Insert Bad Joke About Things Bugging Me

While I am glad that warm weather is coming, I was reminded tonight of one of the reasons I hate summer. There was a spider on the wall, and I was forced to dispose of it. If there is anything worse than being alone when confronted with a bug somewhere in the house and having to deal with it myself, it's when the bug is big enough that you feel it pop when you squoosh it with the tissue.

That's nasty, I know. I apologise. But if this blog is about anything, then it's about making you share my pain.

If I could erect some kind of bug-proof barrier around my home, I would be very happy and maybe not even ask for anything again ever. I could even live with the fact that it would keep out ladybugs, which are the one insect I'm always happy to find inside. Finding a ladybug means having an impromptu session on the wonders of nature and then peacefully releasing it outside to do whatever it is that ladybugs do, like flying away home to rescue their children from a burning dwelling, or eating aphids.

But then again, I am a little nutty on the subject of bugs in the house. Not without good reason. I will be the first to admit that my anxiety issues tend to make me a magnet for, well, anxiety about various issues, and the bug thing is one of them. But in this case, I am well and truly justified. When my family first moved to Cole Harbour, our backyard was so full of spiders you could not walk out on the deck. Our first apartment together in Dartmouth had a stone balcony that spiders just loved. They loved it so much that they would even hang out in the door, falling to the floor with a big splat when I would open it. I don't think I ever actually set foot on the balcony. Our first rental house in the Valley had an earwig problem that I don't think I've ever actually gotten over. It's hard to move past finding an earwig crawling up your leg as you're nursing your newborn daughter in the living room at 3 a.m.

Likewise, it's hard to move past finding two gigantic black spiders in my bed one terrible night after we'd moved into the next house in the Valley. Or the fact that ants nested in the front wall. Or the wasps that made a home in the eaves and got into our bedrooms... let's not forget the one in L's crib, which stung me (thankfully, and not her) when I was putting her down for a nap one afternoon. And have I mentioned the silverfish? There were more than normal in that house. Oh, and centipedes too. And millipedes. Welcome to rural Nova Scotia! they seemed to say as they invaded my house in what felt like a neverending swarm of grossness. Mind if we terrify and disgust you on a daily basis until you move somewhere more civilized?

My point is that my paranoia, in this case, is understandable.

So, to sum up: yay summer. Boo bugs. And I cannot elaborate anymore because I am already so itchy I may not sleep for a week.

Un-Good

Now that we have lowered the price of the house to our "OMG SOMEONE JUST BUY IT" price, we are becoming hopeful we might be able to look for a new place here soon. I have been patrolling the real estate sites, looking for something that might be in our price range (almost nothing) and be not just livable but meet our needs too (almost impossible).

I thought I'd found a good one last night - it looked really beautiful on the inside, and was just outside town. Wasn't perfect, but close enough. I emailed the agent this morning asking a few questions and requesting a showing. When L and I were out and about today, I decided to drive by the spot to see the house from the outside. When we got home, I immediately emailed the real estate agent to say "nevermind". It might be a nice house, but when it's across the road from both a swamp and a junkyard, there's no price low enough to make it attractive.

Tonight L goes to Public Health for her booster shots. She has forgotten for the moment, and I'm not going to remind her. We're going to have a very sad and dramatic girl later.

Waaaaaiiiitttt

I spent the entire day waiting, in a waiting room. It was dull, pointless, enraging, boring, pitiful, depressing, worrisome, resentful, and mostly very very very long. That's all I will say about it.

You're welcome.

Conundrum

My clothes are all dirty.

I see no immediate solution to this problem.

Disturbed

Life lies in wait and springs things on you when you least expect it. That's all I can say.

Yesterday J took us out for breakfast, which was a nice treat. We went someplace we'd not been before, and were pleasantly surprised by both the reasonable price and the good food, including homemade strawberry jam. Afterward we went home and I had a shower, then L and I went over to the home to visit our friend. His face lit up when we opened the door, which is wonderful in many ways, not least of which is that it lets me know that he really does enjoy my visits and isn't thinking, "Jesus, here comes this woman again, why won't she leave. me. alone!!"

Afterward, I took L out to Trenton for the Pictou County Kennel Club show. We really enjoyed it. She liked watching the obedience trials, and going around and looking at all the dogs. It was the perfect environment for her to see the dogs, because although she's an animal lover she tends to be a little nervous around dogs. At the show, they were mostly in cages, or in the rings, so she could look at them and admire them without being nervous. The only dogs I have ever seen her really take to are my mother-in-law's dogs, and the greyhounds we saw at a greyhound association thing in the mall. That made up our minds, actually, that when we get a dog it will be a greyhound. She was actually lying down on the floor with the dog, hugging her and petting her. After she met the greyhound, I think she was having a difficult time deciding which she wanted more: one of the dogs, or a kitten. Maybe both.

I have a busy, and unexpected, week coming up. At the end of it we will be going to visit my parents for my father's birthday. He's turning 70, but doesn't want anyone to acknowledge the fact. So I'm blogging about it instead, because that's the kind of shit disturber I am.

Things That Hurt

A quiet day. I went to the nursing home in the morning, partly to help out with their regular Friday church service and mostly to see a man I visit there, who breaks my heart into a billion pieces on a regular basis. He did it again today, by reaching out for a hug when I was leaving. What can I say - people's loneliness gets to me.

But I made him laugh and brought him some cake and gave him several hugs and kisses, so it's all good.

Yep, cake. I was feeling rather blah yesterday afternoon so L and I made a cake. My oven does not like cake as much as I do. It will roast chicken, bake butter tarts, roast vegetables and do pretty much whatever else I request, but it will not bake a cake in the expected time. It usually takes about twice as long. And then it gets dry. But otherwise, it would still be uncooked in the middle. So clearly, my oven hates cake, and it not only wants to not have to bake any cakes, but it wants to make sure that any cake experiences are ruined for everyone else.

My oven is a jerk. Also, it's old, and it sucks electricity like someone or something that really sucks something down. Before we had to move to New Glasgow, I had a brand new ceramic top stove that baked like a dream. But let us not discuss All We Left Behind.

I have the worst case of writer's block I have ever had, by the way. Absolutely no movement whatsoever with the book-in-progress, if I still dare to call it that.

I wonder if a slice of cake would help?

...couldn't hurt.

Random Thoughts

We watched "Lost" last night, and I knew something bad was going to happen to Desmond as soon as the scene with the well began, but unfortunately he couldn't hear me, no matter how much I shouted at the tv. It made me declare myself done with my fence-sitting on the nature of Smokey, but it took only a few minutes for me to reconsider that too. It's just too soon to make a judgement on what's really going on here. All things considered, I'm still leaning towards thinking that Un-Locke is not such a bad dude after all.

That previous paragraph will be interesting to less than half of you.

We looked at a house in our price range last night. It was a shithole.

Why can't drivers in this province complete a turn in less time than it takes for me to recite Kubla Khan? Just make your turn, people. On a protected turn, there's no need to wait until the person in front of you has made their way completely through the intersection. There's no need to make your turn at 10 kph and then hit the brakes halfway through. There's no need to slow to a near-complete stop to turn onto a street and then crawl through the other lane. Also, please learn how four-way stops work. Please.

L seems to be growing up overnight. Suddenly, she doesn't want her goodnight songs as much, and would rather read in bed. Her extra-special bedtime stuffie, Bunny, is still by her pillow but doesn't get cuddled through the night. She's changing her entire bedtime routine, all on her own. And so it begins.

One of the cats threw up on our bed. I don't know which one (though I strongly suspect Cricket), which is just as well. He wouldn't understand why I was giving him the silent treatment.

Avast!

So here is something weird: I got a statement from our insurance company yesterday, and it was addressed to "Warrant Officer". Not only did I join the Canadian Forces without my knowledge, but I already have a respectable rank.

I called about it this morning and the customer service rep laughed. "I've never seen that happen," she said. "I have no idea how that got put into the system."

Makes me a little uneasy, actually. How many other weird things are they doing to me without my knowledge? Maybe next I will find out I've bravely volunteered for the missions no one else wants, or that I'm considered AWOL and will be court-martialled.

Do you think I might qualify for a pension?

The Dingledorks

I was going to post about the cats by using an "Iron Chef" type introduction, but I discovered that things that seem really, really funny at 6 am are far less funny and inspired by 6 pm. I'm still going to tell you their Iron Chef names that J and I came up with, though, because that is some Quality Stuff.

This is Iron Chef Hissyfit, Fussyhito Ted:

And this is Iron Chef Dumbass, Crick Dumichi:

Their real names are, of course, Teddy and Cricket. Teddy is nine years old this month. I adopted him from a no-kill animal shelter in Dartmouth, where he was born. His mother was in the adult cat room waiting to be adopted as well, and I visited with her a bit. I noticed that she hissed at a few of the other cats, but didn't think much of it; not all cats are sociable. I later found out, as Teddy grew older, that the easy hissing seemed to be hereditary - hissing is a part of his normal vocalizations, and can mean he is happy or excited as well as angry. It really took me by surprise, as the cat I had most of my life (RIP Pepper) only hissed in extreme circumstances. But that's just Teddy. He's a hissy, fussy boy - but I love him, even if he is a big jerk sometimes.

Cricket is a lovable dumbass. He is seven years old. He was probably dropped on his head as a kitten because, let me tell you, that thing is not bright. He has that loving nature all tabbies seem to have, but it is tempered by a liberal dose of stupid. Every day is a surprise for Cricket. Every day, all day, everything is new. It's kind of sweet, and also a bit annoying - much like Cricket himself. We love him too, even if he will never win a Nobel Prize.

Someday, L will have a kitten of her own, and we are getting a dog as well. But there will always be cats in our house, and even though I could wish Cricket and Teddy would both be more accepting of L, we hope they will be around for a long time to come.

Also...

Tomorrow's photo entry will be about the dingledorks (aka cats), so I thought until then I would post a picture of my two loves:

No, no... that totally isn't chocolate around her mouth.

Umami

Today, I was brutal. I went through L's toys, and I ruthlessly culled them. I was relentless, sparing no thought for personal feeling or random attachment. If she hadn't played with it in more than six months, or it was something I never liked, or it was too young for her, it got tossed into the donation bag. I've got the Diabetes Association coming tomorrow to haul away the stuff, and believe me, they have hit the jackpot.

I am not quite so cruel as I seem. She will never miss any of the stuff I took. I tried to involve her in choosing what things to get rid of, but she tends to be very attached to her things and we ended up with far too much in the "keep" pile, most of which were things she had never been much interested in. Case in point: a few years ago, I got her a felt board and some characters, animals and clothes to go with it. I think she played with it once or twice. But when I suggested getting rid of it, she gasped in horror like I told her I was going to burn her room to the ground and sow salt in the earth. So it's best done out of her sight. She has a birthday coming up, and I really needed to clear out the things she wasn't using to make room for the inevitable influx of toys that will shortly be coming.

Man, typing out all that made me feel like a real first-world asshole.

J and I have been watching a lot of Iron Chef lately (the original Japanese version, not the strange and somehow even more ridiculous American version). We used to watch it a lot, and then stopped for several years, and now we are rediscovering everything we loved about it. It's fun. I don't know which episodes are better: the ones where the dishes are so out there that we are both disgusted and fascinated (cod roe and umeboshi battles, I'm looking at you) or the ones where we are salivating over the presented dishes.

I had mentioned to a few people that I was planning a photo entry today: it's been postponed due to lack of inspiration. Hopefully tomorrow.

Pepsi Wishes and Nanaimo Bar Dreams

I went out for a walk first thing this morning, which was cold but really nice. J made banana pancakes for breakfast, which were yummy but probably counter-productive.

I took L to a movie this morning - The Wiggles Big Big Show. She really enjoyed it, except for when she saw the concert audience on the screen holding up a Wiggles twisty light-thing. She owned one once, and it broke, which caused a great wailing and gnashing of teeth at the time. When she saw it on the movie, she remembered it, and spent a full minute sobbing uncontrollably into my shoulder. What can I say - she loves the Wiggles, money-grubbing jerkwads that they are.

We took a drive out to an open house outside town this afternoon, and I am really not sure if we ought to have gone or not. In short, we loved it. While it wasn't our absolute dream house, it did have all the elements, with only a few cosmetic changes or other upgrades. It had a huge front and back yard, and a jungle gym already in place. A beautiful deck, finished basement, three bathrooms... I really loved it. So much so that it made me almost unbearably sad. We just can't afford it. Even if our house sold tomorrow, we still couldn't afford it. We went to see it because we were hoping that the owner might be willing to lower the price a bit, which happens around here since sale times are slow. But the real estate agent told us that they have had offers already and aren't willing to budge. So really, all that we achieved by going to see the house was to remind ourselves what we can't have.

We don't have champagne tastes on a beer budget - it's more like name-brand pop tastes on a store-brand pop budget.

I'm going to go do what I do best at times like these: bake.

Uninvited

I had a writing workshop this morning. This small statement holds a large amount of inadequacy.

I enjoy the workshops, and am deeply grateful for them. They have helped me a great deal. But they have also showed me the ways in which I am lacking, and the thing that always brings me up short is the realization that, not only am I lacking in these ways, but I might not be able to make up for it.

This morning's workshop was on article writing. I had been entertaining some idea of doing freelance writing, trying to "get my name out there", build some writing credits. I have a journalism background, way back in the mists of time, so I thought I would just polish up some rusty skills and hey ho, away we go. I either forgot, or blocked out, how miserably bad I was at print journalism. My strengths were in broadcasting (even now, I can summon up a Broadcaster Voice that never fails to make people laugh with its accuracy - it was my party piece for a while). So. Yeah. I'm bad at article writing. I understand the concepts, I get the examples, but my pen hovers over my paper and I'm crossing out six words to every two that make the final copy, and I am painfully aware that it is still not right. I'm just not good at it.

I really do not intend to throw a pity party here. I had a good day. But it was also a day of realizing my limits, and confronting the sobering thought that I may have more limits than is good for me.

L got her first phone call from a friend today, and it was from her "boyfriend" from preschool. The love these two have for each other is both touching and amusing. She was so pleased that he called her. She gushed out, "I love you!" before asking him if he was coming to her birthday party. He is. When they were hanging up, she said, "I love you too", so it was good to know that her feelings are reciprocated. She was so excited afterwards that she jumped up and down for a solid minute.

My view of the screen is getting more and more blocked all the time by the gradual encroachment of my cat on my lap. He's 9 years old this month, and his heart murmur is making him age a bit more quickly, I think. I'm pretty sure he has arthritis in his paws. He's a crotchety old bastard, a far cry from the fuzzy grey kitten who used to play peekaboo and box with his reflection in the mirror. I think I'll go and let him know I still love him just as much as I did back then.

A good day. But all in all, a little on the bittersweet side.

The Nature of the Beast

Today is one of those days I seem to have been busy enough to make myself tired, but not busy enough that I can actually look around and see obvious results of all those tiring tasks.

Such is the nature of errands. They need to be done, you go out and do them. Sure, you have food in the fridge and a vague idea what you're going to make for supper, but there's no real sense of accomplishment. Perhaps this is more a comment on the nature of housework than errands, really. It's difficult not to feel a sense of the futility of it all.

L was in preschool this morning, and was up as usual at 6:30, groaning dramatically that she was starving to death and that she needed help picking out her clothes for the day, stat. She ate some Dino Eggs oatmeal (not as bad as it sounds - only five more grams of sugar than the apple kind. Don't you judge me) and decided on a pink and white sundress with heavy brown tights. I got her to change to thinner white tights and negotiated the addition of a pink cardigan. She's been complaining a lot lately about going to preschool, but once she's there she has a good time. So I muscled her into the car and got her there, where everything is magically ok. Today required slightly less muscle, as she was going to give out party invitations for her 5th birthday. Not to everyone in the class, though - just a select few. Shhhh.

After preschool drop-off were the aforementioned errands, and then I went to the nursing home for a while. I really love volunteering there, but it's also a place that keeps me grounded. There are great people there who are doing well, and there are a lot more people who are not doing well, for one reason or another. Alzheimers, dementia, crippling physical conditions, everything is represented there. I am selfish, because I go there for my own sense of well-being; for the awareness I get of how fortunate I am, and how it makes me feel to know that I've made even a small difference. But those aren't the only reasons, of course. I'm not the sort of person who physically touches others a lot, but when I'm there I touch their arms, I rub their shoulders, I give hugs and affection and smiles. The overwhelming need for kindness and simple human contact amazes me every time, no matter how often I visit. I see the staff doing the same things. It makes it a wonderfully positive place, despite the physical and mental states of some of the residents. It's a good nursing home. But aren't they all, no matter how good, a little heartbreaking?

J was home sick from work today. I have to admit I like it when he's home. I think when he's at work, there is a part of me that is waiting for him to come home. I hate typing that because it makes me sound like faithful Argo. But it's true at the same time. On the days he's not able to come home for lunch, the day seems unusually long. So today he was at home, and even though he was sick, it was nice to have him here. I can't complain about him being sick because I kinda sorta gave him the cold. I infected a total of three people with this cold - go me!

Now I have to go and argue with an almost-five year old that it's the best idea ever to eat all the raw carrots I put on her plate. Does bribery work at this age?

Late to the Party

By my count, this is my fourth attempted blog. So right off the bat, I'm not going to claim to be a good blogger (if such a thing exists). I suppose a good blogger would be someone who:

1) updates frequently enough to hold interest, but not so frequently that it becomes tiresome,

2) is interesting and witty without being pretentious or tiresome,

3) doesn't abandon the blog after a set period of weeks (or days), which is fairly tiresome.

The first blog I had was about work. I had some good stuff on there, but it was all thickly veiled with false names and details. It was a good way for me to vent about the kinds of things that went on at work (read: regular and institutionalized insanity) but that blog is lost in the mists of time. To be honest, I don't even remember what it was called. It's been blocked out of my mind, along with most other things from that job, in the grand rush of sunlight, hope and optimism that was the moment I walked out the door.

My second blog was a follow-up, written in the days following that job, when I could finally fill my mind with other things to write about. That died a quick death when I came up against two major realizations: first, that I was bloody boring, and second, that I was pregnant. There was no blogging for a while, until my third appeared with the birth of my daughter: a blog about raising her, and the wonderful little moments of every day. It was written both because I wanted to record everything, and because I wanted a way for those friends and family not around me (far too many) to keep up with her. I kept that up for several months, but ran up against my old nemesis (self-confidence) with the added complication of frequent tiredness.

So, here we are again. This time, I have no great goals for this blog. I am viewing it as a way to get myself writing every day (always a good thing), a possible distraction from things I am supposed to be doing instead (can always use another of those), and a way to natter on about things to a relatively captive audience (relatively, since you could always close the page).

I think I have finally reached the point where I don't feel the need to prove something. For that reason alone, this one might stick.

An Owl in the Morning is what I am: something that perhaps isn't where it should be, but isn't entirely out of place either. It's also what these entries will be: a little of everything.

I promise not to use so many parentheses next time.