3 Point Turn Mishaps

We woke up to fog and clouds today, but it was STEAMY hot! 22 degrees at 8am but felt like 30! After I convinced mom to get up, we broke camp and headed into Lunenburg. She picked a restaurant at random when we were walking by and we ate while looking at the Bluenose II. I expected her to be silver like she is on the dime but my expectations were not met.

Our waitress convinced the cook to let me have seafood chowder for breakfast. It was SO good! There was a HUGE mound of seafood covered in a thin cream soup. I expected it to be thick like the one yesterday but it was delightful anyways.

In the late morning we did some souvenier shopping and headed out to start the trip to Yarmouth. Along the way we managed to find a vineyard and went for a wine tasting. It wasn’t very good. The water in the area had a strong Manganese scent and I found that it translated to the wine as well. Mom got some Lavender hand lotion that she loves though, so that was good.

I was beginning to worry that I would not have anything interesting to blog about today.

I needn’t have worried.

About 45 minutes before our estimated arrival time in Yarmouth I decided that I should plug the campground name into the GPS just in case it was before the town and not after it. My GPS is a jerk. Remember back in November when she malfunctioned and Edward Cullen died? Ya… it happened again.

She took me down a goat trail. After about 10 minutes, I realized that there was a problem. Did I mention that we seemed to also be in the middle of a monsoon?

Me- I think we’re going the wrong way.

Mom- You’re good at turning the motorhome around. Just do a two point turn.

(I think they are called three point turns but mom thinks two. Who is right? I don’t know!)

So, I see a driveway around the bend and decide to execute a quick three point turn. It went well until the ground remembered that it was holding a monsoon worth of water and gave way beneath the rear driver side tire sliding me into the ditch. I rocked forward. I rocked backward. I was STUCK. I was also covering one complete lane of the road with a curve on either side.

I got out of the Motorhome, ripped at my hair in the pouring rain, laid across the seat and burst into tears.

I then stared at my phone wondering who to call. Michael seemed like the obvious choice to solve my problems but he would probably worry…

Melissa was at least in the same province. Once she stopped laughing she might be able to tell me who to call, but I had no idea where I was and she was two days away from her wedding and might have better things to do than rescue me from certain death.

So that left 911.

911 lady (Jill) (because it’s short and easy to type)- What’s your emergency?

Me-(totally calmly…) I’ve had an accident and am half in the ditch and half on the road.

Mom in the background- We were not in an accident, you just backed into the ditch.

Jill- Mam, where are you hurt?

Me- I’m not hurt.

Jill- Ok, then I need you to breath for me.

Mom then left the vehicle to flag down traffic on the highway so they would not hit us.

Me- I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE I AM!!!

Jill- It’s ok. We can tell through GPS.

GREAT...GPS got me into this mess and suddenly now it works?! (also...I might not understand GPS…)

Jill- Are you sure you aren’t hurt?

Me- I’m just scared.

Jill-What are you scared of?

Me- That my mom is going to die!

Jill- Is she hurt?

Me- No. She’s directing traffic.

Jill assured me that the police and tow truck were on their way and hung up.

I went and joined mom on the side of the road with our Dollar Store Umbrellas. They might have worked in Medicine Hat but were completely useless here. While I was calling Michael, mine flipped inside out and it was the beginning of the end for it. Eventually it was an L shaped tin stick with a nylon bowl on the end that I needed to dump every 30 seconds.

My first words to Michael were- I want to come home! Eventually we got to the place where he was assuring me that it would not cost $7000 to pull the RV out of the ditch. (I’m sorry for scaring you and everyone else at work, honey!)

The RCMP arrived and took over mom’s job. We were both soaked to the skin so they sent us to sit in the truck. When the wonderful tow-truck driver (Johnny) showed up, he was very comforting. He listened to me talk to the police officer and rolled his eyes a bit.

Me- Once the RV is out, would you be able to get me facing the right way?

Stern RCMP (Greg)- No. You need a special license for that.

Me- Um...no you don’t.

Greg- You absolutely do.

Me- You absolutely don’t, actually. There is no way that CanaDream would have rented to me and facilitated insurance if I needed a special license.

Greg- Um well...maybe this is a small one and you don’t need it then. It must be just for the big ones.

Me- Ya...that must be it…

Johnny- (finishes unhooking and walks over to truck) I’ll just drive you out then, Love, a’right?! There’s no use falling apart now! Pull yourself together.

(I may have hugged him against his will…)

He then checked out the undercarriage and assured us that all was well, told us where to get gas, and followed us all the way to the gas station. I love Nova Scotia.

I saw a really cute little black bunny. Unfortunately, he didn’t see me .May he rest in peace (pieces).

Melissa’s dad intends to park the RV for me tomorrow.

Tommy the Troll

Today Mom and I were up by 7 and out on the streets by 8. I didn’t do the math on that till just recently. In Alberta time that means we were up by FOUR AM and on the harbour looking at ships by FIVE!

We saw so much! It has been a whirlwind. We went to a Maritime museum, walked the boardwalks, had a fancy lunch, got limo service to the RV center in a cushy Towne Car, got our motorhome, hung out at Peggy’s Cove, had lobster at the Shore Club in Hubbards, and made it to Lunenberg where we have seen nothing because it is SO DARK HERE!!!!

Mom is already snoozing and I just wanted to write a quick little something.

I’m sure glad I did my hair today. It looked soft and pretty for about 17 minutes. Humidity sucks.

The lady at the RV centre was sure to point out the sticker beside the steering wheel that says - CAUTION- HEIGHT 3.7 METRES! We were literally 8 minutes from the CANADREAM when i had to slam on the brakes because I realized the height of the little toll booth onto the bridge that I was seconds away from was 3.6m. A VERY nice man that we’ll call Tommy the Troll (because I imagine him as a very kindly troll living under the bridge collecting tolls from people trip-tropping over) stopped the traffic and made everyone move so I could get into the correct lane. He is our hero of the day and I wasn’t mortified at all...honest.

I don’t think I’m coming home. I will need to grow my hair really long and let it be wild, but oh... my heart might live here. Michael...pull up stakes and meet me at Peggy’s.

Can Fish, Will Fly

I have been feeling pretty stressed about this whole Nova Scotia trip without Michael, but yesterday the rubber hit the road and I decided that it was time to relax because I had done all that I could do to prepare and needed to just start enjoying it. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for having the foresight to book a direct flight to Halifax, because if I had doubts about Michael and I navigating the Pearson in Toronto, then FOR SURE mom and I couldn’t do it. We are both highly anxious and don’t really pay attention so I felt like that was $60 well spent. Ahem.

We pulled into Calgary last night, the 25 of September and shared a yummy Olive Garden dinner, took our sleeping pills and were off to dreamland by 10pm. I woke up in the morning refreshed and ready to go, only to realize that it was 11.57pm. Thankfully, I was able to get back to sleep. I had provided mom with earplugs so that she wouldn’t have to hear me in the off case that I snored…

She missed the wake up call so I gently woke her up by tapping her on the tip of her nose. She can sure jump! She paid me back by using aerosol deodorant. I had the worst asthma type attack I’ve ever had and I was sure thankful when we found an inhaler!

We shuttled to the airport and made it through check in and security lickety split! The only glitch was that they took our grapefruit segments away because they were packed in juice and over the legal limit. You never know what two flatlanders armed with citrus are capable of.

Just as we were about to start boarding, the gate attendants reminded us all to get out our identification and make sure they were up to date and that the names matched exactly. To fly within Canada you need either one piece of Canadian photo ID or 2 other government issued IDs. I had texted mom and reminded her to bring her Driver’s license but she was already in
Regina when she got the message and had brought her passport along so it was no big deal that she had left her license in her other purse... until she pulled out the passport.

Me- Mom! Your passport is expired.

Mom- Hahaha. It doesn’t expire till 2017!

Me- Um…it IS 2017. We had better go talk to the desk agents.

They informed us that we would not be getting on that flight but not to worry! There was one leaving in just under two hours that had a little bitty layover in Toronto. Again, not to worry though...we would arrive in Terminal B and also depart from Terminal B. All we needed to do was go to Cabella’s and pick up a Fishing License. Say what? Ya… a fishing license is valid Canadian ID THAT THEY USED HER EXPIRED PASSPORT TO VERIFY AND ISSUE. (because THAT makes all the sense in the world)

So we grabbed a cab and Ranjeet assured us that he would wait for us with our carry-on baggage (our checked luggage was already on the plane enroute to Halifax...non stop of course). Imagine the pickle we would have been in if he had taken off! You better believe I snapped a pic of his plate before we went inside.

We got up to the license area and the nice girl there immediately recognized our frazzled appearance and said-
I can see you need a fishing license for a flight but our license issuing software is down.

There was a Canadian Tire right next door so rather than hang myself, she suggested I call them and see if they were having the same issue while she called the Licensers to see if they could help. Canadian Tire came through and my mom is now the proud possessor of a one year Alberta Fishing License. She should get seconds of use and enjoyment out of it.

Ranjeet hustled us back to the airport while regaling us with the story of the reams of paperwork he had to do to come over from India. Fascinating Ranjeet, but can you please just drive like you would back home and get us back to the dang airport? Tick Tock!

We got to skip the check in line and go straight to security for my second x-ray of the day. I set off the sensors because of my hip so I bypass and go straight through the machine.  The cutie that was escorting me to the machine asked if I would like the pat down or the scan. I looked him up and down and since my Mom didn’t raise no fools, I chose the pat down. He blushed and informed me that it would not be him that did the patdown but rather Ranjeet’s cousin. She was a handsome woman with an enviable gal-stache, but in the interest of getting to the gate on time, I chose the scan in the end.

Our seat mate on the flight was a hoot! I think he looked like a Jason so that’s what we’ll call him. He joked mom right out of her funk with hilarious well timed jibes about her fishing career and us being lost in the wilds of Nova Scotia forever. I’m also 87% certain that he was an air-marshal. It was a fun flight and he blocked people to get us off the plane which almost worked except that he wandered past us when we were lost for about 3 minutes. As far as he knows, we now live at the Toronto airport.

The Calgary gate ladies were awfully nice, but they don’t know the first thing about the Toronto Airport. Gate B is about 12 km long. And we had to hustle the whole way. We lost a lot of time waiting on the tarmac for an open spot to park the plane. (My aviation terminology is stunning, eh!)

We did make it to our connection with sweat pouring down our necks and had another lovely seatmate that I will call Gale. She lives in Digby, NS, and gave us some great tips!

Our luggage was well rested and hanging out waiting for us at the West Jet booth when we got into the airport. Our driver, who we’ll call Robert, (because I can’t read what he wrote on his card) was amazingly well versed in the history of the area and inspired me to try to get to the museum tomorrow morning where there is tons of really wonderful Titanic memorabilia that was picked up by the ships that went out to collect the bodies of the deceased. All of the lost souls that were recovered from Titanic are buried in Halifax.

Many thanks to Ranjeet, Jason, Gale, and Robert for making what could have been a really stressful day into one where we laughed and learned and had a generally good time.

Mom- I’m proud of how calm you stayed. (on the outside anyway!) I’m so glad you came with me, and one little glitch just makes for great Blog Fodder! If this is the worst thing that happens on this trip, we’re golden!

Camping With Mom and Ultrasounds With Brenda

I just spent hours writing a blog post. I tried to preview and edit it and then…disaster.

It’s. All. Gone.

It was Witty. Sassy. Comedic Gold. Gold, I tell you. Verging on platinum.

However...

In it I did blame someone. I cast blame on a situation involving a person not treating my husband the way that they would like to be treated in turn. Perhaps in doing so, I did the exact same thing and maybe for that reason it is good to start fresh. It's food for thought.

I wanted to I write this new blog post as a way to get back into Logging. No, blogging. I'm not logging anything computer. I just switched over to using Google Chrome Docs to write. I did it for the reason that it saves every few minutes so I don't have to worry about losing the whole bloomin' thing again. I discovered that I can use voice to text and I don't have to type. This. Is. Fabulous. Except that I don't know how to make it go back and delete a word so blogging clearly turns into logging. I think I'll just call it writing instead of blogging. Or work on my annunciation. Perhaps that would be easier.

Michael and I started planning a trip to Nova Scotia back in January. My dear friend Melissa got engaged and asked me to be the Oldest Living Bridesmaid. Michael was asked to be the wedding photographer. We were so excited! I even rented a camper van! More about that later..,

Recently, things went amok and Michael is no longer able to come on the trip with me. We are very disappointed but after exhausting every option we had to call it and make other arrangements.

I asked my mom if she would consider going with me and she jumped at the chance to take a trip with her favorite kid. (Read: after several days of waffling back and forth and even trying to convince me to take my her 87 year old mother instead, she finally decided to put on her big girl panties, pack up her essential oils and embark on an adventure with her flaky eldest daughter.)

Remember how I rented a camper van? Yeah... that becomes a problem. In retrospect, I probably wouldn't have rented it had I been planning to take the trip with my mom instead of my husband. Michael and I really enjoy camping together. We wanted to relive some memories of the big trip that we took and the many beaches that we camped on. It loses a little something when you have to talk your mother into sharing the one bed in the camper van with you. (Let's keep in mind that I have irritable bowel syndrome, lactose intolerance, and a propensity for nudity-especially while sleeping.) Diane is one LUCKY lady. It seemed like such a good idea at the time to eschew hotel and rental cars in favor of one vehicle that serves the purpose of both transportation and shelter. I was really happy to not need to be packing up every morning and lugging suitcases to and from different hotels every day! No-one ever sleeps well the first night in any hotel and we will not be in the same area for longer than one night anytime except for the day of the wedding.

I decided a couple of days ago that I should call and check on my reservation. It turns out that being super cheap, I had taken the package where you don't actually know which vehicle you are going to end up in until the afternoon that you actually pick your RV up. The only thing that I now know for sure is that we will NOT be getting the camper van. We will be getting either a 25 or 27 foot little motorhome.

On the plus side, it has two beds! The downside Is that although I am not afraid to drive it at all, I AM afraid to park it! What happens if I need to parallel park a motorhome? Is that even a thing?  

Mom claims she is neither driving nor navigating. Pray for us. Pray hard. This trip will probably lead to many good stories, but they could be dicey in the making.

FUN FACT: Although we are both experienced RV'ers, Mom and I have never emptied the poop tank. (It's clearly a Blue Job.) Have you ever watched the Robin Williams movie RV? If not, load it up and give it a watch. When you reach The Scene (you will know which one I mean) maybe consider REALLY praying that some Poop Tank Angels come down with their Industrial Strength Rubber Gloves and give us a hand. Maybe not a LITTERAL hand....because, ew...but some help none-the-less.

I also talked the rental company into giving us two free convenience packages. This means we won't need to run around purchasing camping supplies in Nova Scotia. It would have been really inconvenient not have the convenience packages...I love a good play on words. (I realize this was not one.)

Yesterday, I popped in to visit a friend at her work. We had a rather uncomfortable conversation there.

When girls get to a certain age they tend to need ultrasounds for less exciting reasons than we do in younger years. My friend and I have both needed such ultrasounds in the recent past. In both cases it caused tears.

Her mom cried because she has a very real case of Granny Fever and thought that perhaps her dreams were about to be realized. They are not.

My daughter cried because she has a very real case of not wanting to admit that her parents enjoy each other in a physical way and not wanting another sibling. One of her dreams will be realized. She will not be getting any more siblings.

Unfortunately for both my friend and I, there were issues in receiving a traditional ultrasound and we had to move on to the internal type. In case you've never been privy to an internal ultrasound, let me fill you in.

The technician applies an actual condom and a large amount of lubricating gel to a wand that is inserted in your nether regions and used to explore your Lady Bits. It is invasive and uncomfortable. It is also highly humiliating to have another person insert a wand into your most private areas and slide it in and out and twist it all around. I'll just leave that here for you to ponder...

Having this procedure done left me with a few questions:

1. Do ultrasound technician actually receive any anatomy lessons while they are in school?
2. Is it inappropriate to question how high of a standing in the graduating class your ultrasound technician received?
3. Why would anyone giving an internal ultrasound think that preserving my dignity was at the top of my priorities list? Because it's not. I want you to strap a Miner's light to your forehead and get under that sheet with me. I have three children and I have pooped myself in public. (The IBS, remember.) I have no dignity left to preserve. None. Zero.
4. Has anyone ever told you even once that saying "Just take a deep breath and relax" was helpful? If they did they are dirty dirty liars. Thank you Brenda. I didn't even think of just taking a deep breath and relaxing. Being an uptight control freak has worked so well for me in all of my previous Medical Treatments that I thought I would just continue down that road for this one as well, but I see now that your way might be better.
5. What did you think I meant when I yelled "WRONG HOLE" three times in quick succession and scooted off of the head of the bed like a cat getting a worm pill? For future reference, anyone who says that is ALWAYS sure that yes, it is indeed the wrong hole. I have never taken an anatomy class in my life, but even I know that that particular route is not the off-ramp to the uterus.
6. Was it because of  my experience in your cubicle that my friend was handed the magic wand and told to just pop it in herself so that you could have a little look-see?

These are most of my questions. In the interest of causing as little offense as possible I will not  try to think of any more.

Think of me while I'm traveling Nova Scotia.

Think of my Mom, too. Pray that she has patience. Apparently, I can be a bit much. (No, really!)

Also, think of me when you're getting an internal ultrasound. It will take your mind off things and help you to just relax like Brenda advises.

Letters I Will Never Send (except maybe to S.E.P.)

Dear Red Roof Inn,

You make me sad. Each time I see your little insignia mixed in with the other little symbols on the Exit signs at the overpasses, I think you are Tim Hortons and my heart gives a little jump for joy.

You sir, are no Timmies!

Sadly,
A Canadian Missing her Favourite Kickapoo Joy Juice
__________________________________________________

Dear Krispy Kreme Donuts,

I owe you an apology. We got off to a bad start, and I said some things about you that I am now ashamed of.

The problem was, I met old, cold, slightly hardened you. Then recently, I met your young, hot, soft, gooey, melty, drippy, krispy, “hot off the presses” self.

I now adore you. Please forgive my previous ignorance and know that I will be seeing more of you before I go back to Canada.

Love,
A Repentant Chubby Girl Making Up for Lost Time

P.S. Your coffee needs work. Go north and visit my friend Timmie so you can learn from the master.
______________________________________________

Dear Tim Hortons,

I miss you more every day. There are still nights that I wake up with tears on my face and a cold empty hand where your cup used to rest.

I hear you are having your famous “RRRRoll Up the Rim” event. How I wish I were there to celebrate with you. Will you still be RRRolling around Easter? I will be seeing you the week before then, when I finally get home.

Do you know that it has been almost six months since my lips last rested against your dark brown lid and your heavenly nectar filled my mouth? Do you miss my $1.55 per day as much as I miss peeling back the tab on your take out cup?

I have made your home brew, but it is just not the same. I am counting down the days until we are reunited, my love.

Longingly,
A Girl With an Addiction

P.S. Ever considered ditching your donuts and going with Krispy Kreme’s instead? Just a thought.
__________________________________________________

Dear Susan Elizabeth Phillips (or S.E.P. as I call you when we talk in my head)

Wow…that greeting sounds a little creepy. It’s not like we really talk in my head, more like I talk and you listen. And we only talk about your books, so it’s not like I am pretending we are BFF and going shoe shopping with you. I have real friends for that. Really.

Getting down to business, I have to ask you: What the Jack?

I am a huge fan of your books! I love your sense of humour and your whole writing style. I have actually woken my husband from a dead sleep several times because I find you so dang funny. (Just to let you know, this is somewhat of an honour, because I am not much of a “laugh out loud” kind of girl when I am reading.)

Some things you should know about me:
1. I read a lot.
2. I am a very fast reader.
3. Because I read so quickly, I generally do book exchange or the library so that I can afford to both read and feed my family.

Now that you know this, you should realize how much it means that I saw your book “Glitter Baby” and wanted to have it for keepsies. I drew on my past experience that
S.E.P. never fails to amuse me and her books are ones that I like to reread.

Then I actually started to read “Glitter Baby”. There were several times when I truly had to check to make sure that it was not written by Danielle Steele, and I am still not entirely convinced that some horrendous printing mix-up did not occur in which your name was somehow printed instead of hers.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Danielle! (I tried calling her Dani, or even Elle in my head, but she is really more of a full name type of girl.) Her early works are particularly poignant and spellbinding. Lately, however, it is like she takes a name, location, and plot and loads them into a sneaky little novel writing program on her computer and out spits a new book. Not so enthralling.

S.E.P., WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? I did not laugh once during “Glitter Baby”! And I paid full price!

Sadly,
A Reader Who Is Out $9 and Three Hours
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Dear Bloggers Who Think They Are So Cool With Their Fancy Fonts,

What is with your tired little trend of writing words that have a line through them but are still clearly legible and then writing what you thought you should have written after these stricken words?

Puhlease! That is SO two months ago. And really, just because you can cross out words, do you really think I am picturing you at some fancy little outdoor French café, sipping espresso with your long cigarette in a fancy holder, blowing out thin streams of smoke and laughing to yourself as you scribble your spontaneous little thoughts on parchment paper with a fountain pen and then strike out your hastily written little faux pas while Fifi, your pink tinted toy poodle gently nibbles smoked salmon from a Royal Dalton Bread and Butter Plate?

Because I don’t!

So there!

Sincerely,
Someone Who Hopes I Never Need to Let My Font Be Funny For Me
_________________________________________________

Dear Font Makers,

Recently, I have seen that some bloggers are using a new font that allows the user to make it appear as if they have stricken a word from their writing, but it is still legible. I have not been able to find this clever little font and wonder if you could help a girl out?

Jealously,
An Unsuccessful Googler of the Font I Adore
________________________________________________

Dear California Highway Patrol Officer from Back in October,

I think you are unfair. It was not very polite of you to serve me with a ticket while I was having a bit of a moment on the 101.

See, my truck had gotten away on me because of all of the hills on the road and I was really enjoying the scenery. When one is being pushed along down a hill by a 32 foot travel trailer, it is hard not to, at times, slightly exceed the speed limit.

I noticed that none of the big rigs that blew past me on those hills like I was standing still were pulled over getting their tickets, and this bothers me somewhat. One might even observe if one was in the habit of being a Peeping Tom in any number of campgrounds across your great nation, that I have indeed lost sleep over the matter.

It also concerns me somewhat that I had to keep calling in to find out the amount that I owed on this traffic violation. By me calling in, I of course mean that every so often my darling husband would notice the ticket hanging on the bulletin board and grouchily call your head office. If my speeding was such a big hairy deal, then why did it take you three months to get the ticket in the system?

By the way, thanks for waiting outside my trailer door while I peed parked on the side of the road. I was a bit nervous as this was my first time getting pulled over, and I have a nervous bladder. I know for next time that I should not, in fact, exit my vehicle at any point during a stop by the Highway Patrol.

Thanks also for only marking me down for going sixty in a fifty five rather than seventy three. (It is a big, heavy trailer.)

My legal council, Joice Lynn, has advised me that her mom once got a ticket in California, and the officer told her that the record is expunged after three years so if she was not planning on driving in California for that amount of time she should just not pay the ticket. Ok, so Joice isn’t really legal counsel, but she claims to be able to do anything she can read about in a book and I am pretty sure she has read a Grisham book sometime in her lifetime. You can see the connection, right?

Respectfully Yours,
A Slightly Innocent Motorist
______________________________________________________

Dear Canadian Border Guards,

If I have an unpaid speeding ticket from California, will you still let me back into Canada?

Hopefully Yours,
A Weary Traveller Who Fears She Can’t Afford Any More Travellers Health Insurance
___________________________________________________________

Dear California Ticket Expungers,

Is it true that you wipe tickets off of people’s records after three years?

Ummm,
Someone Who is Just Asking for Research Purposes?
______________________________________________________

Dear Joice,

Hi! We had a great time visiting with you guys! I miss you so much already and am so glad that we got to renew our friendship!
Umm, just in case anyone from California Traffic contacts you regarding me, I may have mentioned that you are my legal council.
Hope your bathroom recovered from Andrew’s unfortunate incident!

Love,
Your Favourite Travelling Hairstylist

P.S. Have you ever read a John Grisham novel?
______________________________________________________

Dear Paper Clip on my Sidebar,

You are so cute! Thank you for all of your suggestions and helpful input. Thank you for always talking to me so kindly when I have a little problem or start writing a letter on my Word Program! I just want to roll you up in a leaf of lettuce and eat you like a crispy little healthy burrito!

Love,
Someone Who Should Be Sleeping Instead of Writing Letters to Animated Paper Clips

Squeezito, Suction Crotch!

Remember Todd and Joice from seminary? Of course you don’t. It was like, seven years ago. We didn’t even have child number three when we knew them. To say nothing of them! Heck! They had two and a half new kids since we last saw them. I know it’s not really possible to have half a kid, but they are kinda incredible people. Kid number three was only a few days old when they left the hill. The hill is what those of us in the biz call the seminary. Ok…I guess it’s also not really a biz…more of a school. Whatever. So back to my point…there have been three more children since we last saw each other. I don’t think that was the point either, but it is late and we have passed two different time zones this week. Or maybe the last ten days. I don’t know. You know what else is sad? My internal clock is ALL messed up! I have an odd talent. I can seriously tell you what time it is just by feeling around inside of myself and looking at the sun. And now? Now my talent is gone. I blame the time zones. I have been seriously off on about three different occasions. It’s just lucky that it gets dark at night or I wouldn’t even know it it was AM or PM. Sheesh.

So we went to visit Todd and Joice. They have FIVE kids! I know what you’re thinking. Crazy…with three syllables. Right? You would think so, but they still actually inhabit the sane side of the fence! As we were driving to their house, Joice called me and said that Todd was concerned that we might not know what we were getting ourselves in for because they are, in fact, building a house. Hmm. I started wondering if maybe they didn’t want us to come and visit after all and then thought, whatever, we’re almost there, so you have to love us now.

When we arrived, we drove right past their driveway and had to do a u-turn with 56 feet of vehicle around a church sign in a really odd spot in the road. There was also an inconveniently placed concrete thing that you park cars up against. We had to pile wood up and drive over that one. It was exciting. The kids didn’t want to wait, so we let them run ahead and a bunch of their kids came out to meet them in the lane. With the goats. Yup. Goats. One of them bit me. It was traumatic. Goats have strong jaws and sharp teeth. Ok. It didn’t bite me. But it bit my jeans. It would have eaten them right off of me, but I whacked it with my book. Yeah, that’s not true either. But I had a book. I was sitting in a lawn chair watching Andrew chip bricks apart for the barn floor and it bit my jeans. In the tooshie area. I was obviously out of my chair at this point.

Ok…so, lane, goats, chair…kids! My kids LOVE Todd and Joice’s kids. They had SO much fun together. One may even say that they got along like a house on fire! Andrew became a farmer. I think he has found his calling. He was out every night putting the chickens to bed and tying up the goats. There were horses too, but he didn’t really do much with them. I tell you though, any chance to carry a chicken and my boy was in there like a dirty shirt.

We did a lot of fun stuff with the Lynn family. One day their oldest daughter was in a race in Greenville so we went to watch her and her daddy run. We missed most of it, but did get to see them pass the finish line. There was an amazing river area with a huge scary suspension bridge over it, so we went down the rocks and played on the shore. We collected river glass for Joice’s new profession, which will be doing mosaic table tops. I claim half of the profits since I gave her the idea. We had an apple bag, and the city of Greenville must have a lot of people who hang out at the river with coloured bottles that get broken on the rocks, because we filled that puppy up! We then decided to cross the raging river. It may not have been the best idea. I’m not going to lie to you. There was a big splash (not me!) and some blood (definitely me), and two husbands laughing and pointing from the other side of the river. Eventually we made it across and had words with the laughers. Their defence was “at least we weren’t taking pictures!”

Then the cop showed up. Apparently there were signs posted all over the place saying it was illegal to be on the rocks. My question would be why they put the rocks there in the first place then? The nice officer told Todd that the fine was $1000. Per person. I thought maybe Joice and I could just take the jail time and call it a holiday. Hey…she’s living in a house that’s under construction and draped in plastic sheeting and I live in a trailer. Our idea of a holiday has changed a bit in the past few months. We didn’t get a ticket, but the officer was going to give one to a different guy who had several warnings for being in the river. He got off because he said he wasn’t wearing his glasses and couldn’t read the signs. I figure I will try to remember that one for the next time I get pulled over for speeding. Hey, it worked for him!

Later that night we left Andrew to baby-sit the seven other children. He had just turned twelve and we felt comfortable leaving him with them. We went to the Macaroni Grill. I have always avoided this restaurant because of the name, but it turns out there is absolutely no Macaroni on the menu. I did however find another dish that I am pretty sure Jesus invented and is preparing for the table He will set before us. It is the Pinot Grigio Chicken. It has Roasted Garlic and is breaded with parmesan cheese. Mmm. So just to recap, Jesus’ table now includes Pumpkin Spice Latte, Paula Deen’s Godiva Chocolate Crème Brule, and the amazing chicken at Macaroni Grill.

Macaroni Grill has a wacky sense of humour. They teach Italian in the washrooms over the speakers. I found this amusing. Todd found it a learning opportunity. Suddenly we were inundated with everything being “Squeezito!” which apparently means delicious. We were not really interested in the actual meaning of the word though, as it amused us greatly to just use it whenever and wherever it struck our fancy. You have permission to use it now, too. It is a very fun word to throw out there. Squeezito!

One rather disturbing element of the Macaroni Grill is that the back of the door in the women’s washroom says “Men” and vice versa. Given my previous, ahem, restroom gender difficulties, this freaked me out when I went to leave. The first thing to run through my mind was “Oh crap, not again!” Then I remembered that Joice was with me, so if I was in the wrong john, I was not alone. Whew.

On the drive home, I got a phone call from Andrew.
Andrew- Um, hi. Yeah, Mom. OK, well, um, the toilet is plugged and the bathroom is flooding.
Me- Hmm. Here’s Joice.

We got home and it was raining on the whole main floor of their new house. While praying “Please Lord don’t let this be poop water!” we dashed up the stairs. Andrew was understandably upset and when we assured him that he had done a good job babysitting, he said to me “Mom, I was in the bathroom plugging up the toilet with my giant poo while they were watching a movie. I don’t see that as exactly a great job.”

The next day Andrew and Boaz went out and found a jar full of tree frogs. They dropped them off on the deck with us where we were examining them when someone noticed that they are all suctiony, particularly in the crotch area. This inspired our new saying of the day, which was of course, “suction crotch”. Now not only are interesting things “squeezito!” there are also random mutterings of “suction crotch” to deal with, which is always met by screeches of laughter.

The frogs the boys caught reminded me of my frog scar. Frog scar you say? How can you get a scar from a frog? Let me tell you. When I was a teenager we learned how to dissect frogs in school. I found this to be a lot of fun and felt really sad for my cousins who had never dissected anything, so one day when we were out at our grandparent’s farm, we found an old tin tea kettle and went collecting frogs. We didn’t have a tray of wax to pin the frog onto, so grandma fixed us up with a cookie sheet covered in newspaper and we thought we would just pin the frog to the paper. We selected the largest frog so that all of the organs would be easy to see. That’s when we ran into our biggest problem. My expertise had only been tested on pickled frogs and these babies were still alive. Let me tell you something: frogs do not make an easy transaction from live to dead when you are not using a lawn mower. With that being said, they do apparently get knocked out. I question the wisdom of sharing our method of execution, but since wisdom is not always my strong suit, I figure what the heck. We threw it against the sidewalk. Yup. Keep in mind I was very young at the time.

So, back to the old KO. When we went to pin our “dead” frog to our dissection pan we found out he was not so much dead after all, and someone had to bite the bullet and put him out of his misery with the hammer. The dissection was a success however, and I prefer to think of it as science and not torture. One of the cousins actually became a doctor and I like to take credit for that because I showed him his first internal medicine. Ok…that’s not entirely truthful. He’s a Chiropractor, so he’s not actually practicing internal medicine, but you need to stop judging me. And I guess since his dad is a veterinarian I may not have actually shown him his first medicine, but you still need to stop judging me. Back off.

Oh yeah! The frog scar. When I went to pull “Tiny” out of the tin tea kettle, some of the frogs jumped and hit my hand which startled me and I pulled my had rather quickly out of the kettle and sliced open my wrist. Kind of anticlimactic now, isn’t it. Some time I’ll tell you about my kitten Tippy. That will hold your interest.

Until then, Squeezito!

Mullets, Church and Family

You are going to have to stretch your mind here with me. That’s right, we’re going to have to use our heads here folks. Turns out it’s not just the stuffing in the showcase for that fantastic head of hair you’re carrying around.

While we are on the subject, let’s just diverge for a sec and talk about that hair. If you can find your hairstyle in a current Hair Magazine or one of those giant books in the waiting room of your salon that has a cover date earlier than say, eight years ago, then this rant is not for you. (But you may enjoy reading it anyway.)

If you have a mullet- first of all, WHY? Remember that woman on Survivor who had her hair in a mullet because she thought it made her look more feminine for her husband? She was a lunch lady and couldn’t be dropping hair in the food but then she got all famous because of the show and lost her job but not the mullet? Yeah, no. Ever hear of a pony tail. You can wear them to work and they do a fantastic job of keeping the hair out of your eyes and people actually don’t mind going out in public with you. You could be the kindest, most spiritual and loving person in the world, but your message is not getting across because of the packaging. It’s like giving someone an engagement ring but making them fish it out of the urinal. Still an engagement ring, but ew!

Here are the steps you need to take to fix this. Make an appointment with your hairstylist. Sit in her chair (let’s face it, a male stylist would not have let you get away with this atrocity for so long) and explain that you have a mullet and would like to end the vicious circle. If she tries in any way to convince you that the mullet is ok, stand up, apologize for wasting her time and thank her for the many years of faithful service. Now walk out. Do not turn back.

Walk into another salon, stand in the middle of said salon and take off your hat. (You, of course, have taken to wearing a hat since reading this, to cover your shame.) Loudly, but politely, ask if anyone can help you do something about your mullet. Be prepared for a variety of reactions that may or may not include weeping, applause, hugging, bouncing on the spot, and the tinkling of a tiny little
bell as another mullet finds its way home to the salon floor.

Mullets are not the only hair horror that are still out there, but perhaps the most loathed, so I am using you as an example. The rest of you know who you are. If you are in doubt, just assume you need a little update.

Back to the reason I was writing. Oh how I loathe going on. I know that these two subjects really do not go together, but I am going to forge ahead and say it anyway.

I have heard a lot of people in a lot of churches talk about how much they need new people and wonder why people come once or twice and never return. I was talking to my friend Ruth about this and she asked the pertinent question “What’s wrong with the old people?” That made me laugh and I have no answer.

So this is the way I see it. All of us that go to church every week tend to call each other family- as in church family. The Bible says that all of us are God’s children. Family and children. Still with me?

Here’s where it gets dicey. Newbie comes in and sits down. Maybe they don’t look the same as the rest of us (mullet), have unruly children, sit in our pew, don’t know the songs or sing them a different way than we do, or fail to remove their hat during service. Or maybe they look really good. Like, better than we do. Chances are, we shyly look at them and hurry by on our way out to lunch with our friends, or shake their hand, say it’s so good to have you with us, and scurry out to check on the roast we threw in before church. We then leave them to blindly search the building for their children that ran off with the rest of the rugrats when kid’s service was announced and go for a lonely lunch to discuss why no one really talked to them.

Here’s the thing. People who come to church are looking for something. Someone. They may already know Jesus but need a friend. They may already have a friend but need Jesus. We can give them both, but not if we run away from them. Pastors- don’t you nod and agree! You are doing it, too!

So what do we do? I have put a lot of thought into this and it comes down to family. Not in an abstract, “we’re all family here” way either. We need to make it real. Every time we walk through the doors of that church it is a family reunion with Jesus as the host! That new person that walked through the door is family that you haven’t met. Go and greet him! Talk to him! Ask him about his life! You guys have the SAME FATHER! Why would you want to ignore him!

Think of how it is when a new baby is born in your church. Everyone gathers around and looks, has a party for the family to welcome the baby and cries happy tears that one more has been added to their number. See the correlation?

We should be able to visit any Christian church and feel like we are home. Why are we not excited to see family from other cities and find out what their story is? We could actually learn something. They may have heard something from the Father that we have not heard and be here to spread the news.

Now if your long lost brother walked into your home would you shake his hand, say nice to have you with us today, and rush out the door to go for lunch with your friends? Are you getting this?

Would you say hope to see you again but not get his phone number and call him that week?

It’s about not just giving lip service to the notion that we are a family, but actually putting it into practice and acting like it.

Sure she has a mullet. Guess what? It’s just hair. (It hurts me to say that, but it’s true.)

OK- their kids are really, really annoying. Have you forgotten what it was like when your little angels were that age?

For me, the people that look like they really have it together are the scariest to approach. How sad. One of my favourite people in the world is one that I thought was too good for me to talk to and be friends with. Turns out she’s just as much of a mess as I am, but looking great on the outside helps her to feel like she is keeping it more together on the inside. And you know what’s even better? We have the same Father!

I guess my point is quit whining about why people don’t stay and start treating them like you want them to. Go for lunch with them. Ask them how they met your Father. If they haven’t met Him, introduce them. Interact with them during the week (as in put down the remote and invest in people, not electronics.)

Love your neighbour as you love yourselves.

Oh yeah- and please, please, please lose the mullet.