Suicide is Painless

We've been on a suicide watch for the last few days here in the OBB.

Snickers started it all. Every time he'd go out he'd make a bee-line directly to the window well at the back of our house where he'd stand and stare...stare and stand. Occasionally he'd lift his front left paw and cock his head. He'd always have a string of spit hanging down from his lip as he'd sit, ears pricked, head cocked and whining at the window well.

Curious, I finally sauntered over to the window one morning and that's when I discovered we have a little field mouse (or shrew, I'm still not sure) hunkered down at the bottom of the well.

The one whom I adore and I have an unstated deal. I will take care of most things inside the house related to the maintenance, cleaning and cooking while he gets domain over the great outdoors... mowing, shoveling, trimming of hedges, etc.

It hasn't always been this way. We didn't used to have such a 'traditional' marital arrangement...back in our Jasper days it was equal opportunity when it came to keeping of the house and cooking of the meals. Each of us had our areas of expertise and preference and so, with equality for all, we divided the chores.

But here, on the island in the Northumberland Strait, my asthma has risen to a twenty-five year high and as such, I can no longer mow the grass. I used to enjoy riding the John Deere all over our property, over hill and dale, around trees and shrubs. It was a great way to get a tan without actually having to sit out and soak up the rays. But, given that my asthma is exacerbated by mowing of the grass, I have been forbidden to mount the JD. So, by attrition, we slowly migrated into this arrangement whereby I take care of things indoors and he does the manly stuff outside.

Which is why, when I spied the mouse seemingly stranded in our window well, the first thing I did was call the one whom I adore. "Honey, we have a MOUSE! And he's trapped in our window well! He's making Snickers crazy! Can you do something about it?"

Now, the one whom I adore is a busy guy. Not only does he have all this land to maintain, but also? He's the one with the big career down here, so understandably, getting "right on it" might not have been his first priority.

The next day both Snickers and I checked and there it was...our little buddy still at the bottom of the window well. Well. What to do...what to do? I thought he was dead, afterall, he was laying there burrowed into the dirt and not moving, with a fly crawling over his prostate little body.

"HONEY! The mouse is now dead...can you do something about it? I don't want the smell of rotting rodent permeating our windows and stinking up the house!"

This time he got right on it. But instead of disposing of a dead mouse carcass as I thought he would, he came inside with the news that the little guy wasn't dead at all - he was alive and well, albeit stuck at the bottom of the window well, and so the solution? The solution was to give the little mouse a hand up as it were. The one whom I adore took a wooden plank and constructed a mouse pedestrian walk-way so he could scale the heights of the metal well and escape. There was no food down there in the well, so if it was going to have any hope at survival, he'd take some mighty mouse initiative and climb the path to freedom.

You've heard of the road less traveled? It's a plank in our basement window well. That mouse ignored freedom's path. Instead, he just burrowed in deeper to the other side of the window well. You know the old saying "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink"? It also holds true for field mice.

It was still alive yesterday morning, but surely to God with all the rain, he was cold and hungry... but probably not thirsty.

Now, I'm all for saving animals and such, but if a mouse sets up shop in my window well, whether by accident or by design, I'm not about to feed the little booger, because remember last January? Yeah, some cousins and maybe an uncle or two of this mouse had set up shop in our kitchen. So, yeah, not going to help the little varmint, not me.

Last night Snicks and I did our usual check of the window well. Buddy was still there. So was his walk-way. Untouched.

I picked up the plank that was his road to freedom and gave him a tentative little poke. I did the same thing the day before and he scampered right onto the window sill while I jumped back ten feet and checked if I needed a pair of "Depends". So Saturday, he was alive and well. But not last night. Last night when I lifted the plank he did not respond when I poked him. Instead, when I poked him he rolled over on his back, stiff, with four little mouse feet sticking straight up in the air. Dead.

I really do believe he committed suicide. He may have fallen into the window well by accident, but his staying there was most certainly not. Instead of a life running the abundant fields that surround our property he chose to starve himself in a dirt hole at the bottom of a window well. We gave him ample opportunity to scale the heights of that window well and attain freedom. He chose death.

After last January's incident and yesterday's suicide the score is now Kim 2 - Mouse 0.

The Real Housewives of...

First it was the Real Housewives of Orange County…with their dark tans, blonde highlights, botoxed beauty and let’s don’t forget size DDD breast implants.  Then it was the Real Housewives of New York with the Yenta, the Social Climber, the Countess and the requisite Single Girl Making it all Work, followed closely by the Real Housewives of Atlanta with their big hair, long acrylic nails, enormous houses and an even bigger affinity for drama. 

Topping it all off is this year’s entry in the series…The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  This one is by far my most favorite and I really I don’t know why.  Yes, their houses are bigger than the wives of Atlanta and their fortunes appear bigger than the wives of both NYC & the OC.  But I think what intrigues me most about the The Real Housewives of New Jersey is that they are just soooooo over the top and yet, are completely oblivious as to how their excesses are perceived by those of us not fortunate enough to have a lifestyle funded by mafia money.  Their days are filled to the brim with such things as getting their hair done, renovating their mansions, pushing their exceptionally untalented children into acting careers or making pasta for their spoiled and still at home 20-something kids.  Boy do they make a lot of pasta on this show.  I haven’t seen all the episodes because Bravo TV has not yet imported the series into Canada, so I can only speculate on what I’ve seen while traveling to the US.  Suffice it to say, I was hooked on the first episode and just like when I am craving something salty or sweet or starchy, I just cannot get enough of this show.  Please, Bravo, please - ditch the 3 year old reruns of the Housewives of the OC and bring us the Jersey girls!  I'm begging here!

So, while I was ruminating on The Real Housewives Of (fill in the blank) series, it occurs to me, that what with my under-employed status, that really? what I am?  Yes...you've got it.  I'm The Real Housewife of  Oyster Bed Bridge.

Here in the OBB I don’t have a big house…just a ghost.  I don’t have DDD breast implants but I do have enough excess baggage on my ass, that if it were transplanted to my breasts would make them EEE.  Here, I don’t believe in acrylic nails, instead I spend my time cleaning the dirt from the garden out from under my nails.  In the OBB the biggest drama I have is whether or not the one who rides the John Deere can get the grass cut before the next rain storm.  In the OBB I don’t have hair and make-up artists at my beck and call.  Instead, I roll my own. 

Hell's Kitchen - Hell YEAH!

I interrupt this regularly scheduled posting for a quick question or two:

Q.  How does someone from Andhra Pradesh, India even find my blog in the first place?  A.  I don't know, but he did.  And it wasn't  a referral from Networked Blogs, either...he just landed directly on my blog.  Very strange and yet exciting too, because if someone from Andhra Pradesh, India can find me, who knows where this will go next? 

Q.  Just who the heck is my Port Coquitlam reader?  And while I'm at it...who's reading from Fergus?

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Okay, now that that's out of the way, we now continue with regularly scheduled blogging.  I'll tell you right from the get-go, it's not my best work...but it's all I've got today.  Hopefully you'll come back here tomorrow and there will be something scintillating.

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It started on Tuesday.  If you haven’t watched it you should.  I’m talking about the latest installment of the quasi-reality show “Hell’s Kitchen”.   Are you familiar?   It’s the kind of show that I hate to/love to/hate to/love to watch.  I’m so not kidding.  I am quintessentially Gemini about the whole experience.    

First of all you’ve got the star of the show, super-hot in a he-just-rolled-out-of-bed-with-tousled-hair-after-a-mad-evening-of-passionate-naughtiness, Gordon Ramsay.  This guy kills me!   (in a good way)  For sure he’s a talented chef, but have you seen the way he intimidates  motivates people?  I watch in abject horror as he dresses down one chef contestant after another for doing things such as throwing out pasta that’s been over-cooked (instead of serving it, whereby the chef would then get reamed a new asshole for serving something so vile as over-cooked pasta).  All night long, at one chef contestant after another he screamed, ridiculed, shamed and did I mention screamed at to the point where the vein above his eyebrow looked as though it was going to explode!  Holy smokes, you’d think this was life or death rather than a contest to see who can withstand working under his tutelage for a grand prize of being the executive chef at Whistler’s Araxi Restaurant.   

So yeah, you’ve got Gordon who is just a tad bit short-tempered.  But honestly?  He’s nothing compared to the chef contestants!  I mean, it's not like you don't know what you're getting into when you sign up to be a chef contestant on the show.  Ramsay's rants are well documented throughout various mediums - this show, his Kitchen Nightmares show and such.  His temper and foul mouth are all part of his schtick.  So yeah, shouldn't be a shocker to the contestants that his a bit of an asshole.  

But remember, the whole premise of this show is to showcase culinary skills to Ramsay in the hopes of surviving until the end, to be awarded the position of executive chef at one of Whistler’s finest (and I do mean super-finest) restaurants.  So this whole thing?  It’s a JOB INTERVIEW on steroids, broadcast on national television for the whole country to see.  Yes, yes, yes...it's also a TV show and without all the ensuing drama of Tuesday night you're right - we probably wouldn't tune back in to see if Ramsay knocks the tar out of that little twerp who told him to go pound salt...but...really people?  Some decorum, please!    

You would think that given that, people would oh, I don’t know,  be a tiny bit aware that the guy you’ve just told to go “pound salt,” is in fact the one who will ultimately decide your fate – whether you will cook another day in Hell’s Kitchen, or whether you’re hanging up your chef’s whites and running out of town with your tail between your legs.    

I’m just saying.

"C" is for COOL and Also for CLEAN

The other day, the one whom I adore and I were having an email exchange about what constitutes "cool".   A friend had emailed me about a job in Vancouver - the city I dearly love and would move back to in a moment's notice.  Said job was  the Director of Sales & Marketing at the Opus Hotel, one of the city's uber-hip and swanky luxury hotels in the heart of Yaletown.   While I could easily do the tactile work required of a Director of Sales & Marketing for a luxury hotel, because, hey because I've done this very successfully once in my career already, I don't think I would qualify for the opportunity at the Opus because I do not believe I have the one requirement that would likely not be negotiable.  

Oh, it's not listed on their job posting.  It's one of those unsaid qualifications, like the ability to be both creative and analytical and a warm/fuzzy people person.  How many people do you know that are all of those things bundled into one person?  My point exactly.  In my experience one is either creative or analytical.  One is either analytical or a warm/fuzzy people person.  You can be both creative & a warm/fuzzy people person, but.  But, it is the rare being that embodies all those characteristics, which is why those HR gurus that write job descriptions have to dance a fine line between the "perfect" candidate and the one they'll have to accept.    

Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes, the one qualification for this role that I do believe I am lacking in is the Cool Factor.  I  believe that of all my many attributes, coolness is most decidedly lacking.   While it is not specifically stated in the job posting on their website, indeed a key factor for the winning candidate will be their Cool Factor. Let's get real for a second.  There is no way the Director of Sales & Marketing for this uber-cool hotel could be anything but cool, because the whole property exudes an air of cool that makes you wonder if you  are really still in the lower mainland, or if indeed you've been teleported to say Los Angeles or some such place.  

The one whom I adore strongly disagreed.  Which, of course, is one of the reasons why I totally adore him.  He clearly has no clue, but thinks he does and then tries to convince me of same.  Who wouldn't love a guy like that, I say?

Anyhoo - he maintains that "cool" is a state of mind.  If you think you're cool, then, ergo, you are cool.   I, on the other hand believe that "cool" is a state of being...as in you either are cool or you are not cool.  And if you are cool, then everyone knows you're cool.  He believes, however, that if you believe you're cool then it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.  See the quandry?

Now, don't misunderstand me.  There was once a time in my life where I was cool.  Not only did I think it, but so did others.  It was a long time ago, in a land far, far, away...back when I held a powerful position that swayed much influence and garnered me global recognition as a leader in my industry.  So, yeah, I was cool.  Or actually, I represented a lot of business that people wanted a slice of and that therefore made me much sought-after and also?  Cool.   

The one whom I adore believes I still have a Coolness Factor, but if I don't believe, no one else will either.  He couldn't be more wrong and I'll tell you why.  If you are cool, you seemingly go through life with an air of ease about you.  You aren't awkward or sloppy.  You are successful at all you do.  You have many talents that are abundantly obvious not only to yourself but to everyone around you.  You have what other people want.  You are the epitome of grace and suave-ness.

I am none of these things.  Clearly.  You can tell.  Just look at my shirt after spending part of my morning yesterday baking a tasty treat for the one whom I adore.  Yes, that's right.  What you see smeared all over the front of my shirt is a combination of cocoa powder and lord knows what else.  

When I discovered it I was mortified.  You see, between starting the said sweet treat for my honey and finishing it I discovered I was out of a key ingredient for the recipe.   I had no eggs.   Ever efficient, I decided that I would make the best use of my time and just go ahead and do my week's grocery shopping while I was out picking up the eggs.  So I quickly made my list and off to town I toddled, secure in the knowledge that while I had no make-up on, I still looked pretty darned good for a rural housewife.  An hour later I was home, finished whipping up the "from scratch, not a box-mix" brownies, popped them in the oven and set about making some guacamole to accompany tonight's dinner.   I followed that up with a quick bite of lunch, a sample of the brownies and washing-up of the dishes.  Then, I had to pee.  I know, far too much information but it was here that I first discovered the stain-covered mess that was my tank top.  It was here - a full two hours AFTER I had used cocoa powder that I discovered I was covered in it.  A full two hours AFTER I went to the great Atlantic SuperStore to go grocery shopping.  In public.  Where people are.  With a shirt covered in brown stuff.  Stuff so brown, you might mistake it for something else.  Sloppy?  Oh, yes.  Cool?  Ummm...not even close.

And he wonders why I don't think I'm cool?  Honestly.

Channeling my Inner-Julia Child

Have you seen the commercials?  I'm talking about the upcoming movie Julie & Julia - it's the story of two women set 50 years apart...one is Julia Child who is featured  during the years she and her husband lived in France and where she discovered the joys of French cooking.  The other is a gal from NYC who was in a dead-end job and decided that in a year she would cook every single recipe from Julia Child's book Mastering the Art of French Cooking (a cookbook Julia Child wrote in 1961!).  Aside from cooking over 500 (complicated) French recipes every day for a year this young cookie wrote a blog about her experience as she went along.  It's hysterical.  

I cannot wait for this movie.

For a couple of reasons:

1)  I've read Julie's blog and I think she's brilliant.  In fact, you might say I'm more than just a little tiny bit jealous of her.  Her idea was brilliant and while her writing at first is merely average, as you move through each entry about the trials and tribulations of finding beef marrow and then extracting it from the bone - well, her writing gets decidedly better as does the results of her cooking.  You can read it here:  http://www.JuliePowell@blogspot.com.  Click on the archive called the Julie/Julia Project and read back to front.  

2)  I'm in the process of reading Julia Child's biography of her time at the Cordon Bleu.  She really was a bit of a whack job, but I find in her a kindred spirit.  Like me, she married "later" in life.  She was like 35 and I was like 46, but you know, really, today's 46 is like yesterday's 35.  She and Paul had no kids.  Ditto that with the one whom I adore.   Also?  When her husband took a job in Paris she says she went with him as excess baggage and frankly somedays that's how I feel about our move to PEI.  In Paris she was at odds with what to do with herself.  On the island, I am more than odd...er, I mean, at odds with how to spend my time.  

I love both of these women.

I want to be like these women...talented, creative, get a book deal...

Now, I just need a really great idea, a publicist, an agent, the book rights and a movie deal.  

In the meantime, I'm off to the kitchen to channel my inner-Julia and create a decadent dessert for the one whom I adore.

Drugs in My Pocket

This morning I learned something new.  I learned that here, on the island in the Northumberland Strait, in the land of minimal healthcare and definitely NO preventative medicine I learned that refills on prescriptions expire if they are a year old.  Who knew?  I certainly didn't.  So in between asthmatic gasps on the one inhaler I currently own, I was able to sweet talk the pharmacist into giving me two of my last three refills on my inhaler just because he could hear I was on my last breath!

Have I talked about the stellar healthcare here on PEI?  Probably not, because it is a subject that so angers me that my typing becomes so fast and furious I nearly always break a nail when I do so much as even consider writing about it.  So I tend to avoid the subject altogether.  But I am here to tell you, this place?  The "gentle island"?  It's medical system is in a word:  FUCKED.  (sorry mom)

There really is just no other way to describe what goes on here.  Consider this:

When we first moved to the island and secured our healthcare cards I was told in order to get a family doctor  one had to register with Health PEI where a doctor would be assigned to you just as soon as one came available.  Naturally, my response was "and that will take about how long?"  to which the lovely lady at Health PEI said, "well, it could be a while."  I replied with "I've heard rumours that it could be a 3 year wait, that can't possibly be true, can it?" to which she said "uh, er, ah, well, yes, it could be that long."

You may well be wondering what does one do when one cannot secure a family doctor?  Well, we go to the walk-in clinic should there ever be something wrong with us.  But see, here?  For those of us unlucky enough to not have a family doctor there is no such thing as preventative medicine.  So that little spot in the middle of the one whom I adore's forehead?  Yeah, until it develops into something malignant, we can't get it checked out.  

About six months after moving here I called Health PEI again.  What does a woman do when she needs her birth control refilled?  Because of course no doctor worth their weight in cotton swabs would issue a prescription for birth control without first doing an internal exam and hey, guess what?  Yeah, the walk in clinic doesn't do those types of exams.  So yeah, what to do, what to do?  My lovely friend at Health PEI directed me to the women's clinic in nearby Parkdale where I could have both an exam and a prescription written.  Yeah, a glimmer of hope!

So I call said clinic and surprisingly get an appointment fairly easily.  The day comes and I go to the Doctor's office with a complete list of questions in my hand.  Can I get some blood work done?  I'm a little concerned about hormones.  And my asthma is decidedly worse than it has been in 25 years, so is there anything I can take to help with that?  Oh, and there's this tweek in my back I'm wondering about.

Her response?  "I'm sorry, I can't help you with any of that.  I only do vaginas."  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this doctor could only prescribe blood work if she found something questionable in my va-jay-jay.  Oh, and if I didn't hear back from her in like 3 months, then the results of my wellness exam were fine.  THREE MONTHS to get a pap result and THEN you'd hear back only if there's an issue?  What kind of healthcare is this I ask?

Recently, the one whom I adore had a familiar ringing in his head...the beginning of an inner-ear infection.  Uncharacteristically he high-tailed it right to the clinic to have it checked out and while he was there, he took it upon himself to ask some wellness questions himself.  Like, hey, it's been 15 years since he'd had a physical - how does one go about getting one on the island if one doesn't have a family doctor?  And what about blood work?  He was curious as to his cholesteral count what given that his wife insists on cooking with butter and not that chemically processed within one dna link to plastic that is margerine.  So, yeah, Doc, what about those things?  How does a guy get checked out?

Do not be surprised when I tell you the answer.  "PEI's healthcare system is not set up for preventative medicine."

So there you have it.  We better hope nothing happens to us before 2011 when we MIGHT get a family doctor.

In the meantime I'd best get the balance of my prescriptions filled before their time is up.

Melange, Hodge-Podge, Mish-Mash

Don't say you weren't warned by the title of this one that today's entry is a little, um, unfocused...but hopefully entertaining none-the-less!

As I do every morning, today I am perched on my sofa, with a tea beside me as I peruse my daily news on-line.  In the background I have The Today Show on the TV and the story they're currently covering is about a little chihuahua that was impaled with a BBQ fork in his brain.  The owner is soooo southern that I cannot understand a single word he is saying.   Now, I've been schooled in the language of the south, what with having spent way too many years living in Atlanta.  With enough vodka, wine or beer in me I can channel my inner-southern-belle, so yeah, generally speaking understanding people from south of the Mason-Dixon Line is usually not an issue for me.  But this guy?  This guy, in addition to being very southern, obviously has marbles in his mouth - or maybe it's a pinch of "chew" in his cheek - I'm not sure which.  But the long and short of it, the dog survived - had the fork removed from his brain - ugh, the visuals on this story were not what you'd want to be looking at over your morning muffin, is all I can say.  

As I sit here typing away the large dog is laying in a sunbeam at my feet.  The sun is out now...but at 6 o'clock this morning, not only was the sun not out, but it was storming again and that was enough to send this 50-lb wuss flying into our bed, shaking and quivering at the sound of yet another thunder storm.  Oh, and now that the storm's over and he's calmed down?  He stinks.  It's a residual left over from his stress attacks.  He gets so wound up with nerves that he gets the dog equivalent of B.O.  Not very pleasant at this hour of the day and it will likely take the balance of the day to dust the smell off him.  In the meantime, I'm going to spray a dose of my perfume on him!

Yesterday, I was stepping into the shower and as I am want to do I took a cursory glance out of the upstairs bathroom window where what to my wondering eyes did I see?  That's right a whole flock of Mo-Fo ravens sitting in a tree gorging themselves on our newly ripening cherries!   The day before I had taken great pains to string pie plates throughout the tree's branches in the hopes that the clanging sound of the tin plates blowing through the wind would discourage those fucking birds from eating our cherries.  I was wrong.   This is when, I believe, I first channeled my inner-crazy lady.  I whipped up the window and stuck my head out of it and with all the might I could muster I screamed "Get out of my tree you Mo-Fos!"  Except that I didn't use the (somewhat) polite abbreviation.  No, I used the full, nasty, potty-mouthed mother-f**king word.  My mother would not be proud.  My husband would not be surprised because I have been on a mission to rid our yard of both pigeons and ravens since we got to the island and I don't think I'll win the battle unless he lets me have a shotgun.  Which he won't.  I don't think we are ever going to enjoy a cherry from that tree - there are way more ravens in the OBB then I have pie-plates.  

Today, when I checked my email I had a message from a friend who often sends me little tidbits she finds on-line...interesting articles, websites, newsletters and such.  Today she forwarded a newsletter called "Goop" with an article that poses the question:  “What does it take to sustain a happy and successful relationship or marriage?”  As we approach our one-year anniversary next month, the timing of this little newsletter couldn't have been better.   I love that my friends, no matter how near or far, keep me in their thoughts and when something strikes them that Kim might like this and then they send it to me?  Well, it makes being stranded on this island just a little more bearable.  Thank you Bella!, my faithful reader and even better friend, for keeping me in your thoughts!

Yesterday I wrote about the joy of a butter tart...and more specifically the new recipe I discovered for Butter Tart Muffins.  They were so good that the one whom I adore took a couple to snack on with his afternoon coffee.  It always tickles me when I find something new that he loves...which clearly he did, because this is the email I got yesterday afternooon:

      

I’m having a butter tart muffin and it is ABSOLUTELY FREAKING FANTASTIC.  There is no way I’m stopping at just one.  As tempted as I am to show-off your baking there is no way I’m sharing. Here goes muffin #2.

He even asked for two more to take to work today - very sweet, but not as sweet as those damn muffins!

I haven't been off our property since Monday, so today?  Today I'm venturing to town...to (wait for it)...Walmart!  Yes, it's a big day here in the OBB.  I hope yours is nearly half as exciting as mine will be!