Now don't get me wrong. I love my husband. Really I do.

But after 27 years of marriage, it's safe to say that our weekends have become something of a routine. Take Saturday mornings, for example.

Even though I try to sleep in on the weekends, the cats and dog have other ideas. So I am the first one up to feed the Zoo. I make the bed, let the dog out, empty the dishwasher, cook breakfast, then clean up and do the dishes again. Next comes laundry and the cleaning of litterboxes.

Meanwhile, during all this, hubby is where he usually is. Where he was all night, in fact. On the couch dozing and watching television at the same time.

Today, once I got everything I needed to do, done, I got ready to take daughter to the mall to do some shopping. Looking forward to some alone time, hubby glances away from the TV long enough to quip: "Have fun!"

"Yeah, you too. Have fun napping on the couch..." I retort.

Putting on his best indignant face, he acts hurt. "Hey, I have Places-To-Go too, you know."

"I know, dear. To the couch."

"I have Things-To-Do."

"Uh huh. Like every weekend, you'll fall back asleep."

He continues, as if he never even hears me. "People-To-See."

"Yeah, Seinfeld and Friends." I add.

"Decisions-To-Be-Made" he tries.

"Yup. Like which side should I sleep on today? The right, or the left?"

He finally gives up.

Then he asks me to kennel the kitten while we are out so she wouldn't bother him while he's napping.

I flat out refuse.

"Hey! Whose comfort are you more concerned about, anyway?" he pouts.

"Don't be silly dear." I reassure him.

And as I leave the house, I mutter,

"HER'S of course..."

Unless I am home alone, I rarely even answer our phone anymore. Why should I bother? It's never for me.... unless it's Columbia House that is.

Actually, there are two main reasons for my being an un-person, as far as communcation devices go:

1) A teenager of the female-persuasion lives here. And anyone who has had a 16 year old daughter knows I speak the truth when I say that 99.99999999% of incoming calls are inevitably for her.... the only reason you should even attempt to answer the phone is if she is otherwise predisposed in the bathroom shower. Then you are relegated to taking messages of the utmost importance. Which, if you didn't know already, is the reason why you were put on this Earth.

2) On the odd occasion when I DO answer the telephone, it's probably someone trying to reach our local Home Depot.

You see, when the phone company was setting us up twenty years ago, they let me choose the last four digits for our phone number. Since I was SO clever, I chose a number I thought hubby could remember -- a simple series that made it sound like a lyric; it literally trips off the tongue. (Yes, in fact I HAVE had problems with hubby and phone numbers in the past, but that's a whole other post in the making....)

Then a few years ago it happened.

Home Depot opened up nearby.

After a few dozen wrong numbers, we slowly figured out their number was only one digit different from ours. Soon we became tempted to simply start answering the phone "Home Depot, which department would you like?" One caller misdialed so often, we nearly told him the item he wanted was deepy discounted; but if he needed it, we would hold the last one for him for 30 minutes.

I could just picture the jerk frantically trying to get to the store in time...

But I digress. Sometimes I just want to disconnect the home phone and rely totally on our cells.

But that would mean giving up my really cool home number.

Not to mention the lost entertainment value of torturing idiotic Home Depot customers.

Yeah, sometimes being a parent sucks. But then, life surprises you with memorable occasions when you burst with pride at what your offspring accomplishes.

Like their first steps.

Their first word.

Their first day of school.

Their first award.

And their first job.

First job?

Yeah, baby.

A few days ago, daughter at just 16, decided of her own accord to attend a Starbucks Job Fair. It was her very first time applying for part-time employment. The next business day, she got the call. She is now a Barista at the very Starbucks we have been sharing Saturday morning Mom and Daughter time at for over a year. So it was no surprise to hear that they recognized her.


*Sniff* (Wiping tears from my eyes) I'm so proud.

Especially when I heard she gets a 30% discount at any Starbucks, plus a free pound of coffee a week....

... if you worked where I do, that is.

Now I'm not complaining per se, but honestly it's such a waste most days.

I work in Health Care. In Canada. In a teaching hospital. Which means each and every round, meeting or conference is sponsored by Drug Pushers (more commnly known as "Pharmaceutical Companies") who, in order to inspire, impress and top their competition, arrange for the requisite food that one apparently MUST have in order to survive such gatherings.

An overabundance of food, in fact.

Rows of foil trays filled with Chinese buffets. Hefty wraps. Sub-sandwiches for carnivores and vegetarians alike. Soft drinks in huge bowls of ice. Potato chips. Thick deli pickles. Vege platters. Stacks of pizza. Muffins and danishes. Coffee and tea. Greek souvlaki and lemon potatoes. Fruit and vegetable juices. Spicy cannelloni. Fresh fruit with yogurt dip. We even got scrambled cheesed eggs, bacon, sausage and toast one morning.

And since my office is next to the Conference Room, the inevitable knock on my door is nearly always followed with the declaration "There's food leftover!"


You would think that is wouldn't create a problem, but alas, due to the fact that I have zero restraint, it does. A few predicaments in fact:

Problem #1: It spoils me for the weekends when I have to rack my brain to even THINK of what to make for lunch.

Problem #2: My office smells like a Deli most days.

Problem #3: Expending too much thought and energy trying to resist TOO MUCH FOOD.

Problem # 4: The need for an afternoon nap after failing to resist TOO MUCH FOOD.

Problem # 5: My feeble attempts to lose weight are once again foiled.

Problem # 6: By the end of the day I am so full, I'm never as hungry as hubby and daughter are when dinner rolls around.

Problem # 7: If I DO get the courage to mention all the stuff I have partaken of to my family, they give me the most disgusting looks, after regaling me with their sorry stale-sandwich stories. "I ate a bug" is hubby's usual response (after a dramatic eye roll).

Yeah, they're not too supportive of my dilemma. Until I pull out a tray of food I brought them home for dinner, that is.

If I didn't, both the leftovers AND I would have been tossed.

I can't believe I forgot.

Forgot to relate the best story of all in my previous post about our neighbors finally moving away.

Didn't read it yet? That's okay.... go ahead and click on the link. I'll wait.

.
.
.

La de dah, de dah....
.
.
.

Oh.... back already? All caught up now? Great.

On to my story.

It occurred a few years ago, but I still chuckle about it to this day.

As I mentioned in that post, the community mailbox for our block is situated on the boulevard in front of the aforementioned soon-to-be ex-neighbor's house. Which meant that during my daily excursions to pick up our bills, I would usually find someone from their family in their front yard, dodging traffic in the street or on this particular day, busy on their driveway....


Two of their boys were engrossed in creating great works of art with colored chalk at the end of their drive, near the street. Of course, in order to get to said mailbox, I had to step carefully over their creations.

"How cute" I thought, as I tiptoed around the colorful pieces.

Until I realized just WHAT the youngest was drawing.




Penises.

A lot of penises.

A veritable plethora of penises.

A rainbow of colored penises.

Seeing my mouth drop at the display, the older of the boys finally took a look at what his little sibling was doing. Jumping up quickly and ignoring me, he ran into his house yelling:

"Mom! He's doing it..... AGAIN!!!!"

I abandoned the mail in the postbox and scurried back home, leaving the proud artist alone among his creations.

Soon my favorite time of the year will finally be here and I can't wait to welcome it back with open arms.

I love Fall.

I love the smell of Sunday dinners roasting in the oven.

I love watching the leaves turning to fire-red brilliance.

I love sleeping soundly during crisp cool nights.

And I love hearing hundreds of geese honking overhead as they prepare yet again to fly south.

But before Fall can move in, the old season has to move out. And not too soon in my opinion. You see, Summer is NOT a Friend of mine.

Like an obnoxious roommate, it has overstayed it's welcome as far as I am concerned. The list of irritating traits I've had to put up with has grown to new lengths this year. So as the time nears to hoof its sorry butt out the door, here are just a few of the:

THINGS I WON'T MISS ABOUT SUMMER

- Sweating
- Mosquitos carrying West Nile Virus
- Weeds taller than me
- 40 degree heat with no A/C, in the house or car
- Road construction to slalom around every day
- Sweating
- Creepy-crawlies in the basement
- Severe thunderstorms
- Cold meals
- Sleeping with a fan inches from my face
- Hail damage
- Covering for vacationing co-workers
- Sweating
- Humidity turning my hair into an Afro from the 70's
- Brown grass
- Showering twice a day
- Wasps chasing me from my apple tree
- F4 tornadoes
- Did I mention the sweating?

And the biggest peeve I have about evil Summer? Like an all-too thin acquaintance, the bitch makes me feel fat. Shorts, swimsuits, tank tops... combined with my eternally pasty skin, I resemble the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from June to August.

If Summer was TRUELY my BFF, it would not create so many circumstances that necessitated my hiding inside for months on end. It would be kinder and more understanding of this aging, sagging body and at least give me weather I can cover up in. But no, it scoffs at my attempts to hide my bulges... so I sit sweating thru baggy shirts and full length pants while the temperature soares to that of the Sun's surface.


Which is the best reason of all to love Fall. It considerately allows me to camouflage once again into soft comfy turtlenecks, bulky knit sweaters and dark slimming jeans that make me look and feel great.

Like a true Friend should.

...thank goodness this sign recently appeared across the street:



Yeah, I know. Love Thy Neighbor.

But in reality, there ARE some neighbors I can do without.

I can do without the late night front driveway drinking parties.

I can do without the kids shooting BB guns at bunnies in OUR yard.

I can do without the mother's wordless stares when I go pick up our mail.

But I can especially do without the risk of splattering one of their kids on the pavement.

You see, even though thier house borders one of the largest parks and playgrounds in our whole development, the parents let the boys skateboard in the middle of the street. They even built them a metal ramp in their tiny front yard -- which directed knarley switch-stance landings where?

The middle of the street.

They let the boys snowboard in the winter too. Even packed down a curved snow ramp in their tiny front yard. That also lands kickflips in...

The middle of the street.

So I am glad.

Glad *I* won't be the one to accidently run one of these poor kids down one day.

Here's hoping they move to the country, or at least a deserted street no cars travel down.

For their kid's sake.

In the fall of 2000, I got a page at work that I will never forget. It was the Afterschool Program from daughter's elementary school calling to tell me she had an accident.

I quickly arrived to find my 9 year old covered in blood, a rag pressed against her mouth. She had fallen off the monkeybars and knocked her two front (and brand-new permanent) teeth out on the bars on the way down.

Our dentist kept his office open late that night, stitching her up and putting a "cast" on her upper plate. Later, she was back for root canals and implants.

She took it very well. Throughout the entire ordeal she didn't cry or complain; she was a real trooper.

It was me who was the problem.

I fainted in the dentists' office while I held her hand during the stitching.



Fast forward to two days ago. Daughter is now at the right age to get braces in the final steps of getting her teeth repaired. She also has the option of getting dental surgery to correct a slightly misaligned jaw. Before deciding this was something she wants to undergo, she and I met with the surgeon to review the risks and benefits of what they would do.

He explained in great detail how they would cut her jaw, implant pins and a plate, slide bone around and extract her wisdom teeth while she was under. All this could be done through the mouth in an overnight procedure at the hospital. She would only be out of school for two weeks while she healed.

Daughter thought it was very exciting and cool.

Me?

I fainted again.

Continuing from yesterday's exciting episode...

When last we left the injured Cormorant, it was resting its broken leg in our backyard woodpile, longingly watching the geese as they flew overhead. After a few hours, probably wishing it too were flying high above this strange human home, it decided to take a walk.

Er, "hop", that is.

03/09/07 @ 1800 hours: Discovered by eagle-eyed daughter, Cormorant attempts a swift getaway squeezing under the gate and back down the front driveway. With the aid of daughter, daughter's boyfriend and hubby, the AWOL bird was directed into a wire dog kennel out of harms way on the busy street. Transfer to the backyard with administration of fluids and solids was performed (a bowl of water and bread crumbs).

2100 hours: The patient was moved to the safety of the garage at dusk, were it spent a restful night sleeping with its head tucked into its wing.

04/09/07 @ 1000 hours: A flurry of activity as the Avian Ambulance was prepped (the back of boyfriend's Mazda) with a protective layer of cardboard and green garbage bags. The kennel - stretcher fit in the hatchback perfectly.

1100 hours: Patient was admitted to the Wildlife Rescue, Hospital and Rehabilitation Centre, joining hawks, owls, falcons and other sick or injured creatures on the mend. A monetary donation was also made at this time.

1130 hours: Verbal appreciation was received from the Admitting Clerk for the prompt attention to this medical emergency.

A successful outcome for this unique medical case.

In the Avian Ambulance

Okay, let's take a census here.

One dog. Check.

Three cats. Check.

One gecko. Check.

Three goldfish. Check.

One Siamese Fighting fish. Check.

Eight tropical fish. Check.

One Double-Crested Cormorant. Check.

Cormorant?

Yup. Cormorant.

While doing the dishes, I spotted a large dark shape outside off our driveway. It sure wasn't the hummingbird that caught my attention a few days ago. This was a large bird. About two feet tall. Daughter ran for the camera and was able to take it's photo... but by then it was clear why it didn't fly or run away when she did; the poor thing has a broken leg.



So I ran through the house, out the back door, opened the gate and returned to the front with daughter. We were able to guide it, hopping on one leg, to the safety of our large, wild backyard. Allowing me come within a few feet of it, I was able to leave some bread and water within reach and the poor creature was left alone to rest. It's laying out there right now, secure in a pile of brush, every once and awhile raising it's head skyward when it hears the geese honking as they fly by.

If it's still there in the morning, I'll have to somehow get it into our kennel (which last year was used to transport a huge snapping turtle from our yard back to the local river) and take another trip to the Wildlife Sanctuary (where we took eight orphaned baby bunnies a few years back). Of course today being Labour Day, it's closed.

How does Mother Nature guide these creatures to me? Does she know that I have a soft spot for anything furred, scaley, or feathered? She must...

Sometimes I feel like Dr. Dolittle ... I can talk to the animals.

"If I could walk with the animals
Talk with the animals
Grunt, squeak, squawk with the animals
And they could squeak and squawk and speak and talk to me." - Rex Harrison, 1967

On the drive home

But when the little mischief is THIS cute, how can I get mad?

Jealous, maybe.

But not mad.