The Diaries of a Fat Chick

I love to knit.  When I was 16 the mumsi entity taught me how to knit a sweater during an unexpected teachers strike that lasted two weeks.  I knitted off and on after that but my love for it really wasn’t rekindled until a few years ago.  Since then I’ve collected yarn like an overzealous squirrel collects nuts.   And I’m no yarn snob that’s for sure.  I’ll buy any type of yarn that strikes my fancy and I had a large collection of yarn from second hand stores and thrift shops.   I know a lot of people who like to knit or crochet only when the weather turns cooler and while I’ll admit that my penchant for knitting grows stronger in the winter months I’ve also been known to start an afghan in the middle of July when it’s 37 degrees outside.

I’ll try my hand at knitting just about anything and am not afraid to tackle something I have no idea how to do.  Afterall I have you, dear internets, to guide me along if I can’t figure out a stitch and if that fails, I also have mum.  Ask her about the time she, while at work, taught me over the phone how to cast on with nothing at her disposal but two pens and an elastic band.  The woman is the MacGyver of the knitting world.

I have a weakness for knitting toys and, as such, have a large collection of books and magazines on knitted toys.  Most of these books I acquired at local second hand book stores and I’m especially fond of the ones that have the previous owners notes and comments written in to them.  I’m fascinated by the thought of someone else, years before, sitting down with two metal sticks and a ball of yarn and creating the exact toy I’m about to attempt. 

Earlier this year when mumsi was visiting, she helped me sort through my vast collection of yarn and while it hurt me deeply to do it we did box up a bunch of yarn that I thought I would probably never use and donated it to a thrift store.  I vowed to not buy any more yarn until I had used up the yarn I already have.  I should have known better really.  I can’t resist yarn and when it’s yarn that’s on sale… forget about it. 

A few weeks ago I was visiting Zellers and found myself (purely by accident) wandering into the yarn section.  I stumbled upon yarn that I have often drooled over, but at a tag price of $4.97 for a 50 gram ball, was never willing to actually buy on my current budget.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was on sale for a mere $1.99 per ball.  I sprinted off to grab a basket and loaded it up.  The Bernat Haven yarn is described as a “luxurious alpaca blend” perfect for knitting scarves or afghans.  It consists of 59% acrylic, 22% cotton, 16% alpaca and 3% nylon.  And let me tell you, that 16% alpaca makes it sinfully soft.

I purchased 14 balls of yarn for a mere $30 in two wonderful shades called “Shamrock” and “Blue Haven”. 

Later that evening I decided a scarf was in order and began my latest creation.  It’s a simple pattern, 30 stitches cast on to US size 7 needles with nothing more to it than knitting on one side and pearling on the other but the simpleness of the pattern makes it wonderfully soothing and a breeze to work on when watching tv or having coffee with a friend.

For any of you looking to take up a hobby, I urge you to give knitting a try.  It doesn’t have to be fancy, start with something simple like a scarf, you’d be surprised at how comforting and soothing it can be to create something out of a simple ball of yarn.

That is, of course, if you can wrestle your knitting needles away from the man who tries to relive his childhood dream of being a rock star by playing air drums with said knitting needles whenever you put them down.

 

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I was a slow bloomer when it came to driving.  I didn’t even get my drivers license until I was 19 and even then I only did it because I was embarrassed that I didn’t have a license yet.  I loathed driving; in fact it scared the hell out of me to drive.  The mumsi entity drives a standard so that’s what I learned on (next time you see her ask her about the time I almost backed into a ditch and the time I was parking and hit a police car…good times people, good times…).  But I will confess that when it came time to take drivers education and my road test I did it on an automatic.  I was so scared of driving I could barely concentrate on steering let alone trying to shift. I had to take the road test twice.  But before you mock me, consider my grandmother who spectacularly failed the road test at least 11 times before finally passing.  When my brother and I were little, I can still remember clearly the conversations we had with our mum:

Mumsi:  You get to visit with Grandma today.

George and Kelly:  Yay!

Mumsi:  She’s going to be here in a few minutes.

George and Kelly:  Yay!

Mumsi:  Now what have I told you about driving with Grandma?

George and Kelly:  Always wear your seatbelt!

Mumsi:  Exactly.  And what will happen if I find out you were in the car with Grandma and didn’t wear your seatbelt, even for one tiny minute?

George and Kelly:  You’ll tan our asses!!

Mumsi:  That’s my good kids.

Wearing your seatbelt probably seems like a no brainer to you “young ‘un’s” (Good heavens, I just used the word “young ‘un’s”) out there but back when I was little I can still remember lying in the back of our station wagon colouring while the folks were driving.  Seatbelts weren’t necessarily a given back then kids.  And who out there can remember riding in the back of your best friend’s father’s truck while he drove 60 km down the highway?  Just sitting on the side of the truck, the wind whistling through your hair, bugs smashing against your teeth, the occasional tree branch whipping you across the face?  Also, there was that time your best friend’s dad turned a corner too sharply and your best friend fell out of the truck and landed on the side of the road.  Man did Tina get mad.  She rarely got angry with her dad, she’s a daddy’s girl through and through, but boy howdy was she mad that day.  She jumped up and went stomping into the house, screaming and hollering at her mom about how he did it on purpose while her dad trailed after her protesting his innocence. 

But back to the road test.  I failed the first time because as we were leaving the parking lot I went over the curb as I turned on to the street.  I had no idea that was an automatic fail and the guy who was testing me never said a word.  We went merrily on our way, me proving to him that I could safely drive through playground zones without running over small humans and parallel park to the satisfaction of driving instructors every where.  As we pulled back into the parking lot and I shut the car off I was feeling fairly confident.  I had done everything that was required; I hadn’t run anyone over or sped so you can imagine my shock when he told me I had failed.  I made another appointment for the following week and walked home, doing my best not to cry.  I was already terrified of driving and now I had to do the damn test again.

The night before my second test, my mum took me out and I practiced over and over again leaving that parking lot without running over the curb.  My mum assured me that if I could do that in a standard than doing it in an automatic would be a piece of cake.  That morning I met with a different testing guy and, much to my dismay, he led me to the back of the parking lot.  All that damn practicing last night and we left the parking lot from a completely different exit!  Having perfected the parking aspects in my first road test, there was no need to be tested on it again so I drove around the city while the tester gave me random directions and read over my first test results.  I’ll admit to feeling vindicated when he looked at me and said “Why the hell did he fail you in the first place?”

“I ran over the curb when leaving the parking lot at the beginning of the test.” I shrugged as I carefully merged onto the highway.

“Ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath, directing me off the highway and onto a side road. 

Noting the playground zone ahead of me, I slowed down to the appropriate speed until I reached the stop sign.  I stopped, turned right and began to speed up, positive the playground zone had ended.

“Um, this is still a playground zone.” The tester said quietly.

I gave him a stricken look and slowed back down to thirty.  Sure enough, 20 feet later the playground zone ending sign appeared.  Knowing I was doomed (it’s an automatic fail when you speed in a playground zone) I began to drive much less carefully.  At this point I just wanted to get the damn test over and rebook for my third humiliating attempt.  15 minutes later we parked the car and I waited for the bad news. 

“So, you passed.  Congratulations.” The tester said, passing me a piece of paper to sign.

“Really?”  I sputtered.  “But, but…I sped through a playground zone.”

He shrugged, “Yeah, everyone does on that particular one.  It’s a really tricky one; it looks like it’s ended when it hasn’t.”

“So I really passed?” I asked again.

“You really did.”  He laughed.  “You shouldn’t have been failed in the first place.  I wouldn’t have failed you for running over the curb.”

“I love you!” I shouted.

“Okay, well then uh…”

“I want to marry you!” I interrupted, gripping the steering wheel and staring at him fiercely.

“Yeah, um, it was really nice to meet you.  Have a good day.”  He exited from the car quickly while I sat there for a few more minutes, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.  I was victorious!  I had received my license!  I vowed right then and there that I would never drive again.

I kept that vow for quite a few years, living in Calgary I didn’t need a car; public transportation was fast, cheap and reliable.  But then, then I moved to Kelowna where the bus system?  In a word?  Sucked.  I lucked out though in that I had an apartment close to my job so I could walk every day and Ben, bless his little heart, would willingly drive me to places that were too far to walk to.  I went another year or two without driving and was perfectly content.

However, Ben and I were married and it became obvious that sooner or later I would have to start driving.  Ben drove an automatic so I didn’t have to worry about shifting but the actual thought of driving made me sick to my stomach.  Every time I had to drive my hands went cold and clammy, my stomach ached and I worried about it for hours beforehand.

But eventually, as people had been telling me for years, the more I drove the more comfortable I became with it until one day I realized that I actually enjoyed driving.  The scarier parts of driving (merging, turning left across a busy road) no longer worried me and I loved the freedom of hopping into the car and driving wherever I wanted to go.  The thought of being lost no longer frightened me either; after all I could always stop and ask for directions.  Only two things remained that scared the shit out of me.  Driving in the winter and having the car break down while I was driving.  Luckily, we have a reliable vehicle that isn’t going to leave me stranded.    Unfortunately, my fear of winter driving has not lessened and I do everything I can in my power to not drive when it snows.  Have I mentioned how thankful I am to have an understanding husband?    It certainly makes my life easier.

All things being said, I’m a pretty good driver.  I drive cautiously, I don’t really have road rage (more like road temper tantrums and it’s really only a bunch of yelling and cursing) and I obey almost all of the laws of the road.  I say almost because I do have a tiny issue with speeding.  Just tiny really.  A typical conversation between Ben and I while I’m driving:

Ben:  The speed limit’s 50 here honey.

Me:   I can’t drive 50, it makes my foot cramp. 

Ben:  Uh-huh.

Me:  It really does.

Ben:  Uh… you’re speeding again.

Me:  Dude, I told you, I can’t drive 50, my foot cramps. 

Ben:  The speed limit’s 60 here.

Me:  Well…it’s more of a 65 to 70km speed that keeps my foot from cramping.

Ben:  Uh-huh.

Me:  Cork it.

Anyway, over the years Ben has warned me numerous times that I’m going to get a speeding ticket but thanks to a little thing I like to call my “cop radar” I’ve never gotten one. 

A few days ago we were on our way to the vet and I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that we were running late because of Ben.  Everything that happened after this was a direct consequence of Ben taking his own sweet time.  True story people. 

Five minutes before our vet appointment and I was hauling ass over the hill when my spine began to tingle.  “Kelly,” I say to myself, “You need to slow down your cop radar is… oh hello officer, why yes I will pull over as you seem to be indicating you’d like me to do.”

Ben:  Oh nice.  Unbelievable.

Me:  What do you mean unbelievable?  You’ve been telling me for years that I’m going to get a speeding ticket.

Ben: True.

Me:  My only regret is that you’re with me because you’re never going to let me live this down.

Ben:  Oh how very true speedy.

Officer:  Good afternoon ma’am.  Going a little fast weren’t you?

Me:  Yeah….

Officer:  May I have your drivers license and registration please.

Me:  Of course.  Beautiful day isn’t if officer?

Officer:  Uh-huh.  I’ll be right back.

Ben:  Nice try.

Me:  What?

Ben:  You’re going to get a ticket.

Me:  I’m not going to get a ticket.  I have a perfect track record;  he’ll just give me a warning.  You’ll see.

5 minutes later

Me:  I’m so not getting just a warning.

Ben:  Nope.

Officer:  Now, I’ve given you the lowest amount I can but I had to give you a ticket as you were going 22 over the speed limit.

Me:  Okay.

Officer:  The ticket is $138 but if you pay it within a month you get $30 off so it’ll only be $100.

Me thinking:  Do I correct his math or smile and nod?

Me:  Smiles and nods.

Officer:  Have a nice day.

Me:  Thanks officer, you too.

Ben:  I’m going to have so much fun with this.

Me:  Shut up.

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Way back in 2002, Ben gave me a guinea pig as a Valentine’s Day gift.  She was a red eyed, cinnamon coloured little girl who was so tiny she could easily sit in the palm of my hand with room to spare.  I named her Nadia and over the course of a few weeks easily introduced her to my other girl guinea pig, Scruffy.

Despite her initial tiny size it didn’t take long for her to grow into a rather large girl.  And the attitude…have I mentioned her attitude?  Scruffy was laid back and mellow, Nadia was the complete opposite.  She scratched, she bit, she wheeked loudly and shrilly.  My brother nicknamed her the Russian; we simply referred to her as the Red Eyed Devil.  When it was time to go back to their cage after playtime, I could easily corner Scruffy and pick her up, Nadia - we had to chase.  It often involved multiple bodies and a broom as she skilfully dodged and weaved around us.  I can’t even count how many times she bit me in the first few years.  Frankly - I adored her.

Over the years she mellowed out a little.  There was less biting and she was often quite content to just lie on my lap and watch the activity around her.  Six months or so ago she began to drag her back legs and we took her to the vet where she was diagnosed with spinal degeneration and arthritis, as well as a heart problem.  We dosed her twice daily with an anti-inflammatory and pain relief, gave her weekly bum baths to help combat the urine scald that sometimes happened and gave her lots of extra treats and cuddles.

Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready for work, Ben gently carried Nadia’s body to me.  Over the last month she had been steadily slowing down and in the last week her appetite had decreased substantially.  She would still eat but with none of the enthusiasm she had always shown for it.  The night before I brought her out for a cuddle and after holding her for a few minutes, called and made an appointment for her at the vet the next morning.  While she didn’t appear to be suffering I was almost certain that her time was short and I wanted the vet to confirm my fears.

The night before she died, I sat on the bed and held her for over an hour.  We cuddled and I snuggled her.  She was tired and wasn’t interested in moving much, she spent most of the night lying contently on my lap.  But, just before I put her to bed, I reached down to pet her and she bit me.  She hadn’t bitten me in a long time.

I smiled and kissed her and said “That’ll do pig, that’ll do.”

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It’s that time of the year again.  Ben’s had the entire summer off to do what he pleases but now?  Now he’s back to work like the rest of us schmucks.  In honour of this important occasion Ben said I could give him a brand new back-to-school hair cut. 

Normally I give him a boring hair cut but this weekend I decided to give him a bold new look. 

 

I decided to go with a short clipped mohawk but got a little crazy with the scissors.  Hence the bald patches in the mohawk. 

 

Frankly, I think it’s not half bad for my first attempt at a mohawk.  Give it a few months to grow out and I’ll be cutting better and faster.  Also, I’m thinking the mohawk would look even better if it was blue….
 

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I’ve become one of those people.  You know the kind who wears their sunglasses even when it’s cloudy?   I’m not sure when it happened or even how it happened but if you’re driving down the highway on a cloudy, overcast day and look in the lane beside you - I’ll be the chick wearing the sunglasses.

Prior to about six months ago, I could count on one hand the amount of times I had worn sunglasses in the last 2 years.  I wore prescription glasses and for most of my life couldn’t afford prescription sunglasses.  And then, when I could afford them I could never justify the price.  I had survived this long without sunglasses hadn’t I?  Oh, I did buy cheap sunglasses from time to time and when I wasn’t driving, would take my prescription glasses off and wear the sunglasses, content to stare fuzzily at everything around me.  (Note:  This is not a good idea when you’re driving with your spouse to a brand new destination and you’re the one assigned to read street signs.  Trust me on this.)

At one point I even splurged and bought one of those clip on sunglasses.  They were specially made to fit my glasses and I used them regularly for about a week and a half.  But what they don’t tell you about those things is that they can be a real pain in the ass to attach and remove from your glasses.  Also - they’re little and thin and I was constantly losing them.  I finally gave up in frustration and just squinted a whole lot whenever I was out in the sun.

Then, six months ago I bought contacts and a whole new world was opened up for me.  Everything was suddenly much brighter and clearer.  Literally.  It had been years since I had gotten an eye exam and a new prescription so everything really was much clearer. 

I kick myself now for not having gotten contacts years ago but I spent all of my childhood years and a good chunk of my adult years with an eye thing.  I couldn’t touch my eye; I didn’t like anything near my eyes and if something did happen to come in contact with my eyes they would immediately water like crazy.  I vaguely remember the time my stepfather got rip roaring drunk at a party and as he was stumbling from the passenger seat of the car to the house how my mother hilariously told him that he had to make it into the house on his own accord or he could sleep in the damn yard.  (My mum has a kind heart but her tolerance level for drunken people is extremely low.  Apparently that’s what happens when you grow up in a home with a large number of alcoholics.)  Anyway, the next morning my mum went to work and in the early afternoon she called to find out how her husband was doing.  I answered the phone and in all my 17 year old crassness informed her that there had been no movement from their bedroom and my formal opinion was that he was dead from alcohol poisoning.  I was only half wrong because not long after the phone call he stumbled into the kitchen looking (and frankly, smelling) like the living dead.  As he leaned against the counter, head down and hunting for a glass of water I cautiously approached him (downwind of course) and asked him how he was feeling.  He squinted at the floor, blinked a few times and then finally raised his head to look blearily at me.  I believe, although can’t be certain, that at that point I shrieked and fled the room.

The man had drunk so much that he had burst every single blood vessel in his left eye.  I found myself face to face with the most disgusting thing I had ever witnessed.  His brown eye floated in a sea of bright red, there wasn’t an ounce of white to be found.  People, it was gross.  SUPER GROSS.  I couldn’t look him in the eye for months.  Every time I tried my eyes would start watering uncontrollably.  It was, for lack of a better word, seriously icky.  When he went in to work on Monday they made him go to the base doctor, that’s how bad it was.  And it took months and months to heal.  The moral of the story?  Don’t drink so much that your eye explodes and, if you’re with my mumsi, make sure you can make it to the house on your own or you’ll be sleeping in the damn yard.

Where was I?  Oh right…the eye thing.  I swear I’m becoming more and more like my mum’s best friend Phyllis everyday.  The woman cannot tell a single story from beginning to end for the life of her.  She’ll go off on four or five different tangents in the course of a single story.  Mind you, it’s okay because she has fascinating stories but my tangents aren’t like that.  They’re more along the line of “way too much information…”

Anyway, the point is - I couldn’t wear contacts because I couldn’t stomach the thought of poking something into my eye.  And then one day I could.  Don’t ask me why or how I just realized that I could now easily entertain the idea of wearing contacts.  So, a few months later I went and purchased contacts.  The first week was the most difficult; it took me almost twenty minutes each day to get the damn things in but now?  Now I’m a pro.  In less than a minute I’ve got those contacts in and I’m ready to go.  And do I love them?  Oh how I love them.  My only regret is that I didn’t get them years ago.  Contacts are a gift from heaven, they’re blessed by angels - they’re cuddly puppies and silly kittens!  I bought new glasses at the same time but I hardly ever wear them.  In fact, the longest I’ve worn them since getting contacts was a week and that was only because I had an eye infection and couldn’t wear the contacts.  Just a tip - make sure you use fresh contact solution every night when take out your contacts or you’ll end up with this happening to you:

Me:  Honey, my eye hurts.

Ben:  Really?  Let me see.

Ben:  Huh.

Me:  What?

Ben:  It’s bright red.

Me:  Oh gross, it is!  And it really hurts too.  It’s like a stabbing pain in the upper part of my eyeball.  In fact, I think it’s stabbing right into my brain.

Ben:  You’d better go to the doctor tomorrow.

Me:  Nah, it’s not as bad as gallbladder pain.  I’ll just go to bed early and rest it; it’ll be fine in the morning.

The next morning:

Ben:  How’s your eye dear?

Me:  Better I think.

Ben:  Really.

Me:  Really, really.

Ben:  Because you’re only looking at me with one eye.

Me:  Well…it feels better if I just keep it closed.

Ben:  How are you going to drive with one eye?

Me:  It can’t be that difficult. 

Ben:  You’re going to the clinic before work.

Me:  You ruin all my fun.

Ben:  I know dear.

Me:  Hey!  Maybe he’ll give me an eye patch!  I could be a pirate!

Ben:  Maybe dear.

Clinic Doctor:  So, *consults chart* you’re here because your eye is sore.

Me:  *squinting at him with one eye*  Nah.  My foot hurts.

Clinic Doctor:  Really?

Me:  No not really.  It’s an eye thing.

Clinic Doctor:  Aren’t we funny today.

Me:  I like to think so.

Clinic Doctor:  Well, it looks like you have a pretty bad infection in your eye.  I’m going to put some drops in it that will freeze your eye and help with the pain.

Me:  Cool.

Clinic Doctor:  There, does that feel better?

Me:  I think it does.

Clinic Doctor:  Well you’re looking at me with both your eyes now so I’d say it feels better.

Me:  I am?   Well look at that - I am using both eyes.  My eye doesn’t hurt at all now.  Can I take some of that stuff to work with me?

Clinic Doctor:  Um no.  This stuff can be dangerous; you need to make sure that you don’t touch your eye at all.  You can’t feel it so you could easily tear your retina lining right off.

Me:  Cool.

Clinic Doctor:  Not cool.  You need to put these antibiotic drops in twice daily for the next 10 days.   Your eye is very red right now but that’s normal, it should start to lessen over the next few days.

Me:  Did I tell you about the time my stepfather drank too much and his eye got really red and exploded?

Clinic Doctor:  Exploded?

Me:  Yup.  It grew back though.

Clinic Doctor:  Uh-huh.  Now listen closely because this part’s important.  If your eye doesn’t start to feel better by tomorrow or gets worse this evening you must come back to the clinic.  This type of infection can start to affect the muscle in your eye preventing your pupil from opening and closing.

Me:  That sounds bad.

Clinic Doctor:  It’s very bad.  So if it’s not feeling better get back here or go and see your family doctor.  Clear?

Me:  Crystal.  Hey, do I get an eye patch?

Clinic Doctor:  No.

Me:  Seriously?  Because I feel an eye patch would really help.

Clinic Doctor:  I think they sell them at the dollar store.  I bought one for my son at his 5^th birthday party.

Me:  Do you think the eye patch will be covered by medical?

Clinic Doctor:  Okay, I think we’re done here.

I survived the eye infection, my pupil still opens and closes normally and I now make sure to change my contact solution every night.  I didn’t however; get an eye patch to wear to work. 

But I digress (again!) - the first thing I did when I started wearing my contacts was to go out and buy one of great big bug eye types of sunglasses.  You know the kind the movie stars wear?  I feel very glamorous in them (I bought them at Walmart, damn I love being trailer trash!) and I love not squinting anymore.  But, after a few weeks I noticed a very curious thing, I wore them all the time whenever I was in the car.  Rain or shine I put those babies on and drove happily about.  This morning the sky was cloudy and overcast and as Ben needed the car for the day he was driving me to work.  I was sitting in the passenger seat thinking about how dark it was and I couldn’t believe the days were shortening already when the light bulb came on and I realized I was wearing my sunglasses.  Take them off and voila - instant light.  It wasn’t very long however before I had slipped them back on.  I used to hate people like me.  Pretty soon I’m going to be wearing my sunglasses at night and rocking out to the music of Corey Hart. 

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Tonight as I was cleaning the guinea pig’s cage, I looked over and noticed that Earl was shedding.  Normally we don’t catch him shedding and because they eat the skin as they’re shedding it you often don’t even know when they’ve shed.  I thought he might be about to shed because he had been spending a lot of time in, what I like to call, his spa room (a tub of moistened moss).  They’re desert animals but they like to have a bit of moistened moss especially when they’re going to shed because the moisture helps to loosen the skin.  I took a few pictures of it and thought I would share them: The very beginning:  When I noticed he was shedding I put the rock in there so he would have something to rub against to help pull the skin off:  

Here you can see the skin starting to peel back from his face:

 He disappeared under his little tree and when he popped back out he had pulled the skin free of his face and head.  Here he is giving me the ostink eye because I dared to disturb him while he was shedding:      

I tried to get some pictures of him eating the old skin but he wouldn’t cooperate.  He was already mad at me for taking his picture while he was shedding.  He’s such a vain little fellow.

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Life, it does so seem to enjoy getting in the way of my blogging.  A recap of the events of my life over the last few weeks:

The mumsi entity made it here safe and sound and, in the words of Ben, kicked the home improvement project forward by about a year.  While she was here, not only did she clean my fridge, but she helped me pick out new curtains (window dressings for you fancy folk) and hem them and put them up, braved the horror that is our master bathroom and cleaned it until it sparkled, did my laundry and tidied the house every single day. 

The woman is a machine.  Also, she is a drug dealer.  She absolutely forbade me to blog that she was a drug dealer but obviously I can’t hold something like this in.  The woman is rolling in the dough I swear.  I don’t even want to tell you how much she spoiled me while she was visiting but there were copious amounts of purchasing and taking out for dinners and I have no idea where she got the money from.  The only logical explanation is that she is a drug dealer.  I’ve never had a mother who was a drug dealer before and I imagine it will be quite the enlightening experience the first time I have to visit her in prison.  (It will also be interesting to see how much spam I get from using the word “drug” so many times in one post.)

After two long (long!) years of working full time and going to school part time, my Ben graduated with his Masters degree in Administration and Leadership.   The day he finished his oral exam, we celebrated by forcing him to put together our new computer desk with his mother-in-law.  It was a well deserved prize after two years of hard work.  Just kidding.  I mean, we did make him put together a desk but we let him drink beer while he did it.  And, surprisingly, the desk still stands despite the vast amount of beer drinking that went on during the construction phase.   In all seriousness, I couldn’t be more proud of him.

About a month or so, Ben cornered me in the kitchen after a phone conversation with his boy child:

Ben:  So that was the boy child.

Me:  Oh yeah.

Ben:  He’s thinking of moving back here and is wondering if he could live with us for..

Me:  Nope.

Ben:  Now hold on, you haven’t heard this out.

Me:  Nope.

Ben:  He only wants to live with us for a few weeks until he gets a job and a place of his own.

Me:  He lived with us before and got neither a job or his own place to live. 

Ben:  True.  But that was a few years ago and he’s matured since then.

Me:  Uh-huh.

Ben:  Seriously, he really has.  We had a good visit with him when he was here.

Me:  That’s because he was going home in a couple of days.

Ben:  Let’s make a list of pro’s and con’s okay?

Me:  Con - He smells.

Ben: Pro - he’s matured…wait, he doesn’t smell.

Me:  Yes he does!  He smells like wet teenage boy.

Ben:  You’re thinking of the dog dear.

Me:  Con - he’ll eat my pop tarts.

Ben:  Pro - I’ll be able to spend more time with my kid.  And we’ll hide your pop tarts.

Me:  Con - He sneezes.

Ben:  He’s allergic to the cat.  Which is a pro - it’ll get him out of the house faster.

Me:  Con - I don’t play well with others.

Ben:  Ain’t that the truth.

Me:  Shut it mister, or you’ll find yourself playing by yourself for the next few months.

Ben:  No need to be rude dear.

Me:  Con - He’ll sit in my spot on the couch.

Ben:  Just ask him to move.

Me:  Con - The dogs might try and eat him.

Ben:  Isn’t that a pro?

Me:  Hmm…good point.  Fine, he can stay.  But he can only stay until October 1st and then he’s out. 

A few days later I was in the bedroom when Ben came busting into the room.

Ben:  Guess what dear?

Me:  What?

Ben:  Looks like the boy child will be here for less time than we originally thought.

Me: Oh really?

Ben:  Yup, it looks like the boy child’s best friend has decided to move back here as well.

Me:  *horror crossing my face*  You did NOT tell the boy child that his friend could stay here as well.

Ben:  Um…

Me:  Tell me you didn’t tell him he could stay with us.  Tell me.  I need to hear those words coming from your mouth.

Ben:  Dear, your ripping your pillow, put the pillow down and take a few deep breaths.

Me:  Tell me!

Ben:  Uh, actually I did tell him he could stay with us as well.

Me:  blink, blink

Ben:  It’ll be fine.  With the two of them here they’ll be able to find jobs and an apartment much faster.

Me:  I really, really don’t like you today.

Ben:  I know dear.

The boys have been here for a couple of weeks now but have only actually stayed with us for a few days at a time.  They’ve been house sitting for various relatives and so it’s been going rather smoothly.  And to give the boy child credit, he really does seem to have matured and turned into a much nicer person than he was when he lived with us before.  I still find it difficult however cause have I mentioned I don’t play well with others?  I find it difficult to live with other people, some days just trying to live with Ben who is the most patient and easy going person on the face of the earth is a strain for me.   It’s all due to my unrealistic expectation that I should be able to do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it.  And honestly, 99% of the time Ben just goes with the flow and let’s me do my own thing.  But that 1% of the time…. it can be a real corker to live with me.  Ask Ben, he’ll be honest.

The new bed continues to be fabulous.  Although we’ve had it for almost two months now we still find ourselves sleeping on our own side of the bed.  The upside is that I have plenty of room to stretch out, the downside is that I often forget that I’m even sleeping with another person.  And I’ll let you in on a little secret, I miss being able to turn over and glue myself to Ben’s back whenever I feel like it.  In the new bed, I have to worm my way over a few feet and at two in the morning it frankly, feels like a little too much effort.  Hence, we are sleeping better but cuddling less.  Over the last couple of weeks, as the weather has cooled marginally, I have been making more of an effort to cuddle but a new complication has arrived.  She weighs about 4lbs, has green eyes and five of her six ends are pointy and sharp.  Ebony the cat has decided the perfect sleeping spot is right between us and refuses to move.   Any suggestions on how to delicately remove a razor sharp claw from your shoulder at 3 in the morning?

The new job is going well.  At least it will be once they decide where they actually want me to be working.  In the three months I’ve been there I have done payroll, accounts payable, accounts receivable and earned income.  Presently I am back to being the payroll administrator with a side of earned income coordinator and a sprinkling of accounts receivable back up tossed in.  Hopefully this will be the last move I make for at least a week or two.

In seven days it will be my dad’s birthday.  For Father’s Day, my brother, Ben and I went in together and purchased him a DVD player.  George did all the hard work, researching the DVD player, purchasing it and mailing it.  The day he mailed it he gave me a call:

George:  Hey Sheila.  (That’s what he calls me, Sheila.  Don’t ask.)

Me:  Dude!

George:  I mailed Dad’s Father’s Day present.

Me:  Awesome.

George:  I wrapped it and got a card and signed it “Love George and Kelly”.

Me:  And Ben.

George:  Dammit!  I forgot to put Ben’s name on it.

Me:  Again.

George:  Dammit Sheila!  That’s right, I did the same thing last year didn’t I.

Me:  Yup.  Hey baby, George forgot to put your name on Dad’s card again.

Ben:  Why does he hate me so?

Luckily, Dad knew the gift would be from Ben as well and kindly wrote his name on the card when he received the gift.  Am I the only one that cracks up at the thought of Dad carefully writing Ben’s name on the card as well?  Am I?

For his birthday the three of us went in together once again and purchased him a cordless phone (my dad, bless his little heart, still uses a “corded” phone and it’s a pain in the ass to have him say in the middle of a conversation “Oh I have to go, the teakettle’s boiling and the phone won’t reach”).  I’m in charge of purchasing the gift and the card and George will be happy to know that I have remembered to place his name on the card.  As well as Ben’s.

And on a sad note, Ben had to take his seven year old hedgehog to the vet last week to be put to sleep.  Nigel was a baby when Ben got him and while never a super friendly pet he was still a pretty cool guy.  Over the last week or so before his death, the spinal degeneration he was suffering from (due to old age) had grown worse and he could no longer move his back legs.  We cuddled with him for a few hours Thursday night, he spent most of it resting quietly in our hands his little face tired and worn and Friday morning Ben took Nigel to the vet one last time.  With the help of Dr. Mike, Nigel went quietly into that good night, warm and snug in Ben’s hands.

Sleep well brave Nigel.  You were our lean, mean poky machine and we miss you.

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but this cat really needs to lose some weight….

I wish I could say this was trick photography.  Simply a funky camera angle.  It’s not.  The cat is huge.  GINORMOUS.

It’s hot here, damn hot.  The temperature today was a wretched 35 and tomorrow it’s supposed to climb to 36.  We’re not one of those fancy trailer folk with indoor air, we have to make due with an air conditioner unit in our living room window.  While it keeps the house comfortable it by no means keeps the place cool the way us fat chicks (myself and Kaneyko the cat) would like.  The combination of the heat and her massive bulk had her spread out extremely unladylike on the furniture.  Hey, whatever keeps you cool right?

Speaking of fat, I lost 2.2lbs at Weight Watchers this morning - yay me!  After WW, I did a bit of grocery shopping then headed back home to pick up Ben.  In an effort to beat the heat we went to a matinee this afternoon, saw the movie Wanted.  It was… disappointing.  Not to give anything away but I just can’t get behind a movie that has a “Loom of Fate” in it.  Loom. of. Fate.  Hand to God people.  The entire way home after the movie I kept muttering under my breath “Let us consult the Loom of Fate.” everytime Ben asked me a question.

The new bed is still lovely.  I’m a “go to bed sometime between 11pm and 2 am” in the morning kind of girl yet I find myself crawling into bed at 8:30.  I read, watch tv, let the ratties run around on the bed with me.  It’s quite cozy really.  I do find it quite hilarious however that on the two occasions where I’ve woken up early in the morning before the alarm clock goes off, I discover that I’m lying on the very edge of the bed on my side and Ben is lying on the very edge on his side of the bed.  There’s so much extra space between us you could put two people and a bookshelf in it comfortably.  Apparently we have yet to learn that we have more space than we’re used to.

And in more important news - the mumsi entity will be joining our little slice of smoking hot heaven on Monday for 8 entire days.  I’m more excited than I can say.  Unfortunately I can’t get any time off from work but I plan on going early, working through lunch and being finished by 3pm giving me plenty of time to hang out with the mumsi.  We’ve got lots of stuff planned, mostly involving her helping us with the great home improvement plan of 2008.  If I can say one thing about my mumsi, the woman knows how to organize and has more energy than most 22 year olds I know.  I have no doubt the trailer will be in tip top shape by the time she leaves.  She’s already informed me that she’s going to clean the fridge AND the oven.   How freaking cool is that?  You know how there are certain chores around the house that you and your spouse split up?  Like I hate to cook so Ben cooks.  Ben’s not fond of yard work so I tend to do most of it.  One doesn’t want to do something the other picks up the slack right?  Unfortunately in our house there is one job that both of us despise - cleaning the fridge.  Once a month I’ll go through it and toss all the old food etc., holding my nose and retching the entire time but that’s as much as I’ll do.  Actually cleaning the fridge?  Taking a cloth and soapy water and giving it a good scrubbing?  No thank you sir.    And Ben?  He won’t even clean out the fridge let alone hose it down from time to time.  Thankfully my mumsi is the coolest girl ever and she cleans our fridge each time she visits.  I tell her not to worry about it, to sit down and put her feet up but she generally mumbles something about the smell and not being able to stand it and before I know it she’s got her head in the fridge and old food and tupperware containers are flying out behind her.  And I will admit - the fridge looks 100% better when she’s finished.

 So to recap - the mumsi entity will be here in less than 48 hours and both my fridge and oven will be spotless.  Also, I didn’t mention this before but last week at work I had a wardrobe malfunction.  The underwire in my bra snapped like a chicken bone.  When one of my coworkers, a sweet but small chested girl, asked me how on earth that happened I took a deep breath, gave her my best haughtiest look and said “Damn girl, it’s a lot to reign in on a regular basis.  It just couldn’t handle the pressure anymore.”  The rest of the ladies howled with laughter as she gave me a vague smile and moved quickly away.  Anyhoo, the point is, my best bra was ruined that day and I’ve been putting up with an inferior one ever since.  I’m pretty sure when mum is greeted with the less than perky vision of the girls barely being held aloft by my current bra she’ll offer to buy me a new one.  And since we’re currently on a strict budget that does not include the buying of new bras I will grin and hug her and happily accept.  I do love my mumsi.  Have I mentioned that?

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When Ben and I were married he brought to the relationship a crap ass double bed.  I too brought to the relationship a crap ass double bed.   Over the first year we tried a multitude of different combinations.  First, we tried his double bed, then we tried my double bed.  Then we tried one box spring and both our mattresses.  Finally we settled on tossing the bed frame and placing both box springs and both mattresses on the floor. 

I don’t know if you guys have noticed but I’m not exactly a small girl; I definitely take up more than my fair share of the bed.  As if that wasn’t bad enough for poor Ben, he also had to deal with the cat.   From the time I brought Smokey home, over 14 years ago now, I slept on one side of the bed and he slept beside my head on the other side.  When I married Ben, Smokey would not be deterred from sleeping beside my head.  After a few months the three of us came to an unspoken agreement.  Smokey slept in his usual spot beside my head (tucked comfortably into the crook of my arm), I slept in the middle of the bed and Ben?  Poor Ben had about four inches left over in which to twist his body into a comfortable position.  (In my defense, I honestly tried to get Smokey to sleep in a different spot, down by my feet perhaps, but he is one stubborn cat.  If I didn’t make space for him to sleep beside my head, he simply flopped down on my head, cutting off my air supply and making me hack up a fur ball every morning.)  And while I did feel slightly sorry for him (I’m not a complete monster) I had to make the point that Smokey had been sleeping longer with me than Ben had and therefore had squatter rights.   Unable to make an valid argument against my logic, Ben resigned himself to sleeping on the edge of the bed and in the past four years has only fell off the bed twice.  Myself, I think that’s pretty impressive.  Ben?  Not so much.  

Yesterday, after four years of various springs poking into various body parts (dirty!), crawling out of bed each morning with stiff and sore backs,  multiple complaints of “You’re too hot, move over!” and “There’s a cat hair stuck in my eyeball!” and two separate falling out of bed and doing a face plant in the carpet incidents, we tossed our old double beds and cheered when the good people at Sleep Country Canada delivered our new KING size bed.  Yup, we went from a Double to a King.   And it is glorious.   Now I understand why all those people asked how we could possibly still be married after sleeping in a double bed. 

The bed takes up the entire bedroom, we have nothing else in the room but the bed and have I mentioned the gloriousness of it?  We splurged and bought a mattress with a combination of linen and memory foam and sinking into that bed is a little like what I would imagine sinking into a soft fluffy cloud is like.  The bed is so high that I have to climb to get into it and I’m seriously considering investing in a step stool to make it easier to get into bed at night.  We also bought a goose down duvet and 320 thread count Egyptian sheets and two brand new pillows.  After one night of sleeping in it I can honestly say it’s the best investment we’ve ever made. 

When we were shopping for the bed, I wanted to go with a Queen size but Ben, wise man that he is, convinced me that a King was the way to go.  “You know dear,” he said “before I married you, I slept on my stomach and it was quite comfortable.  Now I have to sleep on my side and my arms keep falling asleep.”  To which I lovingly responded, “So what?  I used to sleep on my stomach before we got married too buster.  Now we both sleep on our sides, it’s called sacrifice.”  Despite my hesitation, he eventually convinced me on the King by pointing out that a Queen was only six inches larger than a double and while it might make a difference for the first month, it wouldn’t be long before it felt crowded again. 

My only problem is that after sleeping in a double for so long I got used to having Ben right beside me.  Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and turned over to spoon him.  I couldn’t find him.  I kept reaching further and further and encountering nothing but mattress.  I had just convinced myself that he had crept away in the middle of the night to find himself a woman who didn’t have a 13 pound cat sleeping in the bed with them when I heard the soothing sound of his snoring and my fingers grazed across his pillow.  “Aha!” I said in the darkened bedroom, “I have found him.”  I disentangled myself from the cat and began to wiggle across the bed.  Unfortunately I was thwarted by Ben’s pillow.  While I was still stuck in the “sleep on your side” mode, Ben had apparently chosen to go immediately back to his old way of sleeping, sprawled on his stomach with his pillow not under his head like any logical sane person would have it, but tucked firmly beside him.    I attempted to wiggle around the pillow but it was useless, he had that puppy wedged against him and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t pry it loose.  I had to settle with curling up pathetically beside his pillow stretching my arm out as far as I could just so the tips of my fingers could rest against his arm. 

I shan’t complain however, as Ben woke up from a very restful sleep, it was nice not to have a cat’s ass sleeping right against my face and have I mentioned the awesome comfortness of this bed?  I know what you’re all wondering though and that is - how does the cat like it? 

The cats were tucked away in the bathroom while the delivery men were setting up the bed and from the moment we let them out, Smokey, with the exception of food and bathroom breaks, has not left the bed.   After the bed was delivered, we had to run some errands for most of the afternoon.  We left Smokey sleeping on the bed, six hours later we returned and he hadn’t moved.  The cat?  He doth approves.

And while Ben loves the new bed, I think he loves this even more:

We got a King size bed and a flat screen tv for the bedroom in one day.   At the rate we’re going, some day we might even move out of our single wide trailer.  Whee!

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