Bread Crumbs In The Butter

My poor feet

I got a new job. Did I mention that?

I won't tell you where it is, but I will tell you that I am now employed by our nation's largest employer and I have to drive into La Belle Province every day. Is that enough information for you? If not and you still need help, I can't help you there, dummy.

The best part about the new job isn't the increase in pay, the full benefits or getting to sit my butt down in the World's Most Comfortable Chair all day - it's getting to wear my own clothes. My old job had me wear a uniform and as sexy as it was, it's nice to be able to fancy it up a bit. I clean up pretty well. I even coloured my hair all dark to mark this milestone!

The other best part. Shoes. I love shoes. I could buy seventeen new pairs in fifteen minutes if you let me.  (Which is the opposite of when I am trying on pants. It will take me four hours to pick out one pair!) And I have bought a bunch of new pairs of shoes. High heels, flats, wedges, sandals, pumps! Black, white, grey patent leather and even, yes, red.

The downside to this other best part? My feet. My feet are killing me! Between breaking in new pumps, stretching out new flats with my big clown feet and playing soccer against women determined to take out my toes, my poor feet are tired - and godawful ugly!

My girl Truvy said it best in 1989: "In a good shoe, I wear a size six, but a seven feels so good, I buy a size eight."

I need to heed her advice!

A Sister Thing

Did you know I have a sister?

I'm sure I've mentioned her at some point. We spent fifteen years living together, therefore a good portion of the early life I've written about includes her in some way.

Now that I think about it, fifteen years doesn't sound like very much. At almost thirty-five years old, I've now lived more years without my sister in the same house as I have with. That's quite odd considering we're blood and come from the same womb.

My sister, Kelly, is three years younger than I am. As we grew up, I thought we couldn't look more different. She is average height,  olive skinned with huge brown eyes and stunning auburn hair that is thick and awesomely straight.  I'm too tall, fair skinned and have blue eyes. My hair needs a good deal of expensive hair products to be as straight as I want it to be and I don't remember anyone ever calling Kelly "Big Ethel".  (I can thank our father for that nickname.)

Okay, this isn't a pity party. I'm sure there are things about me that my sister resents. If she were here she would tell you, cause if there's one thing Kelly does, it's tell you exactly what she's thinking.  So, I guess we're alike in one way.

My point is, other than those things, I can't really tell you much about my sister. Years ago, she moved to Edmonton, Alberta and while we talk often and I am in on the major details of her life, I really don't know her like I did when we lived under the same roof.

I definitely don't beat the snot out of her like I did when we lived under the same roof, but I digress.

That's all about to change.

In August, Kelly, her spouse and her two children will move back home. More specifically, my home.  We have a whole spare house here on our farm and they are going to rent it.  I cannot tell you how giddy I am. I am looking forward to getting to know her again.  We're both athletic so I have this grand idea that we can run together, play basketball together and I can introduce her to all of my sports crazy friends.  For example, she just called to tell me she had gone mountain biking for the first time and sensed an addiction. I was so giddily stunned that all I could stammer was "I cannot wait until you get here!"

Also, Kelly can drink beer like nobody's business, so that who's to say we won't indulge every once in a while? 

My sister has become someone I greatly admire and I can't wait to spend more time with her.  I did have to promise my mother not to set her on fire or try to down her in dishwater, but that was easy. I've grown a lot since I did that. It was the eighties. Everyone was crazy back then.

People are funny

I've wanted to blog about this a lot in the past, but I've resisted the urge and spared you the rant.  I've decided that you get to suffer on this Thursday night, because what happened to me today was so stunning that I was left angry bordering on tears.  I kid you not.  When I get really angry I tend to cry these hot, stinging tears that make people think I'm sad, but really, if you see me red-faced with tiny tears in the corner of my eyes - run.

I work in a pseudo-retail environment.  Meaning, it's not a place where the average person shops at every day, but most people have to go there quite a few times a year to pick things up, or buy little square things to put on letters and make them go.  Get my drift?

So yes, at my place of work I deal with the public.  Given that I am friendly and generally enjoy the company of people, I'm usually shoved at the front desk, ready to greet you and meet your postal needs. Lucky me, eh?  No. Lucky you.  I am damn good at my job.

As a rule, I love this part of my job.  Old ladies call me "dear" and comment on my "wonderful height".  Old men call me "honey" and comment on my "wonderful height and pretty hair".   Kids come in to get birthday presents from grandparents or throw mail down the mail slot.  It's pretty cool overall.

Except, and this has happened a few times,  for the cell phone offenders.

Now, if you know me, you know I've become hotly obsessed with my Blackberry and to me, it's okay.  Cause dude, time and place.  I like to think I've got a handle on that.  Not to mention that I never, ever talk on that thing when I'm, you know, interacting with actual people.

Today, a girl, mid twenties came in.  She stood in line. Her phone rang.  She picked it up and proceeded to talk.   As she was not yet at the front of the line, that was fine, even if she was talking at a decibel best reserved for a crowded nightclub.  When she got to me she had a letter in her hand that she threw on the counter and the proceeded to mouth the word "Stamp".

I put it on the scale and it was a bit heavy. I waited a few seconds for her to get the hint that this was where I got to interact with her and she might want to hang the phone up.  But no ... she continued on.  So, I interrupted.

"It's a bit heavy, it needs extra postage."

She stared at me blankly.

I had to resist the urge to wave in her face to see if she was processing.

I said again.  "That's $1.03 please."

And, I shit you not, this girl in the awesome Lululemon coat with nails that I could never button my jeans with put one of those perfectly manicured nails in my face and told me to "hang on one sec because (she was) on the phone."

My head pounded instantly and I actually muttered "Are you freaking kidding me here?"

Eventually paid and she moved on, but this immediately got stored in my "What is wrong with people?" bank.

Even now, I'm still stunned. 

You must have something like this.  It doesn't even have to relate to cell phone usage. Please, regale me with your tales of basic human stupidity.  Let's not have this girl be alone!

Have I blogged about my teeth before?

As I swirled this post in my head I wondered if I had blogged about going to the dentist before.

Turns out, going to the dentist should have it's own category on this here website. 

I've told you how I love to have my teeth scaled and polished, but that my former dentist's hygienist had some ... issues.

I've waxed philosophical about the dental chair. 

I've even let you into the scariest part of my marriage - how competitive my husband and I are about our teeth.

It's not a mystery to me. I talk about the dentist a lot because I love my teeth.  They're reasonably straight, not too yellow and perfect.  Yes, that's right, they're perfect.  Thanks to thousands of my mother's dollars and a wonderful things called sealants, my teeth have never been drilled. My gums have never been frozen.  No cavities have ever been filled. 

That is, until now.

At my last cleaning six months ago, the wonderful Dr Jim noticed a bit of a hole in one of my molars. He said it was no big deal, just something to keep an eye on.  Keep an eye on?  Does he know me?  I brushed that sucker, flossed that little floozy, pretty much everything except perform Santeria on it! 

I guess it had a mind of it's own because at my cleaning last night, his lovely hygienist told me that it's time to fill that sucker.  I didn't cry, but I did have to hold some tears back.  I had a tonne of questions.  How do they freeze it?  Do I need a root canal? Are dentures far off? Do I still get a sticker and a new toothbrush?

She was very nice and very kind to the crazy lady sitting in her chair. Still though, it hasn't stopped me from staring into space all day and suddenly shouting out "I can't believe I have a freaking cavity!"

I need help.

Every Inch Of This House

I used to joke that I spent twenty-seven hours a day in this house and that you couldn't hide anything from me.

While I now work outside the house eight of those twenty-seven hours, you still can't get anything past me here.  I know every inch of this house. Every sound, every creak and every hiding spot.

Want to know where your white and black striped lucky soccer sock is? It's in the pile of mismatched socks in the rickety old basket on the top shelf of the linen closet.

Where is that broken Indiana Jones Lego figurine who's missing the hat and one leg?  He's under your captains bed. No, not in the drawer. You have to squeeze between your bed and the wall and make your way into the dirty underbelly of that bed. He's there, next to that empty bag of marshmallows you think I don't know about.

What was that sound at 3am? The backwash of our water softener.

Who took your blue sweater?  I saw it in Kristyn's backpack, so it must be her.

Why won't the tub drain?  There's a Lego Indiana Jones leg stuck in there.

Who ate all the marshmallows? Alex. Look under his bed.

I can tell you if the front door or back door just slammed. Which sliding door was opened. Which toilet just flushed.

You just can't get anything past me. Even if I'm not here, I'll find out.

Things I Need Right Now

• Laser hair removal.  Holy crap on a stick, waxing hurts.
• A yoga day with Moyra (and hopefully meet up with Karen too)
• The Beastie Boys to come back to town.
• For Tampax Pearl Lites to be available in Canada so John doesn't freak out when I ask him to get me some next time he is where they sell them.
• A new cell phone.  I'd like one in iPhone form, please.
• New t-shirts.
• For beer not to make me so gassy.
• For wine not to make me so barfy.
• For one more kid to be playing soccer on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No wait. I don't need that, I need the exact opposite of that.
• To stop getting a hockey stick to the shin every single time I play. In the same spot. Opening up the same cut.
• Self-cleaning toilets.
• The perfect four bedroom house within walking distance of my kids school.
• On that note, someone to buy this perfect house, which is no longer perfect for me. 

What do you need right now?

Saviour

The paint disaster happened on Monday. It was about 6:04am on Tuesday that John and I realized there was no way we could paint this house ourselves. I'm a decent painter, but for the price we're asking for this house, it needs to be a bit more than decent.

Several painting companies were called to come in for quotes. The first one was last night. He's a friend of a friend and a great guy all around. He took a look around, wondered if we were sabotaged by an army of drunk circus folk and then let me know he wouldn't feel good about the job just patching things up. He wanted to paint the whole house.

I won't say what the quote was, but it was so much lower than I thought and I nearly cried. Maybe it's cause I look good in a t-shirt or because there is now a look in my eyes that lets you know I will cut someone if one more thing goes wrong this week. I don't know. What I know is that I gave him a very weird hug and asked him when he could start. He'll be hear next Wednesday.

I have to take a sec here to thank everyone who offered their time and help in the midst of this disaster. Some offered food. Some offered beer. One extra special, and unbelievably awesome chick even offered me her husband!

Why else do you share stories like mine yesterday but to whine, justify the amount of alcohol you've consumed the night before and to be reminded that people actually like you?

What? Two Toned Walls Don't Scream High-End Real Estate?

Forty-eight hours ago, we were all set and on track. John and I had really worked our asses off, with the help of many great friends who moved furniture and cleaned house.  The light at the end of the tunnel was there. We were two days away from the final staging by the professional stager and two and a half days away from professional photographs.

Only one thing was left from the stager's very detailed list of items to complete. Little paint touch ups on the walls. We had expected this since we have four kids and have lived here for almost four years. We still had paint leftover from when the house was built, so we had my father in law head to Home Hardware to get another gallon.  Very helpful of him.

I guess he decided to take it a step further and patch the walls with drywall compound. Okay. He was a little liberal, but I sanded it down and had planned on doing the small touch ups myself on Tuesday afternoon.

True to an ongoing history of taking things upon himself where this house is concerned, he did the touch ups on the walls on Monday. Problem is, he didn't just touch up like you and I would, he rolled it on in two foot to five foot sections!  Oh, and the kicker? He didn't stop to see if the paint matched.

Guess what?

The paint does not match.

If I back up this trainwreck, I can let you know that when this house was built, a professional decorator recommended this new phenom in decorating. 3-D walls. Have you heard of this?  There are three different shades of the same colour in this house. Some walls are darker and some are light. It's a very subtle effect that, in my opion, does jack shit of a difference!  That is, until my father in law, meaning well and all, decided to do massive touch ups with one colour on every wall.

This has not only set us back timewise, but financially. This house has high ceilings and several vaulted ceilings.  I can't paint this myself.

So, I'm sitting her waiting for a professional painter to come give us a quote. I hope he takes payment in hugs, kisses and good thoughts, cause that's all I have.

The Decision To Stay

A few days ago, during a Twitter call out for questions and blog post inspiration, Cristina over at Homeslice asked how I was liking my new job.

Um. Oops.

I guess in the kerfuffle I forgot to talk to you all about this. So let me tell you what happened.

About a week before I was due to start, I got my schedule for my first week. It was wildly erratic and insanely long. Including lunch breaks I was set to work forty-five hours. When you include travel time to and from, not account for traffic, I was setting myself up to be away from home more than fifty-five hours that week.

As I sat down to juggle rides here and there for the kids, prepping Kristyn to deal with getting off the bus and being home with her siblings on her own for a few hours a night and generally freaking out, I knew what had to be done. John knew it. The kids knew it. We all did. With this job, I would live in two places - work and home. There would be no soccer, there would be no ball hockey, there would be no gym. I couldn't commit to coaching or driving or even just sitting on the sidelines and watching my kids excel.

I wasn't ready to let it go yet and didn't want this to be my idea, so of course, I started a fight with John so that I could get him to tell me not to do it. That didn't happen, so it was a wasted fight, but it felt good to cry and yell at someone.

The job was right up my alley. I love people and I love clothes and I heart discounts with my whole body. It wasn't a dirty job that involved hauling bags of mail or getting paper-cuts and ruing any manicure I've ever had. It was all mine and I got it all on my own. I impressed this woman so much that she went to bat for me on so many things.  You can imagine how hard it was to call her and turn this opportunity down. But it was right.

I'm still working at the post office. You know what? It's not so bad now. I will never work past 6:00pm and rarely work past 5:PM. It takes seven minutes to get to work and my boss is incredibly understanding about the demands of working with young children. It's not glamourous work, but I get to see many of my friends in this small town on a daily basis. I might not be challenged intellectually, but I still get to freak many people out with my mad skills at remembering post office box numbers.

It's all good. I'm happy with this choice. If I've learned one thing it's that I'm still young and I can still impress. There will be time for the glamour eventually.

Just another example of how complicatedly boring my life can be, eh?

Bits of conversations 'round The Hubert House

Alex to the room; "I don't want to get to bed. It sucks! I'm not tired. I hate sleeping!"

Meghan to Alex; "Geez, you can tell you're a boy. Sleeping rocks! No wonder boys are so weird all day. They're just tired!"

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I was reading Alexander And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day to my Alex and we got to the part where Alex's mom had forgotten his dessert, my Alex said "Boy kid, suck it up. At least your mom packed you a damn lunch!"

I'm not sure if he was just trying to put things into perspective or lamenting on how I don't make him lunch? (I make him a very good lunch every day, by the way!)

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John came into the kitchen to me and said "How do you spell hassock?".

I said "I dunno. I don't know anything about hockey, babe!"

"No no, not the hockey player. A hassock, like a pillow thing."

"What the hell is a hassock? Why can't you just call it a pillow?"

He was pretty exasperated at "Cause it's not a pillow. It's like a footstool! You know, a hassock!"

"So call it a freaking footstool! I have no idea what the freaking hell you're talking about you crazy person. I think you're making words up!"

"A hassock is like another word for a pillowy footstool thing that older people had. Like chesterfields. Old people used to call sofas chesterfields!" His hands were waving, he was really going nuts.

"I don't call a sofa a sofa now!" I yelled.

"What the effing frig to you call a sofa then?"

"A couch, doorknob!"

He left the room at that point, a hassock in one hand and his head in the other.  I still have no fricking idea what a hassock is, but I have since googled it and I think my grandmother had a hassock next to her chesterfield.