The Definition of Pathetic

I blame it all on Old Yeller.  Long about when I was 10 or so I was assigned a book at school called "Old Yeller".  It's a story about a boy named Travis and a dog - a yellow lab, creatively named "Old Yeller" who come together on their small Texas farm while the dad is away selling cows at market.  Old Yeller works his way into the family's heart by performing various feats of courage, including saving Travis' younger brother from a bear attack.  

I read that book the way a ravenous person would scarf down a double slice of pizza with extra cheese and four kinds of meat.  I never put it down.  I devoured the book, page by scrumptious page, hungry for the next adventure of that old dog.  That is, until the point in the story where Old Yeller contracts rabies from a wolf he had a chance encounter with.  The kid in the story has to take his own dog, his very own dog out and put him down.   With a RIFLE.  I was devastated.  I did not see this plot twist coming.  Clearly, being a city girl, I had no idea how harmful rabies are, otherwise I might have.  But I didn't.

And that, dear Internet, is when I had to give up all books and movies that featured any dogs.  I cannot bear to read stories whose central character is a dog, purebred, mutt or otherwise pedigreed.  I simply cannot do it.  It chews me up.  I end up holding my breath through the whole book or movie and you know that level of oxygen deprivation is just not good for you!  I can't even watch Benjie and we all know that one turns out okay!  

Even as an adult I can't do it.  A couple of years ago I made the mistake of buying the book "Marley & Me."  You've all seen it at the bookstore (and now a movie starring the fabulously sexy Owen Wilson and the photogenically perfect Jennifer Anniston), a story about raising a family and a crazy dog all at the same time.  I would have thought the 36 years that have ensued since the tragic Old Yeller story that I would somehow now be okay with reading about a dog.  In a word:  NO.  No, I still cannot read about dogs.  I bawled my way through that damn book, even as I was laughing at all the funny parts (of which there are many).

I have mentioned here before that I am currently reading the archives of a very funny blogger whose blog address I won't reveal here for fear that my mother and aunts will discover the potty-mouth website I love so much.  Well, guess what?  Yes, featured throughout much of her blog is their family dog, Chuck.  Now, the last few weeks I have been faithfully reading this blog, back to front, beginning in 2001 when they didn't have a dog and today I am almost finished with 2006 where they not only have Chuck, but Chuck has gone missing (for the 2nd time in a year).  Well...holy smokes, you'd think by the choke in my throat and the tears welling up in my eyes that it was one of MY dogs that had mysteriously vanished!  I couldn't believe I was getting as verklempt as I was - ESPECIALLY SINCE I HAVE READ A FEW OF HER 2009 POSTINGS AND I KNOW THEY STILL HAVE THE DAMN DOG!

Yes folks, I am just that kind of pathetic.

And now, your daily slice of cheese:

The View from Here

Monday night marked the last night of my 3-month digital photography class I’ve been taking since January at the local college.  For those of you that noticed the date on the calendar, you’re right, the 3-month course is ending at the end of April – FOUR FULL MONTHS INTO THE YEAR!  You know why, don’t you?  Of course.  Our course went long because of the LONGEST WINTER IN HISTORY.  During the first 3 months of 2009 we suffered enough storm stays on Mondays to close down school, thus extending the time we’d be in the classroom learning all the tools and techniques of digital photography.  No one, not even the instructor, thought we’d still be in the classroom as late as April 27!

I’d like to say that I graduated with honours, suma cum laude as it were.  I’d like to say that my talent clearly indicated I was the only choice for Photo School Valedictorian.  That my use of subject matter, light, filter and composition garnered me a diploma suitable for framing.  Alas, I cannot make any of those claims.  I was clearly not the most talented photographer in the course.  That I think would go to Karen who always found unique and interesting subjects for her photo assignments, while mine were mostly Dwayne and/or Snickers & Gidget whom I would cajole, beg, plead and sometimes bribe into being my willing subjects (not that they aren’t unique or interesting – they most certainly ARE, but mostly to ME).  Or, perhaps to Bunty who had such an artistic flare that she would photograph the cut-off stem of a tulip and, through her exposure setting and editing skills make it look like a neon green light installation work of art, while the best I could do on that front was the photo of the crystal blue egg against the cerulean blue sky.  Or, perhaps to Cara who took such candid photos of her twin 3-year old daughters they simply took your breath away for their beauty, innocence and wonder, while I was busy photographing candid shots of knots in wooden beams.  Seriously. 

I did graduate the course, but not with honours; not because I didn’t earn that grade, but because they didn’t actually give out grades!  But I sure learned a lot.  I learned about depth of field and how to focus your camera lens so that everything else is blurred either in the foreground or background, except your main focus.  I learned about the composition rule that every photographer should know:  “the rule of thirds”.  I learned about aperture, lighting, where to place the sun to ensure best exposure or backlight exposure.  I learned how to photograph moving water, which was one of my MOST exciting lessons.  I learned that when you show up for in the field instruction at the beach at 7am on a Saturday morning you really should be dressed for full on winter, even though the calendar says it’s April 18.  I learned that no matter what you take a picture of or how good it is – you can ALWAYS improve it by editing it with a photo-editing application.  I learned that the work really begins after you’ve taken the picture, which can make photography a VERY long process.  I learned that producing good photography really is hard work and that those people that take this up professionally really deserve the $125 an hour they charge!

I also learned I have a good eye for composition.  I have unleashed my inner artist and can spend hours shooting and then even more hours editing and creating digital photo albums and on-line galleries.  I pushed the send button to order my very first black & white portfolio album and it should be here in 6 – 10 business days.  I can’t wait to see the results of my winter’s work, documented and bound in a professional portfolio. 

But mostly, I learned enough to whet my appetite to keep learning.  I learned that while the point & shoot camera I used during school is great for people that want to give all control over to the camera, that for those that want to control their aperture, lighting, exposure and filtration – well really, you need an SLR camera.  I learned I should start putting all my spare change in the piggy bank because those cameras do not come cheap!

What follows are samples of my weekly assignments at photo school.  I hope you enjoy viewing them as much as I did making them.

Annoying Habits of Roommates Who Don't Pay Rent

With what you’ve read here you’d think there was only one.  Only one four legged member of our family. But in reality, there are two such creatures that live with us rent-free here in the Oyster Bed Bridge.  While my beautiful beastly boy, Snickers, occupies the largest chamber of my heart, there is a small space (tiny, tiny, tiny space) reserved for the her-dog of the house…our very own she-devil…the one and ONLY…Gidget Cameron.  Truth be told, I’m sure she’d prefer Gidget Donnelly, but the women in this house have not yet given up their maiden names so Gidget Cameron she will remain until such time as I say so. 

Now making her Musings & Meandering debut, the one and only GIDGET CAMERON!  (insert musical fanfare flourish here):

I know, you’re looking at that picture and thinking to yourself  “She’s cute!  Look at those eyes!  That expression!  She’s so fashionable with her winter parka!  How can you not stand the very cuteness of such cute-a-tude?!?!!”  It’s easier than you’d think, believe you me.

Gidget came to our family on a bit of a whim.  Note to self, one should never give in to those whims, because one moment of weakness could easily garner you 4 (or more) years saying “I’m sorry, she’s just a little cranky, it’s not you, really, it’s her, it’s just the way she is.”

April 4^th, 2005 was a bad day for me.  I’m not kidding.  I was having a very low tide kind of day.  The kind when you think to yourself, I really need to do something DIFFERENT with my life.  Lots of people would think about taking up a new hobby or perhaps exploring a different career or even going on vacation somewhere new and exotic.  Not me.  I took a walk and sauntered right past the pet store on 4^th in Kitsilano.  Thinking Snickers could use a treat I wandered in and there she was.  A 6-month old Gidget, all black and tan and cute as a bug, with a sweet disposition who just wanted to be cuddled and held and carried around like a baby.

I was done-in for.  She had me at the first wag of her little tiny (tiny, tiny) tail.  A small fortune later (I know the MADNESS!  I actually PAID for this creature who would come to rule my household like a queen with an iron fist) and she was mine. 

I do believe the name the pet store had given her was Wanda or Wendy or something like that.  Who the hell gives real people names to dogs?  And why Wanda or Wendy?  Why not Tanya (you know at least a small reference to her colour)?  I just don’t get it.  Anyway, before I even got her home (on the 4^th Street bus no less) she was christened Gidget.  Because, simply put, she’s a midget and it just seemed to fit her personality.  Gidget, the Midget.  Apologies to any little people that may read this website - no disrespect was intended.

She was too young to leave at home all day long, so four days a week she’d jump into her duffle bag (not a real duffle bag – a dog carrier duffle bag) and join me on the number 6 bus to go to work.  I’m sure during those 10 hours we were out each day were pure, unadulterated bliss for Snickers who, I think still to this day, resents the intrusion on his life that this little dog has wrought.  She quickly became the office mascot who would hang out in my office all day, unless of course there was a piece of linoleum she could pee on or a treat to be given over in Andrea’s office.

Our early days were easy days.  These were the days when she was all sweetness and sugar-toffee loving.  These were the days before the  disease would take hold of her and swing her around like a cat by the tail.  These were the days before she met my future husband, but the love of HER life, Dwayne Donnelly.

We moved to Jasper and became acquainted with the one whose affections we compete for, the man of our dreams, he who lights up our lives.  She would (and still does) sit for HOURS on his lap, allowing him to stroke her under the chin.  Very soon after we started dating, I figured he was a keeper because not only had Snickers not shied away from him as he had done with every OTHER man I had ever introduced him to, but The Gidge (as Dwayne calls her), quickly decided that he was the man for her.  How could I not keep him around?

Even in those days, Gidget was still a sweet little nuthin’ of a puppy.  I was worried that Rocky Mountain winters might be too cold for one who only stands 4-inches off the ground, but Gidget proved to be an intrepid cold-weather canine.  She’d walk for hours and hours and hours through snow and ice, stopping only to have the snowballs removed from her armpits.  She dug the mountains, almost as much as she dug her Dwayne-man.

Her diagnosis didn’t come until last year, when she turned 4.  We were at the Veterinary Hospital at the University of PEI where both dogs were getting the most thorough physical they (or I) have ever had.  As part of the examination I asked the resident to check Gidget’s eyes.  I thought she might have cataracts or something starting as she’d recently started barking uncontrollably at unfamiliar objects.   The residents at the Vet Hospital did a complete work-up, checking every nook & cranny on the dogs and taking a comprehensive view through the eye-checker at Miss Gidget’s corneas.  They found nothing. 

Being thoroughly keen and oh-so-into-the-cuteness-that-is-Gidget, the residents thought to write up Gidge’s symptoms under the guise that there wasn’t anything physically causing the barking…her eyesight was perfectly fine.  They were concerned that perhaps there was either an environmental or behavioral issue causing this oh-so-annoying hobby.  They submitted their report to the Veterinarian Doctors that oversee their residency program.  A few emails and a couple of phone calls to clarify details later and we had the diagnosis.  I was very excited to learn what was causing The Gidge such distress as to cause her to bark uncontrollably for hours on end.  I called the hospital back and got our resident on the phone.

The diagnosis:  “Adult On-set Crankiness”.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the genesis of her disease – she’s a bitch.  In. Every. Sense. Of.  The.  Word.  Seems it’s one of the less than endearing traits of Australian Silky Terriers.  The older they get, the less tolerant they become.  The less tolerant, the more vocal. 

Lately her laments have included such things as “THERE’S A FRIGGIN’ COYOTE SOMEWHERE WITHIN A 20-KM RADIUS OF OUR HOUSE – DON’T YOU HEAR HIM???”  and  “GIMME THAT BONIE, DAMN YOU!!”  and of course there’s the daily “STAY AWAY FROM MY DISH OR I’LL SINK MY DAGGERS INTO YOUR ANKLES YOU BIG BROWN DOG!”

But perhaps the thing she’s complained about the MOST lately is “WHY DO I NOT GET MY OWN SPOT ON THE BLOG?  I WANT MY MOMENT IN THE SUN!  I DEMAND THAT MY STORY BE TOLD!  WHY DO YOU PLAY FAVOURITES?  WHY IS THE BROWN DOG THE STAR OF THE SHOW?  WHY?  WHY?  WHY?”

Well, now my little Gidge – you can SHUT-UP.  Please……….

Hinterland Who's Who

They came swooping down out of the sky, performing a ballet so in sync with each other's moves, it seemed to be professionally choreographed.  Saturday marked the return of the Osprey and what must be the beginning of their mating season.  Two beautiful birds chased each other up and down, side to side, swooping and swishing, gliding, diving and soaring over our heads.  It was an amazing sight to behold - their dance, simply magical.  That is, until a third Osprey came racing from its nest behind our neighbour's house to chase the two dancing birds away from what can only be perceived as his neck of the woods.

No sooner had this lone bird chased the intruders away, then he swooped low over the southern side of our yard, past the apple orchard and landed directly behind the Virgin Mary tree stump.  He did two quick fly-bys and then WOOSH, he came in for a landing.  Except that he didn't land at all.  He merely swooped down and gathered something up in his talons and took flight again, returning to his nest for lunch.  We think he might have enjoyed partridge for lunch.  We hope not, but our flock of partridges have lately taken up residence in evergreen corner, right by the Virgin Mary.  We had a family of 8...I fear it may only be a family of 7 now.

Three Ospreys and two hawks circled between our yard, the back field and our neighbour's yard that day.  The sun caught the silver underside of the hawk as it hovered above our yard looking for prey.  The osprey found nourishment with the partridge family.  Lucky for us that the Gidget was inside for most of this show - otherwise she could have ended up as someone's mid-day meal.  And as cranky as she is, and as often as I think of divesting myself of this little she-devil, I think it would be an awful way for her to go - as someone's fly-through snack.

On Sunday we were here:

When we saw this:

One Week

It started as a love letter to Canada and for me, it ended with a teary-eyed mess in the car on the ride home.  Last night we went to see the movie "One Week" a movie that has been advertised here as a "love letter to Canada."  It's a story about a young man, 3-months away from his wedding, having been diagnosed with stage-4 cancer, who packs up his saddle bag, straddles his newly purchased vintage Norton motorcycle and begins a cross-country road trip from Toronto to Tofino, transversing 2/3s of the vastness that is Canada.  I'm a sucker for a road trip - whether taking to the road myself, or enjoying it vicariously on the big screen so there was no way I was going to miss seeing this movie!

As promised, the scenery was spectacular.  The main character, a fine and healthy looking young man is literally a ticking clock who snaps pictures along the way at every oversized monument between the Muskokas and the surf-shacks on BC's western most coast.   The Big Nickle in Sudbury, the Giant Goose in Wawa, and the World's Largest TeePee in Alberta are as much a part of our national landscape as the great Canadian Shield and the boreal forest, and through his photos they become secondary characters in this movie. 

I was prepared for this story.  I had seen enough trailers to know what to expect.   I was prepared for the plot line of him questioning the validity of everything in his life while he struggled to live fully before he started treatment...before he became a patient.   I was prepared for the take-your-breath-away scenery...of the prairies at dawn, of the lakes of northern Ontario at sunset.  I waited with anticipation for shots of the Rockies and of my favourite city in the whole world, Vancouver.  I was richly rewarded.  The movie is Canadian eye-candy at its best.

We both really enjoyed the movie - the perfect way to cap off a perfect Spring Saturday.  As we began driving home I asked Dwayne the question that is posed at the end of the movie:  "If you only had one day, one week, one month to live - what would you do?  What life hold would you grab on to?  What wish would you fulfill?  What's the minimum in life?"

I hate to say that I wasn't entirely actively listening to Dwayne's response (he said something about a trip to Ontario & Kelowna), because I was busy thinking about how I would answer that question myself.  That's when the tears began.  It is an overwhelming question that could not be easily answered.  It's not as simple as I'd pack up and go to Italy and eat fresh pasta everyday (although that would be fun and certainly very, very high on my list).  It's not as simple as you would think.  And for someone like me who is SELDOM at a loss for words, not being able to articulate an answer was rather surprising to my husband and me! 

Which brings me to the interactive portion of this blog, dear internet.  Yes, this is where you get to weigh in.   Click on comments to answer the question I pose to you - "If you only had one day, one week, one month to live - what would you do?  What life-hold would you grab on to?  What wish would you fulfill?  What's the minimum in life?"

If you've never driven across Canada (or even if you have), this is a must see movie.  If you love road trips, this is a must see movie.  If you love Canada, this is a must see movie.  

Windows on the World

In return for soldiering on through the LONGEST WINTER IN HISTORY, today Karma has smiled down upon us and rewarded us with the promise of Spring.  Warm, gentle breezes, BIG blue sky, 20-degrees and blooms, blossoms, buds and did I mention BLOOMS are popping up all over our property!

 After hibernating all winter, this morning I could not get my cleaning bucket out fast enough  to wash down all my windows.  I unleashed my inner domestic goddess and scrubbed and polished every window within an inch of its life, erasing 6 months of wind, rain, snow and dirt and in some cases, dog snout snot.  It's nice to be able to see out of them again, because once I could actually see out the windows, I noticed that OH MY GOD - not only are my crocuses up, but tulips and daffodils are on their way too.

My heart did a little jump for joy when, upon closer inspection of my flower beds, I discovered that not only did I survive THE LONGEST WINTER EVER, but so did my clematis and lilacs.  The tender shoots of my hydrangea are just starting to poke up and dare I say it, but so did the pretty yellow shrub that I can't remember the name of - it's doing okay too and is just covered with tiny little buds.  And so are my peonies.  My second most favourite flower ever, I planted two bushes last spring and patiently waited for their big, showy flowers to appear in July.  Um, ya, not so much.  Evidently peonies don't flower the first year they're planted, but guess what?  That's right, this is YEAR NO. 2 so I fully expect to see big, braggadocious, bold and showy pink flowers this year.  

We spent our morning cleaning up the detritus that landed in our yard over the winter - fallen, dead branches, entire boughs of evergreen trees, a dead mouse or two and even an empty Guinness bottle we think was left-over from our wedding last August.  We pulled deadfall out of the ground and cut back some of our perennials.  We raked and we swept and we congratulated ourselves for delivering a nicely green lawn so early in the year (as if we had anything to do with it).   We are HOME-OWNERS.  We are LANDSCAPERS.  We will soon be VEGETABLE farmers.  But mostly what we are now is EXHAUSTED.

  

Bunny Food it Ain't

It’s been very hairy around our house the last week or so.  I don’t mean “hairy” as in wild or scary or shocking.  Or, perhaps, maybe I do!?! 

Last week after almost 5 months my husband (FINALLY) went for a haircut.  I know what you’re thinking – most civilized human beings get their hair cut every 5 – 6 weeks.  I know, I know, you’re right!  My husband, however, likes to get a big bang for his buck, so he likes to see how long he can go without a haircut and without the HR Director writing him up for failing the hotel’s grooming policy.  When the "Dippity Do" doesn't,  when it could no longer hold a perfect “gelmet” he decided it was time for a trim.

Rather than going to a barber for a shave & a haircut he goes to a national chain known as “First Choice”.  In our household though, this national chain of hairdressers is known as “Her Choice” because really, it doesn’t matter what you tell the hairdresser, you get whatever cut she feels like giving you that day.  In the past this has meant everything from a nice trim and thinning out to a full on brush cut just mere days before our wedding.  Imagine how happy I was on my wedding day, posing for pictures, standing beside GI Joe with his new buzz cut. 

So last week he goes for a long overdue trim and my final words as he’s heading off are “don’t let them use the #1 blade on you – no buzz cuts or I swear to God, it’s grounds for divorce.”  He really must want to stay married because, indeed, the stylist did not use a #1 blade…or even a #2 blade for that matter.  She just scissored his cut.  Which, when you have enough hair on your head to start your own International Hair Club for Men franchise, a little scissoring is not a real haircut.

So, $15 later he comes home sporting what can only be referred to as “Hockey Hair.”  You know what I’m talking about right…all business in the front, party in the back.  Yes, my dear internet, my husband is sporting a modified mullet.  I can hear the groaning from you as I type this…I know, I know!  I’ve got my very own Billie Ray Cyrus right here in my kitchen. 

His new haircut elicted the following conversation this morning:

“Um, you know if you had gone back the next day they would have corrected your cut at no cost – it’s the hairdresser’s credo, you know”.

“I didn’t have time!  Besides, I like my hockey hair.”

“It looks more like 70’s Porn Star Hair if you ask me”

“I didn’t ask you.  It’s hockey hair – you know, the kind that attracts all the Puck Bunnies.  I used to wear my hair this way when I played hockey.  All the Puck Bunnies loved it, I don’t know why you don’t.”

“Did you get a lot of action with those Puck Bunnies?”

“None.”

“My point exactly.”

I’m really hoping that when he reads this blog that his very next step will be to make an appointment for further lid alteration.  At least before our vacation.  We can’t risk showing up in Nashville with him looking like Billie Ray Cyrus.

 

Meandering

The exhaustion continues.  I was so tired yesterday I didn't have the energy to write about the pictures I posted.  Hence the invention of Wordless Wednesday, my "get out of writing" free card that I can invoke whenever the exhaustion becomes more than bone-crushing (like yesterday) or days when the words just won't come.  

For those of you wondering, the pictures I posted were taken in April 2007, during what we lovingly refer to as our "trip of a lifetime".  It really was with stops in such incredible places as Monte Carlo, Florence, Rome & Paris - the romance capitals of Europe!   

We took lots and lots of photos while overseas, as is evidenced in the 3 CDs, 4 flash drives and 1 hard drive that house all these photos.  Typical tourists, we snapped pictures of monuments, landmarks, landscapes and each other.  What we don't have in the 1,298 pictures of that trip are very many pictures of the two of us together.  Seems we're shy tourists and didn't want to ask anyone to touch our camera and take our pictures.  So, many of the shots we do have of us together are taken by one of us, arm outstretched, hoping like hell that the lens is actually focused on us and not at the top of our heads.

Looking back at these photos makes me realize just how much we love to travel together.  You know you've met the perfect mate if you can travel with him.  And if you can travel internationally together without killing each other or getting arrested and thrown into one of those scary "Midnight Express" jails, well - all the better.   It really was one of the litmus tests I used in evaluating my relationship with the man I would eventually marry.  Was he able to navigate foreign train timetables?  Could he find me a bathroom on a moment's notice when he doesn't speak the language?  Was he willing to immerse himself in the local culture?  You know, the ahem "when in Rome" clause (pun intended).    Thankfully, he passed with more than flying colours; he even managed to overlook my Parisian temper tantrum and I eventually got over whatever the big deal was that so chapped my fanny so we could continue our stay in the city of lights.

We've got itchy feet these days...it's what happens to us when we're ready to make a break for the border and explore some foreign soil.  Passports have been renewed.  Map books have been purchased.  GPS systems are being programmed.  Dog-sitters are being sought.    Soon we're leaving on vacation and it really can't come a moment too soon.  We haven't really had a true vacation since that trip of a lifetime 2 years ago.  Not even a honeymoon.  No, the 3-hour deep-sea fishing trip does not count as our honeymoon cruise!   

The countdown is on...T-minus 24 and counting! 

Wordless Wednesday

As Tired as a Bull Elk at the End of the Rut

Oh.  My.  God.  I cannot remember a time when I've been as tired as I have been the last month.  Do you think it's coincidence that my level of exhaustion escalated right at the same time I began teaching?  Me thinks not.

I'm not talking, oh, gee, I could use a brief nap tired.  I'm talking aching in my bones, complete and utter exhaustion.  T.I.R.E.D.  So tired that I can sit down to write and start to doze off with my fingers on the keyboard.  So tired that no amount of sleeping in will make up for the level of tired I feel.  So tired that I feel like a bull elk at the end of the rut.  Say it with me now...T.I.R.E.D!

When we lived in the Rockies we could measure the changing of seasons with the habits of the local wildlife:  newborn elk and wapiti deer calves in the spring, golfing with Grizzleys in the early summer, the call of the wolves and coyotes all summer long.  Most memorable for me, however,  was the 6-8 week period between late August and early October when the male elk enjoyed the ungulate version of Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale.  That's right - for 6-8 weeks these big boys lived with the singleminded goal of getting laid as often as possible.   No beer required.

Anyway, this time of year is known as "the rut".  It's an apt description really - big racked bulls roaming the park, lookin' for love in all the wrong places.  Yes, those stupid bulls have been known to try to mount just about any object that doesn't mount them first, including pick-up trucks, trees, and the occasional tourist that got too close with their digital camera!  

They'd roam the park shepherding their herd of cows from one love shack to the next.  Not only is a male's virility judged by the size of his antler rack, but also by the number of ladies he has in his harem.   So those big boys would roam the park with their harem in tow, gettin' it on as often as they can.    A bull elk's pick-up line:  a series of shrill bugles - that's right - bugles.  A sound so indescribable, my words won't do it justice, but imagine someone calling reveille every morning, except they do it out of tune without a melody and they do it all day and all night.  An ear-piercing bleating cry that, when sounded outside your bedroom window at 3am, is enough to scare the living crap out of you - but I digress.

You can only imagine the physical and mental state of  a bull at the end of the rut.  He's just spent 8 weeks rounding up his women, keeping them in line, warding off all rivals, getting some nooky as often as he can, as many times a day as possible with as many cows as possible.  All the while keeping the herd on the move.  By the end they are DONE, just DONE.  Except that just like 18-year old boys in Fort Lauderdale in March, they don't know it's 3 a.m. and the bar is closed and it's time to go home.  Those damn bulls keep going...one excruciating step at a time.  So hoarse they can hardly make a sound, let alone bugle for babes.  So exhausted that, even if they round up a willing partner, they're too exhausted to do anything about it.  So done.  Say it with me now - D.O.N.E.

This, dear internet, is how I feel today.  

Another Day in the O.B.B.

That gunshot you just heard was me, taking aim at the flying rodents that are attempting to take up residence in the soffits of our front porch.  Just another day in the O.B.B.  

We've had this problem ever since we moved here.  Funny that the previous owners never mentioned it as a problem.  Yup.  Funny, that.  But we fight on valiantly trying to extricate those damn dirty birds and keeping them from building a nest right over the stairs we use to access the porch.  Here me now people - you cannot enter our house (or front porch for that matter) without the risk of a pigeon crapping on your head!  I'm so not kidding.

Last year we thought we had licked the problem.  My handy hubby shoved a fake owl up there to hoot, hoot, hoot anytime something moved within the vicinity of the roof.  Evidently this is supposed to frighten birds into never coming back to the neighborhood for fear that a vicious great hoot owl will swoop down upon them and snack on their little squabby bellies.  That battery operated owl would hoot, hoot, hoot anytime the wind blew, whenever the dogs strolled by, whenever it rained,  but never, I REPEAT NEVER when there was an attack of pigeon power.  

The second phase of Project Pound the Pigeon was simple.  If we couldn't scare them away with our friend Hootie, we'd have to make their target neighbourhood inaccessible for future nest building, squab-birthing activities.  So we invested a not so small sum of money in bird netting.  Designed to repel anything with wings, we set up the net directly in front of the soffits, stapled 'er down and wiped our hands in what we thought was utter victory over our avian adversaries.  We are so SMART.  We showed those BIRDS.  Take that you little rats with WINGS.  You're not welcome here anymore!  Woo HOO.

Ya, um, that worked for about...oh, I'd say...um...MAYBE A MINUTE.  As soon as we went back in the house those little rodents were back doing their fly by, checking out the new netting, assessing it's flaws, plotting their great migration back to their beautifully restored island  summer house.  

We actually thought they gave up.  For a few months anyway.  Turns out, our poopy pigeons hadn't given up entirely.  They were just biding their time until winter was over and they could return triumphantly to their summer home, a lovely 85-year old farmhouse near the north shore of PEI.  They've returned this week.  And although they cannot climb into last summer's hideaway, they are giving it the old college try, by roosting on the soffits directly above the steps.

So, dear Internet.  You've been warned.  If you visit us this summer, keep your eyes out for flying pigeon poop to greet you at our front door.  Until such time as we buy a gun and I master my target practice, that is.

When my Mom lived in Suwanee, Georgia she used to have a b.b. gun to shoot squirrels.  I'd like one to shoot the damn pigeons.  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree I guess.

Love at First Sight

There are better reasons to buy a house, really.   I bought a house in order to get a dog.

When I moved to Hawaii I sold one house in Atlanta and began renting another one on Maui.  I knew when I signed the lease that they didn't allow pets of any kind (there must have been a proviso in the rental agreement however, that allowed for 5000 geckos to live under my porch - but that's another story).   I figured once I moved in I'd approach the landlord and, seeing as I was such a responsible pay the rent on-time kinda tenant, I was sure they'd let me have a pet.

But no.  The landlords were the kind of heartless, animal-of-any-kind hating type of people.  They were afraid of fleas.  As if any dog of mine would have the nerve to have fleas.  After much cajoling and even coercing, they would not relent.  So no dog for me at 158 Hiwalani Place - no way, no how.

When my lease was up for renewal I opted to give notice and went on a house hunt.  I was living alone on an island in the middle of the Pacific, 5,000 miles from my closest family and without hardly any friends.  I wanted a dog DAMMIT and if I had to buy a house to get a dog, then that's what I was going to do.

I closed on my little Haiku plantation house on a Thursday and on Friday, before I was completely unpacked and moved in, I was at the Maui Humane Society searching for a little dog to adopt, to help make my house a home.  The pound was jammed packed with dogs and  I peeked into each pen for a little puppy to take home, thoroughly expecting a large selection to choose from.  But not on that day.  On that Friday they only had large dogs available and I was hell bent that I was bringing home a dog, and with nary a second thought I switched my plan to bring home a dog that day, regardless of size or breed.

I turned a corner and there he was - a beautiful brown dog, a Lab or?  He was in a pen with his partner in crime.  They had been caught wandering up-country, not the first time the dynamic duo escaped their owner's yard, but it was the last time the Humane Society would return the dogs to this house of neglect.   The two dogs had been at the pound for about a month when I happened upon them.

I stopped for a moment outside their pen and spoke to them briefly.  One came right up to the fence, sniffing my outstretched hands (looking for treats no doubt) and quietly wagging his tail.  I was still of the mind that I wanted a small dog, so I moved on.  But as I toured the rest of the pens I could sense someone watching me.  Turning around, it was the brown dog...following me with his big golden eyes.  Every step I took, he watched.  Every dog I spoke to, he was looking on, as if he were saying:  I've picked you and as soon as you've finished window shopping you'll come back here and take me right home where I belong. 

I have often said over the 9 years since that fateful day that it was his eyes that got me.  He followed me with his eyes, imploring me to come back to him, to take him home, to give him a better life.  Every day I look into those soulful eyes and think there was more than a dog rescued that day...

How to Annoy Me

Be belligerent and insubordinate and then expect me to improve your grade.  Oh ya, that'll work.

Musings

If I hadn't had the very life sucked from me yesterday & today I could actually write something interesting, intelligent and/or amusing.  Alas, Internet you will be deeply disappointed.  Instead, I will simply leave you with this week's sale fliers to thumb through.  Enjoy.  I hope to have some life back tomorrow.

Musings, Meandering & Holy Crap Exciting!

So, it may sound a bit narcissistic, but I did a Google search this morning on my blog's name Musings & Meandering because, frankly I was curious about how visible my blog is on the internet.  AND GUESS WHAT???  My blog (Musings & Meanderings) is ranked number 6 in the Google search box for (wait for it) Musings & Meanderings!

I'm slowly (oh so slowly) figuring out this whole internet visibility thing and SEO thing (that's search engine optimization thing) and I think I've finally figured out that the more I update my blog, the greater visibility it has and the greater visibility it has, the bigger my audience will become.

And that audience is now up to 11!  That's right, people!  I have now gone DOUBLE DIGIT!  Ah, it makes me feel so validated that there are at least 11 (yes 11!!) people that read this blog!

I will update later with something more interesting for my 11 readers to peruse, but there are STARVING DOGS who can TELL TIME that need to be fed.  Have a great day and thank you for reading Musings & Meanderings!

Examples of The Previously Mentioned Starving Dog Kryptonite Stare

The Daily Dance

The dance I refer to is not to be confused with the "Pull-ups Potty Dance" - the most insipid of all insipid TV commercials.  You know the one I'm talking about?  "Put your left hand out, put the right on top, shake 'em together and do the potty dance - whoop whoop!" - AS IF doing this stupid dance to the most insipid tune ever will somehow entice a small child to ask to go potty. I've never toilet trained a small child, but I'm just saying - I don't think this song & dance number is the way to go.

No, the dance I'm talking about is the nightly jig that starts somewhere between 4:30 and 6:00.  EVERY NIGHT.  I have no idea how my big, brown, beastly boy knows what time it is, but he does somehow.  He's very clever that way.  Not that he wears a watch or reads digital numbers from the stove or anything.  But every night between the prescribed hours of 4:30 & 6:00 he starts his dance.  The first act of this three part number is a little random pacing back and forth between wherever I am and his dinner bowl.   "I'm just checking to see if you realize that there are starving dogs on PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND?"  

 

Sometimes the bowl and I are in the same room, but often we're not, resulting in the incessant tap-tap-tapping of dog claws on hardwood and/or ceramic tile.  Back and forth.  BACK.  AND.  FORTH.  There is nothing quite so nerve-grating as that tap-tap-tap, unless of course it's the mini tap-tap-tapping of his canine sibling, who has now joined the gig and is tap-tap-tapping alongside him.

A brief respite while he relaxes between sets in his bed - where he has been instructed to go - BED!  NOW!  And I mean brief respite - maybe 1, 1.5 minutes.  And then it begins all over again. The second set of his act has a creative flair to it.  I call it the I Will Bore Holes in the Side of Your Head with My Kryptonite Stare Until There is Food in My Dish! part of the act.  Honest to God, this dog can stare without blinking for 10 minutes straight.  It's a wonder he isn't walleyed.

Act three starts with a fake-out request to go outside - "PSYCH!  Didn't need to go outside at all, but when I come in the magic food fairy will have visited my bowl - I JUST KNOW IT!"  Clearly by act three he is famished beyond all recognition, having shed 48 of his 50 lbs in the mere act of dancing for his dinner.  I know, I am a hateful dog owner and should not be allowed to keep one, let alone two animals. 

But here's the thing.  My big brown beastly boy was a rescue dog.  His first owner starved him - daily.  The trauma of spending his first 10 months of life never knowing if he would ever be fed again has scarred him in ways I couldn't imagine when I brought him home 10 years ago.   We've survived 10 years together where he has been fed two meals a day, plus anything he could steal  from kitchen counters, garbage cans and tables, not to mention countless bags of Snausages monthly and STILL he doesn't remember that in our home there will always be food for a big brown beastly boy.   Some would say he has issues, and I'd be the first one to agree.  But even with all his neurosis (and there are many) I wouldn't trade him for all the little Australian Silkies in the world.

Musings

I wonder how big the sweater would be that I would knit from all the hair you leave on my floor.

The Quest

As an under-employed resident of high-quality-career-lacking Prince Edward Island, I have tried my hand at a variety of contract work over the past year.  I've written before of the number of different things I'm doing, but what strikes me as most interesting is thus:   the things I like to do best, I am not getting paid to do.

"They" say (them, those people) that for a happy career you should find something you love and then figure out a way to get paid for it.  Well, "they" (them, those people) must be much smarter then I am, because I for the life of me cannot find a way to get paid to:

Read - I love to read.  Current readings include the archives of a completely inappropriate, but hilariously funny website whose url I am not going to post here for fear my mother or aunts may actually look it up and realize the kind of not so nice, potty-mouth stuff I read in a day.   But it's a really good website, honest.  The author was profiled recently on Oprah so it has to be good, right?  Actually it is very good, and very well written if you can overlook the potty-mouth trash talking.  The website started in 2001 and in the last week I've read daily archives through to August 2004.  Three years down and five more to go!  

I once read about a job that was posted by the producer Brian Glazer (Ron Howard's producing partner)  that would pay someone $100,000 annually to read on-line and off-line about current events, pop culture AND also to watch television and listen to radio!  Said job posting required the consumption of these materials so that the successful job applicant could then summarize a report to Brian Glazer on a daily basis all that is going on in the world so that he could "keep current".  Now there's a job I could do!  I love to read and I'm a fairly good writer (in my mind anyway).  And who could turn down a job at $100,000 annually to do this??  Alas, no such producer lives on PEI and no such job exists here - but a gal can always dream, can't she?

Publish - Since I purchased my new MacBook 45 days ago I have lost countless days to the evil thing known as I-Photo.  This wonderful, beautiful software application gives you tools to edit your photos and make extraordinary creations.  Creations like my own portfolio book of black and white winter photography.  Creations like a "complete with maps" photo album of our Trip of a Lifetime.  Creations like cards and calendars that I have populated with my photos of PEI - who wants a 2010 calendar full of island shots entitled 12 months, 4 seasons, 1 island?  I'm taking orders now people!  

Since I discovered the joys of on-line publishing where you edit your photos, upload onto a series of templates and then press the "send" button to order a printed copy of your work I have discovered I have a knack for photo publishing.  At least I think I do.  Of course I know just enough to be dangerous and am of no real value to anyone that might hire a photo editor, but again I say, a gal can always dream, can't she?

Cook -   Again with the countless hours lost.  Overall, I'm a very good cook.  I can follow a recipe with the best of them.  But where my creativity really shines is in the making of soups, sauces, stews and one-pot meals.  I make a mean soup.  You need a soup, a stew, a one pot meal - I am DEFINITELY for hire.  It is amazing to me the variety of ways you can take the same first 4 ingredients (onion, carrots, celery & garlic) and transform them into savoury soups and scarily delicious sauces.    They're really good - honestly - my husband says so.  

I don't think I'd want to be a cook every day, but certainly there are many days when the hours fly by while I play around in the pantry, figuring out which flavours will combine to make a simple pot of vegetables into an extraordinary dish of goodness.  

Write - Ah writing...Since starting this blog I have written almost every day (except for the days when those college students suck the life out of me).  I do not lack for material.  In fact, while doing other things in my day I often think "oh that would make a good blog subject" and I think about writing it down, but somehow I can't find a pen when I'm flying 80 km/hour down Rustico Road and then before I can find a pen - whoosh - the big idea is gone.  So every day I sit down at this computer and think, think, think "what do I write about today?"  It's not as easy as it looks people!  But the Gemini in me is silently screaming "yes it is!  it's easy to write!  it just flows from your fingertips with nary a stop in your brain for processing".  So occasionally you'll see ramblings on this blog and that's when the fingers have taken over and the brain has become disinterested (like now).

But I digress.  The whole reason I started this blog in the first place was to have an outlet with which to write about something every day.  I have long dreamed of being a writer.  And for much of my career I did a lot of writing (being a marketing type person and all).  But I've never figured out how to take the first step in becoming a writer full time.  Well, maybe this little blog is that first step.  "They" say (them, those people) that the best writers write everyday.  They don't necessarily like what they write, but they sit down and have the discipline everyday to write something (I imagine those writers do not have college kids sucking the life out of them 4 or 5 days a week).  

So that's what I'm doing.  Writing every day.  Often about nothing.  Sometimes about something.  I hope you find it interesting enough to keep checking back here.   Maybe someday I'll figure out my next career and maybe it will involve being a writer.  A gal can always dream, can't she?

I Stand Corrected

Alert - for anyone (besides me) who cares:

1)  My one comment yesterday was not in fact from One Who Should Know (his father) but rather One Who Thought They Knew (my mother).  So apologies to the One Who Should Know - you were not the first in what I hope will be a long line of interactive readers to my blog.  That title goes to my mother.

2)  Joyce is BACK!  Okay, she never really left, although her "follow this blog" icon did.  But only for a day.  Her icon has now found its way back home and she is once again following this blog.

3)  The never ending snow storm continues to kick the shit out of PEI.  Sorry for the language Mom, but for crying out loud, it's April 13th already and it's been snowing none-stop all day.

4)  Contrary to what one would believe, Walmart does not put their excess Easter chocolate on sale the day after Easter.  No, they strip the 6 aisles of Easter candy down to the bare racks and fill them with seasonal summer products (like that's appropriate when there's 4 inches of snow on the ground and more coming down).   So no, my dear hubby, there will be no super sale on chocolate bunnies for you this year.  

Blah-blah-blogging

Imagine my surprise this morning when I signed on to my blog to discover that I had a comment!   Which by using my vast skills of deduction must, therefore, mean  I have readers.  Imagine - READERS.  Readers aside from my mother who is obligated by the very fact that she's my mother to read my musings, meanderings, ramblings and vents.

Imagine my further surprise that said comment was about the content I had posted yesterday - a sweet story about a little boy and the Easter Bunny.  Apparently, I might have named the wrong little boy.  My apologies - I would have sworn on my dog's life it was the boy profiled...but according to One Who Should Know (his father) it wasn't this little boy at all, but his younger brother Danny.  Apologies to Danny for misplacing credit to his older brother.  I'm sure this isn't the first time this has happened to Danny, but I wanted to make it right if I got it wrong.  We're awaiting Rosie's verdict on this by the way - which kid was heartbroken by the Easter Bunny?

Now, on the subject of blogging - by virtue of the fact that I had a comment, and therefore a reader, it begs the question:  how to get more comments?  One could easily make the assumption that more comments might equal more readers.  So the REAL question today is how to increase the readership of this blog?  Anyone?  Anyone?  

I don't have a large following, but along with my pleasant surprise today of having a comment I also noticed that sadly, I had lost a reader.  I know some people read my blog the old fashioned way - by logging on to kimberlycameron.blogspot.com.  And I thank you for that!  But, my meager Facebook following has shrunk from 8 to 7 readers.  I assumed it was the nice man from Kentucky who for some reason is following my blog (how did he find it??).  But NO, it was my Aunt Joyce.  Joyce has dropped me!  And I thought FOR SURE she was a fan of my blog.  Why, oh why would Joyce drop me?   

I can only assume Joyce didn't find the content meaningful and if that's the case I'm sorry.  But, I'm still figuring out this whole blog thing and what to write about and what to keep to myself.  I'm striving to write everyday, although on days when those college kids suck the very life out of me, I have been known to miss a day or two.  I'm trying to include interesting stories about life here on this quirky little island as well as anecdotes from my travels.  I also like to include small stories about the amazing man I married, because frankly when you wait until you're more than half way through your lifespan to get married for the first and only time, it must be to someone FREAKING FANTASTIC.  

So that's my intent.   I hope the rest of you readers like it.  If you don't, well, you can always exercise the same option Joyce did and hit the "drop her blog now" button.  But I hope you don't.  I hope you keep reading.  I promise this will get better - or maybe it won't.  But you won't know unless you sign on daily!  

Oh and by the way, I'm sure Joyce dropped me TOTALLY by accident.  Right?

How to Annoy Me

Stand at the kitchen door asking to go out, then doing NOTHING.  Over and over again.  I'm wise to your game buddy.

What do you mean there's no Tooth Fairy?

Where oh where does the Easter tradition of hiding eggs and giving chocolate rabbits come from?  Who knows...not even the gurus at Yahoo.com, who are attributing the centuries old custom to some spring celebration invoking the goddess of the dawn, "Eoster," who did something or other with rabbits and eggs - both a sign of fertility.

All I know is that this morning, as I quietly sipped tea and read Facebook, all the while Dwayne was making the BEST BREAKFAST EVER, the Easter Bunny was busy laying eggs and abandoning chocolate replicas of himself made of fine European Chocolate.  Who needs the Tooth Fairy or Santa Clause when you've got fine European Chocolate, compliments of the Easter Bunny?

Many years ago, when my friend Brad was just a little boy, someone told him that there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy.  Upon consultation with his mother, who confirmed this to be true, Brad looked up at his mom, and said with a quiver in his voice "Oh no, does that mean there's no Easter Bunny either?".  It was enough to make you cry. 

Come Saturday Morning

I love a quiet Saturday morning (or Sunday morning for that matter).  With one dog piked out on the floor at my feet and the other snugged in hard on the couch beside me, the only sound is the morning birds as they flit and fly about our property looking for breakfast.   We have lots of birds today - makes me wonder if our little piece of PEI is the avian equivalent of a Tim Horton's - a busy place to grab a "to go" worm or a cool, refreshing grub or two.

I woke up to an amazing sunrise this morning.   I even woke my slumbering hubby to witness the dawn of the day.  I'm not sure he appreciated being woken up out of a dead sleep to look at the morning sky, but that's one of the hazards of sleeping beside me.  I cannot stay asleep one minute beyond the crack of dawn.  

Today's sky was scarlet red, tinged with hints of purple and blue as the sun slowly crawled its way over the eastern horizon...slowly...slowly.   Too bad I didn't take my camera upstairs with me, because it was picture perfect.  It reminded me of the sunrises on Maui where, on mornings when the fields were burned, the sky was filled with the acrid smell of burnt sugar cane.  The great plumes of smoke created by the burnings  would act as nature's crayola box, colouring the rising sun  shades of red, orange, purple.  

Today's sunrise was no crayola box, however.  It was just plain red, red, red.  My first thought:  red sky at night, sailors delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning.  I wonder what the day will hold today?

   

Down and Out

You could say we were down and out.  We were each recovering from a Spring cold.  We both had had a long week.  I'm not sure what excuse the dogs had because frankly, they spend EVERY day this way.  But today, my super-cool husband and I spent the day couch surfing.

Couch surfing consists of getting up, making breakfast and then immediately retiring to the sofa for a full day marathon of Top Chef on Food TV Canada.  Snicks & The Gidge took up residence in their respective spots - he in his bed, she on our chaise lounge (as if we moved it to the living room for her sake!).  Dwayne took up his post at one end of the couch and I reclined on the other.   Occasional trips to the kitchen or bathroom broke up the day.

The great thing about spending Good Friday this way is, I realized ONCE AGAIN, that I have married the perfect-for-me kind of guy.  Someone who will lose an entire day to a Top Chef marathon and not complain about it.  A guy who will nuke a hotdog for dinner because I didn't feel like cooking.  A guy who, despite being crippled with joint problems today drove to the video store so we can continue our couch surfing tonight with a DVD marathon.

Yup - he's the perfect-for-me man.  And I'm the luckiest person EVER.

Secrets from the Front

 I was hell bent that I wasn't going to catch this latest epidemic circulating the island.  But it's hard to fight off the warrior germs when your husband brings an entire army of them home with him.   Battle plans were made:  no physical contact (hugs excluded), medications were dispensed, chicken soup was consumed.  But perhaps the most strategic defense was the decision to avoid breathing the contaminated air - so no sleeping in the same bed until he was feeling better.

I thought all was good.  After 4 days he seemed to have conquered the invaders.  We had the "all clear."  I could return to my own bed.  And so I did on Sunday night.  It was then that the ultimate sneak attack occurred.

Those germs may be small, but they are mighty little warriors.  No sooner had we thought we had won the war, it became obvious that we really had only taken one small battle and that a much bigger fight would continue to rage on in the battleground that is my sinus, nasal & throat passages.

I fought on valiantly.  I took sinus medicine, lobbing drying agents at those little germ warriors.  I drank gallons of tea.  I ate toast with butter & honey, commonly known to cure whatever ails me.  I slept, but not really for longer than 15 minutes at a time.  I whined and complained.  I sneezed and coughed and wiped my eyes that were, incidentally, in a race with my nose to see which could run off my face first.  All to little avail.  

After 3 days, I was done.  I had to do it.  I had to call in the back-up brigade.  There was simply no choice.  I reached into the far recesses of my medicine chest for the  mother of all germ warfare weapons:  VICKS VAPO RUB.  

When you're in hand to hand combat against such a powerful enemy as The Common Cold, there is nothing more effective then the soothing scent of eucalyptus to clear your sinuses.   A soothing massage of VVR and the warmth penetrates your chest and immediately relieving your lungs from their prisoner of war status.  Oh sure, the smell of Vick's is enough to repel anyone that comes within a 5-ft radius of you, but I'm okay with that - I don't really like people in my personal space (husband excluded).

After 24 hours, with the use of my secret weapon, it appears I have gained a toe-hold on the enemy.  I have fought back and those nasty little germs are retreating.   Next time I won't wait 3 days to bring out the weapon of mass destruction - I'll will bathe in the stuff at the first sign of a cold.   Lesson learned.

 

Mouth-watering goodness

The look of eager anticipation of a meal that is half a day away.  

My Honey Bunny

I'm married to the coolest man.  I say this because as I'm typing this, he is in a quest for the best chocolate Easter Bunny he can find me.  

Just like most things in life, my honey-bunny husband and I have differing points of view on the subject of Easter chocolate.  His theory goes something like this:

" A "Mr. Solid" chocolate rabbit is fine for Easter and the less you pay for it, the better - it's all about the value for the chocolate".  I understand his perspective.  He's an accountant after-all.

My perspective is thus:  If you're going to indulge in Easter chocolates it should be the best quality chocolate you can find.  In my mind it is the stuff that comes shaped as a rabbit, wrapped in foil with a sweet little bell around its neck.  A Lindt Bunny.  

Let's face it - I could settle for a Mr. Solid - but why?  My hubby set the precedent for fine European chocolate our first Easter together when he had a grand, delectable French chocolate egg  delivered to our hotel suite in Monte Carlo.  I was hooked and he was done in for on the Easter Bunny front.

This year, our two worlds may have actually collided - Walmart has a sale on Lindt Easter Chocolates.  Now the only question is whether or not they have any inventory!

How to Annoy Me

Show up 10 minutes late for class and then act all put out because in your absence we covered material you need.  Grow up.  Show up.  ON TIME.  Everyone's working hard here people!

In Sickness and in Health

I'm sick.  It sucks to be sick.  My head feels like it's not attached to my body.  My right ear makes its own sounds and dare I say,  my runny nose runs the risk of running right off  my face. 

If feeling the way I do, I could accomplish:

• Showering and making myself presentable
• Driving downtown for a meeting with Tourism Charlottetown where I solicited (read begged) donations for Special Olympics PEI (I was successful btw)
• Shopping for a creative Easter-themed craft for my visit with my "little sister"
• Making a gourmet lunch (okay, maybe a hot dog doesn't count as gourmet, but when you're not feeling well comfort is comfort - whether it's food or a kleenex)
• Visiting said "little sister" Victoria where for an hour we decorated Easter Egg shaped cookies with very stale candies and icing that was too thin.  Too bad I didn't read the instructions before I went, otherwise our icing might have actually turned out better and the candies would have actually stuck to the cookies, rather than slide off.  
• Gassing up the Cranberry Cruiser in what would elsewhere be known as a hurricane, but here on PEI it's just a little wind & rain
• Talking to my one PEI friend to wish her a happy birthday and listen to her lamentations on the limitations of her not-so-good boss
• Spending an hour writing more letters to various island businesses soliciting auction items 
• Creating home-made sauce for tonight's dinner of chicken Florentine
• Studying chapters 6 & 7 in preparation for tomorrow's Business Communication double-header
• Daydreaming about a job that allowed me to write all day long

...then imagine what I could do if I actually felt better?

I shudder to think.  Or is that the fever?