Saturday, August 29, 2009

My Cousin, Vinny ... well Angela, actually

My cousin came for a visit last night. We live in different provinces now (though ... less than a 3 hour drive apart - so I have no real excuse for this ... but) - I haven't seen her in eons. No, I don't know the exact definition of an eon. It has been a helluva long time, though. I really enjoy her company. She was my bud when we were growing up. More like a sister than a cousin - we even looked very much like we were sisters. She is 2 years my senior. I used to get to go to her school dances when I really had no business being at one due to my age ... nobody carded you at school dances, though. It was Divine. I was from a different city (...and it was an actual 'city') and the majority of the small town's kids were unduly impressed by my status. Plus, I was fresh meat ... and relatively cute to boot. Needless to say - they were golden times. I remember this one night, we got schnockered on vodka and kool-aid in her bedroom before going to one of these dances ... I'll date myself here, but our music of choice was a mix of songs like "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and "Push It". To this day, I can not hear either of those songs without being transported to that precise moment in my life. Anyway, she emailed me last week and said she was coming to the area and wanted to spend a night with me. I was really happy about that concept and looked forward to it all week. She hit here around 7 pm or so and spent the night. Unfortunately, she had other obligations for this morning, so I lost her early - but what a great visit. We talked about a whole bunch of stuff - from parenting, to remembering our grandparents (who I really don't remember well - my grandmother died before I was conceived and my grandfather died when I was seven) and our mates ... I reminded her of the days when we used to sit on her bed and dream about the men we would marry ... we were pretty young. I have already blogged about this story. Then we both reminisced about our "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" days. We had read this book that my mom had bought for us when we were really little about chickadees. We were so taken by the story that we hopped around crouched in little balls for the next six months chanting "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" in stereo all over the house. This memory is chiseled into my brain. I hope I never find this out for sure, but I'm pretty sure that is the likely location in time where my mind would digress - in the event I was stricken with dementia or some other truly awful disease of the brain like Alzheimers.

We have "later in life history" too - though the ending of that phase did some damage to our originally very sturdy roots. We shared an apartment when I was just shy of 18 years old. It wasn't a smart decision on either of our part. We didn't need to learn about each other, the things we learned about each other. Things like: She was an unholy slob, who had little to no quams about using (and allowing her boyfriend at the time to use) my toothbrush - and what originally appeared to her as my quirky 'dark' comments and hilarity when spazing out about the failings of others - was, in fact nothing less than unholy bitchyness and vengeful behaviour. For example, when I learned about her disregard for the sanctity of a person's toothbrush, I promptly cleaned all fixtures of the bathroom (including all the gunk around the floor of the toilet) and put it back. I, of course had not only purchased a new toothbrush (which remained on my person at all times), but I also gargled JAVEX for a freakin' week. yuck. We didn't last very long. Almost 4 whole months. That poor judgement cost us years. We didn't make a big deal or anything - we just kind of 'ended'. It was a number of years before we started hanging out again. Right around when she got married, in fact (nearly 15 years ago). Wow. Now she has a ten year old and an eight year old ... they live in a lovely community on PEI. I have an open invite to come and stay any time ... have for years and have never taken her up on the offer. Side bar: I am a tool when it comes to keeping in touch. I really don't know if it is paranoia or obstinacy or just plain old ugly laziness. I think it is a combination of all three, really.

One thing is for certain: My kids love her ... I love her. I have a blessed few that garner that kind of love. This is an area that needs some serious work where I am concerned. This must be nurtured. Like the song says - the older you get, the more you will need the people who knew you when you were young ... I certainly fit the criteria of getting older and nobody on the planet knows me like she does.

I love you, Ange. I promise to be better.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Soap slivers, T P rolls and the Diabolical 'Y'

In honor of my favorite day of the week, I think I am about due for a slightly lighter post ... why not, eh? My meds are all up to date :) go for it, sez I.

So - my husband is my buddy, right? I have very - very little to complain about where he is concerned (though - you'll note my immense talent in finding something... oh - shut up, he'd complain about me if he had the time to write a blog around his chores). He is truly a kind and loving man who (on a daily basis) turns himself inside out to please me. Don't misunderstand - I reciprocate ... I'm not taking advantage of him (though he really likes it when I do). But in many ways, I seem to exhibit the more commonly (in an antiquated sort of way) "male characteristics" and vice versa. He is home during the day with our girls and takes care of the general house work and laundry as well as working on one of the MANY items on "the list" ... I don't call it a 'honey-do' as we both pick away at it - but he is working evenings part time while we get through summer, so this is how it has been going. To be clear - there is nothing feminine about my husband. He is a man ... in fact, I offer the following post as proof positive that he is, in fact a "MAN". (Imagine air quotes here - they make a better point than actual typed quotation marks)

What is it with men, anyway? Is there some sort of adverse reaction that the 'Y' chromosome has with refilling something that is empty? No - SERIOUSLY, people ... my man scrubs floors - ON HIS KNEES, but can't seem to grasp the idea of filling the soap dispenser. Or putting the roll of toilet paper ON THE HOLDER. I went so far as to buy holders that do not require pulling the little flexy bar out (heaven forbid someone might pinch a finger) and then have to a) slide the roll on and b) have the dexterity to squeeze it back into the wall mount ... nooo - mine is a hook type jobby. All ya gotta do is slip the old one off and the new one on ... easy, pleasey - pass the cheesies - right? I even aligned the garbage can so it is DIRECTLY under the holder so you don't even have to take the empty anywhere, it drops right on in. (I usually scoop them out later to put in the compost, but I'd never dream of expecting this from my family) Why is it, then ... that nearly every single time I sit my rear upon the throne that the roll of paper I will inevitably require is sitting on the back of the tank ... hmm? It certainly is not in a convenient place for actual use. It is not ergonomically better than being on the holder ... so don't try to apply any weird man logic to this explanation. The only thing that makes any sense is that the additional chromosome is somehow blocking this action.

Then, there is the soap in the shower ... oh boy ... the soap in the shower. This is one of those topics that makes my teeth ache. There is nothing like getting into the shower first thing in the morning - half asleep ... actually in my case, barely conscious - and getting all kinds of soaked ... of course, I start with my hair ... so it's all about the shampoo, then conditioner ... which must stay on for several minutes in order to reach full effectiveness. Round about this time is when I am looking for a bar of soap. Now, hear me out on this folks - I realize that once in a while the soap is gonna get whittled down to a sliver and the offending washer is going to neglect to grab a new bar of soap with which to replace it, I have even been guilty of such an infraction ... but I have been living with this man for a DECADE ... and have never witnessed his ability to liberate a bar of Ivory from its package. Without fail, there is a cursing, drippy, conditioner soaked woman trekking across the bathroom to the linen closet to find the illusive package of new soap ... which surprisingly enough is THE FIRST FLIPPIN THING YOU SEE WHEN YOU OPEN THE DOOR. I even keep it at eye level, for crying out loud.

So ... in the interest of maintaining my title: Passiva Aggressionisto Ago-go - I thought I'd conduct a little sociological experiment:

Prove that a man would sooner go dirty than unwrap a new bar of soap.
1) Remember to take my own bar of soap in and out of the shower as I require (I know this is mean, but you gotta admit, it proves a point). 2) Allow current sliver of soap to be worn down to a non existent molecular footprint of what used to be soap. 3) Wait.

And wait.
And wait.

Finally after a week, I could stand it no longer. I had to put a bloody bar of soap in the shower. I don't know what he was using ... I'm guessing the shampoo. I mean he isn't smelly ... unless the devious little so and so found my soap's hiding place ... no. I'll bet he just used shampoo. WTF is that? I am fully gobsmacked over here. Is this some secret man conspiracy? Is there some clandestine 'Green Tent' that men go to every so often to learn from the elders all the tricks employed to drive their women crazy? My curiosity is piqued. I need to know. I have long bragged about the fact that my husband has evolved past 'knuckle dragging cave dweller' and is a true man of his time, but for this curious behavior to be exhibited by him, perhaps not so much ... maybe I should look for signs of him devolving ... what's next? A tail? Will he go back into the ocean?

Or ... maybe it is the simple fact that he is a "man" ... with air quotes.

Ergo ... I sigh.