Depression, pain, and the lies they tell.

Before I stopped writing almost two years ago, I wrote a small piece that I never published. I thought, on the second anniversary of the day my body betrayed me, I would show you where I've been.

I am absent.
I am woefully and deeply lacking. I am empty and echoing. I have nothing to offer you.
In the past, I have talked about depression but I have never delved into the cavernous emptiness that houses depression in a person's mind.  Well, not any person, I don't know your body.
Mix depression and chronic pain and you have another ball game altogether. That is where I have been for 6 months or so. That is what I have to talk about.
So here it goes.

I never finished the post. That's where I was. I didn't have it in me. All I had was pain and depression.

My life felt black and white

Two years ago, I was cocky and assumed that every dumb thing I put my body through would be okay. Sure, I had aches and pains here and there, but it always bounced back. I lifted things I shouldn't, carried too much at a time, hauled children all over the place, and did nothing to make sure my body could handle it.

Then, I got injured at work. I turned too far one way while the rest of me stayed the other way. WCB claim went in and my life for the next year was doctor's appointments, pain, and still going to work because I was stupid stubborn.

Pain controlled my life for almost 2 years.

I could not sit for more than 15 minutes, stand for more than 10, lay down for more than 45. I had to prop myself on pillows to gain any sort of relief. Ice and heat became my best friends. I went to physio and chiro each twice a week. Massage helped, but WCB will only pay for 5 sessions and I ran out of money in my health benefits within 2 months.

I couldn't lift anything over 10lbs. I couldn't even pick up my dog. Or my purse!

After 6 months, I was still in pain and not getting better. I started into tertiary physio treatments -- intensive treatments on a daily basis which included an exercise routine. 3 hours a day plus working 10 hours. No one suggested I stop working even though I wasn't getting better. Finally, in my second week, they took me off work so I could concentrate on getting better.

I got a lot stronger during this time. 9 weeks of working out 3 hours a day meant I was developing muscles I hadn't seen since I was 20. I had abs and shoulders. (Sadly, having to return to work means I got lazy and no longer have this. Boo!)

But the pain was still there. I mean, it went from an 8.5 to a 6, but it was still way higher than it was supposed to be. I finished the program with all the professionals confused about why I had pain. Not once did anyone suggest any medications stronger than ibuprofen.

I pushed for more tests to find out why I was still hurting, but apart from repeated X-rays (which they all admitted would show them nothing) I got nothing. No MRI, no CT scan, no trust that something was going on.

I was miserable.

I couldn't go out with friends for longer than an hour because I could hardly walk if we'd been sitting for any length of time. I didn't want to leave the house because I knew I would be in pain and not have any fun. I had to cart around a back pillow with me anywhere I went just so I could sit for 45 minutes even though I knew I shouldn't be.

This is where the depression came in. I started to hide from my life because the pain was always present. The more I hid, the more depressed I became. The more depressed I was, the more I hurt.

Turn, turn, turn.

Added to this we moved into our new house during this time. I couldn't help with the move because of my weight lifting limitations. We didn't have a usable bedroom for 3 months after we moved in, so we were sleeping on an air mattress. There was more stress than I knew what to do with and I made sure everyone around me felt it.

I got to a basic level of functioning. I returned to work because I could finally lift 50 lbs (the weight of a baby in a car seat) and could pull and push while crouching (trying to get a toddler ready to leave). I took a heating pad to work (thank God for my mother-in-law who suggested this life saver) and that is how I spent most of my evenings.

I moved on as best I could.

18 months later, I got an appointment with a rheumatologist to discuss my pain levels, how to control them, and what might be the cause. She was furious no one had thought to give me anti-inflammatories during the last year and a half and immediately prescribed them. She advised that, if they worked, it was likely I had a spot of arthritis in my spine that had been brought on by the injury. If they didn't, it was likely I had chronic pain that would need to be handled in another way.

They worked.

My world is in colour. I can't forget that.

I had forgotten what it was like to not be in pain. You get so used to it. Your mind tells you this is all there is and you get mired down in the weight of knowing this is your new life. You move trying to avoid more pain and, as such, insulate yourself from so many things. If you try and reach out beyond your limitations, your body suffers.

It's a horrible way to live.

Since December, I have had pain free days. Not just days, but weeks!! It was heady. The Guy noticed a change in both my behaviour and my mood. I felt great. It was like I had been given a new lease on life! I could make it through an entire set of shifts at work and not need two days to recuperate. I was on fire.

I might have gotten a little too crazy, because I immediately forgot to follow up with my chiro and massage and threw my back out two months later, but it was such a wonderful reprieve.

What it taught me is that my mind had lied to me. Yes, I have to live my life a little differently now than I did before. I have to be careful and listen to my body and acknowledge it's fragile. I still have aches and pains -- some worse, some better -- but those do not define my life.

Even in pain, there were things I could do that made it better. Yoga was a life saver for me. Pacing myself was another. I had to learn to be kind to myself and patient with what I could and could not do. I had to be thankful for things that I had and am and hold dear to me.

Because pain could come back.

But if it does, I am ready for it. It is not the boss of me.

Not any more.

The tale of two closets: when custom isn't always better.

When people ask me if I'm excited about being in my new house, I end up just staring at them.

How do you explain that you don't have time to be excited because you're too busy trying to get them to come back and fix all the things they didn't do right the first time?

Here is a tip: don't ask that question.

Now that we have been in the house almost two months, we are getting more settled and some of the kinks are being worked out.  But it wasn't always such smooth sailing. (She says with her tongue in her cheek.)

Custom closets?

When we decided we wanted to include a walk in closet in our master suite, we wanted it to be perfect. I wanted two layers of hanging bars - one for shirts, one for pants - and a section for my dresses.  I wanted a tall thin tower of shelves for folded clothes, space for my shoes, and a large wall for my jewelry that I swear I will someday not be too lazy to wear.

We talked to our contractor. He really seemed to get what we wanted and promised he would have the closet built custom so we would have strong wood shelves and it would look really slick. We said not to worry - we would be happy with a great organization kit from a local store - but he assured us that custom was the bomb.

Okay, he didn't say that. I did.  I am not cool or hip.

Regardless, the closet was something I dreamed about for months. It is 12 feet deep and 6 feet wide and would be all manners of awesome.

And then we hung things up.

Short comings

Yup. That's our closet.
Even Monty is sad

The Guy's shirts hung 4 inches onto the floor. His pants hung 2 inches on the floor. On the top rung, not even my shirts could be hung without dragging on the shelf below.

The tower of shelves was over a foot and a half wide and had 2 shelves.  TWO.

It was a disaster.

The closet I had been organizing in my mind for months was completely unusable. Don't get me wrong, it looked great.  Until you actually hung clothes in there.

The Guy spoke with the contractor who agreed to have the carpenters come back and fix the closets (the downstairs suite closet was also this short) so they would be useable.

Eventually.

A month later, they arrived.  They assured us that the 27" from hanging bar to floor was standard. The 30" from hanging bar to shelf was ample.

May I point out that the contractor, the carpenter, and the helper were all shorter than my 5'10" (and three quarters) by quite a bit?

Yeah.

It might be standard heights in the 1800s but it sure isn't now. Not with The Guy topping 6'5".

Reparation

They tore the closets out and fixed them. The tower now has 4 shelves.  The clothes have space to hang. There is room for a shoe rack (I installed after I took these pictures) and all our clothes fit.

Everything I wanted.  Blurry and badly lit.

The painter has to come back and redo the whole room, but I can use it. It will be the closet I wanted.

Though, I still think the pre-fab one might have been a touch easier.

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.

*******************

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.


****************************
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.

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.

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.

Little pieces of paper: Why scissors were banned in our house

For my Dad: today I made a lot of little pieces of paper.

On Thursday night, I posted this picture as my Day 35 of #100happydays.  Since only my siblings understood why it was funny and would make my Dad crazy, I thought I would provide a backstory.

My dad hates little pieces of paper.

It began innocently enough: we were children and my mother was trying to keep us occupied and out of trouble by giving us crafts to do. Being that until I was a teen I was in a LOT of trouble ALL the time, this was no small feat.

Mom's version of keeping us busy involved handing us the Sears catalogue, a handful of blank paper, Lepage's glue (with the awesome rubber tip), and the largest scissors in the house.

Sears catalogue delivery was my favourite day. We rifled through the thick pages looking at all the pretty things we would never have and ooh-ing and aah-ing over the stylish models.

Did I mention we were poor and sheltered? Stylish models, indeed.

Once we had thoroughly scoured all the things we wanted, the catalogue would go to the side to wait for craft day. I feel like craft day was a lot of the time, but it's possible my memory has expanded the experience as I cannot believe we really had that many catalogues.  We did deliver them to the neighbourhood though, so it's possible we snagged extras.

Mom sat each of us around the table and set us to work. Heads down, elbows up, silence and concentration the words.

Armed with my dangerous scissors and a dream, I scoured the catalogue for people and things. I chose beautiful women and cut them out. I picked the perfect bedroom suite (with ruffled edged pillows) and couches with plaid.  I glued the furniture onto a piece of paper and then used the cut-out woman to enact glorious scenes of utmost importance.

I also had one entire page of toys I wanted.  You know, just in case it happened someone was interested in what I liked.

By the end of the day, my Dad would come home from his magical world of the office where he went to escape the children. We were content in our creations and, I am sure, anxious to share this with him.

He would take one look around, shake his head, and jokingly ask "What? Were we out of little pieces of paper?"

The floor beneath us was covered with the (slightly sticky) bits of paper we had discarded in our artistic process. Even cleaning them up, we would find them days later stuck to the bottom of our socks or in the living room carpet.

It became a life long joke in our family. Each of us continue to be crafty (well, maybe less so my brother. He does MANLY things) so there is always a chance someone will come home and ask if we had run out.

Now it's The Guy's turn.

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

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!

Being a baby is hard work. Babysitting might be worse.

On Sunday night, I agreed to babysit for my cousin's little girl, Elizabug aka Lil E. It was a busy weekend for the family with E's birthday, getting over a cold, having a party for 15 little kids, and being topped off by her mom's birthday on Sunday.

We're buds here.

Sunday evening, I headed over to start my work as baby wrangler extraordinaire.  I walked in the door and knew exactly how my night was going to go.  E took one look at me, grinned her face off, and burst into tears. It would be the night of the bi-polar baby -- happy and then OH SO SAD.

It quickly became a battle of wills. E is pretty adorable and feisty.  What she didn't count on is Auntie Bronwyn is meaner than her. I've lived longer, and I've got more insurance.

First we had supper -- that part went pretty well.  I gave her a spoon to play with and while she was trying to put it in her mouth, I shoved food in there. She ate almost the whole bowl. It wasn't until we were moving on to other things when suddenly she decided there would be NO MORE OF THIS and started screaming.  Problem with that is it was time for meds and I knew it would be easier if she was strapped in.

I was wrong.

I put the syringe full of medicine near her face and she turned. No problem. I got it in her mouth and put the tiniest amount past her lips. She drooled it onto her chest. I used her spoon to put some in her mouth. She spit. I wiped it off her face with my finger and decided to sneak it in that way. She bit me. Finally, I got as much of it in her mouth as down her shirt and in my hair. I figured it was close enough.  On to bath time.

Don't let her innocent face fool you.

It's been a long time since I bathed a baby, so I was a little concerned about making it too hot. I knew the rule of thumb was luke-warm, but I have to admit I was on the luke side of warm. E let me know this as about 5 minutes after I put her in the tub she started shaking and clacking her teeth together. Was the water actually that cold? No, she just wanted me to know she wasn't pleased. I pulled her out, warmed up the water, put her back in and life was good.  We had 15 minutes of pure joy.

Except she started to doze off.  I figured it was a sign, so I pulled her out of the tub. She came willingly until she saw the lotion I had to put on her. FREAK OUT. She went stiff as a board and tried to lay down on top of me.  She wailed and sobbed and moaned.  I mean, until she saw her pjs and then she got distracted.

It alternated like that for the next 10 minutes.  I would put the lotion on the baby (or she gets the hose again) and she would be FURIOUS until something shiny happened and she forgot she was supposed to be mad. The diaper went on while she was standing because there was no convincing her otherwise. It was hard to keep a straight face while strapping RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION baby into her footy pyjamas.

We got her done, she calmed down, and we went to warm up her bottle to prepare for the night.  I let her stare at the microwave while I warmed the bottle and checked to make sure it wouldn't burn her.  We sat down in the rocking chair and started to read a book about the Little Owl. It was adorable. E was not impressed. She wanted the other book. Fine. I like Goodnight Moon. Except she didn't like that one. She wanted the Owl one. No, the Moon one. NO. THIS IS NOT RIGHT.

Fine. No more books. I got her bunny out of the crib and her swaddling blanket. She bit the bunny by the ear and growled. Then she screamed. I was sure the neighbours were going to call on me by this point. She had done little but scream bloody murder between laughing fits for the last hour. But I was not to be deterred. Blanket on, bunny in hand (and teeth), bottle given, I walked away from the crib -- only to hear the bottle being flung across the room.

Howling ensued. I waited a few seconds and turned back. She had wrapped the blanket around herself in a way that would cut off circulation and was trying to stand up. The howling had turned into  hyperventilating. I picked her up. Crying ceased. It was like one of those dolls from the 90s. Put her down - cry; pick her up - happy.

Grumpiest baby to ever have grumped

Finally, I held her, wrapped in her blanket, and we sat on the rocker. I rocked (the face of calm) while E strained and struggled, howled and sobbed, growled and moaned. She got close enough to my sweater that she bit the neck edge and held it in her teeth for dear life. If she could have gotten skin, I have no doubt I'd have bled.

She fought going to sleep harder than any baby I've seen in a long time. She alternately bit her bunny and my sweater as though we were her captors she had to battle. Finally, she slumped in defeat. It was not a giving in to tired as much as it was a giving up because there is NO POINT TO LIFE ANY MORE. If she could have rolled her eyes and HARUMPHed, I'm sure nothing would have expressed her opinion more clearly.

She fell asleep despite herself and only woke when I placed her in the crib to give me one last growl and bite her bunny firmly on the ear before falling back to sleep.  I backed out of the room slowly holding my breath.

I had won, but it was a tenuous victory.

Listing things I like to do - why is this so hard?

Last week, I told you about the 5 imaginary lives I wanted to have. It's all part of this book I'm reading about unblocking yourself and allowing yourself to figure out where you want to go and who you want to be.

So far, I'm writing almost every day in my "morning pages" (or at least I'm writing some) and I'm thinking about the topics of tasks that are assigned.

Today's has stumped me.

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.

I guess I must be pretty limited as I have very few things I can think of.  Like half of the list.  So, I will show you what I have and then I will add to them if I think of anything.  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!

1. read (today)
2. knit (yesterday)

3. sew (October? I made a phone case for a friend)
4. walk the dog (yesterday - he's a jerk and likes DAILY walks... like he's so important.)

5. swim (well, not swim so much as hang out in warm water) (October)
6. yoga (October? I started daily and that disappeared)
7. take pictures (good ones, not just iPhone ones on the run) (October)

8. paint (2011)
9. craft/make stuff (2012)
10. decorate (Christmas 2012)
11. updated: watch TV/ go to movies -- thanks to Renee via FB for this one! (yesterday)
12. updated: nap!! (Thanks Wynn Anne! via FB) (today!)
13. updated: write -- I remembered this one in the tub and then Wynn Anne reminded me.  DUH. (today)
14. updated: spending time with The Guy (every day!)
15. updated: lunch/coffee with friends (yesterday)
16. updated: making cookies 
17. updated: shopping! (Thanks, Zoe!) 
18. updated: tell people what to do (this is actually what Saryn meant in her comment... I know)
19. updated: play FB games -- solitaire is my favourite (yesterday)
20. updated: this should be #1: Make people laugh!!

What do you like to do? Maybe you can give me ideas.  I will update as you I think of things.

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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Like me here? Try me at Brazen Woman where I encourage you with 4 ways to reconnect with your partner!

My imaginary life: what I want to be

In getting my writing mojo (and all other mojo) back on track, I started reading a book that has made the rounds here and there in the last 10 years or so. (It might be more, I can't be bothered to look.)  It's called The Artist's Way and it's about self-discovery and all that.  I find the author a little "fluffy" but the ideas behind it are sound.

One challenge is to figure out what is blocking you from being the best and most creative person you can be. Every day, you are encouraged to write 3 pages of free flowing writing.  The idea to this is there is a lot of messed up crap inside our heads that needs to be tossed out. If we write it out first thing in the morning and never look at it again, we have clean space for the positive things.

I like it.



There are also tasks to complete each week. This week's question was:

If you had 5 alternate lives to create, what would you be in each of them?

I thought you might be interested in hearing my answers.

1. Writer -- I think I have always wanted to write. I remember finding a story I had written where the narrator was an old woman who was writing about being a writer even though no one read what she wrote. That is where my heart is in a lot of ways and yet I've never explored it beyond the walls of the internet.  I would like to write books and books and books and have people be touched by what I write, whether it is silly fiction or heartbreaking. 
2. Interior Designer -- I love choosing paint colours and themes. I always thought I would like to do that all the time. Pinterest helps. It's like designing a million rooms for a million people and never having to leave the house.
3. Police Officer -- This is the closest to real life. I really did intend to be a police officer when I started out.  I'm thankful it didn't work out that way, (especially after the *^R% polygraph) but the thought of putting on a uniform and a gun appeals to me still. When I was a teen, there was a period of time I wanted to be a sniper. I think that scared a lot of people.
4. Singer -- I like to sing. The Guy doesn't think I'm particularly good at it, but he's tone deaf, so I forgive him. In my perfect alternate reality, my sisters and I are a trio singing folk gospel type music. My youngest sister is the melody, while my middle sister and I sing duelling harmonies.  We would make Naomi Judd weep with jealousy.
5. Barrista -- This one might give you all pause. However, here is why. I love being a clerk in a service industry.  Not a restaurant or anything complicated, but a coffee shop would be perfect. A quick chat with customers, familiarity and humour, then get their stuff quick as a bunny and off they go. It's the perfect length of social interaction for me. (PS, I wrote barrista instead of coffee wench because it makes The Guy's head explode.)

So there it is. A list of what I want to be in a different life. Most of it is beyond my reach or will or ability. However, I could totally be a coffee wench. If only I could make a decent wage. You guys would tip well, right?

Quick! What would you be in your imaginary lives?

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.