May 4th, 2010

Pet Funerals

Pet Funerals

When I die, I want to be taken to a pet funeral home.  Having my beloved cat Puddy pass away at home presented a bit of a problem.  When I was growing up, we lived on a big piece of property and so we had a pet cemetery in our backyard (not the Stephen King kind – a regular non-flesh eating non-mutant kind).  There we would lay to rest all manner of pets and road kill that would find themselves departing in our vicinity.  What didn’t seem right to bury, we flushed and it all worked out. 

Here in the city, I just didn’t know what to do with my cat.  I couldn’t picture burying him in the jungle that I call our backyard or taking him to the vet where I couldn’t be sure what they would do with him.  So, I called our vet and he told me about a pet funeral service called “Until We Meet Again” located in North Vancouver.  I honestly didn’t know what to expect but I called the number.  Jocelyn answered.  She had a kind voice and, despite the fact that the only word I could coherently blubber was “cat”, she knew what I meant.  I made an appointment to see her at 1pm. 

I arrived at the address Jocelyn gave me but the door was locked so I rang the door bell.  I didn’t expect to hear Amazing Grace but the doorbell made me smile.  Jocelyn was an older, lovely looking lady with a soft tone who invited me into their family viewing area.  I put Puddy, whom I had wrapped in his favourite fleece blanket and sealed in a blue Tupperware tub, on the viewing platform.  The music of Yanni was playing and there was a fireplace burning.  It felt like a lodge at Whistler….except with 100% more Yanni.

Jocelyn had a lot of experience in the pet funeral business and I instantly felt comfortable with her.  I am sure she didn’t want to hear about Puddy’s fur ball problem or my theory on why Justin Bieber is such a teen heart throb, but she listened patiently to my ramblings.  Then, we got down to the business of “the final arrangements’.  I chose cremation given that the insane cost of even a cat sized plot of land in Vancouver would require me to sell a kidney.  Soon  the experience became fun as I realized it was a lot like shopping. 

Hmmm…which urn would Puddy like best?  The white one.  He liked to sleep on the white desk…thus, the white one.  My logic was flawless. 

Then it was over and it was time to say good-bye.  I left Puddy in Jocelyn’s capable hands and would return the next day to pick him up.  His ashes will be scattered some place where birds are plentiful and there is long grass to eat.  It helps him with his fur ball issue.  I know some people will think I am going overboard for “just a cat” but to me, he was part of my family…my devoted companion and my loyal confidant.  I am so grateful for the joy he gave me.  Thank you Mr. Pudder-man. I will forever miss you.

Puddy dozing in his favourite sun spot

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
February 23rd, 2010

Meat Bonspiel

Meat Bonspiel

Curling was going to be my shot at Olympic glory.  Growing up as a kid in a small northern town, your talent on ice was always seen as your ticket out of there.  Since I was born a girl (and remain one to this day), my parents put me in figure skating.  Back in the day, girls didn’t play hockey.  They stalked hockey players.  Unfortunately, my Nordic roots did nothing for me and I was a dismal failure on ice.  My parents kept hoping that I would be a late bloomer but, after 4 years of lessons, a ton of money in skates and one disastrous fall where I took out the set of the local ice show, they resigned to the fact that their heavy set daughter was not going to get an Olympic medal in figure skating…or probably any other sport for that matter.  Instead, they rightly concluded that my ticket out was going to be via scholarships and education.  So they gave me books and I spent my days and nights studying, note-taking, and reading. 

One night, the babysitter failed to show up and so my parents were forced to take me along on their outing.  And where did we go?  To my town’s version of the Olympics.  Yes.   The Sixth Annual Bavarian Meat Bonspiel.  My dad, being the local banker, was involved in all the town’s activities.  We walked into the rink and it was magical.  One side was set up as a German meat buffet.  The other side was the rink.  Suddenly my mom’s outfit – a Bavarian short skirt, peasant top and ribbon head-dress – made sense underneath her parka.  All the curling wives were on duty as Bavarian serving wenches.  Their job was to add a classy, cultural element to the evening… and to bring meat and beer to the curlers and fans.  My mom, who had secret ambitions to be a B movie actress, loved the part – although her over the top Marlene Dietrich impersonation, along with too much meat innuendo, made the United Church Minster blush and made the other husbands stand in long lines for what she was dishing out. 

But that night was not about drinking beer and eating meat.  No.  It was about local victory, pride and the winning of more meat.  Did I forget to say that the winning team got a freezer full of meat?  Oh.  Well they did…so the stakes were high…in every meaning of the word. 

I had never seen curling before.  And, once I did, I was mesmerized.  While figure skating was a sport of athleticism, grace and co-ordination, I watched my dad’s team (and their opponents) engage in truly hard core competition.  And they played the match while smoking cigarettes, eating meat and drinking beer.  This was my kind of sport.  I instantly perked up.  These were true athletes.  Sure, Elvis Stojko and Patrick Chan can land jumps sober…but can they do it after eating five pounds of meat, drinking a flat of Molson’s and chain smoking a pack of Rothmans?  I don’t think so. 

Watching the tournament, I could see myself doing this.  As a Virgo and a granddaughter of a maid, I was really good at sweeping and I could chuck snowballs with the precision of a seagull over a freshly washed car.  I was enthralled.  Even when all the teams were so obviously hammered that half the stones started going into the wrong lanes, the competition was exciting.  I clapped. I cheered.  And  I cried when my dad’s team won the freezer full of meat.  I believed that I, a nerdy, shy, unathletic gal, could finally become a world class athlete at something! 

On the ride home, I begged my parents to let me become a professional curler.  But they were firm.   “No. Your future lies in your education,” they responded.   And with that decision, my Olympic medal hopes evaporated.  To this day, I still have a soft spot for curling….and, of course, for meat and beer.  They are three of my favourite things…and I am world class at two of them. 

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
February 13th, 2010

Olympic Angst

Olympic Angst

The Olympics are stressing me out.  Not the games themselves.  No.  The Canadian energy around them.  It is true what “they” say.  We are a polite and a nice bunch of folks.  We want everyone to be happy and to like us.  That sentiment is becoming our undoing.  Cut it out already!

When I was in high school, I was so shy that if a teacher talked to me, I would start to cry.  And heaven forbid, if one of the cool kids gave me a compliment, I became overwhelmed, peed my pants and downplayed the achievement.   Growing up I often made decisions based upon what I though other people would like rather than what I truly wanted.  Granted, what I truly wanted was to have other people like me.  This explains my decision to buy a Firebird as my first car (even though I was scared to drive the thing over 40km/h) and my love of bangs when they did nothing for my overly square facial features.  However, in retrospect, those choices (and about a million others) were some of the worst decisions of my life.

As a city, it feels like we are stuck in high school again.  We are consumed with what the world thinks of us.  And, yes, things have not gone 100% according to plan.  We all felt mortified and saddened when we heard the news about Nodar Kumaritashvili’s death in a training run on the luge track.  That is not how anyone wanted to see the Games begin.  We are a nation with a lot of empathy and caring and we mourn the loss deeply.  We were also stressed when the TV cameras showed the royalty box half empty; when the fourth pillar didn’t rise up for the cauldron and when masked mobsters smashed the Bay windows so they could get some free red mittens.  We react as if we are the only ones to experience a live event glitch before.  Remember, Janet’s wardrobe and Kanye’s mouth?  Both of those malfunctions happened live too.  So we couldn’t get up one of our pillars.  We were tired and probably had a bit too much to drink.  It happens.   And I can assure you, it has never happened before. 

The social media age is allowing our teenage angst to become very public.  A summary of tonight’s Twitter tweets:

  • The buses were late. (when have the buses in Vancouver ever been on time?)
  • It won’t stop raining.  (it’s Vancouver)
  • My fries were cold.  (you shouldn’t be eating fries – have you seen your thighs?)
  • We only got silver.  (you’re kidding me, right?)
  • People are upset and complaining.  (it’s Vancouver – we love to grumble.  See reason: it won’t stop raining)
  • The thug protesters are going to start dating the Khardasian sisters.  (cool!)

Honestly, hearing the non-stop stress is stressing me out.  I have friends who are police officers.  I have friends who are protesters (the good helpful intelligent kind; not the kind who cover their faces so their moms won’t ground them when they get home).  I have friends who have spent the last four years volunteering for the Games.  I have friends who have spent their lives training for this event.  I have friends who are poor and rich and everywhere in between.  And I love them all.  Their differing opinions on these Games are what make it so amazing to live here.  History ultimately will decide whether these Games were a good idea or not.  Knowing Canadian history, the answer will lie some where in the middle between the two opposing viewpoints – and it will be long, rambling and boring. 

For the next 15 days or so, I am going to turn off what others think and focus on what I think.  At the end of it all, I am sure I will have an opinion.  And given my Canadianism, you can bet it will contain good and bad and poke fun at something or other.  Until then, go out and form your own opinion. Let’s not worry about the world thinks of us.  Let’s worry about what we think of us.  Be safe. Have fun.  Go Canada. 

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
January 18th, 2010

Stormy Weather

Stormy Weather 

I have an intense fear of my roof being ripped off by a large bird.  It happened again last night.  I was lying in bed as a severe storm passed overhead, and my heart started to beat wildly. 

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, we had nasty electrical storms.  While incredibly beautiful from a distance, the fork lightening was known to be deadly and something to be avoided.  Of course, after each storm, the local news would profile the same guy who had been hit by lightening 14 times in a row and survived.  For some reason no one thought to fully question Reggie Stanson’s affection for playing golf in turbulent weather…nor did anyone do a suicide assessment on him. 

As a young girl, the storms were terrifying.  The house would shake.  The lightening would illuminate the whole house for long periods of time.  Tree branches would break  and fires would start wherever the fork lightening hit.  

One night, in a valiant effort to calm his scared daughter, my dad thought it would be a good idea to explain thunder and lightening – you know, to apply a more rational approach to the fear.  Did I get the traditional children’s explanation such as “Oh, don’t worry.  That is God bowling.  The lightening happens when he gets a strike!”  Or, “Oh, don’t worry.  That is Mother Nature pushing a hot and a cold front together. They are fighting over space in the atmosphere just like you and your sister fight over your play area.”  No. I got this tidbit of rarely used Scandinavian folklore.

Listen, Maggie.  Thunder and lightening are nothing to worry about.  What happens is sometimes, the Norse god Thor gets upset at the world so he opens up the sky and he sends a gigantic flying eagle down to earth and it lands on the roof of the house.  Sometimes the bird flies off with the house and takes it back to Thor as a gift.  See, nothing to worry about.  Now good night, Sunshine. 

With that jaw dropping anecdote, I was tucked into bed and left to worry about the dangers of thunder and lightening, our friend Reggie (and the fact that no one in the town thought he could survive one more lighting strike)….and now a giant eagle landing on the roof of my house and possibly taking it back to some guy with a weird name as a gift! 

To this day, I am still terrified of thunder storms.  Granted, I have a much more grown up understanding of thunder and lightening now – it is caused by space aliens who are doing a laser light show for friends - but the giant eagle thing is always in the back of my mind.   It is why I own two cats.  In the event the big bird shows up, I want to be armed with as much cat power as possible. 

As a post script, Reggie survived two more hits of lightening and to the best of my knowledge is still alive and doing well.  He has no hearing in his left ear and can pick up CBC North without a receiver.  He has given up golfing in stormy weather but has taken up skydiving.  Stay tuned.

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
December 2nd, 2009

Cleaning Barriers

Cleaning Barriers

Most people have skeletons in their closets.  My closets are full of dirty laundry.  Not dirty laundry as in juicy family secrets.  No. literally, piles of dirty laundry. 

It happened again yesterday.  The phone rang and some friend-type person wanted to “drop by” for a visit.  That simple gesture created a frenzy of cleaning that resulted in me using a snow shovel to clear the living room.  At this point in time, I have three “emergency hide it” closets whose layers look much like an archaeological dig of visits past.  To find my pink fuzzy slippers, I had to excavate down to the “2002 surprise visit from Aunt Gretchen who was passing through town on her way to the airport” layer.

Every time it happens, I swear, it is the last time I will be caught off guard.  I promise to turn over a new leaf and keep the house so pristine that even the Pope could drop by at any time and not get his white robe covered with cat hair.  But it never happens.  I get distracted by the important things in life – eating cookies, watching TV and Googling for celebrity gossip. 

As a Virgo, I am supposed to be obsessed with cleanliness….and I guess in a certain way I am.  I love a clean house but, after much analysis done one afternoon when I was supposed to be cleaning, I now see that there are barriers in my way.  If any of the following situations exist, they create the perfect storm that can very quickly take my house from neat to nasty.

Barriers that prevent me from keeping my house clean

A dishwasher that is either full of clean or dirty dishes.  Either way, this situation does not allow me to put dirty dishes in the dishwasher, thus they pile up in the sink.  And, if they pile up in the sink, it prevents me from running the dishwasher which starts its own vicious cycle.

Fruit.  I often buy fruit with the fantasy of actually eating it.  Eventually, the fruit decomposes in the bowl and attracts a colony of flies and wine makers. 

Pets.  I love ‘em, but they are furry.  And most of that fur is on the floor, couch and walls of my house.  Once I spent 15 minutes grooming the cat only to realize it was a dust bunny. 

Laundry.  This is perhaps the biggest barrier to cleaning that I have.  It has its own sub-list.

A missing laundry basket.  Without this feature, clothes seem to enjoy frolicking in their natural habitat….the floor. 

A chair to hang gently worn clothes.  Some clothes by their nature can be worn again.  If they don’t have a chair to hang on, they end up on the floor.  This then makes them dirty, mainly because my cats will have slept on them.  Now they need to be washed.  This means more laundry.

Clean laundry that needs to be hung, folded or otherwise dealt with.  Clean laundry usually ends up on the bed when it comes out of the dryer.  At the end of the night, when I need to use the bed, the pile of clean clothes gets moved onto the floor with the promise that I will hang them tomorrow.  That promise is never fulfilled and pretty soon the clean clothes start mingling with the dirty clothes and I can’t tell which is which.  This then means I need to rewash it just to be sure.

The lack of a maid.  If I had a maid, my house would be cleaner.

Empty diet coke bottles and cans.  I drink a lot of diet coke.  I once put a days worth of empty cans out in the alley for the can guys to take and one guy said it looked like I must have had a great party.  Sadly, they were all mine.  Now I can only put out a few at a time so I don’t get a lecture on diet coke dependency from the can guys.

Napping.  I am genetically predisposed to napping.  If I had to choose between cleaning the bathroom and napping, napping would win.  You can’t fight your heritage.

Guests.  While guests coming over cause me stress, I think I don’t have enough guests over on a regular basis.  If I lived in the White House, I suspect I would be motivated to keep the house clean if George Clooney and members of the UN were dropping by daily.  I would clean for George Clooney.

So, if you are dropping by, please give me at least 24 hours notice and promise not to open any closet doors.  There is no guarantee you will be able to shut them again. 

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
November 6th, 2009

Mutant Pets

Mutant Pets

I have an affinity for mutant pets.  All the pets I have ever owned have had something horribly wrong with them.  I currently own two cats.  Puddy is an old orange cat with emotional eating problems and a serious addiction to catnip and tissue paper.  Soda Fish is a Bengal mix cat with a gimpy paw, head injury and missing tooth.  He likes to gum the couch when he thinks no one is looking.

I went to the Vancouver SPCA with the intent of breaking this pattern.  I wanted a small young, healthy, well adjusted dog to add to my menagerie of Chrysalides pets at home.  When I got there, the SPCA adoption gal Anne-Marie said, “Oh no….you don’t want that type of dog.  I have the dog for you.”

She led me to his cage.  Inside, was not my dog.  This dog was old, sad, and huge. His name was Brutus and he was a Rottweiler/ lab mix.  Unfortunately for Brutus, all the cute parts of both breeds missed his gene pool.  Think big, black drooling devil dog and you have Brutus.  Anne-Marie suggested I take him for a walk.  At 85 pounds of pull power, he more or less took me for a walk.  The entire time, Brutus did not look at me or wag his tail.  This was not my dog.  I retuned Brutus to the shelter and lied to Anne-Marie that I liked him but felt we didn’t connect so he would be best in another home. 

The following week, I continued to think of Brutus.  I kept checking the SPCA website to see if he was still there and every day I was met with his sad, drooling picture.  The next Saturday, with the image of this big, devil dog haunting me, I drove back to the SPCA to take him for another walk.  By then, Anne-Marie had more information on him.  Brutus had been chained outside by previous owners and neglected.  He also had a list of other problems:  infected teeth, hypothyroidism, social anxiety, stubbornness, fear of noises and dog acne.  This was seriously not my dog! 

I took him out for a walk anyway and, for about 20 minutes, he pulled me around the area. Then we sat on the lawn near the shelter and I looked at him closely.  He avoided eye contact for the longest time.  Then, he quickly looked me in the eyes and gave me the smallest of tail wags.  Sigh.  With that, I was smitten.  This was totally my dog. 

I adopted him that day.  Since then, I have learned a lot more about Brutus. 

Things I now know about my new old dog

  • He is a wimp.  He is terrified of the cats.  (Although, they do “work it” by circling him slowly when he is trying to sleep.)
  • He loves bunnies and will chase them if given the chance.  If you are holding the leash when this happens, it means you will also be chasing bunnies by default.
  • He likes to wedge his 85 pound body onto my tiny loveseat and pretend to look comfortable. 
  • His tail wag could be declared a lethal weapon.  It can clear the coffee table with a single sweep.
  • His devil dog appearance terrifies the good people of Kitsilano and they will pull their designer dogs away from him. Perhaps if he had a more hipster name like Tristan or Toby and wore a bandana scarf they would be more okay with him.  Chances of that happening is 0%
  • He has a brain aneurism if you pick up a stick and look like you might throw it.  His greatest joy in life is chasing a stick.
  • He whimpers when he is happy.  He whimpers when he is sad.  He whimpers.
  • Finally, he is a wonderful dog with a great loving personality.  I am very proud to say “Yes. This is my big old devil dog.”

Thanks Anne-Marie and the fine folks at the Vancouver SPCA.  You were totally right.  Brutus is the perfect dog for me.

A happy dog and his stick

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
October 28th, 2009

Halloween Time

Halloween Time

Halloween is the best day on the planet.  As a very shy kid, it was so fun to be able to transform into something that I was not for a few hours.  Plus, it was the only time of the year when my parents actively encouraged my sister and I to go out and take free candy from strangers.

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, months of Halloween costume planning was always ruined by the first major blizzard of the year.  The two events coincided religiously.   When I hear kids in my Kitsilano neighbourhood whine about having to walk up and down stairs to get treats, I twinge with the impulse to tell stories about how, when I was young, I trudged through five foot snow drifts to get a single treat sized Snickers bar… but I digress…

Despite the blizzards in Burns Lake, the people handing out the candy were always so supportive and enthusiastic. 

“Hey! What a great costume,” they would say to the hordes of kids in identical snow boots, snowsuits, mittens and balaclavas that would parade to their door asking for treats.  We looked like a casting call for an episode of South Park, but in our minds we were so different.

My costumes were never cute or scary.  They were “creative”.  While all my comrades were pirates, princesses or zombies, I would be Muriel Applebottom – Bunny Hunter Extrodinaire, or My Dad’s Box of Tangled Christmas Lights or The Lost Panel of a Bazooka Joe Comic Strip.  Needless to say, most of my costumes were not met with an “OOOO…how cute” or an “Awwww…adorable”, they were met with an “Oh, and what are you again?”  Still I wore my costumes with conviction and people gave me candy anyway, so they rocked!

My mom’s expensive, guest use only, King sized silk pillow cases were the preferred treat bag of choice but it was often hard to sneak them out of the house before she noticed.  Although, one year, I did use my cousin’s hockey duffle bag until some judgemental lady ruined my fun when she called me “greedy”. Mostly, I just used a Hefty garbage bag.  Because rippage could be a problem it was important to come prepared with backup bags and maybe a sled.

Out on the hunt, it was amazing how quickly information spread on the kid treat network.  With no twitter, facebook, or texting, to link us, we mind-melded together with the singular purpose of getting as much sugar as possible.  By remaining connected to the kid treat network, you quickly knew which houses gave out two chocolate bars instead of one, which were making you sing, which were giving out raisins….and which were giving out CANS OF POP!!!  

I know kids in here in Kits stay out collecting candy until they get tired or bored, but in Burns Lake, we stayed out until medically ordered indoors due to frostbite or hypothermia.  Hard core does not accurately describe an 8 year old Burns Lake kid on a mission for candy.

Arriving home with our loot, my parents insisted on inspecting all treats for safety concerns.  Surprisingly, there was a high ratio of tainted Aero bars and Glosette raisins (my parents’ favourites) but we were too hyped up and inexperienced in the ways of the world to realize that our own parents were stealing from us. 

The next two days began the hierarchy of snacking.  We would eat through our treat bag like layers of an archaeological dig.  Chocolate bars were eaten first.  Then Tootsie rolls Then Glosette peanuts.   And then….ugh….because there was nothing else left, jaw breakers, Pez circles and gum.  It would take two to three days of concentrated effort to consume all the sugar in those king sized pillow case bags.  But we did it!!  Once it was all done, we crashed in a sugar coma for two weeks….and woke up just in time to start dreaming of all the treats coming for Christmas!!

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
September 29th, 2009

Girl Treats

Girl Treats

The following is a public service announcement for men everywhere. 

When your girl asks you to bring her home a treat because she is suffering from:

  • A bad day
  • Her lady time
  • Manic depression

She means you should bring her any of the following:

  • A Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae
  • Nachos
  • Pies (plural)
  • Jewellery

She does not mean:

  • An apple
  • A low fat veggie fruit bar
  • The gift of just you

Thank you.

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
August 5th, 2009

Bell Tower

Bell Tower

Today, I woke up a hunchback. My hunch had been coming on slowly. Over the last few weeks, I began to notice a distinctive hunch developing on my right spinal area. At first, I just though…whoa….zit. But as it progressed well past zit and into something requiring its own area code, I realized that my denial was not a cure. It became so big that I actually had to…go to the doctor. Gasp. I am the worst Canadian in the country. We have a wonderful health care system and I never use it. It is sort of like my gym membership. I know it is there, and I intend on using it, but really, I prefer just to brag about it to my American friends at parties rather than actually go. You see if I go, the doctor may find something wrong with me. If I don’t go, then I can spend countless hours obsessing about the millions of strange things it could be while researching on the internet.

While researching my hunchback-ed-ness on Wikipedia, I came up with all sorts of possibilities. List of possible reasons for hunch:

  • Unborn twin
  • Space alien pod
  • The C word – and, yes, I mean cyst
  • New fat storage area for hot fudge sundae consumption since area in buttocks is completely full

The first two possibilities sounded scary, so I made an appointment immediately. My family doctor was shocked to see me. She made notice several times that the last time I saw her Y2K had not happened. She screamed when she saw my hunch and sent me immediately to a surgeon across the hall. Her reaction startled me. I began to think that maybe my hunch was serious. What if I can’t get rid of it and it continues to grow? What if I can no longer wear form fitting shirts? What if it begins to look like I have boobs on both sides? What if the only job I can get is in a…bell tower. I ran across the hall.

The surgeon’s name was Dr. Jenetles. I know. That is what I thought when I first saw it. It is pronounced differently though. I obediently took a seat and filled out the required medical questionnaire. Tick the following:

Do you (or anyone in your family) have:

  • Heart disease
  • Diabetes
  • Lung Issues
  • Hepatitis
  • Syphilis
  • Allergies
  • Cancer
  • Nearsightedness
  • Ringworm

I ticked “yes” for each just to be safe. I had no idea what half of them meant but I made special note to research each thoroughly when I got home.

I handed in my form. After reading my paper, I noticed the receptionist whispering to the other staff. They put on masks and rubber gloves, spoke to me in soothing tones and kept a distance of 8 feet. Sigh.

I sat glumly in the waiting area. What is it with doctor’s offices? Do they all have the same decorator? All Canadian doctor waiting rooms must contain the following items:

  • A pile of Readers’ Digest and Canadian Living (honestly, if doctors didn’t subscribe to these magazines, Darwin would have taken them out long ago)
  • A box of children’s plastic toys including a wooden abacas. All are laden with enough germs to start their own plague
  • Not enough chairs. Well, technically there are enough chairs for patients but given we are all scared to sit next to each other because we don’t know how germy the other one is, there are not enough chairs. There needs to be a good person – chair – person ratio.
  • Ceiling tiles with holes in it for counting
  • Patients who are pretending to read the Life’s Like That section of Readers Digest but you can tell that they aren’t because they haven’t turned a page for over 40 minutes.
  • A guy on a cell phone who politely goes outside the office (when told to by the receptionist) and then proceeds to yell outside the door to his wife about how stupid their contractor is.
  • A poster on the wall that says There Is No Excuse for Abuse. You wish you could email a copy of the poster to the wife of the guy on the cell phone.

When it was my turn to see Dr. Jenetles, I was happy to get out of the waiting room. He was a lovely older man from Europe who gave me a stern lecture for not visiting a doctor prior to Y2K. I suspect my family doctor had called to get him to reinforce the point. After examining the lump, he declared it was an infected cyst and with a snip, snip my hunch was gone. It is sore but will be better.

Today, I woke up a hunchback. Tonight, I can walk amongst humans again. Happy Days! Bong. Bong. Bong.

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
July 22nd, 2009

Been Dumped

Been Dumped 

Last week, I was dumped. Not by a boyfriend…no, by a friend. Essentially, I was fr-umped. And you know what? It hurt just as much. 

I was friends with Steve for a few years. We shared a common bond and interests and were always a good support system for each other. But we live very far apart so our contact was infrequent but fun. Then he met Tracey….

The dumping came via email. The body of the email read something like this (roughly paraphrased):

Dear Maggie,

Joyous news, joyous news (engaged!), joyous news, interesting gossip, whoa too much information, joyous news.

Final paragraph: So I hope you will understand that we can no longer be friends. Please do not contact me and I will not contact you in the future.

Sincerely,

Steve.

Flash to Maggie with jaw on floor, hole in heart and ego profoundly pierced. Whoa!!!  Whaaaat??? What do you mean you are terminating our friendship? I had no idea you could do that.

You see, I have always held onto friends and I never think of ending relationships… unless, of course, they produce a restraining order. I mean, sure, I have let friendships slide….you know….take longer and longer to return calls, deny a friendship on Twitter or remove their name from the Christmas card list….but I have never outright told someone that I no longer wanted to be their friend. Hmmm….does that make me a coward? Don’t answer that!

I find close friendships are so much harder to come by these days. It is tricky to make new friends – perhaps that is why I hold onto the ones I have so dearly. I liked how you made friends in the past. They were kind of created for you by your teachers, your parents, your brownie leader – sort of like the same random system they use in prisons to create cell mates – and yet somehow it worked….. we never questioned why we were friends – we just did stuff together and had fun.

Cheryl became my childhood best friend simply because her last name came right after mine alphabetically in the roll call in grade one. This meant we were paired up for every science project, reading project and field trip from age 6 to age 18. Cheryl and I grew so much together. It was great to have a buddy through the awkward times that come with young life. Short list of awkward times:

  • cute boys (eg. Shaun Henderson) who didn’t know we existed
  • white pants and our first period
  • denting the family car on our very first outing to the mall after assuring our parents that we were good enough drivers to take the car out on our own

It was all good Beverly Hills 90210 style stuff…..but only if Beverly Hills 90210 was set in Burns Lake and it starred two heavier, much nerdier girls.

After we started working, Cheryl and I drifted apart. Cheryl got married, moved far away (to Maple Ridge), had kids and we lost touch. But I still think of her….fondly. The friendship never ended….it just fell into the ebe and flow of life. I think that is what I will miss with this frumping. With the finality, it will be harder to look back at the friendship with nostalgia. There will always be a sting to it. That makes me sad.

I know in this case it can be hard to be friends with the opposite gender. I saw When Harry Met Sally. (Was I the only one that found the scene in the diner with Meg Ryan to be a tad uncomfortable?) If a friend’s partner is the jealous type, it is game over. That is fine. I understand.  I wish Steve only good things.

With my frumping, of course, I went through the classic seven stages of grieving in order to heal.  These stages happen in this order:

  • grape popsicles
  • chunky monkey ice cream
  • pizza
  • salt and vinegar chips
  • pancakes
  • Aero bar
  • and, finally, cake

It made me feel better (about the situation) and worse (about the potential weight gain). And it reminded me to actively appreciate the friends that I have in my life …..I love ‘em…..I am going to send them a Christmas card right now. Hugs.

CategoryUncategorized | CommentNo Comments »

Tags:
« Older Entries
Newer Entries »