Hillbillies on the Highway

The great thing about having opposable thumbs is that along with dexterity you also have a brain capable of learning lessons based on past experience.

Which leads us to the great gasoline hunt of Winchester, Ontario last Saturday night as we were racing toward the Emergency Veterinary Hospital.

Details to follow.

JUST KIDDING!

So, after a 13-hour drive, almost running out of gas once, backtracking 30-km to fuel up, battling the ridiculous traffic that is downtown Montreal, we finally arrived, tired and hungry in Ingleside about 8 o'clock Saturday night. Everyone was very happy to see us, including Dexter a 120-lb chocolate lab belonging to Buzz's brother Mark, at whose house we were staying. Dexter is Snickers' arch-nemesis.

Dexter, the big boy that he is, will happily chase Snickers round and round and round the yard until he collapses in a gob-slobbery heap on the deck, completely spent, or so you think. After a half hour of letting the two run and chase and hump and sniff and lick each other's whizzers we thought we'd give our beastly boy a break and so shut him off in the mud room to enjoy a dish full of diet dog food.

Well.

Snicks would have none of it.

After locking him in the mud-room I continued on my way through the kitchen to the living room and out the sliding screen door to the deck. As I swung the screen door behind me and began to inspect Mark's rain barrel I heard a blood-curdling YELP from behind me.

I turned to look and there he was, my beastly boy, flat on the ground, with both front legs contorted underneath him and looking dazed and confused.

I dropped to my knees and pleaded with him to get up.

He couldn't.

That's when I let out a blood curdling scream of my own "BUZZ - HE CAN'T GET UP, HE CAN'T GET UP!!!!!!!"

Poor Buzz. He had just settled into the bathroom upstairs for a post-roadtrip meditation session.

Dropping his reading material and grabbing his pants from his ankles he raced downstairs to see me collapsed on the floor with Snickers' head in my lap, trying to coax him to stand up.

He tried valiantly, but all he could manage was a belly crawl to me. His front legs were curled up from his "wrists," inverted in an odd shape, completely unable to put any pressure or weight on his limbs. I didn't know if he had broken his legs, dislocated a shoulder or something more sinister like broken his neck.

What a great start to the two week vacation.

Having a former nurse for a mother-in-law paid off as she was on the phone immediately to the On-call Vet at the Emergency Animal Hospital who said to load the dog in the car and meet her at the clinic.

Buzz gathered up all 63-lbs of the beast and put him in the back of the truck and we headed off to Winchester. As we entered the 401 Buzz looked down at the dash board and says, quietly, calmly, "Um, we better keep an eye out for a gas station, we're almost empty."

AS IF I NEED THAT SHIT AT THIS POINT OF THE DAY!

As we made our way to Winchester, a quiet burg about 45 minutes away we encountered endless gas stations. None of which were open.

We couldn't find the vet clinic. We were dangerously low on fuel. I think my dog is dying in the back of the car.

And so, it's just another Saturday night in the life of Buzz and Kim.

One frantic call home and we were pointed in the right direction to the Vet Clinic where Buzz carried Snickers in for an emergency consult. My poor boy could not even stand on the exam table. The vet thought their might be some neurological damage.

With Snicks in the hands of a vet and with me shaking in my boots, Buzz left us in search of a gas station open at 10 o'clock on a Saturday night in the countryside. No easy feat, but he found one and so, a half-hour later when he returned he could not have been more surprised to see the Snicks had made a miraculous recovery and was up on all fours, parading about the clinic, tail wagging, seemingly none the worse for wear.

And so, after one big dose of anti-inflammatory and pain killers and an emergency vet bill in greatly exceeding my discretionary spending for the trip, we loaded the dog back in the truck and headed back to Mark's place for dinner.

So what if it shaved 5 years off my life. Who cares if I'm still suffering heart palpitations from the heart attack I suffered at the hands of my dog. It's no big deal that we almost ran out of gas twice in one day.

Snicks is fine.

We got to the cottage. We even showed up with a full tank of gas.

We've been drinking non-stop ever since.

OBB Hillbillies Ride Again

Time for another installment of the Hillbillies Ride Again, also known as Kim & Buzz take a vacation.

Leaving for vacation is never easy, especially when you're a big muckety-muck financial wizard for a big hotel company and you're leaving for vacation the same week as month-end is due. But Buzz got 3 weeks worth of work done in one week, with enough time left over to be home Friday night in plenty of time to pack, organize the loading of the Cranberry Cruiser and to join me and the neighbors in a pre-vacation beer as we instructed them on how and when to water our flower baskets. Saturday morning we were up bright and early final packing complete, truck loaded up, lunches & lobster in the cooler and we were westward-ho! with a ticket to ride off the island.

It was a beautiful day, bright blue sky, big yellow sun and with the two dogs power-lounging on their bed in the way back of the truck, we were rocking out to our summer playlist on the I-pod and taking it all in. As we crossed over the Confederation Bridge, it started to actually feel like we were on vacation. Ahhh, vacation...

About 4 hours into the trip I glanced over to the dashboard and asked Buzz how much fuel was left in the car. "About a quarter of a tank" he replied.

"There's a PetroCan at the next exit, maybe we should stop and fill up." I suggested.

"Nah. It's on the other side of the highway." he shrugged.

"Are you kidding me? We've only got a quarter of a tank of gas and you don't want to stop because you'd have to cross over the highway to get to the station?" I asked incredulously.

"That's right" he said. "It's not that efficient. We'll get gas at the next exit."

"But I know my car, and I think you should stop now" I whined as we whipped past the PetroCan exit.

"That's okay, we have plenty of gas to get us to Hartford or Woodstock".

And folks, here is where it happened. That thing that is so sweet I will savour it all my live-long-days. It was here, traveling along the TransCanada Highway through the boonies of New Brunswick when Buzz first realized that every once in a while, and although it doesn't happen often, I WAS RIGHT. We were about to run out of gas.

There was no gas station at the next exit. The next station was some 40-km ahead of us and now our gas guage was sitting right on the red line.

So we had to back-track 30-km to go to the PetroCanada station we had passed 20 minutes earlier.

The only difference is now it was on the right side of the road, and therefore, the perfect place to fuel up.

My friends, this is only leg one of the ridiculousness that was our day of travel to Ontario. There was also that thing that happened in Ingleside on Saturday night. But I won't get into it yet - I'm still processing.

Suffice it to say, we did make it to the cottage and this morning, woke up to this beautiful vista:

The Secret of a Happy Marriage

Yesterday I decided that since Buzz works so hard and such very long hours that the least I could do was give him a treat when he got home. So I shaved my legs and put on make-up for the first time in two weeks.

Hey, at least I shower regularly!

This is the problem when one “works” from home. And by “works” you know damn well I mean watches the Y&R, bakes way too many sweet treats, reads the blog-o-sphere, and surfs PEI websites looking for a full-time job in my area of expertise. So, yeah, sometimes[1] it’s like right-before-he-walks-in-the-door o’clock before I realize I’m still in my PJs and I haven’t yet washed my face.

Sadly, this is not a new phenomenon for me. When I lived on Maui and worked for an Atlanta-based company, working from my home office[2] I started work at 4 a.m. You read that correctly people – 4 o’clock in the I cannot believe I am up at this hour! morning. It was to make my leaving corporate HQ easier on my team – in order to convince my boss I could work remotely from 4 time-zones away I agreed to begin my work day at 10am Eastern. In the winter, that’s six hours ahead of Hawaiian Standard Time. So that meant I had to roll out of bed at 3:45am, brush my teeth and make it at least “sound” like I’d been up for hours before starting my day off. What that also meant, of course was that 8 hours later, when my work day was officially “done” it was only 12 noon and I could go to hang on the beach[3] for the rest of the day.

But, back in those days, if I say “forgot” to shower for a couple of days, no-one noticed. If, say, my shaving razor was broken, no-one was there to worry about the stubble stabbing them in the shins as we spooned. Back then, if my hair had extra “texture[4]” from not being washed every single day, well, that was a look that was generally accepted on Maui as “the beach head look” so I was jiggy with it.

But, now that I’m an old married lady and what I look like matters to more than just me[5], and to ensure I have a happy marriage I must remember to pay special attention to taking care of the finer details of grooming. Like remembering to get dressed at least a few times a week. Just so he understands that if I needed to go on a job interview at a moment’s notice I’d remember how to walk in high-heels.

---

[1] Most times

[2] My sunny lanai

[3] Sleep

[4] Grease

[5] Or Snickers

Thankful Thursday

Being an under-employed, former marketing executive, I have had plenty of time to perfect the art of domesticity. Being a housewife and all.

There are no raises or promotions for ambitiously perfecting the art of house-wife-ry, but I like to think that the satisfaction I glean from having a sparkling kitchen floor is compensation enough.

Ahem.

Are you kidding me? I just read an article in The Bible - er, I mean, the September edition of Oprah Magazine about whether or not you're addicted to praise? The article opened with "Are you a praise junky? Do you jones for a little recognition? Does someone saying "Hey baby, thanks for getting the dog barf stains out of the carpet and our refrigerator has never smelled so lemony fresh...you're the best wife ever." Does that get your socks off?"

Sadly I am here to report that indeed, I do need to have a little validation that all my hard work has meaning, is noticed and is appreciated. By someone other than myself.

Ahe-he-he-hem!

Which leads me to the whole point of this blog. You were wondering when I was going to get around to it, weren't you? Me too.

Here's the thing. I'm guessing if this is a cover story article in the Oprah Magazine then it stands to reason she didn't have Martha Beck write it just for me to read. I'm guessing there are a few others out there that need a little pat on the back every once in a while too.

I'm talking to you, people!

So to all of you that check here on a regular basis to see what nut-job thing I've been up to lately: Thank you.

To those of you who carefully read my sometimes whiney posts about being under-employed: Thank you for hanging in there - I promise to quit my bitchin' just as soon as I get a job or a book contract, whichever comes first.

To those of you that take the time to provide comments: Thank you too. Even for the snarky comments. It helps me retain some thick skin which I think I'll probably need when I re-enter the workforce or when I have a professional editor critiquing my work.

To those of you that take what I post and forward its link to other people: Thank you! Who knew growing readership would be so hard? I have a small, faithful following, but more readers are always a good thing.

To those that come back, even when I write something you think is completely stupid: thank you too. We can't always agree on whether or not Gordon Ramsey is a sexy bastard (which he most definitely IS), potty-mouth or not. But the fact you came back to see if I'd written anything worthy of you reading after that, made me happy.

And for my international peeps: Gracias, merci beaucoup, cheers, ta, vinaka, mamnoon, dankeschen, arigato, spasibo.

And now, dear internets, I must go polish my mirrors!

Miss Manners and the Art of Crumb Removal

I reallly, really don't mean to brag or anything, but once upon a time, waaaaayyyy back in my former life, when I used to plan big-ass recognition events for Corporate America, I used to eat in some pretty swanky places. I’ve planned dinner parties aboard The Britannia, Queen Elizabeth’s former yacht. I’ve carefully tasted Haggis at an ancient Scottish castle amidst antiques from the Elizabethan age.

I’ve licked sorbet from little, bitty, silver spoons, aboard The Concorde, jetting my way to London. I discovered the joys of goat cheese alongside the Mayor of Monaco at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. I’ve sipped vodka and noshed on potato blinis overlooking Moscow’s Red Square.

Dinner on-stage with the cast of “Phantom of the Opera”? Been there. Champagne and strawberries on the summit of a glacier, only accessible by helicopter? Done that. A moonlit bbq on a private Caribbean island, surrounded by nothing but coconut trees and stars – well I’ve done that too.

Through all these adventures in fine dining I’ve had to learn my way around a dinner service. I no longer use the fish fork for my salad. I know the spoon at the top of my plate is for dessert, not for stirring my coffee. I know that the dinner roll is placed on my left and I also know that proper service is always done from the left, and so, always obligingly, I shift right when a server approaches. If you’re having a luau, I know the only way to eat is traditional style, on the ground, using your hands, licking poi off your fingers. I always put my napkin directly in my lap when I’m seated and if I ever drink from the water glass on my left, it is simply because I have lost both my mind and my manners.

So imagine my chagrin yesterday when, for lunch, I was eating a toasted tomato sandwich made with bread so fresh and flaky it disintegrated into a cloud of crumbs with every bite. Imagine my mortification when I had to stand up, and in order to achieve the best position for the task was bent over with my head below my knees, t-shirt over my head and boobs hanging in the wind to dust the crumbs out of my bra’s cups because I was wearing more of the sandwich than I had actually consumed.

Betcha can’t wait to have me at your next dinner party, huh?

Vacation all I ever wanted!

With a slight nod to Belinda Carlisle, the Go-Gos and their classic 1982 song, vacation is all I ever wanted... sing along with me! Vacation have to get away!

There are only 4 sleeps until Buzz (formerly known as the one whom I adore) and I hit the highway, road-trippin' and we cannot wait. 4 more sleeps until we pack up Big Red, some lobsters, a couple of dogs and our I-pod and make the trek to Upper Canada. That's a term I've picked up since living here - apparently, we're still stuck in 1865 here on the island where, in days before Confederation, anything west of Charlottetown was referred to as Upper Canada.

I know, I know. Right now my life seems like I'm permanently on vacation what with being under-employed and all, but really, it's not. Because when you're on vacation you don't spend days looking for work. And it's never a vacation when your most favourite travel partner gets up everyday and goes to the office leaving you at home, alone, without him, by yourself.

So yes. V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N!

We're heading to cottage country, to Loon Lake and the cottage of my life-long friends, the Goodspeeds, where we'll sit on the deck and listen to loons every night, after spending our day lounging on the dock, slipping into the lake for a refreshing swim, reading books, taking naps, mixing cocktails and cooking some great dinners. We're celebrating their 38th and our 1st wedding anniversary with a cruise on Lake Muskoka aboard the Segwun. The weather forecast is showing blue skies and yellow suns for our time in cottage country, so who says we aren't two of the luckiest people on the planet?

After our tour of cottage country we'll head back down to the GTA for a visit with my family and then on to Jingle City for a visit with Buzz's people. Fingers and toes are crossed for bright, sunny days in Kraft Dinner Town because Buzz's brother has a boat(!) and we plan on being on it, touring the Mighty St. Lawrence for at least a couple days.

So if you're in the vicinity of any of our vacation spots and want to get together, let us know! We'll be the two people totally chillaxed because we'll be the ones on VACATION!

Major Announcement

STARBUCKS IS COMING TO CHARLOTTETOWN!

So screamed the headline on the front page of today's newspaper. Well, thank God. Because how can a population of less then 40,000 people continue to survive with only 4 Tim Hortons, 2 Second Cups and countless independent coffee houses within the 20 block radius that is Charlottetown?

In other news from our crimson shores...with August's arrival, we've welcomed a unique visitor here on the island. Can you guess what it is?

It's the debut of the one whom I adore's summer haircut. From this point forward he will no longer be referred to here as the one whom I adore, but instead will be called by his new name: Buzz.