Bread Crumbs In The Butter

Birdwatching

I had a bit of an accident during the wee hours of December 31, 2012.

Before you get ahead of me and assume, wrongly, that by the "wee hours of December 31" you think I was prancing around a fabulous New Year's Eve party in an adorable coral dress and Kate Spade heels, let me clarify. The wee hours I am referring to here are the hours between midnight and 5am the day of New Year's Eve.  I spent the actual dawning of 2013 fast asleep, concussed and unable to digest any food worth talking about.

We're still not sure what it was. Food poisoning? The flu? God's way of telling me that no one was ready to see me in an outfit that required those paste on bra things? In any case, I found myself tossing way more than my cookies for a good portion of three hours in the middle of the night. I tossed so much that I became faint, as people generally do when they've been party to what can only be deemed a Costco hotdog exorcism.

If I was the sort of person who didn't enjoy people laughing at my expense, I would sugar coat this next bit and lie about how I hurt myself badly enough to warrant nearly one month off work. Good thing for you I am not that sort of person...

The last thing I remember was sitting on the toilet. But fear not, when I came to my pants were up, so I definitely did not take an Elvis-style header off the throne. What I did do, or so we have pieced together through our CSI-like investigative skills, was stand up and faint.  I took with me the towel roack, laundry hamper and one vanity drawer. Oh, and I knocked my head on the very hard, very porcelain toilet.

I have no memory of anything except waking up. I remember feeling as though I was being pulled back into consciousness against my will. Wherever I was, I liked it just fine.  That is, until I realized by looking around me and feeling the searing pain in the back of my head that something very bad had happened.

And I was right. A severe concussion, my third and by far the worst so far (the other two caused by sports with more street cred but far less comedy) left me with a doctor's note for three weeks off work and instructions to do absolutely nothing while I recovered.  Trust me, the people who love me took this very seriously. They checked up on me. Ignored my texts! Took the TV remote with them when they left!

Every day at 9am, my house cleared out and I was left with a rocking chair, a quilt and the view out of my bedroom window. The only entertainment I was provided with was a birdfeeder and CBC Radio 2.

What did I do? I watched birds. I cried. I whined. I wrote blog posts in my head and then promptly forgot them all. I cut my toenails. I wore the same jogging pants for 23 straight days. I ate pie for breakfast. I called everyone I know just to chat. I counted all of the teeth in my mouth using just my tongue, timed myself, and then tried to break that record. I cleaned my closet. I found out that blue jays are very mean birds and vowed to learn how to use a slingshot. I planned the weddings of all three of my daughters (I hope they like lace!).  I named my future grandchildren (I hope they like Cecilia!). I learned that even if I am not tired, I can fall asleep if I just keep staring ahead and replay old episodes of The Facts Of Life in my head.

This post was originally aimed to give advice should you find yourself in the position of not being able to use your brain for anything of interest, but clearly I have not achieved that. The only thing I can offer you is my phone number and an enchanting retelling of the episode where Jo decides she wants to become a nun.

**By the way, I am mostly fine now. The recovery process is slow, but I feel better than I have in nearly a month and I continue to listen to my doctor - I'm stubborn but the stupid hasn't been knocked out of me yet.

I'm just trying to keep the fashion police away

Up until the beginning of this summer, my  wardrobe staples were as follows:

• My work uniform. Which, I have to say, was the very defintion of flattering.
• My pajamas.
• My jeans and t-shirts.
• My workout and soccer clothing.
• Two or three shirts, all black, that made me look thin enough but also allowed me to blend into a crowd should we go out.

Basically, not a lot of people were coming to me for advice on how to look stylish, know what I mean?

I turned thirty-five this summer and made it my goal to start <gasp> acting my age! This included dressing up a bit more, wearing more dresses and skirts and to stop being afraid of colour. (Still no patterns though, you can't change me that much!).

We've covered my fetish for shoes. Did I tell you about the new grey patent leather pumps? Heavenly. In any case, I'm pretty good at putting together a flattering outfit and I was blessed with a smart friend who took me out to buy eleventy hundred items that all match. It's foolproof.

Except. I have a few lingering concerns. Want to help?

• Where did the fashion world land on black and brown being mixed together?
• What about white after labour day? Is this still taboo? I have this great pair of white pants, but I'm thinking it's time to put them away, no?

The Girl With No Soul?

You know when you go to the grocery store or a mall and you go through automatic doors? The idea is that your very presence is enough to open those doors up, right?

For some reason, they rarely work for me.

It's not my size. I'm six feet tall and just shy of 160 pounds, so there is absolutely no way I am dainty enough to claim that I am too petite for the mechanism to work.

Still, practically every time I present myself on the mat for an automatic door, I end up just standing there like a lunatic. They either open only halfway, not at all, or close on me as I pass through.

John says it must be because I have no soul.

This from the guy who just stands there and laughs as his wife gets beaten up by the door as she buys (and then cooks) his food!

Watch how you open the door!

I wasn't feeling so hot Saturday night. In fact, I was feeling very hot. I had a fever and some chills going on. I'll spare you the details, but it's all good now.

All that too-much-information stuff aside, John and I settled in early and ordered a movie. I was beyond excited because I had been dying to see "Zombieland" forever!  I was all snuggled and toasty (for real, I was burning up!) and very much enjoying the bowl of salt and vinegar chips I had in my lap.  All of a sudden, and if you've seen the movie you know what I'm talking about, a freaking scary-ass clown comes up under the bathroom stall where the films' star is doing his business.

It's one of those flash quick, freak-you-out as you fall asleep images that will haunt me for a long time.

Let me tell you now, that clowns scare me. A lot. Not only that, but I'm going to tell you a nice story of the time John had a clown come to the door of my parents house when I turned twenty years old. 

The year was 1995.  I had just returned home from my first year away at school and John was very glad to have me back in Ottawa.  Determined to convince me not to leave and to transfer here to Carleton University, he really poured on the charm.  Dinners out. Sweet nothings in my ear. And promises. Promises of the best birthday gift EVER.

I was convinced it was a dog. So convinced that I would have bet my entire student loan cheque on the fact that come June 30, John was going to show up at my door with the world's most adorable golden retriever ever. What else would keep me in town? It's not like I could bring a dog back to residence in Halifax, right?

He hyped this event like you would not believe. It was all he talked about. Any chance he got he'd get me to try and guess. Every time he asked I'd guess that it was a puppy. Oh, and he was sly! He denied it was a puppy each and every time. I knew better though.

On the appointed day, that being a scorching hot end of June morning, he had my closest friends show up early so that they could all "enjoy the gift".  I was thrilled! Of course they all wanted to see my reaction as I met my new best friend!

I clearly remember the doorbell ringing and the look on John's face. It almost pains me to remember now because he was so full of charmingly boyish anticipation I almost feel bad that I completely lost my shit when I opened that door.

The big heavy front door swung upon and in walked the biggest, oddest and most frightening birthday surprise EVER.  I wanted to cry. I wanted to run and scream.  I wanted to throw up a little bit.  But John, he was so thrilled, I tried to keep it together, even if the clown was a bit pervy and completely excited to be performing for a room full of scantily clad twenty year old girls.

What do I remember most about that day?  Turning to John and saying "Where's my dog?"

In his defense, he had told me at least a hundred times that it was not a dog. I just thought he was trying to be coy.  When I look back, I realize I was a huge bitch about it, but when John looks back he realizes that it was a bit of an odd gift.  Of course, that's because he now knows that I'm really afraid of clowns. And revolving doors. And elastics. And Pillsbury Dough cans. 

So please, don't ask me to hit the circus with you. Unless you plan on getting me really drunk first.

Still wanna take me on a cruise?

For years, John has been begging me to try going on a cruise.  Given that I get sick in the bathtub, I didn't think it was such a hot idea.  He's rallied troops in his quest. Most recently our dear friends Dave and Lucy.  They've "cruised" before and loved it.

While I relished the idea of a week away with two of our closest friends and unlimited food and drink, I was adamant that we not do it on water.  They reasoned that you can't feel the waves and that it's like a big floating building.

Still, I didn't budge.

Last night, the four of us went out for a lovely dinner and headed out to see Avatar afterward.  The very cute usher who sold us our tickets told us we could pick up our 3-D glasses in a bin by the door.

"Um. What?"  I panicked. "No, not 3-D. 2-D please. Only one dimension for this girl."

She informed us that they only had Avatar in 3-D so I was shit out of luck.  John punched me in the arm and said all this hoopla about me getting motion sick was just in my head and to suck it up.  God, he makes me swoon that man.

I made it through the previews and relaxed a bit.  The  movie started and I had a bit of a headache, but I was determined to try.  Then they started to float through the air, lights lit up and water flowed everywhere.

At that point I was done for.

I swiftly made my way out of the there and tried to make the long walk to the bathroom without tossing my cookies,  or steak rather, into a trash can or available popcorn container.   I made it. Barely.

Then I sat outside the theatre, breathing in and out, texting John to let him know I was okay.  I cry when I barf (now you really know enough about me!), so that's what Lucy found when she came out to get me.  She went back into the theatre, grabbed the boys and off we went to get refunds.

Lucy helped me to the car, left the window open and soothed me because I felt so bad.

As we drove back I said "Do you guys still want to take me on a cruise?"

"Not so much" was the consensus.

What? Huh?

Lately, I've been caught in a daze on a few occasions. If you've asked me something and I've responded with a grunt and it looks like I've not been listening, it's because I've not been listening.  I'm not sure if I've got an early case of spring fever or if I need to eat more foods with ... whatever improves your focus, but I just can't concentrate.

Kristyn just came into the kitchen and asked me if I had seen her music project sheet.

"Have you seen a piece of purple paper?" She asked.

"What? Huh?" was my response. As you can see, I acknowledged her question and her existence, it just didn't register that I was actually supposed to listen to her.

"A piece of paper. It's purple."

"What?" I sighed. "What are you talking about? What?"

It's not like I was even doing anything! I was literally just sitting there, staring off into space wondering when the pizza would be ready.

I know you're probably thinking this has something to do with the concussion, but this has been going of for weeks. It's not even my usual fare of slightly organized mixed with a frustrating case of ADD. I'm just not there. It's rude and it's careless and extremely self-centred, but I don't know how to stop it?

For instance, I totally had a point to this post and I've completely forgotten it.

Lucky you.

Memorable

It occurred to me last night that I don't consider myself very memorable.

I'm not sure why I seem to have this self-esteem issue, but I will actually go out of my way to avoid making eye contact with people I've only met once or twice. I just assume that I remember them and they don't remember me and how odd would it be if I went up and said "HI!" and they were all like "Okay, crazy tall person I don't know."

Awkward.

It's especially weird because of my job.  I work in the post office of a very small town and since I have this weird memory for numbers, I remember everyone's address and box number. I can't help it, it's a compulsion! So, not only do I know faces and names, I know addresses and who gets People and who gets ... other magazines. 

I see hundreds of people a day and they see me. I constantly get asked where people know me from and then have to explain that I'm the girl that sells them stamps and charges them way too much to get a care package from here to Kelowna in two days.

Still though, I am always shocked when someone remembers my name and I think it makes me look like a bit of an idiot sometimes.  Last night, at my soccer game, a gentleman who is very well known in the area, commented on my play and used my name.  Instead of taking the compliment and then defending the area of criticism he gave me I said "Wow! You know my name!"

Dork. Dork. Dork.

We're all like this, right? Help me out here.

Icky Sticky Tanning Salad

Today was Kristyn and Erin's school track and field meet (which they just rocked, my kids can run and jump my friends!).

As you can see, we could not have asked for a better day.  The temperature was ideal, the sky was clear and the sun was shining.

Did you read that? 

The sun was shining.

I'm not normally all that concerned with sunblock.  Sure, we use it when we're on the beach and barely clothes.  But for your average day at the park with hats on and lots of shade?  Not really.

Today though, the UV Index seemed to be high and there was little shade, so I walked around reminding not only my children, but many other children to lather up.  I hounded and barked and begged them to reapply.  It was the kind of day where you would burn before you knew it because it was windy and a bit cool.   I was a good parent and chaperone.

Only, someone forgot to remind me. I burnt my forehead, my chest and my arms.  I look, to be frank, like a complete tool.  It appears, when I'm naked, that I'm wearing a start while t-shirt. 

We leave for the Dominican in six days and when I wear a bathing suit, it appears as though I've forgotten to remove a key piece of clothing.  I give several new meanings to the term "Farmer's Tan".  We can call it "Idiot Tan".

A friend told me to try aloe, so I did that.  I was all sticky.  Another friend told me to rinse in cold water as soon as I could.  It hurt.  One more friend told me that apple cider vinegar neutralizes the burn, so I tried that a few minutes ago.

I'm now stick and in pain and I smell like a salad.  I'm going to bed with a cold beer to numb my wounds.

Officer Safety

On long highway drives, John always finds some crazy driver going too fast and follows him. His theory is that any police cruiser trolling for speeders will discover that guy first and let him sail right past.  He hasn't been pulled over for speeding in a really long time and even then it was because he really had to go, so it seems to work.

Thing is, when I'm the one driving, I'm the lunatic everyone wants to follow.

I'm not a good driver.  There, I've said it.  It goes along with the ADD, I'm sure, and though I'm ashamed, you're hard pressed to find me actually paying attention to what I'm doing behind the wheel.

Last January, late for a meeting with a client, I was driving along the 417, happy as a clam. I had a yogurt container in one hand, the music up and a strong desire to sneeze.  Do you see where this is going?  With everything going on, I noticed I had swerved a bit and turned my wheel to, you know, get back into my own lane.  I overcompensated a bit and ended up clear in the other lane.  I yelped a bit, gave myself shit in my head and vowed to pay attention before I caused an accident.

Thirty-odd seconds later I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed a car was right up on my bumper.  I got pissed so I sped up a bit, but the guy did not lay off.  I sped up some more and noticed something.  "Hey, there's lights on that car and they're flashing!"

That's when I was smacked in the face like the dipstick I am.

Of course it was a police officer.  Not only did he have his lights on, the siren was going - loud.

Crap.

You're not going to believe me, but I've never been pulled over on a highway before and I had no idea what the protocol was.  Do you pull over to the side of the road? Get off at the next exit? What is safest?  At some point a policeman was going to be exiting his vehicle and I didn't want to get him hurt, so I figured I would make my way off the Queensway.

Absolutely the wrong move.  Apparantly you're supposed to pull the hell over wherever you can.

As I made my way toward the Pinecrest Avenue exit, the police cruiser sped in front of me, cutting me off and basically forcing me to a stop right at the narrow shoulder of the busy highway.

"Shit!" He meant business.

He backed up behind me, parked and got out of his cruiser - with his gun.  He ambled up the behind my truck and peered in the back window with a flashlight.  At this point I was sweating and watching him in my side-view mirror.  He was making his way up the side of the truck, checking each window until finally he saw my doe-in-the-headlight eyes peering out from my window.

Shaking his head, he put the gun away and tapped on my window with the flashlight.  I opened it and said what any normal, but slightly idiotic driver would say;

"Hi!"

"What are you doing?" the policeman asked with a bit of indignation. 

Remembering that John had always told me to never, ever let on that you had done anything wrong, I said "Ummmm... driving.  I'm going to a meeting."

"Do you know that you ended up halfway in two lanes twice before you moved back in? AND, you were going at least 120km/hr."  The speeding was news to me, but the swerving was right.

"I'm sorry, Officer. So sorry.  I was sneezing and I'm sorry."  I think I was crying at that point.

"Sorry? You could have been hurt of hurt someone. Let me see your license and registration please."

I started to sweat just a bit more.  I never know where that stuff is and I was reasonably sure this guy didn't want to hear about me leaving it at home, but knowing exactly where it might be.  I searched the console and because God loved me just a little bit that day, it was right where it belonged.

I handed it over to him, like the responsible driver I am (you know, the kind who knows where her registration is) and put my hands in my lap.

Without a word, he walked away.  Leaving me to sit and cry.  What else could I do? Not only had I almost killed myself, but I had had a gun pulled on my truck.  I'm sure he had no idea who was behind the wheel, but how many Suburban driving soccer Moms are out there with guns and ammo in their backseats speeding on the highway?

He came back and the speech began; "You know, you're 31 years old and healthy. Women your age don't die from cancer or heart attacks, they die in car crashes because they're not paying attention. This is totally preventative. Do you have children?"

"Yes." I squeaked. "Four."

He looked like he was going to pass out. "Four?! What if something happened to you. Or to them. What would you do?"

All I could do was shake my head and apologize.  I was getting a bit pissed off at his little lecture and felt a bit like a scolded child, but I knew that was because he was right.  I had acted stupidly and I knew it.

He let me off with a warning and I was on my way.  I was shaking, but I was on my way.

I want to tell you I try to do better, but most of the time, I don't.  I still look back at the kids instead of just looking in the rearview mirror or telling them to wait.  I still change the CD while talking on my cellphone and planning my day.  It's so wrong, and I know it.

Tonight though, on my way home from another meeting, I was almost hit when an oncoming car made it's way across the centre line.  The other driver noticed just at the last second that he was headed right for me and we both swerved. He ended up fine, still in his lane, in tact and on his way. I ended up on the side of the road, almost in a ditch and with a heart pounding so fast, I thought it might flip out my chest.

I can't control what other cars on the road do when they drive, but I can control me and my vehicle.  The look on the other driver's face was enough to remind me why that officer was right.  The look of  "Holy shit. I'm about to really hurt another person!".  I don't ever want to hurt someone, myself included, so I'm going to listen to the slightly righteous cop and try to pay better attention.

There's just too much to lose.

Cracked (Or, signs you should go back to bed)

I had some errands to run this morning and my route took me into Carleton Place. I found myself at a light staring at our local auto glass repair shop.

Perfect!

Why you ask? Well, my truck has had a cracked windshield since Boxing Day. The windshield was chipped while driving sometime in September. I took it in to repair the chip, but it was always visible even after they sealed it.  So when it cracked into a 4 foot long eyesore, I wasn't surprised.

I had been meaning to bring it back in to the auto glass shop to schedule a time to have the windshield replaced.

I was giddy that I had actually remembered. I pulled in and went inside the office to ask the tech to come out and have a look. He said he would be happy to and followed me out.

He looked puzzled the minute the door closed behind us. I figured he was trying to come up with subtle ways to hit on me and moved on to show him the crack. I pointed to the windshield and ... shit.

I turned a big shade of bright red. The technician now looked extrememly bewildered and I just looked foolish.  I hadn't taken the truck with the crack in the windshield. I had taken John's truck. The windshield is crack free.

I pulled it togethere though! Like a trooper. I went inside, booked an appointment to bring the actual damaged truck in and walked out. Then I got into the undamaged truck and cried. I'm such a tool!