My Dad--Part IV

365 days ago I was driving home from a week's vacation at the cottage. I called home to let my parents know I was on my way. "Want to come for dinner?" mom asked.

"Heck yes I would!"

I parked in front of their house and tread my way up the walk. I sat in their warm sun room watching mom cook, sharing stories about my week and the last two days spent with my sister and her family. They talked about their weekend in Southampton, and the day spent at a local street festival. I checked my emails, dad watched golf.

We sat down to a huge roast beef dinner--roast, buttered potatoes, candied carrots, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, and fresh baked pie purchased at the street fair. "We were supposed to have Beef Stroganoff" mom said, "but I know you don't like Beef Stroganoff so *sigh* we're having roast beef instead..." While I know the jab is meant in jest (she loves roast beef as much as the rest of us) when she gets up to refill the gravy dad leans across the table and whispers "I hate Beef Stroganoff..." He winks, and we share a secret laugh with mom sighing from the kitchen, "Are you laughing at me? What are you laughing at?"

After pie, I roll out the door to unpack, settle in, and prepare for the next day at work. Mom and dad sit on the front step, dad with a stack of Ritz crackers (required to fill that last little pocket left empty by pudding and pie). "I'm sorry I can't come to your program on Tuesday" dad says... a library event he was originally scheduled to attend. "I'm working the afternoon shift, but I'll be there in spirit!" I hug, and kiss, and leave them smiling on the front steps, turning back to thank them again for a yummy dinner and to tell them one last time I missed them during my week away.

He was wearing plaid shorts, of that I'm sure. But I can't for the life of me remember what colour his shirt was.

Ugh.

Officially on vacation in seven minutes (not that I'm counting or anything...) I'm taking myself as far away from a computer as humanely possible, and couldn't be happier. So long weirdos! So long customers with bizarre behaviour! So long people who stay here far too many hours in the day!

Apologies to all for not updating more frequently. Now that summer is over and summer school has officially come to an end, perhaps I'll be more diligent.

Healing Hugs

Hugs are good for you.

And I'm not just talking the obvious "ooo, this feels nice" goodness, because of course we've all felt that instant *sigh* of relief when you sink into a real solid hug (none of this "fake hug" business my mom sometimes tries to sluff off on me when she's trying to get dinner ready or something...) But I digress..

Seriously, though. It's finally been proven. Apparently a study was released back in 2005 citing that hugs increase oxytocin levels, a "bonding" hormone that reduces blood pressure which in turn cuts the risk of heart disease.

Now this is a study I can get  behind. Because I literally will hug anything if it's standing still long enough (with the exception of our customers...) My mom, Lil' C, Beef, the cat (good Lord, the cat...) Three months into our relationship Orange finally had to ask me why I needed to hug so much.

"I just do," I said. "Hugging is nice."

Hugs feel good. They make you smile. They're comforting. They're soft and warm, and are shared between people who care about each other (you generally aren't hugging if you don't care, right?) Hugs make me feel like a kiddy again, regardless of the tears or the sick or the sad that required the hug in the first place.

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There are lots of you out there right now who need real, good hugs. And I really wish I was there to do the hugging. So this video goes out to all those who are reading this, who I'm thinking about, who I'm wishing I could be there to help, and of course hug:



Original Hug Campaign Video

Moving is the worst. But after procrastinating for the last month I seriously needed to man up and get packing. Hence my spending the better portion of tonight sorting though sh*t I dragged home from Edmonton and then bizarrely moved into the apartment... WTF? Why do I still have a sticker book in my possession?!

I'm beyond lucky in that Fingers and BSB are quasi-sort of-kinda moving themselves, so we're jointly renting a truck together on Sunday to do the actually shipping and/or receiving of goodies. Scratch "rent a UHaul" off my to-do list--check! Unfortunately that still leaves me with sorting, filling garbage bags, throwing out, weeding out, boxing up, and shuttling. And it's possible these last six tasks are the worst tasks.

After tonight's escapades and the subsequent hives (from all the dust and cat hair behind the "relocating" furniture...) the idea of spending one of the last glorious summer Saturdays indoors like one of those people on the hoarding shows, shuffling between rooms through my piled belongings, is just plain gross. And I don't have music because I've already packed the radio *sad face*

I'm not all about asking friends for help, either. That's not what this post is about. Please don't think this is my passive aggressive way of asking you to Sherpa my winter clothes Tupperware or church sale paintings. Because I won't help you when you move. Sorry hooker, but that's how I role. Unfortunately, the only other person who potentially benefits from this move (besides myself and Sir Handsome-a-lot, Bert) is away for work (aptly timed...) So it looks like I'm doomed to a weekend of packing tape and newspaper cuts. Aces.

If you have a tiny violin, feel free to play it now.

My Grandmother emails me.

Usually every other day, but occasionally we'll exchange quips back and forth throughout the day if I'm planning a visit in the near future, or more so now with her live-in daughter away on vacation.

Grandma turns 90 on October 1st. 90! This is awesome for many reason:

1. She is three times as old as I am, and perhaps 10 times as forward thinking. While she remains a voting Conservative (I won't hold that against her...) she's more liberal than I am and has no problems telling you/me/the postman what she thinks about a situation. In fact, she's always proclaimed "LL, you can be Catholic, and you can be Liberal... but I won't abide an Argo's fan" (you can take the Rough Riders out of Ottawa but you can't take the Ottawa Rough Riders out of the girl...)
2. Think of the changes she's seen in her life time, would ya? She has memories of being pulled in a horse drawn sleigh with bear skin blankets, and now we're talking touch-down landings on Mars. Amidst all of that she stays current through the CBC (*eye roll*), the newspaper magnified on her crazy CNIB machine, and an active letter writing campaign to admonish bad customer service (she refers to these letters as the "angry housewife strikes again!"
3. She's completely self-sufficient, makes a mean chicken enchilada, has read and remembers the plot lines for more books thank I can imagine, "scoots" up to the mall to buy breaded shrimp for dinner and visit Dollerama ("It's ruined me for every other store, LL!"), and forwards jokes like they're going out of style.

Recently I emailed to ask after her lunch date with one of her besty's, Peggy. Peggy lives a few blocks over with her son and his Newfoundland Retriever, Kiwi. I gather from past conversations with Grandma that Peggy is a neat freak (a trait Grandma can't really get behind... *shifty eyes*), and works herself to the bone cleaning up after Kiwi, the dog.

"Peggy had to cancel," she reported. "She's been unwell for a few days, down with back pain. Although somehow she still found time to clean up after the dog. What a sl*t!"

*jaw drops*
*shock*

I did a quick double take and re-read the email to see if I'd missed something. Nope. That's right. My Grandmother just referred to her best friend as a "slut". I had to pull an Inigo Montoya and tell her "I do not think that means what you think it means..." While I get that in the 50's a sl*t might be someone slovenly, today's meaning has an entirely different connotation and one Peggy probably wouldn't take kindly to.

Hey Premier McGuinty! Hear this: my Grandma might oppose regulated mixed martial arts in Ontario (and is probably formatting a letter against it as we speak...) but damn hooker! Don't even think about cancelling lunch with her! Or else!

What a hoot.

Pictures from Florida

Orange enjoying an orange Bahamarita at Bahama Breeze... Brain freeze much?

Fingers polishing off a fish bowl at Iguana Mia... And she was the DD!

Airboat Tours in the Everglades.

Doing the Miami dog races in style. Lost $25 and no sign of Dexter anywhere, but damn, it was fun!

Poo sittin' pretty at Miami Ink. You could only wear a dress like this in Florida...

Big Guy ruining what would have been an awesome picture at South Beach. He will argue he improved the scenery...

The picture that nearly cost me my life... Well worth it.

We played trivia at the condo community centre... The youngest by 30 years and we were the only table that came with our own beer cooler. We lost dismally, winning the "booby prize" but what can you expect when the categories included "medications" and "big band music"?

Coolest mini golf EVER!

Please note this is a buffet KFC... Who asked for this?! Ew...

The beautiful Floridian beach... I'm sweating just looking at it...

This is going to sound super duper cheesy, but...

... It's really easy to throw the word "love" around, huh?

I love cheesies. I love Modern Family. I love working up a good sweat during a run. I love euchre. I love flip flops. I love log fires in the winter. I love the sun on my face. I love chocolate milk, and my slippers, and skinny dipping, and hugging people, and, and, and...

I think I love a lot of things.

The contestants on The Bachelorette claim to love each other. So do those dips on the e-Harmony commercials I'm so convinced by. Who knows whether or not they do.

But all of these things probably aren't really love, per se. I like cheesies... a lot... I like seeing that big orange bag in my cupboard... Little orange smiles, I call 'em. But do I love them? Nah. Not really. And Modern Family is a really good show, but I won't cry when/if it comes to an end. Chocolate milk, slippers, euchre, flip flops... Heck, even hugs! I could do without all of these things if I had to. Meh. They're just things.

......................................

My parents would have been married for 38 years today. 38 years! While never part and partial to the inner workings of their marriage (beyond sitting on the landing listening to their conversations when they thought I was upstairs in my room) I'm sure they had their ups and downs. Heck, I've only been at Orange's for a week or so and he's already saying "there will be days I really, really bug you... And there will be days where you really, really bug me..." And I'm sure, after nearly four decades, there were days they really, really bugged each other.

But for 38 years they shared a double bed, never wanting to upgrade to a queen or king that might give them more room because it would move them further apart. They took vacations together, alone, twice a year. They split the paper in the morning. They cuddled on the couch at night. They had dates on Fridays.

For 38 years.

Man. Talk about love...

If I hear that Rihanna and Eminem song one more time I'm going to punch something...

I'm back from vacation, y'all!

While there are no pictures to post as of yet (I left my connector cord at the apartment...) there are lots of goodies to share, not the least of which is a story involving Fingers leaving me for dead in the middle of the Everglades with a Panther hot on my tail. And I have the bruises to prove it!

All in all, it was a great trip, although I can now safely say that Florida in August is a hot mess of humidity and mosquitoes. Until such time as I get my act together, these tid bits will have to do: 

1. Never try and move a dresser past 7:00 at night on the Sunday after you've returned from holidays. That is, if you value your relationship more than a walk in closet... 

2. Speaking of walk in closets, I feel like one of those people on MTV Cribs with a big glorious room to put all their shoes and sweaters and jewlery out on display... "What should I wear today? Oh I don't know... Why don't I take a spin around my new glorious walk in closet and think about it!" Sorry Orange, but the sweat, tears, and your curse words were well worth it to this gal *doe eyed smile* 

3. There's nothing like the purr of a cat to tell you you've been missed. 

4. I don't know what those rap guys are talking about... Hennessy is not all it's cracked up to be. But then, nothing you can buy at CostCo by the case is really all it's cracked up to be... With the exception of bulk Kettle Corn... 

5. My mom and Beef are away at a cottage and I miss them like I miss wearing flip flops in the winter. And that's a lot! 

6. I bought this t-shirt while I was away and part of me isn't ashamed. What's wrong with me?!

When did he get so big?

 I don't like it.

Wait! I mean... I do like it! Don't get me wrong... I love that he can talk to me know, and ask me "what'cha doin?" and on Sunday at dinner I'm pretty sure he said my name. But I also don't like it, you know?

I mean, what happened to these days?

 

 

I miss my lil' potato, you know?

Pecan Pie Pressure

Orange has been working on a job site that neighbours a well known large-scale Canadian bakery. His role is begin the detoxification of the neighbouring site so to ensure the bakery's water supply doesn't wind up laced with TCE. Nice, huh? Just your average day in the life of Captain Planet...

Last Saturday, Orange worked overtime. And on a number of occasions the bakery supervisor--a slight, white-haired moustached man--wandered out to the lot, flustered and anxious. Hair net and lab coat clad, supervisor man was very stressed and felt the need to vent his frustrations to Orange:

It would seem the bakery has been asked by a supplier to "clean up" their pecan pie... "The pecans aren't crunchy enough and the crust isn't crusty enough." So the bakery boys were working overtime. First they tried adding super shine mix to the pecans to increase the crunch, but batch number one was a dud. "Tasted like plastic." Then they tried "impregnating" (his word, not mine...) the crust with liquid CO2 to increase the freezing speed of the crust froze off the assembly line. Also a dud. By mid afternoon the bakery supervisor was at his wits end, claiming the problem lay in his convection test kitchen vs. the conveyor product kitchen and not in the crunchy or the crusty.

At 3:00 when Orange was punching out of his own job site, the air overwhelmingly smelled of pie and bakery supervisor man was sending the boys on a grocery run for more butter and eggs. Where do you suppose you buy butter by the truck load?

I'd like to learn Kung Fu.

Karate sounds so lame in comparison...

"I'm a karate black belt..."

"I'm a Kung Fu master..."

See? Sh*t yea.

Mega drama at Orange's house tonight.

He called about 5:30 while I was in the midst of digging out my cleats and pulling on my jersey for Ultimate Frisbee, and hung up shortly after so I could zoom out to Fingers' house. Not two minutes later he called back: 

Orange (panicked): "Uh, yeah we got a situation over here..."
Library Lady: "What's wrong buddy?! Are you okay?"
Orange: "Uh, we have a baby raccoon trapped in the green bin, and he is less than pleased with me!"
Library Lady: "I'm on it!"

I zoomed over to the house and found Orange stationed at the back gate, baby raccoon still snug as a smelly, garbage covered bug. Literally. After wheeling the bin into the middle of the lawn (insert angry tiny baby raccoon scratching and howling), I slowly laid it on the ground and pulled open the lid.

And then I ran like the dickens. Both of us did.

We hid in the sun room overlooking the backyard, and waited, watching. We could certainly smell the little dude (ew), but we couldn't see him. Slowly but surely we crept back out the door and sidled up to the side of the bin. Yup. He was still there. Staring at us with his beady little eyes from the bottom of the box. Like it's my fault he was entranced by the smell of rotting coffee grinds, banana peels, stale pita wraps, and an old pizza slice.

That's when Orange let me in on the latest ravine drama: I guess the raccoon parents recently split and are now sleeping in different trees. He assumes there is residual anger weighing on our baby raccoon, and his acting out (partying in our green bin) was no doubt a result of his broken home life. So we took pity on the little dude, and rather than shake him out of the bin so we could Javex the sh*t out of it, we let him be, scared as he was, assuming come dark he'd probably scurry his way home.

Let's hope he gets the counseling he needs. Because the next time he ends up dumping in my green bin he's going to have some explaining to do...

THIS SH*T makes my life.

Random thoughts:

I watched a documentary on heavy metal last night. Not mercury, iron, or aluminum, but Slip Knot, Twisted Sister, and Black Sabbath. Totally insightful. While I have no plans of rushing out to devil horn at the next Alice in Chains concert, I'll look with less scorn at the leather clad dude who spends his days at the library rocking out and chatting online with fellow metal heads. A little less...

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As I spend more time at Orange's house, I spend less time running. Sad but true. Ultimate Frisbee has been my weekly exercise for the last couple of weeks. And while my new UF team and the position I play within it kicks butters, my legs still crave the pavement. Last Sunday I watched a jogger blast pass me at a red light in 30 degree heat, and from the comfort of my air conditioned Yaris I actually looked at him with jealousy. Gross. Baby Shiloh brought the smite last night when I went for a long overdue run along my favorite waterfront trail and I literally gagged at the end of it. Not cool, Shiloh. Not cool.

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Bert and I are back at the apartment after the aforementioned couple of weeks in and out of Orange's place. With only a month left before the "corporate merger" of the accumulated households, he'd made himself quite comfortable with his swish new digs. I'd be lying if I said he was less than displeased with me for bringing him back to chez Library Lady. While I'll try not to take his snubbing personally, you know I'll still coax him out from under the bed with a spoon full of vanilla yogurt.

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A Babybelle can make or break a lunch.

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Mom and I are heading up North this weekend for a mini-break. Pictures and commentary to come. Stay tuned.

Camping 2010

The girls and I had 4th annual mini-break last weekend. You may recall past adventures camping in the wilds of Bon Echo, and last year's Florida extravaganza, complete with Muumuus, dog races, et al. This year's time frame was slightly tighter, so we decided to stick closer to home to make things easier for all involved, reserving a campsite at the Elora Gorge.

Totally fun and exciting, right?

Sunshine and sandy beaches? Check.
An exciting day tubing down the gorge? Check.
S'mores and beer and pita pizzas roasted over the fire? Check.
Good friends and good gossip? Check.

We loaded Poo's car to the t*ts (literally... I sat with my feet on two bags of wood with a bag full of breakfast food on my lap, while Free Samples and Fingers squished awkwardly in the back in and amongst the air mattresses, coolers, and camp chairs and Poo trying desperately to drive slowly, what with her inability to see out any of the windows...). We hit the road Friday after work and with a little luck, we'd be snug in our campsite singing Kumbaya around a raging blaze by 9:00.

What could go wrong?

How about:

1. A total alcohol ban at the park.
2. A dangerously high water level resulting in the cancellation of all tubing and tubing-related activities. 
3. $8 for a bag of beyond dry kindling, and the Conservation Authority's monopoly on area firewood, at that.
4. A campsite on a round-about. Literally... Cars could pass on all sides, not to mention our view of the highway from the flap of the tent.
5. A suspicious poo smell...
6. A forgotten pump for the air mattresses.
7. A hole in one said air mattress.
8. One long walk in inappropriate footwear and subsequent blisters (serves me right, I suppose...?)
9. Deer flies and mosquitoes the size of llamas.

But my girls are not those who take challenges lying down (well, maybe Free Samples *wink*) so after laughing to the point of tears and potential pant wetting, we made the most of our weekend, got ourselves set right and comfortable, and enjoyed every second of our "camping extravaganza"...

*shifty eyes*

What could possibly top this next year, ladies?

'Tis a rainy Friday.

But THIS kind of makes my life right now.

"Swimming, swimming, in the swimming pool!"

In an attempt to beat the heat last night, Fingers and I tried to take a swim at the local pool. Orange lives around the corner from an Olympic sized in-ground that has in the past looked crystal blue and lovely. For some reason it had been drained yesterday... Why? I'm not sure. So we retraced our tracks and took our butters to the next closest location.

The check-in girl gave us the family rate ($7.00). Because we're a family, obviously. After changing into our suits, hosing down in the cold, gross shower room, we made our way onto the deck to join the pool party. I wore my flip-flops for as long as possible on deck because of my fear of hair off the head and in general bare feet in public spaces.

Ahh, relief! It's amazing what a little chlorine can do for the soul. Fingers dove right in while I inched my way into the turquoise abyss, savouring the dip of each toe into the cool water.

As expected, no sooner had I submerged myself when the thunder clapped and the teenage twat sitting in the lifeguard stand blew his whistle for us to evacuate the area. Huddled under the enclosure with the rest of the pool-goers waiting out the storm, Fingers looked over to ask if I wanted to stay the 30 minute minimum wait when the little girl standing next to me began to howl to get back in the pool. "No. I don't" I replied. I'm pretty sure only dogs and bees could hear her screams, she was that high pitched in her wailing. We couldn't even be bothered to dress ourselves, just got back into our car soaking wet to take our "family rate" @sses back to the hot house.

Zut alors!

Could I be more boring?

Come summertime, when once again the monkey on my back rears it's ugly head, I find I have no energy for a) computers and b) blogging when I get home from "the shop", so to speak. Sitting pants-less on the couch watching PVR'd episodes of The Hills, however, has real appeal. Hence my lack of posts.

Updates:

• For the doubters in the crowd, my garden is still scrumptious. It's odd looking, in that the perennials haven't quite filled out as I hoped and this torrential heat has the lilly's flopping and the daisy's praying to the sweet baby Shiloh for rain, but it's a happy garden all the same. Orange and I tried to transplant ferns from the cottage to his house this weekend but by the time we'd made our way through four hours of wall-to-wall cottage country traffic poor Monsieur Fern was deader than dead.
• Speaking of the cottage, I am officially a pack mule. I spent Canada Day working as a Sherpa schlepping old deck wood from the cottage to the dock one floor joist/board at a time and stacking it neatly in a burn pile, whilst Orange diligently cut and screwed his way to an (almost complete) new deck off the bunk house. Being the anal librarian type, I of course then organized my piles from large wood to small wood and burned them accordingly... Stop laughing.
• This weekend is our annual girl's camping trip. You may remember said extravaganza's from 2007 and  2008, and then of course the infamous 2009 Florida trip. I'm super pumped. There's something to be said for a vacation without boys...
• Lunchtime isn't as exciting when you don't have a good lunch to look forward to.

And that's it.

This was the kind of weekend I had...

Deep thoughts by Orange:

"I worry about the day they decide to stop making sour soothers. What are we going to do? I mean, look at Bonkers. Everyone loved Bonkers. And then one day, poof! They're gone. Now you go those classic candy stores on Highway 400 and they're selling you expensive retro Bonkers. But we all know they aren't really Bonkers. They're just repackaged Fruit'ella [sic]...


Why are you looking at me like that? I'm trying to be serious. Sh*t."

It's hot and sticky and I my underpants are sticking to my butt.

TMI? Perhaps. But the windows are open and the sun is setting, and the most glorious breeze is coming through the open window, so there's hope for me yet. I've never had air conditioning, nor has it ever appealed. I leave the frozen hallways of work and crank open my car windows letting the wind whip my hair and stick to my lip balm. I like being hot, and thus the process of cooling down. Far easier to do than to warm up, I say. I'm contemplating serving myself the Creemore chilling in the fridge and chasing it with oat cookies.Why not? I went for a run and hobbled up the Dundurn stairs... I deserve it. It was that foolish errand, after all, that got me into this butt-sticking, humid mess in the first place.

Bert, on the other hand, lays sprawled on the wood floor dreaming of a sunroom and his place on the couch under the screened in windows. September, buddy. September.