2009 The Year that Was

It's almost impossible to escape - the end of the year round-up is on almost every damn tv channel and website I've looked at the last couple of days. So, never one to like being left out, I've created my own 2009 year in review. I started to put a whole list together of high- and lowlights, then I thought it was rather narcissistic of me...so instead, here's a little film that sort of covers our year...from the winter that would not end, to the new winter that's looking just like last year! (As if that isn't equally narcissistic, but hey, if you've got QuickTime player, give it a look!)

Happy New Year! Bring on 2010!

Fore!

For years I've had this tape running circuits in my head. You may have one of your own, but my tape is a total bitch, and for years, she has gotten away with saying things like: "You have no athletic abilities whatsoever. Remember tennis lessons when you were a kid? Oh sure, you say the racquet had a hole in the centre, which is why, when the ball was served to you, it seemed to fly effortlessly right through the centre of your racquet. Oh, and how about that Canada's Fitness Test your gym teachers used to make you take every year...you know, the one that involved running the circumferance of the Peanut Plaza? You remember that don't you? It landed you in the hospital for a week because the Phys Ed teacher didn't believe that you were a severe asthmatic? Or, how about all those classes where you sat on the sidelines watching everyone else run and jump and dribble and pass? That was you, wasn't it, sitting right on the bench in your Betsy-Bloomer gym togs watching? Always on the sidelines...never in the game? I thought so."

Well, people I am here to tell you that voice has now and forever more been SILENCED, for it seems, that at the tender age of too damn close to "mid-century" I have discovered that indeed I do have some athletic abilities. Abilities that involve eye-hand coordination. Me! A gal who always subscribed to the basic theory of golf: if you can't play well, you can at least look good. A person to whom the meaning of eye-hand coordination was some mystery of life to be contemplated, along with the meaning of Pi or the Big Bang Theory.

But. BUT! Long about the time I decided to shed the excess baggage that had become my derriere, I realized controlling what I eat was only part of my weight-loss solution. I was going to have to figure out a way to move it, move it and shake it like a polaroid picture if I wanted to really get in shape. So, I started on the treadmill. Walking. At a slow and leisurely pace. I did that for a while until I realized that that gentle stroll was literally taking me nowhere, and so I ramped it up. I upped the speed at which I walked. And then? Then, I started really shaking things up by jogging in intervals. One minute of running, two minutes of race walking. Guess what happened? My legs got stronger. My lung capacity expanded and hey you mean old battle-axe gym teacher from grade 7 - I'M TALKING TO YOU - I can NOW run! I'm a jogger.

This new found ability to outrun my fat cells does not an athlete make. I know this. I'm not for one second professing to actually think I am fit, or anything. I'm just saying that now that I can run, I actually like to run and hey, guess what? It makes me stronger and more agile and because of that I can now do other things that require some measure of athleticism.

Things like: whip Buzz's ass at Wii sports.

That's right ladies & gents. I am a virtual reality jock.

Santa, in a somewhat passive-aggressive way, hoping to release my husband from the shackles of our sofa after dinner brought Buzz a Wii system for Christmas. Santa wasn't sure how this would go over with Buzz, given how much he enjoys his post-dinner couch surfing, but Santa, being an optimist, went ahead and delivered the game on Christmas morning anyway. It sat unopened for a couple of days and I thought for sure Santa had got this one wrong. Buzz was going to have none of it.

But then, three days after unwrapping it, Buzz decided it was time and so we hooked it up and tried our hand at tennis. Fore-swing, back-hand, overhead lob - I mastered them all. Well, sort of. It seems eye-hand coordination against moving objects is still not my strongest suit, but hey, I could at least make contact, which is a lot more then I can do in the real world! After tennis it was on to boxing and let me just say - I LOVE it when I literally knocked the head off my opponent's body. My mii went all Mickey Rourke on the other guy and I'm here to tell you, three days later my arms still hurt from the pounding I gave.

Once I started, I couldn't give up. I made Buzz play every single game on the system. Up next: bowling; a game I mastered years ago when I bowled in a league in Georgia. I even had my own shoes. Let me tell you - my glutes are still sore from all the lunging I did when releasing my ball.

Next up: golf. When we lived in the mountains Buzz and I would golf on a fairly regular basis. I never won. I simply was incapable of outdriving him and my short game? Forget about it. But in the virtual reality of Wii Golf? Let's just say, Michelle Li doesn't have a thing on me. I kicked Buzz's mii from one end of the course to the other. Victory was mine!

And that's when it first hit me. Perhaps this whole getting fit thing can translate off the treadmill and into the real world some day. Maybe some day I will actually be able to hit a real tennis ball. Or, perhaps some day, on a real golf course I will out-drive the man I married.

Until then...I will be satisfied in knowing that I am now a jock. Albeit a virtual reality jock, but a jock nonetheless.

Ho!

Remember when I was unemployed? Remember? It wasn't that long ago. Life sure was different back then. Back then, I spent all my time complaining about not having a job, not having enough to do. Back then, all those weeks ago, I had all sorts of leisurely time on my hands to do artistic and creative things - like write this blog daily. Remember those days, people?

Well, those days are most definitely over. Between teaching, planning for lessons, correcting papers, trying to get to the gym 5 times a week, keeping a house clean, attending my weekly Weight Watchers meetings and, oh, ya, trying not to eat the entire fridge in one sitting the week the Snick-dude was flat off his feet with surgery looming...well, suffice it to say, "real" life has gotten in the way of my artistic life the last couple of months.

And so. And so some things got put on the back-burner...like writing this blog. It's not that I didn't want to write or that I didn't have anything to say. Far from it! I get lots of bloggy inspiration coming at me from every facet of my little world here on the island. It's just that now, as a full-time employee I am suffering the fates of everyone else out there that has a job...lack of lazing around time. Do not mistake this for complaining. I'm not. I love my job. I hope my job gets extended well into the future, on an indefinite basis. I love the pay-cheque and what it's doing to our savings account. I love being busy. I love interacting with other adults every day. I love it, love it, love it. I'm just saying, going back to a schedule that involves making choices of how I spend my time is something new to me. It's amazing how in only 2 years of unemployment you can forget how to multi-task!

Other things got moved so far off the burner they're off the stove entirely and I'm sorry to say won't make it back on any time before the holidays get here. And so.

And so, here we are. Five days before Christmas and I have sent narry a holiday greeting. I tried. I thought about it way back in July. I took one of my photographs from last winter and I spent hours and hours designing a card for the holidays. It was beautiful (if I do say so myself)...all red and Christmass-y, with a stunning winter island-scape of a babbling brook just around the corner from our house taken on a brilliant day last March. It had a classic silver holiday tree on the inside and a lovely inscription from Buzz and me. I was so far ahead of the game, I was a little bit smug in my "I so have this Christmas thing figured out this year!" kind of way. I even put it in my calendar for the beginning of November to send to the printers.

But. November came and my contract started. November came and my dog got injured. November came and my beastly boy had surgery. November came and I became a teacher and a nurse all at the same time. And then yesterday I woke up and it was December 19th.

So here we are. Christmas cards are pouring into our mailbox and I haven't so much as licked a stamp. If you've sent us a card this year, but haven't gotten one in return, please don't take it personally. We wanted to send cards. And for those of you who haven't sent us a card this year? Well, we understand. Life gets in the way.

I wanted to attach the digital image of the card I created, but those damn developers at Apple are wise to that trick and won't let me save the card in any format other then their "ready to print and no you can't have it to email or post electronically" file. The Grinch is alive and well and sitting at a MacIntosh somewhere in the Pacific NW.

So, this is the best I could do. It's the same image I took last March, but the card design is nowhere near as beautiful as the one you would have received if I had my act together last month. So, from our house to yours, happy holidays and here's to getting back on the ball next year!

One Third

Yesterday was a momentous day in the Cameron-Donnelly household.

Yesterday, after 14 weeks of minding my peas & carrots, I achieved my first milestone. I am now more than one-third of the way to my weight-loss goal.

You may think well, what's the big deal about that? I tell you what the big deal is! When you are closing in on the last few years of your fourth decade such as I am, deciding to lose weight is one thing. Actually being able to do it is quite another. After about 20 years of crash dieting, yo-yo dieting and just generally abusing my metabolism, well, my metabolism is fighting back. With a vengeance. Every single one of those little fat molecules that have taken up residence in my ass & thighs is waging all out war. "She's doing it again! She's limiting how much she feeds us! Alert, alert, alert! SLOOOOOOOWWWWWWW DOOOOWWWWWNNNNNN...do not burn food as fuel...resist! Resist! Resist!" They've fought long and hard and so well, I think even Rick Hillier might be proud.

But no more.

Their resistance is starting to falter. Their efforts at sabotage are starting to be all for naught. That's right. Naught. Like, I'm "not" going to let them get the better of me - naught.

Those little fat molecules can fight all they want, but last week I discovered that with a little weapon known as the Stair Master and it's side kick known as lunges & squats, well, I started to work my larger muscles and hey, guess what? Those muscles like to be fed. And, if you're watching how much fat you put in your body and how many calories you consume guess what? Yup, those big muscles start to eat away at those #@&*#%@ fat molecules that have been lounging about taking up space (far too much space) in my pants for far too long.

And so. So, for the past 14 weeks I work-out at least five days a week and perhaps most importantly, if I bite it, I write it. That's a cute way of saying I have to keep track of everything I stick in my pie hole. By the way, pie is no longer welcome in my pie hole. So, every day I think about what I want to eat...what will that add up to and more importantly, if I really want those 3 squares of chocolate for my after-dinner treat, then how much time am I going to have to spend on that G@!&*$$ treadmill to earn the extra special, but certainly most critical especially at certain times of the month after-dinner treat.

14 weeks.

One-third of the way there.

Even the most remedial mathematician (me) can figure out that if it took me 14 weeks to get this far, it'll be at least another 28 to go the other two-thirds of the way. So a total of 42 weeks. Just under a year. 9 months from when I started. 294 days.

But, I think I can do it. It's like running a marathon...some miles are easier than others. Some roads have hills. It's not easy and it most assuredly ain't quick, but I think to myself just how much of a sense of accomplishment I'll have when I cross that finish-line. How good will I feel when I go to Europe next summer sporting a size of clothing I haven't seen since I was in my early 30s. How amazing will it feel to finally say, I don't want to be that overweight person ever again.

It's what keeps me going...I didn't get here overnight and I know finishing this race will happen over time. For once, it's going to pay off to be the turtle in this race!

Remembering...

On this day of Remembrance when we pause at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month to remember and honour those men and women that serve in our Armed Forces today, tomorrow and yesterday, well, I was at the gym, honouring my two minutes of silence as I stretched out the massive pain in my back from sleeping on the blow up bed the past few nights.

I had three uncles that served in WWII, Bill, Art & Dick Ashby. They were my mother's brothers. Two served for the Canadian Forces and one was a sailor for the US Navy. All of them served overseas and none of them met my mom, their sister, until they were home from the war and she was 5 years old. It was a different time to be sure, but I always think of that on Remembrance Day.

Today is a statutory holiday here on the sandbar. School is out. Businesses are closed. And as much as I take issue with a lot of things that happen here, I like the fact that here, in this place, we stop for one day to respectfully honour the men and women that keep us safe and help make the world a better place...just like Canadians have for over two hundred years.

But while I was at the gym, preparing for my workout, I couldn't help but think about all the strange things I see & overhear there on any given day. Today it happened in the change room. I rounded the corner and as I pushed open the door to the ladies change room I knew it was full of little old ladies who had just finished their aqua-aerobics class. I knew this because one would have to be completely deaf not to hear the cacophony of the hens as they gossiped and giggled. As they were changing from swimsuits to street clothes I noticed two things:

1) One older lady (she is pushing 90 if she's a day) was standing at the mirror dressed only in her old-lady undies (no bra, so boobs hanging lll-ooo-www) with a hair-dryer in each hand blowing her hair dry from both sides. I guess it's more efficient?

2) Around the corner from the dueling dryers are the shower stalls. Both were occupied and while one lady was busily showering away in the far stall, her friend was cheerily standing outside the stall having a conversation with her. You think there's nothing weird about that? How about the fact that the lady outside the shower was standing with her nose about one millimeter away from the shower curtain YELLING her part of the conversation. Maybe you had to be there...but it was odd. And just a little bit funny. Trust me.

Anyway, the ladies were all in a rush to get to our Cenotaph for the 11am service. So, good for them for squeezing in a workout and still making it to the parade on time. Me, I made it out in time to drive right into the parade route and salute our soldiers at the Charlottetown Armoury as I made my way home, listening to the CBC and the tribute from Ottawa.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae

Good Things Come to Those that Wait

Under the heading "You just don't know what the day will bring" Thursday brought a day I had long been dreaming of ever since we arrived here on the sandbar. I've written lots and lots and lots about my search for meaningful work in a place that has little to no turn-over and where people admittedly die at their desks. I've spent almost two years wondering what the hell is a newcomer supposed to do here?

I've also spent the better part of the last two years checking the want ads daily. Two years of networking. Two years volunteering my time and talents to help organizations reach their goals. Two years of pinching every single penny to squeeze the most out of it. Two years of debating whether to continue using my Estee Lauder face cream that has kept me looking strikingly youthful, or whether to switch to a more economical version of Oil of Olay. Two years, people.

Last January in one of my outreach efforts I contacted the local college where I discovered much to my surprise you don't need a degree in order to teach. And since I didn't have a degree in anything but Life University, I thought, hey, maybe there's something I can do in education so I set about working my way into the college, taking any little opportunity I could to teach any subject they'd assign me.

Along the way I've met some great people. People that have encouraged me to apply for any and every posting that comes up that I'm remotely interested in. People that have suggested that one sure fire way to get hired on a more permanent basis was for me to enroll in their Certified Adult Educator program, because once I have a CAE designation there's little to no chance I'll be eliminated from consideration for a job. I've gotten lots of advice from lots of people. People that saw me interacting with my students who came to me afterward to compliment me on how I handled a specific situation. People who could overhear me in my classroom (because yes, people, even though I've been unemployed I'm still loud as ever) who took the time to stop by afterward to tell me how engaging they think I am as an instructor. People who gave me suggestions on how to deal with an entire class showing up either still drunk or so hungover they were wasting their time in school that day. People that for no other reason other than they are born educators and caring people took me on as someone they believe in and wanted to encourage.

So a few weeks ago I applied to the CAE program and that same day a new job was posted for a Core Business Instructor to cover a 6-month term from November to the end of April. I jumped on it and sent my resume to HR that very same day. As one of my informal mentors said "Kim, we've all read a page and taught a page at one point or another in our careers and there's no reason you can't do the same."

So I sent my resume in and I waited. And I waited some more. And still a little longer.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in fact was only a week after the posting came down I contacted the program manager responsible for hiring the position. We had a lovely conversation. One in which he told me I had lots of talent and experience, I was lacking in a key area and so therefore, I was not be considered for the job.

Okay, I thought. It was a bit of a long shot. I was disappointed but I wasn't surprised. And so I moved on...back to teaching B-Comm to my Pastry Arts students and thinking about ways I could fill up my days again now that I don't go to school every day, because according to Buzz, "Employed Kim" is a whole lot happier than "Unemployed Kim" (I suspect it's that 1) I thrive in a busy environment and 2) I really want to upgrade back to my Estee Lauder face cream but there's no way I can justify it on one salary, so yes...you can understand why Employed Kim with her own paycheque might be a tad bit more...um...fun to be around?).

On Monday I got my acceptance letter from the College. I was accepted into the CAE program and so starting in January I begin my journey towards my B-Ed degree. If I'm successful (and I have no doubt I will be) then I will be the first Cameron in my generation to have a college degree. Granted I'll be around 50 when I graduate, but hey, better late then never!

On Thursday I got a phone call from the HR department of the college. They offered me the very job I had been told a week before I wasn't being considered for. I asked the nice lady if she was sure she had the right applicant because I had already been told I wouldn't be considered. I could hear her smile on the other end of the line...."Yes, Kim, we want to hire you. We've reconsidered the qualifications and if you're willing to take it on, we'd like you to be the one to teach the Sports & Recreations students."

So, in a household where I frequently argue with my husband the accountant that "words are more important than numbers" this coming Thursday I will begin teaching Business Communications and Introduction to Accounting to first year Sports & Recreation students. I find the whole thing very ironic.

Santa Booby

Ah, the holiday season. We've nary finished with Hallowe'en and already the stores are decked out for Christmas. With such a rush to get to market, Christmas is now competing for shelf space with ghosts & goblins and this year's favourite monster costumes. But whatever, recession be damned consumerism is still alive and well, and as far as I can tell, living on PEI.

So back to Christmas. This year our family has decided to cut back on all the Christmas chaos by reducing the amount of presents we give and receive. We've decided the adults get to pull one name from a hat and that's the one person (besides the kids & spouse) that we'll buy for. Given the distance between us, this not only makes good economical sense, but logistically it works really well too because there's nothing worse than spending $120 to mail a $60 gift. You know what I mean? So, this week my niece put our assorted names into a hat and did a virtual draw and now the real work begins; which is figuring out what to get my lucky recipient!

Now, I've been making up Christmas lists for years - all the better to ensure I don't get a stocking full of coal, but mostly to ensure that hopefully, if people are careful readers I won't get duplicates of anything AND I'll be guaranteed to get at least one or two things that I'd really like to receive. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck people...I like to make giving me a present easy on the people doing the buying.

When I was 13 my Christmas list looked something like this: new figure skates, a polaroid camera, some books and even materials to make a craft or two. But the really big item on my Christmas list that year was a chest. Not a wooden chest. Not a jewelry chest. Not even a hope chest. Nope. The chest I was looking for would sit about 6 inches below my collar and 6 inches above my navel. That's right, I asked Santa Claus for some boobs.

It's true!

I come from a long line of let's just say, less then endowed women. I thought if there was a Santa Claus and if I asked really nice, I'd be gifted with something other than the 30AA training bra I had been sporting for a couple of years.

Well, let's just say Christmas 1975 was a bit of a disappointment. Oh, I got my shiny new, white figure skates and while I didn't get the polaroid camera, I got lots of other things I wanted. It was a white Christmas and everything was just perfect. Except. Well except for one thing. It was the year that it was confirmed for real. There was no such thing as the Man with the Jingle, 'cause, that's right - I woke up Christmas morning completely boobless...just like I was on Christmas Eve.

I would remain boobless until my mid-twenties.

But, better late then never, suddenly, long about the age of 25 or 26, I started to get some shape north of my navel and south of my neck. No padded bra for me anymore...suddenly, I had a rack! This is the part where we're not going to focus on the fact that along with my ample bosom, I also gained a significant real estate on my ass, but whatever, boobs are boobs and I don't care how you go about getting them. I had them, and I planned on keeping them.

So, stay with me here people, I will eventually get to the point.

About 9 weeks ago I embarked on a serious quest called No Crap for Kim - The Redux, Return of the Apocalypse or better known as "I really mean it this time I have to lose some freaking weight!" Campaign. Nine weeks ago I was 15 lbs heavier than I am today. Nine weeks ago I was several inches bigger than I am today. Nine weeks ago I still had a rack. Today? Not so much.

Aside from working out 6 days a week and measuring & counting everything I put in my mouth, the rest of the plan is to weigh-in once a week and then once a month I take my measurements. I took mine today and while I am ecstatic at the pounds and inches I've lost, I am less then happy about where I'm losing them. I've lost a total of 7 inches from various points around my body. THREE of those inches I've lost from my boobs.

The lesson here? Now we know that aside from there not being a Santa Claus? We also know that Mother Nature is also a total bitch!

Bud the Spud from the Bright Red Mud

It's potato season here on the sandbar! Yukon golds, bakers, russets, white and plain old "table" potatoes are being harvested from Tignish to Souris which means we've been on the lookout for the farmer that works the field behind us because, this year, instead of a field of rag weed, they planted potatoes.

We watched and we waited. And we waited and watched. It poured rain almost every day for three weeks which put a bit of a damper on the whole pull potatoes out of the field thing. I guess it's hard to move those big machines on a field of mud.

But this week it finally happened. I came home from the gym Saturday morning to the sight of a harvester, a big potato truck and what looks like an earth-mover roaming about our back field. Potatoes being root vegetables grow underground, so first they have to dig up the top of the plants. Despite standing at the window and watching for what seemed like hours, I still couldn't figure out how the potatoes got from the ground through the harvester and into the truck because at no point did the truck ever approach the harvester. And yet, when it finished up yesterday, there was a big truck full of spuds pulling out of the field. So, beats me.

The crew worked two whole days and long into the night on Saturday. It reminded me of the Carol Ship Parade at Christmas in Vancouver, this ginormous machines, lit up and beeping their way around the pitch-black field, pulling potatoes. If only we had music to accompany them, it might have looked like a ballet of sorts.

One of the weirdest things in this whole harvesting of potatoes though? The weirdest thing was the sight of seagulls and shore birds that were dogging the harvester like they do deep-sea fishing boats at sea. With every yard the harvester moved, the birds swooped and soared, landing on the freshly dug field, foraging for food. I don't know about you, but it kinda makes sense to me that a seagull would tail a deep-sea fishing boat hoping to catch some bait or even a fish...but to tail a potato harvester? Really? Is there not enough fish in the sea for you? Is the sea too far away? I mean, we can see it from the front porch, why can't you birds? Why scavenge in a newly harvested potato field?

I don't know. But in an effort to keep our grocery bill in line, I'm going to take a bag and make like a seagull and go forage a few potatoes my own self!

Quintessentially Canadian

It really doesn't get much more Canadian than this. Trying to compete with our neighbours to the south and all those "reality" competitions, this Fall the CBC embarked on their first foray into the "reality" realm. Their entry?

The Battle of the Blades!

The concept is brilliant and really, just couldn't be more Canadian unless you included an igloo building competition followed by a dog-sled race.

When I was growing up you really only had two choices of recreation in the winter - if you were a girl you took figure skating lessons and if you were a boy, well - you played hockey. So how smart was it for the CBC to capitalize on two of Canada's most time-honoured sports by combining both in one competition?

Every Sunday night, live from Maple Leaf Gardens, the CBC has paired former NHL hockey players with some of our country's most award-winning figure skaters for a skating competition. They've taken big lumbering hockey jocks out of their pads and onto their picks to glide around the ice to music of Barry Manilow and Frank Sinatra trying desperately to keep their rhythm without dropping their partner.

Buzz and I are glued to the show every Sunday night at 8pm. We love it. Watching Ty Domi shake his groove thing or Ron Duguay shake his coiffure out of his eyes while he lifts Canadian sweetheart Barbara Underhill over his head is something to be seen. With guest judges Don Cherry and Lanny MacDonald, and host Kurt Browning they've secured a cross section of Canadian sports hall of fame, not to mention an Olympian or two.

I think there's probably only 3 or 4 weeks left and my money is on Stephan Richer and Marie-France Dubrueil, but I have a sneaky suspicion that our most recent Olympian Jamie Sale and her partner Craig Simpson will win the popular vote.

If you're not watching tune in tonight at 8:00pm for the results show. You'll get a brief snapshot of last night's performances before finding out who's eliminated. I promise you - if you have an ounce of Canadian pride, you'll love this show!

Just Shove(l) It

It's supposed to snow today in the Maritimes. Yes. It's only Oct. 21st and we can expect our first "significant" snowfall. Oh joy.

A couple of weeks ago while listening to the island's evening news broadcast the weatherman, "Boomer" Gallant (that's his real name folks), informed us that there's an old island saying that goes something like this: "Rain in the Fall means no Winter at all."

It's been pouring for weeks here and I'm guessing old Boomer's got it wrong if we're expecting snow in October and thus an early start to winter.

Time to dust off the shovel.

Redemption

Just because I haven't been writing as often as I usually do doesn't mean I'm lost for something to say. Oh, ye of little faith - you should know me better than that!

So here's a little update:

The Great Turkey Disaster of 2009

If you missed the original story you can read about it here. It was less a disaster and more like a massacre. Seriously. Upon further research and reflection we discovered what we had done wrong. No, it wasn't too much salt. In fact, we had every single ingredient for the brine correct. Well, except for one. The recipe called for a cup of brown sugar and my husband being my husband, and that is a man who worships all things savory but not sweet, insisted we not include the brown sugar because hey! HEY! He didn't want a sweet bird! So, okay, we left out the brown sugar. Guess what adding brown sugar does to a brine? That's right people, it helps to balance out the salt. Ahem. So yes, the great turkey disaster was our own damn fault. Oops.

To rub salt into the wound (ahem), last night Buzz informed me that although he likes the occasional drumstick, really? Really, he prefers the things you can make from the leftover turkey than the actual turkey dinner itself. People, we've had turkey every Thanksgiving and Christmas since I've known the man and I'm only learning this little tidbit now? Now?

At the end of the day, that salty bastard of a turkey did redeem itself...in a big pot of turkey barley soup and last night in a decadent but not fattening turkey pot pie. I followed the WeightWatchers recipe to the "t" but omitted any reference to salt and guess what? It was delicious. And by using no-fat condensed milk, it was thick and creamy and rich, but NOT fattening. Oh the joy!

I Said Doctor....

Remember last week when I was lamenting here about the health care system here on the sandbar and how it's been two years of living without a family doctor? Remember saying how frustrated I was? And the lengths I'm going to in order to secure medical treatment for my long-suffering, but quintessentially male husband who, when I try to get to see a doctor I think it would be easier to get healthcare reform through the US Senate then to get my man on an examination table? Well, guess what? Soon, his ass will be draped in a tiny white gown sitting on a cold slab of paper because ladies and gentlemen, this weekend I received a letter in the mail from the department of health informing me that our file has been sent to Dr. Jamal who will gladly see us for an interview for family doctor. That's right folks, my plea to "Janice" seemed to have worked. Or maybe it was because "Janice" was so mortified at "Claire's" initial response to me that she felt the only way to rectify the situation was to assign us to a doctor, but I DON'T CARE because WE WILL SOON HAVE A DOCTOR!

I don't really know how else to end this other than to say...it's about damn time some things started turning around on this island. Hopefully this is just the first step. The next step would be for me to have a full-time job. Would I be tempting Fait too much by asking for one more favour? Just one!

Doctor Doctor Give me the News!

I finally reached it. The end of my rope. For over 8 months I've been walking around with a hitch in my get-along - a pain deep in the nether regions of my Soaz, that because no pain ever wants to hurt alone, ignited an ache deep in my Iliotibial Band that runs the length of my left thigh. Add to that a healthy dose of searing pain in my lower back, upper butt region and you've got an ache that can only be quenched with a cocktail of Extra Strength Tylenol, an anti-inflammatory med and an almost daily round of stretches that, while offering temporary relief, never really seem to fix what's ailing me. Ouch-ee-wa-wa is all I can say.

I finally reached my tipping point on Tuesday after a weekend of sucking back over the counter pain meds like they were Hallowe'en candy. It was time. I figured I should see someone about it.

Of course since we live on a sandbar in the middle of the Northumberland Strait we don't actually have a family doctor. So, rather than sit in the walk-in clinic for 3 or 4 hours before seeing a doc in a box, I decided to call a chiropractor. There was no science in how I chose my chiropractor. There are only 4 to choose from on the whole island. So I picked the guy closest to both school and the gym and rang him up. He was able to fit me in the next day. Imagine that.

So, I went to visit this guy who, after a thorough review of all things achey, diagnosed me with all sorts of things that would be easily taken care of with some stretching, a few adjustments, getting hooked up to some electrodes for a few shots of electricity to the affected area and, best of all the "thumper" a bit of a vibrator on steroids that pounds your affected areas into submission. As in most things it has to get worse before it gets better and so when I left his office yesterday I felt battered and bruised and thought if this was "better" it couldn't get much "worse".

But here's the thing. While I was laying on the table with the Chiropractor draped across me, adjusting my less than cooperative spine, we were having a lovely conversation about the state of healthcare on this island and the fact that I do not have a family doctor. He was appalled when he heard that we've been on the waiting list for two years and still no doctor. Being a helpful kind of guy he offered up a suggestion for getting one. He told me to do what he did when he came back to PEI. He called the department of health every week for almost 3 months until he became such a nuisance they gave him a doctor.

I thought to myself "I can do that. I can be a pain in someone's ass." And so motivated by his story I went straight home and hauled out the phone book.

After a brief wait on hold, where you don't actually know if you're on hold because there's no music or message, I was connected with Claire. Claire sounded like a pleasant enough lady when she introduced herself. In turn, I introduced myself by saying I was inquiring about my status on the wait list as I've not heard anything since enrolling two years ago. Her reply: "You're probably exactly where you were when you signed up."

Are you kidding me?

Two years of going to the walk in clinic and seeing a different doctor every time. Two years of putting off going to the doctor because I didn't have half a day to sit in an office waiting room in the hopes of being seen before they close for the day. Two years of Buzz hobbling around on one leg because his arthritis and bursitis in the other one was so bad he could barely stand on it, yet, when he'd go to the walk-in clinic he'd barely be prescribed an anti-inflammatory before being pushed back out the door. Two years of wondering what my hormone levels are, because without a family doctor here one cannot have blood work done. Two years of listening to Buzz's snoring get so bad that I think he's choking in his sleep, but yet, cannot do anything about it because in order to see a sleep specialist one has to be referred by a family doctor. Two years of wondering if that spot that showed up on Buzz's forehead last spring is something to worry about.

Two years. And this was the answer I got?

Those of you that know me well can only imagine my response. Oh I was calm. I was cool. I was very clear with Claire that her answer was in no way appropriate and that I wanted to speak with her supervisor.

After a bumbled apology of "I don't mean to be flip" Claire connected me with her supervisor who, upon hearing the story uttered a more acceptable apology on behalf of her subordinate and then offered me a suggestion. She suggested that I reapply for my status on the wait list. "What will that do?" I asked. "Oh, depending on what the issue is, they may elevate your case and assign you a doctor right away."

So while I waited for Janice to pick up the line I was scrambling to think of an illness that was severe enough to get us the attention of a family doctor, but not catastrophic enough that we should have sought treatment at the emergency room, in the absence of a family physician. This is the part of the story where I introduce Buzz's career-altering leg injury. The kind that has been treated to no avail at the walk-in clinic. The kind that might just cost him his job if he's not given proper, effective treatment.

It's not a total lie. He is suffering. He has been in severe pain every day for the last six months. One leg is larger than the other because it's constantly swollen. So, no, it won't cost him his job, but I'm here to tell you if we can't get the basic care of a family doctor here soon, it will impact our desire to stay here on the sandbar.

So. Now I sit and wait. I sit and wonder. Was my story good enough? I won't know unless I hear from a doctor's office. That's how it works. Janice would plead my case to her manager. The manager would decide if it was worthy of being assigned a doctor. If it is, they won't call me back to let me know. They'll send our file to a doctor's office and the doctor's office will contact us when they can see us. That's how it works here.

I hope my argument was successful. If it wasn't I'm calling back next week. And next week my issue will be something like I'm showing the signs of diabetes. Or perhaps Buzz will develop another rare but chronic disease. Whatever the case, I will become such a large pain in someone's ass they'll need a team of chiropractors to fix what ails them.

Breaking with Tradition

I've never really been much of a traditionalist. I mean, when all my friends were going off to post-secondary school I went to work. And as often as I was a bridesmaid in my 20s and 30s I waited until I was almost through my 40s before I took my own long walk down the aisle. If there was a hard way or easy way to do something, 9 times out of 10 I chose the hard way. It's just the way I'm wired.

So this time of year, when everyone's traditionally busy gathering with their families and celebrating all that they're thankful for, I've usually been on an airplane to some far reaching destination in search of a cheap getaway, a couple of thrills and a swim-up bar. Not this year though. This year, Buzz and I decided that although we have no family here on the island, that wouldn't keep us from enjoying a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. You know, turkey, root vegetables, home baked pies. The whole she-bang. Because, you know, if we waited until we had family with us, we'd never do anything here on the sandbar.

So we planned and plotted the whole meal. Buzz's big request was for root vegetables. Smelly, nasty root vegetables. Turnips and parsnips. I happily complied and it wasn't until I was at the Superstore and scouring the vegetable aisle that I realized for the first time that rutabegas and turnips are the same thing. Who knew? Not me, and did I feel stupid when I asked the store's vegetable guy where I could find turnips and he quietly informed me that I was standing right in front of them. That's how often I cook these things. My lesson? A turnip by any other name still stinks when you boil it.

In the grand scheme of things the smelly turnips & parsnips where a highlight of the meal.

Earlier in the week we stumbled across a little TV show called Chef at Home where the host (and local island chef) was lauding the joys of a turkey that was first brined before being roasted. Buzz and I looked at each other and said "Hey! We should do that!" The recipe was simple enough - two pounds of seasalt and about 10 gallons of water with the turkey immersed in the solution for twenty-four hours prior to roasting and you would enjoy a succulent, juicy, flavourful turkey for your Thanksgiving feast.

Ahem.

Before I get to the great turkey massacre of 2009 let me tell you about my potatoes. We don't eat potatoes very often here. We're more like rice or couscous people. But it's a freakin' potato, so what could go wrong you might very well ask? Plenty! Especially if you decide that in order to add a little flavor you combine a few teaspoons of sour cream to the mashed potatoes. And if I had just stopped at mashing I'm sure they would have been perfect. But I didn't stop at the mashing. No. Being a gooor-may, I decided to whip out the immersion blender and proceeded to pulverize the potatoes. And did you know that if you combine a starchy vegetable like a potato, with high-fat sour cream and a 1000-rpm immersion blender you end up with a glob of home-made glue? That's the secret recipe people! I've been cooking for Buzz for over 3 years now...breakfasts, lunches, dinners. He is a charter member of the clean plate club. But not tonight. Tonight, even Buzz couldn't choke down the potato glue on his plate. He decided that if he was going to crap again this week he best not bung his entire system up with potato glue.

Now, a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner must include all the fixings like cranberry sauce and gravy, right? I was going to make a home-made cranberry sauce using a recipe from this same TV chef, but once I realized I could buy a can of the no-name stuff for about a tenth of what it would cost to create my own recipe from scratch, I decided we weren't too good for canned cranberries.

But! We were definitely too good for canned gravy so as the turkey was resting and the turnips were boiling I set about making the gravy. I did it exactly the way I've seen my mom, my friend's moms, my mother-in-law and my aunts do it time and time again. I made a slurry with flour and water from the giblets, combined with the drippings from the turkey pan and began whisking in water from the vegetables. This was when I had my first indication that something might be up with the turkey. When I dipped my spoon into the gravy to taste-test for seasoning I about choked. Up until this point I had not added any seasoning - no salt, no pepper, nothing - just simply giblet water, vegetable water, flour and pan drippings. The cows in our neighbour's field would have loved the gravy - that's how closely it resembled a salt-lick.

"HOLY Shit!" I hollered to Buzz. "If the turkey is a salty as the gravy is, we've got a problem!"

While I continued trying to save the gravy (I threw a piece of potato in to try to absorb some of the salt), Buzz began to dismember the bird. You know those beautiful Butterball TV commercials where the platter of turkey is a golden brown, glistening ball of turkey goodness? Ours - not so much. I followed the cooking instructions of 12 minutes per pound (so for an 11-pound bird I roasted it for 2.5 hours) but this time, this time? Instead of smooth slices of moist turkey meat ours came off in something I will generously call bite-sized chunks.

It seemed the Brining had not only added "flavour" it also robbed our bird of any hope of moisture and juiciness it might have otherwise had if I had simply rubbed it's little body with salt & pepper and shoved an onion up its wazzoo and stuck it in the oven. No, people, our turkey dinner featured a dry, haggard old salty bastard of a bird that I'm hoping will redeem itself when I put it in soup tomorrow.

But I'm not done...oh no! Just like those Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock our traditional Thanksgiving dinner also featured corn. Okay, so ours was frozen corn, but still corn none-the-less. And you know what? That's right! I wrecked the corn too! I put it the microwave not only too long, but without enough water. So you know what I ended up with? Damn near popcorn is what I ended up with.

If there is one thing I could say was a huge success it would have to be the apple gallette I made with apples we picked today at a nearby orchard. Think of it, folks. At one o'clock today those apples were all still on trees and by seven o'clock tonight they were in a tart that was so damn good, I should have just had that for our traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

You know, I take great pride in being a good cook. Friday night I made an outstanding pork tenderloin with a mushroom risotto recipe I made up on the spot. It was delicious. I made chili con carne for dinner yesterday that included smokey chipotle peppers and three kinds of beans and was so flavourful I thought I could open my own cantina here on the island. Let's don't even talk about my interpretation on oven fried chicken.

But, ask me to create a traditional meal that cooks on this island have been making since time immemorial and I can't even get the potatoes right. I've already advised Buzz that if we're home for Christmas he's in charge of dinner, because this traditional stuff? It's not my thing.

Mitchell the Underwear Sniffer

We have a rule in our household - no movies, TV shows or books about dogs. I've told you all this before but Ole Yeller ruined it for me when he got into a tussle with another animal and had to be put down rather unexpectedly toward the end of the book. I was 8 or 10 at the time and it absolutely slayed me. I was a heaping mess of tears and that was it. Done. No more. Never. I vowed from that day forward no more stories about dogs.

Benji? Nope. Not a chance. Those Bethoven movies about that big old slobbery Bernese Mountain Dog? Uh-uh. Marley & Me? No freakin' way.

Oh sure, I read the book Marley & Me but I did so through a cloud of tears. Tears of laughter. Tears of sadness. Tears all the way through the book. One painfully funny page after another. So, no. I did not watch the movie when it came out last year and despite Buzz asking me every single time we go to the video store, we have not rented the DVD either. Rules are rules!

Today, when I logged on to Facebook I was sideswiped again when I read a status update that said beautiful Mitchy Goodspeed passed away today at the age of 15. And once again, there I was with a mess of tears running down my face. This wasn't any fictionalized dog. This was a real pet of a family that's like family to me and my family. He was a lovely, lovely boy.

Mitchy was a great dog. A Cairn Terrier by birth with an old soul and more people skills then many people I know. He loved to climb onto the couch and lay across the back of it surveying his domain from on high. I guess when you're only 7 or 8 inches tall, getting a little high is a good thing. He was Paul's constant companion - wherever Paul was, Mitch wasn't too far behind.

Although he was the boy dog of the family, he really was a bit of a wuss. No-one, other than my Snickers was more afraid of thunderstorms than Mitchy. I will never forget a summer visit to Four Winds cottage at Loon Lake and spending the entire first evening searching high and low, under the cottage and behind bushes , in trees, under canoes, looking for one little boy-dog who had vanished in advance of an on-coming storm. That night I wasn't sure he'd come home...but after hours and hours of calling him, and very nearly giving up hope, he waddled up behind Rosie as though nothing had ever been wrong, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Mr. Mitch was king of the castle, second only to her highness Miss Megan. Both were served better food then I often serve my husband. I'm so not kidding. This past summer at a return visit to Four Winds I learned the secret dog food recipe that included garlic and chicken, rice and vegetables. The savoury scent of it cooking on the stove was enough for us to go looking for a mid-afternoon snack. And this was dog food!

As we all do when we get older, Mitch started slowing down the last few years. He liked his "alone time." This summer his alone time included spending countless hours in our bedroom at the cottage, lying with his face buried in Buzz's underwear. We never really knew what the attraction was, but every time he disappeared for any length of time that's were we found him - in the closet on the floor inhaling Eau de Buzz Butt.

He was a faithful and loyal companion. Much loved by everyone in his family. He had a great life, with a great family who I know are missing him so very much today. Rest in Peace Mitchy!

The Most Popular Buttertarts on the Web

In this little hobby of mine called blogging I find the way people find my blog to be absolutely fascinating. Some of you come here because you know me or are related to me or know someone that knows me, so there's a common thread and it makes sense that you might check in every once in a while to see what I'm writing about. But it's the group of people that don't know me that I always wonder how did you find my blog? Did you stumble across a link to my blog on another site? Did someone recommend it to you? Are you a Blogger.com reader and did you find my blog in their directory? Or some other webring that I linked in to?

Maybe.

But mostly? Mostly new people find my blog with a Google search. And do you know the most popular search that leads people that I don't know to my blog is for? Buttertarts. Yes, folks. There are lots and lots and lots of people around the globe searching for something to do with buttertarts (a recipe, I'm sure) and inevitably they land on my blog. All because of this one post back in July. Check out the original entry here: Ode to the Buttertart

Who knew?

Smart, Talented, EMPLOYED! (Not Me)

So tonight I was reading my Facebook when I came across a posting from a very excited cousin who reads my blog (hi Meredith!) announcing to all her friends that she's now an EMPLOYED third grade teacher!

My first reaction? I'm embarrassed to say it wasn't "congratulations - you've worked hard to get where you are and the kids will LOVE you." Nope, not that. Nor was it "Well, way to go! Your brilliance has shone through and now you're a full-fledged teacher." No, it wasn't that either. And it surely wasn't "WOW! Those kids are so LUCKY to have you as their new teacher!". Sadly, none of these were my first reaction.

Instead, my first thought was "well, at least those 3rd graders won't show up still drunk or reeking of booze the way my class did this morning." Seriously, out of 17 students at my 9 o'clock class four no-showed, seven were late, and six of those were either still drunk or so seriously hungover they could not sit up straight at their desks. And this is supposed to be "adult education."

Anyway, I DO wish Meredith great success as she embarks on her teaching career. She has worked long and hard to get her assignment and those kids ARE lucky to have her as their teacher. And lucky for her, there's no way her under-age drinkers could ever get served!

Coming up for Air

No, I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, but you might think so given it's been a while since I've updated. I've been busy saving puppies and babies (a story unto itself that I'll write about some other time) and wining and dining and, dodging that damn wayward boob at the gym pool and uh, oh yeah, spending 8 hours a day at college to teach 2 or 4 hours a day. The pace, it's just maddening, I say!

But what a difference from a few months ago where I was moaning and carrying on about not having enough to do. Holy Smokers people, be careful what you wish for! Even though I only teach between 2 and 4 hours on any given day, it takes lots of time to prep for classes...you know to make it "meaningful" for my students. I am here to tell you, the youth of Canada take no action until they clearly understand what's in it for them. Unfortunately explaining to them over and over again that SOMEDAY you will need to know how to construct a sentence to write a memo just doesn't have the right "gimme" for them. So, I spend countless hours every day figuring out new and interesting ways to get the learning objectives in, while making it Fun! and Entertaining! and Meaningful! and, and, and.

And, it's wearing this tired old broad out!!

When I haven't been tap dancing and spitting wooden nickels while standing on my head in front of the class I've been lobbying for more courses to teach, because, while I'm super busy right now, it's all about to come to a screeching halt in a couple of weeks when my E and C students move on to other core learning and I'm left with only my pastry students once a week.

People, I have never "sold" anything harder then I'm selling myself these days. Ever. I've sold expensive theme parties to corporate clients. I've sold the "dream" of a vacation in heritage resorts in the splendour of the Rockies. I've sold the heck out of Hawaiian Luaus and British road rallys. But nothing compares to the lines I'm serving up at school these days, all in the hopes of securing more work. I'm getting concerned that those program managers at school think I'm peddling something else, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge, wink, wink)!

Anyhoo - that's what's happening here on the sandbar. Amidst all the chaos of school I've been keeping up my No Crap for Kim Campaign - The Wonder Years and ladies and gents, I'm proud to say I can still fit in a good 2 hour workout most days and that, coupled with the counting calories and eating healthy is showing some great results. So hoo-ray for me!

I promise to be back here on a more regular basis. Just as soon as these guys clearly understand what a compound preposition is and how NOT to use one. Gimme a couple of weeks!

Dog Gone It!

I first spied him on Saturday afternoon. He was running around a front yard that bordered busy Highway #2 and the Rustico Road, racing about with a group of young kids. He ran like the devil with his silky black and tan coat blowing in the wind. A kid would dodge this way and he'd deke that way, through their legs, around their feet until the kids all ended up in a big heap on the lawn and the dog? He just ran circles around them. I hadn't seen a dog at this house before, despite passing it every day, sometimes several times, on my way to and from town, which is I guess why it stood out in my mind. "Huh, that family just got a dog" I said to myself when my light turned green and I made the turn.

I was a total slacker on Saturday. I had a bit of a hmmm, how shall you say...wine-induced low grade headache (we do not call this a hangover, but you might) so I had spent the day hanging around the house in my PJs, watching reruns of the RIP Patrick Swayze movie marathon until it was time to head to town for date night with my man who was playing big important hotelier for the weekend. So by Sunday morning, after two nights of boozin' (and for me, boozin' means I've had more than 1 glass of wine) I desperately needed to get my derriere to the gym for a double workout and so headed to town.

There he was again, this beautiful little dog, except this time, instead of running in a yard full of children, he was crossing Highway 2, one of the island's busiest thoroughfares, and I had almost hit him. With two beasts at home, you can only imagine my state of mind at having almost hit a dog. A dog that was still on the loose. Crossing four lanes of traffic on his own. Shit.

I quickly pulled over and got out of the cranberry cruiser and after waiting for the semis, motorcycles and cars to pass, crossed over to the other side where the little guy was waiting for me. Or so I thought. Every time I got within 2 feet of him he'd dash just out of reach, run back to me again and then turn and dodge out of arm's length. Quite a game player this little boy was! After chasing him about the lawn of the Christ the Redeemer Church and eventually into the cemetery I gave up. I thought, "Well, clearly this dog does not need to be rescued by me and if he wants to go run amongst the dead people so be it" and I went back to my car.

Just as I was about to pull back onto the highway I caught a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror - dashing amongst the tombstones at a breakneck speed, headed right for the highway and a cavalcade of motorcyclists out on their Sunday ride. WTF!!!! This guy was going to be roadkill before the morning was over, so when traffic cleared I pulled a u-turn and stopped on the other side of the road. I flung open the passenger door and in he jumped - happy to have a lift it seemed and happier to be clear of the bikes.

He was a beautiful dog - with a long black coat and a tan head, bright eyes and a sweet disposition and it seemed he liked to ride in cars. Thinking the only place I thought for sure he belonged was that little bungalow back at the corner so I parked in their driveway and knocked on the door. No one was home.

What to do, what to do? Of course he had no tags or any other identification. What to do, what to do? I don't have a cell phone, so I couldn't even call the Humane Society to report him. What to do, what to do?

Oh, you know damn well what I did. That's right, my new little buddy and I headed straight to the hotel where I planned to drop him at Buzz's office while I got my workout in and figured out what to do. You know the road to hell is paved with the best intentions, don't you? I had no sooner gotten to the hotel, arrived at Buzz's office, new dog in my arms when he took one look at it and after listening to me go on and on about how I almost hit him and how he had no fear of the road and how I had seen him on the loose the day before and, and, and. "And you're going to call the Humane Society, right?" Buzz asked.

"Of course!" I assured him. "He's young, but he's obviously well cared for. He has no mats in his coat. SOMEBODY must be missing him!"

So, Buzz dialed the Humane Society and shockingly, no one had reported this guy missing! I had the dog for over an hour by this time and I was stunned that no one would be missing him. He had such a sweet disposition. The Humane Society said they'd send someone right over to pick him up and hold him until his owners called.

Of course by this time, I'm even more beside myself, because:

1) This guy's owners were obviously idiots not to know he'd been gone.

2) He was destined to spend at least the day, if not the night or maybe even longer in a cage at the already over-crowded Humane Society.

Shit.

While we waited for the phone call that the dog-catcher was there, we took the young guy out for a walk. We knew he was young because a) he hadn't been neutered yet and b) he had absolutely no manners on the leash. I was starting to understand why he had been running free.

I'm pretty sure he was a Yorkshire Terrier or a very large Silky, but after spending the better part of the morning with him, it didn't matter what he was, quickly he was becoming "ours." We even had a name for him: Guinness. Because of his black & tan coat.

Before too long Buzz's phone rang and I thought, well, here we go...this is my last chance to convince him that I'd sooner go door to door where I found Guinness to locate his owners - anything rather than having him go with the dog-catcher.

So it was agreed.

I would retrace my steps and knock on every door I could until I found his owners. So off we went, he and I, with him riding shotgun in the front seat, nose out the window.

My first stop was to the local country market where I inquired if anyone had come in looking for a missing dog. The young girl behind the counter told me "no" and when I offered to give her my number in case someone did, she asked "what does it look like?" I described Guinness - a young, un-neutered, black & tan terrier about 15-lbs.

With that, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, I know that dog. That damn dog is always getting out of its yard. It belongs to the house next door. It's always running across our parking lot and getting in the way of our customer's cars. He's a real nuisance."

I have to say, I was kind of heart-broken. I had sort of hoped that finding his rightful home wouldn't be so easy. I gathered up Guinness and headed over to his yard where I found his owner just getting into his car. He greeted us with "hey, I was wondering where he was!"

At this point all I'm thinking is "You've GOT to be kidding me! I've had this dog for 4 hours! I've notified the Humane Society as having a found dog. And you're just now wondering where he was?"

Some people should not be allowed to own pets.

Reluctantly, I handed Guinness back over to his owner who had explained that "Sarge" is a bit of an escape artist who likes to slip his chain whenever he can, which must have been what happened today. I'm thinking "You don't say?"

I told the owner the dog was very sweet and what a dangerous situation he had been in that morning when I almost hit him going 80-km/hour down the highway. I explained to him that his dog had no fear of the highway and also had zero recall and how that combination was a recipe for disaster. The guy assured me they were trying to figure out a better situation for Sarge and so with that and not so much as a thank you very much, I left.

I had no sooner walked over to the country store next door when I hear "OH NO....SARGE!!!!" coming from the direction of the house. I looked behind me and there he was, blazing his way through the trees, over the marigolds and right through the parking lot of the country store.

HERE WE GO AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For the SECOND time that day I was in hot pursuit, and somehow convinced the dog to jump into my car. His owner came running over and shame-faced offered "I put him on his chain and he broke his collar clear in half. That's how he got out again!" I hooked him up to Snickers halti-lead we leave in the car and handed him back over.

I could not have gathered a more withering look as I said to him - "You know, these dogs are generally regarded as HOUSE dogs, not dogs to be chained in the yard."

And with that, off they headed, back across the parking lot, through the yard, past the marigolds and into the trees. I watched them retreat and thought to myself the next time I see that dog loose I will pull over again and convince him to hop back into my car.

And the next time, I'll just keep on driving.

Just like in the Olden Days...

Last weekend, as is wont to happen every three or four months, Buzz was his hotel's MOD - manager on duty. What this means is that from Friday night at 5pm until Monday morning at 8am he is the guy the hotel will call in the event of some sort of emergency - like if someone dies in the hotel or if there was a work stoppage or if say, it rained so hard sand-bagging the garage didn't work and the underground parking gets flooded, or if there's a fire in the kitchen, or a robbery. That kind of fun stuff.

The hotel has this archaic rule that says if the MOD lives more than 15 minutes from the city they must move into the hotel and live there during their MOD shift. Of course, living out in the OBB some 20 minutes from Charlottetown and with Buzz being mindful of the regulations, every time he's MOD he packs his bag and plans for a weekend at the office. When we first moved here, that sounded like lots of fun to me. Let's pack up the dogs and head to town! We can lie about in bed all day ordering room service! We can rent movies on the pay-per-view! We could take in a show! We could go see some live entertainment...just like city-people do every weekend!

Except that instead of the Charlottetown version of a weekend in Manhattan, those MOD weekends always looked something like this. Me: bored and after dinner, breakfast, lunch and dinner from room service I'd be dying to eat anything that wasn't served under a stainless steel dome. Him: he'd be chained to his office desk cranking out financial statements all day long. Dogs: when they aren't barking at passers-by our guest room they're always wanting to go out at 6:30 a.m. and of COURSE you can't just open the back door and let them take off for a whiz so someone (usually Buzz) has to get up at the crack of way too early, get dressed, leash up the beasts and head down the hallway, into the elevator, out the front door, where one of them (usually Snickers) would drop a load right in front of the departing guests.

So, yes. Weekend at the hotel? Not as much fun as you might think.

After getting storm-stayed at the hotel over New Year's Eve last January I declared that forever more when Buzz was MOD he would be on his own. Too much stress and inconvenience on the dogs, don'tcha know. Plus, remember the room service? There's nothing healthful on that menu and even though they have this motto "our kitchen is your kitchen" as soon as you deviate from the room service menu, you're served congealed Eggs Benedict or a salad with so much dressing on it you'd swear the lettuce jumped into the vat and swam around for a while.

So yeah, last weekend with Buzz being MOD we both got to return to our bachelor/bachelorette days. He stayed at the hotel working countless hours on end, just like he did B.K. (Before Kim) and I? Well, I hung out at home, lounging about, reading Vanity Fair, drinking tea, watching reality television (or in the case of last weekend the Patrick Swayze -RIP - movie marathon) eating soup and generally, enjoying a quiet weekend on my own. Gidget stood vigil on our chair by the window (all the better to observe the driveway from) waiting for her man to come home. Snickers never left my side.

Now, don't go reading anything into this! Time away from each other is good for a relationship! Plus, I like being alone. It gives me time to think. And sleep without the snoring on the pillow beside me. It also means I sleep on the couch because being upstairs with no-one else but Frieda (our ghost, who you can read all about here) and the dogs can sometimes be a tad bit scary. I'm just saying.

I'm sure Buzz enjoyed time away from me and the animals equally as much. No 6 a.m. argument about who's going to get out of bed to let out the animals. No-one digging their elbow into his ribs with every (loud) breath he took. I'm sure it was pure bliss, in fact.

Oh, we still saw each other. Friday night we met up with a friend of ours from Jasper for dinner at one of the local seafood joints and had a blast. Saturday we actually had a date...dinner for two at a nice restaurant. Both of those are things we used to do all the time and both are things we hardly ever do anymore.

So yeah, time alone. Date nights. Dinner with friends. Just like in the olden days...

Is it Just Me or...

...is Mariah Carey getting a tad bit chunky? I've just finished watching the big Oprah Fridays LIVE from NYC where Mariah performed a remake of the 80s Foreigner classic "I want to know what love is" and I swear to God, when the camera caught her in a side shot, it appears that now that's she's happily married she's put on the new bride 5 (lbs) - more like 10 or 15 in her case.

I only bring this up, because the evil side of me that is working out twice five days a week and counting calories and being mindful of what I consume and only eating good for me, healthful things - well - that evil bitch in me doesn't want to be the only fat broad on the planet and so it makes me feel better knowing I'm not alone. I'm just saying. There's comfort in numbers. And I'm shocked that Mariah is part of the group.

Things that Make You Go Hmmmmm...

So yesterday I was commiserating with my office-mate about in the classroom techniques to manage those unruly few students who either like to dominate the class discussion to showcase how smart they are, or the ones that think whatever's going on in the classroom is less important than the conversation they're having with the guy sitting beside them.

I mean, I don't want to be the bitch teacher or anything, but you kind of have to nip both of those in the bud, otherwise you'll never get any control over the group and essentially you're just wasting everyone else's time.

So there we were, chatting about a couple of our challenges, one of which for my colleague was remembering his student's names.

I shared my technique with getting to know everyone's name - I made tent cards with their names for each student and have them placed in front of them on their desks. This way I don't have to call them sir or ma'am whenever I call on them, but can use the actual name their mother gave them.

My colleague, who has been teaching for 23 years and is just 3 short years away from retirement looked over at me, with a withering glance and said "Well Kim, in my classes most of my students are girls. They all look alike. And most of them are named Brittany. What the hell is up with that? I mean, why Brittany?"

I'm sorry to say I couldn't answer his question. Instead, I had a question of my own and that is this: If you have a class of twenty students, most of whom are female and more than half named Brittany - how difficult is it to get to know the other student's names?

I'm just asking.

Rachel Ray Eat My Dust!

Today is Mexico's Independence Day. I'm not particularly up on Mexican history so I'm assuming they're celebrating independence from Spain, but I don't know for sure. I do know that everyone assumes Mexican independence is what is celebrated on Cinqo de Mayo, but I have it on good authority that the celebrating done on May 5th is done for the benefit of Mexico's two neighbours to the north and is not actually a holiday in Mexico. Go figure.

Where am I going with this?

Well, I took it upon myself tonight to create a dinner that celebrated all things Mexi-flavoured and so I will share my self-made recipe with you!

Polo Burrrrrrrrrito! Ayayayaya Bueno!!!! Loosely translated - Really tasty chicken burrito

Couple of chicken breasts, boneless, skinless and sliced into bite-size pieces

In hot pan with olive oil, saute chicken breast slices until browned. Season with salt & pepper

Cheater Step:

Once chicken has browned add two cups of Salsa (I use Pace salsa in a jug from Costco).

Follow that with 2 or 3 heaping tablespoons of cumin and 1 heaping tablespoon of oregano

Add 1/2 cup of black beans

Simmer about 15 or 20 minutes to allow flavours to combine.

Warm tortilla wraps in the microwave - 25 seconds. Smear each wrap with a tsp of sour cream and then load on your chicken/black bean mixture. Take one side of the wrap and fold over the mixture once, then take the bottom of the wrap and tuck it up over the top and do the same with the top of the wrap. Finally take the whole thing with the one side, bottom & top folded and roll over until it looks like a little envelope of goodness.

Sometimes I also add a hit of homemade guacamole to the wrap just to shake it up a bit.

Anyway, there you have a low fat, high fibre, super-high flavour dinner that you can make in less than 30 minutes.

Rachel Ray you've got nothin' on me!

They Make them So YOUNG These Days!

This week marked the first week of classes at our local post-secondary institution where I am contracted to teach a Business Communications course. Today was Day 2 and already I have enough blog fodder to write an entire book, but for now, I'll just tell you two short stories because I sort of made this promise to myself not to write about my work, but you know...whatever, I'll take the inspiration wherever it comes from.

So yesterday I had three classes - my first class in the morning with Group "E" followed by two back-to-back classes with the PA Group. I'm a big believer in getting to class early and getting set up so that you know if your equipment is going to work and to calm any last-minute jitters before speaking to the group. Yesterday was no different...I got to my first class about 15 minutes before the class officially began, got myself organized and started greeting the students one by one as they arrived at class. "Hi! Are you here for B-Comm 135? You're in the right place - have a seat." that sort of thing.

It wasn't until they were all assembled at their desks that I really looked at the group as a whole and that's when it hit me. Unlike my students last spring, many of whom were starting second and in one case, third careers, these students are fresh out of high school. In some cases, due to advance placement, some of my "adult" students are only 17 years old. It was like looking at a sea of young Lukes, my talented, charming, smart and sweet 16 year-old nephew. Realizing that I'll be teaching a group that I can address as "Dude" made any pre-teaching jitters immediately go away and I set about reviewing our course outline before letting them go early to get the materials they'll need to be successful in my class.

Today, with this same group of students we were busy working through how to make an effective oral presentation - how to get over stage fright, how to thoroughly prepare for a presentation that sort of thing. We had plenty of time after learning the basic ins and outs of proper business telephone etiquette to give the students an assignment to hone their writing skills. While the class worked at crafting their memos I had one young guy raise his hand to call me over where he quietly asked if he needed permission to leave the classroom to go to the bathroom, now that he's at college.

Isn't that the sweetest thing? When, as an adult, was the last time you asked another adult permission to use the bathroom?

I quietly told the kid "You're a college man now, you don't ever have to ask permission to pee again."

Welcome to the big leagues, Grasshopper!

Never a Dull Moment

Someone recently commented on this blog that I seem to have a lot of "unique" experiences. People - you have no idea. I choose NOT to blog about my work (much) or Buzz's work (hardly ever) and pretty much the deep, meaningful stuff of my marriage and our families are off-limits too. So, yeah, the REALLY entertaining stuff - I don't even mention here.

But, stuff that happens in my living room? Well here there are no boundaries and so if it happens out here in the OBB it's fair game.

Take Sunday for instance.

On Sunday, we got up at a reasonable hour to finish up the last of the household chores, all the better to enjoy the day. I scrubbed bathrooms, tidied up the kitchen and got a few loads of laundry done. After a fabulous breakfast of veggie omelette made with veggies right out of my garden, Buzz and I discussed what we'd have for dinner...because Lord knows we don't want to go more than a couple of hours without knowing what we'll eat next! After reviewing the full menu of what we've eaten the past 6 nights we decided white meat was out because we've been indulging in chicken, pork and pork and chicken all week and so we decided it would be Beef Tenderloin for Sunday dinner. Buzz took the steaks out of the freezer to defrost and we went about our day.

A couple hours later I was on a long-anticipated and much overdue phone date with my friend Carla when suddenly, right in the middle of a really good story about how someone recently got fired the phone lines went dead. So did the TV. Dammit, so did everything else. Thinking quickly, I jumped up and grabbed our analogue phone and quickly plugged it in so I could continue my gabfest with the west coast (you know, on the other end of the country where all the really good things and people are). Unfortunately the analogue phone doesn't work when there's no power either so there we were...no power and nothing to do.

Right about the time I saw our neighbours evacuate their house to go watch Sunday afternoon football at their son's place I decided I needed to know just when exactly we'd have power returned to the OBB and so grabbed Buzz's cell and started dialing. The less than helpful agent at Maritime Electric informed me that no, it wasn't an island-wide issue and yes, they knew the power was out in the OBB, and no, they didn't know what had caused the outage and no, they had no idea when power would be restored. Super! Thank you!

With a house shining clean from top to bottom and so therefore no chores to be done and with it rainy and wet outside and so nothing to do on the land, we decided we'd pass some time by going for a Sunday afternoon drive. Unlike Saturday night when we went for a drive to the beach we did not take the dogs with us and so we locked them in the house as we drove off in search of houses with signs of electricity, just so we could figure out how far this outage was.

We were only gone about an hour and when we came home the power was still out. "Fine," I thought, "this is a perfect opportunity for Buzz to help me with some stretching." You see, I have a bad back which is exacerbated when my T-bands get too tight and the only way to effectively stretch them is to lie on my back with my foot resting on Buzz's stomach while he pushes my leg back over my head, releasing the tension in my back. It works every time.

So, I mention to him as we're coming in the house that I could use his help in stretching my back and start to make my way to the living room. I rounded the corner from the kitchen and you know those Beef Tenderloin steaks we had left defrosting on the kitchen counter a couple of hours ago? Uh huh. The remnants of their plastic bag were strewn from one end of the dog bed to the other. WTF. SOMEONE who shall remain nameless but looks an awful lot like a big brown dog, ate our dinner...in the raw.

Power was finally restored about 3:15, but by then it was too late to take out another steak and have it defrosted in time for an early dinner. So instead we made due with left-over mushroom stew & rice with a salad which Buzz enhanced with a couple of peanut butter sandwiches. Not exactly the kind of Sunday dinner we're accustomed to, but you know, when you have an always starving dog, this is sometimes your reality.

Classes are in session starting today. Buzz is working on budget all this week. Since I don't write much about my work and seldom about his, and with this week being such a busy week for both of us on the employment front, I hope to have time to write here each day, but if I don't, just keep checking back in. I'm sure someone will pop a boob (you can read about that here) or insult my age (you can read about that here) or something else will happen to provide lots of blog fodder!

Peek A Boo! The Whole Pool Sees YOU!

Recently, in my on-going attempt to get in shape (part of the No Crap For Kim Campaign) I have added swimming laps to my work out routine. Five days a week, after I climb Mt. Everest on the eliptical and sashay my way to Bette Midler singing the Rosemary Clooney songbook on the treadmill, I jump in the pool and swim laps for half an hour.

Now wait a minute. I know what you're thinking. "She race walks to the Rosemary Clooney songbook? What the hell!" But I'm here to tell you, there is no better song to race walk to than Mambo Italiano! It's got the perfect rhythm to swing your hips to as you speed walk - I am SO not kidding! Okay, admittedly, I look like a dork, but I'm not really trying to impress anyone at the gym, so who cares?

Okay, anyway, back to the pool. Most days I work out in the morning because it's a great way to wake up, it sets the tone for the day, plus how much energy you exert in the morning dictates how much food you can eat throughout the day and you know I'm all about the food.

This week, with the start of the college school year I've had to play around with my gym time to work around my school schedule as I prep to welcome the youth of Canada to their first year of post-secondary education. Those youth are paying a lot of money to learn how to cook and the very least I could be is prepared to welcome them to the class they will dread every day - I'm just saying.

So anyway, a few times this week I've had to do my workout late in the afternoon and of course there is a whole different group of people at the gym in the afternoon than in the morning. Personally, I prefer the group in the morning because I've already got their quirks figured out (you know, like who hogs the treadmill beyond their allotted 20-minutes, who doesn't wipe down the equipment after they've used it - that sort of thing), but this afternoon crowd, not so much.

One of the people that works out in the afternoon is an older lady (and by that I do not mean that she's a card-carrying member of CARP - but she should be in a few years!) who is decidedly much heavier than she should be. I'm guessing 275-lbs on her 5'5" frame. So good for her for getting herself to the gym every day and putting on a bathing suit and swimming laps.

But here's the thing. It's her bathing suit. Being that she's a very large lady, I'm sure finding a bathing suit must be pure hell and when you find one you like you latch on to it as though it were to give you life itself. I know of what I speak because I once had such a bathing suit - it was styling (Tommy Bahama), it was beautiful (a lovely shade of blue with creamy yellow hibiscus flowers) and it had a matching sarong that completed the outfit. My swimming companion's bathing suit is a tank-ini with thin spaghetti straps and no real support whatsoever for her, shall we say, enormous bossom!

Who am I to judge? I'm really just there to get my 75 laps in in 30-minutes, so I tend to stay focused on my lane and rhythmic breathing....in stroke, stroke, out, stroke, stroke, in, stroke, stroke, out, stroke, stroke. Yesterday while I was concentrating on my breathing and crawling I glanced over to my right (can't be helped, it's the side I breathe on) and what to my wondering eyes did I see? One ginormous BOOB popping out of the no-support-for-her spaghetti straps tank-ini! There it was, just floating along with its owner as she did the back stroke down the pool.

I know, I know, I have plenty of floatable parts of my own (can you say gluteus maximus?) so I really shouldn't be judging, but I can't help it! Oh, when she got to the other end of the pool she discretely tucked her mammoth mammary back into her bathing suit before doing another lap on her back. And I? I had already made tracks to the other end of the pool and had just done my turn around to head back to the far end - all the better to stay away from floating boobies. But our paths crossed again at the midway point of the pool and there it was again...POP, huge nipple and all, floating by as I took a breath! People, I'm telling you her boob was the size of her head! Just bobbing along in the water with every stroke she took.

"Focus, focus, focus!" I silently screamed to myself. But the sight of the detached boob floating in the pool is too much for my chlorine addled brain to shake and I begin to chuckle, which of course then screws up my rhythmic breathing, which then leads to sputtering and choking on the litres of water I'd just ingested. Which then leads to the pool attendant hollering at me from the check-in desk "ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

Not wanting to embarrass my swimming companion by having the young stud come closer to inspect what was happening in the pool I quickly gathered my wits about me and hollered back that I was fine, just got my breathing out of sync as I quietly did the breast stroke back to my end of the pool.

Is My CARP Card in the Mail?

Yesterday I was cruising through a collection of high flavour, low fat recipes where I came upon this recipe for mushroom and wild rice stew...nothing sounded more like a fall flavour to me than an entire stew made of mushrooms and wild rice - yum yum yum.

Even though I promised Buzz I'd stay out of the grocery stores this week and "make do" with what we have in the pantry (a fun little game, if ever there was one because it really challenges you to be creative with what's on hand) I decided that I neeeeeeded to make this recipe even though I had no wild rice on hand. So...on my way home from town I stopped at our local Bulk Barn to get some. An aside here, if you've never shopped in one of these places - OMG it is the best thing since sliced bread because they have everything - except sliced bread actually - in neat, tidy, CLEAN, containers and you only have to buy the amount that you actually need. If you're a baker this is pure joy because they have all sorts of things that go into baking that you can't find at the local grocery store. Last May when we were in Nashville I stocked up on 6 boxes of Kikkoman Panko crumbs because our local grocery stores don't carry Panko. Imagine my delight when I saw that the Bulk Barn carries it! Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!

Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, so I decide to make this recipe and stopped by the Bulk Barn to pick up the 1 cup of wild rice called for. I got my rice and stood in line behind the ONLY cashier open (okay I said I liked their products, but not necessarily their customer service) who must have been new to the job because she asked her customer the contents of every bag she was ringing through. At this particular Bulk Barn you don't have to label your bags (except for spices) because apparently it's part of the training that cashiers can identify the contents of each bag on sight. Yesterday this was not so much the case and because of this, the check-out process was painfully long. Finally, at long last and after walking by the line-up that is now 10-people deep at least four times the 2nd cashier opened her register and called "the next person in line" over.

I happened to be "the next person in line" but some spry old lady behind me jumped the que ahead of me. Well, you know I can seldom contain my thoughts and there they were written all over my face...something along the lines of: "are you freakin' kidding me? I have ONE freaking item and you, YOU who has been BEHIND me for the last 10 minutes jumps right over to the newly opened cashier?". I don't care if she was an old lady or not, what made her time more important than mine?

Well, as I said, it's written all over my face and for once, the newly opened cashier realized what happened and actually told the old broad to wait one moment while she rings in the customer who was next in line...who happened to be me!

So, big bonus points for customer service, right?

Sort of.

Things were going swimmingly, she i.d.'d my rice, weighed it, rang it in and then looked at me and asked "Do you qualify for our Senior's Discount?"

W.T.F.?

Perhaps the Oil of Olay isn't doing what it's supposed to, or perhaps it was because I was coming from the gym where I had done 30 straight minutes of uphill climbing on the eliptical, followed by 20 minutes of race-walking on the treadmill followed by 30 minutes of swimming laps so yeah, maybe I wasn't looking my best. But Senior's Discount? Really? There once was a time when I was 15 I was thrilled to be mistaken for someone old enough (18) to get into a bar, but now? Now that I'm on the downward slope of my 40s? Not so much.

I'm guessing that in the future I will only stop by the Bulk Barn when I am fully coiffed and made-up. Either that, or I'm going to have to forge a CARP card and get that freaking discount!

Here's the recipe for the Wild Rice & Mushroom Stew:

Ingredients:

1-1/2 tsp olive oil

2 cups leeks, finely chopped (about 2 large leeks) - white parts only

2 cups shiitake mushrooms (I used regular they were just fine), sliced

1 cup carrots, diced

3 cups vegetable broth

1 tsp salt

1 cup uncooked wild rice

Those are the basic ingredients, I also added a bit more salt, a whole lot of freshly ground pepper and about a tsp of ground sage...perfect, but you can season to your own taste.

Method:

Heat oil in large skillet, add leeks and mushrooms and sautee until tender, about 5 minutes.

Spoon leeks and mushrooms into a 4 or 5 quart slow cooker. Add carrots, broth, salt & rice. Cover and cook on low 6 to 7 hours.

Yields about 1.5 cups per serving.