Worky McWorkenstein…

She’s baaaaaaack.

No, not full time. Please. It hasn’t been a full six months yet. My sabbatical isn’t technically over. I know this because the pile of bills still gives me dirty looks every time I pass by them then stand around and whisper about how lazy and unmotivated I am. But I was on set today, watching, giggling, absorbing. I get called in every once in a while to learn different stuff and junk about the new position. It’s a bit different than my usual ‘show up on set and work my guts out’ for four days straight. There’s much more detail to the new job, less drama, which makes me verrrry happy. But after a day on the go I’m looking forward to having the rest of the week off. I’m exhausted! All that thinking and concentrating. Man. working is hard.

Kidding. I kid.

I have two weeks until the contract starts and I’m psyching myself up. Taking the train in this morning was a giggle, so bourgeois, suburban and civilized it made me giddy. Of course I was wearing jeans and a back pack so I didn’t blend in with the suits, and dresses with ankle socks and running shoes. Wait ‘til I do this everyday and I’ll be just like the regulars doing sudoku puzzles and ignoring the great view. My neighbor and I hoofed it to the train and she has the system all figured out right down to which side of the train the doors will open and which staircase to go down. She’s my new hero.

This will be a car-free job most of the time so there will be lots of walking and air conditioned train rides. How civilized. My carbon footprint is shrinking and now I can afford smokes. (Kidding! Don’t smoke! anymore)

On the intellectual front…holy smokes did you see HOUSE? Rarely do I get excited watching regular TV -but that episode was exceptional. The husband, fresh and ripe from his hockey game stumbled in half way through the show, then in a ‘sensitive’ moment ground his coffee beans in the last ten minutes during the most important scene of the show. Surprisingly, I decided to let him live. He’ll understand once he watches the episode and at that critical moment he ruined for me I will sit beside him and do all the things that annoy him like rubbing my feet together rhythmically, flossing, humming/droning in a minor key and chewing gum with my mouth open.

He may experience the episode differently than me but I believe it was an Emmy worthy episode. Next spring we’ll watch the TV award show and the husband will probably ruin the moment for Hugh by making coffee -loudly. That’s ok soon I’ll be a working class hero to the commuting public and I’ll be able to afford a good set of ear phones to shut out the preparation noise… and more!

Two more weeks to dream, scheme and await what remains to be seen.

Cawfee Shop…

Don’t drink the stuff unless it’s caffeine-free, fat-free, lactose-free, coffee taste-free and it’s foamy like a latte, or ‘a whole lot of money for a whole lotta’ nothing’.
Other than that coffee and it’s culture is dead to me.

Maybe that’s a little harsh.

All I know is my house stinks of stale coffee most of the time because the husband grinds his beans (‘why I ‘oughta grind his beans!’) down to two scoopfuls of cawfee grounds, then adds a mug and a half of water then lets the machine cook it down until it smells bad. It seems to have a sensor for bad smells because just when it starts to stink a loud electronic beep sounds four annoyingly long times to announce it’s finished over-cooking the liquid. The longer it sits on the barely heated element the stinkier it gets. The husband rarely remembers to shut it off after he pours out his one cup of sludge leaving the other half a cup to fester for the day. Needless to say the smell stays, hangs onto everything, everywhere.

I’m a tea drinker, generally, normal, black tea dust in a round bag tea drinker -scent-free.

Today for the first time I sat with a friend in a neighborhood coffee shop. It’s part of a chain of coffee shops that will survive beyond global warming and the apocalypse because even fried and dyed Canadians will still want their double double (two creams, two sugars). I had just finished telling this friend that I didn’t know anybody who frequented this coffee shop when the first of several people I know came in, said hi, or waved. I was very surprised first because I don’t consider myself a coffee shop type of person but these people acted like seeing me there was a normal part of their day. “Tea time again?” they could have said, it was that natural. I kept trying to qualify how really rare it is for me to be there but people kept dropping in, chatting with me and briefly catching up. The bigger surprise was how I felt about these neighbors in the community who were thoughtful enough to acknowledge me and how in five years I felt like an accepted part of this friendly community. I felt… proud as I waved and smiled and turned back to my friend and the hot tea in front of me. She laughed and raised an eyebrow like she doubted I wasn’t a regular in my regular hangout having my ‘usual’ regular tea (bag in, with milk). It was a real Canadiana moment for me, one I won’t forget for a while for the aforementioned reasons but also because after sitting inside that place for an hour the pungent smell of stale cawfee has permeated my clothing, skin and hair and I smell ljust like my new hangout, the cawfee shop. SO glad they banned smoking indoors.

“I Think Your Car Is Jealous”

commented the eight year old.

I looked out the front door at my old, bird poop-covered car sitting on the road.

“Yeah, right”, I thought.

Ten minutes ago in one loud rev-of-an-engine the Subaruski got displaced. Ten minutes ago the Cobra came home, coiling it’s love around the husband and eight year old like a good step mother.

Jealous? No, I don’t think my car is jealous of a freshly-conditioned ‘88 Mustang. My car is much too refined (and expensive) to be upstaged by a mere paint job. But tell that to the husband’s boys who will begin sending ‘welcome home’ cards to a car. The last few weeks have been so tense. One moment we thought the car would be ready and prepared to bring home only to be told it was a false alarm. The husband paced and stopped sleeping through the night FILLED with anticipation. The phone rang incessantly over the last three weeks by boys of all ages inquiring like expectant relatives wondering if the baby had arrived. Disappointed, the husband had to explain that these things take time, patience is important and all good things are worth the wait. He was running out of cliches when the phone call finally came.

“It’s ready”, he giggled.

“Great” I replied flatly, looking for my keys.

“Can you drive me? I’m too excited!”, he could have said but didn’t (except in my imagination).

It’s still sporting the illiterate interpretation of a word on it’s license plate, but other than that I barely recognized the ‘stang. A drop of rain slowly fell from the sky and landed on the hood as the husband dove with his hand out too late to intercept it. Obsessive much? I drove home in my car noting in the rear view mirror that the husband had thrown his body on the hood in a defensive measure against the rain -sure to make him look insane. I went to the school to pick up the eight year old. When I arrived the husband was already there.

“Did you get the car?!?!?!?” the eight year old demanded. One look and his question was answered, he immediately went into goofy boy grin mode and ran for the passengers’ side. Racing against himself, the old/new car got to the one parking spot before me, hence my car is now relegated to the road until the garage is finished -in 2010.

A neighbor walked out his front door, stopped dead in his tracks, broke into a wide grin and cheered. This neighbor is 12 years old and yes, as a man in training we witnessed the official arrival of his fully developed car gene. The husband’s voice cracked in pride.

“Yes, it’s ho-ome!” he yelled.

If there is an e-card announcing the new arrival of an old car the husband will find it. You should check your in-box for this card containing all the new-stuff-done-to-the-old-car details like year, colour, replaced parts, etc. because if you’re a guy the details will be imperative. Ask any of the same guys if they remember the details of their first-born’s birth they will draw a blank. I guarantee it.

Jealous? Of a car?

Bouncing Back…

Husband home from Canada’s west end.
Six hour drive through torrential downpour to see Twenty year old for one point five hours.
Separate the eight year old from the Wii system.
Feed the cat.
Clean up after the dog who ate the cat’s food.

Check check check check and check.

So how about the shark-jumping Oprah tribute to TC (or gay dwarf midget according to Lainey)? It’s so good to be able to be home with the mini-van majority to witness Oprah’s descent into TV oblivion. She could hardly pull off the sincerity act -he must have some interesting information about her to force her to ‘emote’ on such an icky level. Who bought that? There was some serious under current on that set. My gag reflex stayed in a heightened state for both the broadcasts.

She (Oprah) also keeps promoting her ‘landmark’ web dog and pony show with yet another German who has combined philosophy with religion (Werner Airhead, anybody?) and come up with a completely original ‘cult’? Oprah drank that cool aid and her confused followers don’t want to be left out so they’re playing along.
What does this guy’s ‘course’ tell you? Be empty-headed, feel nothing. It’s like ‘The Secret’, every motivational cliche ever written compiled into one book. C’mon, it’s a compilation put together by a TV producer (yes, there is some envy to her foresight on my part). But where is our discernment? Are we so desperate we’ll drink the cool-aid and eat the empty white bread in an attempt to fill our souls? You bet. Oprah knows. Her soul is in need of filling. She’s just a TV journalist with a huge ego who has built an empire on her emptiness. Madonna, (the McD’s) of pop star marketing keeps seeking the next new thing too because her soul is empty and the sheep follow.

Was giving TC air time to pretend Scientology is ok her attempt at ‘fair air-play’? Or is she trying to negate the bad press about her own descent into ‘cult’ pseudo-religious zeal. “Hey, that new earth stuff is not as bad as Thetans and Xenu!” Step back and look at that sentence all ye women of mini vans. Open thine eyes to the empty reality being shoved into you every day. Wise up and turn off Oprah.

But watch the nice, gentle lifestyle shows on the cable channels. I still need to work.

What’s That Thing Called?

You know the thing that has a rubber ball that’s attached to an elastic that’s attached to a paddle so that you can bat the ball with the paddle and the ball ricochets back so it can be hit again and again?
What’s that thing called?

Even though ‘sometimes you’re the bat’ (the husband would say I’m a bat all the time), today I feel like the ball.

Good news? The husband is coming home late tonight from the other side of the country.
Bad news? I just had two deliciously long sleeps taking up the whole bed… and that’s over.

I Fought A Noble Fight…

and I have the wounds to prove it.

Twenty-five white cedars arrived at the door yesterday ready for planting.

We, however were not.

There are were seven 40 year old cedar trees that had to be removed first.

The husband had started lopping off branches in anticipation of the Grand Removal, but didn’t get very far.
First thing in the morning I grabbed the big strong clippers and the telescoping ladder and had at them. The old trees weren’t too impressed with me cutting off their tops and arms, the appendages retaliated by slapping me silly. Thank goodness for the cold air that kept me in layers even at my sweatiest. I still managed to get covered in scratches and almost blinded myself several times.

Where was the husband?

Cramming a whole lot of work into a very short time frame.

So he could help remove and plants young trees?

No so he could cram some planting in before his long weekend at the other end of the country.

There I was at the top of the ladder, snipping away with full arm extensions at the snappy, resentful limbs I struggled to stay on top of the rungs as my balance was challenged by the retaliating trees. It would have been a sight for sore eyes -including mine after the swipes they barely recovered from.

By 11AM a line of tree stalks stood in a row pathetically broken awaiting their fate: complete destruction.

“Mwaaaahhhaa!”, I rubbed my hands together maniacally. “Almost there”, I thought. “Now to dig up the shallow roots”.

The husband finally showed up and began digging and hacking at the tree trunks as I cut up and bundled the tree top and arm debris.

An hour passed. The tree stalks continued to guard over the sweating, heaving body of a husband as he continued to dig and dig and dig.

“Frickem. Frazzem. Frackem.” he gasped between throwing shovelfuls of dirt.

Finally the roots gave way and the first tree was broken from it’s 40 year old earthly grip.

“I’ll come back later. I have a deadline.” he said walking away.

“Um” I questioned, demanded, implored and implied squeezing as many syllables out of the word as possible -gesturing to the rest of the condemned stalks.

He walked into the house.

I picked up the shovel and started digging out stalk number two. It didn’t have a very thick stalk or a very deep or wide root system but this tree was not about to move out. Forty-five minutes later I crawled in the front door.

“Wa…ter”, I whispered before collapsing.

Then the truck arrived with the fresh young things. They leaned up against the fence, smoking cigarettes and passing around a mickey sizing up the old stalks. The old stalks shook their heads.

“Kids today”, one said between gritted teeth.

I almost felt disrespectful toward the old standards, but got over myself quickly when I realized the young things would smoke and drink themselves into an early grave if we didn’t properly plant and nourish them with the good stuff before long. The clock ticked.

The husband returned as twilight hit, casting an optimistic glow on the yard.

“I’ll package up the twigs and branches, you dig” is what I meant to say.
“I hate this digging and shoveling and cutting stuff. Hate. It. Can’t believe I have to do all this NOW.”, is what came out.

“Gardening makes me crabby” I told the eight year old who was practicing dicing wood into chips with the clippers. The eight year old moved to the other end of the garden.

The sun began to set as the husband finished digging away at three more trunks, finally up-rooting them.

“Let’s plant now and see how far we get” he said freakishly enthusiastically.

So we did. We planted 11 of 25 before we came to the last thick stalk.

“Wake me up at 7AM”, he said walking to the house.

“Um” I replied, as before.

The next morning I shook the husband awake, “It’s almost seven. You have a date with a tree stump”.

I tried to stand up (an hour later), sore from the slaughter of the previous day. I walked into the kitchen and looked out. The husband was shaking the last stump violently, steam coming out of his ears.

An hour passed, I was reluctant to look out the window again but needed to know who was winning the fight. Happily, the husband had finished planting the rest of the row of cedars, had set up the soaker hose and was heading back to the house.

“Yay!” I yelled out the door.

He smiled triumphantly. I tried to raise my arms in victory but they wouldn’t go up.
Cedars: 25, Me:notsomuch.

Retirement Rehearsal…

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the fourth month of self-imposed retirement. It’s been a bit of an experiment that’s garnered varying results.

Being at home reminded me of my days living in a small town where I watched my neighbor sipping coffee, looking out her window as I walked to my car to go to work. I envied her ability to stay home with the children, she envied my ability to get away and be in the land of adults. Neither lives were perfect but we could never fully appreciated what we had knowing there was an alternative.

Staying home intentionally this year was a mixed blessing. I worked at my domestic skills for about ten minutes. I made lunch for the eight year old and dinner for all (occasionally) struggling to remember some old standbys. It was hit or miss on the meal front but the laundry was almost always done on a regular basis, the dog got walked and the groceries were purchased but I never felt fully immersed in the life of leisure for many reasons.

1) I’m untrained. I have no idea how to budget time, organize tasks, and pace breaks without wrapping it around or incorporating it into a full time job. The lack of structure has me making up weird rules. I’ll watch 2.5 hours of TV starting at 12:30PM then I’ll do some writing. After TV I turn to my computer and check in on the Crazy Days and Nights blog, then Lainey, then more gossip sites until any task or schedule in my head has been erased and I look up in a panic to learn it’s time to pick up the eight year old at school. Time wasted: all afternoon.

2) I get more tense than when I’m working at a full time job and it paralyzes me. My brain gets so incredibly busy when it’s not focused. I spin. I have piled on all kinds of extra work that I can’t get to because I’m worried about it. Sure it’s volunteer/creative in nature but my ideas won’t churn and my brain shuts down at any concrete/creative thought. I don’t remember experiencing a ‘block’ like that before. If it was over and above a full time job my gears would be shifted to accommodate extra ‘stuff’ but with no structure my brain won’t let anything in, never mind process it. The false rules interject in my timelines and WORD stays open all day with cryptic, bullet points of what should be amazing ideas lined up like a grocery list. Bright and early tomorrow is when I’ll start. (It’s 9:41AM and I’m doing this instead).

3) Guilt is menacing. The break is partly medical, mostly mental and it’s completely the wrong time for me to not be working. We have bills left over from the reno and although the husband has been reassuring, it’s still not the best time to be off. Sure mentally if I had been working I would be curled up in the fetal position rocking myself to sleep every night. I have just not been capable of working and the guilt is crippling. It’s the worst kind of Catch 22. Work will make you crazy and you will be crazy if you don’t work.
4) I enjoy the pressure of cooking for other people but I can’t relax. Try eating something with the cook staring you down, anxiously pacing, waiting for any sign of a positive or negative response. I stand by with apologies and excuses at the ready. It would be an excruciating experience for the tester/eater. We don’t host a lot of dinner parties.

5) Germs keep finding me. It’s inevitable, the minute you get off the ride of working life the germs invade. I’ve had a month long flu followed by a couple of days off where the flue germs left and the cold/allergy germs took up residence and took over the lease. I feel like a walking bug motel, the NO Vacancy sign flashing. It’s hard to get anything done when your brain wants to sleep away the endless snot-filled throat-clearing.

6) The right stuff. Being on the right crack helps to see how much damage the wrong crack caused. It’s like cleaning up after an all night party. Sure it was good while it lasted but is it ever worth all the work required after WITH a hangover? The wine diet did not work. The eat-what-you-want-when-you-want diet did not work. The crying-and-complaining diet caused more problems than anything and the wrong crack made it all that much worse by adding another twenty pounds of misery. Pure, fat misery. The right crack has allowed one part of my brain (a small but chubby part) to focus on losing those pounds, but I’m still on my way back from the two years of semi-insanity. Imagine a hangover after a two year binge. It’s an exaggeration but that’s how I feel, especially because of #3.

I’m starting a contract on the last week of May and instead of relaxing and taking advantage of the time I have I’m panicking about all the things I promised to do for others like writing, some volunteer directling and apartment painting. Heck, why not add another few weeks of guilt and procrastination? Of all the accomplishments I wanted to attain during my practice run at retirement guilt and procrastination have become my greatest achievement.