeply and saying "And then, Your Honour, I stabbed him."

1:37 PM - 23 Oct 2010

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When asked "What are you making?" the answer likely shouldn't be "Plans for your downfall."

11:28 AM - 5 May 2011

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There is some unknown substance on my phone screen so I've decided to lick it.

8:55 PM - 22 Mar 2012

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When I hear classical music playing in a public restroom, I feel I should be doing something a lot more impressive than I am.

6:30 PM - 28 Jan 2010

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The last hour of a workshop takes 3 days.

1:31 PM - 1 Jun 2011

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Back to our regularly scheduled cynicism, sarcasm, and sass.

2:07 PM - 21 Nov 2011

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I keep using my Neti Pot, but I don't feel high at all. Am I doing it wrong?

9:09 AM - 7 Jun 2010

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Gloria Estefan says the music is going to get me, so I'm sleeping with a knife. I'm going to get the music first.

8:37 AM - 8 Oct 2010

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Deleting a tweet with a spelling error takes the same amount of time as closing an Xrated browser in front of your Mom.

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10:03 AM - 29 Aug 2010

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When I can't think of a word, I act it out in order to remember it. I really hope I don't try to remember the word "naked" in public. Again.

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9:22 PM - 4 Dec 2009

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Is it just me or, after a long workout, do you lay on the floor with a package of bacon and cry?

8:17 PM - 5 Jan 2010

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Remember you can always get my funny first hand. Follow me on Twitter at Bronwyn_MayB

Post from the past: Wheatless home on the prairies

This was initially posted in March of 2010. What a difference four years makes.  I have not regretted the diet and life change in the years since my diagnosis. Though, I do still miss some things now and again.

Now, of course, the rest of my family has refused to get tested so it is Ky and I alone in our wheatlessness. Ky has also taken out dairy, soy, corn, etc and consist on a diet of "broccoli and sadness". Though I should remove dairy from my diet, I am not ready for that yet.

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via

Since my sister, Ky, announced in February [2010] she was diagnosed with Celiac's disease, we knew it was a matter of time before the rest of us had to get tested.  We all have similar symptoms and have been going to doctors for years with limited success.  Now that we know it exists in our family, we can get tested.

I got home from Victoria and immediately went to the doctor to get the test underway.  One big blood test later (seriously, I don't think I had blood left when they were done) I had to wait for the results.  Since I've had numerous other health issues going on, the one week waiting period turned into three in order for all the results to come in at the same time.

Wednesday was that time.

I walked into the doctor's office, got into my paper gown (the physical was that day too, oh joy) and waited.  I've been a bit anxious about what the results of the Celiac test would be, so finally being so close to an answer was a bit nerve racking.

My lovely doctor came in, sat down, told me the results of the test and immediately took my blood pressure.  Not such a good choice it turns out.  Perhaps she should have reversed that?

I have Celiac's disease.  My levels were far and beyond the highest of the measurable scales.  The levels that were "extremely high" were left in the dust by my results.  For once, I'm an overachiever.  Yay me.

It means going on a gluten-free diet.  No wheat.  No bread.  No pasta.  No cereal.  Forever.

I've had a month to digest this (pardon the pun) but it was still kind of a kick to the junk.  I know I will adjust.  I will be forced to eat healthier and this is awesome.  However, I have to admit, I am in mourning.  It's going to be a big adjustment.  I'm going to have to learn how to cook healthier, want to cook healthier, eat healthier, want to eat healthier.  I'm going to have to stop eating a family sized box of Mini Wheats a month.

I know it will be good for me.  I will likely lose weight (Dr. figures my body can't process the gluten so it stores it -- just in cases).  I will not be as tired.  I will not be as irritable.  I will not be as gassy.  (The world rejoices at that one.  Especially Monty and The Guy.  Dutch oven gets old fast.)  I will feel better.

Really, I should be looking on the up side of this.  It will be nice not to have bi-polar intestines with the emotional stability of a pubescent teenage girl in the hysterics of unrequited love.

But I will really miss Mini Wheats.

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.

Conversations with Grandma: lamp shades, spinsters, and fat aunts

I had a great post almost ready to go, but I got called in to work an extra shift. All good intentions? Out the window!  Instead, I put together a compilation of Grandma stories. Everyone loves Grandma stories.

Grandma, Auntie Jeanne, and Aunt Margarette

Speaking about a woman who died one winter. "You remember that woman? She wasn't quite right. But everyone was nice to her. Even if she was a little off."

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When I told her I didn't mind whatever she wears to the wedding. Even if it's a lamp shade. "Well, it's decided then. That's what I will wear. You can introduce me to all your friends."

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"You shouldn't eat so much cereal. You'll get rickets."

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Talking about bonds she gave to me to hold for myself and my sisters. "When the others got married, I realized I might die before you and your sisters got married. So, I put the money I would have given you as a gift into bonds. Then you could have the money when you got married or turned 30. It's a good thing you waited to cash yours!"

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For years, my grandmother has had a saying we've heard with a fair amount of regularity. "Fat as Aunt Annie" became something we took for granted as a saying said all over the world.

One day, Ky asked her directly "Grandma, where did the saying 'Fat as Aunt Annie' come from?"

Grandma looked at her kind of puzzled like and said, "I had an aunt named Anne. She was really fat."

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The other night, we heard Grandma talking on the phone to one of our aunts. She was talking about how grateful she was that Ky and I were able to come visit her. She then noted that I had taken her grocery shopping earlier and she had bought some treats. She closed the conversation with a typical Grandma-ism.

"I shouldn't have bought all those snacks. These girls don't need to gain any more weight".

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.

The best of me: What readers liked most in 2013

Tis the time of year again where bloggers around the world make lists of their accomplishments in writing. I'm no different. Mostly because I'm lazy and I follow the crowd.

The following list tells of the times I bitched about sex, showed you my ability to craft, wrote some fiction, told stories about my Grandma, shared our experience with infertility, and how I fared on a polygraph (spoiler alert: it didn't go well).

I hope you enjoy the read and stick around for the new year. I have goals in 2014 and the main one is to kick it's butt.

I, MayB's greatest hits:

The over-sexualization of EVERYTHING

Slap a pair of boobs on something and you will sell way more items than you might have otherwise.  You'll get more attention for whatever you're pushing.  Selling more, getting more attention is good.  I get it. 

I don't know about you, but I'm tired of it.

Ivory Hawk fingerless mitts

Since I learned how to knit almost 4 years ago, I have adapted many a pattern to suit my needs. 

It wasn't until I had a handful of gorgeous yarn and a friend requesting some fingerless gloves that I decided I just needed to do my own thing. 

These gloves were the result.

Anna's last year - Fiction Friday

Anna smiled and turned back to the kitchen. She started the kettle for tea and went back to the entry way to retrieve her purse. On the way, she looked about the house which was half unpacked and still a mess of opened boxes. Though she was starting to feel more settled here - in The Spinster House, she thought wryly - she was instantly reminded of the reason she came back.

Childless by chance, childless by choice

Almost 2 years ago, The Guy and I learned we couldn't have children.  This was after months and month of doctor's visits, needles, probings, stadiums filled with spectators of my lady bits, and finally the ultimate disappointment. 

We aren't going to have children and I'm okay with that.

A list of things I like to do 

You would think it would be simple. Write a list of 20 things you like to do and when the last time you did them was. Easy, right? Well... not for me. 

Problem is? I don't really like to DO anything. I'm lazy and unmotivated. 

But it's one of my favourite things about me!

Liar Liar: My experience with a polygraph

The procedure for this test is to fill in a 31 page questionnaire prior to attending. It questions everything you have ever done that is wrong, illegal, immoral, or a mix of all three. Then, you stew about and remember even more. 

When you enter the polygraph area, you then sit down with the administrator and go over it all again. In detail. With examples. And you spill. EVERY. LITTLE. THING. All those things you wanted to keep secret? You don't. All those things you are embarrassed about? You tell. All those things you didn't realize were actually crimes? You admit to doing all the time. 

You talk and talk and talk. AND TALK.

Tales of Grandma: Stubborn runs in the family

I wrote it in November of 2009, when Grandma moved from her apartment of 40 years to a smaller apartment down the road. Now almost 5 years later, after 2 years at an independent senior's lodge, Grandma is moving in with my Uncle Dean as she is requiring more and more care due to her failing memory. 

This post makes me both happy and sad - happy she was always such a tough old lady and sad that she has changed so much even in the last few years. 

As Gram says "It is a terrible thing to get old."

Anchor - Four Years of Love

I thought this post was fitting for this week. Today is our 4 year anniversary.  I wrote this 2 1/2 years ago on March 29, 2011. 

Since then, The Guy has become more to me than I could have even imagined.  Four years of marriage has been an adventure.  I'm thankful he came into my life every day.

Customer Service: How to do it right

Now, I know, you're thinking I don't work in customer service; I work in a crisis centre.  However, being a crisis worker is all about customer service -- in the worst way.  People who come to see me (or who have me show up on their doorstep) are either: 1) embarrassed to be there, or 2) furious and full of hatred.  But I have a service that I am there to provide and that is that.

Me in a shell of a nut: Now with pictures!

I thought I would take you on a tour of my week. It's been a busy one of no consequence. 

You seem to like that.

I hope you stick around for the upcoming year. I have more in store for you!