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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

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!

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!