what coffee, facebook, instagram, Robert Newton Peck, public bathrooms, and Star Trek have in common

I started writing a different post, but it was too heartfelt and intense and was quickly deteriorating into something icky, so I filed it away for another day and I’m writing this one instead.

I’m all about the coffee today.

I woke up to rain and a cold bathroom and a dismal view, and I miss my husband.

It’s not as nice drinking coffee by myself in the morning. The first cup, I mean. I like to share that one with him while he eats his eggs and checks his texts. I’m trying to break him of that habit. No phone at the table, I say. Not much progress yet, but anyway, coffee. I like sipping it hot and fresh while he texts and we chat.

The second cup, after he’s gone, is a peaceful, quiet meditation.

I’m missing my first cup of coffee time.

So I’m feeling a tad peevish. You know what I mean. Little things that I usually find mildly amusing are annoying the heck out of me. Like Facebook. I enjoy Facebook for lots of reasons. Connecting with people, seeing their pictures, admiring their crafts or their decorating or their food. And I’m not being snarky. I don’t care how many food pictures or tilty-kid pictures or sunrise pictures you post. I really don’t. I post them too, and I like them.

It’s all the memes and quotes and inspiration that is really starting to get under my skin. The borrowing of other people’s words, without any real meaningful internalization.

Does that sound bad?

It’s not that I don’t find them inspiring. Lots of them are. But how about this? How about if you post a Ghandi quote or a butterfly picture with a motivational saying, you add a comment explaining how this has made or is going to make a difference in your life. And I’ll do the same.

So, like, I post this quote… Never miss a chance to keep your mouth shut, by Robert Newton Peck.

First of all, I think it would be nice if I knew who Peck was, and if I didn’t, to take the time to find out that he is an American author, and that this quote comes from his classic coming-of-age novel, A Day No Pigs Would Die. And when I understood that these words were spoken by the father in the story, a quiet man who butchered pigs for a living, then the quote actually means something to me.

And then, after I posted the words on my status, I might say something like, Today, I will resist the temptation to go on and on at my children about the things I think they need to improve.

Consider yourself challenged.

Oops, I just realized the irony of using this quote as an example in a post where I am indeed going on and on. Oh well.

But really, I like Facebook. And I don’t have any kind of problem with instagram or pinterest or whatever online platform draws you in.

I instagram a lot. I think the lazy factor appeals to me. It’s the ultimate scrapbooking/journaling format for lazy people. Like me. I know, I know. I’ve read all the pushback stuff out there about the danger of instagramming your life, and how we only share the good stuff, and how pictures of your awesomely decorated living room are going to send me into waves of cute-decorated-home envy.

Don’t worry. I was already envious.

Let’s recap. So far, I’m against the flurry of inspirational posting on Facebook, but I’m in favour of coffee and online photo posting.

Okay, except for the selfie. I’m kind of over the selfie. But whatever.

But since I’m ranting…

Can I just say that all the different forms of public bathroom technology have me totally confused and a little bit stressed. How many times have I searched for a tap handle to turn, only to have a kind sink-neighbour demonstrate the hand-waving-under-the-faucet technique. And just when I gotten used to hand-waving, some of the newer bathrooms, like in Chapters in Regina, go and install the old style. With taps. Yep, I’m still waving and waiting, until the person waiting behind me to use the sink kindly points out the turny-things. Thanks, Chapters, for yet another hick-in-the-city memory for me.

And don’t get me started about the places they hide the soap. There are things to push or places to wave. I can’t tell you how often I’ve waved my hand like a crazy fool under the dispenser, only to finally pull away and watch the tardy drop of soap fall to the floor.

And the toilets? Who knew flushing could be so complicated. The automatic flushers are the worst. Lean forward to reach for the toilet paper dispenser, let your cheeks rise ever so slightly off the seat, and the smart toilet thinks you’ve left. Flush spray mist everywhere. Ew.

And the toilet paper dispensers? Who designed these things? The ones with the mammoth rolls of tissue-thin paper are the worst. You wiggle your fingers into the dispensing slot, trying not to think of all the other fingers that have been there, and do the two-fingered search for the end of the roll. After a few cycles you find it, and begin scratching off bits of the paper until you have a nice handful of confetti. Confetti in a bathroom just doesn’t cut it, people.

Oh my.

I do appreciate a public bathroom when I need one though. I’ll put up with toilet spray and confetti in an emergency.

Speaking of things I’ll put up with…

Carter and I are watching Star Trek Next Generation on Netflix. I did not remember how bad the first season is. We’re working our way through it, but Carter keeps asking if it gets better, and I keep assuring him it does. I sure hope it does. It’s been several years since I watched the series, but I remember loving it. I keep telling him that the first season of anything is usually not that great. Everyone is figuring their roles and such out, and it’s all a little stiff. So we’re putting up with it in the hopes that it will lay the foundation for the awesomeness that we are expecting in the following seasons. Fingers crossed.

Hmm, the kids are stirring and the coffee in my cup has cooled. Time to leave the words behind and do the day. Have a good one.

Thanks for listening.

 

musical dishwasher

Sleepy still, and its cold in my kitchen, and my bare feet on the frigid tile floor begin to ache, and all I can think is, I need a cup of tea. I really want a cup of coffee but we are out of beans. Oops. But tea will be a welcome substitution in a pinch.

I open the dishwasher door and am greeted by a musical sound. I think it might be Lyndon’s phone? Did he change his ringtone to Dashing Thru the Snow? I doubt it, I think. He’s not usually that festive.

I take out a knife and close the door, puzzled.

I peek back in the dishwasher, curious, and the music begins again, and it makes me smile. The dishwasher is fairly new and a little bit fancy and I think, Wow. They programmed this thing to play Christmas music for the holidays. And I wonder if it will be a new tune every day, or what?

I make the tea and start the breakfast and when Lyndon comes downstairs I say, Go and open the dishwasher door.

He does and it plays its music, and we both look at each other, smiling. Cool, he says.

I take my new Christmas mug out of the dishwasher, the mug I got for free with my recent purchases at our local second-hand store, and we sit down to eat.

I pour our teas and when I raise my new cup for a sip, if it doesn’t begin playing Dashing Through the Snow.

We look at each other.

It was the mug, I say, a little sheepishly.

And to tell you the truth, I am a little bit disappointed. Because a dishwasher playing Christmas music is cute and magical.

But a mug sounding off each time it’s raised for a sip is, well, just annoying.

 

31 days to loving my home: because home is where the fart is

At least, that’s what Carter says.

For an eleven-year-old boy, this about sums it up.

Home is that place where you can have a particularly smelly evening, and be proud of it.

Home is where the stinkier, the better rules.

Home is where volume is important. Volume and, you know, how long it can go on for. The longer and the louder, the better.

Home is where people clap for you when it’s an especially deserving effort.

Home is where you keep track and try to beat your brother’s record in the number of explosions in one evening.

Home is all of these things, plus a dad who’ll tickle the farts right out of you and a mother who still laughs and brothers who make comments like, good one, buddy.

Home Sweet Smelly Home.

Love.

 

chores

All the men are away for the weekend. Just me this morning, and Buddy (the dog), and the chores that need to be done. This morning I discover that when it comes to chores, Buddy is not much help.

As I’m waking up this morning I remember that before he left, Lyndon reminded me that we are almost out of chicken feed. He has an old water heater in the chicken pen that he keeps the stuff in, so I am hopeful there will be enough to get me through the morning. How much do eighty chickens and ten turkeys eat, after all?

As I leave the house, I grab the scrap pail to take out to the birds. Might as well; I’m going that way. I stop to let Buddy off his lead. He jumps up and knocks the pail out of my hand, scattering banana peels and leftover porridge all over the grass. He scarfs down his now-claimed breakfast, and rushes through the gate into the pasture, where the goats are standing and looking at me.

Who are you, they seem to be asking, and what have you done with the guy who knows what he’s doing?

Buddy begins a game of chase-the-goats, and I continue on to the chicken pen. When I take the lid off the feed container, I see some grain at the bottom. I tip the container on its side and practically crawl inside it to reach the feed. The chickens and turkeys are swarming, like horror show swarming, and clucking and making this strange growling sound that I’m sure means, come on guys, there’s a hundred of us and only one of her, we can take her. I’m expecting to be pecked to death at any moment and my family will come home on Sunday afternoon and find me dead in the chicken pen with my head in the feed pail.

Thankfully, against all odds, I manage to scratch out some feed and scatter it for the complaining birds, and turn around to see goats in the pen.

Oops, forgot to close the door.

Now there’s a goats vs chickens vs turkeys war breaking our. I call Buddy to try to help me herd the goats out of the pen. He just looks at me. I try pushing a goat or two, but for every one I push away, another rushes over to fill her spot. The chickens and turkeys are frantic as they watch their food disappear.

I whisper a promise to the birds that I will return later with more food, and leave them to it. I fill the pails and my shoes with water, check for eggs, and finally (whew!) I’m done.

Buddy walks back to the house with me, and begs to come inside. He’s not really supposed to, but, bad mommy that I am, I let him. He crashes on the living room floor, exhausted.

Poor puppy, he worked so hard.

 

my crazy kids

A funny for your Monday …

I’m so proud!

And, the trailer for their upcoming movie (it’s only 45 seconds) …

Skullface, the trailer

Be afraid.

 

My son: 007

If you are not acquainted with my Number Three, well, let’s just say he is an unusual, bizarre, interesting young man. Once or twice a week, he and I venture into town to run errands (and stop for a milkshake at Cafe Paris). Lately, Carter has been treating these little jaunts as assignments that he (spy boy) must undertake. Today, for example, we went into town to get the mail, pick up milk and water from the grocery store, and enjoy a slushee from the Snack Shack (Cafe Paris was closed).

As I pulled up in front of the Post Office, I asked Carter if he would run in and get the mail for me.

“Sure,” he said.

I then watched as he jumped out of the vehicle, ducked down, and then dashed from car to car down the block. Looking left and right, he then ran up the Post Office steps and darted inside. A few minutes later he reappeared. I watched as he flattened himself against the side of the building and waited till the old man with the cane hobbled up the stairs and went inside. When he was sure the coast was clear, he sprinted for the car, opened the door, and flung himself into the seat.

Whew. Mission accomplished. Phone bill safely delivered!

 

Naughty Pink and Crawly Pink

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how much I have been enjoying the addition of two little Pink Ones to our family. Since then, little HM has moved on. We only had her for a couple of weeks, but grew to love her in that short time. Thumbelina is still here, and we are enjoying her very much. She spent a rather interesting evening recently.

Last Saturday, I put her to bed at her usual time. Normally, she goes right to sleep and doesn’t stir until morning. Must have been a full moon, because when I went upstairs to put myself to bed a few hours later, the little monkey was nowhere to be found. Not in her bed, or my bed, or a boy’s bed, or under a bed?! I finally found her, hiding in her closet. I could tell by the look on her face that something was afoot. I tucked her back in bed, told her to STAY, and went to investigate. Yep, she’d been busy.

There was shaving cream all over the bathroom floor. There was barbie hair all over the bathroom floor. And, a beautiful, signed masterpiece was prominently displayed on the hallway wall. A pencil sketch, thankfully. It could have been worse!

The princess had a busy Sunday afternoon, cleaning up after herself!

###

In addition to joy, laughter, and shaving cream sculptures, one of my pinks brought something not quite as welcome into our home. After she had been with us for about ten days, I discovered lice in HM’s hair. It was bedtime on a Saturday night, and Lyndon (of course!) was away for the weekend. Poor HM literally freaked out. I was freaking out on the inside, but did a masterful job of taking charge and seeming like I was in control of things. I called the local pharmacist, who graciously agreed to meet me at his store and subsequently armed me with bottles of lice shampoo and some much needed words of encouragement. And thus commenced a busy few days of shampooing hair, combing hair, buzzing hair (only the boys!), and the washing of mountains of laundry. No one else in the house became host to the nasty critters, nor (as far as I know) did we spread the joy to any of our friends or neighbours. Whew!

 

Blogging Sabbath

I guess that is what I have been on the past few weeks. We have been gone, camping mainly, for most of the summer, and internet access has been spotty at best. But here I am, in the laundry room of the Buffalo Lookout Campground, just off Highway #1, east of Regina, Saskatchewan. And the WiFi signal is coming in strong! So, as I wait for my clothes to tumble dry, I’ll try to update a bit.

No Staycation for this family! We have been on the road. Vacation all the way!

To begin with, the boys and I spent a few days at Mom and Dad’s in Airdrie. Actually, Tyson and I dropped the little boys off at Mom and Dad’s and we headed over to Red Deer to help with their Vacation Bible School. Six of their members (Preacher John and five teens) came to Gravelbourg to help with our VBS, so we were returning the favour. So, the little boys had a great time with Grandma and Grandpa (I think they had only been there an hour and they had already talked Grandpa into taking them to the swimming pool!) and Tyson and I enjoyed helping and visiting in Red Deer.

We arrived home from Alberta, spent about two hours catching up on mail and loading the trailer, and then we were off on the next adventure. The whole family, this time. Our destination was Tisdale (northern Saskatchewan) but we only got as far as Regina the first day. Lyndon was gung ho to try the Walmart camping experience, so we did. We stayed in the parking lot of the Southland Mall Walmart, and, I have to say, it wasn’t too bad. We did a little shopping for our trip and checked out the near-by Chapters for some book bargains. Several other trailers were staying the night as well, so I didn’t feel too weird. I was amazed at how dirty it was, though. There was garbage all over the place. That evening, while Lyndon and Tyson were outside on the grass setting up their new fishing rods, a man came by looking for money. The little boys and I were in the store so we missed this experience. Anyway, it sounds like they had quite a chat. The man insisted he needed money to buy food for his family, so Lyndon asked him about his kids… their names and ages… with the end result being a lighter wallet for Lyndon and an interesting experience for Tyson.

Anyway, after an uneventful night (other than the drive-by compliments of a noisy crowd of teenagers at about midnight), we continued our trek north. We arrived in Tisdale and found our campground, which was located on the edge of town beside the Tourist Information Centre. Out front was a large honey bee statue, and a huge picture of Brent Butt. Honey and Brent are Tisdale’s two claims to fame. The joke, of course, became: To get to our campground, just turn at Brent’s Butt. (Remember, I have three boys!)

Thus began the next part of our summer experience, which we will call Music Camp. Stay tuned.

 

Hey Christians. Did you get the memo?

The memo that says it’s okay for us to swear now. Apparently, swearing is the new way of being “relevant” in this post modern culture. But, only certain swear words, and only in certain contexts.

Elaboration…

I recently heard a preacher say the D word. In his sermon. In a church building. Really. He was asking the congregation if any of them cared about the future of their children. In what I understood to be righteous indignation he asked, “Does anyone give a d***?” Although I can’t bring myself to type the word (I’m such a prude), it obviously made an impact on me, as I remember the sermon and it has been several months.

I also see the “D word” sprinkled throughout various blogs written by religious folks. It is, I think, the most commonly used swear word. By religious people, I mean. The “F word”, though, is still off limits. But “shirt without the r” is, although not as commonly used as the “D word”, acceptable in some circles and within certain contexts. And the “child of an unwed mother” is also becoming more common. However, the use of the “finger” is still, as far as I can tell, too crude to be considered acceptable.

Hope that helps.

 

Nesting

I told a friend the other day that I felt like I was “nesting”. You know, that thing you do, organizing and cleaning your house, before a new baby arrives. There was a second or two of silence, and then I added, “You know, because we are going to be getting some foster children.” Apparently she thought I might actually be expecting a baby, of all things, and she wasn’t sure how she should respond.

Segue into the funny ways the kids interpret our actions:

– When I pull out the vacuum cleaner, they want to know who is coming over to visit.

– When I make dessert for supper, they want to know who is coming over to visit.

– When I ask them to clean up the yard (ie. remove the deer antlers from the front step and throw away the deer bones the dog has been chewing on), they want to know who is coming over to visit.

My friend’s comment was the funniest though. She said that when she tells her kids to get their pants on, they want to know where they are going. Like, you can’t just wear pants for the sake of simply being clothed? There has to be a reason? Too funny.

Really, though, there has been a lot of nesting going on here of late. We decided to move Tyson into the room on the main floor and to put bunk beds in his old room upstairs. We bought bunk beds on Friday when we went to Regina. I found them on usedregina.com. I am so glad my sister-in-law turned me on to that site. The bunk beds are in great shape and we also got a mattress, for $120. I love it! Lyndon left me at the mall, shopping for stocking stuffers for my kids and getting my hair cut, while he and Carter went and picked up the bunk beds. Minor problem, though. Apparently he asked Carter to hang on to the bag with the hardware for putting the beds together. After they loaded everything and left, he asked Carter where the bag of bolts was. Oops. Carter had set the bag on the truck tire and forgotten about it. Lyndon phoned the bunk bed lady and asked her to check her driveway. Sure enough, the bag was there. Lyndon will pick it up this week when he goes to Regina for work.

Sooo, we brought the bunk beds home but haven’t been able to put them together yet. We did do a lot of other stuff, though. Tyson disassembled his old bed and hauled it down to the basement. I have spent much of my time going through Tyson’s “new” room. Amazing, the things that were in that closet. We also cleaned up some of the junk that seems to accumulate in the yard, and hauled it away to the recycling place.

We had friends over after church on Sunday. Altogether there were ten kids running around, having a great time. Sundays are Colton’s favourite day of the week. It is Friend Day. He gets to see friends at church, and we often have friends over on Sunday afternoon.

The boys have told many people the story of How We Changed The Flat Tire this week. They wanted me to clarify a few things in regard to my previous post on this topic. Yes, we blew a tire and we had to change it. What I neglected to report, however, was the fact that I badly needed a bathroom at the time. Trust me there was nary a public restroom, nor even a tree, in site. Positioning the boys strategically as lookouts, and instructing them to yell if any vehicle should approach, I used the ditch as quickly and discreetly as possible. The boys thought it was a hilarious situation for Mom to be in. Of course, being boys, they have no idea. I coped (admirally, I thought) with the situation, got the tire changed, and stood up to receive Colton’s heartwarming comment… “I knew you could do it, Mom. I was praying for you.”

Thanks, buddy.